Candace Robb - A Spy For The Redeemer

Tom poked Jared to get his attention. ‘Who is he?’

Jared cursed as his boot slid and the nail nicked him. ‘Look what you have done.’ He held up a finger. ‘Bleeding!’

‘I see nothing but dirt.’ The stranger had descended the steps and was elbowing his way through the crowd towards their perch near the stables. ‘Do you know this man bearing down on us?’ Tom asked.

Jared stuck his grimy finger in his mouth, glanced up. ‘Captain Siencyn. I doubt he is for us.’

But Siencyn came directly to Jared. ‘I must see your captain, lad. You must lead me to him.’

‘Captain Archer has left the city for the day.’

‘Why this day? Why must he go this day?’

‘As good as any other. I shall tell him you wish to speak to him.’

Siencyn muttered a curse and began to depart, but turned suddenly, his scowl fierce. ‘See you remember, lad.’

‘He looked worried,’ Tom said, watching the man push his way back towards the gatehouse. ‘I wonder what he discovered in the gaol? Or learned from Father Simon?’

‘The Summoner?’

‘Aye. They were talking.’

‘Simon is just nosy. More like the captain is not cheered by his brother. I cannot think Piers is jolly at present.’

Owen and Iolo travelled due east from St David’s, up into higher, forested land. Despite Ranulf’s warning about horses on the steepest parts, Owen had chosen to ride. At least the animals could carry some food and cloaks in case the weather turned. And, in case of injury, one of them.

‘You expect trouble,’ Iolo had said as they led the horses from the palace stables.

‘I do.’

Even so, as they rode away from the city and into a grove of oaks at the foot of a gentle hill, Owen found himself humming under his breath. It was good to escape the eyes of St David’s. He studied Iolo as they rode in the open country. There was a tension in the chiselled face that never eased, even in sleep. Owen would think it merely a trick of the eye but for the suddenness with which Iolo would move. And yet even a cat sometimes relaxed. It was as if he was ever ready to attack. He persisted in his determination to return to York with Owen. What would Lucie think of him?

In a short while they began to climb again, this time across a rocky outcrop over which they chose to lead their horses. They both felt uneasy, guarding their backs. When they had crossed over to the forest cover once more, they paused by a stream.

Iolo pulled off his cap, rubbed his bald spot while his horse drank. His light-brown hair was damp where the cap had covered it. He was sweating though it was chilly up in these hills. ‘I once fell asleep watching for a fox at my uncle’s farm,’ Iolo said. ‘The fox woke me, slipping past me so quickly I did not see him — he stank of death. For a long while after that any change in the scent of a room would wake me.’ He dropped to his knees, cupped his hands and drank deeply, then dunked his head and shook himself like a dog.

Owen knelt, splashed some of the cool water on his face. ‘Are you saying that you smell trouble?’

‘I cannot be certain. I may be smelling my own fear. Or yours.’ Iolo grunted as he rose, gathered his reins. ‘God did not give us knowledge of the fox; we must learn about it.’

‘God is ever testing us.’

Iolo mounted. ‘And we dare not complain, for fear of hell’s eternal fire.’

Owen, too, mounted. ‘Your life does not seem one for complaint.’

‘Of late, no.’

They rode forward into the trees.

Though the track was still wide enough for a modest cart, the trees, leafed out now in mid-May, shadowed the way. The distance between glints of sunlight grew. As the branches drooped lower and lower, snagging their hats, the two dismounted once more.

Iolo looked round warily.

Owen did, too. He sensed eyes on them. The feeling was far stronger than it had been earlier.

Iolo raised his hand, warning Owen to stay still, then slowly crouched down so he would not be a target above his horse’s back. Owen did likewise.

‘How much farther until we can ride again?’ Iolo whispered.

‘I am not certain.’

‘Retreat?’

‘No.’

Iolo nodded. He was with him.

They crouched there for a long while, listening. But they heard nothing. At last they rose, continued on, leading their horses.

Owen was just about to suggest they pause again, listen, when he felt a presence behind him. He drew his knife and turned, flung up his left arm to deflect his attacker’s weapon, but his return thrust struck air. Someone called to the horses in Welsh. Owen’s assailant slipped back into the shadows. Go after him? Iolo shouted. Owen spun round. The horses were gone. Iolo and a bare-legged man wrestled on the path, trying to reach a knife Iolo must have knocked from his adversary’s grasp. Owen grabbed it, only to have it caught from behind by his attacker returned. The man yanked too hard. Owen shouted at the pain and swung round with murder on his mind. But there were two against him now and his right arm, wounded and sprained, or worse, was not responding quickly. Owen felt a sharp, hot pain in his side as he went down.

As quickly as the men had attacked, they vanished. Someone cried out, at a distance. Owen hoped he had maimed one of them. But he doubted it.

He rolled over, felt his right side below his ribs. Sticky with blood, as was his right arm. But the pain was worst from higher on his arm. He prayed it was not broken.

Iolo moaned.

‘You are wounded?’

Iolo did not reply.

Owen sat up, cursing at the pain.

Iolo lay on the path. ‘My foot or my ankle — something down there is on fire. And no horses.’ He propped himself up on his elbows.

Owen rose, pressing his right arm to his side to try to stanch the blood from the wound above his waist and keep the arm still. He eased himself down beside Iolo. ‘They might have killed us.’

‘Your arm is injured?’

‘And a wound in my side — but not so bad I cannot walk.’ Owen put his hand on Iolo’s right ankle. ‘This one?’

‘No, the other.’

When Owen touched the ankle Iolo jerked.

‘If they meant to slow us down, they succeeded,’ Iolo muttered. ‘How am I to walk on that?’

The archbishop’s manor at Bishopthorpe bustled with spring activities. Men crawled about the gutters like spiders, making repairs. A glazier and his assistant worked at one of the hall windows. Several servants crept through the rose garden, adding new crushed rock to the paths. Another team of workers were planting seedlings in the kitchen garden.

John Thoresby had come outside to warm his stiff joints in the sunshine. He had not expected so much activity. All the chores had been ordered by him, it was true, to be begun when the weather calmed. But that they should all be attacked at once was bothersome when he was in residence. It was time Owen Archer returned from Wales and resumed his duties as steward of Bishopthorpe. He approached the position with logic and courtesy. Thoresby suspected that the Bishop of St David’s had discovered Archer’s talents. Adam de Houghton was a grasping sort. One had only to look at how he wooed Lancaster, involving him in his pious scheme to collect the vicars into a college where they might be supervised. Houghton meant to be Lord Chancellor one of these days. Might he find joy in it. But he could not have Archer. Thoresby had sent a messenger to Wales, recalling his man in no uncertain terms, telling him how Alice Baker had stirred up trouble and assorted other items that would lure him home. The duke’s request for Archer’s help in recruiting archers for his French campaign had been reasonable and, in truth, how could Thoresby deny him when his purpose was the defence of the realm? But surely Archer had completed the task by now. It was not possible Friar Hewald had yet delivered the letter, but he was well on his way to Cydweli.