A Spy For The Redeemer (Owen Archer Book 7)

by Candace Robb

  ‘Daimon will continue to heal,’ Magda reassured her.

  ‘But what if it is your presence that is healing him, not the physicks?’ Tildy asked it softly, uncertain whether she spoke blasphemy.

  The Riverwoman surprised Tildy by gently touching her cheek. ‘Thou art Daimon’s best healer, my child. Dost thou not understand how much he loves thee?’ Then, with a shake of her head, the old woman turned away from Tildy and walked slowly towards the kitchen.

  Tildy did not move for a long while. Could it be that her own presence had helped Daimon? Could he love her that much? If so, his was not an idle love, a young man’s whim that might prove fickle. Might Tildy have misjudged?

  Loud laughter slowed Tildy as she reached the stables. A small lantern glowed dimly near the stalls. The horses whinnied as she passed. The laughter rang out again – it came from the grooms’ quarters beyond the horses and the work area. As Tildy drew near, she hesitated, uncertain that it was proper for her to be here. But she was the housekeeper until Dame Phillippa returned.

  If Dame Phillippa returned. What would happen if Mistress Wilton found her aunt too confused or infirm to return?

  ‘You have cast a spell on these coins, you cheat!’ Angry words, but there was laughter in Gilbert’s voice.

  ‘I know nothing of spells. You have the luck of Job is all.’ Alfred sounded bored.

  Tildy knocked.

  Ralph, the groom, opened the door, made an embarrassed bow. ‘Mistress Tildy!’

  She stood on tiptoe to see beyond him, but to no avail. ‘Oh, for pity’s sake, Ralph, I merely wish to see what all the laughter is about.’

  ‘Mistress –’

  ‘We are playing cross and pile,’ Gilbert called out. ‘Alfred and Ralph find my losses comical. Come, Ralph, let the mistress pass. She is not going to apply the switch to two grown men.’

  Ralph stepped aside.

  Gilbert and Alfred nodded to Tildy from where they crouched on the packed earth floor. A quantity of coins were piled in front of Alfred, a few were lined up by Gilbert. The latter now lifted one of his last coins, flipped it, let it drop on the back of his left hand, which he quickly covered as Alfred called, ‘Heads.’

  Gilbert peeked at the coin. ‘You saw it,’ he muttered, tossing it on Alfred’s pile. He rose, brushing off his hose.

  ‘I am sorry for interrupting your game.’ Tildy felt out of place. They were hardly in a mood to listen to her fears and concerns.

  ‘Mistress, you have saved me my last few coins. How may I be of service?’

  Alfred swept up both his coins and Gilbert’s and dropped them in a leather pouch. ‘Gilbert wearied of my good fortune,’ he said. ‘He would have soon been out of coins anyway.’

  ‘So you took the remainder?’ Tildy asked.

  ‘To divide up evenly the next time,’ Gilbert said. ‘What would be the fun if one of us had all the coins?’

  She felt stupid. Daimon never made her feel this way. These men teased too much. ‘You are tired. We shall talk in the morning.’

  Alfred shook his head, drew forth a stool for her to sit on. ‘Come. Let us talk while we have a quiet moment. You will want to tell us what we face here.’

  So she began, haltingly, to tell them her various concerns – Harold Galfrey’s too quick assumption of authority and her now mostly discarded fear that he had given Daimon something to cloud his judgement; Nan’s son’s rumoured return; Mistress Wilton’s belief that someone among the thieves knew the manor well.

  Both Alfred and Gilbert raised eyebrows at her fears about Harold Galfrey, but they did not make light of them, agreeing that Daimon’s position as steward on this manor would appeal to any man with similar ambitions.

  ‘Even so, Roger Moreton will have a grand household,’ said Alfred. ‘His steward will command respect.’

  ‘Master Moreton owns land up beyond Easingwold as well,’ said Gilbert. ‘Still, he is not a knight, not of noble birth, as is Mistress Wilton. But would she have Galfrey as her steward, I wonder?’

  ‘Joseph, Cook’s son, is the one who sounds like a man to watch,’ said Alfred.

  ‘I will speak to the kitchen maid in the morning,’ said Tildy. ‘Perhaps she has heard something of him.’

  ‘Aye. The cook is not likely to tell us, eh?’ said Gilbert.

  Tildy smiled and felt encouraged to ask, ‘This Colby, Master Gisburne’s servant, what is he like?’

