A Spy for the Redeemer (35 page)

‘Jenkyn is a courteous sort, is he?’ asked Tildy. ‘That is not what some of the maidservants have told me.’

Alfred shrugged.

Tildy turned to Harold. ‘Will you be talking to Jenkyn?’

Harold had two reactions to Tildy of late. He either frowned at her as if she had said something quite irritating, or he laughed at her. Now he frowned. ‘And why would I be doing that? Surely he is too weary at day’s end to come over and dig up the maze.’ Now he grinned.

Tildy’s right hand burned she wanted so to slap him.

Alfred and Gilbert also smiled.

GLOUCESTER

A
t the guest-house of the Benedictine Abbey of St Peter in Gloucester the hospitaller handed Owen a letter as the party arrived. It carried the seal of John Thoresby, Archbishop of York.

‘Is the messenger yet here?’

‘The messenger departed for Wells the next morning,’ the monk said. ‘That would be two days past.’

Two days. Thoresby would not send a second message unless something further had gone wrong. Was it possible the aldermen or the guild had paid heed to Alice Baker’s complaint? Owen waved on the other men and the servants who carried their belongings. He would find his chamber after he had read Thoresby’s letter.

‘
Deus juva me
,’ he whispered as he read. The manor attacked and Lucie there in the midst of it. Praise God that Thoresby was sending Alfred and Gilbert. The destruction of the gatehouse worried Owen the most – the violence, the danger. Roger Moreton’s new steward had accompanied the party as protection.

‘Much good he did,’ Owen muttered.

‘What is it?’ Friar Hewald asked. Owen had not noticed him standing nearby.

‘We must depart at once for York. Find the infirmarian to change my bandage.’

‘You must rest the night. His Grace would not wish you to be deprived of sleep.’

‘I care nothing for His Grace’s wishes. Find the infirmarian!’

JOURNEYS

M
elisende woke Lucie before dawn, plopping down beside her and using her for a support as she cleaned herself after her early morning hunt. The rhythmic movement lulled Lucie back into a drowse. Harold was no longer behind her closed eyes. A pity. His sun-warmed shoulders … Lucie opened her eyes, bemused by the vivid sensuousness of the memory. But in the dream she had feared him, feared what he was.

What if Tildy was right to distrust Harold? What if the Gisburnes had known of the parchment? Or suspected Douglas Sutton of murder? Had Harold been placed at Freythorpe to exact revenge? But Gisburne had recommended Harold to Roger Moreton, not Lucie.

She hoped Roger would return this morning. She was itching to wake Phillippa and try to learn more. But broken sleep would not help her aunt’s memory.

Lucie rose, irritating Melisende, who had just curled up tightly against her. Some gentle strokes and soft words calmed the cat. Melisende rose, stretched, sought out Phillippa’s legs and settled in for another nap.

Hoping to find comfort in Owen’s letters, Lucie picked up the box that held her correspondence and took it to a bench by a small window. She drew out his letters from Wales, opened the shutters just enough so that she might see but Phillippa would not have light in her eyes, then tucked her feet beneath her and unfolded the first, hoping to be calmed by imagining his voice.

The letters did not have the desired effect. By the third, Lucie had difficulty keeping her mind on the words. The rumours did not seem so unreasonable this morning. Lucie could well believe Owen might choose to fight for his former countrymen. In the end, what did a woman really know of her husband?

It had been more than four months since Owen’s departure. A few nights past Gwenllian had waked, crying for her father. Did Owen dream of them? Did he wonder about them? What did he think about as he rode with his men?

Lucie guessed she was not the only wife who paced the floor wondering about her husband. Cecily Gra had given birth to a child conceived before her husband left for Brussels. The child was born and died before her father could hold her in his arms. Other merchants’ wives suffered likewise. Some took lovers.

Which reminded Lucie of her dream. If they were to become lovers, would Harold be discreet? Could he be trusted? Pointless questions. In faith, tantalising as Harold was, Lucie did not burn for him as she had for Owen when they first lay together. She closed her eyes, thought of the scent of her husband. By the Rood she loved him, though she hated him for this long absence.

And if he did not return? Her stomach burned with the thought, as did her eyes.
Heavenly Mother, do not let him forget me
.

Enough of this. Lucie dressed, went down to the kitchen, where she found Kate already stirring the fire. She ate bread and cheese, drank enough ale to quench her thirst and headed for the apothecary in the cool early morning. Work warmed her, wearied her. Two customers and still no Jasper. Lucie could hear Gwenllian shrieking and giggling in the garden. Slipping out through the workroom, Lucie called to Kate, who came running, her cap flying away in the breeze.

‘Have you seen Jasper this morning?’

‘No, Mistress,’ Kate panted. ‘I thought he had gone early to the shop. He was not in the room when I went to the children.’

Could he have gone to Freythorpe? Would he do that? ‘Bring the children to me. I shall watch them while you go to the Merchets and Roger Moreton’s house. Ask if they have seen Jasper.’

‘But Master Moreton –’

‘Is away, yes, but his housekeeper will be there. Go!’

‘Aye, Mistress.’

Calm yourself. Kate will return with no news and later Jasper will appear, explaining that he went to St Mary’s Abbey
. And if he had gone to Freythorpe? Perhaps everyone’s suspicions were unfounded. But Lucie’s heart did not believe that.

Hugh and Gwenllian wanted to linger in the workroom, where great stone jars, baskets and bags of dried herbs, stones and more exotic items sat on low shelves along one wall. Lucie shooed them into the shop.

But Kate returned too soon, her face all frowns.

Dear God, what am I to do?

‘He has taken a horse from the Merchets’ stables, Mistress!’ Kate said. ‘The groom believed you had sent him off to Freythorpe.’

