A Spy for the Redeemer (24 page)

Hywel, ever restless, stood now with one foot on his chair, an elbow resting on his thigh. ‘What about you, Captain Archer? Your work for the Duke of Lancaster is finished. Whom are you presently serving?’

‘The Archdeacon of St David’s, as you know. He has delayed my departure.’

‘With Captain Siencyn, yes. Adam Rokelyn is enjoying his power, ordering you about. But do you wish to leave? Is this not your country, your people? Surely you do not prefer the English to us?’

‘My family is in England.’

‘So Cynog told me.’

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘Join me. For a while. You have been away so long, a few months longer would go unnoticed by most.’

‘But the duke, the archbishop –’

Hywel held out a hand, silencing Owen. ‘What I want is your help in preparing an army to support Owain, Prince of Wales. Train his archers. Teach his men what you have learned in service with the duke and the archbishop. Redeem yourself. Redeem your people.’

‘Is my wife to worry that I have deserted her? I will not do that to her.’

‘Would your wife deny you this? Spy for your people, train archers for them, not the English who despise us.’

Owen fought to sound indifferent. ‘I know nothing of you, little enough about Owain. Yvain de Galles the French call him. Is he Welsh? Or is he now a Gaul?’

‘Many Welshmen find respect fighting in the free companies across the Channel. Owain will bring many of them with him. Trained soldiers.’

‘Then you do not need me.’

‘Come now, Owen Archer. The great bard Dafydd ap Gwilym has told me of your remarkable skill.’

‘He saw one performance.’

‘He is a fine judge of heroes, Captain. He has met his share. But you must of course take your time, consider my proposal. Meanwhile, in exchange for your horses –’

‘We owe you nothing,’ Iolo said.

Hywel feigned surprise. ‘I have groomed them, fed them. I ask you to deliver a letter for me. A simple task. The recipient is a pilgrim at St David’s.’

‘You are not so far from the city,’ said Owen. ‘Surely you might deliver it?’

Hywel laughed. ‘You suggest that a known commander of Owain’s supporters should openly ride into St David’s? The English consider me a traitor to their king. Houghton is lord in St David’s and he is English.’

‘One of your men might go.’

‘It is such a small thing I ask of you.’

It was Owen’s turn to laugh. ‘At this moment I am in pain caused by your men. Iolo cannot walk. And you ask for a favour.’ He shook his head as if disbelieving. In truth he was delaying.

Hywel dropped back down into the chair, folding his arms. ‘If you deliver the letter, I shall find passage for you. To England.’

‘You no longer wish to persuade me to stay?’

‘A generous commander never lacks men. You may change your mind. Return with your wife and children. I shall be here.’

This was the way a commander should behave. Despite his own injuries, Owen admired the man.

‘Well?’ Hywel drew a small parchment from a pouch sitting on the table. ‘As you see, it will not encumber you. Griffith of Anglesey would be most grateful. As would I.’

‘If it is so small a thing to ask, why would you be so grateful you would arrange passage for me?’

Hywel chuckled. ‘You catch me at every turn. I can see you make an excellent spy. A spy for Owain, Prince of Wales. What could be a more honourable use of your skills?’

Did the man know the questions in his heart? Owen hesitated. What would that be like, to turn what he had learned in the service of the archbishop to such a purpose?

Hywel saw his hesitation. ‘You asked how you might show you are not my enemy. Carry this letter.’

Owen said nothing.

‘Glynis is well, by the way.’

‘She came to you?’ Owen asked.

Hywel nodded. ‘She began to fear Piers the Mariner and his brother. With cause. I have no doubt that Piers hanged Cynog.’

‘What cause had he to take the man’s life? And in such wise?’

‘Ask him.’ Hywel held out the letter once more. ‘Will you take it?’

‘Why did Glynis fear him?’

‘Is it not plain? He is a violent man, Captain. So is Siencyn.’

Iolo sighed loudly. ‘If we tarry much longer, we shall miss the curfew at St David’s. We cannot ride fast.’

Hywel still held out the letter.

‘If you arrange passage, how should I hear of it?’ Owen asked.

