A Spy For The Redeemer

Seventeen

The clouds parted late that afternoon and the sun beat down on the rooftops of York and glistened on the damp gardens. The irises drew Lucie’s eyes away from her stitching, and at last she pushed the linen herb sachets aside and slipped out of the apothecary workshop into the garden. The lacy camomile bowed beneath the weight of the raindrops and its own tiny buds. At the end of the rose beds stood Phillippa, her hair tidy in a white cap, an apron tied neatly at her waist. She used her cane to support her as she leaned over the lavenders to see something behind them. Lucie joined her.

‘Peonies,’ Lucie said. ‘I planted them last spring. I had hoped for blossoms this year, but no matter. The older ones make up for these with a fine show and by the time I need their roots these young ones will be old enough to bloom.’

‘What else is new since my last visit?’ Phillippa asked. Quite lucidly. Without a hint of this morning’s confusion.

Lucie pointed out her new acquisitions, though it was difficult to remember what Phillippa might have seen. Her aunt was rewardingly delighted, requesting cuttings and seeds. They paused at the rosemary hedge, where Lucie crouched to pull at a twining clover.

‘You do not like clover?’ Phillippa asked.

‘I prefer it on tapestries. It grows in all the wrong places.’

‘It has its uses, Lucie.’ Phillippa bent awkwardly to lift some rosemary branches and observe the intruder. ‘But it is crowding the rosemary, I agree. I seem to recall that Nicholas had a spell for clover, to keep it in its place.’

Lucie believed in weeding rather than casting spells, but she saw a way to turn the conversation down a helpful path. ‘He did find a spell. It is in one of the manuscripts in his chest. We should go through them.’

‘But I cannot read.’

‘You would recognise the drawing.’

Phillippa had straightened. She leaned on her cane, gazing down absently at the rosemary. ‘I should have learned to read.’

‘So that you would understand the parchment you spoke of?’

Phillippa looked up, startled. ‘What parchment?’

‘Something your husband had. You spoke of it last night.’

Phillippa pressed her heart, suddenly pale.

Lucie reached for her aunt’s arm, but Phillippa turned away.

‘Aunt Phillippa — ’

‘Say nothing more now,’ Phillippa said softly, taking a deep breath.

Lucie cursed herself. She was no good with her aunt, did not understand what helped, what threatened her fragile dignity. Perhaps a cup of wine would soothe her.

‘Do not leave,’ Phillippa said as Lucie began to walk away. ‘I am relieved to have spoken of it. But I do not remember — oh Lucie, it is the cruellest curse, to be witless one day, lucid the next. It is as if I have been sleepwalking and everyone has witnessed my foolishness. All look at me with such pity — and fear that they, too, might come to this end if they live so long as I have. It is horrible. Horrible.’ Her jaw was set in anger and frustration.

‘I wish that I had a physick to help you,’ Lucie said.

Phillippa shook her head. ‘I have told you before, there is no cure for old age. Except death. So I do not waste my prayers.’

‘I wish only to help.’

‘I know. But I am such an old fool. Had I learned to read, or showed the parchment to you …’ Phillippa sighed. ‘But my father thought reading unnecessary. It did not seem so important when I was young. My brother could read a little, with effort. My husband could read — not well. But look at you, keeping your accounts. You used your reading to study medicine.’ Phillippa shook her head in wonder.

This parchment. Lucie wondered how something that apparently meant so much to her aunt had been lost. ‘How did you come to lose the parchment?’

‘I hid it too well and too often. I have searched all the hiding places I can remember, but it is not there.’

‘Why did you hide it?’

‘Douglas was so secretive about it. He had me sew it into the tapestry — the one I brought to Freythorpe.’

‘But that is the one the thieves stole!’

‘No matter. I removed the parchment long ago.’

‘How long ago?’

‘When your mother came to the manor. I did not know that she would have so little interest in the housekeeping. I was worried she would discover it.’

‘Then it was not you who tore the tapestry recently?’

Phillippa had not been aware of the tear, but could not say with any assurance when she had last made note of the tapestry. ‘You see? My servants must have thought I ruined it and did not wish to speak of it. Sweet heaven, I have been too proud, not asking for help.’

Lucie thought her father would have noticed the damage to the tapestry. Had someone been in the hall, searching for the parchment, since Sir Robert departed in February? If so, they had known where to look. At least where it had once been hidden. But so long ago. ‘Did you receive any visitors this past winter?’ Lucie asked, but already knew that it was the servants she should be questioning. She must go to Freythorpe. But how could she leave the shop again so soon?

Daimon improved under Magda’s care. Tildy delighted to see him coherent, sitting up for hours at a time and eager to be back on his feet soon. But his pallor and the shadows beneath his eyes reminded her that he had only begun to heal. Magda had cut his hair close to his head so that it was easier to apply her healing ointments. He looked like a tousled child with tufts of hair sticking up like bristles.

‘You misjudged Harold Galfrey,’ Daimon chided her after Magda explained that he could not tolerate the amount of physick Lucie had instructed Tildy to give him.

‘I did not tell you of my suspicion,’ Tildy said. ‘Did Magda?’

‘No one needed to. When you came upon Harold bending over me yesterday, I saw the look on your face, Matilda.’

