A Conspiracy of Wolves

14 Into the Flames

As Honoria de Staines slid beneath her bedcovers a few hours before dawn she prayed that God would look past her many sins this night and bless her sincere intention to save a young woman’s life. Though this was her usual hour to rest, the guests having departed, stumbling home to their cold beds, and the women of the house sleeping off their long evening, this had been no ordinary night, and she lay with her eyes open, listening for intruders.

Early in the evening she had agreed to shelter the young woman before hearing her tale, moved by her appearance and the terror in her swollen eyes. By the time Honoria understood the danger in which she’d placed all the women who depended on her for their safety it was too late to toss young Wren back out on the streets; she’d made the young woman’s safety her mission.

In danger, wanting to hide. Honoria had taken Wren to the storeroom off the kitchen, kept reasonably warm by its proximity to the hearth and oven. A pallet and blankets were ever ready there for women, often just girls, who needed a place off the street.

‘Who beat you?’

‘My da. One of my uncles is dead because of me.’

Her uncles. Honoria remembered how Wren’s mother had bolted the very day her brothers had paid a visit, leaving her child behind. ‘I cannot promise to keep the little one safe,’ she’d said. ‘Find her a place in a good home.’ When Honoria asked whether Wren’s father might care for her, at least take her in as a maidservant, she’d laughed. ‘You think he is a wealthy customer? He’s with my brothers, as cursed as the three of us.’

‘No one will bother you here tonight,’ Honoria had told Wren. ‘No one in this household.’

‘You don’t want to know what I did?’

‘Are you likely to kill another?’

‘I didn’t kill him, Mistress Alisoun did. But she was there because of me. And Da saw me talking with her.’

Had it been earlier, Honoria would have taken her to Captain Archer. Wren had information he needed. But it had been her busiest time of the evening. She must see to clients. Now, lying in bed, she was alert to every creak and sigh as the house settled into a predawn calm, and cursed herself for not taking Wren to the captain.

Enough. She rose, dressed, went to the kitchen to fetch the bailiff’s man she’d bribed to sleep there, guarding Wren. She’d offered him a free tumble with the woman of his choice if he would stay, explaining the situation. A youth eager to prove his mettle, he’d readily agreed.

‘We’re taking her to Captain Archer.’

The young man was bleary-eyed. ‘Is it morning already?’

‘Almost.’

‘He will not be pleased if we wake the family.’

‘Until he knows who it is we bring before him.’

In the pale gray before dawn Owen woke to pounding on the street door. He stared out the unshuttered window and vowed to remember to close it from now on. There was an autumn chill in the air.

Lucie groaned. ‘So early.’

Striding across the room, Owen glared down from the window at the trio standing before the door, one of them about to pound again.

‘Don’t you dare.’

The man started, then backed up to see who was there. ‘It’s Corm, Captain. Bailiffs’ man. Trouble in the Bedern.’

Two cloaked figures stood behind him.

‘I am coming.’

Lucie sat up now, her hair tumbled about her bare shoulders.

Owen kissed her. ‘One of Hempe’s young men.’

‘I heard.’

Dressing as he headed to the door, Owen was opening it when something hit him in the shoulder. His eye patch.

Lucie smiled. ‘You don’t want to frighten them.’

‘He deserves it.’ Hurrying down in his bare feet, Owen nodded to Magda, who stood at the bottom of the steps. ‘Trouble in the Bedern.’

‘Trust thyself, Bird-eye.’

The cloaked figures preceded Corm through the door, the taller one throwing back her hood.

‘Honoria.’ Even at such an hour, she had a grace to her.

‘I have someone you will want to talk to. I warn you, in the night she painted herself. But though she looks it, she is not the king’s fool, I assure you. Might we sit down? I have a tale to tell.’

Painted herself? Owen took them into the kitchen so as not to disturb Alisoun and Magda in the hall. Kate was already stoking the fire. As they settled round a table, the smaller figure pulled back her hood. He thought she looked more like a cat than a fool, the skin round her eyes darkened with face paint that arched upward toward her temples. Her nose was painted a pale brown. It was one way to disguise blackened eyes and a swollen nose.

‘And you are?’ Owen asked.

‘Wren, sir.’

‘Adam Tirwhit’s maidservant,’ said Honoria. ‘But she was born in the brothel, before I owned it. Cilla is her mother, father unknown until last night, when Wren pronounced him to be Joss, who had found her and beaten her for betraying her uncles.’

