A Spy For The Redeemer

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.’