A Spy For The Redeemer

Twelve

Owen heard a horse whinny. And another. Math and Enid had no horses. The dog rose and began to bark. Owen struggled to rise. Math jumped up, grabbed a knife and a pitchfork he had propped by the door.

‘Where are my knives?’ Iolo called out from the corner.

‘Do not waste your strength unless I cry out,’ Math said. ‘Both of you. Enid, keep Ilar quiet.’

Enid grabbed the dog and muzzled her with a strip of cloth from the wound dressings.

The farmer pressed an ear to the door, listening. ‘Horsemen. Not many.’

‘One is bad enough if the wrong one,’ Enid murmured.

Especially if he were the murderer of her son?

Math opened the door quietly, slipped out into the wet morning.

A horse whinnied again. Math shouted.

Owen pushed through his pain and stood up. But Math appeared in the doorway before Owen reached it. The farmer laughed as he shook the rain from his hair. ‘Friends?’ Enid asked.

‘Aye. Cynog’s friend. The one-handed Fleming. And two others. They are seeing to their horses.’

‘Praise God.’ Enid let the bitch loose. Ilar rushed from the cottage, barking. ‘I must add more to the pottage,’ Enid said.

‘You sic that stubby, yapping devil on a friend?’ Iolo asked. He was sitting up, looking as if he had spent the night under a tavern table.

‘She knows Martin,’ Enid said. ‘And she is no devil, but the best watch dog a farmer could ask for.’

‘Martin Wirthir,’ Owen said.

Math gave an enthusiastic nod. ‘He says he has come to crown you king of fools.’

‘I shall greet the kingmaker.’ Owen hoped that walking about would ease the stiffness in his legs. His wounds slowed his impulsive pace, but they did not stop him. Outside, he lifted his face to the cool drizzle, breathed in the fresh air. The expansion of his ribs brought pain, but his lungs felt cleansed. He headed into the brush to relieve himself. When he returned to the yard, Martin Wirthir was walking out of the barn, his pack over his left shoulder, the dog trotting happily beside him. She gave one bark when she saw Owen. Martin paused, crouching to pet Ilar. It was ever jarring to see Martin after an absence. He could be Owen’s brother, they looked so much alike, but that Martin’s hair was slightly lighter and straighter. Like Owen, he carried a terrible scar, though not on his face. He was missing his right hand. At the moment he looked muddy and bedraggled.

‘I see you have ridden hard this morning,’ said Owen.

‘Walked. We camped the other side of the forest.’ Martin laughed as Ilar pulled at his pack. With his left hand he grabbed a stick and threw it far across the yard, sending the dog racing after it on her squat legs. ‘Ilar believes she is a deerhound,’ Martin said as he rose, brushing off his muddy knees. ‘Not a bad toss for someone who could throw only with his right hand a few years ago, eh?’ Now he looked closely at Owen. ‘By St Sebastian, you are not looking much the archer this morning.’

‘My bow would have been of little use in the forest,’ Owen said. ‘Did my men tell you where I was?’

‘No.’

‘Your own spies told you?’

The dog dropped the stick at Martin’s feet, then dashed into the cottage. ‘She has the good sense to go inside, out of the rain.’ Martin hoisted his pack over his shoulder. ‘So do I.’ He bowed to Owen and walked away. At the cottage door Martin glanced back at Owen, who was still eyeing the forest. ‘There is no need for you to stand out here. My men are on watch.’

Owen followed, though it was not because of the rain. The Fleming usually travelled alone. For him to ride with companions and set a guard — something had him worried. The men who had attacked Owen?

Enid and Math welcomed Martin with much affection. Owen learned from their conversation that Martin had been the one to bring them the terrible news of Cynog’s murder. They had not mentioned him last night when Owen questioned them.

Martin bent over Iolo’s wounded foot. ‘I thought you were a better fighter than this, my friend.’

‘It was three against two, three men who knew the forest,’ Iolo protested. ‘They had the advantage of our surprise.’

Martin straightened. ‘Can you ride?’

‘Ride, aye. But mounting and dismounting …’ Iolo shook his head at his leg.