‘Let me guess. Roger and Galbot?’

‘Yes. He blamed her for Roger’s death, and that because of her Euphemia Poole had escaped serious injury and her home is now too well guarded for them to remedy that. So today they intend to deal with Gerta’s murderer, then return for Euphemia after Crispin Poole lets down his guard.’

Owen took a moment to digest this. So many pieces of the puzzle, yet the most important– ‘Gerta’s murderer. Did she say who that was?’

Honoria’s raised brows expressed her surprise. ‘You know this Gerta? I was at a loss.’

‘A young woman murdered twenty years ago. An innocent man was hanged for it. Bartolf Swann gathered and presided over the coroner’s jury who condemned him.’

‘Bartolf,’ said Honoria. ‘I see. No wonder Cilla left when they appeared.’

‘When was that?’

‘More than a year ago. Galbot and Roger – they are kin to the condemned man? Or to Gerta?’

‘A tale for another time.’ Owen had been watching the young woman, how she looked round the kitchen, smiled at Corm, who grinned back like an idiot, but did not help Honoria with her narrative. ‘What I need to know is where your father and your uncle are headed, Wren,’ he said, leaning toward her. ‘Would you tell me?’

She looked up at him, blinking the cat eyes, shrinking into herself. He had that effect on some people.

Honoria turned to Corm. ‘He says it’s Paul Braithwaite who is in danger.’

‘Why do you think that?’ Owen asked Corm.

‘Wren mentioned the killing of a guard dog – Tempest? – being just a warning. When I asked her what she meant she went quiet, said she’d already talked too much.’

‘When did the two of you talk?’ Honoria demanded.

‘She came out for some ale when I’d come down from – you know,’ said Corm. ‘I told her who I was. We talked a while.’

So that is how they became so cozy. Owen hoped it was just talk.

Kate set a jug of ale and five cups on the table. ‘To fortify you.’

All four helped themselves, thanking her for her thoughtfulness. Owen wondered about the fifth cup, but understood when Lucie stepped through the door.

She carried his bow and a quiver of arrows. ‘Magda said you might need this. Was she right?’

‘She was. Bless you.’

Lucie kissed him and then laid the bow and quiver on the table as she welcomed Honoria to their home. As Owen introduced Wren and Corm, Lucie nodded. ‘Magda would like Wren to come into the hall, speak with Alisoun.’

‘She is awake?’

‘Yes. And she wishes to speak to you,’ Lucie said, holding Wren’s gaze. ‘I’ve sent for Brother Michaelo. I believe we might like a written account of all we learn from this young woman.’

Puzzled, Owen took Lucie aside. ‘How do you know so much?’

‘Magda. Do not ask me how she knows these things. I cannot explain.’

Wren rose, asked to be taken to Alisoun. ‘I want to ask her forgiveness.’

Kate offered to escort her. As they left the room, Lucie turned back to Owen. ‘She is in danger?’

‘Wren is injured. The paint covers it.’ He told her what he knew so far.

The young woman was soon back in the room. Her posture had changed, straightened, her gaze direct.

‘Brother Michaelo is here,’ Kate announced, stepping back to allow him in.

‘How did you come so quickly?’ Lucie asked.

Michaelo bowed to her, shifting a pack he wore slung over one shoulder. ‘I was at prayer. Jehannes believed it wise to interrupt me. It is urgent, I trust?’ He glanced round the room, stopping at Wren. ‘This is not some jape?’

Owen and Lucie assured him not as they escorted him and Wren to the table. Owen introduced Honoria and Corm, explaining all as briefly as possible. Had he not sensed time was of the essence he might have been amused with Michaelo’s obvious discomfort about dealing with a bawd and a painted girl. But he prayed the monk simply settled to his work.

Shifting a little on the bench, the young woman watched as Michaelo took a seat across from her and a little to one side and pulled from his scrip a quill, an inkpot, and two stones to weigh down the curling parchment, which was the last item he drew out, smoothing it and placing the stones with care. As he sharpened the end of the quill, he asked Wren’s permission to record what she said.

‘You’ll write down my words?’ asked Wren. ‘Just as I say them?’

‘Perhaps not every word,’ said Michaelo, ‘but the essence of what you say. Even when I was secretary to His Grace the Archbishop of York I … took care to make clear his meaning.’

