A Spy For The Redeemer (Owen Archer Book 7) Read online

  A SPY FOR THE REDEEMER

  Candace Robb studied for a Ph.D. in Medieval and Anglo-Saxon literature and has continued to read and research medieval history and literature ever since. The Owen Archer series grew out of a fascination with the city of York and the tumultuous 14th century; the first in the series, The Apothecary Rose, was published in 1994, at which point she began to write full time. In addition to the UK, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, Canada and America, her novels are published in France, Germany, Spain and Holland, and she is also available in the UK on audiobook and in large print.

  She is currently writing the eighth Owen Archer novel, following a short break to write A Trust Betrayed, the first in a new series of mysteries set in Edinburgh at the time of Robert the Bruce.

  Acclaim for Candace Robb:

  ‘Ellis Peters has a cohort of pretenders snapping at her heels … most impressive of the bunch is Candace Robb. A definite tip for tomorrow’ Time Out

  ‘Robb interweaves a complex story of love, passion and murder into the troubled and tangled fabric of Welsh history, fashioning a rich and satisfying novel’ Publishers Weekly

  ‘A superb medieval mystery, thoroughly grounded in historical fact’ Booklist

  ‘Gripping and believable … you can almost smell the streets of 14th-century York as you delve deeper into an engrossing plot’ Prima

  ‘Hugely, but subtly, detailed … complex, ambiguous and gripping. The solution had me guessing almost to the very end’ Historical Novels Review

  Also by Candace Robb

  OWEN ARCHER MYSTERIES

  The Apothecary Rose

  The Lady Chapel

  The Nun’s Tale

  The King’s Bishop

  The Riddle of St Leonard’s

  A Gift of Sanctuary

  The Cross-Legged Knight

  MARGARET KERR MYSTERIES

  A Trust Betrayed

  The Fire in the First

  A Cruel Courtship

  To find out more about Candace Robb’s novels, visit the Candace Robb website at www.candacerobb.com

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Version 1.0

  Epub ISBN 9781446440735

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Published by Arrow 2000

  5 7 9 10 8 6

  Copyright © Candace Robb 1999

  Candace Robb has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  First published in the United Kingdom in 1999 by William Heinemann

  The Random House Group Limited

  20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London SW1V 2SA

  Random House Australia (Pty) Limited

  20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney,

  New South Wales 2061, Australia

  Random House New Zealand Limited

  18 Poland Road, Glenfield

  Auckland 10, New Zealand

  Random House South Africa (Pty) Limited

  Isle of Houghton, Corner Boundary Road & Carse O’Gowrie,

  Houghton, 2198, South Africa

  The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 0 09 927797 2

  For Patrick and Evan,

  my dear friends who represent me to the world

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  MAPS

  GLOSSARY

  PROLOGUE

  1 Too Long Away

  2 Prayers Unanswered

  3 Freythorpe Hadden

  4 The Archdeacon’s Will

  5 Six Horsemen

  6 The Captain’s Tale

  7 Chaos

  8 Into the Wood

  9 The High Sheriff

  10 Math and Enid

  11 Rumours

  12 Cynog’s Secret

  13 Puzzles

  14 A Spy for the Redeemer

  15 High and Mighties

  16 Ambivalence

  17 Mistress of the Hall

  18 A Pattern of Evil

  19 Penances

  20 The Morality of Hywel’s War

  21 Troubling Uncertainties

  22 Wretchedness

  23 Not As They Seem

  24 Gloucester

  25 Journeys

  26 A Crowd

  27 An Unnatural Sleep

  28 Bedevilled

  29 Ill News

  30 The Maze

  31 Beneath the Linden

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  For devoting their time and sharing their knowledge throughout the imagining and writing of this book I thank Lynne Drew, Kate Elton, Sara Ann Freed, Joyce Gibb, Jeremy Goldberg, Fiona Kelleghan, Evan Marshall, Nona Rees, Compton Reeves, Charlie Robb, Patrick Walsh, the staff of the National Library of Wales in Aberystwyth, and my colleagues on the Internet discussion lists Mediev-l, Chaucer, and Medfem. Any mistakes are surely my own.

