A Spy for the Redeemer (2 page)

A
shaft of early morning sun shone on the effigy, enlivening the cloth carved to drape gracefully over the stone torso. Ranulf de Hutton thought if he stared long enough the stone folds would lift and fall with the statue’s breath, so real did it look in this light. God had blessed his fellow mason Cynog with enviable talent. But Ranulf had as much skill if not more. Why had he not been chosen to work on the tomb?

He was the senior mason working on the cloister walk and chapel at St David’s Cathedral, always the first mason chosen for decorative work. Why had he not been granted the honour of fashioning this tomb? The English knight had died while on pilgrimage, after being blessed with a vision at St Non’s holy well. Cynog did not deserve the honour of working on such a man’s tomb. This past year he had been slow in his work, distracted by repairs to a wall in an archdeacon’s cellar that should have been assigned to an apprentice, ever late returning from his visits to his parents’ farm outside the city.

As he was this morning. Already the apprentices and journeymen worked in the stonemasons’ lodge, smoothing, chipping, the stone dust spiralling in shafts of sunlight from the open sides. But no Cynog. Ranulf regarded the tomb. The face had not yet been brought out of the stone, nor arms and hands. Still so much to do. He ran his hand over the rough stone from which would grow the face, remembering the old knight’s cheekbones, his gentle smile.

‘What say you. Does it please?’

Ranulf turned round with a gasp. ‘Cynog!’

The tardy mason’s tunic was crusted with mud on one side and his boots were caked in it. Yesterday’s rain had continued well into the evening. ‘You slept without the walls of the city?’ Ranulf asked.

‘In the wood, aye. Rolled off my cloak and look at the damage.’ Cynog brushed the tunic with his long-fingered, delicate hands. The hands of an artist he had, as well as the eyes, deep wells of soft brown, seeming ever wide with wonder. Though this past year they had taken on a melancholic cast.

Ranulf’s envy dulled, replaced by relief to see his friend back before the Master discovered his absence. ‘You have come in good time, no matter. And what of Glynis? Did she meet you at the city gates Saturday evening as promised?’

Cynog lowered his head. ‘She came, aye. Only to tell me she would not make the journey with me.’ He swung his fist sideways, hitting a lodge pole. ‘The mariner cannot love her as I do. I sacrificed my honour for her. She is my life!’

Ranulf had thought the young woman’s recent friendliness merely a tease. ‘She walked away from you in the autumn, my friend. It is now late spring. How can you still hope?’ And yet, against all reason this, too, Ranulf envied. He had never been so besotted with a woman as Cynog was with Glynis. He could only imagine the passion. To be so alive. ‘But you lost no honour by her leaving you. Do not think it.’

Cynog ran his fingers over the unfinished tomb. ‘There are already many pilgrims at the cathedral door,’ he said, changing the subject, another irritating habit of late. ‘I thought you hoped to repair the font before they entered?’ The flood of pilgrims during the day made work in the public parts of the church difficult.

‘Oh, aye, I must do that, yes.’ Ranulf picked up his sack of tools, tied it round his waist. ‘Cover yourself with an apron. No need to provoke the Master Mason.’ He grasped Cynog’s shoulder. ‘Work on the face today. You cannot think of her, or your pain, while freeing Sir Robert’s face from the stone. And who knows, the holy knight may intercede for you, or ask the Queen of Heaven to do so.’

‘Make Glynis love me?’

‘Nay, friend, heal your heart.’

TOO LONG AWAY

O
n a May day that hinted at summer, such a day on which the people of York rejoiced in opening their doors to the warm, fresh air and found excuses to walk along the river in the sunshine, or to walk out on to the Strays to check on their grazing animals, Lucie Wilton and her adopted son, Jasper, were shut up in the apothecary, staring down at the mound of dried herbs a customer had just returned. The tension between the apothecary and her young apprentice seemed to suck out the air. Jasper’s cat scratched at the closed shutter, begging to be released.

Jasper glanced over at Crowder and began to move towards the shutter. Lucie grabbed his hand. ‘Crowder must wait. You are too easily distracted, that is the problem. If you kept your mind on your work rather than on the intentions of friendly neighbours, you would not have made such a mistake.’

