A Spy For The Redeemer (Owen Archer Book 7) Page 5

  ‘Benedicte, Captain Archer.’ Rokelyn stood in the doorway, holding the tapestry aside for Baldwin. Rokelyn was a heavy-set man, with an unremarkable face save for its complete lack of hair – neither lashes nor brows, nor crown above. Something in his countenance made him look a man devoid of guile. Owen knew it to be a false impression – though he did not know Rokelyn well, he did know that a guileless man did not become Archdeacon of St David’s.

  Baldwin slipped past Rokelyn, nodded to Owen. ‘I trust you accomplished your task in Cydweli, Captain Archer?’ His deep voice was tempered now. He was Rokelyn’s opposite, olive-skinned, with a wealth of dark hair.

  They exchanged courtesies, then Baldwin excused himself and departed. Owen was not surprised after what he had overheard.

  ‘They tell me you were at St Non’s Well today,’ said Rokelyn, still with his pleasant smile.

  Had he spies at the well? Or was it mere gossip? Owen decided that he, too, could play the jolly innocent. ‘I was. And had I been judged worthy, I might stand before you tonight without a patch. As you see, I was not so blessed.’

  Rokelyn made a pitying face, then brightened. ‘They say you shoot straight and true, even with the loss of your eye. Perhaps St Non saw no need to intercede for you.’

  ‘In faith, I had little hope for it. But it seemed foolish not to try.’

  Rokelyn gestured to Owen to sit by the fire. Two heavily carved, straight-backed chairs with arms had been angled half facing one another, half facing the fire. Embroidered cushions softened them. A table with the wine stood between. Rokelyn settled into one of the chairs with a contented sigh. ‘We shall dine in a while. I thought first we might share this excellent wine. Talk of easy matters. About your family. Did you find them well?’

  ‘A sister and a brother, aye. The rest are with God.’

  The archdeacon expressed sympathy, spoke of God’s will being mysterious, then went on to explore many other topics, while Owen fought a dangerous drowsiness brought on by the day’s long ride, the sudden warmth and the wine, and the earlier tankards of ale at the palace. He was grateful when a servant called them to a table laden with food. Even better, Owen was seated well away from the fire. Soon a draft had chilled his still damp boots. It was enough to keep him awake and alert.

  But it was not until the wafers and sugared nuts and fruits were set on the table that Rokelyn at last came round to his purpose. ‘You have heard that a stonemason was murdered?’

  Owen almost choked on a sugared almond. ‘Murdered? I heard one hanged himself.’

  ‘Cynog,’ Rokelyn said. ‘Was he not working on a tomb for your wife’s father?’

  If he knew to ask that question he knew the answer. Owen took a few of the wafers, sat back in his chair. He must appear unruffled, though he did not like the direction of this conversation. ‘He was. Which is why my men thought to tell me of his death.’ Rokelyn had dipped a cloth in his wine and now dabbed at the crystallised sugar on his chin and upper lip. Owen let one of the thin, crisp cakes dissolve in his mouth, then remarked, ‘Now I must find another stonemason to complete the work.’

  Rokelyn wiped his hands, put aside the cloth. ‘You chose the best stonemason in St David’s.’

  ‘Aye. I shall not find the likes of him twice, I think.’ Owen swallowed another wafer. ‘Murdered, you say?’ He shook his head.

  ‘Who recommended Cynog to you?’

  What was this? Was this, too, a question to which the archdeacon already knew the answer? Owen hoped not. ‘I cannot recall. Was it you?’ He was not about to volunteer that it was Martin Wirthir, an old friend whose allegiance changed as it pleased him. Martin was presently a spy in the service of King Charles of France, who was supporting the cause of Owain Lawgoch, the would-be redeemer of the Welsh.

  ‘Let me ask you another way,’ said the archdeacon. ‘Why Cynog?’

  ‘Is there a reason I should not have chosen Cynog?’

  ‘Someone hanged him, Captain. One does not hang somebody for personal reasons. When a man is hanged, it is done to set an example, give a warning – do this and you, too, will be so punished. Who was using Cynog as an example, and why? What had he done?’

  ‘What indeed,’ Owen said. ‘I liked Cynog. Admired his work. I would never have imagined such a death for him.’

  ‘Would it surprise you if I were to tell you that this afternoon the guards apprehended Cynog’s murderer? That he is confined in the bishop’s gaol?’