‘I shall find a way to inform you. I give you my word.’ Hywel placed the letter on the table by Owen’s hands.

Owen nodded, tucked it into the top winding of the bandage beneath his tunic. ‘Iolo will need assistance to his horse.’

Hywel called for his men.

‘I hope to have the honour one day soon of introducing you to Owain Lawgoch,’ Hywel said as Owen rose.

‘We shall see.’ Owen bowed to him and left the tent.

‘Griffith of Anglesey,’ Hywel called after him. ‘A large man with a red beard.’

Owen heard, but did not acknowledge it. He expected Griffith would find him.

At the edge of the wood, Morgan and Deri took the extra horse and left Owen and Iolo. Until Wirthir’s men were out of sight, Owen sat his horse silently. Then he dismounted, pulled the rolled parchment from his tunic. A simple seal, wax on a string. With some heat, easily resealed.

‘You will read it?’ Iolo asked from his saddle.

‘I think it wise.’ The parchment was filthy, often used. Owen slipped his dagger beneath the seal. The writing surface had been scraped so often it had a sheen. Was it the condition of the parchment, or was it the nonsense that it looked? Long, curving lines, squiggles, splotches. No words, no signature. ‘He has fooled me. Why?’

‘I thought it strange he gave it to you.’

‘But what is his game?’ Owen studied it, turning it this way and that, certain it must have a purpose. ‘By the Rood, it is a map.’

Iolo grabbed it, turned it about in his hands, passed it back to Owen. ‘A map of what?’

‘Hywel’s markers? Safe havens? Guard posts?’

‘Where?’

Owen stared at the map. ‘I cannot make it out. I hoped that you might, being from this part of the country.’

Iolo shook his head.

Owen was disappointed, but that seemed to be his lot of late. ‘It goes to a man from Anglesey. Most like it is Anglesey. It has been cleverly done, an area small enough that eyes not meant to see it can find no telling boundaries, shorelines. Hywel knows what he is about. There is no doubt of that.’ He tucked it beneath his tunic.

‘It is a dangerous favour you do for Hywel, carrying this map to a stranger in the city.’

‘Aye.’

‘I am sorry I called you a shopkeeper.’

‘Come. We must make Bonning’s Gate before curfew.’

HIGH AND MIGHTIES

L
ucie and Jasper worked quietly side by side in the shop storeroom, sewing up linen envelopes of calming herbs – lady’s bedstraw, valerian, camomile, with lavender for a soothing scent, and others of healing herbs for abrasions – one with marshmallow root and comfrey, one with marigold flowers and woundwort. It was a good rainy morning activity, when they would not be tempted to open the door and invite disaster with an errant draft. Wind blew the rain against the waxed parchment window in an uneven rhythm, now hard, now soft; wind kept it thrumming. Every so often Lucie stole glances at her young apprentice, trying to read his thoughts, learn whether he was truly at peace with her, as he had said, or whether he was still ill at ease. She had talked to him about Owen – how she missed him, the rumours, her confidence that he would not betray his king. Jasper had been indignant, then apologetic, then angry, ready to go to battle to protect the honour of their house. But Jasper’s quicksilver temper kept her wary.

Her fingers were clumsy this morning from lack of sleep. And worry. Dame Phillippa had awakened in a confused state, uncertain where she was, talking of events in Lucie’s childhood as if they had occurred yesterday. Lucie feared she had erred in the amount of valerian she had given her aunt. An elderly woman, not so active as before, so thin, it was possible that what Lucie thought a cautious dose had been too much. And the matter of the lost parchment – this morning Phillippa shook her head and swore she knew of no such thing.

Someone entered the shop.

‘Mistress Wilton?’ a querulous voice called.

‘
Deus juva me
, it is Alice Baker,’ Lucie hissed.

Jasper set his work aside, wiped his hands on his apron. ‘I shall go to her.’

Lucie felt childish hiding in the storeroom, but she had not been proud of her behaviour the last time she encountered Alice and was not ready for another verbal clash.

‘Good day to you, Mistress Baker,’ Jasper called out in a friendly voice as he walked through the beaded curtain into the shop.

