A Spy for the Redeemer (12 page)

‘Have you seen him since?’

Sarah shook her head as she reached behind her for the latch and freedom. Sweat darkened the scarf on her head.

‘You have no cause to be frightened,’ Lucie said as she moved towards the door, forcing Sarah into the corner. ‘Tell me about Joseph.’

Sarah shook her head. ‘I am not to speak of him. Cook made me swear.’

‘I am your mistress, Sarah. And Cook’s.’

Lucie persisted, patiently asking questions, until the young woman began to talk. Joseph had been brought up by Nan’s cousin, a tavern keeper, who trained the young man as a groom. But the lad could not take criticism from his betters. Saddle straps were tampered with, horses were fed purges as they departed the stable. Japes, Joseph called them. He had been ordered off the premises by his cousin. He had come to Freythorpe, thinking to become a groom at the manor. But he soon discovered that only Sarah laughed at his japes. Adam, the steward, had made it clear he would not entrust Joseph with the horses, having made it his business to find out why the man had left the tavern.

‘Why do you suppose you are not to speak of him?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did he aim any of his japes at Walter the gatekeeper?’ It had occurred to Lucie that Walter might have been the target of the damage to the gatehouse.

Sarah was shaking her head.

‘He had no problem with Walter?’

‘No, Mistress. His mother, Adam the steward, the other grooms – he had his fun with them, no others.’

His mother, the steward, and the poor lads who worked alongside him. Lucie stepped away from the door. ‘You may go now. And do not fret, Sarah. I shall not mention this to Cook.’

As Lucie stepped back into the hall, she heard Winifred thanking Tildy for sitting with her son. Not the time for Lucie to appear. She slipped out of the rear door and into the kitchen garden. Brother Michaelo perched at the edge of the bench for which Lucie was headed, breathing hard. He had a bucket of water at his feet.

‘I must wash off the dust and ashes,’ he explained as Lucie joined him. He had soot on his tonsure and smelled of damp ashes.

‘You have been helping with the gatehouse?’

‘I have. Though how much help I have been I cannot say.’

His modesty was becoming. ‘I am grateful for all you have done, Brother Michaelo. My father was blessed in his friends.’

He bowed his head.

‘Have you seen Harold?’

‘He is still out in the yard, helping clear the debris.’ Michaelo began to rise, then changed his mind. ‘Forgive me if I seem to pry, Mistress Wilton, but what do you mean to do? Will you leave as you had planned?’

‘I cannot stay. My children, my work are in the city. I pray the servants and tenants understand that I am not fleeing the trouble. I would lief stay until everything is put right, but how can I do that?’

‘Your people understand. But might I suggest – you could ask Harold to return after he escorts you to the city. He has worked hard, side by side with the men, and they appear to trust him. I can find no fault in the decisions he has made or the manner in which he has proceeded.’

‘You have changed your mind about him.’

‘I was uncertain about him before. God has given me the opportunity to judge him by his deeds. It is the best way to know a man. And now I shall hold my peace. I merely thought –’

‘I thank you for your advice, Brother Michaelo. I shall speak to Harold.’

Michaelo looked relieved. ‘And for my part, I shall urge His Grace to send at least two well-armed men at once.’

Brother Michaelo took his leave the next morning with gratitude and misgivings. The roofless gatehouse, charred and jagged, cast a gloomy pall over the courtyard. For the inhabitants of Freythorpe Hadden it would colour all their days until it was repaired or torn down. An inescapable reminder of the horror of two nights past and of yesterday, when the upper storey had given way. Who would not give thanks to God for calling him away? Was his relief in leaving the cause of his misgivings? A sense of guilt? Or was it the image of Sir Robert that kept coming to mind, his hand on Michaelo’s head, asking him to keep Mistress Wilton in his prayers? Keeping her in his prayers was easy. But should he be doing more? He carried the letter to the archbishop, asking for protection, that was something more. And who else might be trusted to convince Archbishop Thoresby of the danger manifest in the attack? But what of leaving Mistress Wilton in the hands of Harold Galfrey? Could one man see them safely to York? Once she was in the city, Michaelo had no doubt she would be safe, but he prayed outlaws would not waylay the three travellers on the road.

