A Spy for the Redeemer (25 page)

‘They will eat with Goodwife Digby, Harold and me,’ said Tildy.

‘Lord Harold will have something to say about that, to be sure.’

‘He understands his station.’

‘You think so, do you? Humph!’ A lock of greying hair slipped out of Nan’s cap as she slit open the trout. An impatient swipe of her hand left a silvery trail on her cheek. ‘Harold is none too happy about the new arrivals. I could see that.’

Nor should he be, Tildy thought.

‘He thinks himself a fighting man,’ Nan continued. She did love to hear herself talk. ‘You have only to watch him walk.’

Tildy had noticed. ‘He knows that Alfred and Gilbert are
trained
fighting men,’ she said. ‘And he knows we know. We witnessed the difference the night of the raid. If Alfred and Gilbert had been here then, the thieves would have suffered as they deserve.’

‘And Daimon would not be lying abed, eh?’ Nan wagged her knife at Tildy. ‘No joy will come of your ambitions, my lady. Daimon’s ma thinks he can do better than you.’

Tildy knew that. Winifred, though praising Tildy to her face, had gone behind her back to complain about Tildy’s inexpert care to Mistress Wilton, and again to Magda. To both Winifred had claimed that Tildy was nursing Daimon only to win his heart. Nan was telling Tildy nothing new. ‘I am here as housekeeper while Dame Phillippa is away and I am in charge of Daimon’s care. I have no ambitions other than to do my best at both tasks.’ Tildy lifted her chin and flicked her skirt as she prepared to leave.

Nan snorted. ‘Shall we serve the best claret, my lady?’

She must always have the last word. Tildy could not be bothered to retort. She must rehearse her facts so that she left Alfred and Gilbert with no doubt she was right about Harold Galfrey. But how would she manage to catch them in private?

Magda glanced up from her ministrations as the young housekeeper entered the hall. She noted that Tildy’s step was lighter, her face more relaxed than earlier. Mayhap she had found a confidante – though it could not be the sharp-tongued Nan. Magda had failed in the role of Tildy’s confidante. Since the young woman’s outburst about Harold Galfrey being Daimon’s rival, she had withdrawn and said little to Magda except to ask directions about the young steward’s care.

But mayhap the kitchen had naught to do with Tildy’s mood. She plainly rejoiced at the arrival of the two whelps who would be warriors. That had been a tense welcome, Harold Galfrey clouding over as Tildy brightened. The borrowed steward had sniffed at the boisterous assurance of the archbishop’s men. Magda shared his doubts. She smelled much subtlety in the raid on the manor and worried that the lads were too inexperienced to pursue anything but the obvious.

What would they make of the man who had come round asking for Harold Galfrey this morning? Magda had recognised him – Colby, he was called. He worked for John Gisburne. An odd choice for the would-be mayor of York. Colby was trouble, always had been. Harold said Colby had been sent by Gisburne to warn him that Joseph, Cook’s son, had been seen in York. He would cause trouble at Freythorpe if he could.

Mayhap he had already. But Magda thought it best to consider other possibilities. Would Alfred and Gilbert?

As soon as the shop was empty, Lucie returned to the storeroom to see whether Jasper had calmed. He was not there. What had Alice Baker whispered to him? Lucie opened the door to the garden, thinking to search for the lad, but the rain changed her mind. A soaking would not make it easy to continue the cloth envelopes. And how certain was she to find him for all that? She resumed her work, listening for any sounds in the shop. But it was a creak on the old stairs up to the solar that caught her attention. Kate slept up there, but she would not be there now. Suddenly Crowder was rubbing against her skirt. Lucie had a momentary suspicion – Kate and Jasper? Sweet heaven, she was thinking like Jasper himself, immediately pairing people off. There was also an alcove at the top of the steps, outside the solar, in which an old bench had provided a quiet place for Lucie to nurse her babies during busy times in the shop. Lucie put aside her work, gathered her skirts and crept up the steps, but as she reached halfway she realised anyone up there was unlikely to hear her approach. Crowder dashed ahead of her. A hard rain drummed on the new slate roof and the wind rattled the shutters.

And there Jasper knelt, in front of the bench in the alcove, his elbows on the bench, his head bent in prayer.