  ‘Surprised? Yes, and interested. What does he have to say for himself?’

  ‘He claims that he is innocent. That I do not believe. But that he is perhaps ignorant …’ Rokelyn wagged his head. ‘It is possible. In truth, I think of him not as a murderer, but an executioner. And the executioner is rarely, if ever, the one with the purpose.’

  Owen liked neither the archdeacon’s expression nor his tone. Rokelyn was baiting him. ‘You have given this much thought.’ Rokelyn nodded. ‘Still,’ Owen said, ‘it is difficult for me to imagine why someone would have cause either to murder or execute Cynog. Perhaps because all I knew of the man was his fine work with stone.’ Which was quite true. Martin Wirthir had said nothing about Cynog except that he might create a tomb worthy of Sir Robert.

  The archdeacon watched Owen through half-closed lids. ‘Piers the Mariner, the man we are holding, is the brother of Captain Siencyn, the man with whom you sail shortly.’

  So that was the connection. ‘It has been a day of unpleasant news for me.’

  ‘News.’ Rokelyn sniffed. ‘I wonder.’

  ‘Oh?’

  The archdeacon tilted his head to one side. ‘A man working for you is murdered by the kinsman of a man with whom you have business. From where I sit, you look as if you are squarely in the middle of all this.’ His tone was matter-of-fact, not in the least emotional or even judgemental.

  ‘If you are implying that I had anything to do with all this, I remind you that I have been in Cydweli on my king’s business.’

  ‘Two of your men were here in the city,’ Rokelyn said reasonably.

  ‘Of what are you accusing me?’ Owen asked, quitting the game.

  Rokelyn leaned forward, opening his eyes fully. ‘Cynog supported Owain Lawgoch. Did you know that?’

  ‘Cynog?’ Owen had not known, but he might have guessed. ‘And you think he was executed because of that?’

  ‘I want you to find out.’

  ‘You must forgive me, but I cannot. I have been too long from home and my duties for Archbishop Thoresby. I must find someone to complete Sir Robert’s tomb, see him buried beneath it, and then take ship for England.’

  ‘You are suddenly eager for home. Why?’

  ‘It is not sudden.’

  ‘I say that it is.’ Rokelyn snapped his fingers. Two palace guards entered the room. Sweet Jesu, this archdeacon thought to bully him into co-operating? Owen stood up. The men moved towards him, fingering the daggers on their belts. Owen took a step towards them, but stopped there. What was he thinking? He was outnumbered. Oh, he might enjoy bringing one of them down, but in the end he would be the one lying there, bruised and humiliated. With age came a certain level-headedness. He would resist Rokelyn in more subtle ways. Raising his hands, palms forward, Owen laughed and shook his head, resumed his seat. The guards began to back away.

  ‘Stay a moment,’ Rokelyn said to them. ‘I do not trust this humour.’

  ‘I laugh at myself,’ said Owen. ‘It is so long ago now that I was a soldier and yet so easily I forget.’

  ‘Help me willingly or you will become quite intimate with Piers, the accused. Which will it be, Captain?’

  ‘Truth be told, you do not seem to need me. If Cynog supported Owain Lawgoch as you say, is it not obvious that this Piers the Mariner executed him for treason against the King of England?’

  Rokelyn flushed crimson. ‘This is not a game, Captain. If you refuse to assist me, I shall have every reason to suspect you to be in league with the people behind Cynog’s death. Fol
k would not find it difficult to believe.’

  They would if they knew Owen’s feelings about Owain Lawgoch’s cause. ‘Why would I hire him and then have him put to death before he completed his task?’ Owen put up a hand to stop Rokelyn’s reply. ‘I play no game with you, nor have I said I would not assist you. But tell me this – if Cynog was Owain Lawgoch’s man, and you are the King’s man, why should you care why he was murdered? You have one less traitor hiding in your city.’

  ‘No one has a right to bring justice in this city but the bishop of St David’s, or those of us who act on his behalf. I do not care whose side Cynog was on. I want the person who believes he can take the law into his own hands in this city. He must be stopped.’

  ‘You are right, of course.’ Tomorrow Owen could think about a way round this. Meanwhile, he would put Rokelyn to work. ‘If I agree to assist you, will you find me a stonemason to complete the tomb?’

  ‘I shall.’

