A Spy for the Redeemer (34 page)

Lucie and Jasper crossed themselves.

‘John Gisburne said his father and my uncle had been friends,’ Lucie said.

Phillippa was not listening. ‘“Fetch the priest,” I said. But Douglas said they would not believe he had not killed Henry. “What of his family?” I asked. Douglas said Henry had none. Had none, he said. So I – I returned to bed. A few days later he told me to sew up the opening in the tapestry. I could feel something in there. He made me swear never to speak of it until he brought it forth. I broke the vow once. I had a dream and begged him to tell me what was in the tapestry. “A letter that will be our salvation,” he said. “When the time is right, someone will pay much for it. Henry was certain of it.” Douglas died not long after of a fever. And Jeremy, too.’

No one spoke for a long while. Lucie studied her aunt’s ravaged face and wondered how she had lived so long without speaking of this. How could she sit with Douglas Sutton night after night, day after day, and not ask what had happened?

‘What of the chest in your bedchamber at Freythorpe?’ Jasper asked.

Phillippa glanced over at him, confused.

‘The parchment. Might you have hidden it in the chest?’

‘Douglas hid his bloody clothes in there, not the parchment. You do not hate me, lad?’

‘Your husband might have done nothing wrong,’ said Jasper. ‘The parchment might prove his innocence.’

‘But what of Henry’s family?’ Lucie asked. ‘Did they come to you? Do you think they knew of the parchment?’

‘Douglas said the parchment had been hidden in our home because Henry caught his wife looking at it.’ Phillippa bowed her head. ‘So many men went off to fight and never returned.’ She pressed her fingertips to her eyelids. ‘I met Mistress Gisburne once.’ Her voice had dropped to a whisper. ‘I said nothing. God forgive me.’

This was the sin that burned in Phillippa. But had it not been her husband’s fault? ‘Why did Douglas Sutton just bury his friend? The priest would know that many had crawled home to die.’ Lucie remembered Phillippa’s fears about the men who had been watching the manor. ‘Do you think it was Henry Gisburne’s family who watched the manor, Aunt Phillippa?’

‘Henry’s sons. I learned that he had sons. I had a son. But like your Martin he died before he walked.’ Phillippa’s voice fell into the flat tone of her confusion.

‘Go to bed, Jasper,’ Lucie said. ‘We shall try again on the morrow.’

Wearily, Lucie helped Phillippa up to bed.

Long into the night Lucie sat by her chamber window, wondering about her uncle. And the Gisburnes. Had they any way of knowing Henry had died at Douglas Sutton’s home? How much better for everyone if her uncle had sent Henry’s body to his family. Unless, of course, he had murdered him. But why would he have done so? Perhaps Jasper was right. The parchment might hold the key to all of this.

WRETCHEDNESS

O
wen was grateful to Archbishop Thoresby for this ship, for passage home. But he could not sleep the first night on board. He never could. Other men either hung over the side in wretchedness or slept the sleep of a babe in a cradle. Owen could not understand the latter. The tarry stench, the creaking, the rocking, the splash of the waves, the awareness of the depths below him, full of sea monsters and dead men, it was not a thing to make him sleep.

His thoughts wandered back to St David’s the day of Sir Robert’s entombment – the echoing cathedral, Sir Robert’s shrouded form, the mingled scent of decay and dried lavender, rosemary, frankincense – a gift from Bishop Houghton – the lonely, frightening grinding sound of the stone closing over Sir Robert. Owen wondered whether God let the blessed gaze down upon the earth, whether they know at last it is truly over when they watch their burial.

Friar Hewald joined him. ‘You are missing your friend?’

Owen shook his head. ‘Thinking of Sir Robert’s tomb. I wish my wife could see it.’

‘Then I shall leave you to your memories.’

In truth, Owen would miss Iolo, who had chosen to join Hywel’s forces. Despite the man’s cruelty.

‘Have we fared better under the English?’ Iolo had asked.

‘
You
have, Iolo.’

‘Aye. Of late. But you know it is not true for all.’

‘Hywel is not the answer.’

