A Spy for the Redeemer (17 page)

‘Did you know the men who fell upon you in the forest?’ she asked.

‘No.’

A man entered the house, white-haired, deep lines round his mouth and eyes. ‘Math, my husband,’ Enid said.

Math brought the chair over to Owen, sat down with a weary sigh. ‘What had Cynog done, that someone should hang him and try to kill his friend?’ He looked much older than his wife, certainly old enough to be Cynog’s father, and his eyes were much the same as his son’s.

‘Do not weary him,’ Enid said.

‘I came here with the hope that you could name his enemies,’ said Owen.

Math shook his head. ‘We knew of none. We were so pleased when he apprenticed in St David’s. Our only son, so near to us. Now I wish he had gone away. Better alive and far away …’ He bowed his head over his folded hands, which were knotted and swollen. ‘To be hanged – it is a dishonourable way to die. As if he were a criminal. My son was an honest man, a man of peace.’

Owen let the silence linger a while. ‘Did he come here often?’

‘I do not know what is often,’ Math said in the voice of one who is weary of thinking.

‘For a time he had come monthly,’ Enid said. ‘I thought I had Glynis to thank, a woman’s counselling. But even after she tore his heart from him he came every month, the day after the full moon.’

‘She did not deserve him,’ Math said.

‘He was killed two nights before a visit,’ Enid said softly.

‘I am sorry to ask you to remember all this,’ Owen said.

Math bent down to scratch the dog, who had settled at his feet. ‘It is not as if we ever cease thinking of our son, Captain Archer.’

Owen felt chastised, though he understood it had been kindly meant. ‘Why did Cynog come after the full moon?’

Enid shook her head. ‘We never spoke of it.’

‘Did he ever bring Glynis with him? Or anyone?’

‘Glynis.’ Enid hissed the name. ‘We never met her. Nor any of his friends. Do you believe someone killed him to prevent his coming here?’

‘You speak nonsense.’ Math rubbed the swollen joints of his right hand. ‘Why would someone care about a mason seeing his parents?’

‘Do you believe it had to do with his visits?’ Owen asked Enid.

‘I believe it has to do with that man folk call the redeemer,’ she said.

‘Wife!’

‘Owain Lawgoch? Cynog spoke of him?’

‘There was a time when he did.’ Enid ignored her husband’s scowl. ‘But of late he had talked only of his work. And how Glynis had betrayed him. He loved her with all his soul.’ She looked away, choking on her words.

‘He felt too much, that lad,’ Math said. ‘When I drowned the billy goats he would not speak to me for days.’ He shook his head, remembering. ‘Passion. Reckless passion. That is what he felt for that woman.’

‘How do you know?’

‘It is how he spoke of her.’ Math faced Owen with his tired eyes. ‘“I cannot live without her,” he said. It is sinful to think such things.’

The journey might be the key. Something done, someone met along the way, in the bright moonlight? ‘When the weather turned to rain, no moon to be seen, did he still come?’

‘He did,’ said Enid.

‘And had no trouble in the wood? Never arrived injured?’ Owen asked.

‘Why should anyone wait for wayfarers near our farm?’ Math shook his head. ‘Few people come this way.’

‘Then what were three armed men doing in the wood today?’

‘They must have followed you and Iolo,’ said Enid. ‘Come now, you must eat something and then rest.’

The small sturdy dog who fancied herself a guard lay beside Owen with her short legs curled up, enjoying the warmth from the ash-covered fire. Enid and Math lay on pallets across from Owen. Iolo still slept in the boxed bed in the far corner. Rain tapped softly on the roof and dripped in jarring rhythms from two unseen spots overhead. The pale light from the chinks in the door suggested daybreak. Pain consumed Owen. His wounds were only the visible injuries. The bruises had gradually made themselves known. Deep aches that made every move an unpleasant reminder of the ambush. That he could still drowse was a tribute to how exhausted he had been even before this latest misadventure. Owen was drifting back to sleep when the dog lifted her head, ears pricked, eyes on the door, and began to growl.