  Alfred snorted. ‘Spawn of the devil himself. Why Gisburne trusts him …’ He spat in the corner.

  Colby sounded not unlike Joseph, Tildy thought. ‘Daimon says that Colby’s voice is much like that of one of the attackers.’

  Gilbert and Alfred exchanged a look.

  ‘And I cannot help but wonder how Harold knows him,’ Tildy added.

  ‘Or why it should be Colby whom Gisburne chose to send,’ Alfred said. He spat in the corner again.

  Although she appreciated how seriously he was taking all this, Tildy liked Alfred a little less for his manners, or lack of them. But she had heard soldiers were like that. Their poor wives. ‘Daimon mentioned a thatcher, also,’ she said and, in a bold stroke, dared to add, ‘You might ask Ralph where he could be found.’

  ‘We will.’ Alfred grinned. ‘It is a nice change, playing the captain.’

  Gilbert nodded in agreement.

  Tildy was quite pleased with herself.

  Brother Michaelo dropped the lash and lay face down on the floor of the little chapel with his arms outstretched, as if nailed to a cross. He fought to remain conscious. Sleep was no penance. His hands and feet were cold despite the season. The floor was cool against his bare, sweating chest. Was that too comforting? Should he roll over on his raw back? But that which was now on fire would be soothed by the cool floor. He remained where he was, fighting exhaustion. When had he last slept? Or eaten? He had no doubt Archdeacon Jehannes knew – Michaelo was certain the archdeacon’s servants spied on him. So long as he did not tell the archbishop, it did not matter. Jehannes was not one to interfere. Michaelo forced himself to think on his many sins, so to mortify his spirit as he had mortified his flesh. His mind wandered through a litany of selfish acts, loveless liaisons, glib and thoughtless lies and, most horrible of all, the attempt to poison the aged infirmarian, Brother Wulfstan. Bile rose in his throat. He pushed himself to a kneeling posture and retched, though his belly was empty.

  The door opened. Michaelo tried to cover himself with his habit, but his hands trembled so.

  ‘Enough of this!’ Archbishop Thoresby declared from the doorway.

  Michaelo still fumbled with his habit. Thoresby snapped his fingers. A servant knelt, offered to help Michaelo dress.

  ‘Leave me,’ Michaelo said.

  ‘He will not. Look at you, trembling on the floor half naked. What of your duties? I allowed you to go on pilgrimage and look how you return my favour. You look like a snivelling penitent. I will not have it!’

  Michaelo began to curse, bit his tongue and gave himself up to the humiliation of being dressed by the young man. He held back a moan as the servant helped him to his feet. He leaned against the wall for support.

  ‘You may go,’ Thoresby barked.

  Michaelo struggled upright, took a step.

  ‘Not you, the servant.’

  The door closed softly.

  Michaelo lifted his eyes to the archbishop. ‘Forgive me for my weakness, Your Grace.’

  ‘Of what use are you to me in such a state?’

  Thoresby’s deep-set eyes were unreadable in the shadowy room, but Michaelo interpreted his tone as impatient, not angry. Perhaps he would be receptive to Michaelo’s purpose. But did Michaelo have the strength to explain it all?

  ‘I must do penance for my life, Your Grace.’ He licked his lips. ‘On pilgrimage I was shown my base self. I have told you, I dreamed of Brother Wulfstan. He showed me what I must do.’

  ‘Some other time. I have a task for you. Several tasks. I have sent for Brother Henry. He will see
to your back and give you something to help you sleep tonight – after you have taken some broth and honeyed milk. Tomorrow you will resume your duties. You must talk to Roger Moreton, find out how much he knows about Harold Galfrey.’

  Michaelo held out a hand to the archbishop, begging to be heard. ‘Your Grace, if I may –’

  ‘You have inconvenienced me enough.’ Thoresby opened the door, instructed the servant to assist Brother Michaelo to his chamber. ‘Brother Henry will soon be here.’

  Brother Henry, now infirmarian at St Mary’s Abbey, trained by the holy man whom Michaelo would have poisoned. Perhaps this was God’s purpose, to let Michaelo suffer at the hands of a young man who must consider him the devil made flesh.

  The hall was quiet. Magda found herself dozing as she waited for Tildy to return from the stables. So she did not hear the conversation between Sarah, the kitchen maid, and Harold, only his parting remark, ‘See you do it!’ He was a man of many moods, Harold Galfrey, and as he strode out of the door of the hall he was angry.

