A Conspiracy of Wolves

8 Old Soldiers and Intrepid Maids

‘You were thrashing about before I woke you,’ Lucie whispered in Owen’s ear. ‘Were you dreaming of the jongleur’s leman?’

She knew him so well. In times of trouble Owen’s scarred left eye prickled and ached, and he relived the night that ended his career as captain of archers. In a camp in Normandy, he’d caught a man slashing the throats of the noble hostages in his care. A Breton whose life he had saved. His thanks was betrayal. Owen’s fury had distracted him and he’d not noticed the jongleur’s companion until she’d slashed his eye, blinding him. But that was not the unpleasantness from which he’d just awakened.

‘No, wolves. Packs of them, circling a battlefield piled high with bodies. I could hear cries for help from those still alive, but trapped beneath the fallen.’ Bile rose in his throat. The dream still felt too real.

‘God have mercy.’ Lucie brushed back his hair and kissed his forehead. ‘You will find the murderers, my love. Have faith.’

How could she be so certain? ‘I’ll borrow yours for now, until I’ve made some progress.’

She kissed the scar radiating out from his left eye. ‘I have more than enough faith in you for both of us. It’s past dawn, my love, and you wanted to catch Erkenwald before he goes on his alms rounds. You must hurry!’

They made their way down the steps, shoes in hands so as not to wake the children. In the kitchen, Kate had set up a table by the open garden door, bread, cheese, and fruit, a pitcher of Tom Merchet’s ale.

‘The bread and ale are fresh this morning. My sister Rose brought the bread from Ma’s kitchen. She stayed long enough to tell me the old one is on the mend, and eats more than the two of them together.’ They had agreed not to mention Old Bede by name so that they might not slip elsewhere.

‘No unexpected visitors?’

‘A few seeking a healer, and they explained Mistress Alisoun’s absence, where she might be found if they could not wait. And a man, asking whether they had seen a body in the river.’

‘Did he give them trouble?’ Owen asked.

‘Not my Rose and Rob. They told him a tale about a terrifying beast, half-wolf, half-boar, that had chased them in Galtres, and they had sought the dragon’s protection. They begged him not to tell the Riverwoman or her apprentice that they had been trespassing, but they were so afraid. He cursed them and went away. In truth, I don’t know whether to laugh or pray.’

Lucie took her hand. ‘They’ve wit and courage. But I pray for them all the day. Are they worried?’

‘A little. They say there is something out there. Silences – all the birds quiet, as if on alert. Something’s prowling out there. And folk in the shacks against the abbey wall have seen men with dogs as big as wolves – some claim they are wolves. But they keep their distance. There’s been no trouble.’

‘Yet,’ Lucie whispered, sending Owen a worried look.

Kate did not seem to notice. ‘My brother is practicing his knife throwing and has set up a butt to practice with the bow. Rob believes with such a martial display anyone with a thought to attack will think twice.’ She laughed and turned to fuss with a pot hanging over the fire.

Such display means nothing to a hungry dog, Owen thought.

‘And it was Jasper who brought the ale from the York Tavern,’ Kate went on. ‘He said all was quiet in the night, and he’s opened the shop, so you need not hurry, Dame Lucie.’

‘Jasper’s opened the shop so early?’ Lucie glanced toward the door.

Owen reached for her hand and coaxed her to sit, promising he would take the time to talk to their son before he went to St Leonard’s. ‘The memory of you smiling at me across the table will warm me through the day.’ It worked, and he pushed all thought of the day ahead from his mind, talking instead about the garden, his plans for changes at the manor that had been gifted him, including the house, which had been neglected for a long while. ‘I could use your advice about that.’

Lucie seemed far away as she broke up some bread.

‘What are you thinking?’ Owen asked.

‘We might wish to go sooner rather than later, combine the visit to your manor with one to Paul Braithwaite’s. You said he mentioned it was close to Freythorpe Hadden, so it is close to your land as well.’

‘Braithwaite’s? Why?’

‘I don’t like the handler being so quiet, so unhelpful to Alfred,’ said Lucie. ‘A master of hounds loves to talk hounds. Galbot was his name? It may simply be that Bartolf’s beloved dogs have found a new home with him, and he fears we will tell the Swanns, who will retrieve them. But whatever it is, we should know.’