He added a prayer for himself. Travelling alone was foolhardy in the best of times.

*

After two days of sunny, mild weather, the sky had dulled and there was a chill to the breeze that threatened rain. Lucie rubbed her hands together for warmth as she waited in the stable for Ralph, the groom her father had disciplined. He had yet to saddle her mount. At last he appeared, buffing a buckle with a soft cloth and humming to himself. When he saw Lucie he straightened up and assured her that her horse would be saddled at once.

She had resolved to speak to him, as she had to Sarah, hoping she might tell by his reactions to her questions whether he harboured ill feelings towards her family. Or Walter’s.

She nodded to the buckle. ‘Sir Robert would have been pleased by that bit of polishing.’

‘Oh, aye, the master liked a shine to his saddle and bridle, God rest his soul.’

‘You miss him, do you?’

‘I do, Mistress.’

‘You would not always have said so.’

Ralph ducked his head. ‘You have heard. Aye, at first he found fault with me at every turn. I ran away. He sent Adam the steward after me. Gave me a good whipping. Then he asked if I cared to learn how to do things right. They do say not many masters would have bothered about me.’

Lucie believed him.

‘I am sorry about the trouble, Mistress,’ he said.

‘God bless you, Ralph.’ He seemed content. Not a man with cause to strike out at her family.

As the small party rode out of the yard at Freythorpe, Lucie turned back again and again to stare at the crippled gatehouse. She had asked Brother Michaelo to pray for her, that God might reveal to her the sin for which she was so punished, and all her innocent tenants with her. Outlaws were not God’s sergeants, he had assured her. They did not attack at God’s command. Then why had this been visited upon her in the midst of all her other trials?

Perhaps because she sensed Lucie’s distress, Phillippa had risen quietly, packed, dressed sensibly and, after a few last instructions for Tildy, climbed on to the seat of the cart to await her companions. She sat straight and tall, keeping her devils at bay. When Lucie would climb up beside her, she shook her head. ‘You prefer the back of a horse. So would I if my old bones would permit it. Ride. I promise to keep my head and the donkey’s.’

Lucie had felt Harold’s eyes upon her as the groom helped her mount. Did he worry about her as she did Phillippa? An unpleasant thought.

But the gatehouse haunted her and he was right when he said as he rode up beside her, ‘You must look forward, Mistress Wilton. The gatehouse can be rebuilt. Daimon will recover. And the sheriff might prove his worth and recover what you lost.’

The blue eyes and warm smile were not enough to cheer her. But she found it comforting to think of Harold overseeing the repairs and told him so. God had not completely abandoned her.

They rode most of the way side by side, in companionable silence.

Despite everything, it was a happy homecoming for Lucie. The garden rang with the children’s joyful shrieks when they saw her and their Great-aunt Phillippa. Jasper declared he had missed her.

While Lucie told a wide-eyed Jasper of the troubles of the past few days, Harold crossed the street to Roger Moreton’s house to discuss his return to Freythorpe Hadden. Roger came hurrying back with Harold in tow, not content with loaning Harold, but offering to hire a stonemason to rebuild the gatehouse – at Roger’s expense.

‘I know an excellent mason. A stone gatehouse is what you need. Let it be my gift to you and Owen.’

Lucie refused. She could not possibly accept such a gift. But she would be glad of his company when she gave her report to the sheriff on the morrow.

After Roger had departed, Phillippa tsked and flicked at invisible dust on the table until Lucie asked what ailed her.

‘I thought you bold to ride so companionably with the steward Harold. But now I see that is nothing to how you behave with his master.’

Lucie sent Jasper off to the shop to make up an unguent for Harold, who had a painful blister on his leg, a burn that had been irritated by the ride. When the young man was out the door, Lucie turned to her aunt. ‘To say such things in front of Jasper. How could you?’

‘He is old enough to hear such things.’