RUMOURS

T
he nave of York Minster was bright with candles and echoed with the voices of the chapter singing the Requiem in the choir. Lucie had not expected so many people to attend the Mass. Her father had made more friends in the city than she had known. Phillippa nervously regarded the crowd, asking Lucie to identify those she did not recognise or could not see with her fading eyesight.

‘Do not worry,’ Lucie murmured, patting the hand that clasped her upper arm. ‘I have not invited all these people back to the house afterwards.’

‘No strangers,’ Phillippa said.

‘Of course not. Why should I invite strangers?’

Phillippa glanced away and muttered something to herself.

Lucie prayed that the mood would pass. Phillippa flickered in and out of states of clear-headedness and confusion.

Bess and Tom Merchet, proprietors of the York Tavern next to Lucie’s shop, had both noted Dame Phillippa’s unpredictable moods. Tom had said they would all come to that in the end. Bess countered with, ‘You must put her to work.’ Work was Bess’s solution for all odd behaviour, as if a person needed idleness in which to grow peculiar.

But idleness was not Phillippa’s problem. Lucie wished it were. When Phillippa was clear-headed, she busied herself meddling in the household. She criticised Kate’s cooking, her child handling and her cleaning; told Lucie that she was not strict enough with the children, yet spoilt Gwenllian and Hugh when Lucie disciplined them; urged changes to the children’s diet to ‘make them thrive’; took Lucie to task for the amount of time she spent in the apothecary. When she was confused, she sat, fidgeting and muttering to herself, or wandered slowly and aimlessly from room to room.

Lucie regretted bringing her aunt to the city. And not merely because she disturbed the household. Her fear of strangers fed Lucie’s own worries. She had thought much about the High Sheriff’s question regarding enemies. How could she know who might resent the family because of something her father had done during his military career, or because of Owen’s investigations? She was frightened for the manor and for her family. She would much rather face an Alice Baker, who accused openly, than an invisible, unknown enemy – how could she protect her family against such a person?

Lucie tried to hold back a yawn, but her jaw popped with tension. Worry kept her wakeful – not simply about Phillippa, but about the manor, and Owen. And in truth she took some of her aunt’s criticism to heart. Always in the back of her mind was the fear that because of the apothecary she spent too little time with the children, though she knew of no mothers who had the luxury to spend all the time they wished with their little ones. The previous night, as Lucie had tucked the children in, she felt a clenching in her stomach – she dreaded the long dark hours spent lying as still as possible so as not to wake Phillippa, or listening to her fidget and mutter in her sleep. Lucie tried not to strain to understand her aunt’s words, too jumbled to make sense, moans that chilled her. She wished she might bring Gwenllian and Hugh into her room and move Phillippa, have her share Jasper’s room, but then the poor lad would be wakened by her. Besides, Lucie would doubtless still lie awake most nights. Her mind was too full.

Rustling drew her from her thoughts and she found herself still kneeling when everyone around her was on their feet. Rising, she bowed her head and turned her mind to prayers for her father’s soul.

After the Mass, Brother Michaelo asked Lucie if they might speak a moment. She saw now the depth of his emotion, the eyes red and swollen from weeping.

It was not about Sir Robert that Michaelo wished to speak. He carried an invitation from Archbishop Thoresby to dine with him at Archdeacon Jehannes’s house the following evening. His Grace wished to offer his condolences and learn more about the situation at Freythorpe Hadden, to find out whether there was more that he could do. Michaelo cheered Lucie with the news that Thoresby had already sent two retainers to the manor and even more so with who they were – the two men Owen most trusted. That he had also sent a messenger to recall Owen made her heart quicken. She would be so grateful to have him home.

Lucie hurried back to the house to be ready to greet her guests. Many guild members attended the gathering, kind in their condolences, eager to hear of the attack on Freythorpe Hadden, curious about what she heard from Owen. Council members also came and some people she had invited because they were too influential to exclude, John Gisburne among them, whose attempt to speak kindly to Phillippa was rebuked in an embarrassing manner.

