by Candace Robb
When the servant had gone, Tildy crouched down beside Magda, her pretty face knitted into a mask of worry. ‘I watched Mistress Wilton carefully,’ she whispered, ‘and I am certain I have given Daimon the same amounts of the physicks.’
‘Cease thy fretting. Mayhap his body endured it for a time.’
‘Could too much of the physick kill him?’
The last two words were spoken so softly that Magda did not think she would have understood had she not been watching Tildy’s lips.
‘Aye, as is ever true, many a medicine is also a poison. But thou hast not killed him.’
‘Not me. I am sure of it. But there is one here who might be pleased to be rid of Daimon.’
‘An enemy?’
‘A rival. What think you of Master Galfrey?’
‘The borrowed steward? Thou shouldst call him Harold. He is not thy master.’
‘But what did you think of him?’
The subject of their hushed conversation had just entered the hall. ‘Magda thanks thee for the food,’ she said loudly. ‘Thou mightst bring a cup for Master Galfrey. Mistress Wilton will wish to hear his report when Magda returns.’
Tildy rose slowly, turned and greeted the steward by his given name.
Harold hesitated, then bowed to her. Turning to Magda, he said, ‘I pray you pardon me for my earlier behaviour.’
Tildy, looking pale, took the opportunity to withdraw. Magda made note of her departure as she waved away Harold’s apology. ‘Thou art cautious, with reason.’
He made himself comfortable near her, looking quite at home.
‘Thou hast begun the repairs on the gatehouse,’ Magda noted. ‘There was much damage?’
He nodded to the servant who brought another cup, rose to pour himself some wine, then held it up to Magda as if toasting. He took a drink, put the cup aside. ‘I thought it best to begin repairs at once, while God blesses us with dry weather. All the roof must be replaced. And the crumbled wall rebuilt, the other walls patched. And most of the boards on the upper floor were damaged from either fire or water.’
‘The rain will return before thou canst complete so much work.’
‘We can do no more than try, and pray that God has pity on us.’
‘Thou wouldst do better to find a way to protect thy work than to pray.’
Harold frowned, seemed about to say something, then threw his head back and laughed. Magda watched his movements as he took a long drink, emptying his cup. She noticed how closely he observed her and averted his eyes, then met hers with an expression much like that of a child who means to show an adult that he is not bothered by their criticism. And why would he not feel so after greeting her so boorishly? ‘How is Daimon?’ he asked abruptly.
Magda wagged her head from side to side. ‘He will mend. Too much physick steals his wit and makes him sleep. Magda will see how he fares on less.’
‘Poor Tildy. She loves him, you know.’
Magda studied the tanned face. The lines round his mouth said he frowned more often than he smiled. ‘Magda did not suggest Tildy was to blame.’
‘I did not mean to imply that she was. Merely that she suffers with him.’ Harold stared into the fire, pressing his palms into his knees, as if soothing them.
‘Do thy knees ail thee?’
‘They ache. I am not accustomed to so much physical work. A steward sits, walks, rides. I cannot remember ever crawling about in damp ashes. But I had to see the extent of the damage.’
‘Thou art thorough. Magda will give thee something to ease the ache.’
‘God bless you for that, Goodwife Digby. What of Daimon? You said he had too much physick, yet Tildy is not to blame.’
‘One cup of wine can put some men to sleep. Physicks are the same.’
‘Ah. He is a fortunate young man, to have Mistress Wilton send you to check on his care.’ Harold rose. ‘Will you be staying the night?’
‘One or two nights. Until Daimon improves.’
‘We shall all be the better for it. Forgive my abrupt departure, but I have much to do.’
‘Before the rain. Aye.’ Magda considered the man as he walked away. He was courteous enough to her, but he was the sort might be a stern steward. Mayhap that was the cause of Tildy’s dislike. Or was there more to it?
As Lucie walked down Stonegate on her way to the Archdeacon of York’s house she imagined eyes upon her, folk peering from behind the shutters, glancing at her as they walked by, all wondering whether she was the deserted wife of a traitor. Never had she felt so solitary in this city. Who were her friends, who her enemies? She also worried about Phillippa. If she were to begin fretting about Freythorpe again this evening, would Kate have the sense to send for Bess to help calm her?
