A spy for the redeemer, p.1
A Spy for the Redeemer, page 1
Contents
Cover
Also by Candace Robb from Severn House
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for the Owen Archer mysteries
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Glossary
Maps
Prologue
1. Too Long Away
2. Prayers Unanswered
3. Freythorpe Hadden
4. The Archdeacon’s Will
5. Six Horsemen
6. The Captain’s Tale
7. Chaos
8. Into the Wood
9. The High Sheriff
10. Math and Enid
11. Rumours
12. Cynog’s Secret
13. Puzzles
14. A Spy for the Redeemer
15. High and Mighties
16. Ambivalence
17. Mistress of the Hall
18. A Pattern of Evil
19. Penances
20. The Morality of Hywel’s War
21. Troubling Uncertainties
22. Wretchedness
23. Not As They Seem
24. Gloucester
25. Journeys
26. A Crowd
27. An Unnatural Sleep
28. Bedevilled
29. Ill News
30. The Maze
31. Beneath the Linden
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Read on for an extract of The Cross-Legged Knight
Also by Candace Robb from Severn House
The Owen Archer mysteries
THE APOTHECARY ROSE
THE LADY CHAPEL
THE NUN’S TALE
THE KING’S BISHOP
THE RIDDLE OF ST. LEONARD’S
A GIFT OF SANCTUARY
A SPY FOR THE REDEEMER
THE CROSS-LEGGED KNIGHT
THE GUILT OF INNOCENTS
A VIGIL OF SPIES
A CONSPIRACY OF WOLVES
A CHOIR OF CROWS
THE RIVERWOMAN’S DRAGON
A FOX IN THE FOLD
A SPY FOR THE REDEEMER
Candace Robb
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in the UK in 1999 by William Heinemann Ltd,
Acre House, 11-15 William Road, London NW1 3ER.
This eBook edition first published in the USA in 2023 by Severn House,
an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.
severnhouse.com
Copyright © Candace Robb, 1999
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Candace Robb to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-1339-6 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-1332-7 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
This eBook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland
Praise for the Owen Archer mysteries
“Robb reinforces her place among the top writers of medieval historicals”
Publishers Weekly Starred Review
“Recommended for fans of other historical writers such as C.J. Sansom, Ellis Peters, and Sharon Kay Penman”
Library Journal
“As full of intrigue as a Deighton or a Le Carré”
The Guardian
“Gripping and believable … you can almost smell the streets of 14th-century York”
Prima
“A superb medieval mystery, thoroughly grounded in historical fact”
Booklist
“Meticulously researched, authentic and gripping”
Yorkshire Evening Post
“An utterly delightful jaunt!”
Historical Novels Review
“Robb puts the history back into the historical mystery”
Kirkus Reviews
About the author
Candace Robb has read and researched medieval history for many years, having studied for a Ph.D. in Medieval & Anglo-Saxon Literature. She divides her time between Seattle and the UK, frequently visiting York to research the series. She is the author of the Owen Archer mystery series, three Kate Clifford medieval mysteries, the Margaret Kerr trilogy and two historical novels written as Emma Campion.
candacerobbbooks.com
Acknowledgments
For devoting their time and sharing their knowledge throughout the imagining and writing of this book I thank Lynne Drew, Kate Elton, Sara Ann Freed, Joyce Gibb, Jeremy Goldberg, Fiona Kelleghan, Evan Marshall, Nona Rees, Compton Reeves, Charlie Robb, Patrick Walsh, the staff of the National Library of Wales in Aberystwyth, and my colleagues on the Internet discussion lists Mediev-l, Chaucer, and Medfem. Any mistakes are surely my own.
Glossary
archdeacon: as was (and is) customary, the archdeacons of St David’s were appointed by the bishop and carried out most of his duties; however, because the Bishop of St David’s was the lord of the March, his archdeacons were men of considerable power
certes: certainly, to be sure (middle English)
demesne lands: The land immediately attached to a mansion, and held along with it for practical or pleasurable use; the park, chase, home-farm, etc.
houppelande: men’s attire; a flowing gown, often floor-length and slit up to thigh level to ease walking, but sometimes knee-length; sleeves large and open
jongleur: a minstrel who sang, juggled, tumbled
Lady Chapel: a chapel dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary, usually situated at the east end of the church
liege lord: the superior to whom one owes allegiance and service
leman: mistress
Marches/Marcher Lords: the borders of the kingdom and the lords to whom the King granted jurisdiction over them
mazer: a large wooden cup or bowl, often highly decorated
minster: a large church or cathedral; the Cathedral of St. Peter in York is referred to as York Minster
no fors: does not matter (middle English)
scrip: a small bag, wallet, or satchel
seneschal: in the household of a sovereign or great noble the official who administers justice and controls domestic arrangements
solar: private room on upper level of house
summoner: an assistant to an archdeacon who cited people to the archbishop’s or bishop’s consistory court, which was held once a month. The court was staffed by the bishop’s officials and lawyers and had jurisdiction over the diocesan clergy and the morals, wills and marriages of the laity. Also called an ‘apparitor’.
tabard: a loose upper garment without sleeves
vicar: as a modern vicar is the deputy of the rector, so a vicar choral was a cleric in holy orders acting as the deputy of a canon attached to the cathedral; for a modest annual salary the vicar choral performed his canon’s duties, attending the various services of the church and singing the liturgy
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 ma
‘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.’
