A Spy For The Redeemer (Owen Archer Book 7)

by Candace Robb

  Was it possible he might change his life? That God had brought him here, at this time, to show him the task for which he had been in training all his life? Had God led him here? Or had he chosen the wrong fork somewhere along the way? Should he have chosen John of Gaunt, who succeeded Henry of Grosmont as Duke of Lancaster? Should he have remained Captain of Archers after his blinding? It had been his own choice to leave that life, thinking himself untrustworthy. Had that been a coward’s act?

  A seagull swooped down to study him as he sat. A raven arrived to declare the gull a trespasser.

  Owen sat staring out into the distance, wondering how one read God’s purpose.

  With the permission of the Archdeacon of St David’s, Owen and Iolo rode out early the following morning. Rokelyn had not tried to hide his disappointment that Owen still had no answers for him.

  ‘This is a small community. You have had time to talk to everyone by now.’

  ‘If they would but talk. They all know what I am about. I approach, they drop their eyes and become mutes.’

  ‘This does not happen in York?’

  ‘York is much, much larger. But it is never easy.’

  ‘And you believe his parents might talk to you?’

  ‘If my son had been murdered, I would co-operate with anyone trying to find his murderer.’

  Rokelyn had not looked happy. ‘They are doubtless simple folk, Cynog’s parents. Not given to confiding in strangers.’

  ‘I believe they will trust me.’

  Chin in hand, Rokelyn considered. ‘Then go,’ he said after a long silence. ‘And may the Lord watch over you. Come straight to me on your return.’

  Edmund, Tom, Jared and Sam stayed in St David’s, keeping their ears pricked. They knew the route Owen and Iolo were taking to Cynog’s parents and when they should reasonably return. There had been some muttering about the choice of Iolo, until Owen told them Cynog’s folk spoke only Welsh.

  Tom sat in the courtyard of the bishop’s palace, watching the high-born pilgrims assemble for the daily rounds of shrines and wells. Some were dressed in sombre-coloured but elegant attire, others in rough pilgrim’s robes. Many spoke Welsh. He tried to catch the few words he had picked up during this journey, but the language was too slippery. Jared sat beside him, slowly working a nail out of the sole of one of his boots. A movement on the steps leading to the bishop’s east wing caught Tom’s attention. Someone visiting the prisoner? A scowling, rough-looking man was speaking to Father Simon. The stranger was nodding, nodding, Father Simon tilting his head, as if he did not quite believe him. Suddenly an explosion of movement from the man made Father Simon back down a step. The guard approached them. Father Simon waved him back, bowed slightly to the stranger, then proceeded up the steps. The other stood for a moment, chin on chest, then, head up, he shaded his eyes, surveying the courtyard.

  Tom poked Jared to get his attention. ‘Who is he?’

  Jared cursed as his boot slid and the nail nicked him. ‘Look what you have done.’ He held up a finger. ‘Bleeding!’

  ‘I see nothing but dirt.’ The stranger had descended the steps and was elbowing his way through the crowd towards their perch near the stables. ‘Do you know this man bearing down on us?’ Tom asked.

  Jared stuck his grimy finger in his mouth, glanced up. ‘Captain Siencyn. I doubt he is for us.’

  But Siencyn came directly to Jared. ‘I must see your captain, lad. You must lead me to him.’

  ‘Captain Archer has left the city for the day.’

  ‘Why this day? Why must he go this day?’

  ‘As good as any other. I shall tell him you wish to speak to him.’

  Siencyn muttered a curse and began to depart, but turned suddenly, his scowl fierce. ‘See you remember, lad.’

  ‘He looked worried,’ Tom said, watching the man push his way back towards the gatehouse. ‘I wonder what he discovered in the gaol? Or learned from Father Simon?’

  ‘The Summoner?’

  ‘Aye. They were talking.’

  ‘Simon is just nosy. More like the captain is not cheered by his brother. I cannot think Piers is jolly at present.’

  *

  Owen and Iolo travelled due east from St David’s, up into higher, forested land. Despite Ranulf’s warning about horses on the steepest parts, Owen had chosen to ride. At least the animals could carry some food and cloaks in case the weather turned. And, in case of injury, one of them.