‘Good day to you, lad. Where is your mistress?’

‘Mixing a physick.’

Lucie was glad Jasper had not lied. The woman would think nothing of pushing past him and through the curtain if determined to find Lucie.

‘How can I serve you?’ Jasper asked.

Lucie could not hear the reply. Alice must be muttering. A muttering Alice was not good. She made some of her cruellest comments in an undertone.

‘It is the devil making you say such things,’ Jasper said, his voice cracking with emotion. ‘The captain is expected home any day!’

Lucie dropped her work, and as she walked deliberately into the shop she prayed for patience.

Alice Baker leaned on the counter, her head bent as if whispering to Jasper but watching for Lucie. Her wimple pinched her face at the jowls and temples, accentuating her perpetual frown. But the white wimple also revealed a more natural colouring than she had had of late.

‘You are looking well, Mistress Baker,’ Lucie said.

Alice’s smile could not expand beneath the tight wimple. Or perhaps she had meant to sneer. ‘Not well, but improving, thanks be to God. Jasper tells me the captain will soon be home. I thought I had heard otherwise. But I must have misunderstood.’

‘Yes, he expects to be home within the month,’ Lucie said. She did not dare risk a smile for fear she would just bare her teeth. Sweet Jesu but the woman was horrible.

Another customer entered the shop. Lucie nodded towards Celia, Camden Thorpe’s eldest, turned back to Alice. ‘Was Jasper able to assist you?’

Alice straightened, tossed her head as if to dismiss the young man, moved closer to Lucie. ‘Roger Moreton is a good man, Lucie. You must not take advantage of him.’

Lucie thought she would burst, but she would not satisfy the woman with a response. By the time she caught her breath Alice Baker was halfway to the door. ‘God go with you,’ she managed.

‘And with you,’ Alice trilled.

‘She is a horrible woman,’ said Celia Thorpe.

Lucie sank down on to a stool and was about to ask Jasper to help the young woman, but one glance at his trembling hands and she sent him to the storeroom.

‘You must not mind her,’ Lucie said.

‘Ma says it is women’s problems,’ Celia said, no doubt newly indoctrinated in such things, her wedding being a month hence. ‘She says it is quite common for a woman’s humours to ferment in her skull when her fluxes cease.’

God bless Celia’s innocence. It made Lucie smile. ‘Mistress Baker’s youngest is but three years old, Celia. I do not know whether we might assume her fluxes have ceased. But it is a forgiving theory and I thank you for it.’

They proceeded to debate the merits of various oils and creams for the young woman’s already perfect complexion.

Tension was high in the kitchen at Freythorpe Hadden.

Nan, the cook, had thrown up her hands when Tildy announced the arrival of the archbishop’s retainers. ‘Two more high and mighties with appetites. And to what end? Did
Master
Harold protect us from the thieves?’ She did not approve of the temporary staff, neither Harold Galfrey nor Tildy. ‘What is Mistress Lucie thinking, to crowd us when we have the gatekeeper and his family underfoot?’ Nan kicked at a pile of twigs in the corner. ‘Sarah, work on that broom out in the yard. It will be set aflame if you work it by the fire.’ She picked up the bundle and shoved it at the maid.

‘I cannot work on a broom out in the wind and rain,’ Sarah complained. She turned to Tildy for direction.

‘Work in the corner of the hall,’ said Tildy, ‘by my alcove.’ She was sleeping in Dame Phillippa’s bed, so as to be close to Daimon if he should wake. ‘You will have light there and peace.’

Nan wagged a bony finger at Tildy. ‘You will get naught from her, treating her like a baby.’ Her thin lips were pinched and curled into sneering disapproval. ‘You are a young fool.’ She threw a pair of trout on to the cutting board. ‘We shall have naught in the fish pond by the time the mistress returns,’ she muttered.

Neither Nan’s mood nor her tongue bothered Tildy a whit. She was too happy. Only Daimon’s recovery could make her happier. The archbishop had sent two of his most trusted men to guard Freythorpe. She could sleep in peace tonight. And, even better, she knew Alfred and Gilbert, and they her. They would listen to her.