by Candace Robb
Jasper listened with a grave face.
When Lucie was finished, she poured them both some wine, watered both cups. ‘God has been trying me sorely,’ she said. ‘Forgive me if I have not listened to you as I might.’
‘I could go to the manor to search for the parchment and check the account books.’
Ignoring her inclination to reject the offer, Lucie said, ‘I shall consider it. We need to discuss it with Dame Phillippa, learn where she has hidden it in the past. Perhaps that will suggest where to look.’
‘Or she might remember. What do you think it might be?’
‘I wish I knew, my love. That might also help us know who attacked Freythorpe.’
‘Will I be there, when you talk to her?’
‘You will.’
They finished their wine in companionable silence, then climbed wearily up to their beds, the cats padding softly ahead of them.
Twenty
THE MORALITY OF HYWEL’S WAR
Owen hoisted the pouch of stones over his good shoulder and trudged off along the new stonework of the cloister to the west front of the cathedral, ordering his thoughts as he walked. Though aware that Friar Hewald waited anxiously at Rokelyn’s, Owen could not abandon Cynog, not now. He had pieced much together, but there were gaps and contradictions for which he could not account. He must settle for what he had – the imminent removal of Archdeacon Baldwin’s household forced his hand. He must confront Baldwin and Simon to discover what they knew, or indeed what part they had played in the three deaths.
Cynog’s parents had said that at one time he had talked much about Owain Lawgoch, but then grew quiet. Had he been disillusioned? Had he given copies of Hywel’s maps to Archdeacon Baldwin? And Cynog’s right hand – who was the executioner who had been frightened away before completing his grim task? Owen feared it was Hywel who had ordered the deed: he had beaten the horse thieves for their mistake, he might well have a traitor mutilated and executed. Did this serve his prince?
He still had too few facts to accuse anyone of Cynog’s murder. Piers the Mariner? Why? And why, then, was Piers executed, and his brother as well? At first Owen had suspected that they had been hiding something on the ship. But the tongues had turned his mind to lies or betrayals. Was he wrong? Were the tongues leading him to a false surmise? But surely such a grim deed had been meant as a message? Had served a purpose?
All three men had been executed. Rokelyn had been right about Cynog’s death from the start. But what had Baldwin and Simon to do with it? And how was it that Rokelyn knew nothing of their involvement? Or did he? Was that why Owen must investigate, rather than someone in the city?
What else did Owen know? Glynis had put a sleeping draught in the ale she gave Edmund and Jared. But she had not helped Piers escape that day. It was later that night that she did so. Had she been frightened by something on her first attempt? Or had she learned something from Piers, betrayed him to Hywel, who then ordered her to deliver her lover to him?
As Owen crossed over Llechllafar, passing the pilgrims’ entrance to the cathedral, he thought about Sir Robert’s tomb. Cynog had been blessed with such a gift. Would Owain Lawgoch, rightful Prince of Wales, order the death of such a man? In war, perhaps. But this was not war. Yet.
*
The house of Archdeacon Baldwin sat apart from most of the others, across the River Alun from the palace, near Patrick’s Gate. Several carts crowded the narrow lane. The pilgrims had to pick their way past them and a few servants stood guard over the contents.
One of them stepped forward to bar Owen’s way.
Owen dropped the pouch to the ground, rubbed his left hand. ‘I wish to speak with Archdeacon Baldwin and Father Simon.’
‘What is your business with my master?’
‘If you would tell him Captain Archer is here,’ Owen said quietly, though he put all his irritation into the eye that glared at the servant.
The man withdrew to the house.
In a moment, he returned. ‘The Archdeacon will see you, Captain.’ He offered to carry the pouch.
Owen nodded. ‘It is for the Archdeacon.’ He did not glance back, but he heard the man’s curse as he lifted the pouch. It was not unreasonably heavy, merely a surprising load when one expected other than stones.
Owen followed Baldwin’s loud voice – suited for sermons, not housework. The archdeacon was directing the packing of a chest in the hall.