Lucie was plagued with misgivings about dining at the archdeacon’s house. She hoped to speak with Michaelo. And she dreaded it. What if Owen had been drawn to Owain Lawgoch’s scheme? What then? Would he resent his ties to York? His English wife? Was that possible? She needed him here, where his touch, his voice, would reveal his heart. But what if he did not return? She slowed as she reached Jehannes’s house and almost turned back. But surely Brother Michaelo would have told her if he had any hint that Owen would not return. He seemed to respect her anew, as Sir Robert’s daughter. It was enough to propel her forward.
Archdeacon Jehannes greeted Lucie warmly, welcoming her to his house. ‘This is such a pleasure.’ The broad smile that lit up his ever youthful face attested to his sincerity. ‘You are so busy with the children and the shop, I cannot remember the last time you graced my home.’
Archbishop Thoresby rose from an ornate, throne-like chair that seemed out of place in the simply furnished room. His deep-set eyes looked sunken, his complexion pale.
‘Your Grace,’ Lucie said, curtsying.
Thoresby raised his hand and blessed her. She kissed his ring. His hand shook slightly. He was not young, nor had he been in the best of health the past year. His frailness made Lucie uneasy. If Owen had done anything to fuel the rumours, he would need a man of power to defend him. But if His Grace was ailing …
Jehannes motioned to a servant to bring her a cup of wine.
‘How fare my godchildren?’ Thoresby asked.
‘Thriving. Missing their father.’
‘If God hears my prayers Archer is on his way to York. Or will be very soon.’
‘I am so grateful to you for sending a messenger.’
‘I sent him before your troubles. So do not thank me. I want Archer back here, seeing to my business, not that of the Bishop of St David’s.’
Lucie glanced round the room. ‘Will Brother Michaelo be joining us?’
‘He is fasting,’ said Jehannes.
‘He was much moved by your father’s vision at St Non’s holy well,’ said Thoresby. ‘It may yet redeem him.’
‘You wished to speak with him?’ Jehannes asked, always the solicitous and perceptive host.
‘Yes. I had questions …’ she trailed off, not wishing to explain, not wishing to lie. And should she disturb Michaelo during a fast?
Thoresby harrumphed. ‘Is this about the rumours questioning Archer’s allegiance? They are nonsense. I do not make such errors about whom I trust.’
Lucie felt Jehannes watching her. She had hoped to hide her anxiety, fearing it revealed disloyal doubts about Owen. But it seemed these two knew her too well. ‘Had one or two people with cause to be curious heard the rumour I might not be worried. But it has spread so quickly.’
‘The merchants are worried about the French threat along the southern coast,’ said Jehannes. ‘The career of Owain Lawgoch is of concern to them.’
‘But why should Owen be suspected?’
Thoresby made an impatient gesture. ‘In faith, my gentle lady, you cannot believe this rumour began innocently. Someone expects to benefit from spreading it. You are right to worry about that.’
‘Perhaps it would be best for you to speak with Brother Michaelo,’ said Jehannes.<
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Thoresby agreed and called a servant to escort her to Michaelo.
The servant led Lucie to a door, then withdrew. Lucie was evidently to knock for herself. Michaelo responded to her timid tap with a curt, ‘Come!’ She took a deep breath and pushed open the door. It was a tiny, windowless room, lit by an oil lamp. The monk knelt on a prie-dieu set before a plain wooden cross, his head bowed. A leather scourge lay beside him. The room was otherwise bare.
‘Brother Michaelo?’
His head jerked up, as if she had awakened him. ‘Mistress Wilton. Benedicte.’ He rose stiffly.
‘Forgive me for disturbing you.’
‘You are welcome, Mistress Wilton.’ Michaelo’s face was haggard, but his eyes were peaceful. ‘How might I be of assistance?’
‘I had hoped – I do not wish to trouble you with more questions, but something has happened and you are the only one who might help me.’
