Candace Robb - A Spy For The Redeemer

‘ Benedicte , Captain Archer.’ Rokelyn stood in the doorway, holding the tapestry aside for Baldwin. Rokelyn was a heavy-set man, with an unremarkable face save for its complete lack of hair — neither lashes nor brows, nor crown above. Something in his countenance made him look a man devoid of guile. Owen knew it to be a false impression — though he did not know Rokelyn well, he did know that a guileless man did not become Archdeacon of St David’s.

Baldwin slipped past Rokelyn, nodded to Owen. ‘I trust you accomplished your task in Cydweli, Captain Archer?’ His deep voice was tempered now. He was Rokelyn’s opposite, olive-skinned, with a wealth of dark hair.

They exchanged courtesies, then Baldwin excused himself and departed. Owen was not surprised after what he had overheard.

‘They tell me you were at St Non’s Well today,’ said Rokelyn, still with his pleasant smile.

Had he spies at the well? Or was it mere gossip? Owen decided that he, too, could play the jolly innocent. ‘I was. And had I been judged worthy, I might stand before you tonight without a patch. As you see, I was not so blessed.’

Rokelyn made a pitying face, then brightened. ‘They say you shoot straight and true, even with the loss of your eye. Perhaps St Non saw no need to intercede for you.’

‘In faith, I had little hope for it. But it seemed foolish not to try.’

Rokelyn gestured to Owen to sit by the fire. Two heavily carved, straight-backed chairs with arms had been angled half facing one another, half facing the fire. Embroidered cushions softened them. A table with the wine stood between. Rokelyn settled into one of the chairs with a contented sigh. ‘We shall dine in a while. I thought first we might share this excellent wine. Talk of easy matters. About your family. Did you find them well?’

‘A sister and a brother, aye. The rest are with God.’

The archdeacon expressed sympathy, spoke of God’s will being mysterious, then went on to explore many other topics, while Owen fought a dangerous drowsiness brought on by the day’s long ride, the sudden warmth and the wine, and the earlier tankards of ale at the palace. He was grateful when a servant called them to a table laden with food. Even better, Owen was seated well away from the fire. Soon a draft had chilled his still damp boots. It was enough to keep him awake and alert.

But it was not until the wafers and sugared nuts and fruits were set on the table that Rokelyn at last came round to his purpose. ‘You have heard that a stonemason was murdered?’

Owen almost choked on a sugared almond. ‘Murdered? I heard one hanged himself.’

‘Cynog,’ Rokelyn said. ‘Was he not working on a tomb for your wife’s father?’

If he knew to ask that question he knew the answer. Owen took a few of the wafers, sat back in his chair. He must appear unruffled, though he did not like the direction of this conversation. ‘He was. Which is why my men thought to tell me of his death.’ Rokelyn had dipped a cloth in his wine and now dabbed at the crystallised sugar on his chin and upper lip. Owen let one of the thin, crisp cakes dissolve in his mouth, then remarked, ‘Now I must find another stonemason to complete the work.’

Rokelyn wiped his hands, put aside the cloth. ‘You chose the best stonemason in St David’s.’

‘Aye. I shall not find the likes of him twice, I think.’ Owen swallowed another wafer. ‘Murdered, you say?’ He shook his head.

‘Who recommended Cynog to you?’

What was this? Was this, too, a question to which the archdeacon already knew the answer? Owen hoped not. ‘I cannot recall. Was it you?’ He was not about to volunteer that it was Martin Wirthir, an old friend whose allegiance changed as it pleased him. Martin was presently a spy in the service of King Charles of France, who was supporting the cause of Owain Lawgoch, the would-be redeemer of the Welsh.

‘Let me ask you another way,’ said the archdeacon. ‘Why Cynog?’

‘Is there a reason I should not have chosen Cynog?’

‘Someone hanged him, Captain. One does not hang somebody for personal reasons. When a man is hanged, it is done to set an example, give a warning — do this and you, too, will be so punished. Who was using Cynog as an example, and why? What had he done?’

‘What indeed,’ Owen said. ‘I liked Cynog. Admired his work. I would never have imagined such a death for him.’

‘Would it surprise you if I were to tell you that this afternoon the guards apprehended Cynog’s murderer? That he is confined in the bishop’s gaol?’

‘Surprised? Yes, and interested. What does he have to say for himself?’

‘He claims that he is innocent. That I do not believe. But that he is perhaps ignorant …’ Rokelyn wagged his head. ‘It is possible. In truth, I think of him not as a murderer, but an executioner. And the executioner is rarely, if ever, the one with the purpose.’

Owen liked neither the archdeacon’s expression nor his tone. Rokelyn was baiting him. ‘You have given this much thought.’ Rokelyn nodded. ‘Still,’ Owen said, ‘it is difficult for me to imagine why someone would have cause either to murder or execute Cynog. Perhaps because all I knew of the man was his fine work with stone.’ Which was quite true. Martin Wirthir had said nothing about Cynog except that he might create a tomb worthy of Sir Robert.

The archdeacon watched Owen through half-closed lids. ‘Piers the Mariner, the man we are holding, is the brother of Captain Siencyn, the man with whom you sail shortly.’

So that was the connection. ‘It has been a day of unpleasant news for me.’

‘News.’ Rokelyn sniffed. ‘I wonder.’

‘Oh?’

The archdeacon tilted his head to one side. ‘A man working for you is murdered by the kinsman of a man with whom you have business. From where I sit, you look as if you are squarely in the middle of all this.’ His tone was matter-of-fact, not in the least emotional or even judgemental.

‘If you are implying that I had anything to do with all this, I remind you that I have been in Cydweli on my king’s business.’

‘Two of your men were here in the city,’ Rokelyn said reasonably.

‘Of what are you accusing me?’ Owen asked, quitting the game.

Rokelyn leaned forward, opening his eyes fully. ‘Cynog supported Owain Lawgoch. Did you know that?’

‘Cynog?’ Owen had not known, but he might have guessed. ‘And you think he was executed because of that?’

‘I want you to find out.’

‘You must forgive me, but I cannot. I have been too long from home and my duties for Archbishop Thoresby. I must find someone to complete Sir Robert’s tomb, see him buried beneath it, and then take ship for England.’

‘You are suddenly eager for home. Why?’

‘It is not sudden.’

‘I say that it is.’ Rokelyn snapped his fingers. Two palace guards entered the room. Sweet Jesu, this archdeacon thought to bully him into co-operating? Owen stood up. The men moved towards him, fingering the daggers on their belts. Owen took a step towards them, but stopped there. What was he thinking? He was outnumbered. Oh, he might enjoy bringing one of them down, but in the end he would be the one lying there, bruised and humiliated. With age came a certain level-headedness. He would resist Rokelyn in more subtle ways. Raising his hands, palms forward, Owen laughed and shook his head, resumed his seat. The guards began to back away.

‘Stay a moment,’ Rokelyn said to them. ‘I do not trust this humour.’

‘I laugh at myself,’ said Owen. ‘It is so long ago now that I was a soldier and yet so easily I forget.’

‘Help me willingly or you will become quite intimate with Piers, the accused. Which will it be, Captain?’