  ‘You expect trouble,’ Iolo had said as they led the horses from the palace stables.

  ‘I do.’

  Even so, as they rode away from the city and into a grove of oaks at the foot of a gentle hill, Owen found himself humming under his breath. It was good to escape the eyes of St David’s. He studied Iolo as they rode in the open country. There was a tension in the chiselled face that never eased, even in sleep. Owen would think it merely a trick of the eye but for the suddenness with which Iolo would move. And yet even a cat sometimes relaxed. It was as if he was ever ready to attack. He persisted in his determination to return to York with Owen. What would Lucie think of him?

  In a short while they began to climb again, this time across a rocky outcrop over which they chose to lead their horses. They both felt uneasy, guarding their backs. When they had crossed over to the forest cover once more, they paused by a stream.

  Iolo pulled off his cap, rubbed his bald spot while his horse drank. His light-brown hair was damp where the cap had covered it. He was sweating though it was chilly up in these hills. ‘I once fell asleep watching for a fox at my uncle’s farm,’ Iolo said. ‘The fox woke me, slipping past me so quickly I did not see him – he stank of death. For a long while after that any change in the scent of a room would wake me.’ He dropped to his knees, cupped his hands and drank deeply, then dunked his head and shook himself like a dog.

  Owen knelt, splashed some of the cool water on his face. ‘Are you saying that you smell trouble?’

  ‘I cannot be certain. I may be smelling my own fear. Or yours.’ Iolo grunted as he rose, gathered his reins. ‘God did not give us knowledge of the fox; we must learn about it.’

  ‘God is ever testing us.’

  Iolo mounted. ‘And we dare not complain, for fear of hell’s eternal fire.’

  Owen, too, mounted. ‘Your life does not seem one for complaint.’

  ‘Of late, no.’

  They rode forward into the trees.

  Though the track was still wide enough for a modest cart, the trees, leafed out now in mid-May, shadowed the way. The distance between glints of sunlight grew. As the branches drooped lower and lower, snagging their hats, the two dismounted once more.

  Iolo looked round warily.

  Owen did, too. He sensed eyes on them. The feeling was far stronger than it had been earlier.

  Iolo raised his hand, warning Owen to stay still, then slowly crouched down so he would not be a target above his horse’s back. Owen did likewise.

  ‘How much farther until we can ride again?’ Iolo whispered.

  ‘I am not certain.’

  ‘Retreat?’

  ‘No.’

  Iolo nodded. He was with him.

  They crouched there for a long while, listening. But they heard nothing. At last they rose, continued on, leading their horses.

  Owen was just about to suggest they pause again, listen, when he felt a presence behind him. He drew his knife and turned, flung up his left arm to deflect his attacker’s weapon, but his return thrust struck air. Someone called to the horses in Welsh. Owen’s assailant slipped back into the shadows. Go after him? Iolo shouted. Owen spun round. The horses were gone. Iolo and a bare-legged man wrestled on the path, trying to reach a knife Iolo must have knocked from his adversary’s grasp. Owen grabbed it, only to have it caught from behind by his attacker returned. The man yanked too hard. Owen shouted at the pain and swung round with murder on his mind. But there were two against him now and his right arm, wounded and sprained, or worse, was not responding quickly.
Owen felt a sharp, hot pain in his side as he went down.

  As quickly as the men had attacked, they vanished. Someone cried out, at a distance. Owen hoped he had maimed one of them. But he doubted it.

  He rolled over, felt his right side below his ribs. Sticky with blood, as was his right arm. But the pain was worst from higher on his arm. He prayed it was not broken.

  Iolo moaned.

  ‘You are wounded?’

  Iolo did not reply.

  Owen sat up, cursing at the pain.

  Iolo lay on the path. ‘My foot or my ankle – something down there is on fire. And no horses.’ He propped himself up on his elbows.

  Owen rose, pressing his right arm to his side to try to stanch the blood from the wound above his waist and keep the arm still. He eased himself down beside Iolo. ‘They might have killed us.’

  ‘Your arm is injured?’

  ‘And a wound in my side – but not so bad I cannot walk.’ Owen put his hand on Iolo’s right ankle. ‘This one?’

  ‘No, the other.’