‘Benedicte, Captain Archer.’ His dark hair was dusty, various pieces of cloth draped over one forearm, a pile of documents at his feet. ‘As you see, I am about to depart. I hoped to make Llawhaden Castle by nightfall, but the incident on the beach has turned all fingers to thumbs among my household.’
The servant following with the pouch of stones set it down with a thud at Owen’s feet. Baldwin looked down inquiringly.
‘Would you permit me to look at the wall Cynog repaired in your undercroft?’ Owen asked.
‘What is in the pouch?’
Owen glanced at the servant bent over the chest. ‘It would be better to talk in private.’
Baldwin followed his gaze. ‘No, no. No time to let them be idle.’
‘Perhaps we might talk in the undercroft? And then I would talk to Father Simon.’
Now Baldwin fixed his eyes on Owen. ‘He is at the cathedral.’
‘Could you send for him?’
‘What is this about?’
Owen lifted the pouch of stones. ‘Do you have a lantern?’
Baldwin dropped the cloths, told the servant to continue packing – the chest must be ready when he returned. At the hall entrance the archdeacon shouted to one of the men guarding the carts to fetch Father Simon from the cathedral at once. Then he took a lantern from a hook and led the way through a door to a landing atop wooden steps that dropped down into darkness.
Baldwin opened up the shuttered lantern, closed the door behind them. ‘Is this about the deaths?’
‘The executions,’ Owen said.
‘You think I would order such heinous acts?’
‘You might. If by such deeds you thought to ensure peace in this holy city.’
‘Are you mad?’ Baldwin held the light closer to Owen, almost blinding him.
‘God’s blood,’ Owen growled, grabbing the lantern with his right hand. Painful, but worse if he stumbled after the fool blinded him in his one good eye with the light. ‘The wall, Father.’
‘We have peace in the city.’
‘For how long? When Owain Lawgoch arrives with his Welsh and French army, do you think they will skirt round St David’s and leave you in peace? And those within – how many Welshmen would rather die for the rightful Prince of Wales than for King Edward?’
‘Are you one of them?’
‘Show me the wall.’
‘You think I am one of them. Or that Simon is.’ Baldwin started for the door.
Owen barred the way, lantern in one hand, bag of stones in the other. Pain shot down his right side, but by the Rood he meant to see that wall before Father Simon arrived.
Baldwin nodded to the pouch. ‘What is in there?’
‘Stones. Come. Show me the wall.’
The archdeacon turned back to the landing. Owen shone the light down the steps.
Baldwin hesitated. ‘Why should I trust you?’
‘I am working for your fellow, Archdeacon Rokelyn,’ Owen growled.
‘Faith, I had forgotten that.’ Baldwin shook his head and began the descent.
The stench of damp, mould and worse, and a chill that erased memory of the spring day without, enveloped Owen as he left the landing. He understood the archdeacon’s hesitation. But once Baldwin was in motion he made short work of the stairs. Owen left the pouch on the bottom step and hurried after his guide, who navigated through piles of old furniture, barrels stacked atop one another, to a cleared area before the far wall.
It was a stone wall, like any other, bare of plaster, the stones exposed. Owen passed the light along its length.
On the far left, dampness glistened on stained stones, to the right the stones were dry.
‘As you see, a damp wall, too close to the river, partially rebuilt where the rats came through. What did you hope to find, Captain?’ Baldwin’s voice seemed muffled in this cluttered dungeon.
Owen moved closer to the repaired side, looking for some sign of loose or decorated stones, something to indicate where the maps were or had been. Where would Cynog have placed them? The ceiling was low – this was more a cellar than an undercroft. Owen could see the top stones. Simon was as tall as he, but not Cynog. Owen crouched down, ran the light across the lower stones. Nothing. ‘Christ save us, it must be here.’
‘Master Baldwin?’ someone called from above. It was Father Simon.
‘Simon!’ Baldwin shouted. ‘Come below.’
Pushing up from his crouch, Owen hurried to the steps to retrieve the stones. Baldwin, protesting the loss of light, followed. Pouch in hand, Owen considered what he should do. Father Simon bore an oil lamp, which gave off such a dim light he must move slowly. Even so, he was by now almost to the bottom.
Owen slipped off to the right, Baldwin following.