‘What is it?’
‘I have heard rumours about my husband –’ Her voice broke.
‘I prayed you would not hear them.’
‘I beg you, Brother Michaelo, tell me whether there is any truth in them.’ Her legs shook from the effort to keep her voice steady.
‘Come. Let us go out to the garden.’
The evening sky was still blue though the garden was in shadows, its colours softened to shades of grey. It was small, but a low stone wall invited them to sit.
The brief walk and the fresh air had helped Lucie regain her composure. ‘Owen wrote that it was difficult, returning to his country. Painful.’
‘It seemed so for him. But those emotions do not make him a traitor.’
‘What is it you do not wish to tell me?’
Michaelo bowed to her. ‘You are your father’s daughter. He also saw through me.’
‘As my father’s daughter I ask you to be plain with me.’
‘The captain complained,’ Michaelo began, ‘not about his people, but about how we English treat them. We allow them no dignity. We assume they are inferior, dull-witted, and yet we also call them treacherous.’
‘My husband spoke openly about this?’
‘His feelings were sometimes clear, though he spoke of it only to our party, Master Chaucer, Sir Robert …’
‘How did my father receive it?’
‘He worried about it. Reminded the captain of his duty.’
‘Do you think my husband might be tempted by this Owain Lawgoch?’ Lucie whispered the question.
‘Your husband is not a traitor,’ said Michaelo firmly. ‘He made certain of the garrison at Cydweli and he brought to justice a man who was traitor to our King.’
Lucie found comfort in that. ‘He wrote that an old friend assisted him in his work. He said you might tell me who it was.’
Michaelo lowered his head.
Lucie felt her stomach clench. It was as she had feared – Owen did not name him in case the letters were read by the wrong person. ‘Who was it?’
‘Martin Wirthir.’
Lucie crossed herself. ‘Thanks be to God.’ Not someone who might speak treason, but a pirate. ‘You have set my mind at ease.’
Michaelo made an odd sound in his throat and pressed his hands to his forehead. ‘Wirthir is at present an agent of the French king. And he is in Wales collecting money for Owain Lawgoch.’
‘Sweet heaven.’
‘But to my knowledge they joined together solely for the sake of catching the murderer. Wirthir has no personal allegiance.’
‘Are you sure of that?’
Michaelo turned to her. ‘Mistress Wilton, your father walked in God’s grace in St David’s. When Sir Robert ceased worrying about the captain, so, too, did I. Hearing the rumours yesterday, I fell into doubt. But today, with much prayer and fasting, I see all more clearly. And I say the captain is no traitor. Your father knew he was not.’
By the light in the monk’s eyes and the strength in his voice, Lucie was drawn to bow her head and ask for his blessing.
‘My lady, I am not worthy of the honour you pay me.’
‘Praying, fasting, scourging, your kindness to my father – what more could God ask of you?’
‘I am uncertain whether I do this for God or for myself.’ But he made the sign of the cross over her and blessed her.
When Lucie joined Thoresby and Jehannes they were standing by the table discussing plans for the Lammas Day Fair.
Thoresby studied her as she approached, his shadowed eyes unreadable. ‘You look solemn, Mistress Wilton. Michaelo was unable to reassure you?’
‘He was most kind, Your Grace. And he seems convinced of my husband’s innocence.’
‘Excellent.’
Jehannes smiled, motioned to the servants to bring on the food. ‘Come, my guests, let us fortify ourselves with my cook’s stuffed chicken.’
Afterwards, Lucie had difficulty remembering the conversation at the table, so much of her consciousness being occupied going over and over her brief conversation with Michaelo. He was so confident that Sir Robert had seen into Owen’s heart. Why was Lucie more uncertain than ever? Was it Martin Wirthir? He was a charming, persuasive man. Might he not convince Owen that his countrymen needed him? But Owen had never agreed with Martin’s ethics. He would do nothing on only Martin’s word. And, truly, Martin did not seem a man to commit to any cause. Was it Michaelo’s description of the treatment of the Welsh that troubled her? How could any man bear it, much less Owen, who was not one to turn away, to run from that which angered him?
