A Spy For The Redeemer (Owen Archer Book 7)

by Candace Robb

  It was not about Sir Robert that Michaelo wished to speak. He carried an invitation from Archbishop Thoresby to dine with him at Archdeacon Jehannes’s house the following evening. His Grace wished to offer his condolences and learn more about the situation at Freythorpe Hadden, to find out whether there was more that he could do. Michaelo cheered Lucie with the news that Thoresby had already sent two retainers to the manor and even more so with who they were – the two men Owen most trusted. That he had also sent a messenger to recall Owen made her heart quicken. She would be so grateful to have him home.

  Lucie hurried back to the house to be ready to greet her guests. Many guild members attended the gathering, kind in their condolences, eager to hear of the attack on Freythorpe Hadden, curious about what she heard from Owen. Council members also came and some people she had invited because they were too influential to exclude, John Gisburne among them, whose attempt to speak kindly to Phillippa was rebuked in an embarrassing manner.

  Dame Phillippa had stayed close to either Lucie or Jasper, asking them to identify people. As long as the guests spoke about Sir Robert, Phillippa answered graciously, thanked them, but mention of the trouble at Freythorpe Hadden silenced her and brought a hunted look to her face that disturbed people. By the time Gisburne expressed concern about the incident, Phillippa could no longer bear it and hurried from the room.

  Lucie tried to deflect curious questions by asking about chantry priests and praising Archdeacon’s Jehannes’s eulogy. No one mentioned Alice Baker outright, though Lucie saw folk with heads together draw apart with guilty expressions as she approached. In loud voices so that all could hear, Guild Master Thorpe and his wife, Gwen, made sure to invite Lucie to dine with them within the next week. It was a kind show of support that Lucie much appreciated.

  The questions about Owen began to bother her. Too many people’s queries implied doubt that Owen would return. The first time someone asked ‘he is certain to return soon?’ she interpreted it as being intended as a statement. But after two or three such slips, she could no longer ignore it. Or was it merely her usual worry when Owen was away that coloured her perception?

  She noted what looked to be a quiet argument between Alderman Bolton and John Gisburne. Feeling her own back bristling with gossip, she thought it time to show Gisburne some appreciation for having come. When Lucie saw him backing away from Bolton, downing his cup of ale as he did so, she moved towards him.

  ‘Master Gisburne, I pray you, forgive my aunt’s behaviour. She has not been well and I fear this gathering was ill-advised.’

  Gisburne bowed to Lucie, pressed his bejewelled hands together as he rose. He was an elegant man. His houppelande was deep blue, his cap amber silk. ‘You need not apologise, Mistress Wilton. My grandfather was much the same, God grant him rest.’

  Lucie did not know Gisburne well, in fact, had never had cause to speak to him before, as he favoured another apothecary. She had expected him to be loud, not quiet and courteous. ‘You might know that Harold Galfrey has been assisting my staff at Freythorpe Hadden.’

  ‘Is he? But I thought he was house steward for Roger Moreton.’

  ‘Master Moreton did not need him as yet –’

  ‘How kind of Roger. You are fortunate in that friendship. My father and your uncle were good friends, did you know?’

  ‘My uncle, Douglas Sutton?’

  Gisburne nodded.

  Lucie was all the sorrier about her aunt’s behaviour towards the man. ‘I do not remember my uncle.’

  ‘Nor I my father. He was killed during the Scots raids into Yorkshire.’

  Gwen Thorpe joined them, asking after Gisburne’s wife, Beatrice. Lucie withdrew to see how Phillippa fared. Her aunt sat in the kitchen, dozing in a chair by the fire. Lucie slipped back out into the milling crowd and made a point of talking to Alderman Bolton, so he would not feel himself slighted.

  After the guests departed, Lucie found herself at leisure for the rest of the afternoon. Jasper had gone to St Mary’s Abbey, his usual escape when he needed consolation. Phillippa was napping upstairs with the help of a calming draught. Gwenllian and Hugh were also up in their cots. Kate needed no help cleaning up – Bess Merchet had sent over a kitchen maid to assist. Lucie judged it a good time to see Magda Digby.

