A Conspiracy of Wolves

9 A Dog in the Night

Owen felt the weight of his responsibility as he parted with his friend, mulling over his words, In Thoresby’s service you had both the city and the realm in your hands. To recreate that you must needs accept both offers – captain of York’s bailiffs and spy for the prince. A double burden. Was that what he wanted?

As he made his way out of the hospital grounds the morning dimmed, a cluster of clouds obscuring what had been a bright morning sun. Footless Lane was quiet, but as Owen rounded the corner onto Coney Street he once again fielded questions about Old Bede, expressions of relief that he was investigating the deaths, and queries as to when the Swanns would be buried. Beneath it all, he questioned his hesitation about Crispin Poole. So many fingers pointing to him, a man of war, a man of violence, with retainers to carry out his blood-feud while he sat at the York Tavern. But what was the feud? What were the Swanns to him? That was the missing piece. He shook himself out of the puzzle. He must be alert, this day of all days.

On the route from the Braithwaite home, past the Swanns’, round toward St Helen’s, the bailiffs’ men stood with hands on weapons, making a clear statement of their intent – to guard the funeral procession with force, if necessary.

Bless Hempe. Difficult to believe he and the man had begun as adversaries. But, thinking back to George’s early distrust of Owen it was clear he’d simply been doing his job, protecting the folk of York from what seemed to him an untrustworthy toady of the archbishop. To Owen, George Hempe had been a bumbler preventing him from solving the murder of a midwife who had saved Lucie’s life. Now he trusted Hempe, understood him, but also knew his limitations. Owen had made certain his own men were in place, Ned at the Swann home, Alfred at the church, and, once the Braithwaites departed, Stephen would be in place to stand guard at their home. Owen was just wondering where Stephen was when the man hailed him.

‘Anything odd at Poole’s home?’ Owen asked as Stephen joined him. He’d placed him there for the early morning, out of curiosity more than suspicion. He was glad of it now.

‘Quiet. All the noise came from the Tirwhit house beside him. They are a fighting couple, though once they stepped out of the house they played the loving pair. Their maidservant left shortly after they did, very early, but not with them.’

‘Any cause to think the maid was heading for trouble – or to cause it?’

Stephen’s craggy face drew down into thought. ‘Had a basket over her arm, a light step. I took her to be a lass on her way to market, nothing more.’

‘And Hempe’s men are at Magda Digby’s?’

‘Arrived last night, they did. He chose well, Rose and Rob took to them, and they will say nothing of Old Bede’s presence. Those young ones – that’s a pair will never settle for quiet lives, I’ll wager.’

Owen grinned at the clear admiration in the man’s eyes, but it all sounded too comfortable.

‘Your friend, the king’s man,’ said Stephen, ‘Chaucer? Noticed him idling round Poole’s house. Wandered on off when he saw me watching him. What’s his business with Poole?’

‘I wish I knew. He seems far too interested in him.’

‘Ah. Then I apologize, for I followed him and asked that he take my place watching Poole’s.’ Stephen shook his head. ‘Alfred warned me that the more time I spent in your service, the more I’d conjure problems everywhere, and spend my nights trying to solve them. There’s something odd about Poole, and his taking the house beside the Tirwhits, moving his good mother from her home of many years to that large, drafty place.’

Owen had not placed someone at Poole’s or Tirwhit’s homes for the day. An oversight he’d suddenly regretted. ‘And did Chaucer agree?’

‘He did. And showed me he is armed. A surprisingly good piece of steel, that dagger of his.’

‘Well done.’ Who better to watch Poole than the man with such a keen interest in him?

Grinning with pride, Stephen nodded toward the Braithwaite yard. ‘Polishing up the stones for the guests?’

A serving man was on his hands and knees, scrubbing the pavement where the dog had sat the previous day. ‘They had a dog chained there yesterday,’ said Owen. ‘I wager they ignored it and the poor beast was made to sit in its own piss and shit.’

