Candace Robb - A Spy For The Redeemer

The leading man nodded as he reached her. He squinted — against the sun, but Magda took him as a man who narrowed his eyes to hide his thoughts. ‘Who are you? Why has the tinker left you here?’ Harold demanded.

One of the men said, ‘This is Magda Digby, the Riverwoman. She is a healer.’

Magda dusted off the pack she carried. ‘Mistress Wilton worries about the wounded steward. Thou canst take Magda to him.’

‘And the tinker?’

‘Didst thou not see him depart?’

‘He does not wish to barter here?’

‘Magda took him out of his way. How fares Daimon?’

‘Come within and you will see.’

Magda stepped into the hall. Tildy set down a pan she had been carrying and hurried to greet the newcomer, her face anxious. ‘God bless you for coming, Mistress Digby.’ The young woman’s eyes were shadowed and red from lack of sleep. Her throat was tight as she spoke.

‘He is not as thou wouldst wish, then?’ Magda said.

‘He sleeps most of the time and when he wakes he cannot speak clearly.’

‘How long has he been so?’

‘A day. Perhaps a little more. It has been gradual. He was doing well, then he began to fail.’

On a pallet near the hearth — for so it was a hearth and not a fire circle in this fine hall — lay the poor young man, sweating and restless. He tried his best to focus on Magda, blinking, shaking his head.

‘Daimon, God has sent us Magda Digby,’ Tildy said softly.

‘Lucie Wilton sent Magda,’ corrected the Riverwoman as she lifted the bandage wrapped round Daimon’s head to examine the wound. ‘Thou hast cleaned it well,’ she said to Tildy, who hovered at her back. Magda lifted the wounded hand, unwrapped the bandage. ‘Canst thou make a fist?’ Magda asked Daimon. He did so slowly, weakly, wincing as he opened his hand once more. ‘It will heal. Slowly. Tildy has done well.’ She wrapped his hand once more, pulled down the blanket, gently felt round the young steward’s swollen shoulder. ‘Thou hast rubbed in the oil steeped with comfrey, gently but deeply?’ Magda asked Tildy.

‘I tried.’

‘And he moaned or pulled away, worrying thee.’ Magda smiled at her. ‘Thou must be more confident.’

Magda leaned close, smelled Daimon’s sweat. She covered him, took Tildy’s elbow, steered her away from Daimon’s pallet. ‘Thou hast been too generous with the physicks.’

Tildy looked stricken. ‘I have followed Mistress Wilton’s instructions.’

Magda shook her head. ‘His sweat stinks of the physicks. Thou mayest have followed in full measure and Daimon cannot take what others do. After Magda drinks something, eats something, she will tell thee what to give him and how much.’ She put a finger to Tildy’s lips as the young woman began to apologise for not serving her sooner. ‘Thou art not Magda’s servant. She can ask for what she needs.’

Tildy called for a servant and bustled her out to the kitchens, following close behind.

Magda settled into a high-backed chair by the fire, tucked a pillow behind her back that she had spied on a bench, and lifted her feet on to a stool she had dragged over for the purpose. She was beginning to nod when Tildy returned with stewed fruit, cheese and bread. A servant followed with a flagon of wine.

When the servant had gone, Tildy crouched down beside Magda, her pretty face knitted into a mask of worry. ‘I watched Mistress Wilton carefully,’ she whispered, ‘and I am certain I have given Daimon the same amounts of the physicks.’

‘Cease thy fretting. Mayhap his body endured it for a time.’

‘Could too much of the physick kill him?’

The last two words were spoken so softly that Magda did not think she would have understood had she not been watching Tildy’s lips.

‘Aye, as is ever true, many a medicine is also a poison. But thou hast not killed him.’

‘Not me. I am sure of it. But there is one here who might be pleased to be rid of Daimon.’

‘An enemy?’

‘A rival. What think you of Master Galfrey?’

‘The borrowed steward? Thou shouldst call him Harold. He is not thy master.’

‘But what did you think of him?’

The subject of their hushed conversation had just entered the hall. ‘Magda thanks thee for the food,’ she said loudly. ‘Thou mightst bring a cup for Master Galfrey. Mistress Wilton will wish to hear his report when Magda returns.’

Tildy rose slowly, turned and greeted the steward by his given name.

Harold hesitated, then bowed to her. Turning to Magda, he said, ‘I pray you pardon me for my earlier behaviour.’

Tildy, looking pale, took the opportunity to withdraw. Magda made note of her departure as she waved away Harold’s apology. ‘Thou art cautious, with reason.’

He made himself comfortable near her, looking quite at home.

‘Thou hast begun the repairs on the gatehouse,’ Magda noted. ‘There was much damage?’

He nodded to the servant who brought another cup, rose to pour himself some wine, then held it up to Magda as if toasting. He took a drink, put the cup aside. ‘I thought it best to begin repairs at once, while God blesses us with dry weather. All the roof must be replaced. And the crumbled wall rebuilt, the other walls patched. And most of the boards on the upper floor were damaged from either fire or water.’

‘The rain will return before thou canst complete so much work.’

‘We can do no more than try, and pray that God has pity on us.’

‘Thou wouldst do better to find a way to protect thy work than to pray.’

Harold frowned, seemed about to say something, then threw his head back and laughed. Magda watched his movements as he took a long drink, emptying his cup. She noticed how closely he observed her and averted his eyes, then met hers with an expression much like that of a child who means to show an adult that he is not bothered by their criticism. And why would he not feel so after greeting her so boorishly? ‘How is Daimon?’ he asked abruptly.

Magda wagged her head from side to side. ‘He will mend. Too much physick steals his wit and makes him sleep. Magda will see how he fares on less.’

‘Poor Tildy. She loves him, you know.’

Magda studied the tanned face. The lines round his mouth said he frowned more often than he smiled. ‘Magda did not suggest Tildy was to blame.’

‘I did not mean to imply that she was. Merely that she suffers with him.’ Harold stared into the fire, pressing his palms into his knees, as if soothing them.

‘Do thy knees ail thee?’

‘They ache. I am not accustomed to so much physical work. A steward sits, walks, rides. I cannot remember ever crawling about in damp ashes. But I had to see the extent of the damage.’

‘Thou art thorough. Magda will give thee something to ease the ache.’

‘God bless you for that, Goodwife Digby. What of Daimon? You said he had too much physick, yet Tildy is not to blame.’

‘One cup of wine can put some men to sleep. Physicks are the same.’

‘Ah. He is a fortunate young man, to have Mistress Wilton send you to check on his care.’ Harold rose. ‘Will you be staying the night?’

‘One or two nights. Until Daimon improves.’

‘We shall all be the better for it. Forgive my abrupt departure, but I have much to do.’

‘Before the rain. Aye.’ Magda considered the man as he walked away. He was courteous enough to her, but he was the sort might be a stern steward. Mayhap that was the cause of Tildy’s dislike. Or was there more to it?

As Lucie walked down Stonegate on her way to the Archdeacon of York’s house she imagined eyes upon her, folk peering from behind the shutters, glancing at her as they walked by, all wondering whether she was the deserted wife of a traitor. Never had she felt so solitary in this city. Who were her friends, who her enemies? She also worried about Phillippa. If she were to begin fretting about Freythorpe again this evening, would Kate have the sense to send for Bess to help calm her?