  The sun warmed Lucie and softened her mood. Her troubles seemed less frightening. It was true the attack might have been much worse. Except for Daimon, no one had serious injuries. Far more might have been lost had the thieves known where her mother’s jewels were kept. Or her father’s weapons. But about other problems she found no consolation in the sun. Phillippa’s confusion and weakness might never mend. Lucie might never know Jasper’s heart.

  Magda stood over a block of dense wood chopping roots with a small axe. A scarf covered her hair and an apron her colourful dress.

  ‘I am glad to find you well,’ Lucie called to her.

  Magda nodded, but went on with her work. Lucie settled on a bench that allowed her to lean against the old house and consider the dragon’s head that glared at her upside down. Magda’s roof was an old Viking ship overturned. Magda had once explained that the frightening visage had protected the mariners from sea monsters and she thought it wise to protect her island home in case such monsters ever ventured upriver. Worms had pitted the dragon’s face, weather had etched lines in the paint. He looked as old as Magda now.

  ‘Thou art fast becoming friends, eh?’ Magda said as she brushed the chopped roots into a jar. She wiped the axe on her apron and joined Lucie on the bench.

  ‘Freythorpe Hadden needs a dragon. But I must needs settle for a few of the archbishop’s men.’

  ‘He is generous.’

  ‘So are you.’

  ‘Magda had already planned to leave tomorrow for a farm near Freythorpe, to encourage a babe from its mother’s womb. In a day or two she should come to Daimon at Freythorpe, as soon as the babe agrees. Though Magda doubts she can do more than thee for the lad.’

  ‘I was not the best nurse,’ Lucie said. ‘Too much happened all at once. I worry there is something I missed. I sent Harold Galfrey off yesterday with medicines I did not have with me at the time, but even now I do not trust myself to think of everything.’

  ‘This Harold is to be Moreton’s steward?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lucie told Magda how helpful he had been.

  ‘Is it true John Gisburne commended him to Moreton?’

  ‘It is. Why?’

  ‘Gisburne is a friend to outlaws, thou knowest that.’

  ‘Rumours.’

  Magda grunted.

  ‘Truth? But Harold –’ Lucie stopped. What precisely did she know of the man but his deeds? ‘I do not believe it of him.’

  ‘Good. Thou dost not need more trouble.’

  ‘The High Sheriff asked me about enemies.’

  ‘There are many who fear thy husband’s eye, but to Magda’s knowledge none so foolish as to taunt Bird-eye with such a deed.’

  ‘He is away. They might feel confident.’

  Magda squinted up at the sun. ‘Hast thou news of him?’

  ‘A question much repeated today.’

  Rising abruptly, Magda walked to the edge of the rock on which her house was perched, then stood with hands clasped behind her back, facing the city. Lucie joined her. Sun danced on the shallow water, a dog barked somewhere in the hovels crowded against the walls, a church bell tolled, children shrieked as they played in the water upstream, a ferryman shouted. But Magda was silent.

  ‘What is it?’ Lucie asked.

  ‘How dost thou answer the rumours about thy husband?’

  ‘What rumours?’

  Magda watched the arc of a seagull as it swept over the river before she turned to face Lucie. ‘Thou hast not heard them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘These questions – folk ask without explaining why?’ Magda shook her head at Lucie’s nod. ‘Even Bess Merchet?’

  ‘Tell me for pity’s sake!’

  ‘O
wain Lawgoch, Owain of the Red Hand. Thou hast heard the tales?’

  ‘Yes. What has he to do with Owen?’

  ‘It is said that Bird-eye might see in the princeling a noble cause.’

  ‘Who accuses my husband of treason?’

  ‘Magda guesses none accuse, they wonder.’

  ‘Who could think such a thing of Owen?’

  ‘Though he is thy husband, he is yet a stranger from the west.’

  Lucie’s legs felt weak. She withdrew to the bench, trying to remember whether Bess had also asked without explaining. And what of Gwen and Camden Thorpe? Why had they said nothing of this? Dear God, what of Jasper? How would he receive such a rumour? Is this why His Grace the Archbishop invited her to dine? To question her about Owen’s loyalty?

  Magda sat, took one of Lucie’s cold hands in her warm, strong grasp. ‘Look at Magda.’

  Reluctantly, Lucie raised her eyes.

  ‘Magda did not wish to tell thee. So it must be with all thy friends. Some may believe thou knowest what folk say and choose to ignore it. Which is what thou must now do.’

