A Conspiracy of Wolves

12 Gerta

In Crispin’s hall, Magda watched as Lucie dripped some liquid into Alisoun’s half-opened mouth. Owen might find it a comforting sight had Alisoun been fussing, or gazing round with her usual wary expression. First Magda, then Lucie glanced up to see who had arrived, then, with nods, went back to their work. Crispin led Owen down a narrow passageway past Dame Euphemia’s bedchamber, where the elderly woman lay in a deep slumber or faint, Owen could not say, and brought him to the garden.

Owen nodded to Dun, who sat watch, pitchfork in one hand.

As Crispin approached, the old servant rose abruptly. ‘Master.’

‘Sit, I pray you.’ Crispin expressed his appreciation for Dun’s years of service to his parents, and his gratitude for the man’s courage this day. Dun bobbed his head.

Intent on his own mission, Owen crouched down and pulled back the cover from the dead man’s face. ‘So, Poole, do you know this man?’ How Crispin played this part would reveal much. Owen had no doubt the man was known to him.

‘Difficult to say …’

‘Is it?’

‘The young woman has a remarkable aim,’ said Crispin, as if he had not heard the question.

‘That she does,’ Owen agreed. He waited. Would Crispin lie?

Easing himself down in a crouch by the body, Crispin turned the man’s head so that he might study the face. ‘Avenging his father. Of course he would. But how did he know who falsely accused him?’

‘So you know him?’

‘We have met. And I knew his father. A farmer fallen to poaching in Galtres, but a good man. My mother – accursed woman–’ Abruptly rising, Crispin nodded to Owen. ‘We will talk. But first, despite all, I will sit a moment with my mother, then join you in the hall to explain.’

Crispin’s was a tidy house, spacious, though an odd choice for a blind woman and a one-armed man, narrow passageways and the indoor steps to the solar narrow and steep. Owen supposed Crispin might make use of the stump of his arm for balance as he took the steps, but it would be awkward. He could not imagine Dame Euphemia climbing to the solar; perhaps that was the very reason Crispin had chosen the house, a chance for solitude when he retired to his chamber. He was clearly not over-fond of his mother.

The hall was spacious, making the bed in which Alisoun lay seem tiny, albeit with a thick mattress and an abundance of pillows. She lay with her brown hair fanned out round her, supported by enough cushions that she was almost sitting. Long lashes were dark against her white cheeks. But as Owen drew near he noticed her breathing was quiet and steady. A good sign.

‘A brave young woman,’ said Magda.

‘And fortunate in her healers,’ said Owen, nodding to Magda, kissing Lucie’s forehead.

‘Did you find the man?’ Lucie asked.

‘No, but I’ve much to tell you. And if he is honest, Crispin Poole is about to tell me about a young woman’s death that might somehow be the core of these troubles.’

‘Eva mentioned something about that,’ Lucie said, telling him what she’d gleaned.

‘A false accusation to protect her son?’ said Owen. ‘I begin to understand.’

‘I hope you talk here, in the hall,’ said Lucie.

‘I will make certain of that. And I pray you, listen.’

He knelt beside the bed. Was it his imagination, or did Alisoun’s eyelids flutter? ‘I am, as ever, impressed by your skill with the bow,’ he whispered to her. ‘I am not certain I would have caught him so, with him in motion.’

‘Not aiming to kill him.’ Breathy, weak, slow, but Alisoun spoke.

The room grew very quiet.

Owen kissed Alisoun’s hand. A tear rolled down her cheek. His heart heavy, he looked to Magda.

She tapped her head with a bony finger. ‘Hard as her will.’ The hint of a smile did not reach her eyes.

Owen pressed Alisoun’s hand. ‘Use that will to return to us,’ he whispered. Looking back to Magda, ‘Might I ask you some questions?’

Lucie took her place.

Stepping aside, near the brazier where it was warm in the draughty hall, Magda began by describing Alisoun’s and Euphemia’s injuries. Owen interrupted her to ask whether the hound had clawed Euphemia.

‘No open wounds, but marks of claws raking her shoulders. Not one of Bartolf’s, Bird-eye. All claws intact.’

She finished with Dun’s injuries. All this he might have learned from Lucie, but his next question, about how Magda had known of Hoban’s murder, was his reason for taking her aside.

