A Spy For The Redeemer (Owen Archer Book 7)

by Candace Robb

  Owen side-stepped the question. ‘You searched Cynog’s room.’

  ‘And for that I shall be remembered.’ Piers’s laugh was hollow.

  ‘Why did you suspect Glynis had been with Cynog?’

  ‘He hated me for taking her away. He was a desperate man.’

  Here was news. ‘Cynog was Glynis’s lover?’

  ‘Surely he told you about it the night you bared your soul to him?’

  Owen felt a shower of needle pricks across his blind eye. ‘When?’

  Piers looked amused. ‘So you did not know that he had bragged about getting drunk with you, hearing all about your life? I can see that you did not. Is it an unpleasant surprise? That the city knows of your dissatisfaction with Archbishop Thoresby? Your beautiful wife? How tedious it is to work in her apothecary? How –’

  ‘Quiet!’ Owen shouted. ‘I did not come here to be goaded by the likes of you.’

  ‘Why did you come?’

  ‘To find out whether Archdeacon Rokelyn has unjustly accused you of Cynog’s murder. Why did you expect to find something in Cynog’s room?’

  ‘Someone had seen him with Glynis.’

  ‘Who discovered you?’

  ‘Would that I knew. My dagger might have put a stop to all this.’ Piers jabbed the air with the spoon.

  ‘Then how did you know you were seen?’

  Owen thought Piers hesitated, but so briefly he could not be certain.

  ‘The next day it was all the gossip.’

  ‘What did you hope to find?’

  ‘Her scent, of course.’

  ‘Who told you that Glynis had been with him?’

  ‘I cannot remember.’

  ‘Surely –’

  ‘In a tavern one listens with his eyes on his cup, Captain. Someone spoke of it, they all began taunting me. I could use a draught now. You might have loosened my tongue with a tankard.’

  ‘Is that what Father Simon did? Loosened your tongue?’

  ‘No. He delighted to tell me that as no one has come forward on my behalf I am to be hanged.’ Piers’s voice hushed as he spoke the last three words.

  ‘And what did you say to that?’

  ‘I asked him about a trial by my peers. He smiled at my request.’

  ‘But you said no more? His threat did not bring a confession? Or a suggestion where he might find proof of your innocence?’

  ‘I had no cause to harm Cynog. If Glynis meant to return to him, so be it.’

  ‘You may say those things and yet be guilty.’

  ‘No one wishes to look further. But there is one who will come forward for me.’

  ‘Who might that be?’

  ‘You will see. All will see.’

  ‘But you will not say who it is?’

  ‘I am a man of honour.’

  Owen straightened. ‘You have nothing else to say on your behalf?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘God go with you, then.’

  ‘The Lord has thought little about me of late.’

  Neither was Owen thinking about Piers as he walked through the bishop’s wing into the great hall of the palace. He was thinking of Cynog. Had he so betrayed Owen? Had he gossiped about their conversation? How else would Piers know such detail? Owen had thought Cynog an honourable man. Had he been wrong about him?

  Seven

  CHAOS

  Sleep eluded Lucie after her aunt’s dawn adventure. And the longer she lay beside her aunt, staring at the candle left burning to calm them both, the more she worried. At last she gave up, thinking she would do more good relieving Tildy so she might rest. As Lucie reached for her clothes she noticed the bloodstains on her gown and scarf. She turned the scarf round and tried to tuck in the stained part; the gown she covered with an apron. She would save the clean clothes for travelling.

  The hall was quiet, lit only by the fire and a small lamp on the table beside Daimon’s pallet. People were still abed. Tildy sat close to the young steward, quietly talking to him, telling him of the damage, what had been stolen. ‘He begged to hear,’ she explained with a guilty grimace as Lucie joined them.

  ‘Of course you would wish to know,’ Lucie said to Daimon. ‘I know you take pride in your role here. Now Tildy must get some rest, eh?’

  Daimon agreed.

  Though Tildy stumbled with weariness as she rose, she departed reluctantly. ‘You will not let me sleep the whole day?’

  ‘I cannot do without you that long,’ Lucie assured her.