Stephen laughed. But Owen was troubled, not really believing Paul and Galbot would have neglected Tempest.

‘Walk round the house, then stand guard here,’ said Owen.

‘As you wish, Captain.’

As Owen reached the spot he was glad Stephen had not taken him up on the wager. He smelled blood, not a dog’s droppings. Indeed, the water in the servant’s bucket was stained red.

‘What has happened here?’

The servant started, so intent had he been on his work. ‘Oh, Captain Archer! It’s Master Paul’s dog, Tempest. We came out this morning to find him lying here in his own blood, his throat slit, poor beast. And nobody heard a thing. Not a thing.’ The man wiped his forehead, leaving a watery red smear. ‘Master John will be glad to see you.’

A dog trained to bark when a stranger approached, slaughtered while the household slept. Discovered hours earlier. And no one had come for Owen, the man they had retained to investigate the murders of the Swanns? He rose to find John Braithwaite standing in the doorway, his jacket unbuttoned, gray hair wild as if he had been raking his hands through it. A corpulent man of average height, Braithwaite depended on elegant dress and a haughty manner to impress. But this morning he was merely a fat man wishing he were anywhere but where he was, dealing with a dead dog and the burial of his friend and his son-in-law.

‘Captain Archer. I was glad to hear Janet had engaged you. This tragedy–’ He closed his eyes and crossed himself.

Owen expressed his condolences, then asked to see the dog.

Braithwaite shook his head. ‘We must hie to the Swanns and bear the coffins to the church, Captain. You’ve no time–’

‘I might at least see whether your intruder was skilled with a knife.’ Or I might gain nothing from it but the pain of witnessing a man’s brutal use of a creature bred to do his bidding, Owen thought.

With a shrug, Braithwaite ordered the servant to leave his scrubbing and show Owen the corpse.

‘Then escort the captain to my parlor.’ As John Braithwaite withdrew, he called out to a servant to bring wine and food, then told him not to bother, he would fast until the service.

‘I could use some wine,’ said Owen.

Braithwaite nodded. ‘Bring wine and food.’

Owen followed his guide back along the side of the house to a shed behind the kitchen. Someone had arranged the dog’s limbs so that he seemed at rest on his side atop an old cushion. Paul Braithwaite or Galbot? It was a clean cut, no more, no less than needed for a quick kill. Tempest’s slayer was likely the same man who had slit the throat of Hoban Swann.

‘Who laid him out?’ he asked the servant.

‘Galbot the trainer.’

‘Where might I find him?’

‘Went off to drink himself into forgetfulness, he said. Some don’t expect him back.’

As Owen followed the servant back into the hall he noticed Paul talking quietly to his mother and his wife, Elaine, all three dressed for show, though in muted colors. It might be a family occasion, but they were all aware the funeral procession would be observed.

In his parlor, John Braithwaite lifted his head from a contemplation of the floor and rose to greet Owen.

‘Is it true?’ Owen asked. ‘The servants found the dog first thing this morning?’

Braithwaite began to rake both hands through his hair, then self-consciously lowered them, folding them on his lap with a moan. ‘I could not believe it. Have we not suffered enough?’

‘When were you going to tell me?’

‘Ah. I thought … So you think the same as murdered the Swanns killed the dog?’

‘I think it likely. You said you were glad your wife came to me. But you’ve decided not to engage me?’

‘You misunderstand.’ Braithwaite looked stunned. ‘I was relieved to hear you would undertake the task. The city needs you, Captain. When such things happen – we pray they won’t, of course, but–’

Owen motioned that he understood. ‘We’ve little time. Just tell me what happened here with the dog.’

