A Conspiracy of Wolves

11 An Old Enemy

Owen’s height, patch, and reputation preempted any plan to slip through the city unnoted. Folk called out to him, asking about the attack at Poole’s home. Word had spread quickly, but the city was haunted by the deaths, the specter of great wolves prowling the streets. Owen envied Hempe. Though he’d served as bailiff for years, he was the sort of man who could move through a crowd unremarked, vaguely familiar, unthreatening. Except, of course, for those he’d arrested. One of those skittered away from them near St Crux, sliding into the shadows, but Hempe had his men drag him out.

‘Brown-haired man in a leather jerkin in the company of a large hound. You see anyone like that, you find one of my men as quick as you may and I’ll overlook your latest theft.’

‘The purse? But there were naught in it, Master Bailiff.’

‘Leave it on her doorstep and I’ll forget about it – if you keep an eye out.’

A vigorous nod and the man loped away.

‘He’s simple, but he has an eye. The purse was valuable in itself. And he never wastes his time on those with nothing of value. He knows everyone’s worth in the city.’

‘You should hire him.’

‘I would, but he disappears. He’s plagued by fits. The Riverwoman puts a few drafts in him, gives him a cot while he sleeps it out, and he’s back on the streets, bright and keen as ever.’

‘The city depends on her for a great deal.’

‘And you. Even in death you will be revered – your corpse will work miracles, mark me.’ Hempe laughed.

By the time they reached the Ouse Bridge Owen no longer heard the questions about the attack, his mind on Gisburne, how to handle him. The man was slippery as an eel, powerful in the city and the shire, rotten to the core. That his fellow merchants and city counselors overlooked his criminal dealings confounded Owen. Lucie believed they feared what he knew of them, for his men spied on all in the city. What might he have to gain in aiding the attacks on the Swanns and their friends? Did he hope to take on the role of coroner? Surely his calls to parliament already gave him more power than would the post of coroner in Galtres. Perhaps a favor for a friend?

Owen nodded to one of the Graa clan, wealthy, powerful, and assured the man he would soon give the mayor his decision regarding the position of captain of bailiffs.

‘We need you, Archer. Today’s attack makes that plain. A blind widow?’

Hempe was grinning about the support for Owen as captain when Owen said, ‘Crispin Poole approaches.’

The man they sought was obliging them by making his way toward them through the throng of folk on the bridge. As Crispin grew near, Owen heard people hailing him to express concern for his mother. Graa hastily took his leave.

‘God’s blood, they’ve attacked my home?’ Crispin growled as he reached Owen and Hempe. ‘I hope you are on their heels.’

‘We’re on yours, to be frank,’ said Owen. ‘What did Gisburne want of you this morning?’

‘I couldn’t say. No reason for a sudden summons.’ Crispin glanced at the folk pressing round them, eager to hear.

‘Move on,’ Hempe called out.

‘Damnable woman,’ Crispin muttered. ‘I feared – is my mother alive?’

Damnable woman? ‘Yes,’ said Owen. ‘Injured, but I do not believe her life is in danger.’

‘God watches over her. Heaven knows why.’ Crispin’s eyes flicked between Owen and Hempe. ‘Are you come to escort me home? Both of you? Do you think the attack was meant for me? That I might be attacked on the way?’

‘The man who came at your mother shouted something about vengeance for his father’s honor,’ said Owen. ‘He seemed to be addressing her, according to Chaucer.’

Crispin blanched, there was no other word for it. White round the mouth, which opened a little in a prolonged sigh. ‘I see.’

‘Do you? We would like to know what exactly you see,’ said Owen.

‘It is a long tale.’

‘Has it anything to do with the death of a young woman named Gerta?’ Owen was rewarded by Crispin’s muttered curse. ‘We will talk later. At your house.’

‘Not now? You are not headed there?’

‘I would like to watch Gisburne’s face as he’s told about your mother’s ordeal. You were summoned to Micklegate – John Gisburne’s home, and while you were away …’

‘You are thinking Gisburne arranged for me to be away?’ Crispin looked aside, as if working to control his temper. ‘I will accompany you.’

