A Spy for the Redeemer (27 page)

Tildy felt the Riverwoman’s presence beside her. It was much like Tola’s, quiet, reassuring. Why had Tildy been angry with Magda? She felt remorse at her anger with the old healer. She asked Magda now about Tola and her children, Nym and Emma. Tildy knew they had stayed with the Riverwoman throughout the autumn and the Christmas season, and many folks said that Tola showed a gift for healing. ‘Will she stay to help you?’

‘Nay. Tola returned to the moors,’ said Magda. ‘She is needed there.’ There was a sadness in her voice.

‘She will be a healer now, like you?’

‘One day. Magda took a long while learning.’

They said nothing for a time, gazing at the stars.

Then Magda broke the silence. ‘Go to the stables, talk to Alfred and Gilbert, tell them thy concerns.’

The two men had gone there to see that their horses were in good hands.

‘I do not like to interrupt them,’ Tildy said, suddenly shy of the two soldiers.

‘Thou art mistress of the hall, Tildy. Thou shouldst make thy wishes known to those who serve thee.’

Served her. Tildy sighed. She was still uncertain about her status, neither servant nor the true mistress and yet in charge of so many servants. She wished Magda would stay a while longer, a wish she had expressed to the Riverwoman before and repeated now.

‘Thou hast made no mistakes these two days. Daimon’s will to heal is strong. Thou dost not need Magda.’

‘I feel safe with you here.’

Magda’s barking laugh startled Tildy. ‘With Thoresby’s dragon slayers and Harold the Good, what dost thou need with an old woman? Magda will be on her way in the morning, going to those who need her more than thou dost.’

Tildy hugged herself, suddenly feeling the evening chill.

‘Daimon will continue to heal,’ Magda reassured her.

‘But what if it is your presence that is healing him, not the physicks?’ Tildy asked it softly, uncertain whether she spoke blasphemy.

The Riverwoman surprised Tildy by gently touching her cheek. ‘Thou art Daimon’s best healer, my child. Dost thou not understand how much he loves thee?’ Then, with a shake of her head, the old woman turned away from Tildy and walked slowly towards the kitchen.

Tildy did not move for a long while. Could it be that her own presence had helped Daimon? Could he love her that much? If so, his was not an idle love, a young man’s whim that might prove fickle. Might Tildy have misjudged?

Loud laughter slowed Tildy as she reached the stables. A small lantern glowed dimly near the stalls. The horses whinnied as she passed. The laughter rang out again – it came from the grooms’ quarters beyond the horses and the work area. As Tildy drew near, she hesitated, uncertain that it was proper for her to be here. But she was the housekeeper until Dame Phillippa returned.

If
Dame Phillippa returned. What would happen if Mistress Wilton found her aunt too confused or infirm to return?

‘You have cast a spell on these coins, you cheat!’ Angry words, but there was laughter in Gilbert’s voice.

‘I know nothing of spells. You have the luck of Job is all.’ Alfred sounded bored.

Tildy knocked.

Ralph, the groom, opened the door, made an embarrassed bow. ‘Mistress Tildy!’

She stood on tiptoe to see beyond him, but to no avail. ‘Oh, for pity’s sake, Ralph, I merely wish to see what all the laughter is about.’

‘Mistress –’

‘We are playing cross and pile,’ Gilbert called out. ‘Alfred and Ralph find my losses comical. Come, Ralph, let the mistress pass. She is not going to apply the switch to two grown men.’

Ralph stepped aside.

Gilbert and Alfred nodded to Tildy from where they crouched on the packed earth floor. A quantity of coins were piled in front of Alfred, a few were lined up by Gilbert. The latter now lifted one of his last coins, flipped it, let it drop on the back of his left hand, which he quickly covered as Alfred called, ‘Heads.’

Gilbert peeked at the coin. ‘You saw it,’ he muttered, tossing it on Alfred’s pile. He rose, brushing off his hose.

‘I am sorry for interrupting your game.’ Tildy felt out of place. They were hardly in a mood to listen to her fears and concerns.

‘Mistress, you have saved me my last few coins. How may I be of service?’

