A Spy For The Redeemer

Seven

Sleep eluded Lucie after her aunt’s dawn adventure. And the longer she lay beside her aunt, staring at the candle left burning to calm them both, the more she worried. At last she gave up, thinking she would do more good relieving Tildy so she might rest. As Lucie reached for her clothes she noticed the bloodstains on her gown and scarf. She turned the scarf round and tried to tuck in the stained part; the gown she covered with an apron. She would save the clean clothes for travelling.

The hall was quiet, lit only by the fire and a small lamp on the table beside Daimon’s pallet. People were still abed. Tildy sat close to the young steward, quietly talking to him, telling him of the damage, what had been stolen. ‘He begged to hear,’ she explained with a guilty grimace as Lucie joined them.

‘Of course you would wish to know,’ Lucie said to Daimon. ‘I know you take pride in your role here. Now Tildy must get some rest, eh?’

Daimon agreed.

Though Tildy stumbled with weariness as she rose, she departed reluctantly. ‘You will not let me sleep the whole day?’

‘I cannot do without you that long,’ Lucie assured her.

Daimon did not seem so well this morning as he had last night. He had a fever, though not an alarming one. The wound on his hand had swelled in the night and it did not smell clean. Lucie spent a good while with him, opening the wound to let it drain, packing it with a paste of woad that Phillippa kept on hand for reducing swelling.

And while Lucie worked, she asked Daimon about folk who had left the manor, or been recently chastised.

‘No one has been treated so badly here that they should turn against us.’ Daimon’s voice was weak.

Lucie felt guilty about making him talk, but whom else might she trust? ‘You cannot be sure you know another’s heart, Daimon. Tell me about those who might be unhappy.’

The list, once Daimon understood that any slight might cause a person to turn on their master, was quite long. Two grooms who could not meet Sir Robert’s standards; the young son of Nan the cook and his sweetheart, a kitchen maid, whose pranks had become spiteful and dangerous; a thatcher who believed he had been cheated; several minor servants who had not met Phillippa’s high standards.

‘The thatcher would not know of the treasury,’ Lucie said.

‘Servants talk. He flirted with all the women.’

‘Are any of these people still here?’

‘The kitchen maid. One of the grooms. The thatcher still works in the area.’

‘What about Nan’s son?’

‘No one knows for certain. If cook knows, she will not say.’

‘I do not recall her having a son.’

‘None of us knew of him until he showed up. Mistress Wilton, if you are right, is Matilda safe here? I cannot protect her.’

‘I shall get help until you are well, Daimon. I owe that to you.’ She told him of her plan. ‘All you need do is rest and recover.’

‘Did you ask Matilda to stay with me?’

‘Dame Phillippa asked her to manage the house while she is away. Tildy agreed. It was her choice.’

‘She planned to stay before I was injured?’

‘Yes. She did not tell you?’

‘No.’

‘Be good to her, Daimon.’

‘If I have the chance.’

Brother Michaelo entered the hall with one of his saddlebags. A servant set up a small table beneath one of the great windows on the south side of the hall, then proceeded to clean it under Michaelo’s supervision.

‘I must leave you a while,’ Lucie said to Daimon. ‘But I shall be here in the hall if you need me.’

He settled back against the pillows, closed his eyes. There was a slight smile on his face.

Michaelo had paper and ink ready. ‘You need not compose the letter, Mistress Wilton. If you simply tell me what you wish to accomplish …’

Lucie nodded, but did not begin until there were no servants nearby. When she explained her goal, she saw from the widening of the monk’s eyes that he found it an extravagant request. But he bent to the task.

Lucie began to rise.

‘I pray you, stay a little,’ Michaelo said. ‘I shall have questions.’

As Lucie sat quietly watching Michaelo’s bowed head, listening to the slow scratching of his quill, Harold entered the hall, his tabard and leggings covered with muddy ashes. He bowed to her, moved off in the direction of the kitchen.

Michaelo raised his head. ‘Their familiarity with the house. How did you note that?’

She explained.

He nodded. ‘I have what I need.’ He bowed over the letter once more. In a short while he asked her to read it and sign it. She did so, pleased with his tact, the grace of his words.

