Candace Robb - A Spy For The Redeemer

After the guests departed, Lucie found herself at leisure for the rest of the afternoon. Jasper had gone to St Mary’s Abbey, his usual escape when he needed consolation. Phillippa was napping upstairs with the help of a calming draught. Gwenllian and Hugh were also up in their cots. Kate needed no help cleaning up — Bess Merchet had sent over a kitchen maid to assist. Lucie judged it a good time to see Magda Digby.

The sun warmed Lucie and softened her mood. Her troubles seemed less frightening. It was true the attack might have been much worse. Except for Daimon, no one had serious injuries. Far more might have been lost had the thieves known where her mother’s jewels were kept. Or her father’s weapons. But about other problems she found no consolation in the sun. Phillippa’s confusion and weakness might never mend. Lucie might never know Jasper’s heart.

Magda stood over a block of dense wood chopping roots with a small axe. A scarf covered her hair and an apron her colourful dress.

‘I am glad to find you well,’ Lucie called to her.

Magda nodded, but went on with her work. Lucie settled on a bench that allowed her to lean against the old house and consider the dragon’s head that glared at her upside down. Magda’s roof was an old Viking ship overturned. Magda had once explained that the frightening visage had protected the mariners from sea monsters and she thought it wise to protect her island home in case such monsters ever ventured upriver. Worms had pitted the dragon’s face, weather had etched lines in the paint. He looked as old as Magda now.

‘Thou art fast becoming friends, eh?’ Magda said as she brushed the chopped roots into a jar. She wiped the axe on her apron and joined Lucie on the bench.

‘Freythorpe Hadden needs a dragon. But I must needs settle for a few of the archbishop’s men.’

‘He is generous.’

‘So are you.’

‘Magda had already planned to leave tomorrow for a farm near Freythorpe, to encourage a babe from its mother’s womb. In a day or two she should come to Daimon at Freythorpe, as soon as the babe agrees. Though Magda doubts she can do more than thee for the lad.’

‘I was not the best nurse,’ Lucie said. ‘Too much happened all at once. I worry there is something I missed. I sent Harold Galfrey off yesterday with medicines I did not have with me at the time, but even now I do not trust myself to think of everything.’

‘This Harold is to be Moreton’s steward?’

‘Yes.’ Lucie told Magda how helpful he had been.

‘Is it true John Gisburne commended him to Moreton?’

‘It is. Why?’

‘Gisburne is a friend to outlaws, thou knowest that.’

‘Rumours.’

Magda grunted.

‘Truth? But Harold — ’ Lucie stopped. What precisely did she know of the man but his deeds? ‘I do not believe it of him.’

‘Good. Thou dost not need more trouble.’

‘The High Sheriff asked me about enemies.’

‘There are many who fear thy husband’s eye, but to Magda’s knowledge none so foolish as to taunt Bird-eye with such a deed.’

‘He is away. They might feel confident.’

Magda squinted up at the sun. ‘Hast thou news of him?’

‘A question much repeated today.’

Rising abruptly, Magda walked to the edge of the rock on which her house was perched, then stood with hands clasped behind her back, facing the city. Lucie joined her. Sun danced on the shallow water, a dog barked somewhere in the hovels crowded against the walls, a church bell tolled, children shrieked as they played in the water upstream, a ferryman shouted. But Magda was silent.

‘What is it?’ Lucie asked.

‘How dost thou answer the rumours about thy husband?’

‘What rumours?’

Magda watched the arc of a seagull as it swept over the river before she turned to face Lucie. ‘Thou hast not heard them?’

‘No.’

‘These questions — folk ask without explaining why?’ Magda shook her head at Lucie’s nod. ‘Even Bess Merchet?’

‘Tell me for pity’s sake!’

‘Owain Lawgoch, Owain of the Red Hand. Thou hast heard the tales?’

‘Yes. What has he to do with Owen?’

‘It is said that Bird-eye might see in the princeling a noble cause.’

‘Who accuses my husband of treason?’

‘Magda guesses none accuse, they wonder.’

‘Who could think such a thing of Owen?’

‘Though he is thy husband, he is yet a stranger from the west.’

Lucie’s legs felt weak. She withdrew to the bench, trying to remember whether Bess had also asked without explaining. And what of Gwen and Camden Thorpe? Why had they said nothing of this? Dear God, what of Jasper? How would he receive such a rumour? Is this why His Grace the Archbishop invited her to dine? To question her about Owen’s loyalty?

Magda sat, took one of Lucie’s cold hands in her warm, strong grasp. ‘Look at Magda.’

Reluctantly, Lucie raised her eyes.

‘Magda did not wish to tell thee. So it must be with all thy friends. Some may believe thou knowest what folk say and choose to ignore it. Which is what thou must now do.’

But Lucie’s thoughts had turned to Owen’s letters. ‘I must talk to Brother Michaelo.’

‘Thou suspects some truth lies behind this?’

‘I cannot believe Owen would betray his king. But in every letter he wrote of the harsh treatment his countrymen received from the Marcher lords and their men. He found it difficult to hold his tongue.’

‘He mentioned this princeling?’

‘No. He would not take such a risk. The letters might have fallen into the wrong hands. Did the thieves hear these rumours? Is that what gave them courage?’

‘Thy father also had enemies, to be sure.’

‘I may never know the truth of this.’

‘No.’

Lucie returned to her garden, not ready to see people. Her small rake was not on its hook in the shed. As she dug round on the shelves among old baskets, she came across her father’s old felt hat. Tears pricked her eyes as she lifted it, turned it in her hands. Sweat and rain had darkened it, a print was still visible on the crown where Sir Robert had plucked it off his head with a soil-stained hand to wipe his brow. Lucie pressed the hat to her, said a prayer for her father’s soul, then hung the hat on a nail, out of the way, but visible in the light from the open door.

She knelt by the apothecary roses that surrounded the grave of her first husband, Nicholas. This had been his favourite spot in the garden, though he had loved it all. In the growing season they would work out here before opening the shop, Nicholas patiently teaching her the correct way to prune each plant, how to fertilise it, how to tell when it was diseased, how to harvest it while still leaving enough of the plant to grow to another harvest. They had been happy, and he had always been there. Not like Owen. Though she felt for Owen a passion she had never felt for Nicholas, Lucie missed the companionship of her first marriage. A wave of sadness washed over her. She had been so eager to rush into Owen’s arms after Nicholas died. But her first husband had been a good man, and gentle. She bent to her work, loosening the soil, beginning to weed.

Footsteps behind her caused her to glance up. It was Roger Moreton, who paused now, looking down at her with concern. Lucie dabbed at her eyes with the hem of the loose jacket she wore over her gown and rose to greet him. Unexpectedly, he gathered her in his arms, pressing her head to his shoulder. Lucie was caught off her guard, but remembering her agonies over Harold’s kiss, she quickly drew away. ‘Roger!’

Two red patches burned on his cheeks. ‘I pray you, forgive me. I just — seeing you kneeling there weeping, over Nicholas’s grave, I knew what you were feeling. I weep for Isabel, just so. And now your father gone, too. And Owen away …’ Roger clasped his hands behind him and looked down at the path.