by Candace Robb
‘I thought it strange he gave it to you.’
‘But what is his game?’ Owen studied it, turning it this way and that, certain it must have a purpose. ‘By the Rood, it is a map.’
Iolo grabbed it, turned it about in his hands, passed it back to Owen. ‘A map of what?’
‘Hywel’s markers? Safe havens? Guard posts?’
‘Where?’
Owen stared at the map. ‘I cannot make it out. I hoped that you might, being from this part of the country.’
Iolo shook his head.
Owen was disappointed, but that seemed to be his lot of late. ‘It goes to a man from Anglesey. Most like it is Anglesey. It has been cleverly done, an area small enough that eyes not meant to see it can find no telling boundaries, shorelines. Hywel knows what he is about. There is no doubt of that.’ He tucked it beneath his tunic.
‘It is a dangerous favour you do for Hywel, carrying this map to a stranger in the city.’
‘Aye.’
‘I am sorry I called you a shopkeeper.’
‘Come. We must make Bonning’s Gate before curfew.’
Fifteen
HIGH AND MIGHTIES
Lucie and Jasper worked quietly side by side in the shop storeroom, sewing up linen envelopes of calming herbs – lady’s bedstraw, valerian, camomile, with lavender for a soothing scent, and others of healing herbs for abrasions – one with marshmallow root and comfrey, one with marigold flowers and woundwort. It was a good rainy morning activity, when they would not be tempted to open the door and invite disaster with an errant draft. Wind blew the rain against the waxed parchment window in an uneven rhythm, now hard, now soft; wind kept it thrumming. Every so often Lucie stole glances at her young apprentice, trying to read his thoughts, learn whether he was truly at peace with her, as he had said, or whether he was still ill at ease. She had talked to him about Owen – how she missed him, the rumours, her confidence that he would not betray his king. Jasper had been indignant, then apologetic, then angry, ready to go to battle to protect the honour of their house. But Jasper’s quicksilver temper kept her wary.
Her fingers were clumsy this morning from lack of sleep. And worry. Dame Phillippa had awakened in a confused state, uncertain where she was, talking of events in Lucie’s childhood as if they had occurred yesterday. Lucie feared she had erred in the amount of valerian she had given her aunt. An elderly woman, not so active as before, so thin, it was possible that what Lucie thought a cautious dose had been too much. And the matter of the lost parchment – this morning Phillippa shook her head and swore she knew of no such thing.
Someone entered the shop.
‘Mistress Wilton?’ a querulous voice called.
‘Deus juva me, it is Alice Baker,’ Lucie hissed.
Jasper set his work aside, wiped his hands on his apron. ‘I shall go to her.’
Lucie felt childish hiding in the storeroom, but she had not been proud of her behaviour the last time she encountered Alice and was not ready for another verbal clash.
‘Good day to you, Mistress Baker,’ Jasper called out in a friendly voice as he walked through the beaded curtain into the shop.
‘Good day to you, lad. Where is your mistress?’
‘Mixing a physick.’
Lucie was glad Jasper had not lied. The woman would think nothing of pushing past him and through the curtain if determined to find Lucie.
‘How can I serve you?’ Jasper asked.
Lucie could not hear the reply. Alice must be muttering. A muttering Alice was not good. She made some of her cruellest comments in an undertone.
‘It is the devil making you say such things,’ Jasper said, his voice cracking with emotion. ‘The captain is expected home any day!’
Lucie dropped her work, and as she walked deliberately into the shop she prayed for patience.
Alice Baker leaned on the counter, her head bent as if whispering to Jasper but watching for Lucie. Her wimple pinched her face at the jowls and temples, accentuating her perpetual frown. But the white wimple also revealed a more natural colouring than she had had of late.
‘You are looking well, Mistress Baker,’ Lucie said.
Alice’s smile could not expand beneath the tight wimple. Or perhaps she had meant to sneer. ‘Not well, but improving, thanks be to God. Jasper tells me the captain will soon be home. I thought I had heard otherwise. But I must have misunderstood.’
‘Yes, he expects to be home within the month,’ Lucie said. She did not dare risk a smile for fear she would just bare her teeth. Sweet Jesu but the woman was horrible.