She was sitting by the fire, arranging pots and bowls of medicines on a tray, when Harold returned, pink-skinned from scrubbing, his hair slicked back, his muddy tabard traded for a loose linen shirt. ‘Do I look less like one who cavorts with the pigs?’

Lucie was not ready for the feelings his appearance aroused in her, the glint of golden hair on his tanned neck, how it curled damply at the nape. ‘You look — clean. God bless you for all you have done.’

‘I could do no less.’ His eyes held hers for a moment, those terribly blue eyes, and Lucie felt herself grow warm under his gaze. It was but a moment. Then he nodded towards where Daimon lay. ‘How is he this morning?’

‘Not as well as I had hoped.’

Lucie began to rise, tray in hand. Harold rose to help her. His hands touched hers briefly, their eyes met, then he drew the tray from her.

‘Where shall I put it?’

Indicating a small table near Daimon, Lucie started to move away, wishing to break the tension between them that was beginning to choke her.

Harold joined her, falling into step beside her as she moved towards the buttery. ‘Forgive me for overstepping my bounds, but considering Daimon’s condition, might I suggest that I stay to organise the manor guard until he is recovered?’

And miss a ride through the countryside with me? The very fact that Lucie had thought that inclined her to say yes, stay. Stay away from me. But that was no way to make such a decision. She had already resolved how to protect the manor. ‘There is no need.’ She did not think it necessary to tell him her plan.

‘As you wish.’ He sounded wounded.

And what if Thoresby refused? She turned to Harold as they reached the door to the buttery. ‘You have been a great help. And I thank you for your offer. I may yet have need of you.’

‘You have only to ask.’

She touched the back of her hand to her cheek as she watched him walk away, felt the blush still there. How foolish she must look.

She lit a straw from the spirit lamp in the buttery to light a lamp in the treasury. The small room looked the same as it had last night. No one had tidied it. Lucie bent to the task of putting the account books in order. She shortly discovered one was missing. Lighting a second lamp, she searched the floor, behind the chest. From outside the hall came a loud rumble. Someone screamed. She heard people running.

Picking up her skirts, Lucie blew out the lamps.

‘It is the gatehouse,’ Michaelo told her as she hurried past him through the hall and out of the door. ‘God help us, part of the upper storey has caved in.’

It was worse than that. On one side of the archway the outer wall had cracked beneath the burned roof and the crack was widening, the wattle and daub wall tilting crazily inward. Two men were trying to push a top-heavy cart away from it, but as the wall shivered and groaned they abandoned the cart and began to run. With a great shudder a large section of the wall fell into the yard. Debris rained down on the cart, shifting its precarious balance. It toppled sideways, sending the chairs, barrels, a bed frame and household items sliding towards Jenny, the gatekeeper’s wife, who was struggling to carry her small boy and drag a sack out of the way. Lucie ran out into the yard, shouting a warning, but Jenny was too far away to hear her over all the din. Then suddenly, blessedly, Harold appeared from the far side of the yard, by the stables, and scooped up mother and child just in time, kicking the sack aside. Lucie hurried to join him at the stables, side-stepping a rolling barrel. She took the boy from Jenny’s arms as Harold set the young mother down on her feet. She collapsed against him, sobbing.

By now the yard was abuzz with servants and tenants running about, catching up what they could of Jenny and Walter’s household, tripping over each other as they raced for hooks and poles to tear down the tottering wall. Across the yard, Phillippa stood in the doorway of the hall, wringing her hands.

Lucie carried the boy across and handed him to her aunt. ‘Take him inside. I’ll bring Jenny.’

‘My bed!’ Jenny sobbed as she stumbled across the yard in Lucie’s grasp. Lucie guided her inside, murmuring reassurances that Jenny would have a new bed, a much better bed.

The little boy, wailing in Phillippa’s impatient embrace, threw out his arms towards his mother. She rushed to her son, pulled him from Phillippa and settled down on a bench by the fire to nurse.

‘Ungrateful woman,’ Phillippa muttered.

Lucie wished she could tidy her aunt, but there was no time. The servants needed calming, direction. ‘There are bound to be injuries, Aunt. You will need your medicines, clean rags, warm water.’

Phillippa shuffled towards the kitchen.

