A Spy For The Redeemer (Owen Archer Book 7)

by Candace Robb

  ‘I am glad.’

  ‘But I worry how the servants will behave with no mistress of the household. Would you allow Tildy to stay and take care of things?’

  ‘Tildy? Stay?’ Lucie forced herself to concentrate. ‘But you have been away before, visiting us, and the servants have managed.’

  ‘For a few days. But – this time I might be gone longer – unless you have changed your mind.’ As Phillippa finished, she dropped her gaze from Lucie’s face, as if fearing what she might see there.

  ‘I have not changed my mind, Aunt! It is just – it is Tildy.’ It would allow the young woman to try out the life Daimon proposed for her. But it might give Daimon false hopes. And what of the moral responsibility Lucie had towards Tildy? Should she leave her alone with a young man who was wooing her? ‘You do not know what you ask,’ she said.

  ‘No. I suppose I do not.’

  And how could she? Lucie told Phillippa about Daimon and Tildy.

  Phillippa perked up at the tale, seemed her old self as she put hands to hips, shook her head. ‘I see no problem. Put the question to Tildy – she is old enough to decide for herself.’

  In the kitchen behind the hall, Tildy sat on a high stool and surveyed the tapestry she had spread across a trestle table. She tapped a toe in irritation and muttered to herself, occasionally using the breath to blow a stray wisp of hair from her face. From the rolled-up sleeves and askew cap Lucie guessed Tildy had had a struggle getting the piece down from the wall. She glanced up, noticed Lucie standing there, shook her head. ‘It hurts to see such a beautiful thing torn like it was a rag. How could Daimon think his mistress did such a thing?’ She lifted a corner. ‘You have often spoken of the colours on this tapestry.’

  Lucie had always thought it a cheerful tapestry, imagining the laughter of the three maidens as they made their garlands. ‘Can you mend it properly? Enough so that it will not show in the shadows?’

  Tildy screwed up her pretty face. ‘I could replace the backing piece to hold it together, but over time it will fray. I cannot think what it will look like when Master Hugh brings his bride to the hall.’

  Twenty years hence? Thirty? ‘Perhaps I should take it back to the city, see whether there is a better way to mend it.’

  ‘I would, Mistress. It is too pretty a thing to neglect.’

  ‘I shall take it in the morning. My aunt has decided to return to York with me, did you know?’

  ‘I am glad of that. Her heart will be eased by the children.’

  ‘But she is worried about leaving the hall without a mistress.’

  ‘She has good folk here.’

  ‘She hoped that you might stay and see to things.’

  ‘Me? Stay here?’ Tildy shook her head. ‘But I cannot do that. Does she not understand that I am the children’s nursemaid? When I stayed here before I was here for the children.’

  ‘She knows. She asks the favour. I thought it was for you to decide.’

  Tildy looked stricken. ‘For me?’

  ‘It is a reasonable request.’

  Tildy stared down at the riven tapestry for a while, her toe still tapping. A lock of hair slipped from beneath her cap, curled over her chin. She blew at it to no avail. Taking off her cap, she tilted her head back, shook it, put back the cap, tied it beneath her chin, looked up at Lucie. ‘What would you do?’

  ‘In truth, I cannot say. I do not want you to feel you must do this for my aunt. Nor, if you wish to try your hand at running a household, should you feel responsible for Gwenllian and Hugh. Phillippa, Kate and I should be able to manage them until you return. You must look into your heart, Tildy.’

  ‘It is a very large house, Mistress Lucie. A great undertaking for such as me.’

  ‘I do not doubt you would manage well. But do you wish to?’

  Tildy said nothing, but the tapping grew more insistent.

  ‘You might also have time to become better acquainted with Daimon,’ Lucie said. ‘Or reacquainted.’

  Tildy blushed. ‘You know?’