The sisters of Clementhorpe had taught Lucie that it was a sacrilege to interrupt another’s devotions. But what could Alice Baker have said to lead him up here to pray?

Still Lucie hesitated at the top of the steps, debating what to do.

Crowder solved the problem by butting his head against Jasper’s thigh. The boy’s immediate response was to lower his hands and reward the ginger tabby with a good rubbing.

‘Jasper?’

He turned, saw Lucie, slid back to sit on the floor. The hunch of his shoulders, lowering of his head, told Lucie his earlier good mood was gone – but so too the heat with which he had left the shop.

‘Were you praying for Alice Baker’s soul?’ Lucie tried.

He shook his head. Crowder settled on Jasper’s lap.

‘Were you praying for your soul?’ Lucie asked.

Another shake. One hand rose to scratch the tabby beneath his chin.

‘You would like me to leave you alone.’

At last a nod. Something about his posture on the floor, embracing the cat, reminded Lucie of what she had felt like at his age. She had been desperate for privacy. Life in a convent, she had thought. But perhaps at a certain age, solitude was simply necessary. She withdrew.

AMBIVALENCE

R
okelyn sent for Owen’s men late in the day. He stood before them, hands behind his back, chin thrust forward, anger-hardened eyes moving slowly from man to man. Tom noticed a vein pulsing along the side of the archdeacon’s hairless head.

‘Who brought ale to the prisoner while you guarded?’ Rokelyn demanded of Edmund and Jared.

The two exchanged a look. Edmund dropped his head.

‘Glynis,’ Jared said. ‘Piers’s mistress. She put a sleeping draught in it.’

‘And Captain Siencyn spoke to two of you yesterday, did he not?’ The eyes swept the four, rested on Tom.

What could Tom do but admit it? ‘Aye, Father.’

The archdeacon grunted. ‘Captain Archer is too clever for his own good. But he has underestimated me.’

‘What has the captain to do with it?’ Jared asked. For once, Tom admired his boldness.

‘Father Simon tells me Glynis and the captain met in Porth Clais. You were there.’ Rokelyn nodded at Jared.

‘She told us where to find Captain Siencyn, that is all.’

‘Come now. You had already met Siencyn.’

‘I did not know where he lived,’ Jared protested.

‘Why would she poison them?’ Sam sputtered.

‘Captain Archer would not help Piers escape,’ Edmund said, finding his voice at last. ‘Not when he was working for you.’

‘No?’ The single syllable curled upwards. ‘What if he believed if he did so Siencyn would sail?’

Tom had heard enough. ‘The captain would not betray you unless he thought someone would suffer for your mistake.’

Edmund elbowed Tom as amusement lit Rokelyn’s face.

‘So if he believed I was wrong …’

‘And if Piers had been in danger,’ Tom said weakly.

From the doorway came a most welcome voice: ‘Bless you, Tom, for thinking so well of me.’

It was Captain Archer. His right arm was bound to his side and he looked haggard. But he was back, praise God. Tom pulled a chair towards him.

‘You are wounded?’ Rokelyn came forward to see Owen. ‘A dog did all that? Where is your other man?’

‘Sitting outside the door. He cannot walk. We were attacked. We found refuge in a cottage and only now felt strong enough to continue. What is ado?’

‘Piers the Mariner has slipped away,’ Rokelyn said. ‘You were not injured helping him, were you?’

The captain’s jaw stiffened. Tom always knew to leave him alone at such a time. ‘I have told you what happened,’ Owen said softly. ‘Now tell me. How did Piers slip out of that guarded cell?’

‘Glynis,’ Tom breathed.

The archdeacon silenced him with a nasty look.

The captain looked puzzled, closed his eye, tilted his head, as if thinking hard.

‘Did you learn anything from Cynog’s parents?’ Rokelyn asked, clearly impatient for news.

The captain did not answer. Tom enjoyed the archdeacon’s frustration.

‘I do not understand,’ the captain muttered.

‘Understanding can come later,’ said Rokelyn. ‘For now I need your advice – where do we search for Piers and his lady love?’

Owen sighed wearily. ‘I do not know. Perhaps Porth Clais. Perhaps inland. I do not know.’ He closed his eye, touched his right side with his left hand, winced.