Braithwaite wiped his brow. ‘The servants alerted us and we hurried out – it was a terrible sight. My poor Janet, the day of–’ He stopped, apparently realizing he was again venturing into unnecessary detail. ‘It was done so silently, so brutally. Who would do that to us? And then Paul requested, as he is in mourning for his sister’s husband and his old friend … and the dog, he was fond of the dog, as one would be … He asked that we not inform you until after the requiem mass. He wishes to be quiet with his grief, pray at St Helen’s …’ Braithwaite sighed, studying his clasped hands, avoiding Owen’s eye.

No doubt his anger was obvious. ‘Paul’s old friend Hoban was brutally murdered and he wishes me to delay finding the murderer?’ Owen made no attempt to soften his tone. They needed to understand the danger. ‘Does your son believe the murderer will courteously wait until Hoban and Bartolf are buried? And his own dog? Perhaps–’ Owen stopped as two servants entered, laying out wine, cheese, bread, apples, nuts.

As they poured wine into two bowls, Braithwaite said to one of them, ‘Ask Master Paul to step in, tell him we need to speak with him. At once.’ He seemed to have regained his senses with Owen’s outburst. Good. When the servants withdrew, he said, ‘I hadn’t thought how ridiculous it sounds. I see myself as a man of the world. But I return to such a horror – something I would never have dreamed.’ John Braithwaite shook his head, his eyes glazed with the shock of the memory. ‘I saw what they did to Bartolf. The ruin of such a good man. Why? I have no experience in such matters.’

Fortunate man, until now. ‘Is it true that no one in the house heard anything last night? Not a bark? A growl?’

‘So it seems.’ Braithwaite was quiet while a servant reported that Paul had already departed. He nodded and waved the servant off. ‘I am sorry, Captain. It appears he has already headed to the church.’

It would seem Paul was avoiding Owen. ‘Do I detect a doubt that no one in the household heard anything?’

Braithwaite had leaned forward to pour a little water into his wine. He sat back, moving the bowl to swirl the mixture, tasted, took a longer drink. Owen waited for the man to speak.

‘I do not like to tell tales, but in such circumstances polite discretion feels negligent. Though he is my son.’ A pause. ‘I sense that Paul is holding something back. His reaction to the slaughter of his dog was–’ He leaned forward to add more wine to the bowl, no water this time, wrinkling his forehead in thought. ‘He was not surprised. He’d expected trouble. Do not mistake me, he was quite shaken, and I do sense a deep sorrow in him, for my son has a passion for hunting dogs. Not long ago Bartolf sold Paul a pair of his dogs. Did you know?’

‘No. I did not.’

‘Ah, well, there you are.’ Braithwaite nibbled on a piece of cheese, nodding, suddenly frowning. ‘I see the fire in that hawk eye of yours, Captain. If you are thinking Paul committed these crimes you are wrong. He and Hoban were the best of friends. And he both respected and liked Bartolf. But, like I said, he’d expected trouble.’

‘Was Tempest one of Bartolf’s?’

‘Tempest? Oh, no, no he descended from a line of dogs stretching back to the pup presented to my son when he began to walk. Fierce dog – I was of a mind to take it from him, inappropriate for a child, but my father chided me for protecting the lad when I should be encouraging him to be a warrior. A warrior merchant?’ His eyes laughed, but his mouth twisted sideways in doubt.

‘So your son favors fierce dogs?’

A shrug and a nod.

‘Ever cause harm? Have there been complaints about his animals?’

Braithwaite shot his jaw forward, as if readying a verbal attack, but he checked himself. ‘When he was a lad … A boy’s mischief … But that is years past.’

‘Anyone injured? Wounds that proved fatal?’

‘No. Mischief, as I said.’

Answered too quickly. There was something there. ‘It might be important. I am here to help you, not to judge.’

‘One of his dogs was blinded by a muddy conger in the forest. Heartsick, he was. The lad cared for it with such tenderness …’ A tight shake of the head. ‘I suppose the three of them had bothered someone.’

‘Three of them?’

‘Olyf, Hoban, Paul – Muriel never warmed to them. She was younger …’

‘The dog was blinded in both eyes?’

