A Spy for the Redeemer (21 page)

‘It is about Owain Lawgoch,’ Enid said. ‘I curse the day I ever heard his name.’

Archdeacon Rokelyn threw Owen’s bloodstained shirt on to the table in front of Tom. ‘I find your friends asleep on watch, and now this. Where is he? Where is Captain Archer?’

Tom opened and closed his mouth without a sound. He tried again. ‘I do not know. As the others said, the captain and Iolo left in time to make it here by curfew last night.’

Rokelyn glanced at the two guards who had ridden with Tom. They nodded.

‘Go then. You will find your friends by the palace stables. In one of the horse troughs.’

Hoping to escape quickly, Tom reached for the shirt.

‘Leave it!’ Rokelyn barked.

‘But it is a good shirt,’ Tom protested.

‘If the captain returns, he may have it back,’ the archdeacon said.

Sam awaited him outside the palace gatehouse. ‘I have permission to return to the stables with you. Thanks be. I want no more of that man’s temper.’ He glanced over at the gatekeeper.

‘Is it true that Edmund and Jared are in one of the horse troughs?’

‘So I hear. They were found asleep on watch, stinking of ale.’

‘It is not like them to do such a thing.’

‘No,’ Sam said, hurrying past the keeper. As soon as they were in the palace courtyard, Sam turned and demanded, ‘Whose was the bloody shirt? Where is the captain?’

Tom told him what little he knew.

‘Savaged by a dog? Captain Archer?’ Sam shook his head.

‘I for one do not believe it,’ said Tom. ‘But the man was relieved that I pretended I did so.’

‘Then where is the captain?’

‘I do not know. The horses were not there. Nor Iolo. That is all I know.’

The evening shadows chilled the stable yard. The troughs were deserted. Tom and Sam found their comrades snoring in a corner of the stables, blankets wrapped round them, their clothes draped over a line, drying. Someone had been kind.

Sam, whose mother was a midwife, knelt, smelled the breath of each.

He waved Tom over. ‘Smell them.’

Tom knelt beside him. Sniffed. ‘Bitter,’ he said.

‘Aye. They drank more than simple ale. A sleep draught, I think.’

Tom wished the captain were here. ‘The captain would warn the men who guard Piers the Mariner now.’

‘Aye, he would do that.’

‘Then we must.’

Tom had a queasy feeling in his stomach as he ran across the yard, but he tried to ignore it. Sam led the way, taking the steps of the bishop’s porch two at a time. The porter barred their way.

‘Has the archdeacon ordered you in? I was not told if he has.’

‘We need to warn the guards,’ said Tom.

The porter shook his head. ‘You must speak to the archdeacon.’

‘That will take too much time, man!’ Sam cried.

‘I have my orders.’ The porter stood firm.

PUZZLES

T
he old, rickety donkey cart wheezed and rumbled along the track. Magda Digby dozed in the sunlight on the seat beside Matthew the Tinker, smiling to herself each time he reached over to make sure she was not slipping off. It was always a pleasure when a patient still valued her after a particularly painful treatment, and his tooth, for all its rot, had been very stubborn about coming out. Magda snorted awake as Matthew brought the cart to a halt in front of a damaged gatehouse.

‘We have arrived at Freythorpe Hadden,’ said the tinker. ‘They had a terrible fire in the gatehouse. Outlaws set it.’

The sun shone through holes in the roof and lit up a crumbling side. Several men climbed about with hooks, tearing down blackened thatch and sooty walls.

‘Outlaws?’ Magda wondered what they had thought to gain by such destruction. The stone manor house was intact. And the stone and timber stables.

‘Mistress Wilton will be glad to hear they have begun repairs,’ said Matthew.

A man emerged from the shadowy archway of the gatehouse, shaded his eyes to look their way, then turned and ran back towards the stables near the manor house.