Lucie turned to Daimon, who was sitting up trying to catch someone’s attention.

‘What has happened?’

She told him. ‘Jenny, Walter and their boy are safe. Rest, Daimon. We need you whole.’

In late afternoon, Lucie sat with Daimon, grateful for the quiet moment. She had sent Tildy, who found it impossible to rest, out to manage the preparation of a cottage for Jenny and Walter. Daimon had suggested one unoccupied since the previous summer when the elderly woman who had lived there died of pestilence. They would not move for several days, after the dangerous vapours from the plague had been dispelled by a juniper fire and then the cottage aired out.

Lucie’s quiet moment was truly just that, a moment. She was mixing a tisane for Daimon when he looked over her shoulder and closed his eyes with a sigh.

‘What is it. A pain?’ Lucie asked.

‘Ma. I hoped she would not hear that I was injured.’

Lucie had forgotten about Daimon’s mother. After Daimon’s father’s death, his mother had moved to a cottage at a distance from the manor house. Lucie had not thought to send word to Winifred of her son’s injuries.

‘Mistress Wilton,’ Winifred said in her gentle voice, bowing her head slightly, her crisp white wimple rustling with the movement. ‘God bless you for the care you have given my son.’ She was a tiny woman, with pale skin and large, dark eyes. A servant carried her wool and spinning wheel.

‘He was wounded defending the manor,’ said Lucie. ‘It — ’

‘As was his duty.’ Winifred crouched beside her son, fussed with the bandage on his forehead. Glancing up at Lucie with an accusing frown she pronounced it damp.

‘Ma,’ Daimon moaned, ‘Mistress Wilton knows what she is doing.’

‘I have packed the wound to bring down the swelling,’ Lucie said. ‘Would you like some time alone?’ She rose from her seat, offering it to Winifred, who slid up on to it. As she smoothed out the skirt of her grey gown she thanked Lucie and went back to examining her son.

Lucie thought to use the time to find something to eat and headed for the buttery. Some bread, cheese and ale would suit her.

Sarah, the kitchen maid, was in the room, hanging fresh loaves in a wicker cage out of the reach of mice. She seemed in a hurry to complete her task when Lucie arrived. It was Sarah who had enjoyed cook’s son’s pranks. She was a large, lumbering young woman, perpetually sweating and wheezing. Her saving graces were an infectious laugh and long-fingered hands that seemed to belong to another body. Not much with which to capture a man’s heart. What had Nan’s son, Joseph, seen in her? Daimon said he had been handsome, though not a young man. Sarah’s presence in the buttery reminded Lucie that both Sarah and Joseph would have been aware of the treasury.

‘Do not hurry on my account,’ Lucie said. ‘Cook managed to bake this morning?’

‘She said we must eat,’ Sarah mumbled.

‘Does her son Joseph look like cook?’ Lucie asked.

Sarah’s ruddy cheeks darkened and she ducked her head behind one of the cages. ‘He is dark like her, Mistress.’

‘How long ago was he sent away?’

‘He was not sent away. He went off to be a soldier.’ She was inching towards the door.

‘Have you seen him since?’

Sarah shook her head as she reached behind her for the latch and freedom. Sweat darkened the scarf on her head.

‘You have no cause to be frightened,’ Lucie said as she moved towards the door, forcing Sarah into the corner. ‘Tell me about Joseph.’

Sarah shook her head. ‘I am not to speak of him. Cook made me swear.’

‘I am your mistress, Sarah. And Cook’s.’

Lucie persisted, patiently asking questions, until the young woman began to talk. Joseph had been brought up by Nan’s cousin, a tavern keeper, who trained the young man as a groom. But the lad could not take criticism from his betters. Saddle straps were tampered with, horses were fed purges as they departed the stable. Japes, Joseph called them. He had been ordered off the premises by his cousin. He had come to Freythorpe, thinking to become a groom at the manor. But he soon discovered that only Sarah laughed at his japes. Adam, the steward, had made it clear he would not entrust Joseph with the horses, having made it his business to find out why the man had left the tavern.

‘Why do you suppose you are not to speak of him?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did he aim any of his japes at Walter the gatekeeper?’ It had occurred to Lucie that Walter might have been the target of the damage to the gatehouse.

