Candace Robb - A Spy For The Redeemer

When Roger Moreton entered the hall, dishevelled and red of face, the goodwife rose reluctantly. ‘Did you find the poor woman?’ she asked.

‘We did indeed.’

‘God be praised. Will you be needing anything more than wine?’

‘If we do, I shall call for you.’ Roger waited until she was well away. Then he turned to Michaelo and apologised, telling him of his mission and its happy outcome. ‘But I have kept you sitting here so long. You have my full attention.’

Indeed, Michaelo felt he had been more than patient even though he understood the circumstance. ‘His Grace the Archbishop is concerned about the troubles at Freythorpe Hadden. As godfather to young Hugh, the future heir, and his sister, His Grace sees it as his duty in their father’s absence to watch over the family. He therefore requests your assurance that Harold Galfrey is capable to serve as steward while the wounded steward recovers. He should like to see his letter of recommendation, hear anything else you might know about his former employment.’

Roger made a face. He truly was an unsophisticated sort. ‘In faith, I did not see his letter. He was set upon by outlaws on his way to York. They stole his purse. But he served as steward for the Godwin manor near Kingston-upon-Hull.’

‘How then did John Gisburne come to recommend Galfrey so highly, if he had no letter?’

The merchant looked embarrassed. ‘I did not think to ask him.’

‘Is there anything else you might tell me about him?’

‘No. I feel quite foolish to confess it. But I put my faith in John Gisburne. He has ever been good to me.’

Deus juva me , Michaelo had accepted Mistress Wilton’s reassurances. But had she known that Roger Moreton was so under the influence of John Gisburne? The man’s taste in servants and retainers had been cause for more than a few rumours. Michaelo dreaded reporting all this to Thoresby.

The hall was quiet, only two oil lamps still burned, one at the bottom of the steps, one on the table. Lucie wondered whether Jasper had been too tired to wait for her to finish settling Phillippa for the night. She had been reluctant to drink her calming tisane. Lucie had spent a long while up there convincing her aunt that she would not sleep the sleep of the dead. In truth, the tisane was stronger than on previous nights, but Phillippa need not know that. Lucie did not wish her to wake confused and attempt another church.

Picking up the lamp at the bottom of the steps, Lucie held it high so that she might see more of the table. Now she saw Jasper’s fair hair hanging over the bench on which he had been sitting. As she crept closer she saw that he lay on his side and had covered himself with a blanket. Sleeping, yes, but determined to talk to her. He had been a great help to her of late. Did she thank him enough? She could never predict his behaviour these days. But why did that bother her so? Had she ever truly been able to predict him, or had he simply been more obedient earlier, more eager to do what he thought she wished than to follow his own heart.

‘Jasper,’ she whispered in his ear, was about to settle in the chair at the head of the table but found Crowder and Melisende curled up together. She moved to the bench across the table from Jasper.

With much rubbing of his eyes and shaking of his head, Jasper rose and wrapped the blanket round his shoulders.

‘She is abed?’ he asked.

‘Safely, yes.’ Lucie smiled at the question. ‘You do not wish to go in search of her again this evening?’

He laughed. ‘Tell me what this is about.’

Lucie told him all she knew of the missing parchment about which Phillippa was so concerned, and more. She confided in him her belief that the thieves had included someone who knew the house well, told him of Daimon’s slow healing and Tildy’s suspicion, of Colby’s visit to the manor. She saw that he understood that he was being treated as a man.

Jasper listened with a grave face.

When Lucie was finished, she poured them both some wine, watered both cups. ‘God has been trying me sorely,’ she said. ‘Forgive me if I have not listened to you as I might.’

‘I could go to the manor to search for the parchment and check the account books.’

Ignoring her inclination to reject the offer, Lucie said, ‘I shall consider it. We need to discuss it with Dame Phillippa, learn where she has hidden it in the past. Perhaps that will suggest where to look.’

‘Or she might remember. What do you think it might be?’

‘I wish I knew, my love. That might also help us know who attacked Freythorpe.’

‘Will I be there, when you talk to her?’

‘You will.’

They finished their wine in companionable silence, then climbed wearily up to their beds, the cats padding softly ahead of them.

Owen hoisted the pouch of stones over his good shoulder and trudged off along the new stonework of the cloister to the west front of the cathedral, ordering his thoughts as he walked. Though aware that Friar Hewald waited anxiously at Rokelyn’s, Owen could not abandon Cynog, not now. He had pieced much together, but there were gaps and contradictions for which he could not account. He must settle for what he had — the imminent removal of Archdeacon Baldwin’s household forced his hand. He must confront Baldwin and Simon to discover what they knew, or indeed what part they had played in the three deaths.

Cynog’s parents had said that at one time he had talked much about Owain Lawgoch, but then grew quiet. Had he been disillusioned? Had he given copies of Hywel’s maps to Archdeacon Baldwin? And Cynog’s right hand — who was the executioner who had been frightened away before completing his grim task? Owen feared it was Hywel who had ordered the deed: he had beaten the horse thieves for their mistake, he might well have a traitor mutilated and executed. Did this serve his prince?

He still had too few facts to accuse anyone of Cynog’s murder. Piers the Mariner? Why? And why, then, was Piers executed, and his brother as well? At first Owen had suspected that they had been hiding something on the ship. But the tongues had turned his mind to lies or betrayals. Was he wrong? Were the tongues leading him to a false surmise? But surely such a grim deed had been meant as a message? Had served a purpose?

All three men had been executed. Rokelyn had been right about Cynog’s death from the start. But what had Baldwin and Simon to do with it? And how was it that Rokelyn knew nothing of their involvement? Or did he? Was that why Owen must investigate, rather than someone in the city?

What else did Owen know? Glynis had put a sleeping draught in the ale she gave Edmund and Jared. But she had not helped Piers escape that day. It was later that night that she did so. Had she been frightened by something on her first attempt? Or had she learned something from Piers, betrayed him to Hywel, who then ordered her to deliver her lover to him?

As Owen crossed over Llechllafar, passing the pilgrims’ entrance to the cathedral, he thought about Sir Robert’s tomb. Cynog had been blessed with such a gift. Would Owain Lawgoch, rightful Prince of Wales, order the death of such a man? In war, perhaps. But this was not war. Yet.

*

The house of Archdeacon Baldwin sat apart from most of the others, across the River Alun from the palace, near Patrick’s Gate. Several carts crowded the narrow lane. The pilgrims had to pick their way past them and a few servants stood guard over the contents.

One of them stepped forward to bar Owen’s way.

Owen dropped the pouch to the ground, rubbed his left hand. ‘I wish to speak with Archdeacon Baldwin and Father Simon.’