‘We can assist you.’ Martin turned to Owen. ‘And you?’

‘Tomorrow,’ Enid said, stepping between them.

‘Today would be better,’ Martin said.

‘Tomorrow is foolish enough,’ she said. ‘He will open his side and bleed all the way to St David’s.’

‘He might suffer far worse if he curls up and naps until his trouble appears.’

Martin’s unease had Owen’s full attention. ‘Shall we talk about this trouble?’ he asked.

‘First we eat,’ Enid said. ‘Then I shall leave the three of you alone.’

Owen grew impatient with her mothering. But Martin thanked her graciously.

Enid’s good, thick pottage and sharp cider soon calmed Owen and made him more confident he could ride. But he wondered about Iolo. The horses must be led for much of the way to St David’s. Through the forest he might bend low against his mount, but it would be dangerous for him to stay mounted on the steeper rock faces. Yet how could he walk? Owen asked whether Martin had a different route in mind.

Taking their cue, Enid and Math rose from the table and donned their cloaks to set about their chores. They were already behind in their morning schedule, Math said as he hurried Enid — who would linger — out of the door.

Martin leaned his elbows on the table, toying with a puddle of cider on the wood. ‘Do you wish to return to St David’s? Might it not be wiser to journey south, and then east, towards home?’

‘The time is not right.’

Martin glanced up from his fidgeting to look Owen in the eye. ‘I should have thought it precisely the time.’

‘With my men yet in St David’s, the tomb unfinished …’ Martin’s grim expression did not change. ‘Math said you had come to crown me king of fools. What did he mean?’

‘What do you have to gain by returning to the city? If you have paid the stonemason, he will complete the tomb. Why should he not? It will be a monument to his artistry as well as to Sir Robert’s life.’

‘And Cynog’s murderer? Do I abandon the search for him?’

‘What will you gain by finding him for the archdeacon? A ship? I can arrange passage for you.’

‘I am not finished here.’

‘How much time would you waste in St David’s?’

‘He makes sense,’ said Iolo.

Owen thought it madness even to consider it. ‘What of the rest of my men? How can I desert them in St David’s?’

‘They are unimportant,’ Martin said lightly. ‘Rokelyn will not detain them. They should have papers — you were not carrying the papers when you were attacked, were you? Are you emperor of fools?’

Such an argument could continue all the day. Owen wanted to know what he was running from. ‘You think our attackers will return, and soon. Why? To finish their work? They had the chance to kill us yesterday. Who are they? What do they want of us?’

Martin threw up his arms. ‘So many questions at once, my friend.’ He leaned forward. ‘It is not only your attackers who might return — what of Archdeacon Rokelyn? You know that I dare not show myself to any loyal to King Edward. I cannot stay here.’

‘Ah. It is you who must move quickly.’

‘Do I misunderstand you? Do you enjoy being the puppet of clerics?’

Owen hated it. But when he returned to York he would be under Thoresby’s thumb. Was he any better than Rokelyn? Martin was right — Owen should leave now. Perhaps ride. He might go by way of Usk and see his sister once more. For the last time? How likely was it that they would ever meet again?

Martin was laughing. ‘Your caution is wise. But come now. Let us away.’

Owen was tempted. But he had never abandoned his men. It was the act of a coward, a man without honour. ‘I shall not desert my men.’

Martin looked away, the set of his jaw, his clenched hand expressing his frustration. ‘Then let me show you something. We shall ride, we two.’

‘What about our attackers?’ Iolo asked.

‘My men will stay here,’ said Martin. ‘They will help you take cover if trouble approaches.’

‘What of you two?’

‘They are more likely to be watching the track to St David’s.’ Martin rose. ‘Come, Owen. I wish you to understand Cynog.’

When Iolo and the captain had not returned by morning, Tom, Edmund, Sam and Jared prepared to search for them. But they had been surrounded at the palace gatehouse and escorted to the house of the Archdeacon of St David’s. Apparently Rokelyn believed this was a ruse, that they meant to escape.

Edmund had tried to reason with the man.

