Candace Robb - A Spy For The Redeemer

‘I promise you, Dame Phillippa,’ Harold was saying. ‘It will be our secret. But you must rest now. The early morning air is not good for you.’

Slowly Harold and Phillippa emerged from the maze, her hand resting on his arm. The sight of her aunt did not comfort Lucie. Her headdress was askew and torn. Her thin white hair fell round her face in greasy strands. Her eyes were large and dark, like those of a cat just in from the night’s hunt. Smudges of dirt on her cheeks and nose matched her crooked, muddy hem. This was not the Phillippa who brought Lucie up.

‘Aunt Phillippa! What has happened?’

‘I fell in the maze,’ Phillippa said, glancing up at Harold.

He nodded. ‘I heard her cry out.’

‘Why were you in the maze?’ Lucie asked.

‘I wanted to see if it is still possible to go through the proper way.’

‘Why would it not be? Just last summer you taught Gwenllian how to find her way through it.’

‘I forgot.’

How much of her forgetfulness was an act, Lucie wondered as she followed the two into the hall. She was thankful Phillippa wished to lie down. Lucie needed a moment to close her eyes and calm her heart.

Owen and Jared climbed out of the valley in which St David’s nestled, a valley so deep that the bell tower of the cathedral was invisible from the sea — indeed from all but the highest hills surrounding the city. They walked slowly, pausing here and there, hoping to trip up clumsy pursuers. Iolo, Sam, Edmund and Tom were scattered about, two ahead, two behind, watching for a ripple behind the bait. At the rocky crest of the ascent Owen felt invigorated by a sharp, salt-laden wind. Gulls shrieked above, waves crashed against the rocks below. Gradually, as the two descended towards the harbour, the rumble and creak of several ships at anchor in the high tide off Porth Clais, the port of St David’s, joined the harmony.

What Owen most needed was to talk to Martin Wirthir, find out what he knew about Cynog, how involved the mason had been in the Lawgoch efforts. When last Owen needed to find Martin Wirthir he had climbed Clegyr Boia, a mound just beyond St David’s walls. Martin had a hiding place within the ruins of the ancient fort atop the mound. Owen doubted that the Fleming would be there now. His friend’s best defence was invisibility and he rarely stayed in one place for long; but he kept a watch on Clegyr Boia so that he might know when someone sought him there. And who it was who sought him. But if Rokelyn’s guards were shadowing Owen, he might lead them to a man they would delight in capturing. It would not make Owen’s life easier, either. How likely was it that Rokelyn would believe Owen and Martin were merely friends, not political cohorts?

So Owen was testing Rokelyn’s word, seeing whether the archdeacon would have him followed to Porth Clais. Then he would know whether he might seek out Martin Wirthir.

Captain Siencyn was not on the waterfront. In fact, it was quiet for such a clear morning. Some fishermen far out at the westernmost edge of the inlet sat on the shingle working on their nets, two children played nearby under the gaze of an old man who avoided Owen’s eye. Not far away, a woman stood quietly, looking out to sea. She wore a heavy cloak, the hood thrown back. Her hair was tightly braided about her head. ‘That is Glynis,’ Jared said. ‘She is rumoured to be the mistress of Piers the Mariner.’

‘God go with you, Mistress,’ Owen said in Welsh, hoping that might put her at ease. He had to speak loudly to be heard above the roar of the sea. ‘Would you know where I might find Captain Siencyn?’

The woman turned round, nodded up the rock face. At first Owen saw nothing, then his eye made out a stone building tucked into a ledge.

‘The path begins just behind you,’ said the woman. She did not wait for his thanks but, picking up her skirts, hurried away towards the fishermen.

‘Seems we have sprouted horns,’ said Jared. ‘The folk were warmer a few days past.’

‘Before I arrived.’

‘Aye,’ Jared said absently. He was staring up the cliff. ‘That cottage? Is that where she pointed us?’ He did not understand Welsh.

‘It is.’ Owen studied the steep, winding path that led to it. Ever since losing the sight in his left eye he had disliked walking narrow ledges. His accuracy in judging depths and distances had improved in ten years, but the doubt remained. When would not quite perfect not be good enough? Why was God so sorely testing him?

‘Captain?’ Jared called down, already halfway up.

Owen began the ascent. The path was not as precarious as it looked from below. It was well worn, with deeply indented footholds. He avoided looking down and, within moments, was on a ledge on which scraggly tufts of grass valiantly stood up against the salty breeze. The cottage seemed a tentative structure, three walls of loosely piled rocks enclosing the hillside, a sod roof sagging above them. Smoke drifted out of the cottage’s low door and numerous chinks in the rocks.

Jared bent, peered in the door. ‘Captain Siencyn,’ he called.

‘Who wants me?’ a man grumbled in reply.

Jared stepped inside. Owen followed.

The room within was faintly lit by a smoky fire and a lantern near the door. Blinking against the smoke and the sudden dimness after the bright daylight without, Owen felt he was a target for anyone whose eyes were adjusted to the gloom. He gradually picked out a large man seated in the middle of the room, bootless feet propped up on a stone so close to the fire it was a wonder his stockings were not scorched. To one side of him lay a large cat, to the other side the remnants of a meal. Behind him stood an incongruous wood-framed, cloth-draped bed. How had he brought it up that path, Owen wondered. Captain Siencyn slowly raised his head, nodded lazily. The firelight gave his heavy features a menacing look. The frown he cast towards Jared did nothing to soften the effect. Then suddenly he grinned, causing a dramatic transformation. He looked almost boyish.

‘Jared, lad. You have saved me the bother of a journey up, over and down.’ He spoke English, with no Welsh accent. With his Flemish name he was likely from the area round Haverfordwest.

‘Captain Siencyn, this is Captain Owen Archer,’ said Jared, stepping aside.

‘Is it?’ Siencyn thrust his head forward, squinted up at Owen. ‘The patch, aye, they did tell me that about you.’ He shifted his feet from the stone, hooked one foot round a bench nearby, dragged it towards the fire. ‘Sit. I have something to tell you.’

Owen shifted the angle of the short bench so it might still be close to his host, but not so close to the smoky fire. Jared withdrew to the doorway.

Siencyn shook his head at Jared, tucked his feet back up to warm.

‘How soon do we sail?’ Owen asked, bringing Siencyn’s attention back to him.

‘I shall not be sailing,’ said Siencyn. ‘You must find another ship.’

‘You want more money,’ Owen guessed.

The man shook his head. ‘It has naught to do with money. I shall not be sailing for a time.’ He stuck out his chin as if daring Owen to protest.

‘Is this about your brother?’ Owen asked.

Siencyn’s feet hit the floor. ‘Why do you ask about my brother?’

‘He is accused of murder. It is the talk of the city.’

Siencyn sniffed. ‘I am not my brother’s keeper.’

‘I am glad to hear that. Perhaps we can still come to an agreement.’

‘Who are you working for?’

‘You agreed to carry us.’

‘Why should I sail with someone who will not answer my questions?’

‘Archdeacon Rokelyn wants to know why Cynog was executed. But I would rather depart for England.’