Another customer entered the shop. Lucie nodded towards Celia, Camden Thorpe’s eldest, turned back to Alice. ‘Was Jasper able to assist you?’
Alice straightened, tossed her head as if to dismiss the young man, moved closer to Lucie. ‘Roger Moreton is a good man, Lucie. You must not take advantage of him.’
Lucie thought she would burst, but she would not satisfy the woman with a response. By the time she caught her breath Alice Baker was halfway to the door. ‘God go with you,’ she managed.
‘And with you,’ Alice trilled.
‘She is a horrible woman,’ said Celia Thorpe.
Lucie sank down on to a stool and was about to ask Jasper to help the young woman, but one glance at his trembling hands and she sent him to the storeroom.
‘You must not mind her,’ Lucie said.
‘Ma says it is women’s problems,’ Celia said, no doubt newly indoctrinated in such things, her wedding being a month hence. ‘She says it is quite common for a woman’s humours to ferment in her skull when her fluxes cease.’
God bless Celia’s innocence. It made Lucie smile. ‘Mistress Baker’s youngest is but three years old, Celia. I do not know whether we might assume her fluxes have ceased. But it is a forgiving theory and I thank you for it.’
They proceeded to debate the merits of various oils and creams for the young woman’s already perfect complexion.
Tension was high in the kitchen at Freythorpe Hadden.
Nan, the cook, had thrown up her hands when Tildy announced the arrival of the archbishop’s retainers. ‘Two more high and mighties with appetites. And to what end? Did Master Harold protect us from the thieves?’ She did not approve of the temporary staff, neither Harold Galfrey nor Tildy. ‘What is Mistress Lucie thinking, to crowd us when we have the gatekeeper and his family underfoot?’ Nan kicked at a pile of twigs in the corner. ‘Sarah, work on that broom out in the yard. It will be set aflame if you work it by the fire.’ She picked up the bundle and shoved it at the maid.
‘I cannot work on a broom out in the wind and rain,’ Sarah complained. She turned to Tildy for direction.
‘Work in the corner of the hall,’ said Tildy, ‘by my alcove.’ She was sleeping in Dame Phillippa’s bed, so as to be close to Daimon if he should wake. ‘You will have light there and peace.’
Nan wagged a bony finger at Tildy. ‘You will get naught from her, treating her like a baby.’ Her thin lips were pinched and curled into sneering disapproval. ‘You are a young fool.’ She threw a pair of trout on to the cutting board. ‘We shall have naught in the fish pond by the time the mistress returns,’ she muttered.
Neither Nan’s mood nor her tongue bothered Tildy a whit. She was too happy. Only Daimon’s recovery could make her happier. The archbishop had sent two of his most trusted men to guard Freythorpe. She could sleep in peace tonight. And, even better, she knew Alfred and Gilbert, and they her. They would listen to her.
‘They will eat with Goodwife Digby, Harold and me,’ said Tildy.
‘Lord Harold will have something to say about that, to be sure.’
‘He understands his station.’
‘You think so, do you? Humph!’ A lock of greying hair slipped out of Nan’s cap as she slit open the trout. An impatient swipe of her hand left a silvery trail on her cheek. ‘Harold is none too happy about the new arrivals. I could see that.’
Nor should he be, Tildy thought.
‘He thinks himself a fighting man,’ Nan continued. She did love to hear herself talk. ‘You have only to watch him walk.’
Tildy had noticed. ‘He knows that Alfred and Gilbert are trained fighting men,’ she said. ‘And he knows we know. We witnessed the difference the night of the raid. If Alfred and Gilbert had been here then, the thieves would have suffered as they deserve.’
‘And Daimon would not be lying abed, eh?’ Nan wagged her knife at Tildy. ‘No joy will come of your ambitions, my lady. Daimon’s ma thinks he can do better than you.’
Tildy knew that. Winifred, though praising Tildy to her face, had gone behind her back to complain about Tildy’s inexpert care to Mistress Wilton, and again to Magda. To both Winifred had claimed that Tildy was nursing Daimon only to win his heart. Nan was telling Tildy nothing new. ‘I am here as housekeeper while Dame Phillippa is away and I am in charge of Daimon’s care. I have no ambitions other than to do my best at both tasks.’ Tildy lifted her chin and flicked her skirt as she prepared to leave.