‘I hope we need not call on Paul Braithwaite at his home,’ said Owen, ‘that the murderers make a mistake and reveal themselves before we travel south again.’

‘If Alfred comes with news, I’ll send him to St Leonard’s?’

‘Yes. Tell him that I will head to the Braithwaite home after I’m finished at the hospital.’

Lucie rose and bent to kiss the top of his head, kneading his shoulders. ‘Now go on, see what our son is about.’

He found Jasper sitting on the floor of the workroom behind the shop, a large space that had once been the kitchen and hearth place of their home, before Lucie’s father bought the large house across the garden for them. Jasper was pulling the bound shop ledgers from a low shelf, stacking them up.

‘What is this?’

‘Mother hid Nicholas Wilton’s journals from me.’

‘She had thought for good cause. Had you not walked with Alisoun, had she gone that way without a lantern–’

‘But I did.’

‘It was your manner, son. And now since she understands why you behaved so, she’s been too busy to fetch it. Remind her – she won’t fuss. Want to lock up and walk with me to St Leonard’s?’

Jasper looked relieved, but he shook his head at the invitation. ‘I need to put these away and go out to the counter to see to customers.’

‘I do not know what we would do without you, son.’

A shy grin, a shrug, and Jasper busied himself with the task.

Owen left by the shop door opening onto the street, and quickly stepped back in to avoid a handcart careening toward him. A baker’s boy pushed the cart piled high with bread into the yard of the York Tavern. ‘Sorry, Captain!’ he called out. ‘This goes where it will of a morning.’

‘If he weren’t the baker’s son–’ Jasper shook his head, grinning. ‘Have a care now, Da.’

Bess Merchet was giving the baker’s lad a piece of her mind when Owen ventured out into the morning crowd. If the lad did not learn to control the cart he’d soon be out of work no matter that his father was his employer. Yet Owen silently blessed him for a moment of laughter in a grim time. As he headed to the hospital he was stopped every few steps. Several asked if Old Bede had been found. He lied with a shake of his head. A merchant’s wife said she would take some fresh bread to Winifrith and the children. An elderly clerk noted that as long as no one found Old Bede’s body, there was hope. ‘After this long?’ A young woman with a newborn in her arms shook her head. In Blake Street Owen came upon a man carrying a dog with a bloody rump, the lad with him weeping loudly. A red-faced woman followed them wringing her hands. ‘You should know better than to let dog loose after what’s happened to the Swanns. How was I to know he was your old hound, snuffling round me in the dark before dawn?’ There would be more such canine injuries before this was over.

The twins’ report, added to Ned’s sighting of the man at the Fentons, the whispers of a hellhound in the minster yard, and Old Bede’s fright at the staithes bothered Owen more and more. It was an organized siege, not just the murder of two enemies. He must find the connections so that he might anticipate the next potential victims.

‘Captain!’ George Hempe hurried toward him. ‘Alfred told me about today’s service. I will ensure there are sufficient men to protect the two families. I am turning a deaf ear on the aldermen’s complaints – they say the Braithwaites are using us as their personal guard.’

Owen thanked him.

‘I do not know how long I can continue to support you.’

‘I know.’

‘If you were captain of bailiffs …’

‘Did they say that? I’d have their full support if I accepted the post?’

‘They did, but that should not influence your decision.’

Owen heard his humorless chuckle and knew himself to be in danger of saying whatever he need say in order to keep the city safe. His city, the city in which his family and friends depended on his strategy. He cursed the bind he was in, cursed Thoresby for dying and leaving him at the mercy of city and prince.

‘Where are you heading?’ George asked as he hurried to keep up with Owen’s angry pace.

‘St Leonard’s. Erkenwald might have some information for me. And then to the Braithwaites.’

‘I will meet you there. Or at the church.’ George touched Owen’s arm. ‘I will do all I can, my friend.’

‘As will I. Pray it is enough.’

St Leonard’s yard seemed a haven of peace, canons and lay brothers and sisters going about their chores. Spying the barrel-chested Erkenwald rounding the far corner of the church, Owen hastened to catch up with him, sending pigeons flying out of his path. The canon glanced up at them, then round to see what had startled them. A grin and a nod. ‘Owen, my friend.’ He gestured to a bench at the edge of a garden still colorful at the waning of the season. ‘Matilda de Warrene’s garden. She would smile to see it so lovingly tended.’ A corrodian of St Leonard’s, she had loved this garden. ‘You are not come to steal me away for a bowl of ale and conversation at this early hour, and looking so solemn.’

