Candace Robb - A Spy For The Redeemer

‘God is certainly smiling on the land,’ Harold said beside her.

Lucie started. She had not noticed he rode so close. ‘Do you fear I shall fall off my mount?’

He had a hesitant smile, as if uncertain it was appropriate to a steward. ‘In faith, Mistress Wilton, you seemed so lost in thought I feared you paid little heed to keeping your seat.’

‘Do I look like an inexperienced rider?’

‘Not at all. Forgive me.’

They rode in silence for a while.

‘I am the one who should apologise,’ Lucie said. ‘I was steeling myself against the task before me. It will be difficult for my aunt.’

‘Made more difficult by a stranger in your midst.’

‘You must not think of it. You are here at my request, and I am grateful.’

‘I was thrust upon you.’

‘I am quite capable of refusing Master Moreton.’

Harold smiled with more assurance. Lucie fell back into her thoughts of her aunt. Phillippa had been widowed within a few years of her marriage. She had come to Freythorpe Hadden at the invitation of her brother, who was then unmarried and needed someone to represent him at the manor he rarely visited. Phillippa had been straight-backed and strong, with her feet squarely on the ground and a determination to order the world around her to her liking. As far as Lucie knew, Phillippa had nothing from her marriage. Sir Robert had mentioned his sister’s husband only once that Lucie could recall, referring to him as a man too fond of his ale. Phillippa’s only child had died in the same year as her husband. But God had looked after her. When Sir Robert brought Lucie’s mother to Freythorpe Hadden, Amélie had no wish to wrest control from Phillippa. For forty-five years Phillippa had ruled the manor. And if she wished, and was able, Lucie thought to leave it that way. She had no intention of giving up her apothecary or her house in the city to live at Freythorpe, and her son Hugh, heir to the property, was but a baby.

Indeed, Lucie hoped her aunt would choose to continue acting as mistress of Freythorpe. It would be difficult to find another she could trust so completely. But Lucie would accept whatever decision her aunt made. She had much to thank Phillippa for, including her life in York. Phillippa had encouraged Lucie’s marriage to the apothecary Nicholas Wilton, believing that the wife of a respected member of a York guild, trained to assist her husband in the shop, would have a more secure widowhood than would the wife of a knight, which would more properly have been Lucie’s lot.

Wrapped in melancholy, Lucie watched Harold ride forward, bend close to speak to Tildy. He was a thoughtful man. Roger Moreton had chosen wisely.

Shortly before the company passed on to the demesne lands, Brother Michaelo asked whether Lucie needed to rest and refresh herself. She declined, eager to reach the manor house.

Brother Michaelo glanced over at Harold. ‘What do you know of that man?’

‘No more than that Roger Moreton has hired him as household steward on the recommendation of John Gisburne.’

‘John Gisburne? The man who believes a man should be judged by his deeds, not his family connections? So he has seen this man at work?’

Gisburne was a member of the class of rich merchants in York trying to wrest the governance of the city from the old ruling families. It was proving to be a long struggle. Thirteen years ago Gisburne’s election to bailiff had been overturned by the mayor, John Langton, a member of the old families. The animosity between the two groups grew, occasionally spilling out into the streets, often ending in violence. With each outburst the two sides became more rigid in their positions. Gisburne’s party preached that a man should be judged by what he did, not by whom he knew or to whom he was related, for obvious reasons. ‘I assume that John Gisburne lives by his professed creed,’ Lucie said.

Michaelo looked doubtful. ‘For all his talk of the common man, Gisburne prefers to dine with nobles and influential clerics. He hopes to be mayor, you know.’

‘I had heard.’

‘Let us pray that he does judge men by their deeds. For once it would be useful.’

‘You find something in Harold Galfrey to distrust?’

‘It is perhaps a petty complaint — but he does not look like a steward. I should have taken him for a soldier.’

‘All the better for our purposes.’

‘You are right, of course. But watch him on your return to the city, when I am not with you.’

‘Did my father ask you to watch over me?’

‘He would have wished me to voice my concern.’

‘I am grateful. But I assure you that Master Moreton’s opinion is to be trusted.’

‘Forgive me, I did not mean to cast doubt on Roger Moreton’s judgement.’

By the time the company reached the gatehouse of Freythorpe Hadden the steward, Daimon, had been alerted and stood ready to challenge or receive the four. The relief on his young, barely bearded face alarmed Lucie.

‘You expect trouble?’

He mentioned recent trouble at a nearby farm — a band of outlaws, a theft, injuries.

‘ Deus juva me ,’ Michaelo muttered, crossing himself.

‘I might not be so wary,’ said Daimon, ‘but that two days ago some workers in the field spied a man in a tree, watching the hall. He took flight when he knew himself discovered. Had a fast horse tethered near. Aye, I do expect trouble, Mistress Wilton.’ Daimon’s pleasant face did not lend itself to a threatening look, but he was well-muscled and held the sword in his hand with an air of fierce assurance. He would do, Lucie thought. He had grown quite like his father, Adam, Sir Robert’s former sergeant and late in life the steward of the manor. Trouble had usually backed away from Adam.

‘You are fortunate to have such alert men watching out for you, Mistress Wilton,’ Harold said.

Daimon glanced at Harold, nodded curtly.

‘They do say there have been more outlaw bands since the pestilence,’ Tildy said.

Daimon gave Tildy a little bow. ‘It was not wise, riding out with such trouble about. But you are welcome to Freythorpe, Mistress Matilda.’ He smiled up at her.

‘So,’ Brother Michaelo muttered, seeing how it stood between Tildy and Daimon.

Lucie might have echoed him, but she held her tongue as the young steward turned to her. ‘Mistress Wilton, please come within and give your aunt good cheer.’

When Tildy dismounted in the yard before the house, Daimon motioned her to step aside. His eyes on the ground, his voice too soft to overhear, he spoke urgently to the young woman. Tildy, also keeping her head down, shook it once. Lucie watched with interest, wondering what precisely had transpired between them the previous summer when Tildy had been sent to the manor with Gwenllian and Hugh for safety during the pestilence. As Tildy moved away from Daimon, Lucie noticed that another pair of eyes followed her. Well, and why should Harold not find her pleasing to look at? Tildy had huge brown eyes, a high forehead, rosebud lips and skin the colour of the ivory rose in Lucie’s garden. For a young woman of twenty years who had been born in poverty, she was remarkable in having all her teeth and, but for a wine-red birthmark that spread across her left cheek, a perfect complexion. But Daimon need not glower at Harold as he did when he saw the direction of the stranger’s gaze — Tildy had not blushed so prettily when Harold leaned towards her as she did when Daimon was near.

Lucie took herself over to the young steward. ‘I bring sad tidings, Daimon. Is my aunt well enough to hear them?’

Daimon coloured. ‘Dame Phillippa is well enough to keep the servants busy,’ he said. He lowered his voice. ‘I would speak with you later, Mistress Wilton. At your pleasure.’