Candace Robb - A Spy For The Redeemer

Lucie was plagued with misgivings about dining at the archdeacon’s house. She hoped to speak with Michaelo. And she dreaded it. What if Owen had been drawn to Owain Lawgoch’s scheme? What then? Would he resent his ties to York? His English wife? Was that possible? She needed him here, where his touch, his voice, would reveal his heart. But what if he did not return? She slowed as she reached Jehannes’s house and almost turned back. But surely Brother Michaelo would have told her if he had any hint that Owen would not return. He seemed to respect her anew, as Sir Robert’s daughter. It was enough to propel her forward.

Archdeacon Jehannes greeted Lucie warmly, welcoming her to his house. ‘This is such a pleasure.’ The broad smile that lit up his ever youthful face attested to his sincerity. ‘You are so busy with the children and the shop, I cannot remember the last time you graced my home.’

Archbishop Thoresby rose from an ornate, throne-like chair that seemed out of place in the simply furnished room. His deep-set eyes looked sunken, his complexion pale.

‘Your Grace,’ Lucie said, curtsying.

Thoresby raised his hand and blessed her. She kissed his ring. His hand shook slightly. He was not young, nor had he been in the best of health the past year. His frailness made Lucie uneasy. If Owen had done anything to fuel the rumours, he would need a man of power to defend him. But if His Grace was ailing …

Jehannes motioned to a servant to bring her a cup of wine.

‘How fare my godchildren?’ Thoresby asked.

‘Thriving. Missing their father.’

‘If God hears my prayers Archer is on his way to York. Or will be very soon.’

‘I am so grateful to you for sending a messenger.’

‘I sent him before your troubles. So do not thank me. I want Archer back here, seeing to my business, not that of the Bishop of St David’s.’

Lucie glanced round the room. ‘Will Brother Michaelo be joining us?’

‘He is fasting,’ said Jehannes.

‘He was much moved by your father’s vision at St Non’s holy well,’ said Thoresby. ‘It may yet redeem him.’

‘You wished to speak with him?’ Jehannes asked, always the solicitous and perceptive host.

‘Yes. I had questions …’ she trailed off, not wishing to explain, not wishing to lie. And should she disturb Michaelo during a fast?

Thoresby harrumphed. ‘Is this about the rumours questioning Archer’s allegiance? They are nonsense. I do not make such errors about whom I trust.’

Lucie felt Jehannes watching her. She had hoped to hide her anxiety, fearing it revealed disloyal doubts about Owen. But it seemed these two knew her too well. ‘Had one or two people with cause to be curious heard the rumour I might not be worried. But it has spread so quickly.’

‘The merchants are worried about the French threat along the southern coast,’ said Jehannes. ‘The career of Owain Lawgoch is of concern to them.’

‘But why should Owen be suspected?’

Thoresby made an impatient gesture. ‘In faith, my gentle lady, you cannot believe this rumour began innocently. Someone expects to benefit from spreading it. You are right to worry about that.’

‘Perhaps it would be best for you to speak with Brother Michaelo,’ said Jehannes.

Thoresby agreed and called a servant to escort her to Michaelo.

The servant led Lucie to a door, then withdrew. Lucie was evidently to knock for herself. Michaelo responded to her timid tap with a curt, ‘Come!’ She took a deep breath and pushed open the door. It was a tiny, windowless room, lit by an oil lamp. The monk knelt on a prie-dieu set before a plain wooden cross, his head bowed. A leather scourge lay beside him. The room was otherwise bare.

‘Brother Michaelo?’

His head jerked up, as if she had awakened him. ‘Mistress Wilton. Benedicte .’ He rose stiffly.

‘Forgive me for disturbing you.’

‘You are welcome, Mistress Wilton.’ Michaelo’s face was haggard, but his eyes were peaceful. ‘How might I be of assistance?’

‘I had hoped — I do not wish to trouble you with more questions, but something has happened and you are the only one who might help me.’

‘What is it?’

‘I have heard rumours about my husband — ’ Her voice broke.

‘I prayed you would not hear them.’

‘I beg you, Brother Michaelo, tell me whether there is any truth in them.’ Her legs shook from the effort to keep her voice steady.

‘Come. Let us go out to the garden.’

The evening sky was still blue though the garden was in shadows, its colours softened to shades of grey. It was small, but a low stone wall invited them to sit.

The brief walk and the fresh air had helped Lucie regain her composure. ‘Owen wrote that it was difficult, returning to his country. Painful.’

‘It seemed so for him. But those emotions do not make him a traitor.’

‘What is it you do not wish to tell me?’

Michaelo bowed to her. ‘You are your father’s daughter. He also saw through me.’

‘As my father’s daughter I ask you to be plain with me.’

‘The captain complained,’ Michaelo began, ‘not about his people, but about how we English treat them. We allow them no dignity. We assume they are inferior, dull-witted, and yet we also call them treacherous.’

‘My husband spoke openly about this?’

‘His feelings were sometimes clear, though he spoke of it only to our party, Master Chaucer, Sir Robert …’

‘How did my father receive it?’

‘He worried about it. Reminded the captain of his duty.’

‘Do you think my husband might be tempted by this Owain Lawgoch?’ Lucie whispered the question.

‘Your husband is not a traitor,’ said Michaelo firmly. ‘He made certain of the garrison at Cydweli and he brought to justice a man who was traitor to our King.’

Lucie found comfort in that. ‘He wrote that an old friend assisted him in his work. He said you might tell me who it was.’

Michaelo lowered his head.

Lucie felt her stomach clench. It was as she had feared — Owen did not name him in case the letters were read by the wrong person. ‘Who was it?’

‘Martin Wirthir.’

Lucie crossed herself. ‘Thanks be to God.’ Not someone who might speak treason, but a pirate. ‘You have set my mind at ease.’

Michaelo made an odd sound in his throat and pressed his hands to his forehead. ‘Wirthir is at present an agent of the French king. And he is in Wales collecting money for Owain Lawgoch.’

‘Sweet heaven.’

‘But to my knowledge they joined together solely for the sake of catching the murderer. Wirthir has no personal allegiance.’

‘Are you sure of that?’

Michaelo turned to her. ‘Mistress Wilton, your father walked in God’s grace in St David’s. When Sir Robert ceased worrying about the captain, so, too, did I. Hearing the rumours yesterday, I fell into doubt. But today, with much prayer and fasting, I see all more clearly. And I say the captain is no traitor. Your father knew he was not.’

By the light in the monk’s eyes and the strength in his voice, Lucie was drawn to bow her head and ask for his blessing.

‘My lady, I am not worthy of the honour you pay me.’

‘Praying, fasting, scourging, your kindness to my father — what more could God ask of you?’

‘I am uncertain whether I do this for God or for myself.’ But he made the sign of the cross over her and blessed her.

When Lucie joined Thoresby and Jehannes they were standing by the table discussing plans for the Lammas Day Fair.

Thoresby studied her as she approached, his shadowed eyes unreadable. ‘You look solemn, Mistress Wilton. Michaelo was unable to reassure you?’

‘He was most kind, Your Grace. And he seems convinced of my husband’s innocence.’