Magda was not eager for trouble, but it boded well for Lucie’s property that the approach of strangers had been noted. ‘The borrowed steward set a watch, begins the repairs. Perhaps he is wise.’ Magda wondered at how little Lucie had said about this.
Damage to the gatehouse
, she had said, and
my aunt’s favourite tapestry stolen
. Some silver plate, some money. The gatehouse was not so precious to her as the tapestry. But such destruction must have made cold her heart. She did not like that Lucie had not wished to talk of it.

‘I am not easy about being looked on as a dangerous intruder. But it is wise to set a watch,’ said Matthew. ‘The men might return.’

‘In a creaky donkey cart?’

Magda’s barking laugh startled the tinker into laughing also. ‘Outlaws with a herald,’ he muttered, wiping his eyes, then grabbing at his jaw as the pain returned.

‘Magda begs thy pardon. She forgot thy tooth.’

‘A good laugh is worth the pain,’ Matthew said.

He was a wise man to know that. Magda climbed out of the cart, retrieved her pouch from the back. ‘Thou hast been kind.’ She squinted up at the tinker’s swollen cheek. ‘Without the rotted tooth the swelling will ease. Remember to let the brandywine Magda gave thee sit in thy mouth before swallowing it.’

Matthew nodded. ‘God go with you, Riverwoman.’

‘Thou art not selling thy wares at Freythorpe Hadden?’

‘I do not bother folk who have had such troubles.’

‘They must live.’

‘I do not want trouble.’ His eyes were on something behind Magda.

‘Then be off,’ Magda said.

She turned round. A fair-haired man approached, striding with authority. Two others followed close. ‘Harold Galfrey?’ Magda shouted over the noise of Matthew’s cart loudly rumbling behind her.

The leading man nodded as he reached her. He squinted – against the sun, but Magda took him as a man who narrowed his eyes to hide his thoughts. ‘Who are you? Why has the tinker left you here?’ Harold demanded.

One of the men said, ‘This is Magda Digby, the Riverwoman. She is a healer.’

Magda dusted off the pack she carried. ‘Mistress Wilton worries about the wounded steward. Thou canst take Magda to him.’

‘And the tinker?’

‘Didst thou not see him depart?’

‘He does not wish to barter here?’

‘Magda took him out of his way. How fares Daimon?’

‘Come within and you will see.’

Magda stepped into the hall. Tildy set down a pan she had been carrying and hurried to greet the newcomer, her face anxious. ‘God bless you for coming, Mistress Digby.’ The young woman’s eyes were shadowed and red from lack of sleep. Her throat was tight as she spoke.

‘He is not as thou wouldst wish, then?’ Magda said.

‘He sleeps most of the time and when he wakes he cannot speak clearly.’

‘How long has he been so?’

‘A day. Perhaps a little more. It has been gradual. He was doing well, then he began to fail.’

On a pallet near the hearth – for so it was a hearth and not a fire circle in this fine hall – lay the poor young man, sweating and restless. He tried his best to focus on Magda, blinking, shaking his head.

‘Daimon, God has sent us Magda Digby,’ Tildy said softly.

‘Lucie Wilton sent Magda,’ corrected the Riverwoman as she lifted the bandage wrapped round Daimon’s head to examine the wound. ‘Thou hast cleaned it well,’ she said to Tildy, who hovered at her back. Magda lifted the wounded hand, unwrapped the bandage. ‘Canst thou make a fist?’ Magda asked Daimon. He did so slowly, weakly, wincing as he opened his hand once more. ‘It will heal. Slowly. Tildy has done well.’ She wrapped his hand once more, pulled down the blanket, gently felt round the young steward’s swollen shoulder. ‘Thou hast rubbed in the oil steeped with comfrey, gently but deeply?’ Magda asked Tildy.

‘I tried.’

‘And he moaned or pulled away, worrying thee.’ Magda smiled at her. ‘Thou must be more confident.’

Magda leaned close, smelled Daimon’s sweat. She covered him, took Tildy’s elbow, steered her away from Daimon’s pallet. ‘Thou hast been too generous with the physicks.’

Tildy looked stricken. ‘I have followed Mistress Wilton’s instructions.’

