A Spy For The Redeemer (Owen Archer Book 7)

by Candace Robb

  ‘If you ask me, no one believes any ill of Owen, they just enjoy the talk. When a body is gossiping, he is not thinking.’ Bess rose, crossed over the floor quickly to the kitchen door and opened it. ‘There you are, Kate. How was my new serving girl this morning? Was she a help to you?’

  Lucie could not hear Kate’s reply over the sounds of the children awakening up above.

  ‘Bess, ask Kate to bring Gwenllian and Hugh down.’

  Bess did so, then returned to the table as Kate hurried up to the solar.

  ‘You thought she was listening?’ Lucie asked.

  Bess pressed the cork firmly into the jug, brushed off her skirt. ‘Kate is honest and hard-working, I know, but she is not so bright as to realise how gossip might hurt you.’ She rose as Gwenllian clattered down from the solar. Kate followed, Hugh in her arms. She looked worried as she handed him to Lucie.

  ‘What is wrong?’

  ‘You will want to go up, Mistress Lucie. Dame Phillippa is gathering her clothes. She says she is leaving.’

  Holy Mary Mother of God, what was the woman thinking? Lucie handed Hugh to Bess and hurried up to her chamber where, indeed, Phillippa’s clothes were roughly crammed into the small chest she had brought from Freythorpe. Phillippa paced and muttered to herself. She wore the small linen cap in which she slept, her grey hair hanging down her back in thin, tangled strands. Her shift was wrinkled from sleep, her legs and feet bare. The gown she had been wearing still hung on a hook on the wall.

  ‘Aunt?’ Lucie said softly, unsure whether Phillippa woke or slept. The valerian should still have effect, but Kate had said Phillippa spoke to her and someone had packed the chest. Lucie called to her aunt a little louder.

  Now Phillippa noticed her, stopped, glanced at the chest, then back to Lucie. ‘You were kind to ask me to stay, but I must go back to the manor.’

  ‘Why? Tildy, Harold and all the servants are there. I have sent Magda to see to Daimon. What more can be done, Aunt?’

  ‘I should be there.’

  Lucie ached to see the once indomitable Phillippa like this. She put a soft wool shawl round her aunt’s shoulders. ‘Come and sit down. I shall comb your hair and help you dress.’

  ‘And then we shall go?’

  ‘We shall see.’ There, beside the bed, Lucie found the reason for Phillippa’s wakefulness. Her cup of tisane was still half full. Lucie lifted it, held it towards her aunt. ‘Drink this. It will calm you.’

  ‘You do not understand.’

  ‘Then tell me.’

  ‘I forget too much.’

  ‘As you did this drink.’

  Phillippa took the cup, drank down the honey-laced valerian.

  ‘Why not nap a while until we are ready?’ Lucie suggested. She eased her aunt back down on to the bed, covered her and slipped quietly from the room. She would unpack the chest later.

  Twelve

  CYNOG’S SECRET

  Owen heard a horse whinny. And another. Math and Enid had no horses. The dog rose and began to bark. Owen struggled to rise. Math jumped up, grabbed a knife and a pitchfork he had propped by the door.

  ‘Where are my knives?’ Iolo called out from the corner.

  ‘Do not waste your strength unless I cry out,’ Math said. ‘Both of you. Enid, keep Ilar quiet.’

  Enid grabbed the dog and muzzled her with a strip of cloth from the wound dressings.

  The farmer pressed an ear to the door, listening. ‘Horsemen. Not many.’

  ‘One is bad enough if the wrong one,’ Enid murmured.

  Especially if he were the murderer of her son?

  Math opened the door quietly, slipped out into the wet morning.

  A horse whinnied again. Math shouted.

  Owen pushed through his pain and stood up. But Math appeared in the doorway before Owen reached it. The farmer laughed as he shook the rain from his hair. ‘Friends?’ Enid asked.

  ‘Aye. Cynog’s friend. The one-handed Fleming. And two others. They are seeing to their horses.’

  ‘Praise God.’ Enid let the bitch loose. Ilar rushed from the cottage, barking. ‘I must add more to the pottage,’ Enid said.

  ‘You sic that stubby, yapping devil on a friend?’ Iolo asked. He was sitting up, looking as if he had spent the night under a tavern table.