Jasper yanked his hand from Lucie’s and pushed his straight, sand-coloured hair from his forehead with an impatient gesture. ‘Peppercorns for nasturtium seeds. It is a mistake anyone might make.’ His tone was insolent.

Lucie resisted the urge to slap him. ‘Any fool can tell the difference between the two, in scent as well as hardness. I cannot think how you made such an error. Look at me when I speak to you.’

Jasper met her gaze, then dropped his eyes, hunching his shoulders. ‘It will not happen again.’

‘It should never have happened at all. An apothecary cannot make mistakes. Have I not told you that if you are at all uncertain –’

‘I thought I was pouring from the correct jar.’

‘Because you were thinking of something other than the task before you. Taking down the wrong jar – you know what is in each jar. You clean them. You fill them.’

‘I swear it will never happen again.’

‘If it happened once …’

‘I swear!’ Jasper shouted.

Sweet heaven, if only Owen were here
. Since Jasper’s twelfth birthday he had increasingly withdrawn from Lucie, at the same time growing closer to her husband, Owen Archer. Though Owen disciplined the boy more often than Lucie did, Jasper seemed to respect his criticism while thinking hers unfair. ‘If Owen –’ she began, but finished with just a shake of her head.

Jasper clenched his fists, jutted out his chin. His colour was high. ‘If the captain were here, what would he say about Roger Moreton?’

‘Jasper!’

‘Or your mistake –’ He stopped, dropped his gaze.

‘Alice Baker’s jaundice,’ Lucie said quietly. ‘Is that what you were about to mention?’

Though the boy’s straight blond locks fell over his face, Lucie could see how he blushed. ‘I meant –’

‘Best to say no more.’ Lucie needed no one to help feed her sense of guilt over the woman’s condition.

Someone knocked on the door. Worried that Maria de Skipwith had already spoken of the boy’s error, Lucie picked up the parchment full of herbs and handed it to Jasper. ‘Take this into the workroom and pick out the peppercorns.’

Jasper looked down at the mix in horror. ‘How can I find them all?’

‘It is not to give Mistress Skipwith,’ Lucie said. ‘It is to fix in your mind the look, the taste, the scent, the feel of a peppercorn.’

Jasper hunched his shoulders and shuffled off to the workroom. Crowder followed close on his heels.

Lucie approached the door, wishing she would find on the other side a messenger with news of Owen, announcing his return. In late January her husband had headed south to join Geoffrey Chaucer on a mission into Wales for the Duke of Lancaster. Lucie’s aged father, Sir Robert D’Arby, had accompanied Owen, wishing to go on pilgrimage to St David’s in thanks for God’s sparing the family from the recent pestilence. None of the company from York had yet returned. This was the longest Owen had been away since they had wed. Lucie had not anticipated the difficulties such a prolonged absence would cause. And that Jasper would be most difficult of all – that had been an unpleasant surprise.

Lucie swore under her breath as she found the door locked. She had not wanted a customer to hear her chastise Jasper. But the shut shop might itself cause rumours. Mistress Skipwith had said she understood, Jasper was merely an apprentice and there was no harm done, just some sneezing, she would tell no one, the lad would never do it again. But tongues wagged despite the best intentions.

A monk stood without, in the black robes of a Benedictine, his head bowed beneath his cowl.

‘
Benedicte
,’ said Lucie.

The monk raised his head. It was Brother Michaelo, secretary to the Archbishop of York and her father’s companion in pilgrimage. What did it mean, that he appeared alone? The monk’s patrician face was drawn, his eyes sad.
Dear God
,
please let Owen be well
. ‘Brother Michaelo. I did not know you had returned.’ Lucie stepped aside, welcoming him into the shop.

‘
Benedicte
, Mistress Wilton.’ The monk bowed as he entered the room.

Lucie glanced out into the street before she closed the door. ‘You are alone.’

‘I am.’ Michaelo drew a stack of letters from his scrip. ‘Captain Archer entrusted these to me.’

‘My husband is well?’

A nod. ‘I left him well.’