‘Magda recognizes the signs, not how or why this or that is revealed to her. She has no answers for thee, Bird-eye. This is thy conspiracy of wolves. Thou hast the charge, Magda merely warned thee. Thy task. Open thine eye.’ She tapped the place between his eyes, then pressed there.

Sensing her finger sinking into his skull, Owen jerked away in confusion.

But Magda’s hands lay idle in her lap.

He felt a shower of needle pricks across his blind eye. ‘I don’t understand. Had I the Sight I would have known what was to come, I might have prevented Hoban’s murder. And Bartolf’s.’

‘Not fore-seeing, clear-seeing. A gift to all who count on thy protection. Trust thyself. Thou seest far more clearly than most.’

Her answer frustrated him. Clear-seeing? Once perhaps. But he was sorely out of practice. He tried another approach to the question.

‘A conspiracy of wolves – what did you mean by that?’

‘That is for thee to discover. And how thou must move forward.’

‘The prince or the city? Is that what you mean?’

‘That as well.’

‘You speak in riddles.’

‘Thou’rt a riddle-breaker.’

No, he was not, though people thought it of him, expected him to find the answers, he had no gift for this. Never had.

‘What did you mean by the question about what folk see when they see a wolf?’ Owen asked. ‘How could it not be the animal?’

‘A riddle for thee, Bird-eye.’ Magda rose, shaking out her multicolored skirts. ‘Magda has work to do. And thou must hear One-arm’s story.’

‘It cannot be easy for you to see your elderly parent the victim of a violent attack, no matter your differences,’ said Owen, settling back in his chair after tasting the wine and finding it to his liking – a welcome blessing on such a day. ‘We who took up arms in our youth, we come to believe we are hardened to violence, that we can bear anything. But if we’ve come away with our souls intact, tarnished but whole, we know there is no hardening that can blunt our hearts to the suffering of those we love.’

‘Love,’ Crispin mumbled, then drank down his cup of strong wine in such haste it might fell a smaller man. Rising from his seat, he turned his back to Owen, facing the window. ‘Love my mother? Pity her?’ He flexed his shoulders. ‘As a boy I prayed for the wisdom to remember to tell her nothing of petty slights as friends fell away, wary, untrusting. I could not blame them. She said she was protecting her family. Protecting. Pah. She was the death of my father, and as the fruit of her womb I am cursed. Soldiering did not harden me, she did. Sympathy for her injuries? She knows better than to look to me for that.’

Owen sat silent, absorbing this bitter speech, so unexpected. He was glad that Magda and Lucie listened from across the room. He might later doubt what he was hearing, the anger, the long resentment.

‘She brought it upon herself,’ said Crispin. ‘The blindness? She’d seen nothing but the poison in her soul for so long, it did not matter.’ He returned to his seat, poured another cup of wine, drank it down, poured another, sat looking into the cup. ‘I thought I could return, right the wrong, make amends. Too late. God help me, but I almost wish it were she lying there in the garden, that the Lord God decided we’d enough of the spiteful, hateful woman, and Gerta’s and Warin’s kin would have their revenge.’ He moved the cup in his hand. Owen could imagine the wine swirling within, how the movement caught the eye, held it, pulled it down. ‘Forgive me. You must think I speak in riddles.’

‘Not riddles, but a tale begun midway. Why don’t you begin with meeting the man lying in the garden? Tell me about him.’

‘It will make little sense without all the rest.’

‘Begin with what might help me understand what has been happening, and we’ll see.’

‘As you wish.’ Crispin considered. ‘Perhaps a week before Hoban’s murder, I walked out to Bartolf’s house in the forest at twilight, in the company of my men. I hoped the old coroner could help me clear a man’s name. But he refused to talk. Told his hounds to take a good sniff and attack me if I dared return.’

‘Bringing your armed men with you might have suggested a less than friendly purpose,’ Owen said.

‘I had them stay back, out of sight.’

‘How did you approach? By the main track or along the river?’

‘Why?’

‘Can you recall?’

‘Along the river. Much shorter when on foot.’

‘You know that track well?’

‘I did as a boy.’

‘Was Bartolf standing outside, aware of your approach?’

Crispin paused, his eyes far away. ‘No. A man – I took him to be a servant – he shouted toward the house that someone was coming down the path.’

‘How did he come to see you?’ Owen asked.