‘Why are you doing this?’ Wren asked Owen.

As Lucie settled on the bench beside Michaelo to assist him, Owen chose his words with care. Everything depended on gaining Wren’s trust. ‘Am I right in thinking that much of what has happened with the Swanns, the Pooles, and the Braithwaites arises from your family’s anger at the lies told about them, about how Gerta died? The lies that killed your grandfather?’

Wren gave a noncommittal shrug.

‘This is your chance to record what truly happened,’ said Owen. ‘If we present such a record to the king’s officials we might protect you from any judgment against your family.’

‘No one has ever questioned grandfather’s guilt. None but us.’

‘I would not blame you for doubting my word. But I swear to you that I mean to help you if I can. Would you tell me what happened yesterday?’

‘Da beat me.’

‘Why?’

‘He says I betrayed him. He saw me talking to Mistress Alisoun. I told her too much and she went to the Poole house, murdered my uncle Roger.’

‘Alisoun was protecting an innocent victim.’

‘The widow Poole lied about my Granddad. Had him hanged.’ Owen could not deny that. ‘Da says I can never go home.’

‘Where is home?’

Wren tilted her cup from side to side, watching the ale slosh about.

‘Why don’t you tell me your family’s story about Gerta and your grandfather?’

Silence.

‘Your kin have used you, haven’t they?’ Lucie asked. ‘Forced you to work for the Tirwhit family and spy on them and on the Pooles?’

Wren looked up, chin forward. ‘I liked it there. They were nice to me.’ She pushed the ale aside. ‘If I tell you things, could I go back to them? The Tirwhits?’

‘If they agreed,’ said Lucie. ‘If not, I would do my best to find you work in another household.’

‘But you won’t promise. What of you, Captain?’

‘I have no such power,’ said Owen. ‘Would you not wish to be with your parents if we could find a way?’

‘They made me lie to Mistress Alisoun, tell her Master Adam laid with me.’

Not an answer to his question. Or was it a no? ‘Is that why you told Alisoun your father was watching the Poole home? Because they made you lie about a man you respect?’

Wren looked away, her chin trembling. ‘Lying’s a sin.’

Owen reached out for Wren’s hand, meaning to comfort her, but she twisted away.

‘Were you angry with him?’ Owen asked.

‘He’s not a bad man. But bad things happened to his sister, and he can’t forget.’

Lucie gently touched Wren’s forehead above the black eye. ‘He is cruel to you.’

A shrug. ‘Don’t know why I told her.’

‘You’re angry with your kin?’ Lucie asked.

She gave Lucie a look as if to say it was a daft question, of course she was. ‘They killed the Swanns. And the dog. That’s not right. The priest said in church that a wrong done for a wrong isn’t a right.’ She wiped her face with her sleeve, smearing the paint and staining the fabric. ‘The Riverwoman will put a curse on me for leading Mistress Alisoun into danger.’

Owen knew Magda did not dabble in curses. But no matter. ‘Did your parents and uncles have any help?’ he asked.

Wren picked at the paint on her sleeve. ‘Otto and Rat.’

Owen glanced at Honoria, who nodded. ‘Tell me about them,’ said Owen.

‘I don’t like them. This was about our family honor. Now we’re just outlaws.’

‘Who are they?’

A shrug. ‘They know the city well. Helped us hide.’ She reached for Lucie’s hand. ‘I did need Mistress Alisoun. I used a drink to rid me of a baby – something my mother gave me – but then I kept bleeding. It wasn’t Master Tirwhit’s I carried. Rat and Otto–’ She bit her bottom lip, averted her eyes.

Honoria moaned and went to Wren, crouching beside her, taking her hand. ‘I am so sorry.’

‘Born in a brothel, wasn’t I?’

‘That means nothing,’ said Honoria.

‘You will find me a place, Mistress Wilton?’

Lucie touched Wren’s cheek. ‘I will, I promise. Now will you tell me what you know of Gerta’s death, and what your family and those men have done to avenge her and your grandfather?’

‘Would you like more ale?’ Honoria asked as she lifted the jug.

‘I would.’ After Honoria poured, Wren took a long drink.