‘Master?’ Simon called.
Setting the lantern on a barrel, Owen lifted out the stones bearing maps and handed them to Baldwin. ‘Do you recognise these?’
Baldwin held them towards the light, turned them about, studying them. ‘Someone has defaced these? Why do you show them to me? What have they to do with Simon?’
‘I have reason to believe Cynog used stones such as these in the repairs to your undercroft. They are not defaced, they carry messages.’
‘Messages? In my cellar wall?’ Baldwin managed a nervous laugh. ‘You are mad.’
Owen sensed Simon behind him, grabbed the lantern and spun round. Blinded, Simon dropped the oil lamp.
‘For the love of God!’ Baldwin cried, lunging towards a smoking pool of spilled oil.
A healthy fear of fire, but Owen saw there was no need. ‘It is a small lamp,’ he said, ‘and an earthen floor.’
‘But the barrels.’ Baldwin made to stomp out the smoke.
Owen pulled him back. ‘Save your boots. You are more at risk if the hem of your gown touches the smouldering oil.’
Simon bent down to retrieve the empty lamp, sat it on a barrel. ‘Have you found what you sought, Captain?’ he asked in a voice lacking all emotion.
‘He claims –’ Baldwin began.
‘I have two of the stones,’ Owen said.
‘You cannot,’ said Simon. ‘I removed them this morning.’
‘What is this?’ Baldwin grabbed his secretary’s arm. ‘What do you know of this?’
Simon shook off the archdeacon’s hand. ‘Cynog came to me. I did not go to him. But neither did I turn him away.’ He spoke to Owen.
‘What is it?’ Baldwin looked from one to the other. ‘What have you done, Simon? What are these stones?’
‘I ask only that Bishop Houghton judge me, not Archdeacon Rokelyn.’
Not the words of a man intending to run. Owen thought fresh air and light was worth the risk. ‘Let us go up. We have much to talk about.’
The servant in the hall was dismissed. In the light, Owen saw the ravages of the day on Simon. Hollow-eyed, slack-mouthed, he was a man who had seen the enormity of what he had helped put in motion. He sat down on a bench, head bowed.
Baldwin stood over him. ‘You meddling man. Tell me. Tell me all of it.’
Owen eased down into a chair. ‘What did you do with the maps?’
‘I meant them for Bishop Houghton. He has the forces to capture Hywel, save our holy city from civil war.’
‘What are these maps?’ Baldwin demanded.
‘The way to Hywel’s camps. Cynog carved markers based on stone maps such as these and placed them in the countryside,’ said Owen.
‘And then scratched maps on stones for Father Simon?’ Baldwin did not sound as if he believed it.
Simon shook his head. ‘The maps were already on stones – they were delivered to Cynog that way – Lord Hywel must have thought it a clever ruse. After using them to set the markers, Cynog brought them to me. Under cover of working on the undercroft. I hid them in the wall until I could deliver them to Bishop Houghton.’
‘Lord Hywel,’ Baldwin murmured. ‘I begin to understand. But you should have gone to Archdeacon Rokelyn.’
Simon sat silently, his eyes downcast, his hands limp in his lap.
‘Cynog thus gave you the means to locate Owain Lawgoch’s supporters,’ Owen said. ‘And it was for that, his betrayal of Hywel, that he was executed. Am I right?’
‘I should not have agreed to it,’ Simon whispered.
Baldwin sank down on to a chair with a look of horror. ‘This is how you meant to protect us from bloodshed?’
‘Cynog was angry,’ said Simon. ‘I should have guided him to prayer, not deceit.’
‘You should have kept your own counsel,’ Baldwin cried.
‘I pray you,’ Owen said to the archdeacon, ‘let Simon speak. We must hear the truth of this.’
Baldwin put his head in his hands.
‘What made Cynog so angry?’ Owen asked.
Simon lifted anguished eyes to Owen, shook his head slowly, as if wondering how he came to be here. ‘Why do you torment me with questions? You know the tale.’
‘Tell me the tale.’