  GLOSSARY

  archdeacon

  as was (and is) customary, the archdeacons of St David’s were appointed by the bishop and carried out most of his duties; however, because the Bishop of St David’s was the lord of the March, his archdeacons were men of considerable power

  butt

  a mark or mound for archery practice

  certes

  certainly, to be sure (middle English)

  demesne lands

  the land immediately attached to a mansion, and held along with it for practical or pleasurable use; the park, chase, home-farm, etc.

  houppelande

  men’s attire; a flowing gown, often floor-length and slit up to thigh level to ease walking, but sometimes knee-length; sleeves large and open

  jongleur

  a minstrel who sang, juggled, tumbled

  Lady Chapel

  a chapel dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary, usually situated at the east end of the church

  leman

  mistress

  liege lord

  the superior to whom one gives allegiance and service

  Marches/

  the borders of the kingdom and the lords

  Marcher Lords

  to whom the King granted jurisdiction over them

  mazer

  a large wooden cup or bowl, often highly decorated

  minster

  a large church or cathedral; the Cathedral of St Peter in York is referred to as York Minster

  no fors

  does not matter (middle English)

  seneschal

  in the household of a sovereign or great noble the official who administers justice and controls domesti
c arrangements

  scrip

  a small bag, wallet, or satchel

  solar

  private room on upper level of house

  summoner

  an assistant to an archdeacon who cited people to the archbishop’s or bishop’s consistory court, which was held once a month. The court was staffed by the bishop’s officials and lawyers and had jurisdiction over the diocesan clergy and the morals, wills and marriages of the laity. Also called an ‘apparitor’.

  tabard

  a loose upper garment without sleeves

  trencher

  a thick slice of brown bread a few days old with a slight hollow in the centre, used as a platter

  vicar

  as a modern vicar is the deputy of the rector, so a vicar choral was a cleric in holy orders acting as the deputy of a canon attached to the cathedral; for a modest annual salary the vicar choral performed his canon’s duties, attending the various services of the church and singing the liturgy

  PROLOGUE

  A shaft of early morning sun shone on the effigy, enlivening the cloth carved to drape gracefully over the stone torso. Ranulf de Hutton thought if he stared long enough the stone folds would lift and fall with the statue’s breath, so real did it look in this light. God had blessed his fellow mason Cynog with enviable talent. But Ranulf had as much skill if not more. Why had he not been chosen to work on the tomb?

  He was the senior mason working on the cloister walk and chapel at St David’s Cathedral, always the first mason chosen for decorative work. Why had he not been granted the honour of fashioning this tomb? The English knight had died while on pilgrimage, after being blessed with a vision at St Non’s holy well. Cynog did not deserve the honour of working on such a man’s tomb. This past year he had been slow in his work, distracted by repairs to a wall in an archdeacon’s cellar that should have been assigned to an apprentice, ever late returning from his visits to his parents’ farm outside the city.

  As he was this morning. Already the apprentices and journeymen worked in the stonemasons’ lodge, smoothing, chipping, the stone dust spiralling in shafts of sunlight from the open sides. But no Cynog. Ranulf regarded the tomb. The face had not yet been brought out of the stone, nor arms and hands. Still so much to do. He ran his hand over the rough stone from which would grow the face, remembering the old knight’s cheekbones, his gentle smile.

  ‘What say you. Does it please?’

  Ranulf turned round with a gasp. ‘Cynog!’

  The tardy mason’s tunic was crusted with mud on one side and his boots were caked in it. Yesterday’s rain had continued well into the evening. ‘You slept without the walls of the city?’ Ranulf asked.

  ‘In the wood, aye. Rolled off my cloak and look at the damage.’ Cynog brushed the tunic with his long-fingered, delicate hands. The hands of an artist he had, as well as the eyes, deep wells of soft brown, seeming ever wide with wonder. Though this past year they had taken on a melancholic cast.

  Ranulf’s envy dulled, replaced by relief to see his friend back before the Master discovered his absence. ‘You have come in good time, no matter. And what of Glynis? Did she meet you at the city gates Saturday evening as promised?’

  Cynog lowered his head. ‘She came, aye. Only to tell me she would not make the journey with me.’ He swung his fist sideways, hitting a lodge pole. ‘The mariner cannot love her as I do. I sacrificed my honour for her. She is my life!’

  Ranulf had thought the young woman’s recent friendliness merely a tease. ‘She walked away from you in the autumn, my friend. It is now late spring. How can you still hope?’ And yet, against all reason this, too, Ranulf envied. He had never been so besotted with a woman as Cynog was with Glynis. He could only imagine the passion. To be so alive. ‘But you lost no honour by her leaving you. Do not think it.’

  Cynog ran his fingers over the unfinished tomb. ‘There are already many pilgrims at the cathedral door,’ he said, changing the subject, another irritating habit of late. ‘I thought you hoped to repair the font before they entered?’ The flood of pilgrims during the day made work in the public parts of the church difficult.

  ‘Oh, aye, I must do that, yes.’ Ranulf picked up his sack of tools, tied it round his waist. ‘Cover yourself with an apron. No need to provoke the Master Mason.’ He grasped Cynog’s shoulder. ‘Work on the face today. You cannot think of her, or your pain, while freeing Sir Robert’s face from the stone. And who knows, the holy knight may intercede for you, or ask the Queen of Heaven to do so.’

