Candace Robb - A Spy For The Redeemer

Siencyn grunted. ‘Those beady-eyed churchmen. I thought you looked like a man would be no fonder of them than I am. Aye, they have locked Piers away. For want of a scapegoat.’

‘You say your brother is innocent?’

Siencyn smirked. ‘Not a word oft used to describe my brother. But I cannot think why he would hang a man, much less that mason.’

‘Then why did they choose your brother as a scapegoat?’

‘He is a fool for a woman, that is why. But this time a greater fool than usual. He was seen in the dead man’s room a day or two before the hanging.’

‘With Cynog?’

Siencyn snorted, causing the cat to raise its head. ‘Piers was searching Cynog’s room for proof his lady had been with the mason. He would hardly invite Cynog to accompany him.’ Siencyn petted the cat, calming it.

Owen noticed that the man’s hand trembled slightly.

‘Cynog was your brother’s rival?’ Owen asked.

‘He sees all men as such.’

‘But he searched Cynog’s room.’

‘And how many others has he searched without being caught?’

Siencyn’s behaviour struck Owen as inconsistent. Hostile, then co-operative, specific then vague. He slurred the occasional word to give the impression of being in his cups, but his eyes were sharp and his breathing steady. The hand was most likely nerves. ‘So your brother was caught in Cynog’s room. What happened then?’

‘He went off and drank himself into a stupor is what happened then. While the black eye and the bloody nose turned lovely colours. He is subtle, my brother.’

‘Did he prove her untrue?’

‘Nay. And he looked so pitiful she forgave his distrust with a coo and a kiss.’

‘Someone did not forgive him. Someone must have told the archdeacon about your brother’s trespass.’

‘Aye. They say, too, that the murderer tied the noose to the tree with a sailor’s knot, and thus is Piers proved guilty. We are almost surrounded by water here. Is my brother the only sailing man about? Pah.’

‘If Piers did not murder Cynog, who did? Does he know? Does he suspect another?’

Siencyn shook his head. ‘He cannot save himself with that, more’s the pity.’

‘Enemies? Someone who wants him to suffer?’

‘That would be too complicated for simple folk.’

Owen abandoned that thread. ‘Do you have a plan to free Piers?’

‘I might. Meanwhile, I shall not make it worse for him. Rokelyn has forbidden you to leave before you discover Cynog’s murderer. To help you depart would endanger Piers.’

‘You pretended you did not know for whom I was working.’

‘It is wise in such times to test a man’s honesty.’

‘Such times?’

‘Now who is playing the fool? Owain Lawgoch is gathering an army of unhappy Welshmen, financed by the King of France. Any one of you might be traitors to King Edward.’

‘And not you?’

‘King Edward of England welcomed my countrymen to this fair land. Why should I betray him?’

‘Men have their own reasons for supporting such causes.’

‘Treason is punishable by death. To me that is reason enough to avoid it.’ Siencyn squinted at Owen. ‘But mayhap, being Welsh, you see it otherwise.’

‘You tire of my questions,’ Owen said, rising. ‘Send for me if you change your mind.’

‘About treason?’ Siencyn asked with a smirk.

Owen did not intend to be provoked. ‘About sailing,’ he said flatly.

Siencyn laughed. ‘Fare thee well, Captain Archer.’

Jared had the good sense to keep his thoughts to himself as they descended to the beach.

Owen had made a mess of that discussion, allowing Siencyn to control it. And more disappointment followed. He had hoped to find Glynis before she conferred with Siencyn, but she was nowhere to be seen and it seemed no one in Porth Clais knew where she was. Some even denied that she had been on the beach earlier.

‘I would wager it is not Piers for whom they are lying,’ Owen muttered as they slogged back up the hill towards St David’s.

Edmund joined them, looking equally disheartened.

‘So what did you see?’ Owen asked, expecting nothing.

‘A vicar played shadow for a time, but returned to the city when you disappeared into the captain’s hut.’

‘Good.’ Some luck at last.

Edmund scratched his head. ‘Good? I thought you would worry.’

‘Rokelyn will know that I am hard at work. Did you recognise the curious vicar?’

‘Simon, secretary to Archdeacon Baldwin,’ said Iolo, who had joined them so silently all three spun round, drawing their daggers. He grinned. ‘I did not think that such bad news.’

Jared cursed him.

Owen paused at the top of the cliff, looking down into the valley of St David’s, remembering the argument he had overheard the previous evening. ‘Why does Archdeacon Baldwin care where I go?’

‘It may have nothing to do with the archdeacon,’ Iolo said. ‘Father Simon is the self-appointed Summoner of St David’s. Bishop Houghton has not bothered to oust him.’

Meaning he watched over the morals of clergy and laity alike. And hence Rokelyn called him a weasel.

Edmund laughed. ‘So he thought to catch you in a tryst with a fair maiden, Captain.’

‘I should be a fool to think that.’ Owen regretted his words as soon as he spoke them. Edmund bowed his head and looked away. An apology might only make it worse. They had reached Patrick’s Gate. ‘Just Father Simon?’ Owen said. ‘No other shadows?’

Iolo and Edmund shook their heads.

‘I am off to talk to Piers the Mariner,’ said Owen. ‘What have you learned about him?’

‘You were right about Rokelyn’s servant,’ said Iolo. ‘Eager to help a countryman. He says Piers was put off a ship for thieving. He swears he was blamed for another’s crime, but no one will hire him. Except his brother.’

‘And now he has been wrongly accused again? He must think himself ill used, indeed.’

‘We have our man, eh?’ Edmund looked hopeful. They all wished to be on their way.

‘That is not the point,’ Owen said, gently this time. ‘Archdeacon Rokelyn wants to know on whose orders Cynog was executed. Find Tom and Sam. See whether any others followed me.’

Piers the Mariner was not in Bishop Houghton’s official gaol — that was in the dungeon of Llawhaden Castle, a hard day’s ride from St David’s. Piers was confined in a windowless room in the undercroft of the east wing of the bishop’s palace. Not a dungeon, then, but a dark, damp, unpleasant place all the same. He looked much like his brother but slighter and shaggier, the latter no doubt the result of his imprisonment. He sat cross-legged in the corner, flipping a spoon from one hand to the other. An oil lamp sat on the floor beside him.

‘I like to see the rats coming,’ he grunted in greeting. In English.

Owen greeted him in Welsh, explained that he wished to help Piers if he was innocent. Piers cursed, again in English.

‘You do not speak Welsh?’ Owen asked, still in his own tongue.

‘Is that why I am here? Because I prefer to speak English? For pity’s sake, I know you can speak English. I have heard of you, you know. You were to take ship home with my brother.’

Owen leaned against the door, judging it the cleanest surface in the cell, crossed his arms.

‘Getting comfortable?’ Piers growled. ‘Shall I send for refreshments?’

Detecting the smell of ale in the noisome mix of sweat, damp, urine and rat, Owen said, ‘You have had some refreshment already, eh?’

‘Father Simon is generous with drink, if naught else.’

‘I thought perhaps your wayward lady had been here.’

‘Wayward? Is she?’ Piers tried to sound indifferent, but failed.