Candace Robb - A Spy For The Redeemer

Had she fainted? She tasted blood in her mouth. Someone moaned by her side.

‘Lucie? My love. Lucie!’

Sweet heaven, Owen had returned in time. Lucie opened her eyes, closed them as the world spun and her stomach protested. Strong arms helped her up, held her as she retched.

‘I shall never forgive myself.’

It was Roger, not Owen.

‘Mistress Lucie.’ Jasper circled her with his arms.

‘Your head. You are alive?’

‘ I am.’

‘Harold?’

Jasper lowered his head towards a still form on the path.

‘I killed him,’ Lucie whispered.

Lucie had been put to bed in Phillippa’s chamber in the solar. But she could not sleep. Horses in the yard below stomped and whinnied. Men shouted. She felt removed from it all, as if floating above them, listening to them from high in the air — a not unpleasant feeling.

Save that her head throbbed, her left hip ached, as did her left hand. She must have fallen on that side. Remembering blood in her mouth, she explored with her tongue. A tooth felt wobbly, the inside of her cheek was cut. She dozed.

She heard men’s voices down below, so many of them. Or was she dreaming? Was Owen among them? Why did he not come up? Her head had been bandaged. Something cool eased the pain.

Tildy tiptoed in. ‘Can you sip some steeped herbs, Mistress Lucie?’

As Tildy bent down, Lucie remembered someone talking of fire. She touched Tildy’s face. She was unscarred. ‘Nan told me your gown had caught fire.’

‘Aye. Nan saved me. Threw a bucket of water, then tore off my gown. I have blisters on my legs, but that is the worst of it.’

Lucie’s jaw ached when she spoke, and her head. But she had questions. ‘Then Nan was not one of the thieves?’

‘No, though she had been feeding them.’

‘Jasper? How is he?’

‘He has a nasty cut on his head, atop it, not to the side like yours. And a badly bruised neck. A black eye. Naught else that a young man would fuss about. And even those he counts nothing. But we have him resting in Sir Robert’s chamber.’

‘And Harold Galfrey?’ Lucie whispered.

‘He is dead and I say may he burn in hellfire. Now let me help you sit up a moment.’

May he burn in hellfire . How easily Tildy said that. And what of Lucie? She had done the deed. Harold had murdered no one — she had.

Tildy tucked pillows behind Lucie’s head. ‘We have sent for the Riverwoman.’

She helped Lucie drink — mandrake, poppy. Tildy meant for her to sleep. Lucie turned her head away.

‘You must rest, Mistress Lucie.’

‘Horses, men, who is here?’

Tildy stood back a moment, shaking her head.

‘Answer my questions, then I shall drink it all, I promise you.’ Lucie rested her head against the pillows.

Tildy tsked, but sat on the edge of the bed. ‘The archbishop’s men, six of them, and a dozen from York Castle. The High Sheriff sent them.’

‘Not Owen?’

Tildy looked down. ‘No. Not the captain.’

‘The fire in the chapel.’

‘Just without the door. Nothing lost.’

‘The reliquary. Would you bring it to me?’

‘Master Moreton has seen the parchment. He said to tell you.’

Lucie’s eyes grew heavy. ‘And Daimon?’ The words were difficult to shape, her tongue thickening. Too much poppy.

‘Ash from the fire hurt his eyes, but Mistress Winifred showed me how to make a soothing wash. Are you asleep?’

‘Soon,’ Lucie murmured, unable to lift her heavy lids.

When Lucie woke, Jasper sat at the foot of the bed, watching her with concern. His hair was damp, combed back. His face looked gaunt. His neck was wrapped in cloth. In a corner of the room, Magda bent over a brazier, stirring something.

‘Are you in pain?’ Lucie asked.

‘No,’ Jasper whispered. ‘But the Riverwoman said my neck must be protected when we ride to the city.’

‘Thou shouldst not try to speak,’ Magda said, turning from her work. ‘And thee, Mistress Apothecary? Art thou in pain?’

‘I want to see the parchment.’ Lucie eased up, pushing her pillows behind her.

Jasper handed her a folded letter, the seal broken. Here it was at last. Her head pounded. I killed him. Does it matter whether or not he was guilty? I have killed a man . She lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes.

Magda leaned over her, put a damp cloth on her forehead, redolent with herbs. ‘Lie still a while. Magda would strengthen thee for the journey to the city. The charred wood is not good for thy humours. Healing is difficult in such a house.’

Jasper took the parchment from Lucie. ‘This is a letter to Robert the Bruce,’ he said, ‘from Alderman Bolton’s father, offering a bejewelled cup if he would spare their lands.’

‘That is it? It cannot be the cause of all this suffering.’ Lucie’s heart pounded. He was killing Jasper. She must remember that. He had been choking Jasper. Sweet Mother in Heaven, intercede for me, tell your Son you would have done the same .

Weary and winded, Owen and his company dismounted at Micklegate Bar late in the afternoon. Steam rose from wet cobbles as afternoon showers gave way to sunshine. Folk stared at them and no wonder — five liveried men and a friar, all filthy from days of riding, soaked this afternoon, now steaming.

Inside the Bar, Micklegate was crowded with merchants and country folk departing after a market day. The pillories at Holy Trinity were full as usual. As the street sloped down towards the bridge, York Minster seemed to rise over the city. Owen smelled the fishmongers well before he reached Ouse Bridge. Crossing over, they encountered an overturned cart blocking part of Coney Street. They must squeeze past to the music of curses and shouts as children ran off with the spilt hay.

Would Lucie be in the shop? Or the house? What would Owen say to her? Were the children well?

They rounded the corner into St Helen’s Square. From the York Tavern, Owen heard Bess Merchet shouting to one of her servants. ‘Quickly now! Careful!’ And there was Lucie’s apothecary. Owen hesitated, the prodigal son uncertain of his welcome.

Friar Hewald put a hand on Owen’s shoulder. ‘We should leave you to your family. The porter said His Grace is at his palace in the city. We shall go there, let him know of your arrival. I shall send word where we are couched for the night.’

‘Aye.’

Jared took Owen’s reins. As Owen moved his pack from the horse, Jared said, ‘I look forward to meeting your fair lady.’

‘Aye. God go with you.’

The others touched their caps to him as they moved on, guiding the horses up Stonegate.

Pausing at the shop door, Owen remembered the first time he had entered the apothecary, how he had stood near the door watching Lucie with a customer, wondering at the confidence of this apothecary’s daughter, as he thought her. He must behave as ever, no words or gestures revealing his uncertainty. She would find out all soon enough. He pushed at the door. Shut. Locked. Holy Mother of God. He hurried round the corner to the front of the house, pushed open the door.

‘Da!’ Gwenllian was in his arms before he could see her properly.

‘My love, my love.’ He smelled her hair, kissed her cheek. Hugh sat on the floor nearby, gazing up at him with confusion and a little fear. Four months and forgotten.

‘Captain!’ Kate lifted his pack from the floor. ‘You will want to see Mistress Lucie. She is above, resting quiet. Jasper, too.’

‘Hush, girl, let him catch his breath. I thank God you have returned safe and whole.’

‘Aunt Phillippa. What are you doing here?’ And why are you leaning on a stick?