  Daimon did not seem so well this morning as he had last night. He had a fever, though not an alarming one. The wound on his hand had swelled in the night and it did not smell clean. Lucie spent a good while with him, opening the wound to let it drain, packing it with a paste of woad that Phillippa kept on hand for reducing swelling.

  And while Lucie worked, she asked Daimon about folk who had left the manor, or been recently chastised.

  ‘No one has been treated so badly here that they should turn against us.’ Daimon’s voice was weak.

  Lucie felt guilty about making him talk, but whom else might she trust? ‘You cannot be sure you know another’s heart, Daimon. Tell me about those who might be unhappy.’

  The list, once Daimon understood that any slight might cause a person to turn on their master, was quite long. Two grooms who could not meet Sir Robert’s standards; the young son of Nan the cook and his sweetheart, a kitchen maid, whose pranks had become spiteful and dangerous; a thatcher who believed he had been cheated; several minor servants who had not met Phillippa’s high standards.

  ‘The thatcher would not know of the treasury,’ Lucie said.

  ‘Servants talk. He flirted with all the women.’

  ‘Are any of these people still here?’

  ‘The kitchen maid. One of the grooms. The thatcher still works in the area.’

  ‘What about Nan’s son?’

  ‘No one knows for certain. If cook knows, she will not say.’

  ‘I do not recall her having a son.’

  ‘None of us knew of him until he showed up. Mistress Wilton, if you are right, is Matilda safe here? I cannot protect her.’

  ‘I shall get help until you are well, Daimon. I owe that to you.’ She told him of her plan. ‘All you need do is rest and recover.’

  ‘Did you ask Matilda to stay with me?’

  ‘Dame Phillippa asked her to manage the house while she is away. Tildy agreed. It was her choice.’

  ‘She planned to stay before I was injured?’

  ‘Yes. She did not tell you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Be good to her, Daimon.’

  ‘If I have the chance.’

  Brother Michaelo entered the hall with one of his saddlebags. A servant set up a small table beneath one of the great windows on the south side of the hall, then proceeded to clean it under Michaelo’s supervision.

  ‘I must leave you a while,’ Lucie said to Daimon. ‘But I shall be here in the hall if you need me.’

  He settled back against the pillows, closed his eyes. There was a slight smile on his face.

  Michaelo had paper and ink ready. ‘You need not compose the letter, Mistress Wilton. If you simply tell me what you wish to accomplish …’

  Lucie nodded, but did not begin until there were no servants nearby. When she explained her goal, she saw from the widening of the monk’s eyes that he found it an extravagant request. But he bent to the task.

  Lucie began to rise.

  ‘I pray you, stay a little,’ Michaelo said. ‘I shall have questions.’

  As Lucie sat quietly watching Michaelo’s bowed head, listening to the slow scratching of his quill, Harold entered the hall, his tabard and leggings covered with muddy ashes. He bowed to her, moved off in the direction of the kitchen.

  Michaelo raised his head. ‘Their familiarity with the house. How did you note that?’

  She explained.

  He nodded. ‘I have what I need.’ He bowed over the letter once more. In a short while
he asked her to read it and sign it. She did so, pleased with his tact, the grace of his words.

  She was sitting by the fire, arranging pots and bowls of medicines on a tray, when Harold returned, pink-skinned from scrubbing, his hair slicked back, his muddy tabard traded for a loose linen shirt. ‘Do I look less like one who cavorts with the pigs?’

  Lucie was not ready for the feelings his appearance aroused in her, the glint of golden hair on his tanned neck, how it curled damply at the nape. ‘You look – clean. God bless you for all you have done.’

  ‘I could do no less.’ His eyes held hers for a moment, those terribly blue eyes, and Lucie felt herself grow warm under his gaze. It was but a moment. Then he nodded towards where Daimon lay. ‘How is he this morning?’

  ‘Not as well as I had hoped.’

  Lucie began to rise, tray in hand. Harold rose to help her. His hands touched hers briefly, their eyes met, then he drew the tray from her.

  ‘Where shall I put it?’

  Indicating a small table near Daimon, Lucie started to move away, wishing to break the tension between them that was beginning to choke her.

  Harold joined her, falling into step beside her as she moved towards the buttery. ‘Forgive me for overstepping my bounds, but considering Daimon’s condition, might I suggest that I stay to organise the manor guard until he is recovered?’