‘You would be right.’ Owen settled beside him. ‘I am in need of information. Geoffrey Chaucer tells me you know Crispin Poole.’

Erkenwald raised his thick brows. ‘Was it for you he asked about Poole? Had I known that I might have been more forthcoming.’

‘But not for himself? You do not trust Geoffrey?’

‘Do you?’

‘For the most part.’ Owen could not lie to the good canon, a friend who had come to his aid during an outbreak of the pestilence when all the city was mad with fear. It was the death of Matilda de Warrene’s husband he’d investigated then.

‘Then I leave it for you to decide whether or not he can be trusted to know more than I told him,’ said Erkenwald.

‘You met Poole in Avignon.’

‘Earlier. As a soldier. He was new in the camp, struggling to find his place, his value. With no particular martial skills, he spent his time lurking, listening. The sort I wanted nothing to do with. I was glad when my company moved on. The next time I caught his name it was grumbling about how he was rising in the ranks on the backs of his fellows. “He does favors,” they said, “injuries, rumors, whatever his betters want doing,” they said. He’d become skilled with a knife, even better with his hands. A strong man. He rose to sergeant, and then his arm was mangled so badly there was nothing to do but remove it.’

‘Fell beneath a horse? Lay on the field all night pinned beneath the dying destrier?’

‘Chaucer told me that’s what he’s saying.’ Erkenwald’s battle scars twisted his grin into a grimace. ‘I didn’t correct him. But the truth is far less heroic. He and his comrades stole a wagonload of wine, casks of it. They were already in their cups, and the lot who were riding in the back of the wagon tapped a cask and guzzled until they started brawling. Poole fell out over the wheel and his arm got caught in the spokes. Mangled.’

Owen winced, imagining the agony. ‘Poor devil. The memory of it must still bring on a cold sweat.’

‘Some did call him a devil. But I wish such pain on no man.’

Interesting how much Erkenwald had chosen not to share with Geoffrey.

‘After the accident, he somehow moved into trade. In Avignon. Considering how he had risen before–’ Erkenwald’s expressive brows finished the thought.

‘A patron for whom he did favors?’

‘So I imagined. Someone who appreciated a protégé good with a knife, his hands, and ruthless. He might have lost a hand, but not his knife hand. As you have learned to compensate for one eye, so might he become proficient with one hand.’ He shook his head. ‘God forgive me, but I fear it was an ill wind brought him back home. You know he grew up here.’

‘I do. It seems he was friends with Hoban Swann, perhaps Paul Braithwaite, Adam Tirwhit?’

‘I know nothing about that. But he seems a lonely man now. A falling out?’

‘I know less than you. Was Alexander Neville in Avignon at the time?’

Erkenwald studied Owen. ‘You are thinking he has come to be watch and ward for the new archbishop?’

‘I am thinking I must learn whether there was trouble between the Swanns and the Nevilles, though they are hardly of the same status.’ He told him of the event at the Fentons the previous day, and Lucie’s discovery at the minster yard. ‘An organized assault stinks of the Nevilles.’

‘Or some powerful family.’ Erkenwald glanced round. ‘We appear to have been fortunate. No sign of dogs in the hospital grounds.’

‘You are indeed graced,’ said Owen. ‘Have you met with Crispin Poole often since his return?’

‘Several times, though not by choice. He came to me, wanting me to know that he has sought forgiveness for his sins, worn a hair shirt, done endless penances – fasting, celibacy – and that he’d returned to right a wrong he had committed in running away from the city so long ago. But he discovered it cannot be righted. He can never make reparation for his lapse in courage.’

‘What was the wrong?’

‘That he did not say. And I did not care to ask. I am sorry to disappoint you.’ Erkenwald shook his head at a lay sister bearing a basket and shears who asked if her cutting some late roses for the church would disturb them.

Owen waited until she was at the far end of the garden before speaking. ‘Righting a wrong. Perhaps he came of his own accord, to settle an account with the coroner of Galtres.’ He was testing the idea.