Her tale was much like Crispin Poole’s, though the lads and Olyf were painted in a much less complimentary light, and the lechery of Bartolf and Goldbarn, the sergeant of the forest, was held up as proof the three lads and the girl were up to no good. As the ale dulled Wren’s guardedness and she spun the tale of the two families united in their grief and despair, Owen was glad of Michaelo’s pen scratching away, Lucie helping him open more of the parchment as sections filled, for it was a tale the coroner should hear in full.

‘But what of Gerta’s murder?’ Owen asked. ‘You’ve not told us the real story.’

Wren glanced out the window. ‘As my ma tells it, the one with the hounds, Paul, he came alone to the wood that day, ’cept for the animals. Beasts, they were, taller, more frightening than those he’d brought before, and he hunted Gerta.’

Dawn now. As Owen looked out at the garden he realized he wasted precious time. He knew now who had murdered Gerta. He rose. ‘I must go to the Braithwaite home. I am grateful, Mistress Wren. You are brave to tell me all this. I pray you, tell the remainder to my wife and Brother Michaelo. Then rest here. You will be safe.’

Lucie and Honoria bent to each other, whispering. Owen watched them out of the corner of his eye as he tugged on his boots, slung the quiver over his shoulder, tucked his unstrung bow in his belt. So at ease with each other. He’d not expected that.

‘Rain is coming,’ said Honoria. ‘I smell it in the air.’

‘All the better,’ said Lucie, rising from the table. ‘I’ve no time for the garden today. Let it drink its fill. Take a cloak, my love.’ She plucked a short cloak from the hook by the door and draped it over Owen’s arm, then handed him a small pack. ‘In case you use the arrow and want your captive to live. You know how to use these.’

Owen looked into his wife’s steady gray-blue eyes. Her medicine pack was sacred to her, a thing all in the household knew not to touch. ‘Thank you for entrusting me with this. I will use it wisely,’ he said.

She searched his eyes, touched his cheek. ‘I know you will, my love. Come home to me whole and well. May God watch over you and all your company.’

‘Amen.’ He kissed Lucie, held her tight for a moment.

‘Shall I escort Old Bede home?’ Lucie asked as they moved apart.

‘Let Crispin host him until I return. But you might tell Winifrith where he is. And have Michaelo take Alisoun’s account as long as he is here. Bless you for thinking of that. I know the coroner examined Roger, but I will feel better that he knows as much as possible before he assembles a jury.’ He whispered a blessing, then slipped out the garden door with Corm.

‘Dame Lucie and Dame Honoria?’ Corm chuckled as they crossed the York Tavern yard.

‘Both honorable women,’ said Owen with a look that silenced the young fool.

Honoria and Wren asked if they might accompany Lucie and Brother Michaelo when they moved into the hall. Alisoun was reclining against a pile of cushions and sipping from a small wooden bowl as she watched Magda pacing before the long window that looked out on the garden. It was Lucie’s favorite feature of the hall, the long window, actually several smaller windows separated only by strong timbers, stretching half the length of the room. Owen was keen to glaze them with the rents from his new manor, but Lucie was content with the fitted shutters. When they were opened, she welcomed the freshening breeze bringing the scents of the medicinal garden.

‘Might we speak with you a moment, Alisoun?’ Lucie asked.

‘Dame Honoria?’ Alisoun frowned. ‘Are you caught up in the troubles as well?’

Honoria asked if she might sit beside her, looking not only to Alisoun but to Magda as well, who motioned for her to do so. Settling on a stool beside Alisoun’s pallet, Honoria took her hand and briefly told her of the night’s events, while Michaelo settled himself at a small table nearby.

‘I did not mean to take his life,’ Alisoun whispered.

Lucie, seated at the foot of the pallet, assured her that they all understood. ‘If you would just tell us what happened, as you remember it.’ She was disappointed to hear how little Alisoun had witnessed, yet she repeated what she’d said the previous evening, that as the hound fell into her it felt wrong somehow.

‘I wish I could say how. A feeling that it was not what it seemed and then I was trying to catch myself before I fell. I am sorry.’

Honoria squeezed Alisoun’s hand. ‘You saved Dame Euphemia’s life, I think.’

‘If you are not too weary of speech, would you tell us about the night Crispin Poole came to you, after he was bitten?’ Lucie asked.

Alisoun obliged.

Honoria winced at the details, hissed at his request for secrecy. ‘He might have prevented all this.’

Lucie was not so certain. Vengeance taken twenty years later? Would she have guessed it?

