by Candace Robb
‘I am honoured by your confidence in me.’
‘False humility does not become a man,’ said the priest. ‘Bishop Houghton has told me of your broad experience.’
‘And I might not therefore be humble?’
The priest shrugged. ‘It is rare in a Welshman.’
Owen grew weary of English insults. Weary in general. He said nothing, focused on walking evenly in the dry sand mixed with stones, so his side would not be jarred. Tom stayed close to his right side, ready to steady him.
Father Paul seemed to understand the silence. ‘Forgive me. I did not meant to insult you. It has been a difficult morning.’
Owen nodded, but still said nothing.
At the edge of the shingle, they stepped into the wet sand. The wind buffeted them as the sand sucked at their boots. Gulls circled about the mast of the ship, shrieking mourners. Owen climbed into the little boat, grateful for Tom’s assistance. But there would be a rope ladder for boarding the ship. He wanted both hands for that. Owen took his dagger, pulled back his open tunic, cut the cloth that held his arm to his side.
‘What are you doing?’ Tom leaned towards him.
‘Freeing my arm.’ Fortunately, he had not accepted Iolo’s offer to lace up the front of his tunic this morning. Now he shrugged it off his right shoulder. He had not counted on the wind, which blew the tunic wide. Tom grabbed it, held it so Owen could slip his injured arm into the sleeve. It was a painful process.
Father Paul shook his head. ‘Does Archdeacon Rokelyn know the extent of your wounds?’
‘Aye.’
‘He was not thinking of your comfort when he asked you to come out to the ship.’
Owen could not help but laugh at that, despite his discomfort and his dislike of the coroner. ‘No, my welfare was not in his thoughts, to be sure.’ He leaned over to the boatman, a large, quiet man. ‘Did you note anything unusual last night?’ he asked in Welsh. ‘Lights? Sounds?’
‘I might have heard something. But I sleep sound. Always been blessed with that.’
‘When did you hear something? Evening? Middle of the night?’
‘Cannot tell you. Woke in the dark and heard a shout. But as I heard no more, I thought it a dream. Went back to sleep. God watches over an old mariner.’
‘Did you know the watchman on the ship?’
‘Old Eli? Everyone knows the sluggard.’
‘It would be like him to flee in the face of trouble?’
‘Oh, aye, there is no loyalty to the man. Like Rhiannon’s ladies, he is, protects himself and the hell with the rest, especially his master. As you see. Forgive me, Father, but it is true.’
‘I would cut down the bodies,’ said Father Paul, still choosing to speak in English.
‘Then you will come out with another crew,’ said Owen. ‘We have not the strength among us. I am here to observe, no more.’
The priest gave Owen a dark look, but did not argue.
‘I have never been at sea as crew,’ Owen said to the boatman. ‘Would you board with us and search below? For anything not common on such a ship?’
The boatman glanced up at the topcastle, did not speak at once. ‘Aye,’ he said as he drew the boat alongside the ship, ‘I will do that, Captain.’
The gulls were loud here and, as Owen climbed up the rope ladder, gritting his teeth for the pain in his shoulder, they grew louder, joined now by the creaks and groans of the vessel. Tom was right behind Owen, then the priest. The boatman came last. Without a word, he headed below.
Blood stained the deck near the mast. Here is where they must have slit the throats of the men hanging above. The stench of blood mingled with the ship’s tarry odour, the salt air and the sour smell of low tide. The eyes had already been plucked from the corpses. The gulls’ cries were more ominous to Owen after that. He looked away, walked around, searching for the weapon, more blood, anything that might have been left by the murderers. Bold men, they were, to bring their victims out here. Anyone might have witnessed the passage.
Father Paul stood beneath the mast, praying for the souls of the two men. Tom poked about in the coils of rope on deck. Owen found a bloody footprint in the forecastle, but it would be difficult to know whether that had been made by the murderers or Father Paul’s earlier companions.
‘Captain!’ Tom was running towards him with something dangling from one hand. A blood-encrusted knife. ‘I found it behind a coil of rope.’
‘Well done. Perhaps someone on shore will recognise it.’
Tom glanced at it, then his clothes. ‘What shall I do with it?’