‘And the first time he murdered the wrong Swann?’ Erkenwald asked.

‘He was in the York Tavern the night of Hoban’s murder. And he was there the night of Bartolf’s murder as well, though he left shortly after Bartolf did.’

‘So it is unlikely he is the murderer.’

‘Or he left the deed to others.’

‘A man known for his skill with a knife? Would he find that satisfying?’ Erkenwald laughed at Owen’s grin. ‘I was a soldier first.’

‘You were indeed.’

‘What is your impression of the man?’ Erkenwald asked.

‘The times we drank together in the York Tavern I found him an easy companion, well spoken, curious about events during his absence, a solitary soul, though he’s living with his mother. But it might all be a careful guise donned for my benefit. If he is the one who’s murdered Hoban and Bartolf, he has been careless. So careless as to suggest he believes he is above the law. I fear for York if that is so. Whose creature must he be, to have such confidence?’ Owen took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair.

‘That is an unsettling thought.’

‘I can pray Poole is here for the reason he gave you, rather than to clear a path for a powerful patron. For all our sakes.’

‘Unless his disappointment in discovering he cannot make amends led him to murder,’ said Erkenwald.

‘I cannot yet make sense of it,’ said Owen.

‘Why hesitate? Confront him.’

‘If he is well backed and fiendishly clever, I will have revealed my suspicions to no purpose. He’ll slide out from beneath my boot the wiser for it. I need to know as much as possible before I speak to him.’ Owen cursed under his breath. ‘If I were in Prince Edward’s household, I might perhaps know the name of Poole’s patron.’

‘Is that reason enough to accept the prince’s offer?’

‘In truth, I doubt he will permit me the choice – phrasing it as such is a courtesy. Until I refuse. It is a command, not an offer. You see it otherwise?’

Erkenwald grunted. ‘I think you are right. I will miss you.’

‘Miss me? He wants me here in York, except when I am calling on the great families at their castles and manors, with Lucie on my arm. A knight’s daughter. He likes that.’

‘A cunning plan. Will he knight you?’

‘Pray God I can refuse that.’

‘And the city’s wishes?’

Owen shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Is there anything that appeals to you in his proposal?’

‘I confess I do miss the access to knowledge of folk beyond the city and my family’s lands. For just such moments when danger arrives from beyond my ken.’

‘You do not yet know that the evil comes from without. But I understand.’ A little smile. ‘Righting wrongs. You cannot help yourself, can you?’

‘What do you mean?’ Owen asked, but he knew, he waved his friend quiet before he could respond. ‘No, you are right. I missed the hunt.’

‘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.’

‘I have made no decision.’

‘No?’ A wry grin. ‘For now, I pray you restore peace to our fair city.’ Erkenwald made the sign of the cross, blessing Owen. ‘May God grant you the wisdom to see the way to justice.’

‘Amen.’ Owen bowed and crossed himself. But the blessing gave no ease. ‘Justice? Nothing will bring back Bartolf, or resurrect Hoban so he might at last be the father he yearned to be.’

‘No. But you must and will pursue the guilty and deliver them up to the crown. It is your nature to do so. Yours is a heavy burden of conscience, my friend. I will pray for you.’

‘I count on your prayers,’ Owen said. ‘Do you sense that Poole has put aside his martial past? That he is now a man of commerce, no more?’

Erkenwald let out a sigh. ‘I cannot say. I sensed a deep sadness in him, but whether that might move him to violence or peace …’ The canon shook his head. ‘I confess I cannot find it in me to believe him sincere, but that is my sin, not his. My earlier impression of him, in France – I cannot yet see beyond that.’

‘I will talk to him tomorrow. I would today, but the requiems …’

‘You have your hands full.’

Owen mentioned Cilla, that Lucie had hoped to talk to her in the minster yard. ‘Have you met her?’

‘I have. Why?’

‘She worked for Bartolf Swann.’

‘Ah. I do recall mention of that. She sought a post here, but chafed at the rules, wanted to work as it pleased her. Mark me, her manner might be unsettling, but Cecelia, or Cilla, as you will – she has her feet firmly on the earth. She is cunning. Scheming.’

‘That is a new wrinkle.’

‘I cannot speak to her purpose, but our disinterest angered her.’

