Candace Robb - A Spy For The Redeemer

‘That I know. And you are but one person, torn between your little ones, your ailing aunt, your apothecary and an apprentice who has gone off to help you. Alfred and Gilbert are at the manor. If Thoresby sends men after Jasper, the boy shall encounter help no matter which way he turns. I shall fetch one of my lads to carry your request to the archbishop. It will not be the groom who loaned Jasper the horse, I promise you.’

‘It was not his fault.’

‘He should know better.’

Lucie sat down and composed her letter to His Grace. By the time she had finished, one of Bess’s servants stood ready to hasten to the archbishop’s palace.

Lucie had not long to wait for his reply. She had taken care of three customers when the young man returned.

‘His Grace assures you that he is sending four men at once,’ he said, giving a little bow.

‘God have mercy, he is a good man,’ Lucie whispered, crossing herself.

At the crossroads, Owen and Friar Hewald halted to say their farewells to Edmund, Sam, Tom and Jared, all Lancaster’s men and headed for Kenilworth. Owen would be glad to be quit of them. All along the way they had exclaimed about his letter, the outlawry rife in the countryside, how expensive it would be to replace a gatehouse. He wished to be alone with his own thoughts. His own worries. What enemy had he made who sought revenge by attacking his family? If he had not waited for Gwen, had not been delayed by Cynog’s death, might he have prevented it? Would his enemies have chosen to attack him instead?

Jared broke into Owen’s anxious thoughts. ‘There is no need for fare thee wells. We have resolved to accompany you.’

Sweet Jesu, Owen had dreaded this. ‘I must make haste. And your duke awaits you.’

Edmund doffed his cap, bowed from the saddle. ‘By your leave, Captain. The duke does not know of our arrival in Gloucester. He does not know to expect us.’

‘So a week, it will matter naught to him,’ Tom finished with a hopeful grin.

‘If you would have us,’ Sam said softly.

‘You are good men, all,’ declared Friar Hewald.

Owen could think of many arguments against them, but he had already wasted precious moments. ‘Keep up with me,’ he said, taking spurs to his horse.

After breaking her fast, Tildy slipped into the buttery to fetch Daimon’s morning medicine. She took advantage of the privacy to smooth her gown, tug at her cap and pinch her cheeks. The door creaked open.

‘Oh!’ Nan exclaimed, backing up and shutting the door.

What had she meant to do, that Tildy was such a disturbing surprise? Tildy puzzled over the cook’s behaviour while mixing Daimon’s physick. As she closed the jars, she noticed how little mandrake was left. Had there not been more of it last night? She used very little — Magda had said it would ward off evil spirits in the house and give Daimon peaceful dreams, but that it was dangerous in larger doses. Tildy had not used so much of it, surely. She hastened out into the hall, kicking the buttery door closed behind her.

Yesterday by this time Daimon had already been helped outside by one of the servants so he might relieve himself, and while he was gone Tildy had freshened his bed. It was no wonder he slept late today, after sitting out in the yard all the previous afternoon and getting agitated about the maze. But was that the true cause of his long sleep? Tildy stood near him now, noticing the dark blond stubble of his beard, wishing she might shave him. But there were small blisters on his face from the fires and she dare not risk a blade near them. Such a pity to hide any of his handsome face.

Tildy crouched beside Daimon and leaned close, whispering his name. When he did not respond, she bent closer and gently kissed him on the forehead. It was the merest brush of her lips, nothing too bold. But oh so sweet. Still he did not move, his eyelids did not flutter.

She sat back on her heels, perplexed. How could he sleep through that? Did he play with her?

Or had he been given the mandrake? Becoming alarmed, she reached for the flagon of watered wine she had brought him to wash down the ill-tasting physick, poured some into a cup, held it up to Daimon’s mouth. No response.

She called his name, patted his cheek.

One of the servants came over, asking what was wrong. Tildy told her to get water and a cloth. She patted Daimon’s cheek again. At last his eyelids fluttered, he gasped as if suddenly taking in much more air, flailed his arms.

‘God’s blood, I am awake. Give a man a chance!’ Daimon cried.

‘Has anyone been bringing you food but me?’ Tildy asked.

He blinked at her in confusion for a moment, then gulped the wine. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘Why?’

‘You were difficult to wake.’

‘I am ever so. Did I say anything to offend you? My mother says I sometimes curse her.’

He did seem fine. She felt a bit foolish. ‘You said nothing stronger than “God’s blood”.’

When Daimon was sitting up and had eaten a bit of bread soaked in milk, Tildy took the tray back into the buttery and gathered the jars. There was still the mandrake — someone had used it. Where could she hide the jars from Nan — who else might slip something into his food? She thought of the treasury. Lucie had entrusted the key to her. Only to her, Tildy had thought. But when she opened the door and took in the small lamp, she discovered a jumble of accounts books on the table. She had been in here the previous day. Everything had been tidy then. She straightened them. Noticed that there was more room on the shelf than yesterday. One book? Two? She searched the room, behind the chest, in the chest, beneath the chest and the table. Nothing.

That did it. She locked the treasury, locked the buttery and went back to Daimon.

Nan stormed over a while later. ‘Someone has locked the buttery.’

‘I did,’ said Tildy.

‘I cannot have that.’

‘I cannot have it open,’ Tildy said.

‘Why?’

‘If you have need of something from the buttery, send Sarah to me.’

‘I shall never get anything done.’

Tildy said nothing more. Nan marched away.

‘What is the trouble, Matilda?’ Daimon asked. ‘Why have you locked the buttery?’

‘Things have gone missing, my love. Nothing for you to fret about. Rest now. You must be bored, sitting there.’ She did not want him to go back to sleep. ‘Is there something you might do to occupy yourself while sitting there?’

He brightened. ‘Some wood and my whittling knife are in the stables.’

Tildy sent a servant off to collect them while she began the tidying of the hall. As she worked she daydreamed about Harold’s departure and Phillippa’s return. What would her status be then? Would they send her home? Would she stay to assist Dame Phillippa? Would she marry Daimon?

She peeked at Daimon, now humming as he picked up the pieces of wood, considering which to use. Had she been mistaken about the medicine? Had he truly just been that tired? But the jar of mandrake should be fuller.

As she turned back to her work, she noticed a blank space on the wall above one of Sir Robert’s shields. Three swords should hang there. The brackets were still in place. She looked round, thinking the maid had taken them down for cleaning, though that was the groom’s job. Perhaps Ralph had taken them — but he should not do that unless Tildy ordered it.

Nan’s behaviour, the swords, the maze. Something was very wrong. This was not her imagination. Checking that Daimon was engrossed in his work, she hurried out to the stables. She would talk to Ralph, then Alfred and Gilbert, if they were still there.