‘Then come,’ said Hempe, breaking his silence. ‘We continue to draw a crowd.’

Owen glanced round, nodded to folk who began to ply them with questions. ‘If you will let us pass,’ he said, beginning to push through them.

‘And how readily the crowd parts for the captain,’ Hempe muttered, still amusing himself about how the folk venerated Owen.

‘How did Gisburne behave?’ Owen asked Crispin when they were clear of the worst of the crush of curious onlookers.

A shrug. ‘Friendly. He served wine, cheese, and bread, asked how I liked the house in Colliergate – with the air of having arranged it for me.’

‘Had he?’

‘No. Olyf … Dame Olyf and I met by chance in the market a while after my return. I complained about the damp in my mother’s house and she mentioned that their neighbor was letting their house. Large, airy, empty.’

‘You and she were childhood friends?’

A glance as if checking Owen’s meaning, then a nod.

‘So what was the urgency?’

‘None that I could tell. He told me he will be in York for at least a fortnight, likely longer, and he means to fulfill his promise of introducing me to the prominent merchants in the city, see to it that I found satisfactory trading partners.’

‘Promised you?’

‘No. I’m of little value to him in myself. Who do I know? What luster might I add to his crown? No, he promised …’ Crispin seemed to be surveying the crowd with a worried frown.

‘Promised whom?’ Owen asked. ‘Is it Alexander Neville, His Grace the Archbishop of York?’

Crispin looked at him, startled. ‘You knew?’

‘I guessed.’

‘I see why the prince and the city want you to spy for them.’

‘Spy for the city?’ Hempe grunted. ‘We’ve no need of spies.’

Oh, but they did, with worms such as Gisburne and Neville about. Owen was sorry to be right. Neville and Gisburne. Now that was a pairing to turn a sour mood bitter.

‘A Neville,’ Hempe said, as if things began to make sense to him.

‘What are you to Alexander Neville?’ Owen asked.

He did not like Crispin’s reaction to the question, how he sped up and averted his eyes, pretending sudden interest in the fishmongers on the south end of the bridge.

‘Why should Neville care how you are received in York?’ Owen guessed, of course, but he was keen to hear how Crispin would phrase it.

‘I am a member of his household, in a sense, here to smooth the way for him with the citizens of York, provide him a list of those with influence.’

‘And Gisburne has presented himself as one who should appear on that list?’ Owen asked.

A small smile. ‘He has. But His Grace wishes an independent assessment.’

‘Then Gisburne would hardly cause you trouble.’

‘I would think not. I – he did impart some news. I suppose he wants me in his debt …’

‘That would be his way,’ said Owen. ‘This news?’

‘He traveled here in the company of the archbishop’s secretary, Dom Leufrid. On the archbishop’s barge.’

‘And this Leufrid could be expected to inform you of his arrival in York in short order?’ asked Hempe.

‘Not before he has received all the gossip available from the prior of Holy Trinity across from Gisburne’s house.’

‘So Gisburne did you a favor,’ Hempe noted.

‘He does not do favors, he makes deals,’ said Owen.

‘Might this attack have nothing to do with the recent murders? Bartolf and Hoban?’ Hempe wondered aloud. ‘You are aware that Gisburne retains an unusual number of armed servants, Poole?’

‘So I am told,’ said Crispin.

‘The man is a menace,’ said Hempe.

‘Even so, this attack on my house, I fear – in truth, I am quite certain it is related to the Swann murders. I will explain later.’

‘Something to consider,’ said Owen. ‘One of Gisburne’s household servants might have let slip your impending visit to someone who decided to make use of your absence.’

‘Hence your curiosity about Gisburne’s purpose,’ said Crispin. ‘I see. I have much to learn about the undercurrents in the city.’

‘It seems you are being forced to learn quickly,’ said Hempe.