‘No. Just one. Stone damaged it–’ He nodded toward Owen’s patch, then seemed to remember himself. ‘Forgive me, I did not mean …’

‘No offense taken.’ Owen was after something more interesting.

‘The hound was never right after that,’ said John. ‘I finally convinced Paul to put the poor thing out of its misery.’ A heavy sigh.

Owen gave him a moment with the memory, then said, ‘So Paul did take his dogs into the forest, despite their not being lawed–’

‘I – yes, as a boy he did. Bartolf came to some agreement with the steward. The three of them loved to be out there in the forest.’

Owen let that be for now. ‘What do you know of Galbot’s background?’

‘Galbot? Paul’s servant? Nothing.’ John paused. ‘Oh, I see.’

‘I must consider every possibility. As you do in a business deal.’

‘Of course. Of course.’ A moment of quiet. ‘My sweet daughter – God help her, I pray this has not jeopardized the babe in her womb. A child will help her heal, I know it will. She has prayed for one for so long, as had Hoban.’ His voice broke with emotion, and Braithwaite drank down the bowl only to refill it.

Owen rose. ‘Perhaps your son was right. It is no time to be troubling your family. You will wish to ready yourself to depart. I believe Dame Janet and Dame Elaine await us.’

‘You are to escort us?’

Owen told him of the precautions, the bailiffs’ men along the route, Stephen staying here, Ned at the Swanns’, he and Alfred at the church.

‘Is all that necessary?’

‘Even more so now. The killing of Tempest must be treated as a threat to your son.’

Braithwaite paled. ‘A threat to Paul? I had not thought–’ He crossed himself.

It was clear that he found Owen’s suggestion likely to be true. That he should so quickly realize the implication, without argument – yes, there was something there.

‘I am grateful,’ said Braithwaite as he rose and put a hand on Owen’s arm. ‘You will attend the mass? And you must come to dinner in my daughter’s home afterwards, you and Dame Lucie. Your wife has been such a blessing for my Muriel. And young Alisoun, of course, she is so good with her. My wife has nothing but good to say of her. Will you come?’

Owen had planned to be out on watch, but it would be useful to observe the family as the wine and ale flowed. Surely Lucie would agree. ‘We would be honored.’

‘God bless you, Captain. And now you are quite right, my manservant must tidy me.’ He walked Owen out into the hall. ‘So all of this – these deaths are all of a piece?’

‘Did you ever doubt it?’

‘I prayed it was not so. Help us, Captain. Find the monsters who have destroyed our happiness.’

Destroyed our happiness. Curious how the Braithwaites had taken charge, though it was Olyf who had lost father and brother. It was not for Owen to judge. But Paul Braithwaite’s behavior – that was Owen’s concern. Did he fear he might be a suspect merely because he owned dogs, or was it something more?

He noticed Olyf and Adam Tirwhit standing with Janet and Elaine, all clearly irked to be left waiting for the master of the house.

Greeting them, he asked Dame Olyf if he might speak with her. ‘I promise to be brief.’

Frowning as she fussed with a flowing sleeve on her silk gown, Olyf led Owen to the far corner of the hall.

‘Forgive me for intruding on your grief,’ said Owen.

‘Dame Janet and I are retaining you to investigate the murders of my father and brother, Captain. You need not apologize.’

He bowed to her courtesy. ‘I could not help but notice that when Paul said he never took his dogs into the forest, he glanced at you. I wondered why.’

‘Paul? Did he?’ Her look was far away.

‘I thought perhaps because you knew about the blinding of his boyhood dog?’

‘His–? What has that poor creature to do with the murders of my father and brother?’ Her tone was sharp, but her expression wary, one might even say fearful.

‘Did you witness the attack?’

‘Why should you think so? And why should you care?’

‘Do you recall who attacked his hound?’

‘You are not thinking that the person, so long ago …’ She shook her head. ‘If I was there, I cannot remember. We did our best to avoid the men who lurked in the woods.’