  Eighteen

  A PATTERN OF EVIL

  Owen was awakened by the sound of people rushing about, a continual buzz of talk, but hushed, as if something were very wrong. He sat up.

  Iolo snorted and opened his eyes. ‘I have never slept in such a bed. Why do the wealthy ever rise? What could be better than lying here?’

  Why was Owen fretting? Why should he care what befell the household?

  ‘Am I talking to myself?’ Iolo demanded.

  ‘One must make the money to keep the bed, and a dry roof overhead,’ Owen said. ‘It is a fine bed, though for such a one it smells damp. The servants do not air it enough.’

  ‘How do you know about such things?’ Iolo asked. ‘Do you have such a bed?’

  ‘I do. Lucie’s father and aunt gave us a fine bed when we were wed.’ Owen had to laugh at Iolo’s incredulous expression. ‘In faith, it is true.’

  ‘No wonder you yearn for home.’

  Owen turned away. He would not like Lucie to know the confusion in his heart at present. ‘I do not think I yearn enough of late. Have you noted the noises without?’

  ‘They would have us wake, I think.’ Iolo struggled to sit up straighter. ‘You would stay here, Captain? Is it Hywel?’

  ‘His cause is an honourable one. All who join him fight for the right to be ruled by their own prince. When I fought in France I thought only of serving my lord the Duke of Lancaster, a worthy man, a God-fearing man. But in serving him I helped King Edward fight for a crown that was not his, for a kingdom that did not want him. That is what Hywel meant by redeeming myself. I would make peace with myself and God by fighting for my people. But how can I?’ Owen felt the familiar shower of needles in his blind eye, warning him he said too much. ‘But we must talk of other things. Glynis was with Hywel at some point. You heard him say it.’

  Iolo, whose eyes had fired at Owen’s words, took a moment to respond. ‘Glynis. Aye. Because she feared Piers.’

  ‘If that were true, why would Glynis help Piers escape?’

  Iolo caught up. ‘Ah. Someone lies.’

  ‘Good sirs,’ a voice called from behind the tapestry.

  ‘I told you they meant to wake us,’ Iolo said.

  The archdeacon’s Welsh-speaking servant entered with a tray bearing a pitcher of ale, some bread and cheese.

  ‘What is ado?’ Owen asked.

  The man placed the tray on a table near the bed. He stood uncomfortably, as if he wished to flee.

  ‘Tell me what is wrong,’ Owen said.

  ‘Piers the Mariner and Captain Siencyn. They were found this morning hanging from the topcastle of the captain’s ship. Their throats cut. They say it is a terrible sight to see.’

  ‘Dear Lord deliver us.’ Owen crossed himself.

  Iolo murmured, ‘Amen,’ as he did likewise. ‘Both brothers. Now that is passing strange.’

  ‘What of the ship’s watchman?’ Owen asked.

  ‘Missing,’ said the young man. ‘The archdeacon wishes you to go down to the port, if you are able. He says he trusts only you at the moment. I was to tell you that.’

  Owen poured the ale, passed a cup to Iolo. ‘What more do you know?’

  ‘Your men are without, Captain. I think they know much more.’

  ‘Call them in.’

  It was a crowd in the small room and the four, too excited to sit, occupied most of the floor. Owen stayed on the bed.

  ‘You have heard?’ Tom asked.

  ‘I have. The archdeacon wants me to go down to Porth Clais.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Edmund. ‘He told us to wake you if you did not come out soon.’

  ‘Strange, when the coroner will record all the archdeacon might wish to know.’ Owen set the bread and cheese between himself and Iolo. ‘What of Glynis?’

  ‘No one has seen her since yesterday morning, Captain,’ said Jared.

  ‘Is the archdeacon here?’

  ‘He went out a while ago,’ said Edmund. ‘Looking angry.’

  ‘You will go down to Porth Clais?’ Tom asked.

  ‘As soon as I finish breaking my fast.’ He nodded to Tom. ‘You will come with me.’

  Sunshine filled the valley of St David’s. Tom’s tale of Rokelyn’s guards absorbed Owen as they walked to Porth Clais. Father Simon speaking to Siencyn. The captain anxious to speak to Owen. What had happened?