‘He is what we have. You will tell no one?’

Owen should. He should warn both the Duke of Lancaster, whose household Iolo had observed closely so recently, and Bishop Houghton, who had sent Iolo to the duke.

But Owen would not betray the young man who had guarded his back. They were not so different. Had Hywel been a Christian knight, had Owen felt confident that he would improve the lot of the Welsh, the friar might be returning to England with only the duke’s borrowed men, Tom, Sam, Edmund and Jared.

When Owen left Archdeacon Baldwin’s house his anger had propelled him far along the coastline, ignoring his pain as he walked, almost ran, and cursed the meddling, ambitious clergy, cursed Hywel, who had made ugly a righteous cause, who would free the people of Wales only to enslave them himself. He was no better for the people of this land than King Edward. How could Owain Lawgoch have chosen such a commander?

Martin Wirthir had found him, appeared from the air as was his wont. And Owen had hoped in the moment between seeing him and asking the question that Martin would redeem the dream.

‘Did Lawgoch choose Hywel?’

‘He did, my friend. He is not a god, merely an earthly prince.’

Martin had provided food and shelter for two days, while Owen burned with fever. Then brought him to Patrick’s Gate on the dawn of the third day.

Friar Hewald and Owen’s men had been frantic, and desperate to get him away before any more danger might befall him, but Owen had insisted on Sir Robert’s burial. Ranulf de Hutton had been there, weeping for the friend who had begun the task.

Now, as Owen sat looking out on the horrible deep, his anger rose again, its target this time himself. He had almost made the same mistake as Cynog. Or Glynis, perhaps. Hywel had seemed to him a harsh commander, but fighting a Godly cause. How easy it had been to discount that which he despised in Hywel for the higher purpose.

Now he carried a guilt he must keep ever secret from Lucie. She must never know. She would not understand. Of all that had happened on this journey, this was the decision, the turning point, that he most needed to confide to her. But he could not. He would not inflict that pain, sow that seed of doubt in his love. For he did love her. And his children. He had been so tempted by a chance to fight for his own people after all those years of fighting for King Edward. But God had saved him from himself.
Deo gratias
.

NOT AS THEY SEEM

G
eese squawked in the courtyard at Freythorpe Hadden, chased by Walter the gatekeeper’s young boy. The gatehouse was silent today, the men away for the day, cutting timber. Tildy moved her stool out of the sunlight. Mending was easier in half-light, where she did not squint.

‘It is pleasant out here,’ Daimon said. ‘I thank you for your trouble.’

‘And who deserves it more than you?’ Tildy dropped her work, smiled at Daimon. She hoped the sun might revive him. She did not like his pallor, the shadows under his eyes. He had good reason to be so, trapped in the house all this while. He had insisted on walking across the hall and out to the chair, but two servants had walked with him and he had been grateful for their support when he stumbled. Tildy had set out a high-backed chair, a stool so he might prop up his legs, a blanket and some cushions. Once settled, he looked much cheered to be outside.

‘A man is not meant to sit idle by the fire,’ Daimon said.

They sat in a companionable silence for a time, until Hoge, the gardener, appeared. Taking off his sweat-stained hat, he bobbed his head towards Daimon and Tildy. ‘Master. Mistress.’ His dark hair was matted to his head on this warm day, his young face spotted with sunburn. He did not meet Tildy’s or Daimon’s eyes, but rather watched the ground. ‘I would have my say to Master Galfrey, if he were about, but as he is not, I shall say to you. If you be not pleased with my work in the garden, you might make your complaint afore having others come behind my back.’ He twisted his hat in hands stained green and brown by his work.

Tildy could see that the speech had cost him much anxiety. ‘I am satisfied with your work, Hoge,’ she said. ‘I know nothing of others coming behind your back. Whence comes this complaint?’

‘The maze, Mistress. All tilled up. I know not why you would wish me to do such a thing, encourage the mud on the paths, but you had only to ask.’

‘Tilled the paths?’ Daimon muttered. ‘What nonsense is this? I pray you, go with him, Matilda, see what has happened.’

