Candace Robb - A Spy For The Redeemer

Owen would not have compared the elegant Simon to a dog. Paul was evidently immune to his charm. ‘So it is not ambition? Or that he is urged by another — his superior?’

‘The former, yes, yes indeed, he is greedy for power. He does all so that Bishop Houghton will make note of him. Archdeacon Baldwin despairs at his secretary’s behaviour.’

‘What else did Simon ask about Cynog?’

‘That I cannot remember, Captain. Forgive me. I pay him little heed.’

Owen thanked him and was heading away once more when Father Paul called out his name.

‘A moment! I thought you might wish to know about this morning.’

Owen shook his head, not understanding.

‘Father Simon came down to the beach. Unwell, he looked. Wished to hear all I knew of this horrible crime, which is little. More now that you found the knife and — the other.’ Father Paul dabbed his brow with his sleeve. The sun had grown quite warm. ‘I thought you would wish to know.’

‘Father Simon seems a man to whom I should speak.’

Father Paul gave a little bow. ‘I should appreciate any further thoughts.’

‘You will have them, Father Paul. God go with you.’

‘And with you, Captain.’

*

The climb from Porth Clais exhausted Owen. He had lost much blood a few days ago and he paid for it now. His head and heart pounded, his legs felt uncertain. He regretted unbinding his arm, which he tried to keep bent close to his body. The stitches in his side burned like hot coals. He slowed his gait.

What he had seen on board was horrible, but he had seen worse, far worse on a battlefield. Still, in war a man expected to see such things. One became numb. Owen was no longer numb. In body or in spirit. Who might order such an execution? And have the men to carry it out?

Hywel. Owen did not like that conclusion. But he kept coming back to it. Glynis had been in Hywel’s camp. He had men all about. But what connection had Hywel to Piers? Or Siencyn?

A sudden sharp stab of pain stopped Owen near the masons’ lodge. He clutched his side, swore under his breath. He feared he was bleeding.

Ranulf de Hutton approached. ‘You look to be in pain.’ He offered an arm.

‘You are kind.’ Owen let Ranulf help him to a bench just within the lodge. Two men worked in there, chiselling a design in some blocks. They ignored Owen.

The mason offered Owen a cup of ale. He took a sip, waited to see how it would affect him. He glanced round the work area. ‘What part of this was Cynog’s work?’

Ranulf nodded to a wall of the cloister that was almost complete. ‘And some of the decorated capstones that have been set aside. Better?’

‘A little. I thank you.’ The sharp pain in Owen’s side had subsided. It had settled to a dull ache. He imagined Lucie’s gentle hands, rubbing soothing lotions on to the scar. How old would the scar be by the time he reached York?

Owen pushed away the thoughts of home. An idea teased him. Cynog’s hand had been tied. Why? A symbol of his treason in making the carvings for Hywel? Was Father Paul right? A crucifixion abandoned for a simpler hanging? But Cynog would have been cut down by the first passer-by. Had the murderer been frightened away that morning? Before his work was complete? Tied the hand to the branch in preparation for hacking it off? A hand cut off. Tongues cut out — because Siencyn and Piers might talk? Were the brothers working for Hywel as well? Perhaps Piers had not been Cynog’s hangman. Then what king’s man was punishing traitors with such quiet brutality?

Owen had no idea. It was beyond anything he might suspect of the archdeacons. Their purpose was to keep the peace, not create a reign of terror. Staring at the walls, he tried to imagine this already a cloister — a quiet place to reflect. But it was impossible with the masons working, mallets to chisels to stone.

‘Captain Archer.’

Ranulf de Hutton still stood a few paces distant, his hands resting on his round stomach.

Owen turned. ‘I thought you had gone.’

‘The tomb is nearly complete. Would you care to see?’

A moment of peace in this grim morning. ‘Aye, I would.’

Ranulf did not move. ‘Beside the tomb is a pile of stones on which Cynog scratched ideas. I have followed my own memory with Sir Robert’s features, but I used Cynog’s idea for the pilgrim’s hat and the helmet at his feet. I recommend that you look through the rubble, see if there is anything you wish me to add.’ Ranulf’s large ears had grown quite red, as if the speech were difficult for him.

Now he turned on his bandy legs and led Owen to the back of the masons’ lodge. With a dramatic flourish, Ranulf removed a quilt of sacking.

The tomb was magnificent in its simplicity. Sir Robert’s features were suggested by subtle angles, though his hair was perhaps thicker than it had been in life. And of course the eyes were lifeless, but his gentle smile was there, in the curve of the mouth, the crease in the left cheek. The symbols of his two lives, that of soldier and that of pilgrim, were well conceived.

‘I am pleased with it,’ said Owen. ‘What more might I add?’

Ranulf pointed to what seemed a pile of rubble to one side of the lodge. ‘My fellow worked hard, Captain. Perhaps you will see something fitting that I overlooked. Or something you might wish to take with you.’

‘And if I find nothing? I can tell the archdeacon the tomb can be moved into place in the cathedral? Sir Robert can be placed in it?’

‘Aye. A bit of polishing to do, but that is less intricate work. I can finish it by lamplight.’

Owen’s side protested as he crouched to look at the stones. He chose to sit on the ground. What work Cynog had invested in these chalk sketches on slate. Some of the rubble was softer stone and this he had used to carve shallow lines. Faces, helmets, pilgrim hats, feet, hands. And then a stone that looked familiar. A map. He put this stone aside, along with one of Sir Robert’s face that Owen thought to keep. He found another stone with curved lines and small, angular marks. A map such as the one he had handed Griffith, but clearer, with more detail. Had Cynog been so foolish as to leave evidence of his map work?

Ranulf crouched down beside him. Softly he said, ‘I see you found the puzzling ones.’

‘Do you know these were done by Cynog?’

‘They do not seem his work, though it was he who hid them away among the discarded stones. Father Simon would come for him, Cynog would go to the hiding place, then leave with something concealed beneath his apron. Part of the wall he was repairing for Archdeacon Baldwin? Then why the secrecy? I was not going to speak. But after what was found this morning, I hated myself for my silence. I might have helped you prevent two more deaths. God’s children, they were, no matter whether I liked them. And seeing your pain, that settled me. After all you have done to find Cynog’s murderer.’

‘How often did Simon come for Cynog?’

Ranulf thought a moment. ‘I cannot put it so particularly, but more that Cynog’s visits to his parents provoked much work on the wall. He worked on it for almost a year. Not so much of late. He begged the tomb. And then — ’ Ranulf looked away.

‘I thank you for telling me.’

‘I was jealous of him, you see. He had everything — fair of face and form, gifted, and this tomb. I followed him about, hoping to catch him at something wicked. I almost took the stones to Bishop Houghton. But I had a feeling about them. I thank the Lord I said naught. I cannot have been the cause of his murder. But — might the others be alive if I had told you?’

‘I am not that gifted in this work, Ranulf. I do not think so.’

Ranulf pulled off his cap and wiped his forehead, his eyes, nodding his thanks, his relief. ‘You might look at the wall in the archdeacon’s undercroft. Damp from the river. As I have said, God watches over the masons here. Take a lantern down there after the household leaves today. Better if Simon does not catch you.’