Deo gratias
. ‘God bless you for bringing them,’ Lucie said, though her heart was heavy as she took the letters. ‘My husband is yet in Wales, then?’

‘By now the captain had hoped to depart for home. God willing, he should be home before Corpus Christi.’

A month. Still so long to wait. But she had managed this long. ‘And my father?’ When they had departed, Sir Robert D’Arby had not been in the best of health.

Brother Michaelo lowered his eyes and crossed himself.

‘Father,’ Lucie whispered. She had thought herself prepared for this. ‘When?’

‘On the third day of Passiontide, Mistress Wilton.’

More than a month ago. Lucie, too, crossed herself. She began to shiver. When had the room grown so cold?

‘I am sorry to bring you such news,’ said Michaelo, taking her arm, helping her to a bench.

It should not be a shock, Lucie thought as she heard Michaelo slip behind the counter, pour water from the jug. He sat beside her, held a cup until she was calm enough to take it.

‘I should not have encouraged him,’ Lucie said. ‘He had not recovered and it was so cold when they rode out, then such a wet spring.’ Sir Robert had caught a chill the previous summer. Despite his sister’s devoted nursing he had never quite recovered. A recurring cough and hoarseness had been particularly troublesome.

‘You could not have foreseen the weather, Mistress Wilton.’ The monk drew a scented cloth from his sleeve. ‘Sir Robert found the journey difficult.’ Michaelo dabbed at his eyes. ‘But he never complained.’

‘Is it for my father, those tears?’ Was it possible the self-absorbed Michaelo had been moved by Sir Robert’s death?

Michaelo raised his eyes. ‘I have walked in wretchedness all the way from Wales – selfishly, pitying myself for the loss of my friend. For your father was joyous in death and welcomed his release.’ Michaelo’s voice rode the waves of his emotions. ‘After you have read the letters, I shall tell you of your father’s last days. You might find comfort in hearing of them. Come to me when you are ready. I shall be with Jehannes, Archdeacon of York.’ He rose. ‘Should I send for someone?’

‘Jasper is near.’

‘You are very pale.’

His sympathy brought tears to her eyes. ‘I shall come to you at Jehannes’s house as soon as possible – tomorrow, if I am able.’ The archbishop’s secretary bowed, turned and departed silently.

If I am able
. Lucie moved to a stool behind the counter. Alice Baker and her jaundice, Maria de Skipwith and Jasper’s mistake, Jasper’s distrust of Roger Moreton. And now she had lost her father. Her eyes burned. Sweet Jesu, but she was tired.

She needed a shoulder to lean on. Someone to comfort her as she wept for her father. She needed Owen. But he was not here. Her instinct was to go to see her kind neighbour, Roger Moreton, but the foolish Jasper had decided Roger was wooing her. He could not see that Roger was kind to everyone, not just Lucie.

Her father was gone. She must go to Freythorpe Hadden and break the news to Phillippa, her father’s sister and long-time housekeeper. Could she close the shop for a few days? Would Alice Baker start rumours about Lucie’s incompetence while she was not here to defend herself? Alice’s jaundice was not Lucie’s fault – most people would know that. For most of her married life Alice had complained of sleeplessness and fluttering of the heart. It seemed hardly a week went by that she was not in the shop buying new ingredients for the remedies she prepared herself. Lucie guessed that it was the skullcap purchased most recently that, mixed with something else on Alice’s crowded shelves, had caused an overabundance of the wrong humours and turned her skin and eyes yellow, her urine a peaty brown. The midwife Magda Digby had agreed with Lucie – skullcap and valerian should not be mixed. Magda had prescribed an infusion of dandelion root and vervain. Lucie had mixed it for Alice, but who knew whether the woman was drinking it? And what she had added to it.

Sir Robert was dead. Lucie noticed the letters in her hands. She had forgotten what she held. Ink and parchment. She wanted
Owen
here, not his letters.

‘Who was it?’ Jasper stood over her, turning his head this way and that to see what she had in her lap.

‘Brother Michaelo.’ Lucie noticed that the boy’s nose was red and his eyes watery. He would remember the punishment. ‘Did you find all the peppercorns?’