‘Now you ask, he was on that trail, as if waiting.’

‘When Bartolf threatened you, did you leave at once? Or did you challenge him? Did the dogs attack?’

‘I could see he was drunk, as usual, and there is no reasoning with an adamant drunk, so I left. And, no, his dogs did not attack.’

Noting the emphasis on the word ‘his’, Owen drew out the pouch he’d carried for days. ‘I ask because of this, a salve for a dog bite. Someone dropped it on that trail. Recently. It had not been out in the weather when I found it.’

‘I was attacked – and bitten – that night, but not by Bartolf’s dogs. Another. On my way back. There was a man crouching down on the bank, and near him, in the shadow of a tree – well, I thought it a wolf, and that the man might not be aware of his danger. I called out to warn him. It was then the beast turned toward me. Leapt at my throat. I shielded my neck with my useless arm and drew my knife, but it was so quick. Its teeth were in me. My men were rushing him, they tell me, when the man whistled and the animal let go. Just like that. Man and beast backed away, the man shouting that he would avenge his father, and then they vanished.’

‘His father is the one whose name you hoped to clear?’

‘Warin, yes.’ Crispin cursed. ‘This will make no sense to you.’

‘Did your men give chase?’

‘Tried, but by then it was dark and the marsh dangerous.’

‘It was you who had chosen the marsh path.’

‘My men are not from here.’

‘Where were your men today when your mother was attacked?’ Owen asked.

Crispin had been watching Owen, no doubt guessed he was aware of his reluctance to be forthcoming. Now he made a face as if conceding. ‘I’ve had them watching Bartolf’s house in the woods for several days.’

‘Why?’

‘It all began there, or near there.’

‘You mean Hoban’s death and all that’s happened since?’

‘Yes.’

‘And have your men observed anything?’

‘Nothing. No one has come to the house, nor have the dogs or the horse returned.’

‘Did it not occur to you that folk should be warned of the man and his wolf? If not that night, then at least after Hoban was attacked in the same place, with a beast involved?’

‘I told you, none of this will make sense without all that went before.’ Crispin averted his eyes.

‘A lone man and his dog could not do all this,’ said Owen. ‘Today two men attacked.’

‘I have no idea who the other might be.’

‘So that night, you were bleeding, and near the home of the Riverwoman.’

‘She was away. Mistress Alisoun tended me. And I am grateful.’

‘She prepared this pouch of salve for you?’ Owen dangled it by the cord.

‘Yes.’

So Alisoun had lied to him.

‘It seems there is a limit to your gratitude, and your trust. I recall you asking whether she’d spoken of you. And you said you felt responsible for her injury. Did you swear her to secrecy?’

‘I did.’

‘Why?’

Crispin winced. ‘Neville. I did not know when I accepted the mission that I would find I was so reviled by my old friends. I expected resentment – I escaped, they were still here. But there was much I did not know. So much.’

‘And now you do?’ Owen asked.

A nod. ‘I should not have come.’

‘The old friends you speak of?’

‘Hoban, Paul, Olyf, Adam.’

Muriel’s trio plus one. ‘Alisoun saw to your arm and you swore her to secrecy so that Alexander Neville would not hear of this trouble and have no more to do with you.’

Clenched jaw. Good. He might forget himself.

‘You deride me,’ Crispin said.

‘Not without cause. Go on. What did you do next?’

‘I came home.’

‘After curfew? You have a friend at Bootham Bar you counted on to let you through past curfew?’

‘I told a tale of my widowed mother, blind, worried for me. Folk believe I returned to care for her. I make use of that.’ Crispin took off his velvet hat, wiped his brow. His hand trembled. ‘Why did Bartolf not accuse me of Hoban’s death? I waited, expecting it.’

‘Because he threatened you with his dogs?’

‘He was not so different from my mother, ever one to use his position as coroner to deflect blame from his family and his powerful friends.’ Crispin’s full lips curled in disgust.

‘And you? You knew of the danger and warned no one. Not even Alisoun.’

‘That’s not the same.’

‘No?’ Owen glanced at Magda, who shook her head. Let it be, Bird-eye. ‘So this man who attacked you, was his complaint against Bartolf?’

‘To an extent, but that particular sin I lay at the feet of the woman who bore me.’ Crispin looked over at Alisoun. ‘I was wrong to put myself ahead of that young woman. I have grievously wronged her.’