  ‘And if I miss Siencyn’s sailing, you will find me passage – comfortable passage – to England?’

  ‘When you have satisfied me. If you do.’

  Owen ignored the last remark. ‘Then we are agreed. And now I must leave while I still have the strength to walk back to the palace. It has been a long and wearying day.’ He rose.

  ‘Do not try to leave the city,’ Rokelyn warned.

  ‘And how might I do that? Swim?’ Owen bowed low, then headed for the door. As he passed the guards, they began to follow. Owen turned suddenly, his small eating knife in his hand. ‘No. We have an agreement only so long as I do not have escorts.’ He enjoyed the surprise on their faces. Such a small knife was nothing to fear and they would quickly discount it. But it was cheering to have given them pause.

  ‘Let him go,’ Rokelyn barked.

  Owen expected the archdeacon to order the guards to follow him once he was outside. He bade the Welsh servant a goodnight in his own tongue and stepped out into a cold, wind-driven rain. It quickly woke him from his heavy-lidded, swollen-headed state. Blinking rapidly, he pulled his hood over his head and leaned into the storm. Then paused. Beneath the dripping eaves, he sensed more than saw a familiar shadow to his right. ‘Quiet,’ he whispered, joining Iolo, ‘we are followed.’

  They were out of the lantern light when the first guard appeared, squinting into the wet night. The man looked this way and that, muttering to himself. Owen could not hear him above the wind and the rain.

  ‘How many?’ Iolo whispered.

  ‘Two.’

  The second one appeared, quickly understood that they had lost their man. The two began to argue.

  ‘Shall we fall upon them?’ Iolo asked.

  ‘To what purpose? Let us rather fall behind them.’

  *

  It was late and most of the guests lodged in the great hall were already settling in for the night. Owen and Iolo shrugged out of their wet cloaks and picked their way to the fire circle in the centre of the room to spread out the cloaks and dry out a bit before finding their pallets. Folk made room for them, whether because of their dripping condition or their grim faces, Owen could not guess. Sam must have been watching for them. He picked his way through the drowsy crowd, bearing a full wineskin.

  Iolo grabbed it and drank greedily. His wet tunic hung unevenly and his leggings sagged at the ankles. His thinning hair looked even thinner slicked back, making his bony face and pale eyes almost sinister. Just how long had he stood beneath those eaves, Owen wondered. He shook his head when Iolo handed him the skin. ‘I have had my fill of that for one night. Some feverfew in warm water would suit me better.’

  Sam slumped with disappointment. ‘I do not know where I might find such a drink.’

  ‘The water is all I need,’ said Owen. When Sam had gone off in search of water, Owen turned to Iolo. ‘You were foolish to follow me this evening – you must have a care not to hurt your chances for a post in this city.’

  ‘I have other plans for my future. You can use a shadow. I am coming to York with you.’

  ‘When did you decide this?’

  ‘Today. Though it has been much on my mind.’

  ‘Ah. York is no paradise. Bitter cold in winter. The city is crowded and stinks of man and beast.’

  ‘I have been to London. It cannot be worse than that.’

  ‘Colder.’

  Iolo looked unimpressed.

  ‘Iolo, you honour me with your offer. But you are young. You can make a life for yourself here, in your own country.’

  ‘I am decided.’

  How had Owen inspired such loyalty in the young man? For young he was, despite the chiselled planes of his face and his well-honed skills. ‘In York you would always be a stranger, as I am. If nothing else, our manner of speech sets us apart. I know. And so I warn you.’

  ‘I have been among the English,’ Iolo reminded him. ‘I know what it is like.’

  ‘But it was only for a time. You always knew that. Look how quickly you stepped forward for our mission, eager for the chance to come home. What happened?’

  ‘I found an honourable man to serve.’

  Fortunate man, to think so. And a great burden to Owen to prove so. ‘But you wished to return to Wales.’

  ‘I was under orders from the bishop to return at my first opportunity, though not before making note of all I could about the duke’s household.’

  Iolo could do well in the service of the ambitious Adam de Houghton. Owen had no doubt that this bishopric was not the loftiest position Houghton would attain. ‘Did he wish you to continue in his service?’

  ‘If it so pleased me.’ Iolo raked phantom hair back with a long-fingered hand.

  ‘And you would give this up to serve me?’

