by Candace Robb
‘I have. Though how much help I have been I cannot say.’
His modesty was becoming. ‘I am grateful for all you have done, Brother Michaelo. My father was blessed in his friends.’
He bowed his head.
‘Have you seen Harold?’
‘He is still out in the yard, helping clear the debris.’ Michaelo began to rise, then changed his mind. ‘Forgive me if I seem to pry, Mistress Wilton, but what do you mean to do? Will you leave as you had planned?’
‘I cannot stay. My children, my work are in the city. I pray the servants and tenants understand that I am not fleeing the trouble. I would lief stay until everything is put right, but how can I do that?’
‘Your people understand. But might I suggest – you could ask Harold to return after he escorts you to the city. He has worked hard, side by side with the men, and they appear to trust him. I can find no fault in the decisions he has made or the manner in which he has proceeded.’
‘You have changed your mind about him.’
‘I was uncertain about him before. God has given me the opportunity to judge him by his deeds. It is the best way to know a man. And now I shall hold my peace. I merely thought –’
‘I thank you for your advice, Brother Michaelo. I shall speak to Harold.’
Michaelo looked relieved. ‘And for my part, I shall urge His Grace to send at least two well-armed men at once.’
Brother Michaelo took his leave the next morning with gratitude and misgivings. The roofless gatehouse, charred and jagged, cast a gloomy pall over the courtyard. For the inhabitants of Freythorpe Hadden it would colour all their days until it was repaired or torn down. An inescapable reminder of the horror of two nights past and of yesterday, when the upper storey had given way. Who would not give thanks to God for calling him away? Was his relief in leaving the cause of his misgivings? A sense of guilt? Or was it the image of Sir Robert that kept coming to mind, his hand on Michaelo’s head, asking him to keep Mistress Wilton in his prayers? Keeping her in his prayers was easy. But should he be doing more? He carried the letter to the archbishop, asking for protection, that was something more. And who else might be trusted to convince Archbishop Thoresby of the danger manifest in the attack? But what of leaving Mistress Wilton in the hands of Harold Galfrey? Could one man see them safely to York? Once she was in the city, Michaelo had no doubt she would be safe, but he prayed outlaws would not waylay the three travellers on the road.
He added a prayer for himself. Travelling alone was foolhardy in the best of times.
*
After two days of sunny, mild weather, the sky had dulled and there was a chill to the breeze that threatened rain. Lucie rubbed her hands together for warmth as she waited in the stable for Ralph, the groom her father had disciplined. He had yet to saddle her mount. At last he appeared, buffing a buckle with a soft cloth and humming to himself. When he saw Lucie he straightened up and assured her that her horse would be saddled at once.
She had resolved to speak to him, as she had to Sarah, hoping she might tell by his reactions to her questions whether he harboured ill feelings towards her family. Or Walter’s.
She nodded to the buckle. ‘Sir Robert would have been pleased by that bit of polishing.’
‘Oh, aye, the master liked a shine to his saddle and bridle, God rest his soul.’
‘You miss him, do you?’
‘I do, Mistress.’
‘You would not always have said so.’
Ralph ducked his head. ‘You have heard. Aye, at first he found fault with me at every turn. I ran away. He sent Adam the steward after me. Gave me a good whipping. Then he asked if I cared to learn how to do things right. They do say not many masters would have bothered about me.’
Lucie believed him.
‘I am sorry about the trouble, Mistress,’ he said.
‘God bless you, Ralph.’ He seemed content. Not a man with cause to strike out at her family.
As the small party rode out of the yard at Freythorpe, Lucie turned back again and again to stare at the crippled gatehouse. She had asked Brother Michaelo to pray for her, that God might reveal to her the sin for which she was so punished, and all her innocent tenants with her. Outlaws were not God’s sergeants, he had assured her. They did not attack at God’s command. Then why had this been visited upon her in the midst of all her other trials?
Perhaps because she sensed Lucie’s distress, Phillippa had risen quietly, packed, dressed sensibly and, after a few last instructions for Tildy, climbed on to the seat of the cart to await her companions. She sat straight and tall, keeping her devils at bay. When Lucie would climb up beside her, she shook her head. ‘You prefer the back of a horse. So would I if my old bones would permit it. Ride. I promise to keep my head and the donkey’s.’
