A Spy for the Redeemer (16 page)

‘I am much consoled,’ Lucie said. She saw little point in courtesy. Polite or rude, it mattered not to Chamont.

As if agreeing, the High Sheriff bowed to her.

Lucie and Roger withdrew. As they stepped out into the castle yard, Roger suggested a walk down to St George’s Field, where the Foss and the Ouse converged.

Lucie, feeling oppressed both by the experience and the unpleasant steam from the mint furnaces, the press of the crowd round yet another flogging, welcomed a walk in the air. The rivers did not always smell pleasant downstream of the city, carrying the city waste and that of the tanners and butchers, but sometimes at their confluence the air was fresher. And the wide open sky would surely lift her spirits.

‘When such a man accepts the title of High Sheriff,’ Roger said, ‘he thinks only of the prestige, not the responsibility.’

‘I should like to be quiet, Roger,’ Lucie said.

‘Of course. But – you are not angry that I spoke?’

Lucie pressed his arm. ‘Not at all. Your anger may not have stirred him, but I appreciated it.’ As they passed the mills, and the field on which Owen trained the local men in archery, Lucie considered the High Sheriff’s question about enemies. Was it possible that Sir Robert had enemies about whom she knew nothing? Or Owen? Surely in Owen’s work for the archbishop he had angered people. But how was one to discover such an enemy? The river made her think of Magda Digby. The Riverwoman had agreed to go to Freythorpe Hadden. Now Lucie had another purpose for seeing her.

But first she must deal with Camden Thorpe and Alice Baker’s accusations.

They stood at the edge of the fields, as if on the prow of a boat, except that the water flowed past them in the wrong direction. The breeze from the river was cool and damp, the sun hot above, the soil damp below. Lucie felt caught between winter and summer. She closed her eyes, lifted her face to the sun.

‘You look content,’ said Roger.

‘God’s grace is in this moment,’ said Lucie. ‘I pray it is a sign that I shall soon understand what has happened.’

Guild Master Camden Thorpe had a substantial stone house on St Saviourgate. Lucie and Owen knew the family well – Gwenllian was named for Mistress Thorpe, her godmother. Camden’s warehouses sat to one side of the house and in between was a small courtyard in which Gwen Thorpe managed to coax several trees to grow. She had also trained ivy up the facing walls of the warehouses. It was a lovely setting.

Lucie had parted from Roger at Thursday Market, preferring to face her guild master alone.

A servant opened the door and, recognising Lucie, ran to fetch her mistress before Lucie could ask for Camden.

A large, handsome woman bustled to the door, one of her youngest children toddling after her. ‘God bless you, Lucie, you must forgive Mary. It would not occur to her that this is not a time you would come to sit and chat with me. It is Camden you are wanting, of course. He is in the warehouse just across the yard.’ She put a hand on Lucie’s. ‘Your father’s passing is a great loss. God grant him peace. I shall attend the Requiem tomorrow.’

It was a mark of their friendship that Mistress Thorpe would take time out from her household – she had many children and a full staff, as well as two of her husband’s apprentices and several servants who worked in the warehouses to feed. And as a guild master and alderman, Master Thorpe must needs entertain frequently.

‘It will be a comfort to have you there,’ Lucie said.

‘Go on, then, tell him what a fool Alice Baker is. We all know it. Then if you have time, stop back here for some cakes for my godchild and her little brother.’

Gwen’s friendly manner had taken the edge off Lucie’s mood. As she crossed the yard to the warehouses she felt less as if she were meeting with an adversary.

Her good mood faded as she heard Camden’s voice raised in anger. Two servants huddled over a cask and the smell of wine permeated the vast room. She began to back away, thinking it might go easier for her if she caught him in a better mood. But Camden noticed one of the servants looking up at her and turned to see who had witnessed his outburst.

‘Mistress Wilton!’ Camden smiled as he strode towards her. ‘What must you think of me? My temper was justified, I assure you. But I would not have you think me a scold.’ He was a bear-like man with bushy brows and a hawk-like nose.