Still standing at the southern edge of the bridge, Owen had begun to question his motive in confronting Gisburne himself. Hempe might handle it, allow Owen and Crispin to return to the scene of the attack.

‘Let us leave Gisburne’s household to Hempe and his men, Poole,’ said Owen.

‘And where will you be?’ Hempe asked.

‘At Poole’s house.’

Hempe grinned. ‘Good plan. It will be my pleasure to discomfit King John.’

Michaelo was expected back momentarily, Jehannes’s servant informed Geoffrey, and the archdeacon was also away. He invited Geoffrey to wait in the hall. When he’d left, Geoffrey turned slowly, absorbing the beauty of Jehannes’s hall, the painted vines, the hangings, and then, out the window, the garden planted with a thought to pleasing the eyes. He had never guessed the archdeacon a man of such refined taste.

‘Master Chaucer.’ The monk startled him.

‘You do like to steal up on a man,’ Geoffrey exclaimed. But he smiled, ever charmed by how Michaelo floated rather than walked.

‘I understand there has been another attack?’ The monk’s nostrils quivered on the last word.

‘No deaths this time, much thanks to Alisoun Ffulford, who shot down one of the attackers, routed the other. I witnessed her courage, and that of Dame Euphemia’s manservant. The surviving attacker ran off with the hound. Captain Archer asks you to walk through the minster yard as he believes it your custom to do of an evening, offering comfort. While you do, keep your ears pricked for any whispers of a man and a hound, wolf, whatever they call it.’

Such a smooth, etched face, homely when in repose, but now, as the monk’s pleasure in being called to serve lifted all the corners – why, he could be quite handsome. Geoffrey had never seen him look so – beatific. He had an amusing thought. Owen Archer was a handsome man in his own way, certainly the women behaved as if he were uncommonly alluring. Was Michaelo smitten? Oh, now that would be delicious.

‘And if I learn anything? See anything?’ the monk asked.

Geoffrey prayed he’d not smiled. How to explain? ‘My mission, after speaking with you, is to inform the mourners at Swanns’ of the state of the victims at the Poole home. Then I am to await Archer at his house. Come to me there.’

Michaelo tucked his hands up his sleeves and bowed to Geoffrey. ‘I will do as the captain asks.’

Geoffrey had no doubt he would.

Brother Michaelo saw the king’s man out the door. How the captain could entrust that man on such a mission … Perhaps he’d merely meant to keep the blankly smiling fool out of the way, and out of earshot. For the captain knew that Chaucer was a gossip. A prudent ploy? Yes, that must be it. Michaelo was moved that Owen recalled his practice of providing spiritual counsel to those living in the minster yard. Dame Lucie perhaps described his reception. He wondered when they shared such moments in their day. In bed before sleep? What must it be like to have such a companion?

He shook himself. Such thoughts did him no good. He had work to do.

Chaucer … Geoffrey Chaucer had not mentioned stopping first in the Bedern. Michaelo wondered whether that part of Chaucer’s route concerned his own official mission for the prince. One must never forget. Several of the clerks residing in those lodgings were used by officials in the city as messengers to London and Westminster. Paired with the matter of the stranger who had arrived at the abbey staithe last night in the company of Archbishop Neville’s secretary, the former intending to bide at the abbey, the latter at Holy Trinity Priory in Micklegate, there might be treachery afoot. The captain should know of these developments.

The thought of the new archbishop’s secretary brought on a headache, and Michaelo paused, composing himself. Of all the clerics in the land, that Neville should choose Michaelo’s cousin Dom Leufrid, the thief who stole the money Michaelo’s family had intended would buy him a comfortable position in a wealthy abbey in the south of England. Because of Leufrid’s greed Michaelo had wound up in York, so far north, with little to offer the abbot, a distant cousin. Leufrid, the bastard, now secretary to the worm who had stolen the archbishopric from Thoresby’s worthy nephew, Richard Ravenser – infuriating.

Michaelo prayed for the compassion to forgive, but deep in his heart he yearned to ruin the loathsome Leufrid.

