Candace Robb - A Spy For The Redeemer

‘What will you gain by finding him for the archdeacon? A ship? I can arrange passage for you.’

‘I am not finished here.’

‘How much time would you waste in St David’s?’

‘He makes sense,’ said Iolo.

Owen thought it madness even to consider it. ‘What of the rest of my men? How can I desert them in St David’s?’

‘They are unimportant,’ Martin said lightly. ‘Rokelyn will not detain them. They should have papers — you were not carrying the papers when you were attacked, were you? Are you emperor of fools?’

Such an argument could continue all the day. Owen wanted to know what he was running from. ‘You think our attackers will return, and soon. Why? To finish their work? They had the chance to kill us yesterday. Who are they? What do they want of us?’

Martin threw up his arms. ‘So many questions at once, my friend.’ He leaned forward. ‘It is not only your attackers who might return — what of Archdeacon Rokelyn? You know that I dare not show myself to any loyal to King Edward. I cannot stay here.’

‘Ah. It is you who must move quickly.’

‘Do I misunderstand you? Do you enjoy being the puppet of clerics?’

Owen hated it. But when he returned to York he would be under Thoresby’s thumb. Was he any better than Rokelyn? Martin was right — Owen should leave now. Perhaps ride. He might go by way of Usk and see his sister once more. For the last time? How likely was it that they would ever meet again?

Martin was laughing. ‘Your caution is wise. But come now. Let us away.’

Owen was tempted. But he had never abandoned his men. It was the act of a coward, a man without honour. ‘I shall not desert my men.’

Martin looked away, the set of his jaw, his clenched hand expressing his frustration. ‘Then let me show you something. We shall ride, we two.’

‘What about our attackers?’ Iolo asked.

‘My men will stay here,’ said Martin. ‘They will help you take cover if trouble approaches.’

‘What of you two?’

‘They are more likely to be watching the track to St David’s.’ Martin rose. ‘Come, Owen. I wish you to understand Cynog.’

When Iolo and the captain had not returned by morning, Tom, Edmund, Sam and Jared prepared to search for them. But they had been surrounded at the palace gatehouse and escorted to the house of the Archdeacon of St David’s. Apparently Rokelyn believed this was a ruse, that they meant to escape.

Edmund had tried to reason with the man.

‘This is not a discussion,’ the archdeacon had said, his eyes cold. ‘This young one, Thomas, will ride with my men.’ Tom’s knees had begun to shake. ‘I prefer to keep you separated.’ The archdeacon had looked down his nose when he spoke to them and his eyes never quite met theirs.

Edmund and Jared had been given the task of guarding Piers the Mariner in his cell. Sam was to sit in the palace gatehouse with the keeper. Tom rode out of Bonning’s Gate with head bowed, hoping that no one along the way recognised him in the company of the archbishop’s guards. It was a pointless effort, for the ones who counted already knew of Tom’s humiliation — Sam, Edmund, Jared. And soon Iolo and, worst of all, Captain Archer would be the wiser. The captain would surely understand why Archdeacon Rokelyn chose Tom to accompany the guards. Not that Tom had understood at first. Edmund had explained it to Tom as he gathered his things.

‘You are young, inexperienced,’ said Edmund, ‘they doubt you would have the stomach to lie to them.’

All through his journey in Captain Archer’s company Tom’s stomach had betrayed him. Twice he had turned green crossing choppy water. He had embarrassed himself during a training session at Cydweli Castle, retching after being punched in the stomach. He had stopped counting how many times he stumbled out of the hall to heave after too much drink. The other men laughed and told him he would grow into being a soldier. But Tom had his doubts. He had the will, but not the stomach. And now these guards thought he did not have the stomach to lie. He prayed to St Oswald for the courage to deceive them. He did not yet see in what way he might do it. They had known the captain’s plan. Captain Archer had told Archdeacon Rokelyn where he was going — indeed, he had received the archdeacon’s blessing.

Owen and Martin slowly rode out of the yard. Owen turned once, saw Enid still watching. He saluted her. She stood there, motionless. He guessed that she feared he was deserting the search for her son’s murderer.

‘Her son’s murder has tested her trust,’ Martin said.

‘You watch me too closely. I did not invite you into my thoughts. Even the Lord God gives us the courtesy of pretending He needs to hear our confession through His priests.’

Martin stared straight ahead.

The track they followed was overgrown and rocky, seemingly chosen to follow the most difficult terrain. Not so bad that they had to dismount, but the horses moved as slowly as the men might have done on foot — had not Owen been injured. His wounds stung more and more as he jounced on the horse. His shoulder ached as he shifted his body to balance in the saddle. He prayed they did not have far to go, else he could not imagine being in any condition to ride again tomorrow.

Halfway up a track that climbed a barren, stony height they dipped into a small depression carved out by a stream, shaded by a few young trees. Two paths led off at different angles. Martin signalled a halt and dismounted.

Owen dismounted with care.

Martin crouched on the bank of the stream, where it bent towards him, round a stone outcropping topped with gorse. In the bend was a mound of smooth stones — after heavy rains the water must come down from the highlands with force and speed, depositing some of the stones caught up in the torrent. At present the slow-flowing water left them dry. Martin seemed to be handling the smooth rocks idly, turning them over, then setting them back down on the mound. All white rocks.

‘Do you read signs in the stones?’ Owen guessed.

Martin bent to the stream, picked up a stone and handed it to Owen. Someone had chiselled out lines and angles.

‘I have seen lettering like this — on wayside crosses. I cannot read it.’

‘You are not meant to. Even one skilled in such lettering would find these a riddle.’

‘Lawgoch has planted these?’

‘Cynog,’ said Martin. ‘He carved them and put them in place.’

If ever there was a man Owen had misjudged, it was Cynog. ‘What do they signify?’

‘Directions. Safe paths.’

‘For whom?’

‘We shall talk when we return to the farmhouse.’

Owen stared down at the other white rocks in the stream. Cynog had spoken of Lawgoch to Math and Enid. If Cynog had been working for Lawgoch’s cause, his murderer might well have been — as Rokelyn had surmised — a king’s man, someone who wanted to make of Cynog an example for other traitors to the king. Someone who had come upon him carving the stones? A fellow mason? But why would such a man care so much about whether Cynog betrayed the king? Would the guild have decreed such an act? To protect their freedoms? Certainly the guilds in York felt strongly about the behaviour of their members.

Had Piers the Mariner searched Cynog’s room for evidence of treason? Would a spy for the king have been so obvious? Even so, Edward was king here, no matter the feelings of the people. Someone would surely come forth to argue in Piers’s defence if he were the king’s man. But would anyone have understood what they saw, smooth rocks on which Cynog had carved some symbols? Was it not more likely someone had come upon him setting them out?

‘Several of them have symbols,’ Martin said as Owen continued to stare at the stones. ‘Not all.’