  And miss a ride through the countryside with me? The very fact that Lucie had thought that inclined her to say yes, stay. Stay away from me. But that was no way to make such a decision. She had already resolved how to protect the manor. ‘There is no need.’ She did not think it necessary to tell him her plan.

  ‘As you wish.’ He sounded wounded.

  And what if Thoresby refused? She turned to Harold as they reached the door to the buttery. ‘You have been a great help. And I thank you for your offer. I may yet have need of you.’

  ‘You have only to ask.’

  She touched the back of her hand to her cheek as she watched him walk away, felt the blush still there. How foolish she must look.

  She lit a straw from the spirit lamp in the buttery to light a lamp in the treasury. The small room looked the same as it had last night. No one had tidied it. Lucie bent to the task of putting the account books in order. She shortly discovered one was missing. Lighting a second lamp, she searched the floor, behind the chest. From outside the hall came a loud rumble. Someone screamed. She heard people running.

  Picking up her skirts, Lucie blew out the lamps.

  ‘It is the gatehouse,’ Michaelo told her as she hurried past him through the hall and out of the door. ‘God help us, part of the upper storey has caved in.’

  It was worse than that. On one side of the archway the outer wall had cracked beneath the burned roof and the crack was widening, the wattle and daub wall tilting crazily inward. Two men were trying to push a top-heavy cart away from it, but as the wall shivered and groaned they abandoned the cart and began to run. With a great shudder a large section of the wall fell into the yard. Debris rained down on the cart, shifting its precarious balance. It toppled sideways, sending the chairs, barrels, a bed frame and household items sliding towards Jenny, the gatekeeper’s wife, who was struggling to carry her small boy and drag a sack out of the way. Lucie ran out into the yard, shouting a warning, but Jenny was too far away to hear her over all the din. Then suddenly, blessedly, Harold appeared from the far side of the yard, by the stables, and scooped up mother and child just in time, kicking the sack aside. Lucie hurried to join him at the stables, side-stepping a rolling barrel. She took the boy from Jenny’s arms as Harold set the young mother down on her feet. She collapsed against him, sobbing.

  By now the yard was abuzz with servants and tenants running about, catching up what they could of Jenny and Walter’s household, tripping over each other as they raced for hooks and poles to tear down the tottering wall. Across the yard, Phillippa stood in the doorway of the hall, wringing her hands.

  Lucie carried the boy across and handed him to her aunt. ‘Take him inside. I’ll bring Jenny.’

  ‘My bed!’ Jenny sobbed as she stumbled across the yard in Lucie’s grasp. Lucie guided her inside, murmuring reassurances that Jenny would have a new bed, a much better bed.

  The little boy, wailing in Phillippa’s impatient embrace, threw out his arms towards his mother. She rushed to her son, pulled him from Phillippa and settled down on a bench by the fire to nurse.

  ‘Ungrateful woman,’ Phillippa muttered.

  Lucie wished she could tidy her aunt, but there was no time. The servants needed calming, direction. ‘There are bound to be injuries, Aunt. You will need your medicines, clean rags, warm water.’

  Phillippa shuffled towards the kitchen.

  Lucie turned to Daimon, who was sitting up trying to catch someone’s attention.

  ‘What has happened?’

  She told him. ‘Jenny, Walter and their boy are safe. Rest, Daimon. We need you whole.’

  In late afternoon, Lucie sat with Daimon, grateful for the quiet moment. She had sent Tildy, who found it impossible to rest, out to manage the preparation of a cottage for Jenny and Walter. Daimon had suggested one unoccupied since the previous summer when the elderly woman who had lived there died of pestilence. They would not move for several days, after the dangerous vapours from the plague had been dispelled by a juniper fire and then the cottage aired out.

  Lucie’s quiet moment was truly just that, a moment. She was mixing a tisane for Daimon when he looked over her shoulder and closed his eyes with a sigh.

  ‘What is it. A pain?’ Lucie asked.

  ‘Ma. I hoped she would not hear that I was injured.’