Suddenly Alisoun struggled to sit up, her eyes moving as if she were debating with herself. ‘The beast pushed me over, not as a great animal would do, a sort of leap, but pushed.’

Thinking of Euphemia’s comment, Lucie asked, ‘So it might have been a man or a woman?’

Alisoun met her eyes. ‘That would explain it.’

Hempe was already in the hall apologizing to Janet Braithwaite, who was wringing her hands. The bailiff’s wife, an early riser, had shaken him awake with the news that two of his lads had been left on their doorstep, all trussed up and swearing they’d been attacked by wolves.

‘Tied up by wolves. Nothing between their ears, nothing,’ Hempe growled. ‘Sleeping is what they were doing instead of standing watch.’

When Owen and Corm relayed their news, Janet Braithwaite’s face was ashen. ‘How could this happen? How could he be such a fool to go with Galbot?’

Owen cursed beneath his breath. ‘With Galbot? Paul went willingly? Did you see him?’

‘The cook says Galbot woke Paul, told him he’d been following Joss and Cilla, had heard them planning to attack the kennels at the manor, and my son decided he must leave at once. He would tell the guard at Micklegate Bar it was an emergency. They’d gone down to the kitchen so as not to wake Elaine, though she followed soon after, and cook overheard them talking.’

Apparently John’s collapse the previous night had so shaken the household that the servants had forgotten that Galbot was not to be admitted. Or someone had forgotten to issue the order.

‘Elaine insisted on accompanying Paul. Cook says she muttered about being ruined as she gathered food for the journey. They were away before John and I wakened.’

‘Is there someone here who knows the way to your manor?’ Owen asked. ‘Knows it well enough to leave the main road?’

Janet gestured to a manservant who had stepped forward. ‘Alan grew up on the manor. You are welcome to take our horses–’

‘I can provide them,’ said Hempe. ‘This is my fault. I chose the lackwits who bungled the watch.’

‘My husband would assist, but …’ Janet’s voice caught.

‘Was Saurian able to help?’ Owen asked.

‘He made him comfortable, but said John must have a long rest.’ She waved away any further comments. ‘You must be off. Save my son!’

Out in the yard, Alfred waited, eager to give Owen the news that Old Bede had seen the body at the Poole home, and had identified him to Burnby the coroner as one of the men who had threatened him on the staithe the night of Bartolf’s murder.

‘Any trouble bringing him into the city?’ Owen asked.

‘None. Whoever might have wanted him …’

‘They are on the road to Paul Braithwaite’s manor, or already there,’ Hempe said.

Alfred looked from one to the other. ‘Are we off to the country, Captain? Shall I round up a few more men?’

‘Where is Stephen?’

‘With Poole, awaiting further orders – what to do about Old Bede, for one, and Bartolf’s dogs. Poole’s men found them wandering near Bartolf’s house in Galtres, injured and half-starved. They brought them to Poole.’

‘Run, fetch Stephen, and meet us at the stables outside Micklegate Bar. Tell Old Bede to stay at Poole’s house until we return. As for the dogs, I don’t know what to do with them.’

‘Bring along any of my men you might see,’ said Hempe. He ordered Corm to stand guard at the Braithwaite house. ‘You do know how to defend yourself?’

The young man straightened and his eyes went cold as he drew his knife.

Hempe grunted. ‘You’ll do, though I do wonder. All that practice at the butts of a Sunday and Captain Archer’s the only one who thinks to grab a bow and quiver of arrows when trouble arises? If he becomes our captain, I pray he’ll have you men practicing daily.’

It was a thought. For his part, Owen was glad he’d done some hunting with the bow while at Freythorpe. He knew how easily he could lose his form.

The gate captain at Micklegate Bar recalled the Braithwaites departing with their cart of goods. ‘The pair were bickering something terrible.’

‘How many in their party?’ Owen asked.

‘The Braithwaites and their servants, a man and a woman.’

‘No one else? No one who seemed to be following them?’ Owen asked.

‘We opened the gates for them only, Captain. They’d word of trouble at their manor.’

The hope was that the cart would slow Galbot, Paul, and Elaine sufficiently that Owen’s company might overtake them long before they reached the manor. It was a half-day’s ride, slightly less than the journey to Freythorpe Hadden. As they began their journey, Hempe muttered about time wasted interrogating Gisburne’s household. Owen still believed someone there had gotten word to Roger and Galbot, but to say so would be to insult Hempe, who needed to be sharp for the day ahead. And it might have been Wren, though she had not mentioned it.