1
Too Long Away
On a May day that hinted at summer, such a day on which the people of York rejoiced in opening their doors to the warm, fresh air and found excuses to walk along the river in the sunshine, or to walk out on to the Strays to check on their grazing animals, Lucie Wilton and her adopted son, Jasper, were shut up in the apothecary, staring down at the mound of dried herbs a customer had just returned. The tension between the apothecary and her young apprentice seemed to suck out the air. Jasper’s cat scratched at the closed shutter, begging to be released.
Jasper glanced over at Crowder and began to move towards the shutter. Lucie grabbed his hand. ‘Crowder must wait. You are too easily distracted, that is the problem. If you kept your mind on your work rather than on the intentions of friendly neighbours, you would not have made such a mistake.’
Jasper yanked his hand from Lucie’s and pushed his straight, sand-coloured hair from his forehead with an impatient gesture. ‘Peppercorns for nasturtium seeds. It is a mistake anyone might make.’ His tone was insolent.
Lucie resisted the urge to slap him. ‘Any fool can tell the difference between the two, in scent as well as hardness. I cannot think how you made such an error. Look at me when I speak to you.’
Jasper met her gaze, then dropped his eyes, hunching his shoulders. ‘It will not happen again.’
‘It should never have happened at all. An apothecary cannot make mistakes. Have I not told you that if you are at all uncertain—’
‘I thought I was pouring from the correct jar.’
‘Because you were thinking of something other than the task before you. Taking down the wrong jar—you know what is in each jar. You clean them. You fill them.’
‘I swear it will never happen again.’
‘If it happened once…’
‘I swear!’ Jasper shouted.
Sweet heaven, if only Owen were here. Since Jasper’s twelfth birthday he had increasingly withdrawn from Lucie, at the same time growing closer to her husband, Owen Archer. Though Owen disciplined the boy more often than Lucie did, Jasper seemed to respect his criticism while thinking hers unfair. ‘If Owen—,’ she began, but finished with just a shake of her head.
Jasper clenched his fists, jutted out his chin. His colour was high. ‘If the captain were here, what would he say about Roger Moreton?’
‘Jasper!’
‘Or your mistake–’ He stopped, dropped his gaze.
‘Alice Baker’s jaundice,’ Lucie said quietly. ‘Is that what you were about to mention?’
Though the boy’s straight blond locks fell over his face, Lucie could see how he blushed. ‘I meant—’
‘Best to say no more.’ Lucie needed no one to help feed her sense of guilt over the woman’s condition.
Someone knocked on the door. Worried that Maria de Skipwith had already spoken of the boy’s error, Lucie picked up the parchment full of herbs and handed it to Jasper. ‘Take this into the workroom and pick out the peppercorns.’
Jasper looked down at the mix in horror. ‘How can I find them all?’
‘It is not to give Mistress Skipwith,’ Lucie said. ‘It is to fix in your mind the look, the taste, the scent, the feel of a peppercorn.’
Jasper hunched his shoulders and shuffled off to the workroom. Crowder followed close on his heels.
Lucie approached the door, wishing she would find on the other side a messenger with news of Owen, announcing his return. In late January her husband had headed south to join Geoffrey Chaucer on a mission into Wales for the Duke of Lancaster. Lucie’s aged father, Sir Robert D’Arby, had accompanied Owen, wishing to go on pilgrimage to St David’s in thanks for God’s sparing the family from the recent pestilence. None of the company from York had yet returned. This was the longest Owen had been away since they had wed. Lucie had not anticipated the difficulties such a prolonged absence would cause. And that Jasper would be most difficult of all—that had been an unpleasant surprise.
Lucie swore under her breath as she found the door locked. She had not wanted a customer to hear her chastise Jasper. But the shut shop might itself cause rumours. Mistress Skipwith had said she understood, Jasper was merely an apprentice and there was no harm done, just some sneezing, she would tell no one, the lad would never do it again. But tongues wagged despite the best intentions.
A monk stood without, in the black robes of a Benedictine, his head bowed beneath his cowl.
‘Benedicte,’ said Lucie.
The monk raised his head. It was Brother Michaelo, secretary to the Archbishop of York and her father’s companion in pilgrimage. What did it mean, that he appeared alone? The monk’s patrician face was drawn, his eyes sad. Dear God, please let Owen be well. ‘Brother Michaelo. I did not know you had returned.’ Lucie stepped aside, welcoming him into the shop.
‘Benedicte, Mistress Wilton.’ The monk bowed as he entered the room.
Lucie glanced out into the street before she closed the door. ‘You are alone.’
‘I am.’ Michaelo drew a stack of letters from his scrip. ‘Captain Archer entrusted these to me.’
‘My husband is well?’
A nod. ‘I left him well.’
Deo gratias. ‘God bless you for bringing them,’ Lucie said, though her heart was heavy as she took the letters. ‘My husband is yet in Wales, then?’
‘By now the captain had hoped to depart for home. God willing, he should be home before Corpus Christi.’
A month. Still so long to wait. But she had managed this long. ‘And my father?’ When they had departed, Sir Robert D’Arby had not been in the best of health.
Brother Michaelo lowered his eyes and crossed himself.
‘Father,’ Lucie whispered. She had thought herself prepared for this. ‘When?’
‘On the third day of Passiontide, Mistress Wilton.’
More than a month ago. Lucie, too, crossed herself. She began to shiver. When had the room grown so cold?
‘I am sorry to bring you such news,’ said Michaelo, taking her arm, helping her to a bench.
It should not be a shock, Lucie thought as she heard Michaelo slip behind the counter, pour water from the jug. He sat beside her, held a cup until she was calm enough to take it.