  ‘I know what I saw in the courtyard, what I see in both your eyes.’ Lucie shook her head when Tildy would speak. ‘I trust you, Tildy. And I want you to make the choice.’

  ‘I might try running the household.’

  ‘Talk to Dame Phillippa, then. She is eager to tell you what she would like you to do. Perhaps that will help you decide.’

  After the evening meal, Phillippa called Tildy and Daimon to her. It was time for the final instructions regarding the manor while she was away. Lucie, who sat nearby with Brother Michaelo and Harold, noted how often Phillippa’s conversation shifted from the matter at hand to memories of Sir Robert. At the moment, Phillippa was recounting Sir Robert’s tales of the siege of Calais. Lucie smiled to hear how her father’s role had expanded.

  Suddenly the hall door burst open.

  ‘Storm coming,’ Phillippa said. Turning to Tildy, she began to advise her how to secure the hall in a windstorm.

  But it was not a storm. A servant stumbled in, gasping, ‘Armed horsemen. Six. At the gatehouse.’

  ‘God have mercy,’ Lucie cried. ‘Daimon!’

  The young steward had already jumped up, grabbed his sword belt. He struggled to buckle his belt as he strode to the doorway. Tildy rose to follow, but Lucie held her back. Already shouts rang out in the yard.

  Phillippa, too, had risen with a cry, and shuffled towards the rear door of the hall. Brother Michaelo went after her.

  ‘Come, Dame Phillippa,’ he cried above the din of men’s shouts without. ‘You are best in here, by the fire. Burning brands are good weapons, if need be.’

  ‘I must see to things,’ Phillippa cried, trying to shrug out of his grasp.

  Lucie sent Tildy off to gather the maidservants in the buttery. She noticed Harold, his sword drawn, standing near the hall door. ‘You need not hold the door against them,’ she said. ‘We shall manage. Help Daimon.’

  Harold nodded towards Michaelo and Phillippa. ‘Your aunt is much distressed.’

  ‘As she should be! Brother Michaelo will calm her.’

  ‘Do you have a dagger?’

  ‘We have a kitchen full of weapons. Go!’

  ‘Bar the door behind me,’ Harold said as he raised his sword and stepped out into the darkness.

  As Lucie reached the door, she saw smoke beyond the courtyard. What was burning? The gatehouse? Two men struggled close to the door. Lucie pushed it to, barred it. Dear God in heaven, what if they had not been here this night? She watched Phillippa, still arguing with Brother Michaelo. Where did she think to go?

  ‘It is the watchers,’ Phillippa hissed. ‘They know.’

  Lucie met Michaelo’s troubled gaze. ‘The outlaws heard that Sir Robert was dead? It is possible. But what of our steward? Why would they attack an occupied house?’

  Something thudded against the outer door. A man cried out. Tildy ran out from the buttery. ‘That is Daimon!’

  ‘The hall is not safe,’ Michaelo said. ‘Is there a cellar?’

  ‘The maze,’ Phillippa cried. ‘We must go to the maze.’

  ‘The kitchen maid saw horsemen near the maze,’ Tildy said.

  ‘The chapel,’ Lucie said. ‘Come, Aunt. Tildy, bring the others. Brother Michaelo, try to gain the yard, see whether Daimon needs help.’ Taking her aunt firmly in hand, Lucie led the way to the chapel at the far end of the hall. Though her knees felt weak, she was determined to keep her aunt as safe as she might.

  ‘For you, Sir Robert. I would do this for no other,’ Michaelo muttered as he checked that his dagger was loose in its sheath, then took a torch from the wall and made for the hall door, which groaned against the bar. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, have mercy on this sinner,’ Michaelo whispered as he tried to unbar the door; but the pressure from the other side made it difficult to move. If he put the torch in the sconce beside the door and used both hands to work at the bar, he would be momentarily unarmed when whoever was pressing against it fell through. He cringed
at the thought of the weight of the door and the body against him. His neck prickled with sweat. He reasoned with himself that he would have his dagger; but that was a weapon of finesse, not force. Yet what choice did he have?