‘Wrap it in something. Go below – surely there is a torn bit of sail, a cloth. Wait.’
The boatman was coming up the ladder from below, grunting as he balanced something in one hand. Tom handed Owen the knife, went over to help the boatman. Recoiled.
‘Come now, lad, take it, will you? I have one hand to climb with. Your captain was right not to try it.’
Owen had joined them. He took the bowl. At first he did not know what he beheld. Raw meat or poorly cooked. It had not been there long. It smelled of blood, not rot. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ he whispered, suddenly understanding. Two tongues. He was fairly certain they were human tongues.
Tom had run to the side of the ship to be sick.
‘They were in the captain’s quarters,’ said the boatman. ‘There is little to see down below, though someone has gone through it, strewn the bits about.’
‘Was there any paper? Parchment? How were these laid out?’
The boatman shrugged. ‘The bowl was there, by itself, on the bunk.’
Father Paul closed his eyes at the sight of the tongues, crossed himself. ‘We shall bury them with the men.’
Later, when they were back on the shingle, Father Paul thanked Owen for coming. ‘You saw things that I did not, Captain. I grow too old for this task. I cannot help but think we might know the truth of the mason’s hanging had you been here. God go with you, Captain.’
Owen began to walk down the shingle with Tom, thinking about the climb back to St David’s, when a thought struck him. He had not spoken to Father Paul about Cynog’s death, the condition of his body, the way he had been hanged. All he knew was secondhand. The coroner was one of the first people he should have consulted. What was happening to him? He retraced his steps, Tom belatedly noticing the change and hurrying to catch up. Father Paul was mounting the wagon to bless the corpses. Owen sat down on a piling.
‘What is it?’ Tom asked. ‘Why are we waiting?’
‘Return to the city, Tom. I must speak with Father Paul.’
The young man frowned. ‘You move as a man in pain. There are shadows –’
‘Leave me!’ Owen ordered, too angry with himself to fuss with courtesy.
Tom gave a little bow and hurried away, almost tripping over himself in his haste.
Father Paul puzzled to see Owen beside the cart.
‘I would know all you remember about Cynog’s death,’ said Owen.
‘I did not mention it to give you more work – your injuries – you need rest.’
‘I can think while resting, Father.’
‘So you can.’ The vicar frowned, raised a finger, asking for patience. ‘You test my failing memory.’
Folk were moving off, now the bodies lay covered in the cart. The gulls were reclaiming the beach, busily hopping round the bits of debris, hoping for food.
‘Yes,’ the coroner said at last. ‘I remember now. He was hanging by the neck, one arm dangling by his side, the other tied to another tree limb. The noose and the loop round his arm were tied with sailor’s knots.’
‘His arm was tied?’
The vicar lifted his right arm, held it straight out to one side, the hand limp. ‘Thus. I thought to myself his murderer had set out to crucify him, then found it too difficult.’ The old man dropped his arm, closed his eyes, crossed himself. ‘He was a good man, Cynog.’
Owen wondered at this detail. ‘How could t
here have been any question whether Cynog took his own life? How could he have tied his arm while hanging?’
‘No one asked for details, save Archdeacon Rokelyn,’ said Father Paul. ‘And Father Simon.’
Him again. ‘Why Simon?’
For the first time on this grim morning, Father Paul smiled a little. ‘Simon wishes to know all our sins. I think of him as a dog, who sniffs at his fellow’s bottom. To know him.’
Owen would not have compared the elegant Simon to a dog. Paul was evidently immune to his charm. ‘So it is not ambition? Or that he is urged by another – his superior?’
‘The former, yes, yes indeed, he is greedy for power. He does all so that Bishop Houghton will make note of him. Archdeacon Baldwin despairs at his secretary’s behaviour.’
‘What else did Simon ask about Cynog?’
‘That I cannot remember, Captain. Forgive me. I pay him little heed.’
Owen thanked him and was heading away once more when Father Paul called out his name.
‘A moment! I thought you might wish to know about this morning.’
Owen shook his head, not understanding.