‘And others.’

‘Might I have a moment with her?’

Owen did not feel the man deserved it. But he agreed, rising to stretch his legs.

Lucie joined him. ‘Come with me. There is something you must hear.’

Crispin Poole bowed his head over Alisoun. He meant to pray, but he was too aware of the Riverwoman’s keen regard, feeling her eyes, blue, sharp, seeing through to the rot at the core of him. Raising his head, he met her gaze.

‘I have sinned against this young woman.’

‘And thyself. Lives might have been saved with timely warnings. Is that not so, Crispin Poole?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell all to the captain. From the beginning.’

‘Will she live?’

‘Live? Alisoun will rise from this. But the damage – it is too soon to tell.’

‘Damage,’ he repeated to himself. ‘I have been a coward.’

‘Go. Speak to Archer.’

Rising, Crispin found that Owen had left the hall. Moving down the corridor he heard voices in his mother’s bedchamber. They were there, Owen and his wife the apothecary, speaking with his mother. Euphemia sat up against a pile of pillows telling Archer and his wife that Crispin was her only child. She’d merely meant to protect him. He was the archbishop’s emissary now – surely she had been right, his life was worth more than a poacher’s.

Loathsome hag. ‘What is this? Has she been–’ Crispin checked himself, sensing the Riverwoman in his mind, warning him to put all else aside and tell Owen all he knew so that he could judge what might yet be salvaged. ‘Come, Archer. I have a tale to tell. You will find it quite at odds with what you’ve heard here.’

‘Your mother–’

‘Lies. She twists the tale to her purpose. Come, both of you. Let me tell you what happened, as far as I know it.’

To Crispin’s astonishment, Owen thanked Euphemia for her willingness to talk to him, saying that she had been a great help.

Lucie welcomed Crispin’s invitation to join the conversation about to resume. When he and Owen had first talked, she’d intended to listen, but Eva had summoned her. Her mistress was awake and wished to speak with Lucie.

Magda had motioned for her to go on.

Dame Euphemia had sat propped up in her bed, her hair now tidied in a long braid. She’d gestured for Lucie to come close.

‘I would touch your arm as I speak. To know you are here, listening.’

Lucie had obliged her, moving a stool close to the bed where Euphemia might comfortably reach her arm. Imagining she was about to hear a complaint about Magda’s presence, Lucie was surprised when Euphemia asked, ‘Is it true that the Riverwoman’s apprentice saved me from the madwoman? And that she’s badly injured?’

‘Alisoun Ffulford shot the man coming at you with a knife.’

‘I know nothing of a man. What of the madwoman?’

‘Do you mean the hound that pinned you to the wall?’

‘Hound?’ Euphemia shook her head. ‘She had a smell about her, but she was quite human, I assure you.’

Lucie thought of Magda’s words, the ones that had puzzled Owen. What do folk see when they see a wolf, Bird-eye? The animal? Think again. As soon as the hall went quiet, Lucie had asked permission for Owen to join her at Euphemia’s bedside. The woman had agreed to speak with him. Once Lucie fetched Owen, she’d asked Euphemia to repeat all she’d told her. She’d done that, and more.

As they followed Crispin back out into the hall, Lucie and Owen spoke softly, sharing their impressions of Euphemia, a mix of understanding and horror at the coldness with which she had condemned a man whom she did not know for certain to be guilty of the crime for which he stood accused.

Lucie accepted with appreciation the offer of the high-backed chair. Her day had begun in the apothecary, preparing the autumn salves and potions, which she’d abandoned to join the funeral procession, standing through the mass, sitting for a while at the funeral feast, then rushing to collect what she might need to come here and assist Magda. Her back complained. Accepting a cup of wine, she set it aside, not wanting to miss any part of Crispin’s tale.

Now she watched Owen sit forward, hands on thighs, head turned slightly to the left, training his good eye on Crispin, who sat with his shoulders curled subtly inward, as if protecting his heart. She did not yet have a clear sense of Crispin Poole. Emissary to Neville – that did not speak well of him. Yet Owen liked him – or he had. She watched Crispin squirm under Owen’s keen regard. That was good. The more intimidating he found her husband, the more likely he would speak the truth, and answer all questions.

‘Why do you and your mother have a different version of the tale?’ Lucie asked.

