Candace Robb - A Spy For The Redeemer

Phillippa shook her head, pulled out of Lucie’s grasp. ‘When you know what I did you will not forgive me.’

Jasper pulled a chair near the fire, more comfortable than the bench by the table. ‘Sit here, Aunt. Tell us. We must know everything if we are to protect the people at Freythorpe now.’

‘You are right, lad. Mother in Heaven, you all suffer for my sin. I had forgotten so much — but that man — seeing him — ’

‘Who?’ Lucie asked.

Phillippa did not seem to hear Lucie’s questions as she let Jasper help her into the chair. Or perhaps she was lost in the memory. ‘The sounds coming from the other room frightened me. Jeremy began to cry. I nursed him — oh, I have oft thought my fear curdled my milk and that is what killed my little one. Or his father’s guilt.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Later Douglas came to see me. He had changed his clothes. I asked him why he had changed clothes in the middle of the day. He was pale, quiet, sat down beside me, took Jeremy’s tiny hand in his, kissed the baby’s forehead. Something was wrong, I knew. But he just sat there, his head bowed.

‘I crept from bed the next morning, very early, and found Douglas out by the barn, burying his clothing, I thought. What a waste of good cloth. No matter what the stain, some of the cloth would be of use. I stepped closer. It was a body.’ Phillippa lifted eyes dark with memory. ‘He said the man had already been mortally injured. It was his partner, Henry Gisburne, he said. They had been attacked, Douglas had left him for dead. He had not known Henry could have been saved. And now, after walking all the way to our house, Henry had died.’

Lucie and Jasper crossed themselves.

‘John Gisburne said his father and my uncle had been friends,’ Lucie said.

Phillippa was not listening. ‘“Fetch the priest,” I said. But Douglas said they would not believe he had not killed Henry. “What of his family?” I asked. Douglas said Henry had none. Had none, he said. So I–I returned to bed. A few days later he told me to sew up the opening in the tapestry. I could feel something in there. He made me swear never to speak of it until he brought it forth. I broke the vow once. I had a dream and begged him to tell me what was in the tapestry. “A letter that will be our salvation,” he said. “When the time is right, someone will pay much for it. Henry was certain of it.” Douglas died not long after of a fever. And Jeremy, too.’

No one spoke for a long while. Lucie studied her aunt’s ravaged face and wondered how she had lived so long without speaking of this. How could she sit with Douglas Sutton night after night, day after day, and not ask what had happened?

‘What of the chest in your bedchamber at Freythorpe?’ Jasper asked.

Phillippa glanced over at him, confused.

‘The parchment. Might you have hidden it in the chest?’

‘Douglas hid his bloody clothes in there, not the parchment. You do not hate me, lad?’

‘Your husband might have done nothing wrong,’ said Jasper. ‘The parchment might prove his innocence.’

‘But what of Henry’s family?’ Lucie asked. ‘Did they come to you? Do you think they knew of the parchment?’

‘Douglas said the parchment had been hidden in our home because Henry caught his wife looking at it.’ Phillippa bowed her head. ‘So many men went off to fight and never returned.’ She pressed her fingertips to her eyelids. ‘I met Mistress Gisburne once.’ Her voice had dropped to a whisper. ‘I said nothing. God forgive me.’

This was the sin that burned in Phillippa. But had it not been her husband’s fault? ‘Why did Douglas Sutton just bury his friend? The priest would know that many had crawled home to die.’ Lucie remembered Phillippa’s fears about the men who had been watching the manor. ‘Do you think it was Henry Gisburne’s family who watched the manor, Aunt Phillippa?’

‘Henry’s sons. I learned that he had sons. I had a son. But like your Martin he died before he walked.’ Phillippa’s voice fell into the flat tone of her confusion.

‘Go to bed, Jasper,’ Lucie said. ‘We shall try again on the morrow.’

Wearily, Lucie helped Phillippa up to bed.

Long into the night Lucie sat by her chamber window, wondering about her uncle. And the Gisburnes. Had they any way of knowing Henry had died at Douglas Sutton’s home? How much better for everyone if her uncle had sent Henry’s body to his family. Unless, of course, he had murdered him. But why would he have done so? Perhaps Jasper was right. The parchment might hold the key to all of this.

Owen was grateful to Archbishop Thoresby for this ship, for passage home. But he could not sleep the first night on board. He never could. Other men either hung over the side in wretchedness or slept the sleep of a babe in a cradle. Owen could not understand the latter. The tarry stench, the creaking, the rocking, the splash of the waves, the awareness of the depths below him, full of sea monsters and dead men, it was not a thing to make him sleep.

His thoughts wandered back to St David’s the day of Sir Robert’s entombment — the echoing cathedral, Sir Robert’s shrouded form, the mingled scent of decay and dried lavender, rosemary, frankincense — a gift from Bishop Houghton — the lonely, frightening grinding sound of the stone closing over Sir Robert. Owen wondered whether God let the blessed gaze down upon the earth, whether they know at last it is truly over when they watch their burial.

Friar Hewald joined him. ‘You are missing your friend?’

Owen shook his head. ‘Thinking of Sir Robert’s tomb. I wish my wife could see it.’

‘Then I shall leave you to your memories.’

In truth, Owen would miss Iolo, who had chosen to join Hywel’s forces. Despite the man’s cruelty.

‘Have we fared better under the English?’ Iolo had asked.

‘ You have, Iolo.’

‘Aye. Of late. But you know it is not true for all.’

‘Hywel is not the answer.’

‘He is what we have. You will tell no one?’

Owen should. He should warn both the Duke of Lancaster, whose household Iolo had observed closely so recently, and Bishop Houghton, who had sent Iolo to the duke.

But Owen would not betray the young man who had guarded his back. They were not so different. Had Hywel been a Christian knight, had Owen felt confident that he would improve the lot of the Welsh, the friar might be returning to England with only the duke’s borrowed men, Tom, Sam, Edmund and Jared.

When Owen left Archdeacon Baldwin’s house his anger had propelled him far along the coastline, ignoring his pain as he walked, almost ran, and cursed the meddling, ambitious clergy, cursed Hywel, who had made ugly a righteous cause, who would free the people of Wales only to enslave them himself. He was no better for the people of this land than King Edward. How could Owain Lawgoch have chosen such a commander?

Martin Wirthir had found him, appeared from the air as was his wont. And Owen had hoped in the moment between seeing him and asking the question that Martin would redeem the dream.

‘Did Lawgoch choose Hywel?’

‘He did, my friend. He is not a god, merely an earthly prince.’

Martin had provided food and shelter for two days, while Owen burned with fever. Then brought him to Patrick’s Gate on the dawn of the third day.

Friar Hewald and Owen’s men had been frantic, and desperate to get him away before any more danger might befall him, but Owen had insisted on Sir Robert’s burial. Ranulf de Hutton had been there, weeping for the friend who had begun the task.

Now, as Owen sat looking out on the horrible deep, his anger rose again, its target this time himself. He had almost made the same mistake as Cynog. Or Glynis, perhaps. Hywel had seemed to him a harsh commander, but fighting a Godly cause. How easy it had been to discount that which he despised in Hywel for the higher purpose.