  ‘I would. And gladly. You need me. I wish to serve you.’

  Owen could certainly use him here. And sometimes in York, when Thoresby involved him in troublesome business. But most times he lived a quiet life, helping Lucie in the apothecary, overseeing repairs at the archbishop’s palace of Bishopthorpe, finding things to occupy the time of the archbishop’s retainers. What would Owen do with Iolo? Would Thoresby accept him as one of his retainers? If not, Owen was not grand enough to have a squire. What would Lucie think?

  And then there was the matter of Iolo’s bloodlust. The young man had a taste for violence. Owen had discovered quickly that he needed to be quite clear that he wished his victims to live.

  ‘Much of my time at home is dull.’

  ‘I should keep your retainers in line.’

  No doubt. And in constant rebellion. What would Alfred think, to be unseated from his role as Owen’s second in command? ‘What of this Owain Lawgoch? Now he’s a man could use someone like you. If I were free to take up arms for him, I would.’

  Iolo’s pale eyes searched Owen’s face. ‘In truth? I should think if you felt that way you would find the means to do so.’

  ‘You are young and free. I have responsibilities.’

  ‘Fighting for our rightful prince would be a proud legacy for your children.’

  ‘If we won.’

  Iolo shook his head. ‘Spoken like a shopkeeper and clerk of the archbishop. I never thought to hear such a thing from you.’

  Nor had Owen ever thought to say such a thing. Had his love for Lucie and his children unmanned him?

  Five

  SIX HORSEMEN

  The bells of York Minster thundered overhead as Lucie knelt in the nave, head bowed, trying to hear the ceremony in the choir. The bells and the screen made it difficult. And her own weeping. Why had they taken her father’s body to the high altar, from which she was barred? And Jasper – what was he doing in there?

  ‘He is taking his vows, of course,’ her father said.

  Lucie turned, found her father sitting beside her. He wore his shroud like a hooded gown. ‘But you are dead. You are lying in the coffin by the high altar.’

  Sir Robert took her hand. His was cold and dry. ‘I heard you weeping. I wanted to comfort you. It i
s a good thing, your adopted son taking his vows. Why do you not share his joy?’

  ‘He did not tell me. And why today?’

  ‘He hopes to join Owen in St David’s. He will accompany me.’

  ‘St David’s. You died in St David’s.’

  Sir Robert nodded. ‘Just so.’

  ‘You cannot be here. And why would Jasper go there? I do not understand.’

  ‘Jasper did not think you would mind. You have Roger Moreton.’

  ‘That is not true!’ Lucie shouted, waking herself.

  She sat up, damp with sweat, shivering as the blanket fell from her and her clammy skin met the chilly morning air. Or was it the dream that made her shiver? Talking to her father’s corpse – had that been a dream, or a vision? Had she made Jasper so unhappy that he would take vows? Or had it nothing to do with his mistake, her reprimand, his suspicions about Roger? Had she not been listening to Jasper? Did he truly wish to take vows? He was so difficult these days, so quick to accuse her of prying when she asked what he was thinking, where he had gone. Lucie knelt on the cold floor and prayed for understanding.

  Later, when she had dressed herself, she remembered her father’s last words in the dream. Roger Moreton. Now that, surely, was the stuff of dreams, not a vision. Still, her father’s presence had felt so real. And what of St David’s? Was Owen not to return from there?

  Still shivering from the dream, Lucie hurried towards the hearth, joining her aunt, who sat at a small trestle table set near the fire.

  Lucie crouched down by the fire, warming her hands. ‘Have you been up long?’ she asked.

  Phillippa did not reply.

  ‘She is far away, Mistress,’ Tildy said, setting a bowl of broth on the table. ‘Daimon says this happens often. Come, warm yourself with this.’

  Phillippa’s eyes seemed unfocused. Her hands were limp in her lap. She smiled slightly, as if amused.

  Tildy withdrew.

  Lucie sipped her broth and waited. At last, disturbed by her unwavering stare, she called her aunt’s name.

  Phillippa blinked, slowly brought her attention to Lucie. ‘I hope my restlessness did not keep you from sleep last night.’ She seemed unaware that Lucie had sat there for some time. She chatted on, telling Lucie she had resolved to return to York with her on the morrow, to attend the Requiem Mass for Sir Robert and then stay a while in York. ‘Until I feel more at peace.’