Crispin seemed relieved to turn his attention to her. ‘I don’t know how much you heard earlier.’ He rubbed his forehead with his one hand, glanced out into the hall, his eyes meeting Magda’s. ‘It is best that I start at the beginning. The true beginning.’

‘Do, I pray you,’ said Lucie.

Owen settled back, arms crossed before him, ready to listen.

Crispin began softly, describing the close circle of friends, all eager to escape the bonds of their parents, considering themselves old enough to take their places beside the adults – Paul Braithwaite, and Hoban and Olyf Swann. ‘I should say Paul and his hounds. We teased him that he felt naked without a pair flanking him.’ In summer, the Swann family would spend much time at the house in Galtres, away from the stench of the city. The four friends liked the green spaces outside the city walls, though Paul was uneasy moving too far into Galtres, worried about his dogs as they were not lawed, and he’d no intention of subjecting them to such pain. Bartolf Swann had a word with the sergeant of Galtres about the unlawed hounds, promising that the boy would never allow them to run free while in the forest, and that John Braithwaite would pay generously for any damage they might cause. The sergeant, Richard Goldbarn, had agreed.

In the long, slow days of summer the four of them enjoyed the woods, the river. At first, that last summer was no different than those that went before. Until they noticed Gerta, whom they knew to be the charcoal-burner’s daughter, following them.

Her family had been known to them for a long while, shunned, as their kind were, their skin tanned and stinking of fire and ash. Yet that last summer, Gerta bloomed, her light-brown tresses streaked with sunlight, her skin a warm olive, glowing with health – it was impossible for the three lads to think of her as one to shun. She seemed curious about them, following them at a distance, watching. Olyf tried to shoo Gerta away, once even tossing the basket Gerta wove as she sat and watched into the river, but the boys enjoyed the attention. It did not matter to them one whit that she was of lowly status. They adored her.

Lucie asked softly, ‘What did Gerta do when Olyf threw her work into the Ouse?’

‘Nothing. She began a fresh basket with what reeds she had left.’ He paused a moment, as if remembering. ‘There was something about her, how she settled down with a task – baskets, darning – and watched with the ghost of a smile that dimpled her cheeks. Her eyes were dark and deep, they seemed able to bore into us. And we lads felt she found us empty. It made us compete all the harder for her admiration – running, climbing, hefting rocks and logs to show off our strength. God’s nails, we were fools. Now and then she taunted us – “Idle boys,” she called us, “pampered princes.” Or yawned, which was most maddening. The more she discounted us, the harder we worked to impress her. And the louder Olyf cursed us, cursed Gerta. Even worse, Gerta favored me, catching me away from the others, asking questions. And once she asked me to take off my clothes, she wanted to see a boy’s body. I did, but only when she started taking hers off as well. We touched each other. God’s blood, I wanted her so badly. But she picked up her clothes and ran from me. The others found me stumbling into my clothes, my hard cock making it difficult. Hoban accused me of forgetting I was meant for Olyf.’

‘Were you?’ Owen asked.

‘I’d known for a long while that Olyf believed it to be so, but my mother laughed at the idea, insisting I must make a better marriage than that. Far better. To her, the Swanns were nothing. But she’d never explained why until she overheard me arguing with Hoban about Olyf being my intended. After he left, mother told me that she knew things about Bartolf Swann, that he was a lecher, using his power as coroner, as did his friend Richard Goldbarn his power as the sergeant of the forest, to ensnare the daughters of the tenants in the forest, use them until they conceived bastards, then toss them to the Riverwoman and wash their hands of them. And Bartolf took bribes regarding jury selections.’ When Crispin mentioned Magda he glanced up sharp, looking to her. But Magda had her back to them, mixing something over the fire.

Goldbarn’s part did not surprise Lucie – he had been the subject of much gossip, though it was his use of forest resources for personal gain that had ruined him. But Bartolf Swann?

‘Did you have such feelings for Olyf?’ Lucie asked.

‘No. Never. She was so like Paul, quick to anger, slow to forgive. I never felt at ease with her.’

‘And now?’ asked Owen.

‘She has not changed,’ said Crispin. ‘Not a whit.’

