A Spy for the Redeemer (13 page)

‘Not as inconvenient as your scar, Captain Archer,’ he said when he saw the direction of Owen’s gaze. ‘It is just part of a finger gone.’

‘Forgive me.’ Owen was embarrassed. He himself hated folks staring at his scar.

‘And no, it does not hurt my work.’ Ranulf hugged himself and shivered dramatically. ‘God’s blood it is cold in here. If we are to talk, let us step outside, where the lads are mixing mortar. They have a fire that will thaw my fingers and toes. I am a pleasant man when warm.’

But as it turned out he was pleasant only when talking about the tomb. He did not wish to veer from that subject, though about the tomb he was quite eager.

‘I met Sir Robert, I did.’ He squinted up at Owen and shook his head. ‘You are surprised. A mason and a knight, what have we in common?’ He rubbed his hands over the fire. ‘Fine chin and cheekbones. Nice, long, delicate nose. I can make something of that.’ He smiled as if already admiring the fruits of his labours.

‘How did you come to meet Sir Robert?’

‘He watched me work on some ceiling bosses. Admired my work. You see? I should have been your choice from the beginning.
He
would have chosen me.’

Owen liked him.

‘And the tomb would have been finished by now,’ Ranulf added with a self-satisfied sniff.

‘About Cynog –’

Ranulf silenced him with a frown and shake of his head. ‘I shall not speak of him. He is dead. Leave him in peace.’

‘I merely wondered –’

Ranulf shook his head again. ‘Nothing of Cynog. Look you, Captain, Archdeacon Rokelyn does not care about Cynog. The archdeacon’s ambition is served by this investigation, not Cynog’s memory. He wishes to stage a grand capture, one of the traitors, mayhap. Then Bishop Houghton will remember it when he is raised to his next position and will be pleased to carry the archdeacon with him. Let Cynog rest in peace.’

‘Some feel a murdered man does not rest in peace until his murderer be known.’

‘You have Piers. I can think of no one more likely to be guilty.’

‘Then tell me. Why did Piers do it? Is
he
a traitor?’

Ranulf stamped his feet, shook his arms for warmth. ‘I know nothing. And I shall talk no more about the dead.’

Owen did not wish to push Ranulf past his patience. He asked the mason a few more questions about his work, then declared himself pleased with Rokelyn’s recommendation. With a shake of hands Ranulf agreed to begin work on the morrow. Should he have any problems, he would leave messages for Owen with the porter at the palace.

‘Would you grant me one favour concerning Cynog?’ Owen asked.

Ranulf muttered a curse.

‘If you would just tell me how to find his parents.’

The mason frowned. ‘To what purpose?’

‘To hear from them any cause they can imagine for their son’s murder.’

‘You will go alone?’

‘With one of my men, that is all.’

Ranulf pondered, seemingly talking to himself. At last he said, ‘I can see little harm in it.’ He described to Owen a farmhouse not too distant from the city, easily a day’s ride there and back, with an early start. ‘Though by foot would be kinder. Horses do not fare well on the rocky heights.’

Owen thanked him.

‘You will tell his parents that we pray for them?’ Ranulf called after him.

Owen nodded.

And now where to go? It was too late to start for the farm of Cynog’s parents – Owen must leave that for the next day. He still hesitated about going to Clegyr Boia to find Martin. He crossed Llechllafar while he considered his next move. But God decided for him. Among the pilgrims thronging at the south entrance of the cathedral stood a man about whom Owen was increasingly curious – Father Simon. The tall, fair-haired vicar stood apart from the others, watching Owen approach. He was a handsome man.

‘God go with you, Master Summoner,’ Owen said as he reached him.

Father Simon’s fair brows joined in confusion. ‘Summoner? We have none in St David’s.’

‘I pray you, forgive me. I had understood you act in that capacity here.’

The vicar blushed and his pale eyes narrowed as he backed farther away from the crowd of pilgrims. ‘I believe you mean to insult me, Captain, but I am at a loss as to the cause. How have I offended you?’