‘Father Simon came down to the beach. Unwell, he looked. Wished to hear all I knew of this horrible crime, which is little. More now that you found the knife and – the other.’ Father Paul dabbed his brow with his sleeve. The sun had grown quite warm. ‘I thought you would wish to know.’
‘Father Simon seems a man to whom I should speak.’
Father Paul gave a little bow. ‘I should appreciate any further thoughts.’
‘You will have them, Father Paul. God go with you.’
‘And with you, Captain.’
*
The climb from Porth Clais exhausted Owen. He had lost much blood a few days ago and he paid for it now. His head and heart pounded, his legs felt uncertain. He regretted unbinding his arm, which he tried to keep bent close to his body. The stitches in his side burned like hot coals. He slowed his gait.
What he had seen on board was horrible, but he had seen worse, far worse on a battlefield. Still, in war a man expected to see such things. One became numb. Owen was no longer numb. In body or in spirit. Who might order such an execution? And have the men to carry it out?
Hywel. Owen did not like that conclusion. But he kept coming back to it. Glynis had been in Hywel’s camp. He had men all about. But what connection had Hywel to Piers? Or Siencyn?
A sudden sharp stab of pain stopped Owen near the masons’ lodge. He clutched his side, swore under his breath. He feared he was bleeding.
Ranulf de Hutton approached. ‘You look to be in pain.’ He offered an arm.
‘You are kind.’ Owen let Ranulf help him to a bench just within the lodge. Two men worked in there, chiselling a design in some blocks. They ignored Owen.
The mason offered Owen a cup of ale. He took a sip, waited to see how it would affect him. He glanced round the work area. ‘What part of this was Cynog’s work?’
Ranulf nodded to a wall of the cloister that was almost complete. ‘And some of the decorated capstones that have been set aside. Better?’
‘A little. I thank you.’ The sharp pain in Owen’s side had subsided. It had settled to a dull ache. He imagined Lucie’s gentle hands, rubbing soothing lotions on to the scar. How old would the scar be by the time he reached York?
Owen pushed away the thoughts of home. An idea teased him. Cynog’s hand had been tied. Why? A symbol of his treason in making the carvings for Hywel? Was Father Paul right? A crucifixion abandoned for a simpler hanging? But Cynog would have been cut down by the first passer-by. Had the murderer been frightened away that morning? Before his work was complete? Tied the hand to the branch in preparation for hacking it off? A hand cut off. Tongues cut out – because Siencyn and Piers might talk? Were the brothers working for Hywel as well? Perhaps Piers had not been Cynog’s hangman. Then what king’s man was punishing traitors with such quiet brutality?
Owen had no idea. It was beyond anything he might suspect of the archdeacons. Their purpose was to keep the peace, not create a reign of terror. Staring at the walls, he tried to imagine this already a cloister – a quiet place to reflect. But it was impossible with the masons working, mallets to chisels to stone.
‘Captain Archer.’
Ranulf de Hutton still stood a few paces distant, his hands resting on his round stomach.
Owen turned. ‘I thought you had gone.’
‘The tomb is nearly complete. Would you care to see?’
A moment of peace in this grim morning. ‘Aye, I would.’
Ranulf did not move. ‘Beside the tomb is a pile of stones on which Cynog scratched ideas. I have followed my own memory with Sir Robert’s features, but I used Cynog’s idea for the pilgrim’s hat and the helmet at his feet. I recommend that you look through the rubble, see if there is anything you wish me to add.’ Ranulf’s large ears had grown quite red, as if the speech were difficult for him.
Now he turned on his bandy legs and led Owen to the back of the masons’ lodge. With a dramatic flourish, Ranulf removed a quilt of sacking.
The tomb was magnificent in its simplicity. Sir Robert’s features were suggested by subtle angles, though his hair was perhaps thicker than it had been in life. And of course the eyes were lifeless, but his gentle smile was there, in the curve of the mouth, the crease in the left cheek. The symbols of his two lives, that of soldier and that of pilgrim, were well conceived.
‘I am pleased with it,’ said Owen. ‘What more might I add?’
Ranulf pointed to what seemed a pile of rubble to one side of the lodge. ‘My fellow worked hard, Captain. Perhaps you will see something fitting that I overlooked. Or something you might wish to take with you.’