When they’d had no sign of their quarry by midmorning, Owen asked the servant, Alan, if he knew a way that might bring them to the manor more quickly than by the road.

‘I know a way for men on horse, willing to jump the becks and go by hill and dale.’

‘We will follow you.’

The rain began just as they left the road. A cooling drizzle at first, increasing to a soft rain. The horses perked up away from the dust and noise of the road and by early afternoon the manor was in sight. From the crest of a hill Alan pointed out the main house and buildings. A substantial house, the base stone, the upper story timber, it looked much like Freythorpe Hadden just miles beyond. The stable and barn were large and well kept, the gatehouse just visible down a long, winding lane. ‘Over the next hill you will see the kennels. The mistress wanted them well away from the house and chickens,’ said Alan.

‘It’s too quiet,’ said Hempe.

Owen agreed. It was so still that the breath of men and horses, leaves catching the breeze, and the patter of rain were the loudest sounds. ‘Even in rain one would expect to see folk moving about between the buildings, right, Alan?’

‘Something is very wrong, Captain. It is never so quiet.’ Alan moved as if to mount his horse.

‘You will move when I give the order.’

Alan glanced round at the others. ‘I am worried about my wife.’

‘We’re here to protect them,’ said Alfred.

Owen nodded his approval to Alfred. ‘Besides the gatehouse entrance, there must be others, for farm wagons, the kennels?’ he asked Alan.

‘The farm wagons go through the gatehouse entrance,’ said Alan. ‘There’s a narrow track coming up from the south, unguarded, but fit only for a man on foot or mounted. No carts.’

‘And the kennels?’

‘Over the next rise, you’ll see the lane that leads to the kennels. Almost as wide as the main way, and smooth, to impress the wealthy coming to purchase hounds for their hunting packs.’

They remounted and moved on with care, riding down into the yard before the house. A small dog came rushing from the stables, barking a warning.

‘The mistress’s pup,’ said Alan.

Horses whinnied in the stables, some chickens clucked. So quiet. But no. Was it a trick of the wind? Or were those voices in the distance? Raised voices?

Owen motioned Alfred and one of Hempe’s men to find the source of the sound. He dismounted and entered the house with Stephen, Hempe and the others standing guard without. A substantial hall, old as that at Freythorpe Hadden, deserted but for an aged cat curled up near the fire circle. As he and Stephen crossed the room it reared up and hissed at them.

A voice called out from the passage leading from the hall to the service rooms, ‘Is someone there? I’m in the pantry, collecting pots for water.’

Following the voice, Owen startled a girl about Gwenllian’s age, causing her to drop two large wooden bowls on the rush floor. He held up his hands, showing her he had no weapon.

‘Might I pick those up for you?’ he asked.

The fierce look in her eyes reminded him of Elaine Braithwaite.

‘I am Owen Archer, captain of bailiffs in York.’ Not that he’d decided, but he thought it might reassure her. ‘And this is one of my men. We are here to help. Are your parents here?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘They left York early this morning with a man from the kennels. Galbot.’

‘The kennels.’ The girl sobbed. He noticed now that the scarf that held back her fair hair was damp as if she’d been out in the rain.

He approached with care, crouching down to pick up the bowls, setting them on a shelf beside her. Then he took her hands, looked up into her eyes. ‘What has happened here, child?’

‘Men took the hounds this morning and set fire to the kennels. We’re trying to put it out before it spreads to a hay barn nearby. My brother took some men to search for the hounds. We can hear them. The fire has frightened them.’ Her voice broke.

‘But the hounds are clear of the fire?’

‘Must be.’

‘Are the strangers still here?’

‘Don’t know. Will they hurt us?’

‘Not now that we’re here. Where were you going with this – what is your name?’

‘Alice. Everyone on the manor formed a chain from the fishpond to get water to the fire.’

‘How far is it, Alice?’

‘Just over the next hill.’

‘Were the strangers on horseback?’

‘Yes.’

‘Courage, Alice. My men will go to the kennels.’

‘God watch over you!’

Stephen was already hurrying back out through the hall, calling out to Hempe what he’d heard.