‘Forgive my interruption,’ said Lucie. ‘I pray you, continue with the story. Your mother had warned you about Bartolf …’

‘Assuming that my mother meant that Gerta was no virgin, I am ashamed to confess I was emboldened, sought opportunities to catch her alone. Only then was I aware of her silence and clear unease whenever Paul’s hounds wandered her way. And I made another discovery. Something followed her overhead, up in the trees. It was more than the rustlings of birds or small animals. I caught glimpses – a foot quickly withdrawn, an arm, fingers wrapped round branches. Gerta was never actually alone. She had a companion, a girl who dressed as a boy – short tunic and leggings. She hid up in the trees watching, occasionally dropping things from her high perch to frighten away the dogs.’

‘So Gerta had a witness to your encounters,’ Owen said.

Crispin’s frown deepened, dark brows pressing together, his focus sharpening, as if Owen’s observation had yanked him from the past. ‘Yes.’

‘Gerta’s younger sister?’ Lucie asked.

‘I thought so, but later, something Warin said …’

‘I did not mean to interrupt,’ said Owen. ‘Go on. You’d noticed her unease about the dogs.’

‘Yes. The next time I managed to speak with her away from my friends, I asked why she feared them. Why her sister abused them. “Wolves”, she called them. She told me that in her homeland they prowled the forests and ate children. She swore it was true. I told her they were hounds, not wolves, and I would keep her safe. But she would not go near them.’ He bowed his head. ‘I should not have told the others. I don’t know why I did. They could be so cruel. Hoban and Olyf encouraged Paul to let the dogs off their leads the next time Gerta appeared. She threw pebbles at them, then ran, saying she would set her brother on them if they did that again.’

‘A foolish thing to do, if she feared them so,’ Owen noted.

Crispin looked away. ‘I admired her. Even when confronted with what she most feared, she defied us. What courage. But if there is any blame in this, it is mine. I should have kept her secret.’

Lucie was keeping a tally. So far he’d mentioned another girl and a brother.

‘The next day Bartolf informed Hoban and me that Paul could no longer bring the hounds into Galtres. Hoban insisted I accompany him when he told Paul. While Hoban talked, Paul groomed his bloody hounds, whispering to them that he would let them eat her tender flesh, cooing to them about how they were strong and faster than any girl.’ Crispin poured himself more wine, but set it aside. ‘We’ll get her,’ he said. ‘We’ll get the bitch.’ He picked up the wine and drank.

‘An ugly tale,’ said Owen.

A curt nod. ‘But then we did not see Gerta for a long while. Autumn came, then winter, a time when we seldom went out into the forest. And then, in spring, when the river swelled with the snowmelt from the moors, Hoban caught sight of her walking by the river. He saw her there several days in a row, at the hour when he was walking home from school.’

‘His family was not living in the city that year?’ Owen asked.

‘No. Bartolf was failing as a merchant. The family was forced to sell land and lease their big home in the city – it fetched a good rent.’

‘So he discovered the place she walked in the afternoon,’ said Lucie, guiding him back to the story.

‘Yes. We found her at last. And no sign of her companion in the trees.’ Crispin closed his eyes for a moment. ‘I make it sound like an innocent game. But I knew it was not. It felt wrong to me. Frightened me. Their idea arose out of anger, and a desire to hurt a young woman who made them feel foolish, and who had bested them, finding a way to forbid Paul to bring his hounds into the forest unlawed. I wanted to excuse myself, but I feared they would turn on me.’

‘Did you try to talk to them?’ Owen asked.

‘Or warn her?’ asked Lucie.

‘No. This thing with Gerta, it changed them. I was with them because I wanted to keep them in sight, make certain they weren’t coming after me, and the only way to do that was to be part of it. They meant to hurt her.’ He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘I should have warned her.’ He stared at the floor.

‘You had found her,’ Lucie prompted.

A nod. ‘We left school early and hurried out into the forest with two of Paul’s largest hounds – by now he had seven of them. She was right where Hoban had said she’d be, walking, singing to herself, looking so content. I could have shouted a warning. But I didn’t. I was a coward. As we moved closer Olyf stumbled over a rock and cursed. Gerta heard it, turned toward the sound, and Paul chose that moment to let loose the dogs, shouting the order to attack.’

Crispin had gestured with his stump, and now, frozen in the air, he glanced at it with loathing. Lowered it. ‘So many penances – my crippling, my duty to my mother.’

‘What happened?’ Owen asked.