  ‘She knows Martin,’ Enid said. ‘And she is no devil, but the best watch dog a farmer could ask for.’

  ‘Martin Wirthir,’ Owen said.

  Math gave an enthusiastic nod. ‘He says he has come to crown you king of fools.’

  ‘I shall greet the kingmaker.’ Owen hoped that walking about would ease the stiffness in his legs. His wounds slowed his impulsive pace, but they did not stop him. Outside, he lifted his face to the cool drizzle, breathed in the fresh air. The expansion of his ribs brought pain, but his lungs felt cleansed. He headed into the brush to relieve himself. When he returned to the yard, Martin Wirthir was walking out of the barn, his pack over his left shoulder, the dog trotting happily beside him. She gave one bark when she saw Owen. Martin paused, crouching to pet Ilar. It was ever jarring to see Martin after an absence. He could be Owen’s brother, they looked so much alike, but that Martin’s hair was slightly lighter and straighter. Like Owen, he carried a terrible scar, though not on his face. He was missing his right hand. At the moment he looked muddy and bedraggled.

  ‘I see you have ridden hard this morning,’ said Owen.

  ‘Walked. We camped the other side of the forest.’ Martin laughed as Ilar pulled at his pack. With his left hand he grabbed a stick and threw it far across the yard, sending the dog racing after it on her squat legs. ‘Ilar believes she is a deerhound,’ Martin said as he rose, brushing off his muddy knees. ‘Not a bad toss for someone who could throw only with his right hand a few years ago, eh?’ Now he looked closely at Owen. ‘By St Sebastian, you are not looking much the archer this morning.’

  ‘My bow would have been of little use in the forest,’ Owen said. ‘Did my men tell you where I was?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your own spies told you?’

  The dog dropped the stick at Martin’s feet, then dashed into the cottage. ‘She has the good sense to go inside, out of the rain.’ Martin hoisted his pack over his shoulder. ‘So do I.’ He bowed to Owen and walked away. At the cottage door Martin glanced back at Owen, who was still eyeing the forest. ‘There is no need for you to stand out here. My men are on watch.’

  Owen followed, though it was not because of the rain. The Fleming usually travelled alone. For him to ride with companions and set a guard – something had him worried. The men who had attacked Owen?

  Enid and Math welcomed Martin with much affection. Owen learned from their conversation that Martin had been the one to bring them the terrible news of Cynog’s murder. They had not mentioned him last night when Owen questioned them.

  Martin bent over Iolo’s wounded foot. ‘I thought you were a better fighter than this, my friend.’

  ‘It was three against two, three men who knew the forest,’ Iolo protested. ‘They had the advantage of our surprise.’

  Martin straightened. ‘Can you ride?’

  ‘Ride, aye. But mounting and dismounting …’ Iolo shook his head at his leg.

  ‘We can assist you.’ Martin turned to Owen. ‘And you?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Enid said, stepping between them.

  ‘Today would be better,’ Martin said.

  ‘Tomorrow is foolish enough,’ she said. ‘He will open his side and bleed all the way to St David’s.’

  ‘He might suffer far worse if he curls up and naps until his trouble appears.’

  Martin’s unease had Owen’s full attention. ‘Shall we talk about this trouble?’ he asked.

  ‘First we eat,’ Enid said. ‘Then I shall leave the three of you alone.’

  Owen grew impatient with her mothering. But Martin thanked her graciously.

  Enid’s good, thick pottage and sharp cider soon calmed Owen and made him more confident he
could ride. But he wondered about Iolo. The horses must be led for much of the way to St David’s. Through the forest he might bend low against his mount, but it would be dangerous for him to stay mounted on the steeper rock faces. Yet how could he walk? Owen asked whether Martin had a different route in mind.

  Taking their cue, Enid and Math rose from the table and donned their cloaks to set about their chores. They were already behind in their morning schedule, Math said as he hurried Enid – who would linger – out of the door.

  Martin leaned his elbows on the table, toying with a puddle of cider on the wood. ‘Do you wish to return to St David’s? Might it not be wiser to journey south, and then east, towards home?’

  ‘The time is not right.’

  Martin glanced up from his fidgeting to look Owen in the eye. ‘I should have thought it precisely the time.’