Alfred was out there, telling a similar story, but he’d heard that three men – and a beast that walked upright – were still at the kennels, watching the approach. He’d sent his companion to alert the water line that they were coming, not to interfere.

The seven set off at a gallop.

From the next rise the burning kennels were visible, smoke filling the valley, and now Owen could hear the dogs, barking, though not frantic. He ordered Alan to take one of Hempe’s men and follow the sound, find the dogs.

‘Do not confront anyone,’ Owen ordered. ‘Report to me at the kennels.’

Alan chose Pete, and the two rode down into the dale.

‘Why are we hesitating?’ Stephen asked.

‘The wagon,’ Alfred noted, pointing to a point far from the kennels. ‘Two men running toward the fire.’

‘Three men on horseback await them,’ said Hempe.

Otto, Rat, and who? Someone from the manor? Cilla?

‘What is that?’ One of Hempe’s men pointed to a figure joining the three men. Hairy, yet walking upright.

‘I believe that is our beast – the wolf all have seen in the city,’ said Owen. ‘More likely a human wearing skins.’

‘The world’s gone mad,’ Hempe said.

Owen noticed that Alan and Pete had changed their course, heading somewhere back beyond the burning kennels.

‘Right. Arms ready,’ Owen called. ‘Alan and Pete will see the dogs are safe. Our goal is to disarm everyone and keep them down on the ground, alive.’ He’d already strung his bow, though his aim would be challenged by the smoke as they descended into the dale that cradled the kennels. The curse of a single eye, a blink and he was blind. If only the rain would come down harder and douse the fire. He reminded the others to be aware that their mounts might react to the blaze. ‘If they appear to shy, dismount.’

As they rode down into the dale, Owen was able to distinguish the runners – Paul Braithwaite out ahead, Galbot right behind him. Did Paul not realize the dogs had been moved? Reining in his horse, Owen dismounted, aimed, and hit Galbot in the shoulder. As the man slowed, Owen drew out another arrow, aimed, hit him in the leg. Galbot was down.

But Paul was almost to the group awaiting him.

And then something in the kennels collapsed, billowing smoke masking the drama.

Alfred, on foot, paused by Owen. ‘Bad luck.’

Owen cursed.

‘I’m for the riders,’ said Alfred. ‘No, look, one’s dismounting.’ He broke into a run, barreling into the man.

The other mounted man began to charge Alfred, who was rising after punching his target into stillness.

The smoke cleared just enough for Owen to recognize Joss on the horse. He aimed, hit his shoulder. Joss crumpled over the saddle, then slipped to the ground, where Alfred caught him, dragging him over to his companion.

Owen strode toward the burning kennels, hoping to find Paul Braithwaite. He dodged abandoned horses that milled about, panicked. Two of Hempe’s men tried to guide them away from danger. Seeing a man raising a blade toward Stephen’s horse, Owen took aim, caught him in the arm. The man dropped his weapon and Hempe rode him down, then rode after the horses and one rider heading south. One of his men caught an abandoned horse and followed.

As the rain and wind picked up, Owen was able to pick out Paul Braithwaite, still heading for the kennels, though stumbling, as if he’d been injured or overcome by the smoke. Hoping to halt him, Owen took aim. Just as he let fly the arrow, the one wearing skins jumped onto Paul’s back and took the arrow in the back of the right leg. Paul shrugged off his attacker and, stepping round the fallen beam, walked into the kennels.

Owen plucked up Paul’s pursuer. She cursed and pummeled him as he carried her away from the mouth of the fire, dropping her near Alfred.

‘God help him,’ Alfred groaned, staring back at the kennels.

It was Paul, stumbling out of the mouth of the building, his clothes and hair alight. Seeing Alan and Pete rounding the side of the building each holding a sloshing bucket in his free hand, Owen shouted, ‘Braithwaite!’

After a moment of confusion, both of them emptied their buckets of water onto the man, who’d dropped down and was rolling along the ground, just missing the woman, who had made it to her knees. Cilla, the wolf, he guessed, her painted face showing beneath the wolfskin hood.

‘I’ll bring more water,’ Alan called, riding off.

Pete jumped from his horse, rushing to Braithwaite as Owen and a man with a blanket reached them. The man opened the blanket and threw himself on Paul, attempting to smother the flames. Out of nowhere, Cilla jumped on him, pulling him away from Paul. Beyond them, another large beam fell in the entry to the kennels, sending out flaming splinters. One fell on Cilla.