Alfred swept up both his coins and Gilbert’s and dropped them in a leather pouch. ‘Gilbert wearied of my good fortune,’ he said. ‘He would have soon been out of coins anyway.’

‘So you took the remainder?’ Tildy asked.

‘To divide up evenly the next time,’ Gilbert said. ‘What would be the fun if one of us had all the coins?’

She felt stupid. Daimon never made her feel this way. These men teased too much. ‘You are tired. We shall talk in the morning.’

Alfred shook his head, drew forth a stool for her to sit on. ‘Come. Let us talk while we have a quiet moment. You will want to tell us what we face here.’

So she began, haltingly, to tell them her various concerns – Harold Galfrey’s too quick assumption of authority and her now mostly discarded fear that he had given Daimon something to cloud his judgement; Nan’s son’s rumoured return; Mistress Wilton’s belief that someone among the thieves knew the manor well.

Both Alfred and Gilbert raised eyebrows at her fears about Harold Galfrey, but they did not make light of them, agreeing that Daimon’s position as steward on this manor would appeal to any man with similar ambitions.

‘Even so, Roger Moreton will have a grand household,’ said Alfred. ‘His steward will command respect.’

‘Master Moreton owns land up beyond Easingwold as well,’ said Gilbert. ‘Still, he is not a knight, not of noble birth, as is Mistress Wilton. But would she have Galfrey as her steward, I wonder?’

‘Joseph, Cook’s son, is the one who sounds like a man to watch,’ said Alfred.

‘I will speak to the kitchen maid in the morning,’ said Tildy. ‘Perhaps she has heard something of him.’

‘Aye. The cook is not likely to tell us, eh?’ said Gilbert.

Tildy smiled and felt encouraged to ask, ‘This Colby, Master Gisburne’s servant, what is he like?’

Alfred snorted. ‘Spawn of the devil himself. Why Gisburne trusts him …’ He spat in the corner.

Colby sounded not unlike Joseph, Tildy thought. ‘Daimon says that Colby’s voice is much like that of one of the attackers.’

Gilbert and Alfred exchanged a look.

‘And I cannot help but wonder how Harold knows him,’ Tildy added.

‘Or why it should be Colby whom Gisburne chose to send,’ Alfred said. He spat in the corner again.

Although she appreciated how seriously he was taking all this, Tildy liked Alfred a little less for his manners, or lack of them. But she had heard soldiers were like that. Their poor wives. ‘Daimon mentioned a thatcher, also,’ she said and, in a bold stroke, dared to add, ‘You might ask Ralph where he could be found.’

‘We will.’ Alfred grinned. ‘It is a nice change, playing the captain.’

Gilbert nodded in agreement.

Tildy was quite pleased with herself.

Brother Michaelo dropped the lash and lay face down on the floor of the little chapel with his arms outstretched, as if nailed to a cross. He fought to remain conscious. Sleep was no penance. His hands and feet were cold despite the season. The floor was cool against his bare, sweating chest. Was that too comforting? Should he roll over on his raw back? But that which was now on fire would be soothed by the cool floor. He remained where he was, fighting exhaustion. When had he last slept? Or eaten? He had no doubt Archdeacon Jehannes knew – Michaelo was certain the archdeacon’s servants spied on him. So long as he did not tell the archbishop, it did not matter. Jehannes was not one to interfere. Michaelo forced himself to think on his many sins, so to mortify his spirit as he had mortified his flesh. His mind wandered through a litany of selfish acts, loveless liaisons, glib and thoughtless lies and, most horrible of all, the attempt to poison the aged infirmarian, Brother Wulfstan. Bile rose in his throat. He pushed himself to a kneeling posture and retched, though his belly was empty.

The door opened. Michaelo tried to cover himself with his habit, but his hands trembled so.

‘Enough of this!’ Archbishop Thoresby declared from the doorway.

Michaelo still fumbled with his habit. Thoresby snapped his fingers. A servant knelt, offered to help Michaelo dress.

‘Leave me,’ Michaelo said.

‘He will not. Look at you, trembling on the floor half naked. What of your duties? I allowed you to go on pilgrimage and look how you return my favour. You look like a snivelling penitent. I will not have it!’

