Candace Robb - A Spy For The Redeemer

Tom thought he would, but he let it go. ‘What was she doing down there?’ he asked.

‘Seeing her man,’ Jared said. ‘What else?’

‘He was allowed visitors?’ Tom thought that strange.

‘We thought he must have been,’ Edmund said. ‘How else would she have appeared there, in the dungeon of the bishop’s wing of the palace?’

Sam had quietly joined them. ‘I have heard talk in the kitchen that the undercrofts are not watched closely unless the bishop is here.’

Jared looked at Sam. ‘I had not heard that.’

‘You prick your ears at the wrong gossip.’

‘Why am I the goat this morning?’

‘Calm yourself, Jared. No one called you a goat,’ said Edmund, always even-humoured. ‘We should go to the archdeacon. Tell him what she did.’

‘He will not believe us,’ Jared said.

‘We tried last night, but he would not see us,’ said Sam. ‘Nor were we permitted to go down to the guard who had relieved you.’

‘Have they found Piers?’ Tom asked Sam.

‘No. Not a sign of him anywhere.’

The four men rode out from the farm on three horses, Iolo and Deri sharing one, in early morning. Morgan led the way through the wood.

Owen did not know what he had expected, a lodge in the woods, a cottage, a hut. Not a colourful tent set up in the middle of a glade, opened to reveal a table and a man sitting at one end, his feet propped up on the edge. A half-dozen men stood before the tent, hands on swords and daggers, silently watching the four who approached. Apparently seeing no immediate threat, the man in the tent signalled to the others to hold off attack. Morgan and Deri each had an arm and shoulder occupied supporting Iolo, who had not the use of either hand. Only Owen might easily draw a weapon — but what was one against seven?

The man slid his feet off the table, stood and stepped out from the shadows of the tent. ‘Captain Archer,’ he said with a little bow, speaking Welsh, ‘we have expected you.’

He was dressed in soft leather from head to toe, well-fitted leather that showed off a muscular build. His hair was a dark, curly halo round his head. His complexion was pale against the black hair, his eyes narrow and dark, his nose and mouth elegantly slender. Owen stood at least a head taller, but he guessed they would tip the scales alike. A man who made much of his hair and physique. Owen thought of a cat arching and fluffing his fur to impress a potential challenger. This must be Hywel. The other men had weathered faces, mud-splattered tunics and leggings.

‘Bring the horse thieves to me,’ Hywel shouted to the men on his left. His voice was as deep as his chest was broad. The three men disappeared round the back of the tent. Now Hywel turned to the newcomers. ‘They were not to injure you or your man, Captain. Come, sit at my table, rest yourselves. You have suffered enough.’

‘You would be Hywel?’ Owen said.

The leather-clad man dipped his head in a gesture part bow, part nod. ‘You are well informed.’

‘Not as well as I thought I was.’ Owen looked round for trouble as he entered the tent. A servant stood in the far corner. Otherwise the tent was empty but for the table, set with wine and cups. ‘You did expect us,’ Owen said, taking a seat facing the opening. A tournament tent, he guessed. Who was this Hywel to sit in such a tent, entertaining visitors? Morgan and Deri helped Iolo on to the nearest bench, then withdrew to stand warily in the doorway, arms crossed.

Hywel walked over, eyed them up and down. ‘Wirthir’s men.’

‘They are,’ said Owen.

‘Serving the French king,’ Hywel said.

‘Nay,’ Morgan protested, ‘we serve Owain, rightful Prince of Wales.’

‘Whom do you serve?’ Owen asked Hywel.

The man bowed slightly. ‘I, too, serve Owain Lawgoch. I am gathering an army to support my prince’s coming.’ He joined Owen and Iolo at the table, motioned to his servant to pour wine. ‘Why is Wirthir not with you?’ Hywel asked as he leaned back, cup in hand, and propped up his feet once more.

‘I cannot answer for him,’ Owen said. He had noted the men in the clearing. None seemed familiar. He had not seen much of his attackers, but one had been larger than any of these. ‘You mentioned the men who attacked us and stole our horses. They were your men?’

‘My horse thieves. Not my fighters.’

‘They were not aware of the difference.’

‘They will be taught.’

‘You did not steal the horses of the archdeacon’s men who followed us.’

‘We had called enough attention to ourselves.’

‘What else did you intend, besides stealing our horses? Was the attack a warning?’

‘We wanted the horses. That is all. You are a worthy man from all accounts, Captain, but the prince has more need of the horses than you do.’

‘That might have been true before the attack. Now we must needs ride.’

‘For that I am sorry. Our people have suffered enough under the hands of the English. My prince would not thank me for the incident.’

‘You could sell your fine leather garments and raise money for horseflesh.’

Hywel laughed. ‘A leader of men must look the part.’

‘We want our horses,’ Iolo said.

‘ Your horses?’ Hywel feigned puzzlement. ‘I thought they were Bishop Houghton’s, not the Duke of Lancaster’s.’

Iolo growled.

‘My companion is in pain, which makes him impatient with clever talk,’ said Owen.

There was a stir at the tent entrance, men’s voices, Morgan and Deri standing ground.

‘Let my men pass,’ Hywel ordered, dropping his feet, sitting straight.

Morgan and Deri stood aside as three men were pushed into the tent, hands bound behind them. One of them was almost as wide as he was tall.

‘Here are your attackers,’ said Hywel to Iolo. ‘What would you have me do with them?’

Bruised and swollen faces, limping walks and the stench of fear — it was plain to Owen the men had already been beaten. Iolo must have thought so, too.

‘There is no pleasure in watching you beat them,’ said Iolo. ‘I want the satisfaction of doing it myself.’

‘With that injured foot, how would you lunge and parry? It is not in a man’s nature to stand still for a beating. Would you like them held for you?’ Hywel’s tone was sincere.

Iolo turned his head in disgust.

Hywel shook his head, turned to Owen. ‘What would you have me do?’

‘We followed your orders,’ one of the bound men said thickly.

Hywel showed no sign of having heard.

‘Is this how you treat those who would serve you?’ Owen asked.

‘When they purposefully misunderstand orders,’ said Hywel. ‘In battle they would endanger their fellows. In truth, what would you have me do with them?’

‘That is your decision. They are yours to discipline,’ said Owen. ‘For me, I would have your honesty. I would hear why you ordered the attack. Then I would like to hear what you know about Cynog’s murder.’

‘Take the thieves away,’ Hywel said to his men. ‘You and the others, return to your posts. Give the stolen horses to Wirthir’s men. Go and attend your horses,’ he said to Morgan and Deri.

The two began to protest. Owen nodded to them to go.

Hywel resumed his seat at the head of the table, propped up his feet once more. The servant refilled the cups. It was good wine, better than Owen had tasted since he dined with Bishop Houghton. He wondered whether this, too, had been stolen.

‘It is true that they were not to injure you,’ said Hywel. ‘You were to walk back to St David’s.’

‘Why?’

‘I do need the horses for the prince’s infantry.’

‘And?’

Hywel put down his cup, leaned his elbows on the table, hands steepled before him. ‘A man like you — Welsh, English, you are dangerous.’ His voice was hushed. ‘The people trust you. They talk to you.’