Candace Robb - A Spy For The Redeemer

‘Excellent.’

Jehannes smiled, motioned to the servants to bring on the food. ‘Come, my guests, let us fortify ourselves with my cook’s stuffed chicken.’

Afterwards, Lucie had difficulty remembering the conversation at the table, so much of her consciousness being occupied going over and over her brief conversation with Michaelo. He was so confident that Sir Robert had seen into Owen’s heart. Why was Lucie more uncertain than ever? Was it Martin Wirthir? He was a charming, persuasive man. Might he not convince Owen that his countrymen needed him? But Owen had never agreed with Martin’s ethics. He would do nothing on only Martin’s word. And, truly, Martin did not seem a man to commit to any cause. Was it Michaelo’s description of the treatment of the Welsh that troubled her? How could any man bear it, much less Owen, who was not one to turn away, to run from that which angered him?

Thoresby had noted her preoccupation, drawn her out with questions about the raid on Freythorpe.

Late that night, when Lucie woke after a brief sleep, her thoughts returned to her conversation with the archbishop. He had not been impressed with her recounting of Harold’s deeds after the raid. ‘I am glad he was of assistance. But he might have a motive other than goodwill.’ Thoresby had not suggested what that motive might be.

Lucie could think of none. She was tired of all the men taking her for such a fool. Even Jasper, young as he was. Why did they all mistrust those who gave her succour?

But what of Owen? How could she know his heart? His letters. She had read them quickly, looking for news of her father. Perhaps she might glean something from his letters. She rose, tiptoeing across the room, hoping not to wake Phillippa, who had rested peacefully through the evening and into the night.

‘Lucie?’ Phillippa sat up, clutching the bedclothes to her.

Lucie silently cursed, but went to Phillippa and smoothed the hair that had escaped her white cap. ‘Go back to sleep. It is the middle of the night.’

‘Why do you wake?’

Phillippa sounded calm. The sleep had helped.

‘I ate too much, drank too much wine. I thought to reread Owen’s letters. When I read his words, I can imagine his voice.’

Phillippa sat up straighter. ‘Do you understand everything that you read?’

‘I understand the words. But sometimes the meaning is hidden from me.’

‘Do all who read understand the words?’

‘If they read well, yes. Is there something you wish me to read for you?’

‘No.’

‘Then go back to sleep. It is the middle of the night.’

As Lucie began to rise, Phillippa touched her arm.

‘There is something.’ Her face was in shadow. There was little light coming from the window. But Lucie sensed her agitation. ‘I must know what the parchment says. I must know if this is all because of my weakness.’

‘What parchment?’

‘My husband, Douglas, called it his, but it had been entrusted to him. Not given to him to keep. He died so soon afterwards. So young. He was not a good man. And yet I loved him.’ She dabbed her eyes with the bedclothes.

It was the most Phillippa had ever said to Lucie about her husband.

‘Where is this parchment?’

‘At the manor.’

‘No one told you what it said?’

‘I have never shown it to anyone but my brother, who said I need not know and need not worry. But I have worried. It was not drink that ruined my Douglas, you know. That is what my brother thought, but that is not true. Douglas was bitter. His family had lost their home in the Scots raids. And no one cared. Not the king, not the archbishop. No one.’

‘What do you think is in the parchment?’

‘Douglas’s father died of grief. All that he had left Douglas, gone. So quickly. There was still land, but so much had burned. The livestock, the house, all gone.’ Phillippa sighed. ‘His mother died soon after. I do not remember how. Was she ill?’

‘Aunt Phillippa, what of the parchment?’

Phillippa looked up at Lucie. Touched her chin. ‘You are stronger than your mother. All will be well.’ She lay back down.

‘You wanted me to read something for you.’

‘I do not know where it is.’

Lucie did not remember any mysterious parchment. Might it have been kept in the treasury? But she had recently searched that. As far as she could tell, the thieves had taken only money — and perhaps an account book. She had forgotten about that. She could not remember the years it had covered, but it was not a recent one. Could a parchment have been hidden in it?

‘Where did you keep it?’ Lucie asked.

‘Many places,’ Phillippa said sleepily. ‘Too many places. I have brought this trouble on our house. I am too old to be of use.’ She began to weep.

Lucie put her arm round her and stroked her forehead gently, as she did for her children when they woke in the night.

Tom and Sam were turned away at Archdeacon Rokelyn’s door. At the palace gate they asked to speak with the captain of the guard. The gatekeeper said the captain might be found dining with his men. But he was not, and Tom and Sam did not know whom else to trust. Despondent, they shuffled down to the table set aside for pilgrims’ retainers and ate their meal in silence. Afterwards, they returned to the stables. Exhausted by the day’s long ride, Tom quickly fell asleep.

But his stomach woke him before dawn. The sleeping accommodations in the stable were far more crowded than in the great hall of the palace. Tom picked his way through the prostrate forms with care, his gut burning. He had a terrible thirst, too, but he dared not quench it before reaching the privy, for fear his stomach would explode. He carried a jug of water with him.

So it was that he sat on the privy flushing himself out for quite a while. Long enough to be joined by a guard who wished to gossip as he sat beside Tom. Most of the guard’s chatter signified little to Tom, but one item caught his attention — Piers the Mariner had disappeared during the night. His guard had been found asleep outside Piers’s cell, stinking of ale. Tom’s privy companion had been awakened by his captain to search the stables.

Tom’s stomach burned anew. The escape might have been prevented had the porter at the east wing permitted Tom and Sam to warn the guard last night. Why was God playing such games with them?

By the time Tom returned to his companions, Jared and Edmund were awake and complaining of thirst. Sam had wandered off to learn more about the search.

‘I do not want the captain to see me like this,’ Edmund groaned. His complexion was mottled like mouldy cheese.

‘You need not worry,’ Tom said, ‘he is not in the city. Who did this to you?’

‘Did what?’ Jared’s hair stood on end and his eyes were crusty.

‘How could we know her ale would be so strong?’ Edmund whined weakly as he pressed his temples. ‘I did not think it possible to fell Jared with one tankard.’

‘Whose ale?’

‘Glynis. Piers’s woman. She brought ale for him and shared some with us. She is a good woman.’

‘Good at making fools of you,’ Tom said.

‘But he did not escape on our watch,’ Edmund said.

‘Aye,’ Jared agreed. ‘We might have been wrong to drink that woman’s ale, but at least we did no harm.’

‘I cannot believe you trusted her,’ Tom said.

Jared had been examining his swollen finger, but now he rose to confront Tom, who backed away from the tall man, though not far. ‘I would like to see you stand for half a day in a dark, damp cellar listening to water drip and feeling your joints stiffen, your nose grow numb. And then a pretty woman comes along with good ale and offers you a generous tankard of it. You would not say no to that.’