‘I apologise for interrupting at such a time. But Jasper just told me this morning about your calling at the house.’

‘Not at all. Come, let us withdraw from this clumsy pair and escape the sad perfume of spilled wine.’ He led her to a small room separated from the larger area with wood screens. The odour of the wine was not so strong here, but still the smell prevailed. Camden motioned for Lucie to sit on the one high-backed seat in the room. He settled on a bench, took a moment to calm himself, rubbing his forehead, pulling on his chin – an old habit from the days when he had had a beard. ‘It is my own fault, I fear. Impatient is what I am. My apprentices would have managed it without mishap. But I had to ask those two to shift the cask.’

‘Is it a great loss?’ Lucie asked.

‘Do you know, that is not the cause of my grief? It is the quality. A fine French wine I was saving for my Celia’s wedding. Dear Lord but I am an old fool.’

He was not so old and no fool at all, but Lucie understood how much more of a loss it was than merely the wine. A fond father who wished to make his eldest daughter’s wedding day perfect in a way he knew how. And the wedding was only a month hence.

‘There is no time to replace it?’

Camden pulled on his chin. ‘I shall get another fine French wine. In fact, I have others. But this one …’ He shook his head, then suddenly sat upright and slapped his thighs. ‘Enough of my moaning. You will be wanting to hear my thoughts about Alice Baker’s accusations.’ He dropped his eyes, regarding the floor for a moment. He was a heavy breather, being a man of great size.

Lucie listened to his measured breaths, wondering whether they were faster or slower than usual. She felt as if she were back in the convent, awaiting a punishment for some ill-conceived prank. ‘I believe I know what happened,’ she offered in much too small a voice.

Camden glanced up through his brows. ‘So do I. So does the rest of the city. Alice Baker thinks that if a pinch is enough to cure most folk, a shovelful is what she needs. She believes she is a delicate creature, beset by devils in every organ and joint. Oh, aye, I know Mistress Baker.’

‘That is possible, but the jaundice cannot be explained by one large dose of anything,’ said Lucie. ‘She mixed the wrong items.’ She told him Magda Digby’s theory and the remedy that she had recommended. ‘But I cannot stand over her and force her to obey me.’ She heard the defensiveness in her voice.

So did Camden, who motioned for her to calm down. ‘I accuse you of nothing. I merely wished to be apprised of the details so that I might know how to defend you if anyone does attempt to accuse you.’

‘No one has?’

‘There has been some gossip among members, but primarily those who live without the city and do not know Mistress Baker. And, of course, there has been much discussion of her colour.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘In truth, it is not such a bad hue.’

Lucie bit her lip, fearing a rush of tears. ‘I cannot tell you how relieved I am.’

‘I see it in your eyes, my friend. Come, let us go and have some refreshment with Gwen. I grow nauseated by the scent of that precious wine.’

*

On her way home, Lucie stopped in St Saviour Church. She knelt before the Blessed Mother, put her head in her hands and in the dim candlelight at last felt private enough to let the tears come. Tears of relief, mourning, fear and remorse – it did not matter. She felt purged when at last she rose and gathered the parcel of cakes for the children.

MATH AND ENID

A
short-legged cattle dog barked at Owen and Iolo as they hobbled up to a large stone farmhouse. Owen tried to remember what Ranulf de Hutton had told him about the farm of Cynog’s parents – did this look like what he had described? Or did Owen just hope it did? They had not walked far, but he felt as if he was dragging Iolo, not simply supporting him. Owen’s hip was wet with the blood from the wound in his own side, and his arm was on fire.

A woman came out of the house, wiping her hands on a cloth. She shielded her eyes against the sun to see who approached, then hurried towards them. The dog followed, making wide circles round the two men as she barked. Owen’s head pounded.

‘I told Math I heard shouts in the wood,’ the woman said in Welsh. ‘Both of you injured!’

‘We were attacked by three men,’ said Owen. ‘On our way from St David’s to the family of Cynog, the mason.’

‘And what did you want with them?’

‘I wish to find out who killed their son.’