‘Rest a while there,’ Rokelyn said, seeming at last to notice the captain’s state. ‘I shall send for a physician. For your man also. My servant will bring you wine and some food, some water to wash with.’

At last a civil gesture.

‘You are kind,’ the captain said, leaning his head back against the chair. Bone weary, he looked, in pain and unhappy.

The servant hurried from the room, but returned almost at once. ‘Captain Archer, a messenger from the Archbishop of York waits without.’

‘Archbishop Thoresby?’ Rokelyn said. ‘He sent a messenger all this way?’

The captain opened his eye, closed it. ‘Did you not know he has one of the longest reaches in the kingdom?’

Tom thought the captain’s response lacked the appropriate respect for the Archbishop of York. But surely a wounded man could be excused some discourtesy.

Owen had never met Friar Hewald, but he saw his condition reflected in the alarm on the cleric’s face.

‘We await a physician.’ Archdeacon Rokelyn wore his public smile. ‘The captain and his man met with trouble outside the city.’

‘God grant you quick healing, Captain,’ said Friar Hewald. ‘It will be a difficult journey if we move at the speed His Grace wishes – all the worse for your wounds. In faith, it cannot be helped. I have lost time looking for you. I had thought to find you in Cydweli. I despaired when I learned at the port that you had journeyed so far as St David’s.’

His side burning, his shoulder throbbing, Owen had not the patience to listen to the friar’s complaints. ‘You have a letter from His Grace?’

‘I do. And a ship, and letters to speed us along once we land in Gloucester.’

Owen received the news numbly. He was far more pleased by the arrival of Master Edwin, the physician.

Archdeacon Rokelyn told his servant to lead Owen, Iolo and Master Edwin to the guest chamber.

‘I shall be eager to hear how soon we may depart,’ Friar Hewald said as Owen rose.

Rokelyn no longer smiled.

‘I would read His Grace’s letter before we talk more,’ Owen said. The friar handed it over. Thoresby’s seal. It seemed out of place in St David’s.

Owen nodded to the friar, the archdeacon and left the room in the company of the physician, who called for clean cloths and water in a basin. Two servants helped Iolo cross the screens passage to the guest chamber.

‘I pray you, attend Iolo first,’ Owen said to Master Edwin.

‘I am not a babe, to be pampered,’ Iolo muttered. But once he had shooed away the servants, he leaned back against the pillows and allowed Master Edwin’s assistant gingerly to cut away the thick bandage Enid had wrapped round the foot.

After the servants had helped Owen with his boots, they withdrew. Owen moved to a bench near a lamp, broke Thoresby’s seal and read. Thoresby’s letter touched his heart as the messenger had not. Owen wondered at Alice Baker’s jaundice, cursed the woman for blaming Lucie. Abbot Campian of St Mary’s said that Jasper spoke of taking vows. That meant the lad was unhappy. At his age, such a mood could be difficult. Owen hoped Lucie would see it as a passing trouble and not fret over it. But the most disturbing news was that outlaws had attacked several large farms outside York. This was the cause of Thoresby’s insistence on his hasty return. Thoresby wanted Owen there, seeing to the defences at his manors. He also complained of much work to be done, a steward’s work. Owen cared nothing for the archbishop’s manors. But what of Freythorpe Hadden? Was the young Daimon capable of defending it? Phillippa was now there alone. What could Lucie do if she heard of trouble at the manor? Alice Baker, Jasper, outlaws. And Owen away for so long. It did not sound as if Brother Michaelo had yet returned when Thoresby wrote the letter. Then Lucie would have the added burden of grief for her father.

Master Edwin was shaking his head over Iolo’s swollen, blood-caked foot. Owen took the opportunity to shift the map from his tunic to Thoresby’s letter, rolling up the map within. He tucked the letter in one of his boots.

He sat back, waiting his turn with the physician, disturbed by thoughts of York. He pushed them aside. He must think how to escape the watchful eye of the friar, for he had no doubt the man would fret over his every move until they were on board ship. But Griffith of Anglesey must be delivered of the map before Owen could think about York. He needed brandywine. A servant’s soft shoes showed beneath the tapestry in the doorway. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Owen walked the few feet to the doorway and made his request.