  ‘Make Glynis love me?’

  ‘Nay, friend, heal your heart.’

  One

  TOO LONG AWAY

  On a May day that hinted at summer, such a day on which the people of York rejoiced in opening their doors to the warm, fresh air and found excuses to walk along the river in the sunshine, or to walk out on to the Strays to check on their grazing animals, Lucie Wilton and her adopted son, Jasper, were shut up in the apothecary, staring down at the mound of dried herbs a customer had just returned. The tension between the apothecary and her young apprentice seemed to suck out the air. Jasper’s cat scratched at the closed shutter, begging to be released.

  Jasper glanced over at Crowder and began to move towards the shutter. Lucie grabbed his hand. ‘Crowder must wait. You are too easily distracted, that is the problem. If you kept your mind on your work rather than on the intentions of friendly neighbours, you would not have made such a mistake.’

  Jasper yanked his hand from Lucie’s and pushed his straight, sand-coloured hair from his forehead with an impatient gesture. ‘Peppercorns for nasturtium seeds. It is a mistake anyone might make.’ His tone was insolent.

  Lucie resisted the urge to slap him. ‘Any fool can tell the difference between the two, in scent as well as hardness. I cannot think how you made such an error. Look at me when I speak to you.’

  Jasper met her gaze, then dropped his eyes, hunching his shoulders. ‘It will not happen again.’

  ‘It should never have happened at all. An apothecary cannot make mistakes. Have I not told you that if you are at all uncertain –’

  ‘I thought I was pouring from the correct jar.’

  ‘Because you were thinking of something other than the task before you. Taking down the wrong jar – you know what is in each jar. You clean them. You fill them.’

  ‘I swear it will never happen again.’

  ‘If it happened once …’

  ‘I swear!’ Jasper shouted.

  Sweet heaven, if only Owen were here. Since Jasper’s twelfth birthday he had increasingly withdrawn from Lucie, at the same time growing closer to her husband, Owen Archer. Though Owen disciplined the boy more often than Lucie did, Jasper seemed to respect his criticism while thinking hers unfair. ‘If Owen –’ she began, but finished with just a shake of her head.

  Jasper clenched his fists, jutted out his chin. His colour was high. ‘If the captain were here, what would he say about Roger Moreton?’

  ‘Jasper!’

  ‘Or your mistake –’ He stopped, dropped his gaze.

  ‘Alice Baker’s jaundice,’ Lucie said quietly. ‘Is that what you were about to mention?’

  Though the boy’s straight blond locks fell over his face, Lucie could see how he blushed. ‘I meant –’

  ‘Best to say no more.’ Lucie needed no one to help feed her sense of guilt over the woman’s condition.

  Someone knocked on the door. Worried that Maria de Skipwith had already spoken of the boy’s error, Lucie picked up the parchment full of herbs and handed it to Jasper. ‘Take this into the workroom and pick out the peppercorns.’

  Jasper looked down at the mix in horror. ‘How can I find them all?’

  ‘It is not to give Mistress Skipwith,’ Lucie said. ‘It is to fix in your mind the look, the taste, the scent, the feel of a peppercorn.’

  Jasper hunched his shoulders and shuffled off to the workroom. Crowder followed close on his heels.

  Lucie approached the door, w
ishing she would find on the other side a messenger with news of Owen, announcing his return. In late January her husband had headed south to join Geoffrey Chaucer on a mission into Wales for the Duke of Lancaster. Lucie’s aged father, Sir Robert D’Arby, had accompanied Owen, wishing to go on pilgrimage to St David’s in thanks for God’s sparing the family from the recent pestilence. None of the company from York had yet returned. This was the longest Owen had been away since they had wed. Lucie had not anticipated the difficulties such a prolonged absence would cause. And that Jasper would be most difficult of all – that had been an unpleasant surprise.

  Lucie swore under her breath as she found the door locked. She had not wanted a customer to hear her chastise Jasper. But the shut shop might itself cause rumours. Mistress Skipwith had said she understood, Jasper was merely an apprentice and there was no harm done, just some sneezing, she would tell no one, the lad would never do it again. But tongues wagged despite the best intentions.

  A monk stood without, in the black robes of a Benedictine, his head bowed beneath his cowl.

  ‘Benedicte,’ said Lucie.

  The monk raised his head. It was Brother Michaelo, secretary to the Archbishop of York and her father’s companion in pilgrimage. What did it mean, that he appeared alone? The monk’s patrician face was drawn, his eyes sad. Dear God, please let Owen be well. ‘Brother Michaelo. I did not know you had returned.’ Lucie stepped aside, welcoming him into the shop.