‘What? Untruths? Your imaginings? Did you think to ask me first how I felt about either man?’

‘It is plain how you feel. A neighbour does not offer such gifts.’

‘When Roger Moreton’s wife was ill, Tildy and I took turns sitting with her. I saw how bad it was and sent for Magda. Roger was beside himself, he could not think what to do. He remembers, Aunt.’ Lucie realised she was too angry, almost spitting out her words, and turned away, trying to calm herself. ‘You have opened up a wound between Jasper and me that has just been healed with great effort,’ she said softly. ‘I cannot think why you would wish to do such a thing.’

Phillippa did not reply at once. Lucie heard her dust off the bench, fuss with her skirt, sit down. ‘Kate neglects this room. The air is stale, the benches dusty and beneath – look at the cobwebs.’

Lucie turned to her aunt, but already the faraway look was back. It seemed futile to argue with her, but sweet heaven, how much more could she endure? People were kind to Lucie in her husband’s absence and she was to turn them away? She escaped to the shop. Jasper was just wrapping up the unguent.

‘Are you too tired to take a message to Magda Digby?’ Lucie asked. The Riverwoman lived on a small tidal island upriver from St Mary’s Abbey. Jasper assured her he was never too tired to visit Magda, even if the tide were in and he had to row. ‘Tell her of the attack and Daimon’s wounds. Ask her if she would journey to him. If so, I shall come to her tomorrow to tell her what I have done for him.’ Jasper took up the unguent for Harold and walked happily out into the busy street.

INTO THE WOOD

O
n a morning of mists and the damp smell of earth, Owen set out for the cathedral. Rokelyn had sent a message recommending Ranulf de Hutton as the mason to complete Sir Robert’s tomb. Owen wished to speak with him before he agreed.

The masons’ lodge sat at the north end of the cathedral, just beyond the area plotted out for the cloisters and St Mary’s college. Ranulf was not there, just two journeymen preparing stones for the cloister. Their chatter ceased as Owen approached. They nodded in greeting, but remained quiet and unsmiling, clearly uncomfortable with his presence.

‘Master Hutton you will find in the nave,’ one said to his question, ‘repairing an ornament near Bishop Gower’s tomb.’

Owen thanked them and left them in peace. The community was too close for work such as his. Too aware of his mission. And God help him, perhaps too aware of Owen’s petty complaints. Why had Cynog gossiped about him?

Owen’s boots whispered on the brown and ivory tiles as he entered the cathedral, moving to one side of the line of pilgrims progressing to St David’s shrine. The tiles were beautiful, as artfully made and set as those in the fine Cistercian abbeys of Fountains and Rievaulx in Yorkshire.

In the nave, near the choir, the mason stood on a short scaffolding that held two lamps on either side of the stonework on which he was working. He was pressed close to the wall, running his fingers along the surface of some plainly carved moulding, his head to one side. His hands were wide and flat-fingered, missing a joint of the forefinger on his left hand.

‘Built on a swamp, this church,’ the mason said when he noticed Owen down below. ‘Damp and settling, always replacing pieces.’

Owen could just barely make out one of the seams in the stone, though he could tell the boundaries of the section Ranulf examined.

The mason turned to Owen as he dusted off his hands. Cynog had been a slender man of middle years, with an expressive face and eyes that always seemed to be opened wide with wonder. He had had fine-boned, delicate hands with the long, tapered fingers of a musician. Ranulf was bandy-legged and pot-bellied, with huge ears that stuck out from his cap and looked chapped from the chill damp in the cathedral. ‘I should not complain. It is good work and plenty, with never a rush. But I sometimes wonder who was the daft one to set it here.’

‘I thought the story was God told St David to set it here,’ said Owen.

‘Aye, well, so they say. The good Lord was thinking of the masons, I suppose. We shall never want for work.’ Ranulf scratched at his cap. ‘But you did not come here to discuss the site, eh?’ He climbed down from the scaffolding, revealing himself to be a head shorter than Owen. He took off his cap and scratched his oily hair with the stub of the damaged finger.