  ‘With my men yet in St David’s, the tomb unfinished …’ Martin’s grim expression did not change. ‘Math said you had come to crown me king of fools. What did he mean?’

  ‘What do you have to gain by returning to the city? If you have paid the stonemason, he will complete the tomb. Why should he not? It will be a monument to his artistry as well as to Sir Robert’s life.’

  ‘And Cynog’s murderer? Do I abandon the search for him?’

  ‘What will you gain by finding him for the archdeacon? A ship? I can arrange passage for you.’

  ‘I am not finished here.’

  ‘How much time would you waste in St David’s?’

  ‘He makes sense,’ said Iolo.

  Owen thought it madness even to consider it. ‘What of the rest of my men? How can I desert them in St David’s?’

  ‘They are unimportant,’ Martin said lightly. ‘Rokelyn will not detain them. They should have papers – you were not carrying the papers when you were attacked, were you? Are you emperor of fools?’

  Such an argument could continue all the day. Owen wanted to know what he was running from. ‘You think our attackers will return, and soon. Why? To finish their work? They had the chance to kill us yesterday. Who are they? What do they want of us?’

  Martin threw up his arms. ‘So many questions at once, my friend.’ He leaned forward. ‘It is not only your attackers who might return – what of Archdeacon Rokelyn? You know that I dare not show myself to any loyal to King Edward. I cannot stay here.’

  ‘Ah. It is you who must move quickly.’

  ‘Do I misunderstand you? Do you enjoy being the puppet of clerics?’

  Owen hated it. But when he returned to York he would be under Thoresby’s thumb. Was he any better than Rokelyn? Martin was right – Owen should leave now. Perhaps ride. He might go by way of Usk and see his sister once more. For the last time? How likely was it that they would ever meet again?

  Martin was laughing. ‘Your caution is wise. But come now. Let us away.’

  Owen was tempted. But he had never abandoned his men. It was the act of a coward, a man without honour. ‘I shall not desert my men.’

  Martin looked away, the set of his jaw, his clenched hand expressing his frustration. ‘Then let me show you something. We shall ride, we two.’

  ‘What about our attackers?’ Iolo asked.

  ‘My men will stay here,’ said Martin. ‘They will help you take cover if trouble approaches.’

  ‘What of you two?’

  ‘They are more likely to be watching the track to St David’s.’ Martin rose. ‘Come, Owen. I wish you to understand Cynog.’

  When Iolo and the captain had not returned by morning, Tom, Edmund, Sam and Jared prepared to search for them. But they had been surrounded at the palace gatehouse and escorted to the house of the Archdeacon of St David’s. Apparently Rokelyn believed this was a ruse, that they meant to escape.

  Edmund had tried to reason with the man.

  ‘This is not a discussion,’ the archdeacon had said, his eyes cold. ‘This young one, Thomas, will ride with my men.’ Tom’s knees had begun to shake. ‘I prefer to keep you separated.’ The archdeacon had looked down his nose when he spoke to them and his eyes never quite met theirs.

  Edmund and Jared had been given the task of guarding Piers the Mariner in his cell. Sam was to sit in the palace gatehouse with the keeper. Tom rode out of Bonning’s Gate with head bowed, hoping that no one along the way recognised him in the company of the archbishop’s guards. It was a pointless effort, for the ones who counted already knew of Tom’s humiliation – Sam, Edmund, Jared. And soon Iolo and, worst of all, Captain Archer would be the wiser. The captain would surely understand why Archdeacon Rokelyn chose Tom to accompany the guards. Not that Tom had understood at first. Edmund had explained it to Tom as he gathered his things.

  ‘You are young, inexperienced,’ said Edmund, ‘they doubt you would have the stomach to lie to them.’

  All through his journey in Captain Archer’s company Tom’s stomach had betrayed him. Twice he had turned green crossing choppy water. He had embarrassed himself during a training session at Cydweli Castle, retching after being punched in the stomach. He had stopped counting how many times he stumbled out of the hall to heave after too much drink. The other men laughed and told him he would grow into being a soldier. But Tom had his doubts. He had the will, but not the stomach. And now these guards thought he did not have the stomach to lie. He prayed to St Oswald for the courage to deceive them. He did not yet see in what way he might do it. They had known the captain’s plan. Captain Archer had told Archdeacon Rokelyn where he was going – indeed, he had received the archdeacon’s blessing.