Nan snorted. ‘Shall we serve the best claret, my lady?’
She must always have the last word. Tildy could not be bothered to retort. She must rehearse her facts so that she left Alfred and Gilbert with no doubt she was right about Harold Galfrey. But how would she manage to catch them in private?
Magda glanced up from her ministrations as the young housekeeper entered the hall. She noted that Tildy’s step was lighter, her face more relaxed than earlier. Mayhap she had found a confidante – though it could not be the sharp-tongued Nan. Magda had failed in the role of Tildy’s confidante. Since the young woman’s outburst about Harold Galfrey being Daimon’s rival, she had withdrawn and said little to Magda except to ask directions about the young steward’s care.
But mayhap the kitchen had naught to do with Tildy’s mood. She plainly rejoiced at the arrival of the two whelps who would be warriors. That had been a tense welcome, Harold Galfrey clouding over as Tildy brightened. The borrowed steward had sniffed at the boisterous assurance of the archbishop’s men. Magda shared his doubts. She smelled much subtlety in the raid on the manor and worried that the lads were too inexperienced to pursue anything but the obvious.
What would they make of the man who had come round asking for Harold Galfrey this morning? Magda had recognised him – Colby, he was called. He worked for John Gisburne. An odd choice for the would-be mayor of York. Colby was trouble, always had been. Harold said Colby had been sent by Gisburne to warn him that Joseph, Cook’s son, had been seen in York. He would cause trouble at Freythorpe if he could.
Mayhap he had already. But Magda thought it best to consider other possibilities. Would Alfred and Gilbert?
As soon as the shop was empty, Lucie returned to the storeroom to see whether Jasper had calmed. He was not there. What had Alice Baker whispered to him? Lucie opened the door to the garden, thinking to search for the lad, but the rain changed her mind. A soaking would not make it easy to continue the cloth envelopes. And how certain was she to find him for all that? She resumed her work, listening for any sounds in the shop. But it was a creak on the old stairs up to the solar that caught her attention. Kate slept up there, but she would not be there now. Suddenly Crowder was rubbing against her skirt. Lucie had a momentary suspicion – Kate and Jasper? Sweet heaven, she was thinking like Jasper himself, immediately pairing people off. There was also an alcove at the top of the steps, outside the solar, in which an old bench had provided a quiet place for Lucie to nurse her babies during busy times in the shop. Lucie put aside her work, gathered her skirts and crept up the steps, but as she reached halfway she realised anyone up there was unlikely to hear her approach. Crowder dashed ahead of her. A hard rain drummed on the new slate roof and the wind rattled the shutters.
And there Jasper knelt, in front of the bench in the alcove, his elbows on the bench, his head bent in prayer.
The sisters of Clementhorpe had taught Lucie that it was a sacrilege to interrupt another’s devotions. But what could Alice Baker have said to lead him up here to pray?
Still Lucie hesitated at the top of the steps, debating what to do.
Crowder solved the problem by butting his head against Jasper’s thigh. The boy’s immediate response was to lower his hands and reward the ginger tabby with a good rubbing.
‘Jasper?’
He turned, saw Lucie, slid back to sit on the floor. The hunch of his shoulders, lowering of his head, told Lucie his earlier good mood was gone – but so too the heat with which he had left the shop.
‘Were you praying for Alice Baker’s soul?’ Lucie tried.
He shook his head. Crowder settled on Jasper’s lap.
‘Were you praying for your soul?’ Lucie asked.
Another shake. One hand rose to scratch the tabby beneath his chin.
‘You would like me to leave you alone.’
At last a nod. Something about his posture on the floor, embracing the cat, reminded Lucie of what she had felt like at his age. She had been desperate for privacy. Life in a convent, she had thought. But perhaps at a certain age, solitude was simply necessary. She withdrew.
Sixteen
AMBIVALENCE
Rokelyn sent for Owen’s men late in the day. He stood before them, hands behind his back, chin thrust forward, anger-hardened eyes moving slowly from man to man. Tom noticed a vein pulsing along the side of the archdeacon’s hairless head.
‘Who brought ale to the prisoner while you guarded?’ Rokelyn demanded of Edmund and Jared.
