Candace Robb - A Spy For The Redeemer

Sarah’s ruddy cheeks darkened and she ducked her head behind one of the cages. ‘He is dark like her, Mistress.’

‘How long ago was he sent away?’

‘He was not sent away. He went off to be a soldier.’ She was inching towards the door.

‘Have you seen him since?’

Sarah shook her head as she reached behind her for the latch and freedom. Sweat darkened the scarf on her head.

‘You have no cause to be frightened,’ Lucie said as she moved towards the door, forcing Sarah into the corner. ‘Tell me about Joseph.’

Sarah shook her head. ‘I am not to speak of him. Cook made me swear.’

‘I am your mistress, Sarah. And Cook’s.’

Lucie persisted, patiently asking questions, until the young woman began to talk. Joseph had been brought up by Nan’s cousin, a tavern keeper, who trained the young man as a groom. But the lad could not take criticism from his betters. Saddle straps were tampered with, horses were fed purges as they departed the stable. Japes, Joseph called them. He had been ordered off the premises by his cousin. He had come to Freythorpe, thinking to become a groom at the manor. But he soon discovered that only Sarah laughed at his japes. Adam, the steward, had made it clear he would not entrust Joseph with the horses, having made it his business to find out why the man had left the tavern.

‘Why do you suppose you are not to speak of him?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did he aim any of his japes at Walter the gatekeeper?’ It had occurred to Lucie that Walter might have been the target of the damage to the gatehouse.

Sarah was shaking her head.

‘He had no problem with Walter?’

‘No, Mistress. His mother, Adam the steward, the other grooms — he had his fun with them, no others.’

His mother, the steward, and the poor lads who worked alongside him. Lucie stepped away from the door. ‘You may go now. And do not fret, Sarah. I shall not mention this to Cook.’

As Lucie stepped back into the hall, she heard Winifred thanking Tildy for sitting with her son. Not the time for Lucie to appear. She slipped out of the rear door and into the kitchen garden. Brother Michaelo perched at the edge of the bench for which Lucie was headed, breathing hard. He had a bucket of water at his feet.

‘I must wash off the dust and ashes,’ he explained as Lucie joined him. He had soot on his tonsure and smelled of damp ashes.

‘You have been helping with the gatehouse?’

‘I have. Though how much help I have been I cannot say.’

His modesty was becoming. ‘I am grateful for all you have done, Brother Michaelo. My father was blessed in his friends.’

He bowed his head.

‘Have you seen Harold?’

‘He is still out in the yard, helping clear the debris.’ Michaelo began to rise, then changed his mind. ‘Forgive me if I seem to pry, Mistress Wilton, but what do you mean to do? Will you leave as you had planned?’

‘I cannot stay. My children, my work are in the city. I pray the servants and tenants understand that I am not fleeing the trouble. I would lief stay until everything is put right, but how can I do that?’

‘Your people understand. But might I suggest — you could ask Harold to return after he escorts you to the city. He has worked hard, side by side with the men, and they appear to trust him. I can find no fault in the decisions he has made or the manner in which he has proceeded.’

‘You have changed your mind about him.’

‘I was uncertain about him before. God has given me the opportunity to judge him by his deeds. It is the best way to know a man. And now I shall hold my peace. I merely thought — ’

‘I thank you for your advice, Brother Michaelo. I shall speak to Harold.’

Michaelo looked relieved. ‘And for my part, I shall urge His Grace to send at least two well-armed men at once.’

Brother Michaelo took his leave the next morning with gratitude and misgivings. The roofless gatehouse, charred and jagged, cast a gloomy pall over the courtyard. For the inhabitants of Freythorpe Hadden it would colour all their days until it was repaired or torn down. An inescapable reminder of the horror of two nights past and of yesterday, when the upper storey had given way. Who would not give thanks to God for calling him away? Was his relief in leaving the cause of his misgivings? A sense of guilt? Or was it the image of Sir Robert that kept coming to mind, his hand on Michaelo’s head, asking him to keep Mistress Wilton in his prayers? Keeping her in his prayers was easy. But should he be doing more? He carried the letter to the archbishop, asking for protection, that was something more. And who else might be trusted to convince Archbishop Thoresby of the danger manifest in the attack? But what of leaving Mistress Wilton in the hands of Harold Galfrey? Could one man see them safely to York? Once she was in the city, Michaelo had no doubt she would be safe, but he prayed outlaws would not waylay the three travellers on the road.

He added a prayer for himself. Travelling alone was foolhardy in the best of times.

After two days of sunny, mild weather, the sky had dulled and there was a chill to the breeze that threatened rain. Lucie rubbed her hands together for warmth as she waited in the stable for Ralph, the groom her father had disciplined. He had yet to saddle her mount. At last he appeared, buffing a buckle with a soft cloth and humming to himself. When he saw Lucie he straightened up and assured her that her horse would be saddled at once.

She had resolved to speak to him, as she had to Sarah, hoping she might tell by his reactions to her questions whether he harboured ill feelings towards her family. Or Walter’s.

She nodded to the buckle. ‘Sir Robert would have been pleased by that bit of polishing.’

‘Oh, aye, the master liked a shine to his saddle and bridle, God rest his soul.’

‘You miss him, do you?’

‘I do, Mistress.’

‘You would not always have said so.’

Ralph ducked his head. ‘You have heard. Aye, at first he found fault with me at every turn. I ran away. He sent Adam the steward after me. Gave me a good whipping. Then he asked if I cared to learn how to do things right. They do say not many masters would have bothered about me.’

Lucie believed him.

‘I am sorry about the trouble, Mistress,’ he said.

‘God bless you, Ralph.’ He seemed content. Not a man with cause to strike out at her family.

As the small party rode out of the yard at Freythorpe, Lucie turned back again and again to stare at the crippled gatehouse. She had asked Brother Michaelo to pray for her, that God might reveal to her the sin for which she was so punished, and all her innocent tenants with her. Outlaws were not God’s sergeants, he had assured her. They did not attack at God’s command. Then why had this been visited upon her in the midst of all her other trials?

Perhaps because she sensed Lucie’s distress, Phillippa had risen quietly, packed, dressed sensibly and, after a few last instructions for Tildy, climbed on to the seat of the cart to await her companions. She sat straight and tall, keeping her devils at bay. When Lucie would climb up beside her, she shook her head. ‘You prefer the back of a horse. So would I if my old bones would permit it. Ride. I promise to keep my head and the donkey’s.’

Lucie had felt Harold’s eyes upon her as the groom helped her mount. Did he worry about her as she did Phillippa? An unpleasant thought.

But the gatehouse haunted her and he was right when he said as he rode up beside her, ‘You must look forward, Mistress Wilton. The gatehouse can be rebuilt. Daimon will recover. And the sheriff might prove his worth and recover what you lost.’

The blue eyes and warm smile were not enough to cheer her. But she found it comforting to think of Harold overseeing the repairs and told him so. God had not completely abandoned her.