Lucie had felt Harold’s eyes upon her as the groom helped her mount. Did he worry about her as she did Phillippa? An unpleasant thought.
But the gatehouse haunted her and he was right when he said as he rode up beside her, ‘You must look forward, Mistress Wilton. The gatehouse can be rebuilt. Daimon will recover. And the sheriff might prove his worth and recover what you lost.’
The blue eyes and warm smile were not enough to cheer her. But she found it comforting to think of Harold overseeing the repairs and told him so. God had not completely abandoned her.
They rode most of the way side by side, in companionable silence.
Despite everything, it was a happy homecoming for Lucie. The garden rang with the children’s joyful shrieks when they saw her and their Great-aunt Phillippa. Jasper declared he had missed her.
While Lucie told a wide-eyed Jasper of the troubles of the past few days, Harold crossed the street to Roger Moreton’s house to discuss his return to Freythorpe Hadden. Roger came hurrying back with Harold in tow, not content with loaning Harold, but offering to hire a stonemason to rebuild the gatehouse – at Roger’s expense.
‘I know an excellent mason. A stone gatehouse is what you need. Let it be my gift to you and Owen.’
Lucie refused. She could not possibly accept such a gift. But she would be glad of his company when she gave her report to the sheriff on the morrow.
After Roger had departed, Phillippa tsked and flicked at invisible dust on the table until Lucie asked what ailed her.
‘I thought you bold to ride so companionably with the steward Harold. But now I see that is nothing to how you behave with his master.’
Lucie sent Jasper off to the shop to make up an unguent for Harold, who had a painful blister on his leg, a burn that had been irritated by the ride. When the young man was out the door, Lucie turned to her aunt. ‘To say such things in front of Jasper. How could you?’
‘He is old enough to hear such things.’
‘What? Untruths? Your imaginings? Did you think to ask me first how I felt about either man?’
‘It is plain how you feel. A neighbour does not offer such gifts.’
‘When Roger Moreton’s wife was ill, Tildy and I took turns sitting with her. I saw how bad it was and sent for Magda. Roger was beside himself, he could not think what to do. He remembers, Aunt.’ Lucie realised she was too angry, almost spitting out her words, and turned away, trying to calm herself. ‘You have opened up a wound between Jasper and me that has just been healed with great effort,’ she said softly. ‘I cannot think why you would wish to do such a thing.’
Phillippa did not reply at once. Lucie heard her dust off the bench, fuss with her skirt, sit down. ‘Kate neglects this room. The air is stale, the benches dusty and beneath – look at the cobwebs.’
Lucie turned to her aunt, but already the faraway look was back. It seemed futile to argue with her, but sweet heaven, how much more could she endure? People were kind to Lucie in her husband’s absence and she was to turn them away? She escaped to the shop. Jasper was just wrapping up the unguent.
‘Are you too tired to take a message to Magda Digby?’ Lucie asked. The Riverwoman lived on a small tidal island
upriver from St Mary’s Abbey. Jasper assured her he was never too tired to visit Magda, even if the tide were in and he had to row. ‘Tell her of the attack and Daimon’s wounds. Ask her if she would journey to him. If so, I shall come to her tomorrow to tell her what I have done for him.’ Jasper took up the unguent for Harold and walked happily out into the busy street.
Eight
INTO THE WOOD
On a morning of mists and the damp smell of earth, Owen set out for the cathedral. Rokelyn had sent a message recommending Ranulf de Hutton as the mason to complete Sir Robert’s tomb. Owen wished to speak with him before he agreed.
The masons’ lodge sat at the north end of the cathedral, just beyond the area plotted out for the cloisters and St Mary’s college. Ranulf was not there, just two journeymen preparing stones for the cloister. Their chatter ceased as Owen approached. They nodded in greeting, but remained quiet and unsmiling, clearly uncomfortable with his presence.
‘Master Hutton you will find in the nave,’ one said to his question, ‘repairing an ornament near Bishop Gower’s tomb.’
Owen thanked them and left them in peace. The community was too close for work such as his. Too aware of his mission. And God help him, perhaps too aware of Owen’s petty complaints. Why had Cynog gossiped about him?