  Michaelo put up the torch, put both hands to the bar, pushed it towards the door and tried to shove sideways. It did not move. He stepped back, rubbed his hands, took a deep breath, grabbed the bar, tried just shoving it sideways. It moved a few inches, then stuck. Now he put his whole body into pressing against the force being brought against the door. But it was suddenly lessened. The bolt slid easily. Taking a deep breath to quiet the violent hammering of his heart, Michaelo laid the bolt aside, grabbed the torch, opened the door. A body fell in. Michaelo thought he was about to choke on his heart. He forced himself to bring the torch near the body at his feet.

  Daimon. Blood covered his head. Part of his tunic was scorched. Michaelo grabbed a shoulder of the young steward’s tunic with his free hand and dragged him further into the hall. Then he knelt to him, checked for a pulse. Deo gratias. He lived. Even now Daimon tried to open his eyes, blinked at the bright light from the torch, muttered something unintelligible.

  ‘Do not try to move,’ Michaelo said. ‘I must see to the door, then I will get help.’

  He peered out of the door. The fighting seemed to have stopped. He paused with the door halfway shut. A sword glittered in the courtyard mud. Why leave a weapon for the outlaws? Michaelo made a dash for it. But he was too slow. Someone came up from behind, knocked him aside. Michaelo fell headlong, losing his grasp on the torch. He could just see booted feet dash past, a hand grab the torch, another hand the sword. The boots then continued on towards the stables.

  Propping himself up on one arm, Michaelo looked round the courtyard. Finding himself alone, he dared to stand. Sweet Jesu, but his hip hurt. He hobbled back to the hall door, discovered it had closed behind him. He was certain Daimon had not managed that. He pushed. Pushed harder. He could not believe it. Barred from within. He pounded on the door, shouting, ‘Mistress Wilton! Tildy! It is Brother Michaelo. Let me in!’ He put his ear to the door, heard nothing. Perhaps they were too busy tending Daimon. He prayed that was so. Still, why did they not respond?

  He turned round, leaned against the door, took a deep breath, let his eyes become more accustomed to the dark. Clouds of smoke hung over the gatehouse. He must not go that way. Round the back? See whether the rear door to the hall had been barred?

  Lucie and Tildy had managed to get Daimon into the chapel just before the strangers rushed through the hall door. Before Lucie closed the chapel door she saw three figures enter the hall below, one carrying a lantern not quite shuttered.

  ‘They will burn the house round us!’ a maidservant whimpered.

  ‘They have killed him,’ Tildy moaned, bending over Daimon.

  Lucie shushed them as she leaned against the door, trying to hear where the three had gone. But the walls were too thick.

  ‘Let me go to them,’ Phillippa whispered at Lucie’s side. ‘I shall give them what they want.’

  ‘Help Tildy with Daimon.’

  ‘But –’

  Lucie crossed her arms, positioned herself in front of the chapel door. ‘See to Daimon.’

  *

  As Michaelo came round the back of the house he heard a horse whinny. Flattening himself against the wall, he searched the darkness. But he could not see anyone. So he waited. A line of light appeared, widened, illuminated a man with three horses. Two men came from the house, hurried to join him. Without a word to one another, they all mounted and rode off.

  Michaelo crossed himself, hurried towards the door. When he reached it, it was closed. He tried it, found it opened easily. Torchlight welcomed him. He hurried across the hall and up to the chapel, found all the women safely within. And Daimon, breathing, but just barely.

  In a little while, Harold and the menservants came in, all of them sooty, sweating, most of them with minor wounds, all chattering at once.

  Michaelo told them about the horsemen at the rear.

  Harold proposed a search of the woods.

  Lucie agreed that it would help everyone feel more secure, though she doubted the men would have been such fools as to linger.

  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 w
eary 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?