Perceptive man. ‘I could use your help.’

‘You know where to find me.’ Erkenwald’s scar twisted his smile.

‘I meant out beyond St Leonard’s gates.’

‘That is not my calling.’

‘You are so certain?’

‘I am. Now, Brother Michaelo …’ Erkenwald frowned. ‘No, in truth I cannot imagine him in anything but those tidy robes.’

‘He has hidden depths.’

‘I’ve no doubt of that.’

They sat for a little while in silence, watching the lay sister gathering beauty in her basket.

Alisoun stepped out into Coney Street with a basket over her arm and a list in her head of the gifts Dame Muriel wished to have ready to present to the servants after the requiem mass. A peculiar idea inspired by a dream in which all deserted her in mourning. Upon awakening, she realized how dependent she was on all who were helping her through this darksome time, even the servants, and she meant to show her gratitude. Such extreme emotions neither surprised nor concerned Alisoun, for Magda had warned her that they were to be expected, particularly as a woman approached her lying-in. But it made it no less irritating that Alisoun must hurry out as soon as the shops opened, and without a servant to assist her – for that would ruin the surprise.

Dreams had troubled Alisoun’s sleep as well, dark dreams of great black beasts stalking the shadowy streets, fangs bared, their fiery eyes peering into the darkest corners, seeing all. The last thing she wished to do this morning was walk the streets alone. Though she knew it unlikely the streets were any less safe than on any other day, she could not seem to talk herself out of a strong sense of unease.

Folk greeted her with enthusiasm, lingering as if hoping she might share some gossip. After all, she was in the bosom of the bereaved family. She thanked them for their prayers and hurried on.

Her first call was a chandler’s shop. She was just stepping away with her purchases of oils and candles when she caught sight of Wren, the young maidservant who had been at Magda’s home the night of Hoban Swann’s murder. Her eyes went at once to the girl’s stomach, though it was far too early for her to be showing again.

‘Mistress Alisoun!’

Realizing Wren must have noticed her glance and might interpret it as judgment – that Alisoun blamed her for her master’s inability to keep his hands to himself – she readied an apology.

‘Wren, I–’

‘I am grateful to you, Mistress Alisoun. My mistress never missed me. I will keep you in my prayers all my days.’

‘And your master?’

Wren seemed to hesitate, then leaned close to whisper, ‘Master Tirwhit has stopped his nightly visitations.’

The name caught Alisoun’s attention. ‘Adam Tirwhit? He is your master?’ Not her place to question, just to heal, according to Magda, so she’d not asked the name of Wren’s employer.

‘So he is.’

The back of Alisoun’s neck felt prickly. Providence? So her mistress was Olyf Tirwhit, part of the circle Dame Muriel had spoken about. ‘The murders – your master and mistress have reconciled in their grief?’

‘No, it’s not like that. He’s accused her of having a lover. He watches her. Angry.’ She leaned close again, though they’d both kept their voices low as they stood beneath the eaves of a house next to the chandler’s shop. ‘She slips over to the house he leased next door whenever she has a chance. She pretends it’s the aged widow Poole she’s visiting, but she fusses with her hair and her clothes before she goes.’ A knowing nod.

Crispin Poole was her neighbor? Had God sent Wren to her? Or … Alisoun almost backed away. Wren seemed too eager. It was of course possible that Crispin was Olyf’s lover. Or she feared that whoever had murdered two of her kin might aim the next arrow at her own heart, and Crispin, a former soldier, might protect them. Though he had but one good arm … Alisoun had heard Captain Archer say that a soldier injured in the field went on.

‘But the troubles began after he returned, so no one else trusts Crispin Poole. Neither her brother nor her father did, may God grant them rest. I pray my mistress is not walking into danger.’ Wren grasped Alisoun’s arm. ‘Are we in danger?’

Alisoun was now convinced that it was no accident Wren had discovered her here. Had she been scheming from the start? Coming to Alisoun the very night Hoban Swann was murdered? Keeping her from rushing out when she heard the dogs? ‘I doubt you need fear for yourself. But if you see anything that seems a threat to your mistress, you might send me word.’

A hesitant nod, then more vigorous. ‘I will. I want to help.’