‘Cynog loved Glynis. She told him she admired the men who were joining Hywel’s cause. To win her admiration he approached Hywel, joined his men. And after a time Glynis withdrew her affections. At Hywel’s command, she turned her eye to Piers the Mariner.’
‘Why him?’
Simon’s breathing was shallow, quick. ‘Piers had boasted that he might join Hywel’s army. His brother Siencyn encouraged him – Piers was not a man any captain wanted on his ship, even his brother. He used his fists rather than his wits.’
‘And Piers executed Cynog,’ Owen said.
‘He did. He confessed to me that he did it to prove himself trustworthy to Hywel. It might have worked, had you not come along. People wanted to believe they had fought over Glynis, that Cynog had been winning her back.’
‘A man does not hang a rival, Father.’
Simon stared down at his hands in silence.
‘And what did Cynog do to win Hywel’s trust?’ Owen asked.
Simon took a deep breath. ‘I do not know how he first won it. But of late, Hywel sensed Cynog backing away and set him a new task – he was to find out what he could about you, so that Hywel might have something to use in persuading you to join his cause. Cynog was sorry for that. He meant to warn you when you returned.’ He raised his eyes to Owen. ‘And what was your test, Captain? I cannot think you managed the execution of the brothers, not injured as you are. What did you do? Or is it my execution that will confirm your standing with the madman?’
Baldwin’s head shot up.
Dear God, is that what he thought? Owen began to protest. But he was so close to understanding. This was not the moment to reassure Simon. ‘Hywel had Piers executed because he confessed to you, is that not true?’
‘His tongue cut out.’ Simon covered his face with his hands.
‘But Piers must have done far more than that,’ Owen prodded.
The secretary said nothing.
‘Piers named others in St David’s who worked for Hywel,’ Owen guessed.
‘Yes,’ Simon whispered.
‘Why?’
Simon raised his head, his face defenceless. ‘I told him that Archdeacon Baldwin meant to urge Rokelyn to send him on to the bishop’s gaol at Llawhaden, to be tried as a traitor to the king. Unless he helped us.’
‘I see why the archdeacon called you a meddling man.’
Simon did not deny it. ‘All along, Piers believed that Hywel would save him. But help had not come.’
Foolish man. ‘Piers had not understood he was to be a martyr for the Welsh cause.’
Simon shook his
head. ‘But Captain Siencyn guessed. And he explained it to Piers.’
‘He did his brother no favour. From martyr to traitor – he merely hastened the execution. Did Siencyn not understand that traitors are executed in war?’
Simon looked at Owen as if he were mad. ‘We are not at war.’
‘You are not. Hywel is. So Captain Siencyn was executed for convincing his brother to betray Hywel?’
‘He, too, betrayed him. It was from him that I learned much of what I know. Even some of the names. There were not many in the end. So. Are you here to execute me?’
‘You would not dare!’ Baldwin thundered.
Owen rose. ‘I know little more than what I have heard here. I came not to execute you. I wished only to resolve Cynog’s death and learn more about Hywel.’
‘You tricked me,’ Simon cried, rising.
‘Not at all. I merely delayed correcting you.’
‘How can you be so cruel?’
‘How? You ask me that?’
‘Now what will you do?’ Baldwin demanded of Owen.
‘I shall tell Archdeacon Rokelyn all I have learned.’
‘That is it?’ Baldwin asked. ‘You want nothing of him?’
‘I wanted only the truth. There is precious little of that to be had in this holy city.’ Owen slung the now much lighter pouch over his shoulder. ‘God go with you, Father Simon, Archdeacon.’ He strode across the hall and through the doorway.
Outside, the sunshine caressed his face. Though beneath his tunic his shirt stuck to his bleeding side, he did not turn towards the city, but to Patrick’s Gate. No one stopped him.
Twenty-one
TROUBLING UNCERTAINTIES
Irises, some early roses, sprigs of rosemary and lavender. Lucie tied them with long grasses and took them to Roger Moreton. Goodwife Constance, exclaiming at the bouquet, stepped aside to allow Lucie in.
‘I shall not take them until the master has seen the fruit of your garden,’ the housekeeper said. She called to a servant, had him fetch Roger. ‘Come into the hall, do.’