‘So it was a man?’

A silken shrug. ‘I told you, I don’t remember.’

‘According to John Braithwaite, your father arranged for the forest steward to look the other way regarding Paul’s dogs in Galtres.’

‘Well, yes, as long as he kept them on leads. He disliked going anywhere without a pair of them.’

‘So when the one was attacked, there was another?’

‘What? I’ve no idea, Captain. As I said–’

‘No counter-attack by the hound’s companion?’

‘I said I have no memory of it.’ She was angry now.

‘On the night you found your father, did you see a man and a dog out beyond the archway, in the street?’

‘I recall no one. Now I must go bury my kinsmen, Captain.’ With a sweep of her skirts, she turned from him and hurried across the room.

He followed, assuring her companions that John would not be long. ‘I must see to a few things,’ he said, ‘but I will be at the church.’ He must tell Ned about the latest violence, and send word to Lucie of their invitation.

‘You are deserting us, Captain?’ Elaine Braithwaite cried, reaching a hand up to touch his arm. Short and plump, she seemed a child dressed up in her mother’s elegant robes, until one noticed the lines crossing her forehead and radiating from her dark eyes. She’d borne five children to Paul Braithwaite, raising them in the vicinity of his aggressive dogs – that must cause some discomfort between them.

‘There are guards all along the way,’ Owen assured her, ‘and one of my best men right here at your door.’

Janet Braithwaite patted Elaine’s arm. ‘Do not fret. The captain will protect us.’

‘As my husband’s beloved Tempest could not,’ said Elaine, turning aside.

He’d never before heard the word ‘beloved’ spoken like a curse, but the sentiment did not surprise him.

‘Enough about Paul and his dogs,’ Olyf muttered, calling out to a servant to fetch the master of the house.

On his way to the Swann house, Owen ordered one of the bailiff’s men to stand watch at the Braithwaites’ door. Stephen was now to escort the family gathered in the hall to the Swann residence, then on to the church if Owen had not yet joined them there.

As he walked, Owen decided to include Alisoun in the discussion with Ned. He might tug at her conscience with the tale of the murdered dog. She was particularly fond of dogs, which had concerned him when she cared for Gwenllian and Hugh. His daughter would return from walks with Alisoun excited about all the dogs they had met, describing them in such detail that it was plain she had petted them. Owen objected. Anything larger than a lapdog would have been trained to guard its owners, not engage with strange children. Time and again he had made his position clear, time and again Gwenllian came home with stories of large dogs who were ‘so friendly’, Alisoun assuring him that she could tell a dog’s nature, he must not worry. He had been relieved when they had hired a new nursemaid for the children. But he knew Lucie missed Alisoun; neither Maud, nor her recent replacement Lena, were as adept at controlling Gwenllian and Hugh by engaging them in something that excited them. That had been Alisoun’s gift. In Owen’s opinion it came at a price.

Unfortunately, Alisoun was away. Ned said she’d hurried off moments before. Owen told him about the dog.

He looked sick at heart. ‘Two houses away, yet I heard nothing in the night.’

‘Neither did anyone in the Braithwaite household, apparently.’

‘Then it was done with practiced stealth. God have mercy.’ Ned crossed himself.

‘If Alisoun returns, tell her, but impress upon her that she must say nothing about this to Dame Muriel. Trust that Janet Braithwaite knows the best for her daughter.’

As the bell in St Helen’s Church began to ring, George Hempe and a fellow bailiff led the procession from the Swann home, followed by the coffin-bearers – John and Paul Braithwaite, Adam Tirwhit, the two York coroners, the king’s forester of Galtres, and two of Hoban Swann’s household servants. The women of the households followed, and behind them, Owen, turning his head this way and that, checking for trouble with his one good eye.

Neighbors lined Coney Street and spilled into the lanes along St Helen’s churchyard, heads bowed, honoring the lives of two good men of the community. As Owen passed the apothecary, Lucie appeared, falling into step beside him.