  But Lucie’s thoughts had turned to Owen’s letters. ‘I must talk to Brother Michaelo.’

  ‘Thou suspects some truth lies behind this?’

  ‘I cannot believe Owen would betray his king. But in every letter he wrote of the harsh treatment his countrymen received from the Marcher lords and their men. He found it difficult to hold his tongue.’

  ‘He mentioned this princeling?’

  ‘No. He would not take such a risk. The letters might have fallen into the wrong hands. Did the thieves hear these rumours? Is that what gave them courage?’

  ‘Thy father also had enemies, to be sure.’

  ‘I may never know the truth of this.’

  ‘No.’

  Lucie returned to her garden, not ready to see people. Her small rake was not on its hook in the shed. As she dug round on the shelves among old baskets, she came across her father’s old felt hat. Tears pricked her eyes as she lifted it, turned it in her hands. Sweat and rain had darkened it, a print was still visible on the crown where Sir Robert had plucked it off his head with a soil-stained hand to wipe his brow. Lucie pressed the hat to her, said a prayer for her father’s soul, then hung the hat on a nail, out of the way, but visible in the light from the open door.

  She knelt by the apothecary roses that surrounded the grave of her first husband, Nicholas. This had been his favourite spot in the garden, though he had loved it all. In the growing season they would work out here before opening the shop, Nicholas patiently teaching her the correct way to prune each plant, how to fertilise it, how to tell when it was diseased, how to harvest it while still leaving enough of the plant to grow to another harvest. They had been happy, and he had always been there. Not like Owen. Though she felt for Owen a passion she had never felt for Nicholas, Lucie missed the companionship of her first marriage. A wave of sadness washed over her. She had been so eager to rush into Owen’s arms after Nicholas died. But her first husband had been a good man, and gentle. She bent to her work, loosening the soil, beginning to weed.

  Footsteps behind her caused her to glance up. It was Roger Moreton, who paused now, looking down at her with concern. Lucie dabbed at her eyes with the hem of the loose jacket she wore over her gown and rose to greet him. Unexpectedly, he gathered her in his arms, pressing her head to his shoulder. Lucie was caught off her guard, but remembering her agonies over Harold’s kiss, she quickly drew away. ‘Roger!’

  Two red patches burned on his cheeks. ‘I pray you, forgive me. I just – seeing you kneeling there weeping, over Nicholas’s grave, I knew what you were feeling. I weep for Isabel, just so. And now your father gone, too. And Owen away …’ Roger clasped his hands behind him and looked down at the path.

  ‘Why not complete it. Owen away on a treasonous adventure? Owen away for ever?’

  He met her eyes. ‘You do not think I believe such rumours!’

  ‘Why did you not tell me?’

  ‘You did not know?’

  ‘Magda told me.’

  ‘Your friends have had a care not to tell you then.’

  ‘How long?’

  Roger frowned. ‘A while, but it began merely with puzzlement that Brother Michaelo returned alone. Then after the news of your father’s death became stale, they turned to the captain.’

  Lucie noticed that his hair was damp with sweat, as if he had hurried to see her. ‘But you did not tell me the reason for your visit,’ she said. ‘Is there some news?’

  ‘No, no, I merely wished to see how you were.’ He looked increasingly uncomfortable. ‘I shall come another day.’

  ‘Do you wish to discuss Harold Galfrey?’

  Roger hesitated, then said, ‘We shall discuss it another day.’ And with that, he turned and hurried away from her. As he disappeared behind the hedge that led to the gate, he gave an exclamation.

  Lucie could not see through the bushes, but she heard Bess Merchet’s voice quite clearly. ‘Such a hurry, Master Moreton. There are no dogs in this garden, surely. Is the devil nipping at your heels?’

  Roger murmured something. Lucie heard the gate open and shut. ‘Bess?’

  With her usual decisive tread, Bess appeared at the head of the path and came marching down. She had changed into what she called her scrubbing gown, a simple fustian with no trim, and one of her old caps, sans ribbons. Lucie imagined a serving maid was being instructed on the fine points of cleaning the inn. Bess carried a jug.

  ‘You look as if you are busy. What brings you back here?’ Lucie asked.