  Lucie had forgotten about Daimon’s mother. After Daimon’s father’s death, his mother had moved to a cottage at a distance from the manor house. Lucie had not thought to send word to Winifred of her son’s injuries.

  ‘Mistress Wilton,’ Winifred said in her gentle voice, bowing her head slightly, her crisp white wimple rustling with the movement. ‘God bless you for the care you have given my son.’ She was a tiny woman, with pale skin and large, dark eyes. A servant carried her wool and spinning wheel.

  ‘He was wounded defending the manor,’ said Lucie. ‘It –’

  ‘As was his duty.’ Winifred crouched beside her son, fussed with the bandage on his forehead. Glancing up at Lucie with an accusing frown she pronounced it damp.

  ‘Ma,’ Daimon moaned, ‘Mistress Wilton knows what she is doing.’

  ‘I have packed the wound to bring down the swelling,’ Lucie said. ‘Would you like some time alone?’ She rose from her seat, offering it to Winifred, who slid up on to it. As she smoothed out the skirt of her grey gown she thanked Lucie and went back to examining her son.

  Lucie thought to use the time to find something to eat and headed for the buttery. Some bread, cheese and ale would suit her.

  Sarah, the kitchen maid, was in the room, hanging fresh loaves in a wicker cage out of the reach of mice. She seemed in a hurry to complete her task when Lucie arrived. It was Sarah who had enjoyed cook’s son’s pranks. She was a large, lumbering young woman, perpetually sweating and wheezing. Her saving graces were an infectious laugh and long-fingered hands that seemed to belong to another body. Not much with which to capture a man’s heart. What had Nan’s son, Joseph, seen in her? Daimon said he had been handsome, though not a young man. Sarah’s presence in the buttery reminded Lucie that both Sarah and Joseph would have been aware of the treasury.

  ‘Do not hurry on my account,’ Lucie said. ‘Cook managed to bake this morning?’

  ‘She said we must eat,’ Sarah mumbled.

  ‘Does her son Joseph look like cook?’ Lucie asked.

  Sarah’s ruddy cheeks darkened and she ducked her head behind one of the cages. ‘He is dark like her, Mistress.’

  ‘How long ago was he sent away?’

  ‘He was not sent away. He went off to be a soldier.’ She was inching towards the door.

 
‘Have you seen him since?’

  Sarah shook her head as she reached behind her for the latch and freedom. Sweat darkened the scarf on her head.

  ‘You have no cause to be frightened,’ Lucie said as she moved towards the door, forcing Sarah into the corner. ‘Tell me about Joseph.’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘I am not to speak of him. Cook made me swear.’

  ‘I am your mistress, Sarah. And Cook’s.’

  Lucie persisted, patiently asking questions, until the young woman began to talk. Joseph had been brought up by Nan’s cousin, a tavern keeper, who trained the young man as a groom. But the lad could not take criticism from his betters. Saddle straps were tampered with, horses were fed purges as they departed the stable. Japes, Joseph called them. He had been ordered off the premises by his cousin. He had come to Freythorpe, thinking to become a groom at the manor. But he soon discovered that only Sarah laughed at his japes. Adam, the steward, had made it clear he would not entrust Joseph with the horses, having made it his business to find out why the man had left the tavern.

  ‘Why do you suppose you are not to speak of him?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Did he aim any of his japes at Walter the gatekeeper?’ It had occurred to Lucie that Walter might have been the target of the damage to the gatehouse.

  Sarah was shaking her head.

  ‘He had no problem with Walter?’

  ‘No, Mistress. His mother, Adam the steward, the other grooms – he had his fun with them, no others.’

  His mother, the steward, and the poor lads who worked alongside him. Lucie stepped away from the door. ‘You may go now. And do not fret, Sarah. I shall not mention this to Cook.’

  As Lucie stepped back into the hall, she heard Winifred thanking Tildy for sitting with her son. Not the time for Lucie to appear. She slipped out of the rear door and into the kitchen garden. Brother Michaelo perched at the edge of the bench for which Lucie was headed, breathing hard. He had a bucket of water at his feet.

  ‘I must wash off the dust and ashes,’ he explained as Lucie joined him. He had soot on his tonsure and smelled of damp ashes.

  ‘You have been helping with the gatehouse?’