‘Moments like this, all the neighbors …’ Lucie’s voice caught.

‘Moving, but dangerous. If one of them rushed forward with a knife, or set dogs on the gathering, and others entered the fray to help, no matter how well-meant–’ He stopped as they entered the church.

‘All is well,’ Lucie assured him.

Too well. He did not like this quiet.

‘Here,’ Lucie whispered, guiding him to the left rear corner. ‘We can observe the family without too much notice.’

Bless her. Blinded in his left eye, this spot afforded him the greatest range of vision without too much turning of the head.

Muriel Swann, slender and pale, placed her hands on her husband’s coffin. Her father drew her away, his arm around her, protective, loving. She shrugged him off and straightened, but in a moment her sob broke the silence. Her mother was quickly there, offering a scented linen, speaking softly to her.

‘Where is Alisoun?’ Owen wondered aloud.

When Lucie said nothing he turned to see what had her attention. Her gaze was fixed on Olyf and Paul, who had their heads together, whispering. As Owen watched, Elaine Braithwaite elbowed her husband. With what must have been a muttered curse and a look that spoke of more than the usual marital discord, Paul straightened. After an uneasy glance round that Owen just avoided missing, Olyf returned her attention to the priest.

The service continued uninterrupted, the families on their best behavior.

And Owen fought to keep his seat, his entire being shouting that he should be out on the streets, that the murderers would take this opportunity to deepen the family’s pain. He told himself he had sufficient men on watch. But it was little comfort.

It was a subdued gathering at the long tables set up in the Swann hall, the servants silently bringing in food, wine, ale.

Lucie leaned close to Owen. ‘Notice the order of the seating. A slight? Or a thoughtless error?’ On the dais sat Dame Muriel, flanked by her parents, her brother and his wife. Braithwaites all. Olyf Tirwhit, daughter and sister of those they honored at the feast, was seated down the table.

‘Either way, she feels the arrow,’ he said, nodding across the table at Olyf, who sat bolt upright with a stiff smile as guests paused to speak with her before taking their seats.

As Muriel rose to address the gathering, Elaine Braithwaite interrupted her.

‘My dear, I have just realized our error. Come, Paul, we have taken the places meant for dear Olyf and her husband. Forgive us, Muriel. The emotions of the day–’ She bobbed her head and drew her confused husband from his chair, gesturing for the Tirwhits to take their places.

Muriel bowed her head as the Tirwhits and Braithwaites changed places, but not in prayer. Owen could see how keenly she watched the exchange. Elaine settled across from Owen, Paul beside her.

Lucie touched Owen’s leg. ‘Make use of this. Find a moment to speak to Paul Braithwaite.’

Perhaps God did smile on his efforts this day.

As she turned into Low Petergate, Alisoun slowed her pace, beginning to question her impulse, trying to recall the image that had flashed in her mind, the danger that led her to bring her bow and a quiver of arrows. Magda encouraged her to pay attention to such forebodings, though not necessarily to act on them. Beyond Christchurch she paused. She knew the Tirwhit house. She’d accompanied Magda there when Adam was ill with a fever. His wife had been a pale presence, hovering in the shadows. Alisoun recalled thinking the woman was uneasy in Magda’s presence. Not unusual. She was wondering whether Adam Tirwhit’s home was the one nearer the church or farther away when she noticed Geoffrey Chaucer ambling past the nearest one, then turned to walk down the street beside it, his pace slowing, his head cocked as if he were listening to something. Curious, she headed for him. As she reached the house she thought she heard a woman’s cry, then – a growl? If it was a growl, it came from a large dog. Forgetting the man who’d drawn her attention to the house, she slipped into the alleyway beside it. Drawing her bow and quiver of arrows from the bag, she fastened the loose end of the string, drew an arrow, slung the quiver over her shoulder so that she could reach for more arrows if needed, and crept down toward the sounds of a struggle.