‘This is not a discussion,’ the archdeacon had said, his eyes cold. ‘This young one, Thomas, will ride with my men.’ Tom’s knees had begun to shake. ‘I prefer to keep you separated.’ The archdeacon had looked down his nose when he spoke to them and his eyes never quite met theirs.

Edmund and Jared had been given the task of guarding Piers the Mariner in his cell. Sam was to sit in the palace gatehouse with the keeper. Tom rode out of Bonning’s Gate with head bowed, hoping that no one along the way recognised him in the company of the archbishop’s guards. It was a pointless effort, for the ones who counted already knew of Tom’s humiliation — Sam, Edmund, Jared. And soon Iolo and, worst of all, Captain Archer would be the wiser. The captain would surely understand why Archdeacon Rokelyn chose Tom to accompany the guards. Not that Tom had understood at first. Edmund had explained it to Tom as he gathered his things.

‘You are young, inexperienced,’ said Edmund, ‘they doubt you would have the stomach to lie to them.’

All through his journey in Captain Archer’s company Tom’s stomach had betrayed him. Twice he had turned green crossing choppy water. He had embarrassed himself during a training session at Cydweli Castle, retching after being punched in the stomach. He had stopped counting how many times he stumbled out of the hall to heave after too much drink. The other men laughed and told him he would grow into being a soldier. But Tom had his doubts. He had the will, but not the stomach. And now these guards thought he did not have the stomach to lie. He prayed to St Oswald for the courage to deceive them. He did not yet see in what way he might do it. They had known the captain’s plan. Captain Archer had told Archdeacon Rokelyn where he was going — indeed, he had received the archdeacon’s blessing.

Owen and Martin slowly rode out of the yard. Owen turned once, saw Enid still watching. He saluted her. She stood there, motionless. He guessed that she feared he was deserting the search for her son’s murderer.

‘Her son’s murder has tested her trust,’ Martin said.

‘You watch me too closely. I did not invite you into my thoughts. Even the Lord God gives us the courtesy of pretending He needs to hear our confession through His priests.’

Martin stared straight ahead.

The track they followed was overgrown and rocky, seemingly chosen to follow the most difficult terrain. Not so bad that they had to dismount, but the horses moved as slowly as the men might have done on foot — had not Owen been injured. His wounds stung more and more as he jounced on the horse. His shoulder ached as he shifted his body to balance in the saddle. He prayed they did not have far to go, else he could not imagine being in any condition to ride again tomorrow.

Halfway up a track that climbed a barren, stony height they dipped into a small depression carved out by a stream, shaded by a few young trees. Two paths led off at different angles. Martin signalled a halt and dismounted.

Owen dismounted with care.

Martin crouched on the bank of the stream, where it bent towards him, round a stone outcropping topped with gorse. In the bend was a mound of smooth stones — after heavy rains the water must come down from the highlands with force and speed, depositing some of the stones caught up in the torrent. At present the slow-flowing water left them dry. Martin seemed to be handling the smooth rocks idly, turning them over, then setting them back down on the mound. All white rocks.

‘Do you read signs in the stones?’ Owen guessed.

Martin bent to the stream, picked up a stone and handed it to Owen. Someone had chiselled out lines and angles.

‘I have seen lettering like this — on wayside crosses. I cannot read it.’

‘You are not meant to. Even one skilled in such lettering would find these a riddle.’

‘Lawgoch has planted these?’

‘Cynog,’ said Martin. ‘He carved them and put them in place.’

If ever there was a man Owen had misjudged, it was Cynog. ‘What do they signify?’

‘Directions. Safe paths.’

‘For whom?’

‘We shall talk when we return to the farmhouse.’

Owen stared down at the other white rocks in the stream. Cynog had spoken of Lawgoch to Math and Enid. If Cynog had been working for Lawgoch’s cause, his murderer might well have been — as Rokelyn had surmised — a king’s man, someone who wanted to make of Cynog an example for other traitors to the king. Someone who had come upon him carving the stones? A fellow mason? But why would such a man care so much about whether Cynog betrayed the king? Would the guild have decreed such an act? To protect their freedoms? Certainly the guilds in York felt strongly about the behaviour of their members.