Michaelo began to curse, bit his tongue and gave himself up to the humiliation of being dressed by the young man. He held back a moan as the servant helped him to his feet. He leaned against the wall for support.

‘You may go,’ Thoresby barked.

Michaelo struggled upright, took a step.

‘Not you, the servant.’

The door closed softly.

Michaelo lifted his eyes to the archbishop. ‘Forgive me for my weakness, Your Grace.’

‘Of what use are you to me in such a state?’

Thoresby’s deep-set eyes were unreadable in the shadowy room, but Michaelo interpreted his tone as impatient, not angry. Perhaps he would be receptive to Michaelo’s purpose. But did Michaelo have the strength to explain it all?

‘I must do penance for my life, Your Grace.’ He licked his lips. ‘On pilgrimage I was shown my base self. I have told you, I dreamed of Brother Wulfstan. He showed me what I must do.’

‘Some other time. I have a task for you. Several tasks. I have sent for Brother Henry. He will see to your back and give you something to help you sleep tonight – after you have taken some broth and honeyed milk. Tomorrow you will resume your duties. You must talk to Roger Moreton, find out how much he knows about Harold Galfrey.’

Michaelo held out a hand to the archbishop, begging to be heard. ‘Your Grace, if I may –’

‘You have inconvenienced me enough.’ Thoresby opened the door, instructed the servant to assist Brother Michaelo to his chamber. ‘Brother Henry will soon be here.’

Brother Henry, now infirmarian at St Mary’s Abbey, trained by the holy man whom Michaelo would have poisoned. Perhaps this was God’s purpose, to let Michaelo suffer at the hands of a young man who must consider him the devil made flesh.

The hall was quiet. Magda found herself dozing as she waited for Tildy to return from the stables. So she did not hear the conversation between Sarah, the kitchen maid, and Harold, only his parting remark, ‘See you do it!’ He was a man of many moods, Harold Galfrey, and as he strode out of the door of the hall he was angry.

A PATTERN OF EVIL

O
wen was awakened by the sound of people rushing about, a continual buzz of talk, but hushed, as if something were very wrong. He sat up.

Iolo snorted and opened his eyes. ‘I have never slept in such a bed. Why do the wealthy ever rise? What could be better than lying here?’

Why was Owen fretting? Why should he care what befell the household?

‘Am I talking to myself?’ Iolo demanded.

‘One must make the money to keep the bed, and a dry roof overhead,’ Owen said. ‘It
is
a fine bed, though for such a one it smells damp. The servants do not air it enough.’

‘How do you know about such things?’ Iolo asked. ‘Do you have such a bed?’

‘I do. Lucie’s father and aunt gave us a fine bed when we were wed.’ Owen had to laugh at Iolo’s incredulous expression. ‘In faith, it is true.’

‘No wonder you yearn for home.’

Owen turned away. He would not like Lucie to know the confusion in his heart at present. ‘I do not think I yearn enough of late. Have you noted the noises without?’

‘They would have us wake, I think.’ Iolo struggled to sit up straighter. ‘You would stay here, Captain? Is it Hywel?’

‘His cause is an honourable one. All who join him fight for the right to be ruled by their own prince. When I fought in France I thought only of serving my lord the Duke of Lancaster, a worthy man, a God-fearing man. But in serving him I helped King Edward fight for a crown that was not his, for a kingdom that did not want him. That is what Hywel meant by redeeming myself. I would make peace with myself and God by fighting for my people. But how can I?’ Owen felt the familiar shower of needles in his blind eye, warning him he said too much. ‘But we must talk of other things. Glynis was with Hywel at some point. You heard him say it.’

Iolo, whose eyes had fired at Owen’s words, took a moment to respond. ‘Glynis. Aye. Because she feared Piers.’

‘If that were true, why would Glynis help Piers escape?’

Iolo caught up. ‘Ah. Someone lies.’

‘Good sirs,’ a voice called from behind the tapestry.

‘I told you they meant to wake us,’ Iolo said.

The archdeacon’s Welsh-speaking servant entered with a tray bearing a pitcher of ale, some bread and cheese.

‘What is ado?’ Owen asked.