A Spy for the Redeemer (31 page)

Indeed, Michaelo felt he had been more than patient even though he understood the circumstance. ‘His Grace the Archbishop is concerned about the troubles at Freythorpe Hadden. As godfather to young Hugh, the future heir, and his sister, His Grace sees it as his duty in their father’s absence to watch over the family. He therefore requests your assurance that Harold Galfrey is capable to serve as steward while the wounded steward recovers. He should like to see his letter of recommendation, hear anything else you might know about his former employment.’

Roger made a face. He truly was an unsophisticated sort. ‘In faith, I did not see his letter. He was set upon by outlaws on his way to York. They stole his purse. But he served as steward for the Godwin manor near Kingston-upon-Hull.’

‘How then did John Gisburne come to recommend Galfrey so highly, if he had no letter?’

The merchant looked embarrassed. ‘I did not think to ask him.’

‘Is there anything else you might tell me about him?’

‘No. I feel quite foolish to confess it. But I put my faith in John Gisburne. He has ever been good to me.’

Deus juva me
, Michaelo had accepted Mistress Wilton’s reassurances. But had she known that Roger Moreton was so under the influence of John Gisburne? The man’s taste in servants and retainers had been cause for more than a few rumours. Michaelo dreaded reporting all this to Thoresby.

The hall was quiet, only two oil lamps still burned, one at the bottom of the steps, one on the table. Lucie wondered whether Jasper had been too tired to wait for her to finish settling Phillippa for the night. She had been reluctant to drink her calming tisane. Lucie had spent a long while up there convincing her aunt that she would not sleep the sleep of the dead. In truth, the tisane was stronger than on previous nights, but Phillippa need not know that. Lucie did not wish her to wake confused and attempt another church.

Picking up the lamp at the bottom of the steps, Lucie held it high so that she might see more of the table. Now she saw Jasper’s fair hair hanging over the bench on which he had been sitting. As she crept closer she saw that he lay on his side and had covered himself with a blanket. Sleeping, yes, but determined to talk to her. He had been a great help to her of late. Did she thank him enough? She could never predict his behaviour these days. But why did that bother her so? Had she ever truly been able to predict him, or had he simply been more obedient earlier, more eager to do what he thought she wished than to follow his own heart.

‘Jasper,’ she whispered in his ear, was about to settle in the chair at the head of the table but found Crowder and Melisende curled up together. She moved to the bench across the table from Jasper.

With much rubbing of his eyes and shaking of his head, Jasper rose and wrapped the blanket round his shoulders.

‘She is abed?’ he asked.

‘Safely, yes.’ Lucie smiled at the question. ‘You do not wish to go in search of her again this evening?’

He laughed. ‘Tell me what this is about.’

Lucie told him all she knew of the missing parchment about which Phillippa was so concerned, and more. She confided in him her belief that the thieves had included someone who knew the house well, told him of Daimon’s slow healing and Tildy’s suspicion, of Colby’s visit to the manor. She saw that he understood that he was being treated as a man.

Jasper listened with a grave face.

When Lucie was finished, she poured them both some wine, watered both cups. ‘God has been trying me sorely,’ she said. ‘Forgive me if I have not listened to you as I might.’

‘I could go to the manor to search for the parchment and check the account books.’

Ignoring her inclination to reject the offer, Lucie said, ‘I shall consider it. We need to discuss it with Dame Phillippa, learn where she has hidden it in the past. Perhaps that will suggest where to look.’

‘Or she might remember. What do you think it might be?’

‘I wish I knew, my love. That might also help us know who attacked Freythorpe.’

‘Will I be there, when you talk to her?’

‘You will.’

They finished their wine in companionable silence, then climbed wearily up to their beds, the cats padding softly ahead of them.

