Candace Robb - A Spy For The Redeemer

‘What is your business with my master?’

‘If you would tell him Captain Archer is here,’ Owen said quietly, though he put all his irritation into the eye that glared at the servant.

The man withdrew to the house.

In a moment, he returned. ‘The Archdeacon will see you, Captain.’ He offered to carry the pouch.

Owen nodded. ‘It is for the Archdeacon.’ He did not glance back, but he heard the man’s curse as he lifted the pouch. It was not unreasonably heavy, merely a surprising load when one expected other than stones.

Owen followed Baldwin’s loud voice — suited for sermons, not housework. The archdeacon was directing the packing of a chest in the hall.

‘ Benedicte , Captain Archer.’ His dark hair was dusty, various pieces of cloth draped over one forearm, a pile of documents at his feet. ‘As you see, I am about to depart. I hoped to make Llawhaden Castle by nightfall, but the incident on the beach has turned all fingers to thumbs among my household.’

The servant following with the pouch of stones set it down with a thud at Owen’s feet. Baldwin looked down inquiringly.

‘Would you permit me to look at the wall Cynog repaired in your undercroft?’ Owen asked.

‘What is in the pouch?’

Owen glanced at the servant bent over the chest. ‘It would be better to talk in private.’

Baldwin followed his gaze. ‘No, no. No time to let them be idle.’

‘Perhaps we might talk in the undercroft? And then I would talk to Father Simon.’

Now Baldwin fixed his eyes on Owen. ‘He is at the cathedral.’

‘Could you send for him?’

‘What is this about?’

Owen lifted the pouch of stones. ‘Do you have a lantern?’

Baldwin dropped the cloths, told the servant to continue packing — the chest must be ready when he returned. At the hall entrance the archdeacon shouted to one of the men guarding the carts to fetch Father Simon from the cathedral at once. Then he took a lantern from a hook and led the way through a door to a landing atop wooden steps that dropped down into darkness.

Baldwin opened up the shuttered lantern, closed the door behind them. ‘Is this about the deaths?’

‘The executions,’ Owen said.

‘You think I would order such heinous acts?’

‘You might. If by such deeds you thought to ensure peace in this holy city.’

‘Are you mad?’ Baldwin held the light closer to Owen, almost blinding him.

‘God’s blood,’ Owen growled, grabbing the lantern with his right hand. Painful, but worse if he stumbled after the fool blinded him in his one good eye with the light. ‘The wall, Father.’

‘We have peace in the city.’

‘For how long? When Owain Lawgoch arrives with his Welsh and French army, do you think they will skirt round St David’s and leave you in peace? And those within — how many Welshmen would rather die for the rightful Prince of Wales than for King Edward?’

‘Are you one of them?’

‘Show me the wall.’

‘You think I am one of them. Or that Simon is.’ Baldwin started for the door.

Owen barred the way, lantern in one hand, bag of stones in the other. Pain shot down his right side, but by the Rood he meant to see that wall before Father Simon arrived.

Baldwin nodded to the pouch. ‘What is in there?’

‘Stones. Come. Show me the wall.’

The archdeacon turned back to the landing. Owen shone the light down the steps.

Baldwin hesitated. ‘Why should I trust you?’

‘I am working for your fellow, Archdeacon Rokelyn,’ Owen growled.

‘Faith, I had forgotten that.’ Baldwin shook his head and began the descent.

The stench of damp, mould and worse, and a chill that erased memory of the spring day without, enveloped Owen as he left the landing. He understood the archdeacon’s hesitation. But once Baldwin was in motion he made short work of the stairs. Owen left the pouch on the bottom step and hurried after his guide, who navigated through piles of old furniture, barrels stacked atop one another, to a cleared area before the far wall.

It was a stone wall, like any other, bare of plaster, the stones exposed. Owen passed the light along its length. On the far left, dampness glistened on stained stones, to the right the stones were dry.

‘As you see, a damp wall, too close to the river, partially rebuilt where the rats came through. What did you hope to find, Captain?’ Baldwin’s voice seemed muffled in this cluttered dungeon.

Owen moved closer to the repaired side, looking for some sign of loose or decorated stones, something to indicate where the maps were or had been. Where would Cynog have placed them? The ceiling was low — this was more a cellar than an undercroft. Owen could see the top stones. Simon was as tall as he, but not Cynog. Owen crouched down, ran the light across the lower stones. Nothing. ‘Christ save us, it must be here.’

‘Master Baldwin?’ someone called from above. It was Father Simon.

‘Simon!’ Baldwin shouted. ‘Come below.’

Pushing up from his crouch, Owen hurried to the steps to retrieve the stones. Baldwin, protesting the loss of light, followed. Pouch in hand, Owen considered what he should do. Father Simon bore an oil lamp, which gave off such a dim light he must move slowly. Even so, he was by now almost to the bottom.

Owen slipped off to the right, Baldwin following.

‘Master?’ Simon called.

Setting the lantern on a barrel, Owen lifted out the stones bearing maps and handed them to Baldwin. ‘Do you recognise these?’

Baldwin held them towards the light, turned them about, studying them. ‘Someone has defaced these? Why do you show them to me? What have they to do with Simon?’

‘I have reason to believe Cynog used stones such as these in the repairs to your undercroft. They are not defaced, they carry messages.’

‘Messages? In my cellar wall?’ Baldwin managed a nervous laugh. ‘You are mad.’

Owen sensed Simon behind him, grabbed the lantern and spun round. Blinded, Simon dropped the oil lamp.

‘For the love of God!’ Baldwin cried, lunging towards a smoking pool of spilled oil.

A healthy fear of fire, but Owen saw there was no need. ‘It is a small lamp,’ he said, ‘and an earthen floor.’

‘But the barrels.’ Baldwin made to stomp out the smoke.

Owen pulled him back. ‘Save your boots. You are more at risk if the hem of your gown touches the smouldering oil.’

Simon bent down to retrieve the empty lamp, sat it on a barrel. ‘Have you found what you sought, Captain?’ he asked in a voice lacking all emotion.

‘He claims — ’ Baldwin began.

‘I have two of the stones,’ Owen said.

‘You cannot,’ said Simon. ‘I removed them this morning.’

‘What is this?’ Baldwin grabbed his secretary’s arm. ‘What do you know of this?’

Simon shook off the archdeacon’s hand. ‘Cynog came to me. I did not go to him. But neither did I turn him away.’ He spoke to Owen.

‘What is it?’ Baldwin looked from one to the other. ‘What have you done, Simon? What are these stones?’

‘I ask only that Bishop Houghton judge me, not Archdeacon Rokelyn.’

Not the words of a man intending to run. Owen thought fresh air and light was worth the risk. ‘Let us go up. We have much to talk about.’

The servant in the hall was dismissed. In the light, Owen saw the ravages of the day on Simon. Hollow-eyed, slack-mouthed, he was a man who had seen the enormity of what he had helped put in motion. He sat down on a bench, head bowed.

Baldwin stood over him. ‘You meddling man. Tell me. Tell me all of it.’

Owen eased down into a chair. ‘What did you do with the maps?’

‘I meant them for Bishop Houghton. He has the forces to capture Hywel, save our holy city from civil war.’