Magda shook her head. ‘His sweat stinks of the physicks. Thou mayest have followed in full measure and Daimon cannot take what others do. After Magda drinks something, eats something, she will tell thee what to give him and how much.’ She put a finger to Tildy’s lips as the young woman began to apologise for not serving her sooner. ‘Thou art not Magda’s servant. She can ask for what she needs.’

Tildy called for a servant and bustled her out to the kitchens, following close behind.

Magda settled into a high-backed chair by the fire, tucked a pillow behind her back that she had spied on a bench, and lifted her feet on to a stool she had dragged over for the purpose. She was beginning to nod when Tildy returned with stewed fruit, cheese and bread. A servant followed with a flagon of wine.

When the servant had gone, Tildy crouched down beside Magda, her pretty face knitted into a mask of worry. ‘I watched Mistress Wilton carefully,’ she whispered, ‘and I am certain I have given Daimon the same amounts of the physicks.’

‘Cease thy fretting. Mayhap his body endured it for a time.’

‘Could too much of the physick kill him?’

The last two words were spoken so softly that Magda did not think she would have understood had she not been watching Tildy’s lips.

‘Aye, as is ever true, many a medicine is also a poison. But thou hast not killed him.’

‘Not me. I am sure of it. But there is one here who might be pleased to be rid of Daimon.’

‘An enemy?’

‘A rival. What think you of Master Galfrey?’

‘The borrowed steward? Thou shouldst call him Harold. He is not thy master.’

‘But what did you think of him?’

The subject of their hushed conversation had just entered the hall. ‘Magda thanks thee for the food,’ she said loudly. ‘Thou mightst bring a cup for Master Galfrey. Mistress Wilton will wish to hear his report when Magda returns.’

Tildy rose slowly, turned and greeted the steward by his given name.

Harold hesitated, then bowed to her. Turning to Magda, he said, ‘I pray you pardon me for my earlier behaviour.’

Tildy, looking pale, took the opportunity to withdraw. Magda made note of her departure as she waved away Harold’s apology. ‘Thou art cautious, with reason.’

He made himself comfortable near her, looking quite at home.

‘Thou hast begun the repairs on the gatehouse,’ Magda noted. ‘There was much damage?’

He nodded to the servant who brought another cup, rose to pour himself some wine, then held it up to Magda as if toasting. He took a drink, put the cup aside. ‘I thought it best to begin repairs at once, while God blesses us with dry weather. All the roof must be replaced. And the crumbled wall rebuilt, the other walls patched. And most of the boards on the upper floor were damaged from either fire or water.’

‘The rain will return before thou canst complete so much work.’

‘We can do no more than try, and pray that God has pity on us.’

‘Thou wouldst do better to find a way to protect thy work than to pray.’

Harold frowned, seemed about to say something, then threw his head back and laughed. Magda watched his movements as he took a long drink, emptying his cup. She noticed how closely he observed her and averted his eyes, then met hers with an expression much like that of a child who means to show an adult that he is not bothered by their criticism. And why would he not feel so after greeting her so boorishly? ‘How is Daimon?’ he asked abruptly.

Magda wagged her head from side to side. ‘He will mend. Too much physick steals his wit and makes him sleep. Magda will see how he fares on less.’

‘Poor Tildy. She loves him, you know.’

Magda studied the tanned face. The lines round his mouth said he frowned more often than he smiled. ‘Magda did not suggest Tildy was to blame.’

‘I did not mean to imply that she was. Merely that she suffers with him.’ Harold stared into the fire, pressing his palms into his knees, as if soothing them.

‘Do thy knees ail thee?’

‘They ache. I am not accustomed to so much physical work. A steward sits, walks, rides. I cannot remember ever crawling about in damp ashes. But I had to see the extent of the damage.’

‘Thou art thorough. Magda will give thee something to ease the ache.’

‘God bless you for that, Goodwife Digby. What of Daimon? You said he had too much physick, yet Tildy is not to blame.’

‘One cup of wine can put some men to sleep. Physicks are the same.’

‘Ah. He is a fortunate young man, to have Mistress Wilton send you to check on his care.’ Harold rose. ‘Will you be staying the night?’