The two exchanged a look. Edmund dropped his head.
‘Glynis,’ Jared said. ‘Piers’s mistress. She put a sleeping draught in it.’
‘And Captain Siencyn spoke to two of you yesterday, did he not?’ The eyes swept the four, rested on Tom.
What could Tom do but admit it? ‘Aye, Father.’
The archdeacon grunted. ‘Captain Archer is too clever for his own good. But he has underestimated me.’
‘What has the captain to do with it?’ Jared asked. For once, Tom admired his boldness.
‘Father Simon tells me Glynis and the captain met in Porth Clais. You were there.’ Rokelyn nodded at Jared.
‘She told us where to find Captain Siencyn, that is all.’
‘Come now. You had already met Siencyn.’
‘I did not know where he lived,’ Jared protested.
‘Why would she poison them?’ Sam sputtered.
‘Captain Archer would not help Piers escape,’ Edmund said, finding his voice at last. ‘Not when he was working for you.’
‘No?’ The single syllable curled upwards. ‘What if he believed if he did so Siencyn would sail?’
Tom had heard enough. ‘The captain would not betray you unless he thought someone would suffer for your mistake.’
Edmund elbowed Tom as amusement lit Rokelyn’s face.
‘So if he believed I was wrong …’
‘And if Piers had been in danger,’ Tom said weakly.
From the doorway came a most welcome voice: ‘Bless you, Tom, for thinking so well of me.’
It was Captain Archer. His right arm was bound to his side and he looked haggard. But he was back, praise God. Tom pulled a chair towards him.
‘You are wounded?’ Rokelyn came forward to see Owen. ‘A dog did all that? Where is your other man?’
‘Sitting outside the door. He cannot walk. We were attacked. We found refuge in a cottage and only now felt strong enough to continue. What is ado?’
‘Piers the Mariner has slipped away,’ Rokelyn said. ‘You were not injured helping him, were you?’
The captain’s jaw stiffened. Tom always knew to leave him alone at such a time. ‘I have told you what happened,’ Owen said softly. ‘Now tell me. How did Piers slip out of that guarded cell?’
‘Glynis,’ Tom breathed.
The archdeacon silenced him with a nasty look.
The captain looked puzzled, closed his eye, tilted his head, as if thinking hard.
‘Did you learn anything from Cynog’s parents?’ Rokelyn asked, clearly impatient for news.
The captain did not answer. Tom enjoyed the archdeacon’s frustration.
‘I do not understand,’ the captain muttered.
‘Understanding can come later,’ said Rokelyn. ‘For now I need your advice – where do we search for Piers and his lady love?’
Owen sighed wearily. ‘I do not know. Perhaps Porth Clais. Perhaps inland. I do not know.’ He closed his eye, touched his right side with his left hand, winced.
‘Rest a while there,’ Rokelyn said, seeming at last to notice the captain’s state. ‘I shall send for a physician. For your man also. My servant will bring you wine and some food, some water to wash with.’
At last a civil gesture.
‘You are kind,’ the captain said, leaning his head back against the chair. Bone weary, he looked, in pain and unhappy.
The servant hurried from the room, but returned almost at once. ‘Captain Archer, a messenger from the Archbishop of York waits without.’
‘Archbishop Thoresby?’ Rokelyn said. ‘He sent a messenger all this way?’
The captain opened his eye, closed it. ‘Did you not know he has one of the longest reaches in the kingdom?’
Tom thought the captain’s response lacked the appropriate respect for the Archbishop of York. But surely a wounded man could be excused some discourtesy.
Owen had never met Friar Hewald, but he saw his condition reflected in the alarm on the cleric’s face.
‘We await a physician.’ Archdeacon Rokelyn wore his public smile. ‘The captain and his man met with trouble outside the city.’
‘God grant you quick healing, Captain,’ said Friar Hewald. ‘It will be a difficult journey if we move at the speed His Grace wishes – all the worse for your wounds. In faith, it cannot be helped. I have lost time looking for you. I had thought to find you in Cydweli. I despaired when I learned at the port that you had journeyed so far as St David’s.’
His side burning, his shoulder throbbing, Owen had not the patience to listen to the friar’s complaints. ‘You have a letter from His Grace?’