Candace Robb - A Spy For The Redeemer

Of whom he should be thinking. Cynog, a gentle man with a God-given gift for turning cold stone into things of beauty. Owen remembered wondering whether Cynog sensed the soul of the stone, if that was how he made it come alive. Hanged himself. There were men whose deaths were little mourned, men who had made little difference while on this mortal soil. Not Cynog. Many would mourn him. Those who had witnessed his gift. What could have caused him such despair he committed a sin that damned his soul to the fires of hell for all eternity?

At last it was Owen’s chance to descend to the stone-roofed well. He knelt, prayed for his soul and those of his family. And for Cynog’s soul. Then, after removing the leather patch from his left eye, Owen scooped up the clear, icy water in his already cold hands and pressed it to the puckered lid.

Tom, Sam, Jared and Edmund all gazed on Owen’s patch with disappointment when he and Iolo entered the great hall of the bishop’s palace.

‘I was unworthy of a miracle,’ he said simply. ‘Get me some ale and move away from that fire. I am soaked through. And nothing to show for all that.’

When Owen had slaked his thirst and warmed his belly with the ale, he felt ready to hear about Cynog’s death.

‘They found Cynog at dawn, four days ago, hanging from an oak among the graves,’ Jared said. Tall, gaunt, with brown, wildly curling hair, Jared was the gossip of the group.

‘What could have happened to drive such a man to hang himself?’ Owen wondered aloud.

‘Some say his lady found another,’ Jared said.

‘There are many say he did not kill himself,’ soft-spoken Sam chimed in. ‘In truth, most say it.’ He kept his gaze from Jared as he spoke.

Owen turned his other side towards the fire and nodded to the shy man. ‘Why do they say that?’

‘The knot on the tree was a mariner’s knot,’ said Sam. ‘Cynog was no seaman.’

Iolo snorted. ‘We are near the sea. Many round here know how to tie such a knot. I do.’

‘Such a wonder you are,’ Jared muttered.

Iolo’s devotion to Owen had not gone unnoticed by the others in the company. Nor had the conversations in Welsh, which they could not understand. Owen had meant for Iolo to accompany Jared to St David’s, so that the negotiations for sea passage could be conducted in Welsh, if necessary. But it had not been worth the aggravation.

Jared thrust his face close to Iolo’s. ‘If you are so — ’

Owen quit the fire to pull Jared away. ‘We are speaking of a man’s death. If he died by his own hand, he is now burning in hellfire. Think on that.’ Owen turned to Sam. ‘Was Cynog working on Sir Robert’s tomb when it happened?’

‘He had much of it finished,’ said Sam. ‘But he awaited you to advise him on the face and hands.’

What had happened? Owen had confounded himself by lingering in Cydweli. ‘So I shall need to find another stone carver. How soon does our ship sail?’

‘Soon,’ said Jared. ‘Captain Siencyn awaits news of your arrival.’

Passage home. So near and yet — how could he face Lucie if he did not stay to see to the completion of her father’s tomb? Owen sank down on a stool by the fire. ‘God is not smiling on me this day.’ It was a day for penitence.

Owen had tarried at Cydweli Castle to await an expected party from the convent at Usk, hoping that his sister, Gwenllian, would be among them. He had not seen her since he left Wales twenty years before. Eagerly he had watched the arrival of the party, rushing down from the tower to greet them in the outer court. Behind the priest stood a tall, freckle-faced nun, beaming, waiting for him to notice her. As Owen met her eyes, she stretched out her arms and hurried towards him.

‘God is merciful,’ Sister Gwenllian had cried as she embraced him.

‘Gwen.’

Later, they had found time to talk.

It filled Owen with joy to look on her. His brother Morgan was so frail. Not Gwen. Her wide smile displayed a full set of healthy teeth, her skin was unblemished, her walk straight and unhampered, her embrace as bone-crushing as ever. ‘You look happy, Gwen.’

‘Sister Gwenllian, I remind you.’ She laughed. ‘You are surprised? Did you think I had been sent off to the nunnery against my will?’

In truth, he had. She had always seemed the sort to marry and fill a house with freckle-faced children. ‘Morgan said only that you were there. So it was your choice to devote your life to God?’

‘To live a comfortable life in a convent, truth be told. My devotion to God came later.’

‘And is the convent comfortable?’

‘Not so much as I had imagined, but it is a good life. It suits me. And what of you, brother? What of your poor eye? Can you see nothing from it? Was it an enemy arrow? Or a brawl over a beauty?’ She laughed. ‘Oh dear, of course it is the question all ask you.’ She looked him up and down. ‘Lancaster’s livery and a Norman beard — you are a Welshman only in your language.’

‘In my heart, too.’

‘It is good to be back?’

‘I am so glad to see you well, Gwen. And happy.’

There had been much talk in the following days. Owen enjoyed Gwen’s tales of the family he had left behind so long ago. And she plied him with questions about his life since he went off to be an archer in the old duke’s service.

He had thought it a worthwhile delay. Now he cursed himself for it. He prayed that at least Brother Michaelo had reached York with the letters Owen had written. But how had Lucie received the news? Would she close the shop and allow herself time to mourn her father? He prayed that the letters had found her well. And the children.

A servant stood at the edge of the group with the air of someone waiting to be noticed. Owen asked his business.

The young man begged Owen’s pardon for interrupting, but he had been sent by Archdeacon Rokelyn. ‘My lord the Archdeacon of St David’s invites Captain Archer to sup with him.’

Rokelyn was second in command to the bishop in this holy city. Owen doubted the archdeacon craved his company. What now?

‘I shall attend him,’ Owen replied evenly. The lad should not get a red ear for the message he brought.

In the end, Roger Moreton’s new steward did accompany Lucie to her father’s manor. York was abuzz with tales of outlaws on the roads and Lucie had to agree that though Harold Galfrey was not trained as a soldier he looked sufficiently strong to be threatening. His presence reassured Tildy, Lucie’s nursemaid, never a willing traveller, but determined to help Lucie during this difficult time. Lucie had confided to Tildy that she feared Phillippa might collapse at the news — though her aunt had always been a robust woman, she was getting on in years and had been devoted to her brother. Tildy could be trusted to keep the household at Freythorpe together while Lucie saw to her aunt. The company riding out from York also included Brother Michaelo, who had kindly offered to tell Phillippa all that he had told Lucie. His offer required neither sacrifice nor permission from the archbishop for he would easily continue on from Freythorpe Hadden to Bishopthorpe, where Archbishop Thoresby was in residence.

It was a beautiful spring day. Lucie wished she might enjoy this ride, this brief moment in the midst of all her duties. There would be tears enough at Freythorpe. But she had awakened with a yearning to see her father once more so that she might tell him how much she had enjoyed his company in his last years. She had told him so on his departure, but she wondered whether she had said enough. She lifted her head to the sun, shining round puffs of cloud. A gentle breeze set the spring leaves trembling against the blue and white sky. The meadows were already blooming. Labourers sang in the fields. ‘God’s blessing is on this day,’ she said.