As Owen glanced round the laden table he noticed Paul Braithwaite down two goblets of wine in quick succession, whisper something to his wife, and rise abruptly, swaying as he glanced round, forcing his large, liquid brown eyes wide as if he might see more clearly, and tugging down on his short jacket as if it might assist him in balancing.

At the risk of insulting the man, Owen darted round and caught him as his first step went awry. He steadied him on his feet. ‘I wonder whether I might impose upon you as an expert in hounds?’ he said, nodding to the curious Elaine Braithwaite to reassure her that he would see to her husband. He guided him down the table, past the servants moving about the kitchen, and out into the back garden.

With a muttered excuse, Paul Braithwaite rushed toward the privy and into the small enclosure. Owen heard a brief, unpleasant exchange within, and a young manservant burst out the door holding one hand over his cock, the other tugging at his leggings as he hurried back to the kitchen.

Pacing the perimeter as he waited for the man to emerge from the privy, Owen greeted the bailiff’s man standing at the far end.

‘The lad – Ned, he’s sitting on the steps to the solar, watching the Fenton garden next door,’ said Hempe’s man. ‘Worried about Mistress Alisoun. She returned from market, fetched a pack, and left again – almost running when I saw her head through the back gardens. Toward the tavern yard.’

Owen could not understand why on this of all days she had vanished. Tempted to send Ned off searching for her, he reassured himself that with all the men set round the city and at Magda’s house someone would be alert to trouble wherever Alisoun might be. ‘Did she look round to see whether she was followed?’

‘Nay.’

Thanking him, Owen settled on a bench far enough from the privy that the stench was masked by the pleasing scents from the kitchen, strong enough that his stomach growled in anticipation.

When Braithwaite reappeared he was still bleary-eyed, but he walked a straighter line and seemed in no danger of toppling. Though his features were regular and well proportioned, there was a morose quality to his face, with his brown eyes dipping downward toward the temples, and his mouth arching the same way. ‘I am in your debt,’ he sighed as he slumped down on the bench beside Owen, doffing his brown velvet hat and wiping his brow with his elegant sleeve.

‘Fresh air clears the head,’ said Owen. ‘I do not envy you this public event on the day you suffered such a loss. It can cut as deep as that of the loss of a brother, I know. One of our herding dogs fell down a well when I was a lad. I mourned him for months.’

‘My wife says I am mad to let it weigh on me, accuses me of mourning for him more than for my friend and his father.’

‘She does not share your passion for the hounds?’

‘Not in the least, though she enjoys spending the wealth they bring.’

‘The pricked ears, the wide chest, the noble bearing – did you breed that into Tempest?’

A proud nod.

‘How do you learn to raise such fine animals? An apprenticeship?’

‘Of a sort, though not regulated by a guild.’ He told Owen how he had befriended the master of hounds on the neighboring estate, how the man agreed to train him in exchange for his work in the kennels. He spoke as if Owen were a prospective buyer, emphasizing his long apprenticeship, the status of his customers – including a few members of the powerful Percy and Roos families, but no Nevilles. His clear affection for the hounds began to soften Owen’s attitude toward him. It sounded as if he’d built his success on treating the animals with respect and love.

‘Your family lived out in the country when you were a lad?’

‘On our manor, where Elaine and I have raised our family, and here in the city.’ He turned a little, facing Owen, and, in a much cooler tone, said, ‘You waste your time pretending interest in my business, Captain. You’ve suspected me all along. I know you count the Riverwoman a friend. She pointed to me as a man with dangerous hounds, am I right?’

Owen did not need to act as if he were caught by surprise, for he was. ‘What has Magda Digby to do with this? And with you?’

The sad eyes challenged him. ‘I was but a boy when she warned me not to betray the trust of the hounds by involving them in our pranks. Her concern was for them, and her words changed how I saw them. She woke my love for them. But she does not believe I’ve changed, eyes me with disdain when we pass in the street. She told you none of this?’