  Bess tucked a loose red tendril back into her cap, then held up the jug. ‘Brandywine. I had a thought you might need comforting, suddenly alone, thinking about your father. But I see Roger Moreton had the same idea. A different sort of comfort.’

  Lucie felt herself blushing, which was unfortunate when under Bess’s scrutiny.

  ‘I see,’ Bess said, her eyes narrowed.

  ‘What do you see?’

  ‘He embraced you and you did not pull away. I certainly saw that.’

  ‘He found me weeping and thought to comfort me. I did pull away. And he apologised.’

  Bess looked doubtful. ‘Quite a red face he had as he left. I imagine he knows I caught you.’

  ‘You caught nothing, Bess. A friend comforting a friend. That is all that you saw.’

  ‘I cannot understand you, Lucie Wilton. Wed to the handsomest man I have ever seen, who loves you dearly, and you dally with a merchant and a steward while he is away.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Or was Jasper mistaken? Was it not Harold Galfrey but Roger Moreton who kissed your hand the other day?’

  This was worse than Phillippa witnessing it, with Jasper already suspicious of Roger Moreton. Now Harold Galfrey, too? ‘When did Jasper tell you this?’

  Bess set the jug on the ground at her feet and rubbed her hands. ‘This morning. While we moved things for your guests. He looked sad. I said he must be missing Sir Robert. But I could tell that was not all. With some prodding I had it from him.’ Bess shook her head. ‘Was it Harold?’

  ‘Harold Galfrey kissed my hand, it is true.’

  ‘What is this all about? Has Owen been gone too long?’

  The question startled Lucie.

  Bess nodded. ‘I have always worried about you when Owen went on one of his adventures.’

  ‘I love Owen. I would not be unfaithful to him.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘I feel so alone.’

  Bess’s irritation dissolved into sympathy. She picked up the jug, put an arm round Lucie. ‘Listen to me, chiding you when you have been beset by one thing and another of late. It would try the patience of Job, and I cannot think whose steadfastness. Jasper will not be ruined by what he saw. Tell him you love Owen, that is all he wants to hear. Come now, be at peace. Come into the house and share a cup of good cheer.’

  Brother Michaelo walked back to the archdeacon’s house slowly, di
sturbed by what he had just heard. Archbishop Thoresby had suggested that Michaelo go to the Bedern, the area in which the cathedral clerics lived, and listen to the gossip. Getting the clerks to talk had been no problem – they all knew that he had accompanied Owen Archer and Sir Robert D’Arby to Wales, and it was of that journey they wanted news. How had Sir Robert died, where was he buried, who was to live at Freythorpe Hadden now, was Wales as wild as they said, were the French on the shores, why was the captain still there?

  It was the questions about the captain that disturbed Michaelo. He needed to think how to tell His Grace in such a way that he did not reveal Sir Robert’s similar worries about Owen. For Sir Robert had been concerned about his son-in-law. Owen’s behaviour had begun to change as the company crossed the Severn river and entered the Welsh Marches. He had become increasingly defensive about the Welsh and angry about how the English treated them. He had also been in contact with an old friend, a Fleming who worked for King Charles of France and at the moment was assisting the cause of Owain Lawgoch. To Michaelo’s mind there was little chance that Owen would desert his family to fight for a puppet of the French king. The captain had spent too much of his life fighting the French. But what of his anger about the English behaving as conquerors in Wales? Michaelo caught himself – he, too, was being influenced by the rumours and he had been with the captain in Wales so recently.

  Lucie lingered at the table with Bess, grateful for the warmth in her stomach from the brandywine. But her companion did not look at ease. ‘I should not keep you so long from your work,’ said Lucie.

  Her words seemed to wake Bess from a reverie. ‘The dirt will still be there, if I know my maids.’ The complaint was flat.

  ‘What is wrong?’

  Bess grimaced, poured a finger more brandywine in both cups, ignoring Lucie’s protests. But Bess did not drink, rather she stared into her cup. ‘I do not wish to give you more to fret about. But you should know what folk are saying.’

  ‘About Owen? I know, Bess.’

  She made a show of slumping with relief. ‘Praise God, I did not wish to be the one to tell you. Who did?’

  ‘Magda. I do not understand how anyone could think that of Owen.’