  Owen and Martin slowly rode out of the yard. Owen turned once, saw Enid still watching. He saluted her. She stood there, motionless. He guessed that she feared he was deserting the search for her son’s murderer.

  ‘Her son’s murder has tested her trust,’ Martin said.

  ‘You watch me too closely. I did not invite you into my thoughts. Even the Lord God gives us the courtesy of pretending He needs to hear our confession through His priests.’

  Martin stared straight ahead.

  The track they followed was overgrown and rocky, seemingly chosen to follow the most difficult terrain. Not so bad that they had to dismount, but the horses moved as slowly as the men might have done on foot – had not Owen been injured. His wounds stung more and more as he jounced on the horse. His shoulder ached as he shifted his body to balance in the saddle. He prayed they did not have far to go, else he could not imagine being in any condition to ride again tomorrow.

  Halfway up a track that climbed a barren, stony height they dipped into a small depression carved out by a stream, shaded by a few young trees. Two paths led off at different angles. Martin signalled a halt and dismounted.

  Owen dismounted with care.

  Martin crouched on the bank of the stream, where it bent towards him, round a stone outcropping topped with gorse. In the bend was a mound of smooth stones – after heavy rains the water must come down from the highlands with force and speed, depositing some of the stones caught up in the torrent. At present the slow-flowing water left them dry. Martin seemed to be handling the smooth rocks idly, turning them over, then setting them back down on the mound. All white rocks.

  ‘Do you read signs in the stones?’ Owen guessed.

  Martin bent to the stream, picked up a stone and handed it to Owen. Someone had chiselled out lines and angles.

  ‘I have seen lettering like this – on wayside crosses. I cannot read it.’

  ‘You are not meant to. Even one skilled in such lettering would find these a riddle.’

  ‘Lawgoch has planted these?’

  ‘Cynog,’ said Martin. ‘He carved them and put them in place.’

  If ever there was a man Owen had misjudged, it was Cynog. ‘What do they signify?’

  ‘Directions. Safe paths.’

  ‘For whom?’

  ‘We shall talk when we return to the farmhouse.’

  Owen stared down at the other white rocks in the stream. Cynog had spoken of Law
goch to Math and Enid. If Cynog had been working for Lawgoch’s cause, his murderer might well have been – as Rokelyn had surmised – a king’s man, someone who wanted to make of Cynog an example for other traitors to the king. Someone who had come upon him carving the stones? A fellow mason? But why would such a man care so much about whether Cynog betrayed the king? Would the guild have decreed such an act? To protect their freedoms? Certainly the guilds in York felt strongly about the behaviour of their members.

  Had Piers the Mariner searched Cynog’s room for evidence of treason? Would a spy for the king have been so obvious? Even so, Edward was king here, no matter the feelings of the people. Someone would surely come forth to argue in Piers’s defence if he were the king’s man. But would anyone have understood what they saw, smooth rocks on which Cynog had carved some symbols? Was it not more likely someone had come upon him setting them out?

  ‘Several of them have symbols,’ Martin said as Owen continued to stare at the stones. ‘Not all.’

  Owen only now focused completely. ‘How many learn these symbols?’

  ‘Enough for someone to think it worth the effort.’ Martin’s dark eyes studied Owen. ‘You see now the complications. Cynog was not the victim of a jealous lover.’

  ‘I never believed he was.’ But Owen had thought him an innocent.

  ‘This is Englishman against Welshman,’ said Martin. ‘You are vulnerable. Neither side knows whether to trust you.’

  ‘Do you think I do not realise that? I did not choose to become involved in this.’

  ‘I could get you away from here. Back to Lucie and your good life in York.’

  ‘You should want me to stay. Work for Lawgoch, as you do.’

  Martin laughed. ‘I work for King Charles. If he told me tomorrow that I should slit Lawgoch’s throat – well, I should much regret it, but I doubt I would hesitate.’

  ‘You have met Owain?’

  ‘Several times.’

  ‘Tell me about him. Now, away from Enid and Math.’

  Martin glanced at Owen, nodding. ‘So. It is not your men who keep you here, it is Lawgoch.’

  ‘Do you question my honour?’