THE MORALITY OF HYWEL’S WAR

O
wen hoisted the pouch of stones over his good shoulder and trudged off along the new stonework of the cloister to the west front of the cathedral, ordering his thoughts as he walked. Though aware that Friar Hewald waited anxiously at Rokelyn’s, Owen could not abandon Cynog, not now. He had pieced much together, but there were gaps and contradictions for which he could not account. He must settle for what he had – the imminent removal of Archdeacon Baldwin’s household forced his hand. He must confront Baldwin and Simon to discover what they knew, or indeed what part they had played in the three deaths.

Cynog’s parents had said that at one time he had talked much about Owain Lawgoch, but then grew quiet. Had he been disillusioned? Had he given copies of Hywel’s maps to Archdeacon Baldwin? And Cynog’s right hand – who was the executioner who had been frightened away before completing his grim task? Owen feared it was Hywel who had ordered the deed: he had beaten the horse thieves for their mistake, he might well have a traitor mutilated and executed. Did this serve his prince?

He still had too few facts to accuse anyone of Cynog’s murder. Piers the Mariner? Why? And why, then, was Piers executed, and his brother as well? At first Owen had suspected that they had been hiding something on the ship. But the tongues had turned his mind to lies or betrayals. Was he wrong? Were the tongues leading him to a false surmise? But surely such a grim deed had been meant as a message? Had served a purpose?

All three men had been executed. Rokelyn had been right about Cynog’s death from the start. But what had Baldwin and Simon to do with it? And how was it that Rokelyn knew nothing of their involvement? Or did he? Was that why Owen must investigate, rather than someone in the city?

What else did Owen know? Glynis had put a sleeping draught in the ale she gave Edmund and Jared. But she had not helped Piers escape that day. It was later that night that she did so. Had she been frightened by something on her first attempt? Or had she learned something from Piers, betrayed him to Hywel, who then ordered her to deliver her lover to him?

As Owen crossed over Llechllafar, passing the pilgrims’ entrance to the cathedral, he thought about Sir Robert’s tomb. Cynog had been blessed with such a gift. Would Owain Lawgoch, rightful Prince of Wales, order the death of such a man? In war, perhaps. But this was not war. Yet.

*

The house of Archdeacon Baldwin sat apart from most of the others, across the River Alun from the palace, near Patrick’s Gate. Several carts crowded the narrow lane. The pilgrims had to pick their way past them and a few servants stood guard over the contents.

One of them stepped forward to bar Owen’s way.

Owen dropped the pouch to the ground, rubbed his left hand. ‘I wish to speak with Archdeacon Baldwin and Father Simon.’

‘What is your business with my master?’

‘If you would tell him Captain Archer is here,’ Owen said quietly, though he put all his irritation into the eye that glared at the servant.

The man withdrew to the house.

In a moment, he returned. ‘The Archdeacon will see you, Captain.’ He offered to carry the pouch.

Owen nodded. ‘It is for the Archdeacon.’ He did not glance back, but he heard the man’s curse as he lifted the pouch. It was not unreasonably heavy, merely a surprising load when one expected other than stones.

Owen followed Baldwin’s loud voice – suited for sermons, not housework. The archdeacon was directing the packing of a chest in the hall.

‘
Benedicte
, Captain Archer.’ His dark hair was dusty, various pieces of cloth draped over one forearm, a pile of documents at his feet. ‘As you see, I am about to depart. I hoped to make Llawhaden Castle by nightfall, but the incident on the beach has turned all fingers to thumbs among my household.’

The servant following with the pouch of stones set it down with a thud at Owen’s feet. Baldwin looked down inquiringly.

‘Would you permit me to look at the wall Cynog repaired in your undercroft?’ Owen asked.

‘What is in the pouch?’

Owen glanced at the servant bent over the chest. ‘It would be better to talk in private.’

Baldwin followed his gaze. ‘No, no. No time to let them be idle.’

‘Perhaps we might talk in the undercroft? And then I would talk to Father Simon.’

Now Baldwin fixed his eyes on Owen. ‘He is at the cathedral.’

‘Could you send for him?’

‘What is this about?’

Owen lifted the pouch of stones. ‘Do you have a lantern?’