‘Gerta screamed, threw a stone at them, then turned and jumped into the river. From the moment she hit the water it was plain she could not swim. And even if she could, the current was so strong. I dived in after her. So cold, and the water so dark – I hadn’t thought about how impossible it would be to see her in the choppy current. I had never been in the river in a flood. Something hit me and I went under. I thought I was dead. I could not tell which way was up. But I was pushed against the bank and caught on to a branch, pulled myself up along it. I was catching my breath when I saw her red skirt. And then I saw her hand. I swam out. Death would be better than to live knowing I’d given up trying to save her, save her from the death I brought on her. I don’t know how many times I went under, lost sight of her, saw her again, then lost her, but she’d caught a log and was managing to keep her head up. I kept swimming toward her. When I reached her I thought, at last! But she was draped over the log, limp. Alive? I could not stop to check, just worked on pulling the log to shore. But then – if I climbed out first, I had to let go of the log and risk losing her. And there was Warin, the poacher, crouching down, lifting her out.’

‘He put her on the ground face down and pushed the water from her lungs. When she began to cough and retch, I sank to my knees and thanked God.’

‘God watched over her,’ said Owen.

‘Did he?’ Crispin looked doubtful. ‘She was so close to death.’

‘How did Warin come to be there?’

‘He said she lived with his family, his daughter’s close friend. His daughter had come to tell him what had happened. “Your friends won’t thank you,” he said, “but I do.” I told him they were not my friends and I didn’t deserve thanks. I wanted to come along, help him with her, but he told me to go home.

‘I followed anyway, for a while, until she woke and ordered me away. “Richard must not know about you,” she said. Warin growled at her, told her to be quiet about that ungodly man. “Don’t call him that. I love him. We are to wed.” Warin cursed and she ordered him to set her down. I asked who she was talking about, who she was to wed. Warin said Richard Goldbarn had been calling on her, bringing her gifts, filling her head with ideas. He cursed him. Gerta slapped him. I– I stumbled away, my heart breaking. The sergeant of Galtres – that old man and my Gerta? God help me, I loved her. I’d begun to think– When I reached home I told my father all of it, and said I wanted to go off to be a soldier. He locked me in my room. I found a way out, and left. I never saw my father again.’ Crispin’s voice broke. ‘All that while I had not understood what I felt for Gerta. I should have protected her.’

Lucie allowed herself a sip of wine as they sat for a moment in silence.

‘And then what?’ Owen asked.

‘Years later, in a camp before a battle, someone who had been in York at the time told me that a few days later her body was pulled out of the Ouse by a fisherman. She’d been dead before she went in the water, strangled, her head cracked open – maybe in the water, maybe by her strangler. The coroner’s jury – Bartolf’s jury – found Warin the poacher guilty, and hanged him at the crossroads.’

Euphemia’s accusation now made no sense to Lucie. Nor to Owen – she saw him shaking his head. ‘Warin?’ Lucie asked. ‘But–’

‘Of course it didn’t make sense,’ said Crispin. ‘Until my father wrote to me – once I left the fighting and was in trade, I let him know where I was, and he wrote to ask my forgiveness. He’d told mother all I’d told him. Then, when Gerta was murdered so soon after I’d fled, she feared I would be accused – they’d say I did it and ran.’

‘You would be the obvious suspect,’ said Owen.

‘I wish she had let it lie. Father could have warned me to stay away, and I would have. My return has brought no joy to anyone. But Mother prayed for my return. So she had Father go to Bartolf and tell him that Gerta had told me she feared Warin, he had an unholy lust for her. It suited Bartolf. He must have been frantic for his friend Richard Goldbarn, fearing he’d be blamed, and how could Bartolf defend him.’

‘You believe Goldbarn murdered her?’ Owen asked.

‘I do.’

‘Why?’

‘Who else might it be?’

‘You describe her as quite beautiful, wandering the forest alone, or with another young woman. Crispin, it is not at all obvious Goldbarn was guilty,’ said Lucie. ‘Have you ever heard any proof of it? Any witnesses?’

‘I had Elwin check the coroner’s report. Very little is said other than that Warin was seen bending over her a few days earlier, then carrying her, apparently in a faint, through the wood.’

‘When you carried her out of the water, were Paul, Hoban, and Olyf there?’ asked Owen.

‘If they were, I did not notice. The next time I saw any of them was this summer, on my return to York.’

