A Spy for the Redeemer (28 page)

The man placed the tray on a table near the bed. He stood uncomfortably, as if he wished to flee.

‘Tell me what is wrong,’ Owen said.

‘Piers the Mariner and Captain Siencyn. They were found this morning hanging from the topcastle of the captain’s ship. Their throats cut. They say it is a terrible sight to see.’

‘Dear Lord deliver us.’ Owen crossed himself.

Iolo murmured, ‘Amen,’ as he did likewise. ‘Both brothers. Now that is passing strange.’

‘What of the ship’s watchman?’ Owen asked.

‘Missing,’ said the young man. ‘The archdeacon wishes you to go down to the port, if you are able. He says he trusts only you at the moment. I was to tell you that.’

Owen poured the ale, passed a cup to Iolo. ‘What more do you know?’

‘Your men are without, Captain. I think they know much more.’

‘Call them in.’

It was a crowd in the small room and the four, too excited to sit, occupied most of the floor. Owen stayed on the bed.

‘You have heard?’ Tom asked.

‘I have. The archdeacon wants me to go down to Porth Clais.’

‘Aye,’ said Edmund. ‘He told us to wake you if you did not come out soon.’

‘Strange, when the coroner will record all the archdeacon might wish to know.’ Owen set the bread and cheese between himself and Iolo. ‘What of Glynis?’

‘No one has seen her since yesterday morning, Captain,’ said Jared.

‘Is the archdeacon here?’

‘He went out a while ago,’ said Edmund. ‘Looking angry.’

‘You will go down to Porth Clais?’ Tom asked.

‘As soon as I finish breaking my fast.’ He nodded to Tom. ‘You will come with me.’

Sunshine filled the valley of St David’s. Tom’s tale of Rokelyn’s guards absorbed Owen as they walked to Porth Clais. Father Simon speaking to Siencyn. The captain anxious to speak to Owen. What had happened?

Grim-faced folk passed them, talking quietly among themselves as they came from the beach. In the past, Tom would have grown increasingly nervous as they approached the scene. But today he was calm, wrapped up in his efforts to give Owen every detail of his journey. The lad had grown up in such a short space. Was that a blessing or a curse? Owen looked at Tom as if for the first time, noting his pale effort to grow a beard along the line of his chin like Owen’s own, the fingernails bitten to the quick, the nose that seemed always sunburned even in the worst weather. So young, and yet able quickly to step into a lie when it would help Owen. And hold that lie firmly all the while he was with the archdeacon’s guards.

‘When we get back to England, do you look forward to returning with your mates to Kenilworth?’ Owen asked.

‘I am hoping they choose me for France,’ said Tom. ‘I believe I am ready now.’

‘Aye, you do seem so. And you will be a good soldier. You will rise in the duke’s service, I think.’

Tom pulled himself up and smiled broadly. Owen thought it a pity the young man was so eager to lose his innocence. For until he faced the enemy and cut him down, he could not understand the life he had chosen. But it was not for Owen to tell him.

The waterfront was crowded with onlookers. Pilgrims, servants, vicars, mariners, they were all there, staring out to sea. Captain Siencyn’s ship rode at anchor out well beyond low tide. It had been fitted with small forecastle and aftercastle, as had many merchant ships during Edward’s war with France. But the topcastle was at present the centre of attention. Not notably grisly at this distance, though as the ship rocked on the sea the corpses’ arms and legs seemed alive. None seemed so curious as to launch boats for closer looks, which was a blessing. It was unlikely anyone had disturbed the ship. And yet how else would they be certain who dangled out there?

But why in God’s name were they yet hanging? ‘Has the coroner not yet come?’ Owen muttered, looking round.

‘Now it is low tide it will be sloppy carrying the bodies across the mud,’ said Tom.

‘That is not our job. We are but to look. Still, I should go out to the ship.’ Owen glanced at the young man, who had suffered seasickness on a crossing of the River Towy, to see his reaction.

But Tom just nodded. ‘I believe I see Father Paul.’