Baldwin dropped the cloths, told the servant to continue packing – the chest must be ready when he returned. At the hall entrance the archdeacon shouted to one of the men guarding the carts to fetch Father Simon from the cathedral at once. Then he took a lantern from a hook and led the way through a door to a landing atop wooden steps that dropped down into darkness.

Baldwin opened up the shuttered lantern, closed the door behind them. ‘Is this about the deaths?’

‘The executions,’ Owen said.

‘You think
I
would order such heinous acts?’

‘You might. If by such deeds you thought to ensure peace in this holy city.’

‘Are you mad?’ Baldwin held the light closer to Owen, almost blinding him.

‘God’s blood,’ Owen growled, grabbing the lantern with his right hand. Painful, but worse if he stumbled after the fool blinded him in his one good eye with the light. ‘The wall, Father.’

‘We have peace in the city.’

‘For how long? When Owain Lawgoch arrives with his Welsh and French army, do you think they will skirt round St David’s and leave you in peace? And those within – how many Welshmen would rather die for the rightful Prince of Wales than for King Edward?’

‘Are you one of them?’

‘Show me the wall.’

‘You think
I
am one of them. Or that Simon is.’ Baldwin started for the door.

Owen barred the way, lantern in one hand, bag of stones in the other. Pain shot down his right side, but by the Rood he meant to see that wall before Father Simon arrived.

Baldwin nodded to the pouch. ‘What is in there?’

‘Stones. Come. Show me the wall.’

The archdeacon turned back to the landing. Owen shone the light down the steps.

Baldwin hesitated. ‘Why should I trust you?’

‘I am working for your fellow, Archdeacon Rokelyn,’ Owen growled.

‘Faith, I had forgotten that.’ Baldwin shook his head and began the descent.

The stench of damp, mould and worse, and a chill that erased memory of the spring day without, enveloped Owen as he left the landing. He understood the archdeacon’s hesitation. But once Baldwin was in motion he made short work of the stairs. Owen left the pouch on the bottom step and hurried after his guide, who navigated through piles of old furniture, barrels stacked atop one another, to a cleared area before the far wall.

It was a stone wall, like any other, bare of plaster, the stones exposed. Owen passed the light along its length. On the far left, dampness glistened on stained stones, to the right the stones were dry.

‘As you see, a damp wall, too close to the river, partially rebuilt where the rats came through. What did you hope to find, Captain?’ Baldwin’s voice seemed muffled in this cluttered dungeon.

Owen moved closer to the repaired side, looking for some sign of loose or decorated stones, something to indicate where the maps were or had been. Where would Cynog have placed them? The ceiling was low – this was more a cellar than an undercroft. Owen could see the top stones. Simon was as tall as he, but not Cynog. Owen crouched down, ran the light across the lower stones. Nothing. ‘Christ save us, it must be here.’

‘Master Baldwin?’ someone called from above. It was Father Simon.

‘Simon!’ Baldwin shouted. ‘Come below.’

Pushing up from his crouch, Owen hurried to the steps to retrieve the stones. Baldwin, protesting the loss of light, followed. Pouch in hand, Owen considered what he should do. Father Simon bore an oil lamp, which gave off such a dim light he must move slowly. Even so, he was by now almost to the bottom.

Owen slipped off to the right, Baldwin following.

‘Master?’ Simon called.

Setting the lantern on a barrel, Owen lifted out the stones bearing maps and handed them to Baldwin. ‘Do you recognise these?’

Baldwin held them towards the light, turned them about, studying them. ‘Someone has defaced these? Why do you show them to me? What have they to do with Simon?’

‘I have reason to believe Cynog used stones such as these in the repairs to your undercroft. They are not defaced, they carry messages.’

‘Messages? In my cellar wall?’ Baldwin managed a nervous laugh. ‘You
are
mad.’

Owen sensed Simon behind him, grabbed the lantern and spun round. Blinded, Simon dropped the oil lamp.