‘And if I find nothing? I can tell the archdeacon the tomb can be moved into place in the cathedral? Sir Robert can be placed in it?’
‘Aye. A bit of polishing to do, but that is less intricate work. I can finish it by lamplight.’
Owen’s side protested as he crouched to look at the stones. He chose to sit on the ground. What work Cynog had invested in these chalk sketches on slate. Some of the rubble was softer stone and this he had used to carve shallow lines. Faces, helmets, pilgrim hats, feet, hands. And then a stone that looked familiar. A map. He put this stone aside, along with one of Sir Robert’s face that Owen thought to keep. He found another stone with curved lines and small, angular marks. A map such as the one he had handed Griffith, but clearer, with more detail. Had Cynog been so foolish as to leave evidence of his map work?
Ranulf crouched down beside him. Softly he said, ‘I see you found the puzzling ones.’
‘Do you know these were done by Cynog?’
‘They do not seem his work, though it was he who hid them away among the discarded stones. Father Simon would come for him, Cynog would go to the hiding place, then leave with something concealed beneath his apron. Part of the wall he was repairing for Archdeacon Baldwin? Then why the secrecy? I was not going to speak. But after what was found this morning, I hated myself for my silence. I might have helped you prevent two more deaths. God’s children, they were, no matter whether I liked them. And seeing your pain, that settled me. After all you have done to find Cynog’s murderer.’
‘How often did Simon come for Cynog?’
Ranulf thought a moment. ‘I cannot put it so particularly, but more that Cynog’s visits to his parents provoked much work on the wall. He worked on it for almost a year. Not so much of late. He begged the tomb. And then –’ Ranulf looked away.
‘I thank you for telling me.’
‘I was jealous of him, you see. He had everything – fair of face and form, gifted, and this tomb. I followed him about, hoping to catch him at something wicked. I almost took the stones to Bishop Houghton. But I had a feeling about them. I thank the Lord I said naught. I cannot have been the cause of his murder. But – might the others be alive if I had told you?’
‘I am not that gifted in this work, R
anulf. I do not think so.’
Ranulf pulled off his cap and wiped his forehead, his eyes, nodding his thanks, his relief. ‘You might look at the wall in the archdeacon’s undercroft. Damp from the river. As I have said, God watches over the masons here. Take a lantern down there after the household leaves today. Better if Simon does not catch you.’
‘Baldwin’s household is leaving?’
‘For Carmarthen. He is Archdeacon of Carmarthen, you understand.’
‘I do.’
‘Can I give you a hand up, Captain?’ Ranulf spoke the last in a louder tone.
Owen appreciated the help. ‘God bless you for everything, Ranulf,’ he said when he was standing once more.
Ranulf handed Owen a sturdy cloth pouch, bent over, lifted the two stone maps and the face. He smiled as he handed Owen the latter. ‘Faith, that is my piece.’
‘I thought so. My wife will like to have it. God go with you, Ranulf.’
‘And with you, Captain. May He watch over you.’
May He allow me to find Father Simon still in the city, Owen thought.
Nineteen
PENANCES
It had been a quiet day in the household and the shop, but the peace was shattered when Lucie sent Jasper up to fetch Phillippa for dinner. In little time he came clattering down the steps, knocking Gwenllian over in his haste. ‘Dame Phillippa is gone! Her clothes, everything,’ he gasped.
Lucie hurried upstairs. The bedclothes were smoothed, Phillippa’s cloak was not on the hook, her walking stick was not propped beside it. Gwenllian began to wail in delayed indignation. Lucie looked round the room. Phillippa’s chest was at the foot of the bed. Perhaps she had tucked her cloak and walking stick in there. Whispering a prayer, Lucie lifted the lid. Phillippa’s second gown and her nightdress were neatly folded over her extra shoes, stockings, her brush and silvered glass. But the cloak and stick were missing.
Struggling to control her panic, Lucie slowly descended the steps. Kate was just disappearing into the kitchen with the children.
Jasper sat on the bottom step. Lucie gathered her skirts and joined him. ‘I shall go mad,’ she muttered. ‘I shall, well and truly. Where can she be?’