‘Come.’ She shooed the dog away, led them into the house and over to a large boxed bed.

Iolo sank down on to it.

Owen sat on the edge. ‘If I lie down, I think I shall never rise from there.’

‘Then I shall see to you while you sit by the fire,’ the woman said. ‘Your friend. He is very quiet.’

‘I do not want to curse in front of you.’ Iolo’s voice was hoarse.

Owen forced himself up, placed a stool so that he might sit and lean his head against the wall. He thought he might close his eye while the woman tended Iolo. He woke when she touched his sleeve.

‘You must slip your arm out of this.’ She helped Owen shrug out of his leather and linen. He winced as the cloth pulled away from the wounds on his forearm and his side, but lifting the right arm brought the greatest pain, even with the woman’s help. A broken arm would make him worthless with a bow – for the second time in his life. He searched for something to distract him. ‘Do you know Cynog’s folk?’ Owen asked.

‘I am Cynog’s mother,’ the woman said softly. ‘God bless you for caring how my son died.’

‘He was a good and gifted man.’

She traced a long scar on Owen’s shoulder. ‘By your scars I see this is not the worst wound you have suffered.’

After so long without a woman Owen found her touch disturbing. ‘What of my arm? Is it broken?’

She ran her hands down his upper arm, pressing here and there, moving it slightly. ‘It is swollen, but I feel no bones out of place.’ Her face was lit from below by the fire, shadowed from above by the white cloth wrapped round her hair. Owen saw no lines – a smooth, pleasant face. She did not look old enough to be Cynog’s mother. She put his soiled clothes aside, brought a lamp closer to examine his wounds. ‘Not deep.’ She felt along his arm once more. ‘To have your arm twisted in the wrong way can be as painful as a break, I know. I shall clean the wounds, wrap them in cloth, then tie the arm against you to keep it still. That will help the healing.’ She rocked back on her heels, rose, rummaged in a large chest by the bed.

‘Iolo sleeps?’ Owen asked when she returned with strips of cloth.

‘He does.’ She was quiet a moment, soaking one of the cloths in water. ‘Iolo,’ she said as she smeared an oily unguent on another cloth. ‘And how are you called?’

‘Owen.’

‘I am Enid. My husband is Math. I am sorry, but you must lift your arm so I might clean the wound in your side.’

Owen held his breath as he tried lifting his arm sideways. He could not hold it there. Enid dragged over the one chair with a back and helped him raise his arm to rest on it. Her touch was gentle.

‘How did you know my son?’

‘Cynog was making a tomb for my wife’s father. For St David’s.’

Enid smiled sadly. ‘My son had spoken of it. Very proud, he was, to carve the tomb of a man blessed with a vision from St Non. Did he complete it?’

‘No.’

Enid said nothing for a while, her breathing uneven, as if she wept.

Were it not for his wounds, Owen would have drawn her into his arms. God watched over him. He would not insult this gentle woman so, and in her husband’s house. And where was the husband? Owen could not tell the time of day in the dark, smoky farmhouse. ‘How long did I sleep?’

‘Not long. I wrapped Iolo’s ankle, gave him a drink to ease the pain. Hold this to the wound.’ Owen held the cloth with unguent to his wound while Enid secured it with a long strip round his waist. ‘It is fortunate you are slender.’ She tucked in the end. She helped him lower his arm; pushed the chair away. They said little to one another while she cleaned and bandaged the arm, then bound it to his side. When all was done, she helped him into a rough wool shirt. ‘I must wash yours.’

‘I pray you, I can do that when I return to St David’s.’

‘Do you have horses?’

‘We did. Our attackers led them off.’

‘Then your shirt will be ruined if not washed long before you return to St David’s. It will be a time before your friend can walk so far.’

‘I have friends in the city who know I should be back by midday tomorrow. They will come for us.’

‘Unless your attackers lie in wait for them, too.’

Owen had thought of that.

Enid had moved to the fire, where she stirred something in a large pot. Owen, smelling herbs and pottage, realised he was hungry.