‘No. I’ve not spoken to her since I left her at Freythorpe Hadden, nursing the steward’s wife. For all I know she’s not yet heard of the murders.’

Paul Braithwaite blinked. ‘Not here? God’s blood, and you let me think–’

‘It was you who spoke of her, not I. How had you used the dogs?’

‘Childish mischief. Laughed to see folk bolt when a great hound moved toward them with seeming purpose. She warned me that folk might want to harm my dogs because of that fear, as they do wolves, asked me whether I’d thought of that, how I thought I’d bear that. I crumpled to think of it.’

‘Tell her some time. She will warm to you when she hears how you care for them now.’

‘So what do you want?’

‘I sought you out as one whose knowledge of hounds might help me in finding the men who murdered the Swanns. I’m curious about this practice of lawing in the royal forests.’

‘Pah. All to protect the king’s hunt. His steward culls the herds of deer and hunts the boar for his own pleasure, not the king’s.’

‘Cutting off the claws – do the animals suffer?’

‘Do they feel it, do you mean? Of course they feel it.’ Paul took off his hat and raked a hand through his hair. ‘I do not subject mine to that savage practice. Never will.’

‘Can you think of anyone who might risk taking their unlawed dogs into the forest?’

‘If I heard that anyone had done that to my dogs …’

Tempting to mention that he had as a boy, but Owen was after something else. ‘Not yours, but someone heedless of his animals.’

‘There are plenty who count them dumb beasts.’

‘The Neville family? Have they ever brought such dogs into the forest?’

‘I know nothing of the Nevilles.’

‘Did Hoban and Bartolf have any business with them?’

‘The great Nevilles own property in Galtres, so Bartolf might have encountered them as coroner, but I do not recall him mentioning the family. Hoban’s trade did not put him in such company.’

‘You and Hoban were good friends?’

A glance down at his hands. ‘We were, though once wed, with children and work, I saw him only on occasions the family came together, or I came to the city for a civic celebration.’

‘He was a good husband to your sister?’

The gentle smile previously reserved for dogs lit the long face. ‘He was a man smitten to the bone, Captain. And so eager to meet his son – sure he was Muriel carries a son and heir.’ His voice broke. He slapped his thighs and rose. ‘Speaking of Hoban, I should say a few words in his memory.’

Owen rose with him, met his stride as Paul headed back toward the hall, thinking it a kindness to bring his thoughts back to the dogs. ‘The attack on Tempest – such violence. It worries me. I’ve heard from your father that you favor large, powerful dogs. And you mentioned the Riverwoman’s warning. Could this have been meant as retribution?’

‘Tempest? No.’

‘Have any of your hounds injured another’s animals? Or a man?’

Paul began to trip, but caught himself. ‘No.’

‘Some folk have long memories. Anyone who blamed you or your dogs for a loss?’

Paul quickened his stride.

No challenge for Owen’s long legs. ‘You did not know that Magda Digby’s been away all this time?’

‘I told you I didn’t.’

Silence through the kitchen, stumbling once as he tried to avoid a serving man carrying a tray with two steaming platters of meat. At the door of the hall, Paul removed his hat, smoothed back his hair, set the hat back at a slight angle.

‘One more question,’ said Owen, startling the man, who’d clearly thought himself alone. ‘Who has dogs that might be trained to attack as Hoban and Bartolf were attacked?’

‘I have been wondering that myself. To so bond with the animals as to train them to assist you in attack, which this seems, yet do what he did to Tempest?’ Paul’s large eyes seemed black in his pale face. ‘No, I know of no such monster. Now you must allow me to return to my family. My sister has suffered a terrible loss.’

Not him, his sister.

‘Was Hoban party to the pranks for which Magda reprimanded you?’ he asked, but too late. Paul had gone straight to his sister, leaning close, speaking to her.