Hoge turned round and with his characteristic gait, caused by a poorly formed foot, led Tildy to the maze, where someone had, indeed, been digging up the paths. The gravel was mixed with the dirt.

‘I do not understand,’ said Tildy. ‘Why would one do this?’

‘I ask the same, Mistress. What does Master Galfrey know of the garden?’

‘Do you know that he ordered this?’

‘Nay. But who else? You have more sense, as does Master Daimon.’ Hoge shook his head at the mess.

Tildy was pleased by his words, but disturbed by her second puzzle today. She could not think of a reason Harold might order this. He was too busy with the gatehouse. ‘I suppose you might press it down well, then add more gravel,’ she said.

‘Aye, that is what is to be done, for certain, Mistress.’

But why had someone done such a thing? ‘Is it so all the way to the heart of the maze, Hoge?’

‘Aye, it is, and dug up well even beneath the benches. But the path the other side is not so much disturbed.’

Had someone been digging, not tilling? Tildy did not want to put thoughts in the man’s head. ‘Could you guide me through the maze so I might see?’ She had been through the maze many times the past summer, with Gwenllian and Hugh. She thought she might notice if anything had been changed, but Hoge would be the more likely one to make note of anything. ‘Show me all that is amiss.’

‘It is muddy, Mistress. Are you certain you wish to walk it?’

‘I am.’

She stepped with care and soon regretted her idea. But how else might she be able to describe this clearly to Alfred and Gilbert? They were away today, searching for the thatcher who Daimon thought might bear a grudge against the D’Arbys. The digging seemed rather shallow, though in some places the soil was quite churned up, with various textures visible. In the centre, where four stone benches flanked a flagstone area rather overgrown with thyme, one of the flagstones had been pried up and reset.

‘Careless work, that,’ Hoge said, shaking his head mournfully.

‘Can you reset it properly?’ Tildy asked.

‘I can if it pleases you.’

‘It would, Hoge.’ Tildy looked round, saw nothing else amiss but the digging. ‘What a great deal of pointless work.’

‘Someone made sport of me, mayhap,’ Hoge said.

‘Why?’

He ducked his head and looked away. Tildy was mystified, but asked no more. ‘Thank you for showing me this, Hoge. Please repair it when you have time. I shall tell the steward to loan you a good worker to assist you.’

‘Thank you, Mistress.’

Tildy walked back to Daimon wishing he were not so frail. She would like to confide in him, but she did not wish to worry him.

She could not connect this incident to what she had witnessed early this morning. She had come across Nan with a basket of food. Seeing Tildy, the cook quickly covered the contents, said she was taking food to Walter the gatekeeper and his family, who had moved into the cottage the previous day. Later Tildy had learned that Walter’s family had not yet moved.

She wondered whether Nan’s son was about.

Late in the afternoon, after helping Daimon inside, Tildy went out to the stables to confide in Alfred and Gilbert. Unfortunately, Harold came in as they talked. Alfred and Gilbert nodded as Tildy described the churned-up garden path. Harold shook his head.

‘A riddle, that, the garden path,’ said Gilbert.

‘A puzzling mischief it is,’ Harold agreed. ‘I shall have two men watch either entrance tonight. If the deed is not complete, we might just catch the culprit.’

‘What of Nan’s son, Joseph?’ Tildy asked. ‘Has anyone seen him?’

‘Have you asked Nan about him?’ Harold asked.

‘She might not wish us to know,’ said Tildy.

Harold grinned. ‘She is too much for you.’

Alfred and Gilbert smiled.

Tildy wondered about trusting them. They seemed too friendly with Harold.

‘I know that she is ill-tempered,’ said Harold, ‘but who here could replace her?’

I could, Tildy thought, and peace would reign. ‘Thank you for setting a watch tonight,’ she said to Harold. Then, turning to Gilbert and Alfred, she asked, ‘What of Jenkyn the thatcher?’

Gilbert stretched out his legs and yawned as Alfred said, ‘We found him easy enough. He is working on a roof nearby. He seems a courteous sort.’