A Spy for the Redeemer (9 page)

She frowned as she turned round to Michaelo, drew him aside. Michaelo smelled the young steward’s blood on her. Her gown and her scarf were stained with it. He hoped she did not wish him to help with Daimon. He was no good as a nurse.

‘I saw three men enter the hall,’ Lucie said. ‘But you mentioned only two.’

‘You fear one may yet be in the house?’

‘Perhaps.’

Michaelo had not considered that. The three men had not hesitated for another before riding off. Three men. Of course. ‘The one waiting with the horses – he was one of them. He must have slipped out earlier.’

Lucie did not look convinced. ‘I shall take a few servants and search the house.’

‘I shall accompany you.’

‘I would have you watch Phillippa. And – when you go on to Bishopthorpe, would you carry a letter to His Grace for me?’

Now here was a service he would gladly provide. ‘I shall write it for you if you wish.’

‘I can write.’ The cold voice of pride.

‘So, too, can His Grace. As most men who employ secretaries. But I have a fine hand. It is the only skill in which I excel.’

Lucie smiled. ‘Forgive me. I thought you doubted my ability. Shall we meet tomorrow morning?’

‘I shall have my ink and points at the ready.’ He was most curious what she might have to say to Archbishop Thoresby.

Michaelo, Phillippa and Tildy remained in the chapel, tending Daimon, while Lucie took a few servants to search the house. The hall door had held up well. Some silver plate had been taken from the hall, and a tapestry – the torn one, which Tildy had rolled up and tucked into the cabinet with the silver plate. Poor Phillippa. First the tear, now this. The thieves must have thought the roll might contain something of value – the tapestry itself might fetch a good price, but for the tear. Lucie went next to the treasury, a small, windowless room within the buttery, where the manor accounts and the money box were kept in a large chest. The door was ajar. She stood very still, listening for any tell-tale sounds. None came. They entered the buttery, then the treasury. The lock had been prised off the chest. The money box was gone, and the accounts, which were usually neatly stacked on a shelf above the chest, were in disarray, as if the thieves had hoped to discover more treasure among them. She would sort them out later. For now, she wished to see the rest of the house. What pricked at the back of her mind as she continued was that the treasury was a room only members of the household would know about. The servants, of course, knew of it because one must go through the buttery to reach the room. But guests of the household would have no knowledge of it, and strangers would have taken a while to find it. The thieves had been in the house a very short time. And the shuttered lantern – they had needed little light to find their way. Which meant they either had a colleague in the household, or one of them (or more) had once lived or worked here. Michaelo had asked whether she feared one of the thieves might yet be in the house. She did. But how might she find that person if he was part of the staff?

It was long after midnight when Harold’s search party returned. A horse and several lambs were missing, the fire in the gatehouse was under control, but the roof was gone – an assessment of the rest of the damage to the building must wait until daylight. They had found no strangers on the property, but as a precaution a night watch had been organised.

Lucie thanked the men and sent them off to the kitchen for ale.

Harold stayed. ‘You have shadows beneath your eyes,’ he said to Lucie. ‘What can I do to help hasten you to rest?’

‘Help Daimon into the hall. Tildy and I made up a pallet for him near the fire.’ As Harold turned away Lucie saw a rent in his leggings, a burned edge on his tunic. And he walked stiffly, as if weary to the bone. ‘Harold,’ she called softly. He turned. ‘God bless you for all you have done this night,’ she said. He smiled wearily, turned back to the task at hand. She watched him help Daimon to his feet. The poor young man was too dizzy to manage. Harold scooped him up and carried him to the pallet in the hall. The muscle-heavy Daimon seemed no burden to Harold.

‘He is strong,’ Tildy said at Lucie’s side.

Lucie already had other things on her mind. She told Tildy her suspicion, that the outlaws might have an accomplice in the household. ‘Keep your own counsel. Warn Daimon, too.’

‘You think they might be back?’

‘I do not know. Why would thieves take such risk for a horse, two lambs, some silver plate, a torn tapestry and a modest amount of money?’

‘They took the tapestry?’