‘So they’d not run downstream to help you?’ asked Lucie.

Owen surprised her by asking before Crispin could speak, ‘Did you sense at any time that someone was watching you and Warin? Other than his daughter, Gerta’s friend?’

Crispin looked from one to the other. ‘Are you asking whether they hid from us, but watched? And they were the ones who blamed Warin?’

‘Or part of their witness was used against him,’ said Owen.

Crispin palmed his eyes, shook his head. ‘A darkness that has shaped my life.’

‘Do you know anything about the blinding of one of Paul’s dogs?’ asked Owen. ‘His father said he was a boy when it happened.’

‘Not while I knew him. I learned of it on my return.’

‘Who told you?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘I rule out nothing as unimportant at this point.’ Lucie heard her husband’s frustration in his comment. ‘Was it Dame Olyf?’ he asked.

A strangled laugh. ‘Olyf? It is one of the few things she will not speak of.’

‘So you asked her about it?’

‘I did. And the look on her face – I would have guessed she was the one who had crippled his beloved hound. But she and Paul are still friendly.’ A shrug.

‘Do you have any idea who might have done it?’

‘None.’

‘Is that Warin’s son lying in the garden?’ Lucie asked. ‘Avenging his father?’

‘Yes. He was the man in the wood, with the dog or wolf that attacked me. I don’t know his name. There was another brother, and the daughter, but I never knew their names.’

To Lucie’s surprise, Owen rose. ‘I have heard enough for now. I must return to the Swann home.’

‘Shall I come?’ Lucie asked.

‘No,’ said Magda. ‘Hast thou not heard the cart on the cobbles?’

Owen had walked over to the window. ‘It’s Jasper, with Bess’s donkey cart.’

‘The lad comes for Alisoun,’ said Magda. ‘Good.’

Not so ready as Owen to cut off the conversation, Lucie turned back to Crispin. He stood looking about as if uncertain what he should do. ‘Dame Euphemia accused an innocent man?’ Lucie asked, hesitated, then added, ‘Knowingly?’

‘She did,’ said Crispin. ‘Plucked his guilt out of the air and embroidered a tale to fit it, then gave my father not only the tale, but a list of folk who should sit on Bartolf’s jury. Ask Janet Braithwaite. She threw that in my face when I called at the house. It killed my father, I’m sure of it. He could not live with the guilt. Monstrous woman. She-devil.’

Owen had turned to listen. ‘You said you saw the coroner’s report. Did they list the names on the jury?’

‘No. They seldom do, unless one of the members added information, argued a certain point.’ Crispin frowned. ‘My father was on it. He mentioned John Braithwaite, Will Tirwhit – Adam’s father, and the master of hounds who was training Paul at the time – I cannot recall his name …’

‘Was John Gisburne on the list?’ Owen asked.

‘He did not mention him, and I thought at the time it was unusual for men of Braithwaite’s and Tirwhit’s stature to sit on a coroner’s jury; they rarely do. My father had sat on a few, but it’s usually those hoping to make a name for themselves, not those who’ve sat on the council.’

Someone knocked on the hall door.

‘That will be Jasper,’ said Lucie. She crossed the hall to welcome him.

He bobbed his head to her as she opened the door. ‘I thought Alisoun would be more comfortable in our home. And you would not need to be away.’ Jasper’s eyes pleaded.

Magda joined them at the door. ‘Alisoun agrees.’

Jasper’s face brightened. ‘She is awake?’

‘She will be more at ease in thy home. Thou shouldst attend her, Lucie, settle her. Magda will soon join thee.’

Lucie stepped back, inviting Jasper in. ‘But who is with the children?’

‘Master Geoffrey and Brother Michaelo.’ He nodded to Owen as he approached. ‘They both have much to tell you. Will you be there soon?’

‘Let’s move Alisoun, and then I will talk to them. Did Geoffrey say whether the guests are still gathered at the Swann home?’

‘They’ve gone. Dame Muriel felt ill.’

Crispin followed them to the door. ‘I will send for my men. I can at least ease you of the burden of concern for us. If mother needs help, I will seek your advice, Dame Lucie.’ He thanked them both, and Magda, for all they had done. ‘I owe much to you, and especially Mistress Alisoun.’

‘Do not let down your guard,’ Owen warned. ‘Nothing is resolved.’