Owen’s boots whispered on the brown and ivory tiles as he entered the cathedral, moving to one side of the line of pilgrims progressing to St David’s shrine. The tiles were beautiful, as artfully made and set as those in the fine Cistercian abbeys of Fountains and Rievaulx in Yorkshire.
In the nave, near the choir, the mason stood on a short scaffolding that held two lamps on either side of the stonework on which he was working. He was pressed close to the wall, running his fingers along the surface of some plainly carved moulding, his head to one side. His hands were wide and flat-fingered, missing a joint of the forefinger on his left hand.
‘Built on a swamp, this church,’ the mason said when he noticed Owen down below. ‘Damp and settling, always replacing pieces.’
Owen could just barely make out one of the seams in the stone, though he could tell the boundaries of the section Ranulf examined.
The mason turned to Owen as he dusted off his hands. Cynog had been a slender man of middle years, with an expressive face and eyes that always seemed to be opened wide with wonder. He had had fine-boned, delicate hands with the long, tapered fingers of a musician. Ranulf was bandy-legged and pot-bellied, with huge ears that stuck out from his cap and looked chapped from the chill damp in the cathedral. ‘I should not complain. It is good work and plenty, with never a rush. But I sometimes wonder who was the daft one to set it here.’
‘I thought the story was God told St David to set it here,’ said Owen.
‘Aye, well, so they say. The good Lord was thinking of the masons, I suppose. We shall never want for work.’ Ranulf scratched at his cap. ‘But you did not come here to discuss the site, eh?’ He climbed down from the scaffolding, revealing himself to be a head shorter than Owen. He took off his cap and scratched his oily hair with the stub of the damaged finger.
‘Not as inconvenient as your scar, Captain Archer,’ he said when he saw the direction of Owen’s gaze. ‘It is just part of a finger gone.’
‘Forgive me.’ Owen was embarrassed. He himself hated folks staring at his scar.
‘And no, it does not hurt my work.’ Ranulf hugged himself and shivered dramatically. ‘God’s blood it is cold in here. If we are to talk, let us step outside, where the lads are mixing mortar. They have a fire that will thaw my fingers and toes. I am a pleasant man when warm.’
But as it turned out he was pleasant only when talking about the tomb. He did not wish to veer from that subject, though about the tomb he was quite eager.
‘I met Sir Robert, I did.’ He squinted up at Owen and shook his head. ‘You are surprised. A mason and a knight, what have we in common?’ He rubbed his hands over the fire. ‘Fine chin and cheekbones. Nice, long, delicate nose. I can make something of that.’ He smiled as if already admiring the fruits of his labours.
‘How did you come to meet Sir Robert?’
‘He watched me work on some ceiling bosses. Admired my work. You see? I should have been your choice from the beginning. He would have chosen me.’
Owen liked him.
‘And the tomb would have been finished by now,’ Ranulf added with a self-satisfied sniff.
‘About Cynog –’
Ranulf silenced him with a frown and shake of his head. ‘I shall not speak of him. He is dead. Leave him in peace.’
‘I merely wondered –’
Ranulf shook his head again. ‘Nothing of Cynog. Look you, Captain, Archdeacon Rokelyn does not care about Cynog. The archdeacon’s ambition is served by this investigation, not Cynog’s memory. He wishes to stage a grand capture, one of the traitors, mayhap. Then Bishop Houghton will remember it when he is raised to his next position and will be pleased to carry the archdeacon with him. Let Cynog rest in peace.’
‘Some feel a murdered man does not rest in peace until his murderer be known.’
‘You have Piers. I can think of no one more likely to be guilty.’
‘Then tell me. Why did Piers do it? Is he a traitor?’
Ranulf stamped his feet, shook his arms for warmth. ‘I know nothing. And I shall talk no more about the dead.’
Owen did not wish to push Ranulf past his patience. He asked the mason a few more questions about his work, then declared himself pleased with Rokelyn’s recommendation. With a shake of hands Ranulf agreed to begin work on the morrow. Should he have any problems, he would leave messages for Owen with the porter at the palace.
‘Would you grant me one favour concerning Cynog?’ Owen asked.
Ranulf muttered a curse.
‘If you would just tell me how to find his parents.’