Thoresby had noted her preoccupation, drawn her out with questions about the raid on Freythorpe.
Late that night, when Lucie woke after a brief sleep, her thoughts returned to her conversation with the archbishop. He had not been impressed with her recounting of Harold’s deeds after the raid. ‘I am glad he was of assistance. But he might have a motive other than goodwill.’ Thoresby had not suggested what that motive might be.
Lucie could think of none. She was tired of all the men taking her for such a fool. Even Jasper, young as he was. Why did they all mistrust those who gave her succour?
But what of Owen? How could she know his heart? His letters. She had read them quickly, looking for news of her father. Perhaps she might glean something from his letters. She rose, tiptoeing across the room, hoping not to wake Phillippa, who had rested peacefully through the evening and into the night.
‘Lucie?’ Phillippa sat up, clutching the bedclothes to her.
Lucie silently cursed, but went to Phillippa and smoothed the hair that had escaped her white cap. ‘Go back to sleep. It is the middle of the night.’
‘Why do you wake?’
Phillippa sounded calm. The sleep had helped.
‘I ate too much, drank too much wine. I thought to reread Owen’s letters. When I read his words, I can imagine his voice.’
Phillippa sat up straighter. ‘Do you understand everything that you read?’
‘I understand the words. But sometimes the meaning is hidden from me.’
‘Do all who read understand the words?’
‘If they read well, yes. Is there something you wish me to read for you?’
‘No.’
‘Then go back to sleep. It is the middle of the night.’
As Lucie began to rise, Phillippa touched her arm.
‘There is something.’ Her face was in shadow. There was little light coming from the window. But Lucie sensed her agitation. ‘I must know what the parchment says. I must know if this is all because of my weakness.’
‘What parchment?’
‘My husband, Douglas, called it his, but it had been entrusted to him. Not given to him to keep. He died so soon afterwards. So young. He was not a good man. And yet I loved him.’ She dabbed her eyes with the bedclothes.
It was the most Phillippa had ever said to Lucie about her husband.
‘Where is this parchment?’
‘At the manor.’
‘No one told you what it said?’
‘I have never shown it to anyone but my brother, who said I need not know and need not worry. But I have worried. It was not drink that ruined my Douglas, you know. That is what my brother thought, but that is not true. Douglas was bitter. His family had lost their home in the Scots raids. And no one cared. Not the king, not the archbishop. No one.’
‘What do you think is in the parchment?’
‘Douglas’s father died of grief. All that he had left Douglas, gone. So quickly. There was still land, but so much had burned. The livestock, the house, all gone.’ Phillippa sighed. ‘His mother died soon after. I do not remember how. Was she ill?’
‘Aunt Phillippa, what of the parchment?’
Phillippa looked up at Lucie. Touched her chin. ‘You are stronger than your mother. All will be well.’ She lay back down.
‘You wanted me to read something for you.’
‘I do not know where it is.’
Lucie did not remember any mysterious parchment. Might it have been kept in the treasury? But she had recently searched that. As far as she could tell, the thieves had taken only money – and perhaps an account book. She had forgotten about that. She could not remember the years it had covered, but it was not a recent one. Could a parchment have been hidden in it?
‘Where did you keep it?’ Lucie asked.
‘Many places,’ Phillippa said sleepily. ‘Too many places. I have brought this trouble on our house. I am too old to be of use.’ She began to weep.
Lucie put her arm round her and stroked her forehead gently, as she did for her children when they woke in the night.
Fourteen
A SPY FOR THE REDEEMER
Tom and Sam were turned away at Archdeacon Rokelyn’s door. At the palace gate they asked to speak with the captain of the guard. The gatekeeper said the captain might be found dining with his men. But he was not, and Tom and Sam did not know whom else to trust. Despondent, they shuffled down to the table set aside for pilgrims’ retainers and ate their meal in silence. Afterwards, they returned to the stables. Exhausted by the day’s long ride, Tom quickly fell asleep.