‘It was near the plate.’

Tildy grinned. ‘Well, I should like to see their faces when they see the tear.’

Her sleeve and skirt stained with her love’s blood, her shoulders rounded with weariness – Tildy was a strong young woman to find humour in anything this night. Lucie appreciated it, but she could not smile, for she felt too keenly that they were still in danger. ‘I am tired. And so must you be. See to Daimon, then get some sleep. You must be both lady of the manor and steward tomorrow.’

‘You still mean to ride to York in the morning?’

‘I do. Would you rather return with me?’ It was Tildy’s to choose. Lucie would not force her to remain here if she was frightened.

‘No. I am needed here. I should see to Daimon, get him settled.’

Lucie watched the young woman hurry away. With her tender nursing the young steward would recover soon, Lucie thought. But how safe was Tildy in this house? Though Daimon had made sense when they asked him questions, he could not protect her. He said that when he lifted his bandaged head his stomach felt queer, which was worrisome but not surprising with a head injury. Besides that wound he had a swollen shoulder where his left arm had been pulled out of joint, a deep cut on his left palm and some slight burns. If Archbishop Thoresby granted her request, the two might be safe here. But what if he did not?

But at the moment she must get her aunt to bed. The poor woman sat with chin on chest, snoring softly. When Lucie waked her, Phillippa clutched her sleeve. ‘How is he? Would you like me to sit with him?’

‘Tildy is with Daimon now.’

Phillippa looked confused. ‘Adam the steward’s son? He is unwell?’

‘Who did you think I sat with, Aunt?’

‘Nicholas. You have not been up with him? Is no one with him?’

Michaelo glanced up from his prayers, gave Lucie a sympathetic look.

Phillippa had come to help Lucie nurse her first husband in his final illness. ‘Nicholas is long dead, Aunt. You are at Freythorpe Hadden. Daimon is your steward.’

‘Of course he is. I knew that,’ Phillippa snapped. She fussed with her crooked, wrinkled wimple.

‘Let us go to bed, Aunt. We have much to do tomorrow. Tildy will take care of Daimon tonight.’

‘She is a good girl, Tildy.’

Phillippa’s calm smile bothered Lucie more than her confusion. Her aunt had been in charge of this house for so many years – it was unnatural for her to smile so after the events of the evening.

As they crossed the hall, Tildy was leaning over Daimon’s pallet, spreading more covers over him.

‘I shall be down here with Dame Phillippa tonight, Tildy. I can hear if you call.’

Tildy nodded, but did not look up from her charge.

Lucie woke towards dawn, surprised that she had fallen asleep. Phillippa was not in her bed. Hurriedly dressing, Lucie ran out into the hall. Tildy dozed in a chair beside Daimon. Michaelo slept on a pallet just out of the light of the fire. Two menservants slept nearby. Harold must be on watch. Lucie checked the chapel. Empty. Where could her aunt be? When Lucie was small her aunt had told her to run into the maze if a stranger frightened her. They would lose themselves among the tall yews, and she would have time to run out the other way. She had spoken of the maze last night. Lucie hurried out into the pale dawn. The smell of damp ashes reminded her of the ruined gatehouse. She paused, cocking her ear. Slowly she walked towards the maze, still listening. As she drew near the entrance, she heard voices from within. Or beyond. She held her breath. As a child she used to stand here, just so, listening for her mother. She felt a chill. The voices grew louder.

‘I promise you, Dame Phillippa,’ Harold was saying. ‘It will be our secret. But you must rest now. The early morning air is not good for you.’

Slowly Harold and Phillippa emerged from the maze, her hand resting on his arm. The sight of her aunt did not comfort Lucie. Her headdress was askew and torn. Her thin white hair fell round her face in greasy strands. Her eyes were large and dark, like those of a cat just in from the night’s hunt. Smudges of dirt on her cheeks and nose matched her crooked, muddy hem. This was not the Phillippa who brought Lucie up.

‘Aunt Phillippa! What has happened?’

‘I fell in the maze,’ Phillippa said, glancing up at Harold.