Dame Phillippa had stayed close to either Lucie or Jasper, asking them to identify people. As long as the guests spoke about Sir Robert, Phillippa answered graciously, thanked them, but mention of the trouble at Freythorpe Hadden silenced her and brought a hunted look to her face that disturbed people. By the time Gisburne expressed concern about the incident, Phillippa could no longer bear it and hurried from the room.

Lucie tried to deflect curious questions by asking about chantry priests and praising Archdeacon’s Jehannes’s eulogy. No one mentioned Alice Baker outright, though Lucie saw folk with heads together draw apart with guilty expressions as she approached. In loud voices so that all could hear, Guild Master Thorpe and his wife, Gwen, made sure to invite Lucie to dine with them within the next week. It was a kind show of support that Lucie much appreciated.

The questions about Owen began to bother her. Too many people’s queries implied doubt that Owen would return. The first time someone asked ‘he is certain to return soon?’ she interpreted it as being intended as a statement. But after two or three such slips, she could no longer ignore it. Or was it merely her usual worry when Owen was away that coloured her perception?

She noted what looked to be a quiet argument between Alderman Bolton and John Gisburne. Feeling her own back bristling with gossip, she thought it time to show Gisburne some appreciation for having come. When Lucie saw him backing away from Bolton, downing his cup of ale as he did so, she moved towards him.

‘Master Gisburne, I pray you, forgive my aunt’s behaviour. She has not been well and I fear this gathering was ill-advised.’

Gisburne bowed to Lucie, pressed his bejewelled hands together as he rose. He was an elegant man. His houppelande was deep blue, his cap amber silk. ‘You need not apologise, Mistress Wilton. My grandfather was much the same, God grant him rest.’

Lucie did not know Gisburne well, in fact, had never had cause to speak to him before, as he favoured another apothecary. She had expected him to be loud, not quiet and courteous. ‘You might know that Harold Galfrey has been assisting my staff at Freythorpe Hadden.’

‘Is he? But I thought he was house steward for Roger Moreton.’

‘Master Moreton did not need him as yet –’

‘How kind of Roger. You are fortunate in that friendship. My father and your uncle were good friends, did you know?’

‘My uncle, Douglas Sutton?’

Gisburne nodded.

Lucie was all the sorrier about her aunt’s behaviour towards the man. ‘I do not remember my uncle.’

‘Nor I my father. He was killed during the Scots raids into Yorkshire.’

Gwen Thorpe joined them, asking after Gisburne’s wife, Beatrice. Lucie withdrew to see how Phillippa fared. Her aunt sat in the kitchen, dozing in a chair by the fire. Lucie slipped back out into the milling crowd and made a point of talking to Alderman Bolton, so he would not feel himself slighted.

After the guests departed, Lucie found herself at leisure for the rest of the afternoon. Jasper had gone to St Mary’s Abbey, his usual escape when he needed consolation. Phillippa was napping upstairs with the help of a calming draught. Gwenllian and Hugh were also up in their cots. Kate needed no help cleaning up – Bess Merchet had sent over a kitchen maid to assist. Lucie judged it a good time to see Magda Digby.

The sun warmed Lucie and softened her mood. Her troubles seemed less frightening. It was true the attack might have been much worse. Except for Daimon, no one had serious injuries. Far more might have been lost had the thieves known where her mother’s jewels were kept. Or her father’s weapons. But about other problems she found no consolation in the sun. Phillippa’s confusion and weakness might never mend. Lucie might never know Jasper’s heart.

Magda stood over a block of dense wood chopping roots with a small axe. A scarf covered her hair and an apron her colourful dress.

‘I am glad to find you well,’ Lucie called to her.

Magda nodded, but went on with her work. Lucie settled on a bench that allowed her to lean against the old house and consider the dragon’s head that glared at her upside down. Magda’s roof was an old Viking ship overturned. Magda had once explained that the frightening visage had protected the mariners from sea monsters and she thought it wise to protect her island home in case such monsters ever ventured upriver. Worms had pitted the dragon’s face, weather had etched lines in the paint. He looked as old as Magda now.