  When Owen touched the ankle Iolo jerked.

  ‘If they meant to slow us down, they succeeded,’ Iolo muttered. ‘How am I to walk on that?’

  Nine

  THE HIGH SHERIFF

  The archbishop’s manor at Bishopthorpe bustled with spring activities. Men crawled about the gutters like spiders, making repairs. A glazier and his assistant worked at one of the hall windows. Several servants crept through the rose garden, adding new crushed rock to the paths. Another team of workers were planting seedlings in the kitchen garden.

  John Thoresby had come outside to warm his stiff joints in the sunshine. He had not expected so much activity. All the chores had been ordered by him, it was true, to be begun when the weather calmed. But that they should all be attacked at once was bothersome when he was in residence. It was time Owen Archer returned from Wales and resumed his duties as steward of Bishopthorpe. He approached the position with logic and courtesy. Thoresby suspected that the Bishop of St David’s had discovered Archer’s talents. Adam de Houghton was a grasping sort. One had only to look at how he wooed Lancaster, involving him in his pious scheme to collect the vicars into a college where they might be supervised. Houghton meant to be Lord Chancellor one of these days. Might he find joy in it. But he could not have Archer. Thoresby had sent a messenger to Wales, recalling his man in no uncertain terms, telling him how Alice Baker had stirred up trouble and assorted other items that would lure him home. The duke’s request for Archer’s help in recruiting archers for his French campaign had been reasonable and, in truth, how could Thoresby deny him when his purpose was the defence of the realm? But surely Archer had completed the task by now. It was not possible Friar Hewald had yet delivered the letter, but he was well on his way to Cydweli.

  Thoresby grumbled at the annoying hammering overhead. Perhaps it was quiet down in the river gardens. He turned away from the house. As he passed the gardener’s shed, he heard an odd, sucking sound. Simon the gardener had suffered several attacks of catarrh during the wet spring, the last one lingering and bringing on a fever that had everyone worried. Fearing the man might be taking ill again, Thoresby pushed open the door.

  Simon looked up, a curse dying on his lips as he recognised the intruder. He was elbow deep in a pungent mud and dung bath, kneading it like dough. ‘Your Grace!’ He began to withdraw his arms, the mud noisily sucking at them. ‘Stinking mud makes fragrant roses.’

  ‘Do not stop, Simon.’ Thoresby could imagine the man forgetting himself and touching his face with those disgusting hands. The odour was overpowering. The archbishop shielded his mouth and nose with his forearm. ‘I merely wondered at the sound. I did not mean to disturb you.’

  ‘Your Grace is always welcome,’ Simon said. ‘But I do not blame you for retreating. My good wife has never been reconciled with this muck. She will send me down to the river this evening to wash before I set foot in the house.’

  ‘She will not heat up water for you?’

  Simon chuckled. ‘My good wife has many mouths to feed and clothe, and no more hours in the day than we do, eh?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ If they used some restraint they might not have such a clutch of children. ‘May God watch over all of you,’ Thoresby said as he withdrew.

  Outside, as Thoresby gulped the fresh air, he heard a horse trotting into the yard. Yesterday a galloping horse had brought news of a band of outlaws attacking Freythorpe Hadden. Was there more ill news? A high hedge blocked his view. Curious, Thoresby retraced his steps to the top of the path. Brother Michaelo. His secretary returned at last. Excellent. No doubt he would wish to speak with Thoresby at once, but the archbishop wished to enjoy the day. He resumed his quest for a quiet spot in the sun. Tonight was soon enough to speak with Michaelo.

  After much thought, Lucie sent a note to Roger Moreton suggesting that Harold Galfrey accompany her to the High Sheriff the following day rather than Roger. Harold could bear witness to her tale, then be on his way back to the manor. Roger expressed disappointment in his reply, but agreed that Harold was the better choice. He would inform his steward of the appointment.

  The evening was chilly enough for a fire in the hall, but the air still so sweet that Thoresby had the servants set up a table and chairs near an open casement. Brother Michaelo had not been seated long when he asked permission to move his chair closer to the fire, away from the evening air. Thoresby motioned to the servant behind him to make it so. He did not doubt his secretary’s complaint. What flesh had he left to warm him? Indeed, Thoresby’s former secretary, Jehannes, now Archdeacon of York, thought Brother Michaelo much affected by his journey into Wales. Jehannes had dined with the archbishop the previous day.