‘Holy Mother, protect him.’ Lucie picked up Hugh and held him close. What should she do? How could she help Jasper now?

After Kate departed with the children, Lucie paced the shop. Bess came to apologise for the part her groom had played in Jasper’s disappearance.

‘At another time I would think naught of the lad riding off by himself,’ Bess said. ‘But with all the brigands on the roads, and after such a savage attack upon Freythorpe, I shall not feel at peace until he returns.’

‘It is worse than that, Bess,’ Lucie pulled her into the workroom and told her all that was on her mind.

‘Dear Heaven. I shall send a servant with a message to the archbishop’s retainers. They must go after the lad.’

‘They are the archbishop’s men. I cannot order them to help me.’ Lucie hugged herself and fought hysteria.

‘Then send a message to the archbishop, for pity’s sake,’ Bess urged.

At least Bess agreed with her about the need to muster help. Lucie had just gathered her pen and parchment when Alice Baker entered the shop.

‘Mistress Wilton, I am in need of –’

Lucie interrupted her. ‘There is an excellent apothecary in Stonegate, Mistress Baker.’

Alice Baker straightened, frowned. ‘I do not care for him.’

‘Perhaps you should try him again. For I shall no longer serve you.’

‘You cannot refuse me.’

Keeping her voice low, Lucie said slowly, enunciating each word, ‘Leave my shop.’

‘I shall take this up with the mayor.’

Lucie kept her eyes focused on the paper, refusing to say more. She had said nothing she might regret Alice repeating. So far.

‘Mistress Merchet, you have witnessed this,’ Alice said in a shrill voice.

When would the woman leave?

‘I have,’ said Bess. ‘And I approve. She should not give you the means to poison yourself.’

With a twitch of her skirts, Alice flounced out of the shop. The door closed loudly behind her.

At last Lucie glanced up.

Bess beamed at her. ‘Well done!’

Lucie could not smile. ‘I must go after him, Bess.’

‘And what would you do?’

‘He is but a boy.’

‘That I know. And you are but one person, torn between your little ones, your ailing aunt, your apothecary and an apprentice who has gone off to help you. Alfred and Gilbert are at the manor. If Thoresby sends men after Jasper, the boy shall encounter help no matter which way he turns. I shall fetch one of my lads to carry your request to the archbishop. It will not be the groom who loaned Jasper the horse, I promise you.’

‘It was not his fault.’

‘He should know better.’

Lucie sat down and composed her letter to His Grace. By the time she had finished, one of Bess’s servants stood ready to hasten to the archbishop’s palace.

Lucie had not long to wait for his reply. She had taken care of three customers when the young man returned.

‘His Grace assures you that he is sending four men at once,’ he said, giving a little bow.

‘God have mercy, he is a good man,’ Lucie whispered, crossing herself.

A CROWD

A
t the crossroads, Owen and Friar Hewald halted to say their farewells to Edmund, Sam, Tom and Jared, all Lancaster’s men and headed for Kenilworth. Owen would be glad to be quit of them. All along the way they had exclaimed about his letter, the outlawry rife in the countryside, how expensive it would be to replace a gatehouse. He wished to be alone with his own thoughts. His own worries. What enemy had he made who sought revenge by attacking his family? If he had not waited for Gwen, had not been delayed by Cynog’s death, might he have prevented it? Would his enemies have chosen to attack him instead?

Jared broke into Owen’s anxious thoughts. ‘There is no need for fare thee wells. We have resolved to accompany you.’

Sweet Jesu, Owen had dreaded this. ‘I must make haste. And your duke awaits you.’

Edmund doffed his cap, bowed from the saddle. ‘By your leave, Captain. The duke does not know of our arrival in Gloucester. He does not know to expect us.’

‘So a week, it will matter naught to him,’ Tom finished with a hopeful grin.

‘If you would have us,’ Sam said softly.

‘You are good men, all,’ declared Friar Hewald.

Owen could think of many arguments against them, but he had already wasted precious moments. ‘Keep up with me,’ he said, taking spurs to his horse.

AN UNNATURAL SLEEP

A
fter breaking her fast, Tildy slipped into the buttery to fetch Daimon’s morning medicine. She took advantage of the privacy to smooth her gown, tug at her cap and pinch her cheeks. The door creaked open.

‘Oh!’ Nan exclaimed, backing up and shutting the door.

What had she meant to do, that Tildy was such a disturbing surprise? Tildy puzzled over the cook’s behaviour while mixing Daimon’s physick. As she closed the jars, she noticed how little mandrake was left. Had there not been more of it last night? She used very little – Magda had said it would ward off evil spirits in the house and give Daimon peaceful dreams, but that it was dangerous in larger doses. Tildy had not used so much of it, surely. She hastened out into the hall, kicking the buttery door closed behind her.

Yesterday by this time Daimon had already been helped outside by one of the servants so he might relieve himself, and while he was gone Tildy had freshened his bed. It was no wonder he slept late today, after sitting out in the yard all the previous afternoon and getting agitated about the maze. But was that the true cause of his long sleep? Tildy stood near him now, noticing the dark blond stubble of his beard, wishing she might shave him. But there were small blisters on his face from the fires and she dare not risk a blade near them. Such a pity to hide any of his handsome face.

Tildy crouched beside Daimon and leaned close, whispering his name. When he did not respond, she bent closer and gently kissed him on the forehead. It was the merest brush of her lips, nothing too bold. But oh so sweet. Still he did not move, his eyelids did not flutter.

She sat back on her heels, perplexed. How could he sleep through that? Did he play with her?

Or had he been given the mandrake? Becoming alarmed, she reached for the flagon of watered wine she had brought him to wash down the ill-tasting physick, poured some into a cup, held it up to Daimon’s mouth. No response.

She called his name, patted his cheek.