Sarah was shaking her head.

‘He had no problem with Walter?’

‘No, Mistress. His mother, Adam the steward, the other grooms — he had his fun with them, no others.’

His mother, the steward, and the poor lads who worked alongside him. Lucie stepped away from the door. ‘You may go now. And do not fret, Sarah. I shall not mention this to Cook.’

As Lucie stepped back into the hall, she heard Winifred thanking Tildy for sitting with her son. Not the time for Lucie to appear. She slipped out of the rear door and into the kitchen garden. Brother Michaelo perched at the edge of the bench for which Lucie was headed, breathing hard. He had a bucket of water at his feet.

‘I must wash off the dust and ashes,’ he explained as Lucie joined him. He had soot on his tonsure and smelled of damp ashes.

‘You have been helping with the gatehouse?’

‘I have. Though how much help I have been I cannot say.’

His modesty was becoming. ‘I am grateful for all you have done, Brother Michaelo. My father was blessed in his friends.’

He bowed his head.

‘Have you seen Harold?’

‘He is still out in the yard, helping clear the debris.’ Michaelo began to rise, then changed his mind. ‘Forgive me if I seem to pry, Mistress Wilton, but what do you mean to do? Will you leave as you had planned?’

‘I cannot stay. My children, my work are in the city. I pray the servants and tenants understand that I am not fleeing the trouble. I would lief stay until everything is put right, but how can I do that?’

‘Your people understand. But might I suggest — you could ask Harold to return after he escorts you to the city. He has worked hard, side by side with the men, and they appear to trust him. I can find no fault in the decisions he has made or the manner in which he has proceeded.’

‘You have changed your mind about him.’

‘I was uncertain about him before. God has given me the opportunity to judge him by his deeds. It is the best way to know a man. And now I shall hold my peace. I merely thought — ’

‘I thank you for your advice, Brother Michaelo. I shall speak to Harold.’

Michaelo looked relieved. ‘And for my part, I shall urge His Grace to send at least two well-armed men at once.’

Brother Michaelo took his leave the next morning with gratitude and misgivings. The roofless gatehouse, charred and jagged, cast a gloomy pall over the courtyard. For the inhabitants of Freythorpe Hadden it would colour all their days until it was repaired or torn down. An inescapable reminder of the horror of two nights past and of yesterday, when the upper storey had given way. Who would not give thanks to God for calling him away? Was his relief in leaving the cause of his misgivings? A sense of guilt? Or was it the image of Sir Robert that kept coming to mind, his hand on Michaelo’s head, asking him to keep Mistress Wilton in his prayers? Keeping her in his prayers was easy. But should he be doing more? He carried the letter to the archbishop, asking for protection, that was something more. And who else might be trusted to convince Archbishop Thoresby of the danger manifest in the attack? But what of leaving Mistress Wilton in the hands of Harold Galfrey? Could one man see them safely to York? Once she was in the city, Michaelo had no doubt she would be safe, but he prayed outlaws would not waylay the three travellers on the road.

He added a prayer for himself. Travelling alone was foolhardy in the best of times.

After two days of sunny, mild weather, the sky had dulled and there was a chill to the breeze that threatened rain. Lucie rubbed her hands together for warmth as she waited in the stable for Ralph, the groom her father had disciplined. He had yet to saddle her mount. At last he appeared, buffing a buckle with a soft cloth and humming to himself. When he saw Lucie he straightened up and assured her that her horse would be saddled at once.

She had resolved to speak to him, as she had to Sarah, hoping she might tell by his reactions to her questions whether he harboured ill feelings towards her family. Or Walter’s.

She nodded to the buckle. ‘Sir Robert would have been pleased by that bit of polishing.’

‘Oh, aye, the master liked a shine to his saddle and bridle, God rest his soul.’

‘You miss him, do you?’

‘I do, Mistress.’

‘You would not always have said so.’

Ralph ducked his head. ‘You have heard. Aye, at first he found fault with me at every turn. I ran away. He sent Adam the steward after me. Gave me a good whipping. Then he asked if I cared to learn how to do things right. They do say not many masters would have bothered about me.’

Lucie believed him.