Had Piers the Mariner searched Cynog’s room for evidence of treason? Would a spy for the king have been so obvious? Even so, Edward was king here, no matter the feelings of the people. Someone would surely come forth to argue in Piers’s defence if he were the king’s man. But would anyone have understood what they saw, smooth rocks on which Cynog had carved some symbols? Was it not more likely someone had come upon him setting them out?

‘Several of them have symbols,’ Martin said as Owen continued to stare at the stones. ‘Not all.’

Owen only now focused completely. ‘How many learn these symbols?’

‘Enough for someone to think it worth the effort.’ Martin’s dark eyes studied Owen. ‘You see now the complications. Cynog was not the victim of a jealous lover.’

‘I never believed he was.’ But Owen had thought him an innocent.

‘This is Englishman against Welshman,’ said Martin. ‘You are vulnerable. Neither side knows whether to trust you.’

‘Do you think I do not realise that? I did not choose to become involved in this.’

‘I could get you away from here. Back to Lucie and your good life in York.’

‘You should want me to stay. Work for Lawgoch, as you do.’

Martin laughed. ‘I work for King Charles. If he told me tomorrow that I should slit Lawgoch’s throat — well, I should much regret it, but I doubt I would hesitate.’

‘You have met Owain?’

‘Several times.’

‘Tell me about him. Now, away from Enid and Math.’

Martin glanced at Owen, nodding. ‘So. It is not your men who keep you here, it is Lawgoch.’

‘Do you question my honour?’

‘Not at all.’ Martin looked around. ‘We cannot talk here. It is too open.’

‘Then elsewhere.’

Owen turned his back on Martin, led his horse to a rise in the ground, used it to help himself mount. When he was settled astride, he nodded to Martin, who still stood beside his horse, shaking his head.

Owen turned his horse down the trail towards the farmhouse. ‘Come, Martin,’ he called, ‘lead the way.’

He heard the man mount.

Owen’s side felt damp. The bandage meant to hold his arm and shoulder still had begun to unravel. But he had learned something at last.

Martin pressed ahead. In a while he turned off the trail, ducking beneath low branches. Owen thought he could hear rushing water. He followed, clutching his side as he leaned over his saddle. The trees thinned as the sound of the quick stream grew louder. Owen thought it a poor choice for their purpose — no one could hear them, true enough, but neither could they hear anyone approach. But Martin did not stop at the water; he crossed it, rode up a slope to a wooded hillock.

‘Here we can watch all sides,’ Martin said, dismounting.

Smoke rose from the farmhouse smoke hole. Geese squawked at the three who led their horses from the woods. A man peered out of the barn, withdrew.

‘Come with me,’ one of the guards ordered Tom. ‘Search the barn,’ he told his companion.

They were dismounting when a small dog came rushing from the barn, barking.

A woman emerged from the house, shouting something in Welsh. If it was an order for the dog to desist, it did not work. The man now strolled out of the barn. He was young, perhaps Tom’s age, but with a patch of white hair over his right ear. He called in Welsh to the woman, who nodded and went back inside.

One of the guards was trying to shake the dog off his boot. The other kept muttering, ‘What are they saying?’ But neither seemed skilled in Welsh. Neither was Tom. But he did know how to befriend a dog. He squatted, called the dog to him. He did not want her injured by the one guard’s increasingly angry kicks. As the dog trotted over to sniff Tom’s hand, the two guards moved away. Tom scratched behind the bitch’s ears, nodded to the man with the odd hair, who was approaching.

‘Do you want to tell me who you are and what you want?’ the man asked Tom. In English.

Tom introduced himself as Captain Archer’s man, the others as guards from St David’s.

The man nodded. ‘I am Deri. Cynog’s brother. Your captain was here yesterday. Was there something he forgot to ask?’

It seemed the captain and Iolo had left the farm early enough to have reached St David’s before the curfew. Tom did not like that news — where were they? The guards had come over to hear the conversation.

‘The woman speaks no English?’ one of them asked Deri.

‘My mam speaks only her own language,’ Deri said. ‘And my da. I was ruined when I went to sea.’