‘Yesterday you followed me to Porth Clais. Today you bullied Piers the Mariner after plying him with ale.’

‘This offends you?’ Simon spread his arms and smiled crookedly. ‘Very well, yesterday I was concerned that you should not attempt to slip away. I knew that Archdeacon Rokelyn had ordered you to stay.’

‘I am ever more confused. Are you not the secretary to Archdeacon Baldwin rather than Archdeacon Rokelyn?’

The smile disappeared. ‘What do you want with me, Captain?’

‘On whose authority did you interrogate Piers?’

‘On my own.’ Simon bristled as he said it. ‘The mariner is an abomination in our holy city. As is the demon who ordered the execution.’

‘Indeed. Which is why Archdeacon Rokelyn wishes me to investigate. There is no need for you to do so.’

‘I wish merely to speed you on your way.’

‘I thank you for that. You can assist me by seeing to your own work and leaving me to mine,’ Owen said. ‘Piers might have been more forthcoming with me had I been his first visitor today.’

‘You flatter yourself.’

Archdeacon Baldwin appeared in the doorway of the cathedral, two servants preceding him to wave the pilgrims aside. ‘Am I to be kept waiting all morning?’ Baldwin demanded of Simon. He glanced at Owen, his expression softening. ‘
Benedicte
, Captain Archer. You are well?’

Owen bowed to the archdeacon. ‘I am, Father.
Benedicte
. I did not realise I kept Father Simon from his duties.’

‘One would be hard pressed to do that, Captain,’ Baldwin said, lifting his eyes to heaven and shaking his head.

Simon flushed and averted his eyes.

‘Come, Simon.’ As the two clerics withdrew into the candlelit cathedral, the pilgrims flowed forward into the open doorway.

Owen turned down the path to Patrick’s Gate – it seemed safe now to seek out Martin. He thought of Simon’s embarrassment. He scorned the vicar’s self-important piety, but how was Owen any better, sniffing out murderers, spending his days asking questions no one cared to answer?

Would that Owen were Iolo’s age and free. To serve Owain Lawgoch – fight for a just cause, support a man of old, noble lineage – he had spoken the truth when he told Iolo that is what he would do. He could be useful to Lawgoch. For as much as he disliked being privy to Archbishop Thoresby’s machinations, they had taught him much about the court and the Duke of Lancaster’s vast household. But Lucie, Gwenllian, Hugh – how could he desert them? Was it possible they would come here, that Lucie would understand his need to feel he had chosen his own path?

Without the gate he headed up along the city walls until they bent towards the north-west gate, then struck off through the brush towards the hill on which the Irish Chief Boia had built his fort. Long ruined, its crumbling foundations and overgrown cellars lured lovers and others who did not wish to be seen. Owen climbed the hill, found a high place he might sit for a while, alerting Martin’s watcher.

Was it possible he might change his life? That God had brought him here, at this time, to show him the task for which he had been in training all his life? Had God led him here? Or had he chosen the wrong fork somewhere along the way? Should he have chosen John of Gaunt, who succeeded Henry of Grosmont as Duke of Lancaster? Should he have remained Captain of Archers after his blinding? It had been his own choice to leave that life, thinking himself untrustworthy. Had that been a coward’s act?

A seagull swooped down to study him as he sat. A raven arrived to declare the gull a trespasser.

Owen sat staring out into the distance, wondering how one read God’s purpose.

With the permission of the Archdeacon of St David’s, Owen and Iolo rode out early the following morning. Rokelyn had not tried to hide his disappointment that Owen still had no answers for him.

‘This is a small community. You have had time to talk to everyone by now.’

‘If they would but talk. They all know what I am about. I approach, they drop their eyes and become mutes.’

‘This does not happen in York?’

‘York is much, much larger. But it is never easy.’

‘And you believe his parents might talk to you?’

‘If my son had been murdered, I would co-operate with anyone trying to find his murderer.’

Rokelyn had not looked happy. ‘They are doubtless simple folk, Cynog’s parents. Not given to confiding in strangers.’

‘I believe they will trust me.’

