Candace Robb - A Spy For The Redeemer

Owen side-stepped the question. ‘You searched Cynog’s room.’

‘And for that I shall be remembered.’ Piers’s laugh was hollow.

‘Why did you suspect Glynis had been with Cynog?’

‘He hated me for taking her away. He was a desperate man.’

Here was news. ‘Cynog was Glynis’s lover?’

‘Surely he told you about it the night you bared your soul to him?’

Owen felt a shower of needle pricks across his blind eye. ‘When?’

Piers looked amused. ‘So you did not know that he had bragged about getting drunk with you, hearing all about your life? I can see that you did not. Is it an unpleasant surprise? That the city knows of your dissatisfaction with Archbishop Thoresby? Your beautiful wife? How tedious it is to work in her apothecary? How — ’

‘Quiet!’ Owen shouted. ‘I did not come here to be goaded by the likes of you.’

‘Why did you come?’

‘To find out whether Archdeacon Rokelyn has unjustly accused you of Cynog’s murder. Why did you expect to find something in Cynog’s room?’

‘Someone had seen him with Glynis.’

‘Who discovered you?’

‘Would that I knew. My dagger might have put a stop to all this.’ Piers jabbed the air with the spoon.

‘Then how did you know you were seen?’

Owen thought Piers hesitated, but so briefly he could not be certain.

‘The next day it was all the gossip.’

‘What did you hope to find?’

‘Her scent, of course.’

‘Who told you that Glynis had been with him?’

‘I cannot remember.’

‘Surely — ’

‘In a tavern one listens with his eyes on his cup, Captain. Someone spoke of it, they all began taunting me. I could use a draught now. You might have loosened my tongue with a tankard.’

‘Is that what Father Simon did? Loosened your tongue?’

‘No. He delighted to tell me that as no one has come forward on my behalf I am to be hanged.’ Piers’s voice hushed as he spoke the last three words.

‘And what did you say to that?’

‘I asked him about a trial by my peers. He smiled at my request.’

‘But you said no more? His threat did not bring a confession? Or a suggestion where he might find proof of your innocence?’

‘I had no cause to harm Cynog. If Glynis meant to return to him, so be it.’

‘You may say those things and yet be guilty.’

‘No one wishes to look further. But there is one who will come forward for me.’

‘Who might that be?’

‘You will see. All will see.’

‘But you will not say who it is?’

‘I am a man of honour.’

Owen straightened. ‘You have nothing else to say on your behalf?’

‘No.’

‘God go with you, then.’

‘The Lord has thought little about me of late.’

Neither was Owen thinking about Piers as he walked through the bishop’s wing into the great hall of the palace. He was thinking of Cynog. Had he so betrayed Owen? Had he gossiped about their conversation? How else would Piers know such detail? Owen had thought Cynog an honourable man. Had he been wrong about him?

Sleep eluded Lucie after her aunt’s dawn adventure. And the longer she lay beside her aunt, staring at the candle left burning to calm them both, the more she worried. At last she gave up, thinking she would do more good relieving Tildy so she might rest. As Lucie reached for her clothes she noticed the bloodstains on her gown and scarf. She turned the scarf round and tried to tuck in the stained part; the gown she covered with an apron. She would save the clean clothes for travelling.

The hall was quiet, lit only by the fire and a small lamp on the table beside Daimon’s pallet. People were still abed. Tildy sat close to the young steward, quietly talking to him, telling him of the damage, what had been stolen. ‘He begged to hear,’ she explained with a guilty grimace as Lucie joined them.

‘Of course you would wish to know,’ Lucie said to Daimon. ‘I know you take pride in your role here. Now Tildy must get some rest, eh?’

Daimon agreed.

Though Tildy stumbled with weariness as she rose, she departed reluctantly. ‘You will not let me sleep the whole day?’

‘I cannot do without you that long,’ Lucie assured her.

Daimon did not seem so well this morning as he had last night. He had a fever, though not an alarming one. The wound on his hand had swelled in the night and it did not smell clean. Lucie spent a good while with him, opening the wound to let it drain, packing it with a paste of woad that Phillippa kept on hand for reducing swelling.

And while Lucie worked, she asked Daimon about folk who had left the manor, or been recently chastised.

‘No one has been treated so badly here that they should turn against us.’ Daimon’s voice was weak.

Lucie felt guilty about making him talk, but whom else might she trust? ‘You cannot be sure you know another’s heart, Daimon. Tell me about those who might be unhappy.’

The list, once Daimon understood that any slight might cause a person to turn on their master, was quite long. Two grooms who could not meet Sir Robert’s standards; the young son of Nan the cook and his sweetheart, a kitchen maid, whose pranks had become spiteful and dangerous; a thatcher who believed he had been cheated; several minor servants who had not met Phillippa’s high standards.

‘The thatcher would not know of the treasury,’ Lucie said.

‘Servants talk. He flirted with all the women.’

‘Are any of these people still here?’

‘The kitchen maid. One of the grooms. The thatcher still works in the area.’

‘What about Nan’s son?’

‘No one knows for certain. If cook knows, she will not say.’

‘I do not recall her having a son.’

‘None of us knew of him until he showed up. Mistress Wilton, if you are right, is Matilda safe here? I cannot protect her.’

‘I shall get help until you are well, Daimon. I owe that to you.’ She told him of her plan. ‘All you need do is rest and recover.’

‘Did you ask Matilda to stay with me?’

‘Dame Phillippa asked her to manage the house while she is away. Tildy agreed. It was her choice.’

‘She planned to stay before I was injured?’

‘Yes. She did not tell you?’

‘No.’

‘Be good to her, Daimon.’

‘If I have the chance.’

Brother Michaelo entered the hall with one of his saddlebags. A servant set up a small table beneath one of the great windows on the south side of the hall, then proceeded to clean it under Michaelo’s supervision.

‘I must leave you a while,’ Lucie said to Daimon. ‘But I shall be here in the hall if you need me.’

He settled back against the pillows, closed his eyes. There was a slight smile on his face.

Michaelo had paper and ink ready. ‘You need not compose the letter, Mistress Wilton. If you simply tell me what you wish to accomplish …’

Lucie nodded, but did not begin until there were no servants nearby. When she explained her goal, she saw from the widening of the monk’s eyes that he found it an extravagant request. But he bent to the task.

Lucie began to rise.

‘I pray you, stay a little,’ Michaelo said. ‘I shall have questions.’

As Lucie sat quietly watching Michaelo’s bowed head, listening to the slow scratching of his quill, Harold entered the hall, his tabard and leggings covered with muddy ashes. He bowed to her, moved off in the direction of the kitchen.

Michaelo raised his head. ‘Their familiarity with the house. How did you note that?’

She explained.

He nodded. ‘I have what I need.’ He bowed over the letter once more. In a short while he asked her to read it and sign it. She did so, pleased with his tact, the grace of his words.