No wonder he had more confidence than Tom. He had already been to sea. And survived.

‘So the captain is gone?’

‘He is.’

‘We would like to see for ourselves. The barn. The house.’

‘Do as you will. I am sure my objection would make no difference to you,’ said Deri.

The guards found nothing. But Tom did. In a basket shoved beneath a bench was a muddy, blood-soaked shirt with a familiar bit of mending on the neck. Tom had stitched up that tear for the captain. Back in the woods they had passed over an area where the mud had been churned up and the brush trampled. Had the captain been involved?

‘The captain was injured?’ Tom asked the woman, forgetting she spoke no English. But surely she would recognise the captain’s name. ‘Captain Archer’s,’ he said, holding the shirt out to her. She nodded, pushing it back towards him. Tom thought it meant she wanted him to take it.

He ran with it out to the man, Deri. The guards were talking to him. Tom thrust the bloody shirt in front of Deri’s face. ‘What happened to the captain?’

Deri wagged his head from side to side, as if so much blood were nothing. ‘Ilar bit him,’ he said. He nodded towards the dog, who was sitting quietly by his side.

One of the guards laughed.

Deri glanced over at him with a disgusted look, then turned his attention back to Tom. ‘Mam cleaned up the captain, gave him one of my shirts.’

Tom did not believe it. The dog was friendly enough if approached in such wise. And the captain knew how to approach a guard dog. Deri grinned, shrugged. But the way he held Tom’s gaze made the young man hold his tongue.

Owen sat down beneath the trees. Martin brought a wineskin from his saddle. Enid had filled it with a mixture of herbs and cider, for pain. Owen drank, but very little. He wanted to keep his wits about him.

Martin lowered himself beside Owen, but facing out in the opposite direction. ‘What do you know of Yvain de Galles, the princeling who would redeem this country from the English?’ He used Owain Lawgoch’s French name.

‘I know little,’ said Owen.

‘Yvain is a man of honour. The first time I met him was here, in Wales. His father had died two years earlier, but Yvain had just heard of it and that his lands had been confiscated. He had come from France to petition King Edward to restore his property.’

‘Did he win it back?’

‘Much of it. He then sold off some woods and was preparing to return to France with his money.’

Owen grunted. ‘He wants the money. He is not the hero folk think him.’

‘You are wrong. Even a hero needs money to live. When he returned to France he was joined by Ieuan Wyn, another Welshman. Perhaps you have heard of him?’

‘You must be mistaken. Ieuan is Lancaster’s constable at Beaufort and Nogent.’

Martin laughed. ‘No more. Yvain and Ieuan joined Bertrand du Guesclin fighting in Castile — against your duke. Yvain is Llywelyn the Last’s grandson, Ieuan is of the family of Llywelyn’s seneschal. King Charles likes the echo of the past in their partnership — prince and seneschal once more. It is the sort of echo that the king puts much faith in. And Lancaster’s loss. That is also pleasing to him.’

‘How did Cynog know where to set the markers?’

‘Has anyone in St David’s mentioned Hywel?’

‘No,’ said Owen. ‘Why should they? Who is he?’

‘The stone markers, those are his doing,’ said Martin. ‘Your horses — he has them, I am certain.’

‘A horse thief?’

‘Not a common horse thief. He is what passes for a noble among your people,’ Martin said. ‘Wealthy, ambitious, generous to those who assist him, ruthless to those who oppose him. He claims to be Yvain’s man, recruiting an army to support him when he lands. But Hywel is stealing money for his preparations that should come to me — for the prince. In fact, he fashions himself a prince. Soon he will forget that he meant to support Yvain and claim to be the Redeemer of Wales himself.’

‘I should like to talk to Hywel.’

‘You do not want to meet him. It is Yvain de Galles you wish to meet. Hywel is not of the same stuff. You may find yourself with a liege lord you would dislike as much as the Duke of Lancaster.’

‘I should find it a pleasant change, to fight for my own people.’

‘Yvain has allied himself with the French. You lost your eye fighting against them. He may have been in the field against you. Have you thought of that?’

