Candace Robb - A Spy For The Redeemer

Lucie sat up in bed. Was she yet dreaming? Or had she heard Owen’s voice?

‘Sit up so quickly and thy head shall punish thee,’ Magda warned. ‘Two days since thou wert injured.’

‘Is Owen below?’

‘Aye, Bird-eye is here. Magda must see to Jasper. Thou must see to thy husband.’

‘I cannot think how I must look.’

‘Thou lookst lovely, as ever. Magda made thy bandage with her many-coloured cloth. Not a rag.’ She picked up a tray and slipped from the room before Lucie could ask for her silvered glass.

And then he was there, in the doorway, travel-stained, weary, so handsome. She stood up and was in his arms before either said a word. He flinched when she slipped her arms round him. A fleeting motion. Then gently he lifted her chin for a kiss. And still it was too soon that he stepped back.

He shook his head as he gazed on her. ‘You threw yourself into danger,’ he said sharply.

‘Who told you?’

‘Dame Phillippa. How could you? If anything happened to you, what of the children?’

‘Me? Four months and more you have been away, with no thought for your children, it is rumoured you will not return at all, and you chide me for trying to help Jasper and Tildy? Who else would, I ask you?’

Owen sat down on the bed, staring at her. ‘There were rumours?’

That was what stung? The rumours? What had happened to him? Was it possible he no longer loved her?

‘What were the rumours?’ he asked.

‘The merchants are full of Owain Lawgoch. Worried lest he disrupt shipping. They say all Welshmen will fight with him. That you would stay in Wales to do so.’

He closed his eye, bowed his head.

She caught her breath. ‘You were tempted.’

‘Aye. For a time.’

So nearly lost. ‘Why did you return?’

He lifted his head. Dear God but he looked weary. ‘Because I cannot live without you.’

‘You are injured.’

‘Aye.’

‘Fighting for that man?’

‘No. Seeking a murderer.’

‘Even there, in Wales?’

‘In a holy city. The victim was the mason who had begun your father’s tomb.’ Owen took a stone from his pack, handed it to her. All with his left hand, she noted. ‘This is the work of Ranulf de Hutton, who completed it.’

A face had been carved in the stone. ‘Father,’ Lucie whispered. ‘It is so like him.’ She began to weep.

Owen held her to him. She buried her face in his broad shoulder.

In the early morning Owen walked through the wakening city. A mist hung over the streets. He felt better than he had last night, for certain, with Magda’s comforting bandage on his wound and his arm supported by another of her cloths tied round his neck. He could use the arm if he must, but he thought merely to talk with Joseph and Jenkyn where they sat in chains in the castle gaol, awaiting hanging.

To his surprise, Lucie had encouraged this mission. She would know all of it that she might. And then be done with it. She would not be done with it, though. He recognised the haunted look in her eyes. Archdeacon Jehannes must speak to her, shrive her.

The gaol was not as clean as the one in St David’s, nor as dry. The men sat on filthy straw mattresses.

‘Where are the others?’ Owen asked the gaoler.

‘Up above. These are the two to watch. The others are just greedy fools.’

‘Captain Archer,’ one of the men said. He had dirty bandages on a leg and a hand. ‘I never thought to see you.’

‘That is Joseph, Captain,’ the gaoler said. ‘T’other is Jenkyn, a thatcher.’ He withdrew, but just to the doorway.

‘You never thought to live so long as to meet me?’ Owen asked.

‘A Welshman. I thought you would be fighting with the prince of your people.’

Owen shook his head. ‘It is you I have to thank for that rumour?’

‘It so pleased Alice Baker. I could not have found a better gossip.’

Owen liked the feel of his knuckles against the man’s jaw. Neat, quick, just enough. Not to kill him. Why waste a hanging?

‘Forgive me,’ Owen said to the gaoler, who had turned the other way, feigning ignorance. He was not bad with his left fist.

‘Now, Jenkyn, as your friend is nursing his jaw, you can tell me all about this plan gone wrong.’

The two men blamed it all on Harold Galfrey, claimed he had thought to make money selling the letter to Alderman Bolton. Joseph had heard that once Phillippa had hidden something in the tapestry and often she paused to touch it, he had seen that. Long ago he had stolen the treasury key and had it copied by a discreet smithy. Galfrey had seen his opportunity when asked to accompany Lucie. He arranged the attack, with enough damage caused and the steward injured, that Lucie would have need of him. But they could not say how Galfrey had learned of the letter, or why he was so confident Bolton would buy it. Owen detected a larger presence behind the plan. Galfrey’s acquaintance with Lucie had depended on Roger Moreton and his friend Gisburne.

‘And what of Colby, Gisburne’s servant?’ Thoresby asked. ‘He is involved. I know that Gisburne is involved.’

He had summoned Lucie and Owen, Dame Phillippa, Jasper, Brother Michaelo and Roger Moreton to the palace. Not Alfred and the other retainers — they need not know Phillippa and Douglas Sutton’s roles. Owen had not wished to come, but Lucie reminded him of the extent of Thoresby’s help.

And so Owen sat there, in the palace hall, watching with growing discomfort the familiarity between Roger Moreton and Lucie, how frequently they spoke to one another and on each other’s behalf.

‘What will be done with the letter?’ Lucie asked. ‘It is proof of treason against King Edward. Robert the Bruce was his greatest enemy.’

Thoresby picked it up, studied the seal, his deep-set eyes unreadable. ‘Treason indeed. And cowardice. But many in the North sought to save themselves in such wise. I should think it best burned.’

‘But what of Alderman Bolton?’ asked Roger. ‘Would it not be a kindness to deliver it up to him?’

‘Mistress Wilton and Mistress Sutton have surely suffered enough from your advice, Master Moreton,’ Thoresby said.

‘He has done all he could to make recompense,’ Lucie countered.

How could she be so forgiving? God’s blood, what was she about?

Thoresby greeted her comment with a slight shrug. ‘Still, of what use would it be? Neither the king nor Bolton have need of it. Robert the Bruce is long dead. Bolton is respected in the city. And we shall not mention it, any of us, ever, shall we? So the secret is safe.’

‘And what of Gisburne?’ asked Owen. ‘You say there is no proof. What of those who saw Colby at Freythorpe?’

‘He might have been there for the purpose he states,’ said Michaelo. ‘To warn the household that Joseph was about.’

‘But Henry Gisburne knew of the letter,’ Phillippa said timidly. ‘And his wife.’

‘Do we wish to make this public knowledge, Mistress Sutton?’ Thoresby asked. ‘Have you not suffered enough?’ He said it kindly, gently.

‘I — ’ Phillippa glanced at Lucie, seemingly confused.

Lucie took her aunt’s hand, pressed it. ‘Let them rest in peace, Aunt.’

Dame Phillippa’s eyes turned to a space beside Owen. Her lips moved, but he could not understand, she spoke so softly.

Lucie rose. ‘Your Grace, my aunt grows tired. I should take her home.’

Owen rose. ‘Shall I come?’ He did not yet understand these fits the old woman had.

Lucie gave him a little smile, shook her head. ‘No need.’ She led the frail Phillippa from the room.

Owen glanced over at Roger Moreton, saw the concern on his face. He did not like it.

Tom Merchet brought out a special ale for Owen’s farewell drink with Jared, Edmund, Sam and Tom.