  Grim-faced folk passed them, talking quietly among themselves as they came from the beach. In the past, Tom would have grown increasingly nervous as they approached the scene. But today he was calm, wrapped up in his efforts to give Owen every detail of his journey. The lad had grown up in such a short space. Was that a blessing or a curse? Owen looked at Tom as if for the first time, noting his pale effort to grow a beard along the line of his chin like Owen’s own, the fingernails bitten to the quick, the nose that seemed always sunburned even in the worst weather. So young, and yet able quickly to step into a lie when it would help Owen. And hold that lie firmly all the while he was with the archdeacon’s guards.

  ‘When we get back to England, do you look forward to returning with your mates to Kenilworth?’ Owen asked.

  ‘I am hoping they choose me for France,’ said Tom. ‘I believe I am ready now.’

  ‘Aye, you do seem so. And you will be a good soldier. You will rise in the duke’s service, I think.’

  Tom pulled himself up and smiled broadly. Owen thought it a pity the young man was so eager to lose his innocence. For until he faced the enemy and cut him down, he could not understand the life he had chosen. But it was not for Owen to tell him.

  The waterfront was crowded with onlookers. Pilgrims, servants, vicars, mariners, they were all there, staring out to sea. Captain Siencyn’s ship rode at anchor out well beyond low tide. It had been fitted with small forecastle and aftercastle, as had many merchant ships during Edward’s war with France. But the topcastle was at present the centre of attention. Not notably grisly at this distance, though as the ship rocked on the sea the corpses’ arms and legs seemed alive. None seemed so curious as to launch boats for closer looks, which was a blessing. It was unlikely anyone had disturbed the ship. And yet how else would they be certain who dangled out there?

  But why in God’s name were they yet hanging? ‘Has the coroner not yet come?’ Owen muttered, looking round.

  ‘Now it is low tide it will be sloppy carrying the bodies across the mud,’ said Tom.

  ‘That is not our job. We are but to look. Still, I should go out to the ship.’ Owen glanced at the young man, who had suffered seasickness on a crossing of the River Towy, to see his reaction.

  But Tom just nodded. ‘I believe I see Father Paul.’

  Owen followed Tom’s gaze, spotted the snow-white hair of the vicar who acted as coroner in the city. As the two approached Father Paul, he turned to them, bowed, crossed himself.

  ‘Have you been out to it?’ Owen asked.

  ‘I have.’ Father Paul shook his head. ‘What man does to
his fellow man. You would go out to the ship now?’

  ‘Is that why you have not cut them down yet? So I might witness it?’

  Father Paul’s nod was more like a bow – a slow, sad gesture. ‘Archdeacon Rokelyn wished it so. For myself, I would as lief have avoided turning this into a faire.’ His bushy-browed eyes swept the crowd. ‘You would think the two men had been strung up there for the city’s amusement. I am glad you have come at last. I shall find the boatman.’ Father Paul slowly walked down the shingle. He was not so old, but today he looked as though he felt all his years.

  A loud voice drew Owen’s eye to one side of the crowd. The speaker was a red-haired man dressed in a rough pilgrim’s gown. He had large hands and long arms, or perhaps it was his expansive gestures that made them seem so. His performance held a small group in thrall. Owen moved closer to hear the tale. The pilgrim spoke in a hushed voice now, describing a spectral procession that foretold a man’s death. When he raised his voice for the climax, the audience jumped in surprise. An excellent storyteller. Owen was about to back away when the man looked up, noticed him and waved.

  ‘Captain Archer!’ He excused himself from the others and came towards Owen with a grim look. ‘A terrible thing, is it not?’ In a whisper he said, ‘Griffith of Anglesey.’

  ‘Griffith,’ Owen said in a normal tone. ‘Well met.’

  ‘What a thing to see after coming from the grieving parents of our friend Cynog. They are bearing it?’

  Hywel must have men everywhere, to pass word so quickly. ‘They asked me to carry this to you so you might hear in their own words.’ Owen withdrew the map.

  ‘How thoughtful. I am most grateful to you.’ Griffith turned to look at the ship. ‘There is a madman loose, I say.’

  ‘It is surely not the mistress who did all that.’

  Griffith snorted. ‘No, not the work of one woman – or man. I must go now.’ He bowed to Owen and returned to his audience.

  Father Paul appeared at Owen’s side. ‘Come with me. If we go to the end of the shingle, we walk through less mud.’

  ‘You will accompany us?’

  ‘If you do not object. I should like to hear anything you might notice. Anything I might have missed.’