Candace Robb - A Spy For The Redeemer

‘I am indeed, Mistress Wilton,’ said Harold.

‘I must be going now. I have much to do before I leave for the country.’ She needed time to talk to Brother Michaelo as well as arrange for a Requiem Mass for her father. And though she had shut the shop, she hoped Jasper might catch up with replenishing the stores — so there was much to discuss. ‘Thank you for rescuing me. God’s blessing on your day.’

‘Leave for the country?’ said Roger. ‘What takes you to the country?’

Lucie had no one to blame but herself for mentioning the journey, for knowing Roger, he would wish to hear everything and then offer assistance. ‘I received word yesterday of my father’s death, while on pilgrimage in Wales. I must go to Freythorpe Hadden to tell my aunt.’

‘God rest his soul,’ Roger said. ‘I must do something. I shall accompany you.’

‘You are kind. But I shall stay several days. You cannot leave your business so long.’

He nodded, frowning. ‘But you need an escort.’ He brightened. ‘Harold is idle until I am in the new house. He shall escort you.’ Roger looked pleased with his inspiration.

Harold looked perplexed.

Lucie had no time to argue. ‘Thank you, Master Moreton. I shall consider your offer.’

High on a cliff that hung over the white-capped sea, threading along a path through a bowl-shaped meadow ringed by low, ancient stones in the midst of which stood a small chapel, pilgrims braced themselves against windswept rain. Heads bowed against the storm, soggy cloaks wrapped tightly about them, they waited for their turn at a stone-roofed well that formed the lowest spot in the bowl. One by one the bedraggled pilgrims knelt there, cupping their hands to drink the water or pour it over some sore or malformation, and prayed to St Non for healing. Then they hurried to the chapel for a prayerful respite from the tempest.

Owen Archer watched as a departing pilgrim stumbled on the low, slippery standing stones at the edge of the meadow. Another stooped to help him. The fallen pilgrim shook his head as he rose, expressing his embarrassment, no doubt. Owen thought it odd that the man brushed off his rain-heavy clothes. If he was as cold and wet as Owen — and how could he not be? — he could not possibly notice any added moisture from the wet grass.

Owen fought the arrogant notion that the Almighty had staged this tempest for him, to chide him for thinking he might dip his hand in St Non’s Well, say a prayer and so easily regain the sight in his left eye, like the blind Movi who held St David under the water at his baptism. But was it not a sign of his faith that he would seek out the water that had cured many pilgrims with eye ailments? God would surely choose another way to teach him humility.

Owen’s journey to St Non’s Well was ill timed, that was certain. He had conceived the plan yesterday, while rejoicing in the stretch of warm, sunny weather that had dried the puddles in the roads and allowed his small company to make good progress from Cydweli Castle. His three companions had been making wagers about how many days the same journey had taken their comrades, Jared and Sam, who had departed Cydweli two weeks earlier in a drenching rain that had continued for several days. The two were to arrange passage for Owen’s company on a ship out of Porth Clais, St David’s harbour. A ship set for England.

In case Jared and Sam had met with quick success, Owen had stopped at St Non’s Well on his way to St David’s. In truth, he had little hope for a miracle. He had never doubted God’s hand in his partial blinding. That had been his hardest lesson in humility. He had taken much pride in his skill with the bow and in his judgement of men. He had been wrong about the Breton jongleur whose leman had blinded him. His own pride had robbed him of his skill and his confidence in his judgement in one slash of a knife. He could think of nothing he had done in the intervening years to earn reparation for his past sins, unless it was his service to the archbishop. Perhaps he should have complained less, practised more humility. But who was he to think he could predict God’s judgement?

The rain had begun as the company approached St Non’s. But as it might be Owen’s last chance to visit the well, he persisted. He had dismounted, handed his reins to Iolo, and directed him, Tom and Edmund to ride on into the city. Owen would continue on foot, a proper pilgrim. The rain had been but a drizzle then.

Still, this was a most holy well. It had sprung from the ground to mark the site on which Non gave birth to David, who became the greatest saint of Wales — his coming had been foretold by St Patrick. St David had been born out here, in this meadow, in the midst of a terrible tempest that shielded his mother from the clutches of Sant, the arrogant tyrant who had raped her. Owen could not remember whether the legend told that Sant wished to claim the boy or whether he still lusted after the mother. In the pain of her labour, Non clutched a stone, which ever after carried the imprint of her hands. The stone, now in two pieces, was buried beneath the chapel.

Was it a good omen that Owen had come to the well in a tempest? Had it been such a day when his father-in-law was blessed with a vision in the holy waters?

Owen found it difficult to keep his mind on St David and St Non. He wondered how his men fared in the city. Had the three found Jared and Sam? Did a ship even now lying at anchor in Porth Clais await them? That would be good news indeed. Owen needed only enough time to inspect the tomb he had commissioned for his father-in-law in St David’s Cathedral and to attend the burial service.

He was not the only one eager to return to England. Tom and Edmund had talked of little else on the journey from Cydweli. Owen had never heard York so praised.

Iolo, the fourth member of their company, had been quiet on the journey. He was Welsh and would remain here in Wales. He had joined Owen’s company in February at Lancaster’s castle of Kenilworth, where he had been sent by Adam de Houghton, Bishop of St David’s, the previous autumn. The young man had seemed overjoyed to find a company travelling west. Owen would miss Iolo, who had an uncanny ability to appear when Owen had need of him. He was a good fighter and true to his word.

As if conjured by Owen’s thoughts, Iolo stood before him. A murmur rose from the folk behind Owen, who thought this newcomer was pushing ahead. ‘Peace,’ Iolo called to them in Welsh. ‘I am come to see my captain and wait on him on his return to the city.’ As Iolo turned back to Owen he shook rain off his cloak.

‘You might be dry and warm had you obeyed my order to wait at the palace,’ Owen said.

‘Something does not feel right, Captain. I thought you might need me.’

Owen knew Iolo well enough to accept his explanation. ‘You found Sam and Jared?’

‘Aye. They have bad news. The stonecutter Cynog has hanged himself.’

Owen bowed his head and crossed himself, though he also muttered a curse. Cynog was the stonemason he had hired to carve Sir Robert’s tomb.

An elderly pilgrim admonished Owen for cursing in this holy place.

‘And Sir Robert’s tomb is unfinished, no doubt,’ Owen growled with a dark glance at the pilgrim who had chastised him.

‘I do not know how far Cynog had got,’ said Iolo. ‘Forgive me. I did not mean to draw you from your prayer. The tale can wait.’ He bowed his head.

Nine pilgrims still ahead of Owen, his dripping clothes creating puddles beneath him and, after all, he might have waited for a dry day — who knew how quickly he would find another mason. He might be in St David’s for some time. Owen moved forward one man. Water trickled down his back. He hunched forward. The gesture reminded him of Cynog.