If her fear had been so obvious to Daimon, had Harold also guessed? ‘Do you think I should apologise to him?’

‘No.’

How quickly died the smile, thought Tildy. ‘What is this?’

‘Something — perhaps nothing. There was a man today, he asked for Harold by name. And his voice, it took me back to that night. The attack.’

‘Sweet heaven!’

Daimon tried to shake his head, stifled a curse. ‘I cannot be certain. That night the voice was rougher — he was threatening, shouting. This morning the voice was pleasant. I did not see him — I could not move quickly enough. Let me sit at the table tonight. Perhaps we might talk of this visitor.’

‘That is simple to arrange.’ Tildy smiled encouragingly and lifted her tray of medicines.

Daimon touched her hand. ‘I wish also to keep my eye upon my rivals.’

‘Alfred and Gilbert? Rivals?’

‘They have seen far more of the world than I have.’

What did that matter to Tildy, who seldom went farther than St George’s Field in York? ‘I have heard their boasts at the captain’s table,’ she reminded him. ‘They are soldiers born and no proper husbands for anyone.’ She blushed, realising what she had implied.

Daimon’s eyes lit up. ‘Is it possible that your fears for me mean you have had a change of heart about us?’

‘My heart has been yours all along,’ Tildy said. ‘It is my head that warns against your suit.’

‘Then you have not changed your answer?’

‘Ask me again when you are well and strong.’

‘I shall recover quickly in anticipation of that moment!’

Tildy escaped from those hopeful eyes as quickly as she might.

The table was set up by Daimon’s pallet so that he might be propped up and comfortably join in the conversation. Tildy had told Magda what Daimon had said about Harold’s visitor. The Riverwoman had seen the man.

‘It was Colby, one of the mayor’s servants. He has been in and out of trouble all his life. Magda and thee shall see what he wanted with the borrowed steward, eh?’ She would bring up the incident at dinner.

Tildy was glad that she need not spend the evening seeking a clever time in which to introduce Colby’s unexpected presence. Without that worry she found it quite merry and indulged in the fantasy of being the steward’s wife, accustomed to such evenings. Alfred and Gilbert kept up a lively chatter about their adventures and Magda joined in with stories of her own travels. Even Harold relaxed and told a tale about his youth. Tildy almost liked him at that moment. Daimon said little, but laughed heartily and ate with a healthy appetite.

Tildy began to wonder whether Magda had forgotten. The old woman drank more than her share of the wine, then brandywine. How could she think clearly?

But Harold provided the opportunity. ‘Is it true you leave on the morrow, Goodwife Digby?’

‘Aye. Daimon is, as thou seest, stronger now. Magda did wonder what is the news from York. Was that not one of John Gisburne’s servants came to see thee this morn?’

Tildy watched Harold closely. Brushing his light hair from his eyes, he seemed almost embarrassed as he glanced at Daimon, Alfred, Gilbert, then back to the Riverwoman. ‘Yes, it was. But he said nothing of the city.’ Now he glanced at the two servants who waited by the hearth to be called to serve. He leaned close to those at the table. ‘He wished to warn me that Cook’s son, Joseph, was seen in the city, said he was on his way here.’ He said it all too quietly for Daimon, who could not lean across the table, to hear. Tildy whispered the news to him.

‘We shall discuss this later,’ Alfred said.

The topic seemed to signal the end of the festivities. The men withdrew. Tildy asked Magda to watch her prepare Daimon’s physicks to see that she was doing it correctly and to help make him comfortable for the night. The supper had drained him of his energy and he was glad to settle down.

‘But I warn you,’ he told them. ‘Joseph is trouble. Tell Alfred and Gilbert to have a care.’

‘Aye, Magda has heard much of the man and nothing good.’

‘I shall tell them,’ Tildy promised. As she looked down on Daimon, she thought that his cheeks and nose were pink. ‘His humours are out of balance again,’ she whispered to the Riverwoman.

She received a pat on the forearm for her observation. ‘It is the wine, my child,’ said the Riverwoman. ‘It is all right. Thou must allow him a pleasure now and then.’

‘I did not mean to deny him,’ Tildy protested. Why was the old woman treating her like a child of a sudden?

The Riverwoman drew Tildy away from Daimon’s bedside, guiding her towards the hall door. ‘Thou hast also had much wine,’ she said. ‘More than is thy custom.’

Tildy disagreed.

‘Magda knows,’ the woman insisted. ‘A breath of evening air will do thee good.’

Tildy tried to wriggle away, but the Riverwoman’s grasp was as strong as her will. She held firm to Tildy’s arm until they had slipped out into the cool evening.

It was a welcome feeling, the breeze, the air. Tildy took a deep breath and turned her gaze upwards, to the dome of stars that stretched to the horizon. It was a test of her courage, to look up at the night sky. She had been born and raised in York, had seldom been outside the walls of the city until the past summer, when she had stayed here on the manor with Gwenllian and Hugh. When she first walked out into the night the vast sky had frightened her. It was too large, too mysterious, a monster with a hundred hundred eyes. Gradually, with the gentle guidance of Magda’s daughter Tola, who had accompanied them as wet-nurse to Hugh, Tildy learned to see the stars as familiar friends, tracing the constellations.

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.