‘I am sorry about the trouble, Mistress,’ he said.

‘God bless you, Ralph.’ He seemed content. Not a man with cause to strike out at her family.

As the small party rode out of the yard at Freythorpe, Lucie turned back again and again to stare at the crippled gatehouse. She had asked Brother Michaelo to pray for her, that God might reveal to her the sin for which she was so punished, and all her innocent tenants with her. Outlaws were not God’s sergeants, he had assured her. They did not attack at God’s command. Then why had this been visited upon her in the midst of all her other trials?

Perhaps because she sensed Lucie’s distress, Phillippa had risen quietly, packed, dressed sensibly and, after a few last instructions for Tildy, climbed on to the seat of the cart to await her companions. She sat straight and tall, keeping her devils at bay. When Lucie would climb up beside her, she shook her head. ‘You prefer the back of a horse. So would I if my old bones would permit it. Ride. I promise to keep my head and the donkey’s.’

Lucie had felt Harold’s eyes upon her as the groom helped her mount. Did he worry about her as she did Phillippa? An unpleasant thought.

But the gatehouse haunted her and he was right when he said as he rode up beside her, ‘You must look forward, Mistress Wilton. The gatehouse can be rebuilt. Daimon will recover. And the sheriff might prove his worth and recover what you lost.’

The blue eyes and warm smile were not enough to cheer her. But she found it comforting to think of Harold overseeing the repairs and told him so. God had not completely abandoned her.

They rode most of the way side by side, in companionable silence.

Despite everything, it was a happy homecoming for Lucie. The garden rang with the children’s joyful shrieks when they saw her and their Great-aunt Phillippa. Jasper declared he had missed her.

While Lucie told a wide-eyed Jasper of the troubles of the past few days, Harold crossed the street to Roger Moreton’s house to discuss his return to Freythorpe Hadden. Roger came hurrying back with Harold in tow, not content with loaning Harold, but offering to hire a stonemason to rebuild the gatehouse — at Roger’s expense.

‘I know an excellent mason. A stone gatehouse is what you need. Let it be my gift to you and Owen.’

Lucie refused. She could not possibly accept such a gift. But she would be glad of his company when she gave her report to the sheriff on the morrow.

After Roger had departed, Phillippa tsked and flicked at invisible dust on the table until Lucie asked what ailed her.

‘I thought you bold to ride so companionably with the steward Harold. But now I see that is nothing to how you behave with his master.’

Lucie sent Jasper off to the shop to make up an unguent for Harold, who had a painful blister on his leg, a burn that had been irritated by the ride. When the young man was out the door, Lucie turned to her aunt. ‘To say such things in front of Jasper. How could you?’

‘He is old enough to hear such things.’

‘What? Untruths? Your imaginings? Did you think to ask me first how I felt about either man?’

‘It is plain how you feel. A neighbour does not offer such gifts.’

‘When Roger Moreton’s wife was ill, Tildy and I took turns sitting with her. I saw how bad it was and sent for Magda. Roger was beside himself, he could not think what to do. He remembers, Aunt.’ Lucie realised she was too angry, almost spitting out her words, and turned away, trying to calm herself. ‘You have opened up a wound between Jasper and me that has just been healed with great effort,’ she said softly. ‘I cannot think why you would wish to do such a thing.’

Phillippa did not reply at once. Lucie heard her dust off the bench, fuss with her skirt, sit down. ‘Kate neglects this room. The air is stale, the benches dusty and beneath — look at the cobwebs.’

Lucie turned to her aunt, but already the faraway look was back. It seemed futile to argue with her, but sweet heaven, how much more could she endure? People were kind to Lucie in her husband’s absence and she was to turn them away? She escaped to the shop. Jasper was just wrapping up the unguent.

‘Are you too tired to take a message to Magda Digby?’ Lucie asked. The Riverwoman lived on a small tidal island upriver from St Mary’s Abbey. Jasper assured her he was never too tired to visit Magda, even if the tide were in and he had to row. ‘Tell her of the attack and Daimon’s wounds. Ask her if she would journey to him. If so, I shall come to her tomorrow to tell her what I have done for him.’ Jasper took up the unguent for Harold and walked happily out into the busy street.