‘I asked to talk to Hywel, not to take up arms for Owain Lawgoch.’

Martin laughed. ‘Oh, my friend, if you could see your face. You are already imagining heroic deeds that would free your countrymen. Enough of this. You must rest if you are to ride back to St David’s in the morning.’

‘Ride? You will loan us horses?’

‘I would guess you could ride your own horses beyond the wood. I told you — Hywel will have them. My men Deri and Morgan will take you to him.’

‘You will not accompany us?’

‘I keep my distance from Hywel. We share no love for one another.’

‘Then Deri and Morgan shall take me to him.’

Ilar announced their arrival, barking and scampering as if she thought they carried a bowl of meat for her. Deri and Morgan followed, and quickly told them of the visitors.

‘Iolo heard their approach before we did. He hid himself well. There were three — two of the bishop’s retainers and Tom, your man.’ Deri nodded to Owen.

‘Young Tom was with the archdeacon’s guard?’ Owen asked.

‘Not willingly,’ said Deri. ‘He kept his mouth shut to help me in a lie.’ He explained what had happened. ‘They will ride back slowly, searching for you along the way. I think they expect to find you lying somewhere in the brush overcome by llar’s vicious attack.’

Enid apologised for not thinking of the shirt. Math fumed about the archdeacon’s sending out his men to search for Owen, but never a bother about his son.

‘This is all about Cynog,’ Owen said, trying to calm him.

‘It is about Owain Lawgoch,’ Enid said. ‘I curse the day I ever heard his name.’

Archdeacon Rokelyn threw Owen’s bloodstained shirt on to the table in front of Tom. ‘I find your friends asleep on watch, and now this. Where is he? Where is Captain Archer?’

Tom opened and closed his mouth without a sound. He tried again. ‘I do not know. As the others said, the captain and Iolo left in time to make it here by curfew last night.’

Rokelyn glanced at the two guards who had ridden with Tom. They nodded.

‘Go then. You will find your friends by the palace stables. In one of the horse troughs.’

Hoping to escape quickly, Tom reached for the shirt.

‘Leave it!’ Rokelyn barked.

‘But it is a good shirt,’ Tom protested.

‘If the captain returns, he may have it back,’ the archdeacon said.

Sam awaited him outside the palace gatehouse. ‘I have permission to return to the stables with you. Thanks be. I want no more of that man’s temper.’ He glanced over at the gatekeeper.

‘Is it true that Edmund and Jared are in one of the horse troughs?’

‘So I hear. They were found asleep on watch, stinking of ale.’

‘It is not like them to do such a thing.’

‘No,’ Sam said, hurrying past the keeper. As soon as they were in the palace courtyard, Sam turned and demanded, ‘Whose was the bloody shirt? Where is the captain?’

Tom told him what little he knew.

‘Savaged by a dog? Captain Archer?’ Sam shook his head.

‘I for one do not believe it,’ said Tom. ‘But the man was relieved that I pretended I did so.’

‘Then where is the captain?’

‘I do not know. The horses were not there. Nor Iolo. That is all I know.’

The evening shadows chilled the stable yard. The troughs were deserted. Tom and Sam found their comrades snoring in a corner of the stables, blankets wrapped round them, their clothes draped over a line, drying. Someone had been kind.

Sam, whose mother was a midwife, knelt, smelled the breath of each.

He waved Tom over. ‘Smell them.’

Tom knelt beside him. Sniffed. ‘Bitter,’ he said.

‘Aye. They drank more than simple ale. A sleep draught, I think.’

Tom wished the captain were here. ‘The captain would warn the men who guard Piers the Mariner now.’

‘Aye, he would do that.’

‘Then we must.’

Tom had a queasy feeling in his stomach as he ran across the yard, but he tried to ignore it. Sam led the way, taking the steps of the bishop’s porch two at a time. The porter barred their way.

‘Has the archdeacon ordered you in? I was not told if he has.’

‘We need to warn the guards,’ said Tom.

The porter shook his head. ‘You must speak to the archdeacon.’

‘That will take too much time, man!’ Sam cried.

‘I have my orders.’ The porter stood firm.