Hereby lies a tale, Geoffrey thought as he hurried down Stonegate. The blind goodwife and the wolf. Pity it wasn’t a fox, but what of a wolf dressed as a man? The wolf fools all but the blind. She ‘sees’ him for what he is and cunningly turns the tables … Pah. He had more immediate concerns on which to train his mind. He ordered his thoughts as he cut through the yard of the York Tavern and passed through the Fenton garden into the yard of the Swann home.

As soon as he stepped through the door conversations halted, servants carrying platters turned to look at the new arrival, and the musicians ceased playing. He’d hoped for a quiet word, but that was clearly not to be.

In a rush of silk, Olyf Tirwhit was upon him.

‘Is Crispin injured? I should go to him–’ Her breath was sweet with wine and she staggered aside as her husband stepped between them.

Geoffrey was relieved to see Muriel Swann and Janet Braithwaite in the man’s wake, John Braithwaite, Paul, and his wife not far behind. Ned brought up the rear, hurrying in from the kitchen.

‘I suggest we step into another room,’ Geoffrey said. ‘All eyes in the hall are upon us. You can then decide how much information to share with your guests.’

Janet led the group into the buttery, a morbid venue, Geoffrey thought, remembering Bartolf’s bloody corpse on the table, and no doubt Hoban’s before that.

‘I heard from the bailiffs’ men, and much has passed round the hall,’ said Ned. ‘Is it true that Mistress Alisoun shot a man between the eyes?’

‘Neck.’ Geoffrey touched either side. ‘As if preparing to roast his head over a fire.’

The young man’s grimace halted Geoffrey from further comment.

‘I pray you tell me, is it true that Alisoun is mortally wounded?’

Geoffrey patted Ned’s shoulder. ‘Magda Digby and Lucie Wilton tend her.’ The young man gave a cry like a whimper. Seeing his distress, Geoffrey regretted speaking while distracted.

‘Is she?’ Ned asked.

Geoffrey could hardly soften it for the lad when he was about to share the ugly details with the rest of those gathered in the buttery. ‘I pray you, patience. I hope to make one report to all here.’ He patted Ned’s arm.

By now the Swanns, Braithwaites, and Tirwhits stood assembled before Geoffrey. Clearing his throat, he recited the tale plainly, with no bardic embellishments – though he had considered some poetic phrases.

He watched their reactions. Owen would ask. Olyf’s cry of relief when she heard of Crispin’s absence won a poke from her husband and a disgusted look from Muriel. Paul Braithwaite looked drained of blood and teetering, but they all reeked of sweet wine, so it might mean nothing. To their credit, though in their cups the group listened with interest and concern. He noticed that none asked for details of Dame Euphemia’s injuries, none cried out at the profound cruelty of attacking a blind, elderly woman – he’d been wise to omit his embellishment regarding her snowy white hair falling down round her shoulders, one long strand dipped in her would-be murderer’s blood. It would have been wasted on this audience. However, all expressed amazement at Alisoun’s courage – and that of the manservant – and dismay about the extent of the young woman’s injury, tempered with relief that Magda Digby and Lucie Wilton were there to nurse her.

‘Oh, my dear Alisoun.’ Muriel Swann looked as if she might faint. ‘She has been so kind, so caring. What can I do?’

‘Continue with the regimen she has prescribed, daughter,’ said Janet Braithwaite. ‘Give birth to a healthy baby she will delight to see when she is able.’

As an argument ensued between mother and daughter, Geoffrey took the opportunity to slip away. Opening the garden gate, he lingered at the spot where Bartolf had been murdered. Except for the hours spent in his company on the way to York, Geoffrey had not known the man. Nor had that encounter allowed insight into his character. On that day he’d not been the respected, perhaps feared coroner of Galtres, but a mere mortal man shattered by the violent murder of his only son. What had he been like the day before? Geoffrey would never know.

Owen and Crispin headed back across the river, both alert for the missing man and dog.