‘Bless you. I am biding at the Swann home on Coney Street. Dame Muriel is with child, and with all that has happened she felt the need of me. Her losses – her husband, his father, I fear she might succumb, and lose the baby.’

‘Poor woman.’ Wren wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

‘She and Master Hoban waited so long for this child. But Captain Archer means to find the murderers,’ said Alisoun, ‘and if there is anything I might learn to help him …’

‘So I should bring word to you about anything that I learn about Dame Olyf and Master Crispin?’

She was keen to focus on them. ‘Or anything that happens at either house that does not seem as it should. Any strangers loitering about.’

‘Strangers,’ Wren whispered.

‘Yes. Can you do that?’

‘I can, Mistress Alisoun. But why are you here in the market when the Swanns are to be buried this morning at St Helen’s? Does Dame Muriel not need you?’

Was that what she was after this morning? ‘I might ask the same of you. Did Dame Olyf not need your help dressing?’

‘She woke me before dawn to dress her, then left with the master to be with the family. Did you not see her?’

‘No.’

‘Oh, perhaps they went to the Braithwaite home.’

‘And you are not attending her today?’

‘Blessed be, no. But I must be on my way, I’ve much to do before they return this evening.’ She began to turn away, then stopped, staring at a man emerging from an alleyway close to them.

Alisoun shifted feet to see beyond the people milling about in between. A servant’s dress, patched, something handed down from his master, a large wart on the side of his nose.

‘Who is that?’ Alisoun asked.

‘Who?’

‘You held your breath as you watched him, you know of whom I speak.’

‘I– He was out near the midden last evening. I shooed him away.’

‘He was in the Tirwhit yard last evening?’ Alisoun tried to keep her voice steady. That wart … She recognized him. He had once come to Magda for savine, a type of juniper, so he might make a paste to remove the wart, he said. Magda had refused him, for it might also be used as a poison, offering a paste of houseleek instead. He had brushed it away, demanding the savine. Tie a toad round thy neck, Alisoun had snapped. Red-faced and cursing, he’d hurried off, slipping and sliding across the rocks to the riverbank in his blind fury. Magda had chided Alisoun. Insult a seeker with a useless charm and he’ll never return. Alisoun had not known it was useless, though she admitted she’d meant to insult him. What do you mean, a seeker? Magda had looked at her, disappointed. Thou’rt not such a fool as to believe he was after a cure?

‘He was lurking back there,’ said Wren, ‘watching the houses. Both of ours.’

There was more to the memory – Magda had muttered something about Bartolf the coroner being a fool for keeping him. Was he Joss, the missing servant? ‘You said you shooed him away?’ she asked. ‘What did he then?’

‘Backed away into the dark.’ Wren gave a little shiver.

‘Did you tell your master or mistress?’

‘No. They were fighting and fussing about today, what to wear, who would be at the church, then at the meal. Master Adam was that angry that it was to be only kin. He said Master Bartolf was coroner and deserved the mayor and council in attendance. The mistress said he cared not a whit about her father but wanted to preen before the important folk. Why? Is he important?’ Wren turned to look at him, but he was disappearing between the stalls.

‘Let me know if he comes back to the house,’ Alisoun said, then hurried after him.

‘You can trust me!’ Wren called after her.

Pray God she knew better than to do that. Though Alisoun pushed her way through the crowd, she saw no sign of the man. But she knew more than before, enough to know that she must tell the captain everything. She would take him aside at the dinner later. And, after she had completed the shopping, she had a thought to take a look at the Tirwhit residence.

At the cutler she picked out a flesh hook for the cook, and a cheap rush light holder for Dame Muriel’s maidservant.

Hurrying back to the house with her basket of gifts, she took her first opportunity to ask Dame Muriel how she might know the missing manservant – in case he was about in the city.

‘Joss?’ Muriel made a face. ‘You would know him by the wart on his nose. A disgusting thing. Have you seen him?’

‘I did not know what to look for.’

‘Now you do. Come, set all this aside. We will present the gifts to the staff in the kitchen before the feast in hopes of lifting their spirits so they might carry out their duties on this sorrowful day.’

Alisoun made a show of realizing she’d forgotten something. ‘I will not be long, Dame Muriel.’ Up in the bedchamber she tucked her bow and quiver in a sack and slipped down the steps to the yard.