He nodded. ‘I heard her cry out.’

‘Why were you in the maze?’ Lucie asked.

‘I wanted to see if it is still possible to go through the proper way.’

‘Why would it not be? Just last summer you taught Gwenllian how to find her way through it.’

‘I forgot.’

How much of her forgetfulness was an act, Lucie wondered as she followed the two into the hall. She was thankful Phillippa wished to lie down. Lucie needed a moment to close her eyes and calm her heart.

THE CAPTAIN’S TALE

O
wen and Jared climbed out of the valley in which St David’s nestled, a valley so deep that the bell tower of the cathedral was invisible from the sea – indeed from all but the highest hills surrounding the city. They walked slowly, pausing here and there, hoping to trip up clumsy pursuers. Iolo, Sam, Edmund and Tom were scattered about, two ahead, two behind, watching for a ripple behind the bait. At the rocky crest of the ascent Owen felt invigorated by a sharp, salt-laden wind. Gulls shrieked above, waves crashed against the rocks below. Gradually, as the two descended towards the harbour, the rumble and creak of several ships at anchor in the high tide off Porth Clais, the port of St David’s, joined the harmony.

What Owen most needed was to talk to Martin Wirthir, find out what he knew about Cynog, how involved the mason had been in the Lawgoch efforts. When last Owen needed to find Martin Wirthir he had climbed Clegyr Boia, a mound just beyond St David’s walls. Martin had a hiding place within the ruins of the ancient fort atop the mound. Owen doubted that the Fleming would be there now. His friend’s best defence was invisibility and he rarely stayed in one place for long; but he kept a watch on Clegyr Boia so that he might know when someone sought him there. And who it was who sought him. But if Rokelyn’s guards were shadowing Owen, he might lead them to a man they would delight in capturing. It would not make Owen’s life easier, either. How likely was it that Rokelyn would believe Owen and Martin were merely friends, not political cohorts?

So Owen was testing Rokelyn’s word, seeing whether the archdeacon would have him followed to Porth Clais. Then he would know whether he might seek out Martin Wirthir.

Captain Siencyn was not on the waterfront. In fact, it was quiet for such a clear morning. Some fishermen far out at the westernmost edge of the inlet sat on the shingle working on their nets, two children played nearby under the gaze of an old man who avoided Owen’s eye. Not far away, a woman stood quietly, looking out to sea. She wore a heavy cloak, the hood thrown back. Her hair was tightly braided about her head. ‘That is Glynis,’ Jared said. ‘She is rumoured to be the mistress of Piers the Mariner.’

‘God go with you, Mistress,’ Owen said in Welsh, hoping that might put her at ease. He had to speak loudly to be heard above the roar of the sea. ‘Would you know where I might find Captain Siencyn?’

The woman turned round, nodded up the rock face. At first Owen saw nothing, then his eye made out a stone building tucked into a ledge.

‘The path begins just behind you,’ said the woman. She did not wait for his thanks but, picking up her skirts, hurried away towards the fishermen.

‘Seems we have sprouted horns,’ said Jared. ‘The folk were warmer a few days past.’

‘Before I arrived.’

‘Aye,’ Jared said absently. He was staring up the cliff. ‘That cottage? Is that where she pointed us?’ He did not understand Welsh.

‘It is.’ Owen studied the steep, winding path that led to it. Ever since losing the sight in his left eye he had disliked walking narrow ledges. His accuracy in judging depths and distances had improved in ten years, but the doubt remained. When would not quite perfect not be good enough? Why was God so sorely testing him?

‘Captain?’ Jared called down, already halfway up.

Owen began the ascent. The path was not as precarious as it looked from below. It was well worn, with deeply indented footholds. He avoided looking down and, within moments, was on a ledge on which scraggly tufts of grass valiantly stood up against the salty breeze. The cottage seemed a tentative structure, three walls of loosely piled rocks enclosing the hillside, a sod roof sagging above them. Smoke drifted out of the cottage’s low door and numerous chinks in the rocks.

Jared bent, peered in the door. ‘Captain Siencyn,’ he called.