Owen followed Tom’s gaze, spotted the snow-white hair of the vicar who acted as coroner in the city. As the two approached Father Paul, he turned to them, bowed, crossed himself.

‘Have you been out to it?’ Owen asked.

‘I have.’ Father Paul shook his head. ‘What man does to his fellow man. You would go out to the ship now?’

‘Is that why you have not cut them down yet? So I might witness it?’

Father Paul’s nod was more like a bow – a slow, sad gesture. ‘Archdeacon Rokelyn wished it so. For myself, I would as lief have avoided turning this into a faire.’ His bushy-browed eyes swept the crowd. ‘You would think the two men had been strung up there for the city’s amusement. I am glad you have come at last. I shall find the boatman.’ Father Paul slowly walked down the shingle. He was not so old, but today he looked as though he felt all his years.

A loud voice drew Owen’s eye to one side of the crowd. The speaker was a red-haired man dressed in a rough pilgrim’s gown. He had large hands and long arms, or perhaps it was his expansive gestures that made them seem so. His performance held a small group in thrall. Owen moved closer to hear the tale. The pilgrim spoke in a hushed voice now, describing a spectral procession that foretold a man’s death. When he raised his voice for the climax, the audience jumped in surprise. An excellent storyteller. Owen was about to back away when the man looked up, noticed him and waved.

‘Captain Archer!’ He excused himself from the others and came towards Owen with a grim look. ‘A terrible thing, is it not?’ In a whisper he said, ‘Griffith of Anglesey.’

‘Griffith,’ Owen said in a normal tone. ‘Well met.’

‘What a thing to see after coming from the grieving parents of our friend Cynog. They are bearing it?’

Hywel must have men everywhere, to pass word so quickly. ‘They asked me to carry this to you so you might hear in their own words.’ Owen withdrew the map.

‘How thoughtful. I am most grateful to you.’ Griffith turned to look at the ship. ‘There is a madman loose, I say.’

‘It is surely not the mistress who did all that.’

Griffith snorted. ‘No, not the work of one woman – or man. I must go now.’ He bowed to Owen and returned to his audience.

Father Paul appeared at Owen’s side. ‘Come with me. If we go to the end of the shingle, we walk through less mud.’

‘You will accompany us?’

‘If you do not object. I should like to hear anything you might notice. Anything I might have missed.’

‘I am honoured by your confidence in me.’

‘False humility does not become a man,’ said the priest. ‘Bishop Houghton has told me of your broad experience.’

‘And I might not therefore be humble?’

The priest shrugged. ‘It is rare in a Welshman.’

Owen grew weary of English insults. Weary in general. He said nothing, focused on walking evenly in the dry sand mixed with stones, so his side would not be jarred. Tom stayed close to his right side, ready to steady him.

Father Paul seemed to understand the silence. ‘Forgive me. I did not meant to insult you. It has been a difficult morning.’

Owen nodded, but still said nothing.

At the edge of the shingle, they stepped into the wet sand. The wind buffeted them as the sand sucked at their boots. Gulls circled about the mast of the ship, shrieking mourners. Owen climbed into the little boat, grateful for Tom’s assistance. But there would be a rope ladder for boarding the ship. He wanted both hands for that. Owen took his dagger, pulled back his open tunic, cut the cloth that held his arm to his side.

‘What are you doing?’ Tom leaned towards him.

‘Freeing my arm.’ Fortunately, he had not accepted Iolo’s offer to lace up the front of his tunic this morning. Now he shrugged it off his right shoulder. He had not counted on the wind, which blew the tunic wide. Tom grabbed it, held it so Owen could slip his injured arm into the sleeve. It was a painful process.

Father Paul shook his head. ‘Does Archdeacon Rokelyn know the extent of your wounds?’

‘Aye.’

‘He was not thinking of your comfort when he asked you to come out to the ship.’

Owen could not help but laugh at that, despite his discomfort and his dislike of the coroner. ‘No, my welfare was not in his thoughts, to be sure.’ He leaned over to the boatman, a large, quiet man. ‘Did you note anything unusual last night?’ he asked in Welsh. ‘Lights? Sounds?’