Chin in hand, Rokelyn considered. ‘Then go,’ he said after a long silence. ‘And may the Lord watch over you. Come straight to me on your return.’

Edmund, Tom, Jared and Sam stayed in St David’s, keeping their ears pricked. They knew the route Owen and Iolo were taking to Cynog’s parents and when they should reasonably return. There had been some muttering about the choice of Iolo, until Owen told them Cynog’s folk spoke only Welsh.

Tom sat in the courtyard of the bishop’s palace, watching the high-born pilgrims assemble for the daily rounds of shrines and wells. Some were dressed in sombre-coloured but elegant attire, others in rough pilgrim’s robes. Many spoke Welsh. He tried to catch the few words he had picked up during this journey, but the language was too slippery. Jared sat beside him, slowly working a nail out of the sole of one of his boots. A movement on the steps leading to the bishop’s east wing caught Tom’s attention. Someone visiting the prisoner? A scowling, rough-looking man was speaking to Father Simon. The stranger was nodding, nodding, Father Simon tilting his head, as if he did not quite believe him. Suddenly an explosion of movement from the man made Father Simon back down a step. The guard approached them. Father Simon waved him back, bowed slightly to the stranger, then proceeded up the steps. The other stood for a moment, chin on chest, then, head up, he shaded his eyes, surveying the courtyard.

Tom poked Jared to get his attention. ‘Who is he?’

Jared cursed as his boot slid and the nail nicked him. ‘Look what you have done.’ He held up a finger. ‘Bleeding!’

‘I see nothing but dirt.’ The stranger had descended the steps and was elbowing his way through the crowd towards their perch near the stables. ‘Do you know this man bearing down on us?’ Tom asked.

Jared stuck his grimy finger in his mouth, glanced up. ‘Captain Siencyn. I doubt he is for us.’

But Siencyn came directly to Jared. ‘I must see your captain, lad. You must lead me to him.’

‘Captain Archer has left the city for the day.’

‘Why this day? Why must he go this day?’

‘As good as any other. I shall tell him you wish to speak to him.’

Siencyn muttered a curse and began to depart, but turned suddenly, his scowl fierce. ‘See you remember, lad.’

‘He looked worried,’ Tom said, watching the man push his way back towards the gatehouse. ‘I wonder what he discovered in the gaol? Or learned from Father Simon?’

‘The Summoner?’

‘Aye. They were talking.’

‘Simon is just nosy. More like the captain is not cheered by his brother. I cannot think Piers is jolly at present.’

*

Owen and Iolo travelled due east from St David’s, up into higher, forested land. Despite Ranulf’s warning about horses on the steepest parts, Owen had chosen to ride. At least the animals could carry some food and cloaks in case the weather turned. And, in case of injury, one of them.

‘You expect trouble,’ Iolo had said as they led the horses from the palace stables.

‘I do.’

Even so, as they rode away from the city and into a grove of oaks at the foot of a gentle hill, Owen found himself humming under his breath. It was good to escape the eyes of St David’s. He studied Iolo as they rode in the open country. There was a tension in the chiselled face that never eased, even in sleep. Owen would think it merely a trick of the eye but for the suddenness with which Iolo would move. And yet even a cat sometimes relaxed. It was as if he was ever ready to attack. He persisted in his determination to return to York with Owen. What would Lucie think of him?

In a short while they began to climb again, this time across a rocky outcrop over which they chose to lead their horses. They both felt uneasy, guarding their backs. When they had crossed over to the forest cover once more, they paused by a stream.

Iolo pulled off his cap, rubbed his bald spot while his horse drank. His light-brown hair was damp where the cap had covered it. He was sweating though it was chilly up in these hills. ‘I once fell asleep watching for a fox at my uncle’s farm,’ Iolo said. ‘The fox woke me, slipping past me so quickly I did not see him – he stank of death. For a long while after that any change in the scent of a room would wake me.’ He dropped to his knees, cupped his hands and drank deeply, then dunked his head and shook himself like a dog.

Owen knelt, splashed some of the cool water on his face. ‘Are you saying that you smell trouble?’