‘So Gisburne is not to be trusted,’ Crispin noted.

‘In my experience, no.’

‘He behaved in such wise when you were Thoresby’s man? Did the archbishop do nothing?’

‘He would allow Gisburne to make a generous donation to the fund for the minster’s Lady Chapel.’

‘But John Thoresby was highly regarded. A saint compared to Neville.’

‘He was no saint.’ Owen glanced at Crispin. ‘It would seem you are doing more than making a list of influential citizens for Neville.’

The man pressed his lips together, eyes fixed on the street ahead.

Owen grew impatient. ‘So you choose not to speak.’

‘No. I– I would be your friend, and so I hesitated to tell you. The city dreads the arrival of the new archbishop. His reputation being what it is, they see him as a wolf, not a shepherd of souls. And I’m to be to Neville what you were to Thoresby. I will have few friends here.’

Worse than Owen had guessed, but fair warning. ‘You have my sympathy. And I would say that even were it not Neville.’ Though had it been Richard Ravenser … But there was no point in such thoughts.

‘But you said– One night in the York Tavern you admitted to missing Thoresby.’

‘The man, yes. And the knowledge, the support, the authority I enjoyed. But he could be maddening. Powerful men are, in my experience.’ A grunt of agreement. ‘You are at ease with Neville?’

A bitter laugh. ‘No one is at ease with the man. I’ve yet to hear anyone speak of him with any affection.’

‘This Leufrid?’

‘Alexander Neville and Dom Leufrid are two of a kind. Cold, ruthless.’

‘Men of the Church.’

‘Ambitious men for whom the Church was the way to power.’

Owen liked the way Crispin thought – to a point. But as Prince Edward’s man or the captain of the city, Owen would need to watch every word, every gesture when in Poole’s company. Pity. They might have been friends, in another time.

‘I should tell you, Gisburne spoke of another man on the barge, a Moor, he did not name him, but an emissary from Prince Edward.’

A Moor? Owen wondered … ‘Emissary to–’

‘You, as I understand it. Apparently the prince is keen to add you to his household. Quite an honor. But I thought Geoffrey Chaucer was seeing to that.’

‘His Grace grows impatient?’ Owen shrugged, though his mind was racing. Might it be his old friend? ‘What had Gisburne to say of that?’

‘That you were Icarus, in your arrogance flying too close to the sun.’ Poole chuckled. ‘By the rood, the man envies you.’

‘He must have little experience of His Grace the prince.’

‘That is what I said.’

Yes. They might have been very good friends. But back to the matter at hand.

‘When I told you of the attack on Dame Euphemia,’ said Owen, ‘you called her a damnable woman, said you’d feared – what? What does your mother have to do with the murders? Why would the man who lunged at her shout something about his father’s honor?’

‘You implied her injuries were minor. But if he lunged at her – who intervened? She sees only the faintest shadow in the best light. She could not defend herself.’

‘Alisoun Ffulford.’

‘The Riverwoman’s apprentice?’

Owen told him what she’d done, how serious her injury.

Crispin looked far more stricken than he had when told about his mother. ‘How did Mistress Alisoun come to be there?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did she – has she mentioned me?’

A curious question. ‘She has not awakened.’

‘I mean, before. Anything about – I see from your expression she kept my secret. May God watch over her. If she should die – God knows, I am to blame. I take full responsibility.’

Owen wanted to hear about that.

‘You should also know that the serving man did his best to protect Dame Euphemia,’ said Owen. ‘Injured as well, but he’s able to walk and tell you what he witnessed.’

‘Old Dun? Then I have misjudged him.’

‘What of this Gerta?’

‘When did you connect that with all this?’

‘Not me. Two men were overheard speaking of her. They had come into some money and were spending it on good wine. Too much good wine. Their good fortune was somehow thanks to her. Or her murder.’

Crispin had stopped in front of Christchurch, staring at Owen. ‘Recently?’

‘Several weeks ago.’

Crispin nodded. ‘Come.’