  ‘During his brief stay in York I found him much subdued, spending most of his time in prayer,’ Jehannes had said.

  But Thoresby noted that Michaelo still fussed with his carefully tailored sleeves, ensuring that they lay neatly on the arms of the chair. Gaunt he was, and mourning the death of Sir Robert D’Arby he seemed to be. But Thoresby did not see a holy man before him.

  ‘You took your time returning,’ the archbishop said.

  Brother Michaelo glanced over at the servant, down at the flagon of wine, the cups. ‘I should be honoured to wait on both of us, Your Grace.’ He cocked an eyebrow towards the servant.

  Intriguing. He must have something to say he did not wish the servants to hear. Thoresby waved the man out of the room.

  ‘I accompanied Mistress Wilton to Freythorpe Hadden, to speak to Dame Phillippa about Sir Robert’s last days.’ Michaelo paused with a questioning look, as if belatedly asking permission.

  Thoresby motioned for him to continue.

  ‘We encountered difficulties,’ Michaelo began, and proceeded to tell Thoresby about the outlaws at Freythorpe Hadden. No wonder Michaelo looked exhausted. ‘Mistress Wilton intends to report it to the High Sheriff,’ the monk concluded.

  ‘Tell Chamont?’ said Thoresby. ‘Ha! Precious little he will do. If he is even in residence at York Castle.’

  Brother Michaelo handed him a letter. ‘From Mistress Wilton.’

  Thoresby read quickly, disturbed by how well the thieves knew the hall. He was glad she had the sense to return to York. A few retainers was a sound request. This he could certainly do for the mother of his godchildren. ‘I shall send some men at once,’ he said, laying the letter aside. ‘Is she safe even in York?’

  Michaelo frowned at the question. ‘I had assumed so, Your Grace. But if you doubt it … Perhaps we should have a talk with the bailiff.’ He rose to pour wine.

  ‘Bailiffs react after the damage is done. I need Archer here.’

  ‘I am certain that Mistress Wilton feels the same, Your Grace.’

  Sarcasm? Thoresby glanced up at his secretary as he handed him a cup of wine. His eyes were cast down, his expression unreadable. What did it matter? Thoresby set the cup on the table, rose to stand by the window. How sweet was the evening air
; how transient was such a moment. He stood there a while, breathing, thinking. Michaelo’s tale and Lucie’s letter troubled him. It did not sound like the usual outlawry. He turned, found Michaelo pouring himself another cup of wine.

  ‘What troubles me is the gatehouse,’ Thoresby said.

  Michaelo glanced up with a puzzled expression.

  ‘With Sir Robert’s death, Mistress Wilton now owns the manor and after her it goes to Hugh. There is no doubt about that, I suppose? Did Sir Robert mention any problems? Relations who might claim the property? Old enemies?’

  ‘None, Your Grace.’ Michaelo drew a cloth from his sleeve, dabbed his high forehead. ‘But I had not thought to ask.’ His face was lined with worry.

  Thoresby waved away his concern. ‘In faith, it is not the sort of thing one asks a dying friend.’ He had an uncomfortable suspicion about Michaelo’s concern for the family of Sir Robert D’Arby. ‘You are most changed in regard to Sir Robert.’

  ‘I had the greatest respect and admiration for him.’

  ‘You have rarely shown such affection for the aged.’ Handsome young men or men who might further his ambitions, yes.

  Michaelo shot from his chair, indignation staining his cheeks. ‘Your Grace! I have not broken my vow. And to think such a thing about Sir Robert!’

  ‘Resume your seat, Michaelo. I did not mean to offend you – though you cannot find it strange I should wonder occasionally. The flesh is not insensitive, however one may struggle against the devil. But just then I merely wondered what you had hoped to gain by your devotion.’ He sighed as the monk hovered overhead, aflutter with indignation. ‘Sit!’

  Michaelo sank back down.

  ‘An ill-considered topic. Forgive me.’ Michaelo said nothing. ‘Are we at peace?’ Thoresby asked. ‘Can we continue?’