‘I might have heard something. But I sleep sound. Always been blessed with that.’

‘When did you hear something? Evening? Middle of the night?’

‘Cannot tell you. Woke in the dark and heard a shout. But as I heard no more, I thought it a dream. Went back to sleep. God watches over an old mariner.’

‘Did you know the watchman on the ship?’

‘Old Eli? Everyone knows the sluggard.’

‘It would be like him to flee in the face of trouble?’

‘Oh, aye, there is no loyalty to the man. Like Rhiannon’s ladies, he is, protects himself and the hell with the rest, especially his master. As you see. Forgive me, Father, but it is true.’

‘I would cut down the bodies,’ said Father Paul, still choosing to speak in English.

‘Then you will come out with another crew,’ said Owen. ‘We have not the strength among us. I am here to observe, no more.’

The priest gave Owen a dark look, but did not argue.

‘I have never been at sea as crew,’ Owen said to the boatman. ‘Would you board with us and search below? For anything not common on such a ship?’

The boatman glanced up at the topcastle, did not speak at once. ‘Aye,’ he said as he drew the boat alongside the ship, ‘I will do that, Captain.’

The gulls were loud here and, as Owen climbed up the rope ladder, gritting his teeth for the pain in his shoulder, they grew louder, joined now by the creaks and groans of the vessel. Tom was right behind Owen, then the priest. The boatman came last. Without a word, he headed below.

Blood stained the deck near the mast. Here is where they must have slit the throats of the men hanging above. The stench of blood mingled with the ship’s tarry odour, the salt air and the sour smell of low tide. The eyes had already been plucked from the corpses. The gulls’ cries were more ominous to Owen after that. He looked away, walked around, searching for the weapon, more blood, anything that might have been left by the murderers. Bold men, they were, to bring their victims out here. Anyone might have witnessed the passage.

Father Paul stood beneath the mast, praying for the souls of the two men. Tom poked about in the coils of rope on deck. Owen found a bloody footprint in the forecastle, but it would be difficult to know whether that had been made by the murderers or Father Paul’s earlier companions.

‘Captain!’ Tom was running towards him with something dangling from one hand. A blood-encrusted knife. ‘I found it behind a coil of rope.’

‘Well done. Perhaps someone on shore will recognise it.’

Tom glanced at it, then his clothes. ‘What shall I do with it?’

‘Wrap it in something. Go below – surely there is a torn bit of sail, a cloth. Wait.’

The boatman was coming up the ladder from below, grunting as he balanced something in one hand. Tom handed Owen the knife, went over to help the boatman. Recoiled.

‘Come now, lad, take it, will you? I have one hand to climb with. Your captain was right not to try it.’

Owen had joined them. He took the bowl. At first he did not know what he beheld. Raw meat or poorly cooked. It had not been there long. It smelled of blood, not rot. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ he whispered, suddenly understanding. Two tongues. He was fairly certain they were human tongues.

Tom had run to the side of the ship to be sick.

‘They were in the captain’s quarters,’ said the boatman. ‘There is little to see down below, though someone has gone through it, strewn the bits about.’

‘Was there any paper? Parchment? How were these laid out?’

The boatman shrugged. ‘The bowl was there, by itself, on the bunk.’

Father Paul closed his eyes at the sight of the tongues, crossed himself. ‘We shall bury them with the men.’

Later, when they were back on the shingle, Father Paul thanked Owen for coming. ‘You saw things that I did not, Captain. I grow too old for this task. I cannot help but think we might know the truth of the mason’s hanging had you been here. God go with you, Captain.’

Owen began to walk down the shingle with Tom, thinking about the climb back to St David’s, when a thought struck him. He had not spoken to Father Paul about Cynog’s death, the condition of his body, the way he had been hanged. All he knew was secondhand. The coroner was one of the first people he should have consulted. What was happening to him? He retraced his steps, Tom belatedly noticing the change and hurrying to catch up. Father Paul was mounting the wagon to bless the corpses. Owen sat down on a piling.

‘What is it?’ Tom asked. ‘Why are we waiting?’