The mason frowned. ‘To what purpose?’
‘To hear from them any cause they can imagine for their son’s murder.’
‘You will go alone?’
‘With one of my men, that is all.’
Ranulf pondered, seemingly talking to himself. At last he said, ‘I can see little harm in it.’ He described to Owen a farmhouse not too distant from the city, easily a day’s ride there and back, with an early start. ‘Though by foot would be kinder. Horses do not fare well on the rocky heights.’
Owen thanked him.
‘You will tell his parents that we pray for them?’ Ranulf called after him.
Owen nodded.
And now where to go? It was too late to start for the farm of Cynog’s parents – Owen must leave that for the next day. He still hesitated about going to Clegyr Boia to find Martin. He crossed Llechllafar while he considered his next move. But God decided for him. Among the pilgrims thronging at the south entrance of the cathedral stood a man about whom Owen was increasingly curious – Father Simon. The tall, fair-haired vicar stood apart from the others, watching Owen approach. He was a handsome man.
‘God go with you, Master Summoner,’ Owen said as he reached him.
Father Simon’s fair brows joined in confusion. ‘Summoner? We have none in St David’s.’
‘I pray you, forgive me. I had understood you act in that capacity here.’
The vicar blushed and his pale eyes narrowed as he backed farther away from the crowd of pilgrims. ‘I believe you mean to insult me, Captain, but I am at a loss as to the cause. How have I offended you?’
‘Yesterday you followed me to Porth Clais. Today you bullied Piers the Mariner after plying him with ale.’
‘This offends you?’ Simon spread his arms and smiled crookedly. ‘Very well, yesterday I was concerned that you should not attempt to slip away. I knew that Archdeacon Rokelyn had ordered you to stay.’
‘I am ever more confused. Are you not the secretary to Archdeacon Baldwin rather than Archdeacon Rokelyn?’
The smile disappeared. ‘What do you want with me, Captain?’
‘On wh
ose authority did you interrogate Piers?’
‘On my own.’ Simon bristled as he said it. ‘The mariner is an abomination in our holy city. As is the demon who ordered the execution.’
‘Indeed. Which is why Archdeacon Rokelyn wishes me to investigate. There is no need for you to do so.’
‘I wish merely to speed you on your way.’
‘I thank you for that. You can assist me by seeing to your own work and leaving me to mine,’ Owen said. ‘Piers might have been more forthcoming with me had I been his first visitor today.’
‘You flatter yourself.’
Archdeacon Baldwin appeared in the doorway of the cathedral, two servants preceding him to wave the pilgrims aside. ‘Am I to be kept waiting all morning?’ Baldwin demanded of Simon. He glanced at Owen, his expression softening. ‘Benedicte, Captain Archer. You are well?’
Owen bowed to the archdeacon. ‘I am, Father. Benedicte. I did not realise I kept Father Simon from his duties.’
‘One would be hard pressed to do that, Captain,’ Baldwin said, lifting his eyes to heaven and shaking his head.
Simon flushed and averted his eyes.
‘Come, Simon.’ As the two clerics withdrew into the candlelit cathedral, the pilgrims flowed forward into the open doorway.
Owen turned down the path to Patrick’s Gate – it seemed safe now to seek out Martin. He thought of Simon’s embarrassment. He scorned the vicar’s self-important piety, but how was Owen any better, sniffing out murderers, spending his days asking questions no one cared to answer?
Would that Owen were Iolo’s age and free. To serve Owain Lawgoch – fight for a just cause, support a man of old, noble lineage – he had spoken the truth when he told Iolo that is what he would do. He could be useful to Lawgoch. For as much as he disliked being privy to Archbishop Thoresby’s machinations, they had taught him much about the court and the Duke of Lancaster’s vast household. But Lucie, Gwenllian, Hugh – how could he desert them? Was it possible they would come here, that Lucie would understand his need to feel he had chosen his own path?
Without the gate he headed up along the city walls until they bent towards the north-west gate, then struck off through the brush towards the hill on which the Irish Chief Boia had built his fort. Long ruined, its crumbling foundations and overgrown cellars lured lovers and others who did not wish to be seen. Owen climbed the hill, found a high place he might sit for a while, alerting Martin’s watcher.