Owen grabbed her up, pulling her away. ‘You’re burning!’

He struggled to contain her thrashing arms and legs, gave up and pushed her down to roll her along the muddy ground, but the arrow in her leg prevented that. With a knife, he tore at the skins, splitting the seams and tearing them away. Beneath, her shirt and leggings were filthy, but not on fire.

‘Step away, Captain!’

As Owen did so, Alan tossed a bucket of water on the skins. Cilla tried to crawl away, but collapsed on her wounded leg, snarling and cursing, thrashing about, trying to remove the arrow. The way she moved was more animal than human.

Owen blinked away the smoke, looking at Alan. ‘Thank you.’

‘Everyone on the land, servants and tenants, has formed a line from the fishpond, passing buckets and pots of water. The building’s gone, but they hope to contain it.’ He shook his head at the woman writhing on the ground. ‘Who is she?’

‘Cilla.’ Owen went to Paul, sinking down on his knees. Blackened, bleeding, the man’s breath came in rasps. A woman from the manor came with a wineskin, crouched down and poured wine into Paul’s open mouth before Owen could stop her – he was breathing through his mouth, he would choke. Paul coughed, convulsed, and the rasping ceased. Owen crossed himself, then closed the dead man’s eyelids.

The woman began to sob. Owen handed the skin to her, told her to take it to her mistress out on the cart.

Rising, Owen tossed Alan the blanket. ‘Cover Cilla. Take her aside. We’ll move them in the wagon.’

Alfred joined him. ‘All secured.’

‘Fetch Galbot.’

‘He’s not going anywhere, thanks to you.’

‘Oh yes he is.’ He’d worked here long enough to know the terrain, and he’d worked with the dogs.

Alfred dragged the man to Owen.

‘You heard them barking. You’ll have an idea where they are.’ Owen yanked him up, pulled down his shirt to pin his arms to his sides and tied the sleeves behind him. ‘Lead us there,’ he commanded.

‘I can’t walk,’ Galbot protested.

‘We’ll assist you,’ Alfred growled.

Owen told Stephen to guard the rest. Passing Pete beside the burning building, Owen ordered him to help Stephen. ‘The kennels are lost. Let the household do what they wish with the fire. You see to the men.’

Some folk on the line passing buckets and pots of water called out to them, asking what had happened. Others cursed Galbot for betraying the family. But Owen and Alfred kept their attention on their prisoner, who hobbled along between them, coughing and cursing. He led them through a copse of trees and out into a clearing at the end of the dale. A wattle fence huddled against the rising hill. The dogs were within. As Galbot approached they began barking excitedly, a welcome. Of course they would know their trainer. Three men stood guard with pitchforks, lowering them and pointing them toward Owen, Alfred, and Galbot.

‘Master John Braithwaite sent us here,’ Owen called out.

One of the three stepped forward, shouting, ‘Galbot, you traitor!’ He was younger than Owen had at first realized, and from his clothing it was clear he was not a laborer.

Owen jerked on Galbot’s arms. ‘Who is he?’

‘Adam Braithwaite, Paul’s son and heir. Good with the dogs. And those are the men who care for the kennels. You’re tearing my arms from my shoulders.’

‘Are you Captain Archer?’ Adam demanded.

‘I am.’ One of the rare moments when Owen’s scarred face and patch could be counted a blessing.

‘Where is my father?’

‘We will speak of him.’ Owen gestured toward where Alfred crouched over a man lying outside the enclosure, a torch jammed down into the mud still smoldering beside him. ‘Who is he?’

‘One of this traitor’s men. He meant to set fire to the fence, kill the dogs. I thought you cared for them, Galbot.’

Owen tugged on Galbot’s arms. ‘Who is he?’

‘Bastard,’ Galbot growled as he averted his eyes from young Adam’s glare. ‘No wonder the others had me bring the Braithwaites. I didn’t know they meant to torch the dogs.’

‘No love for them?’

‘I’m the only one cares for them.’ Not Tempest, Owen thought. ‘Cilla and Joss would have killed them first. Only Paul Braithwaite was to die here, the final tally, the most important. He murdered Gerta to avenge the blinding of his hound.’

‘How dare you accuse my father of murder!’ Adam cried, stepping forward.

‘Because he was a murderer,’ growled the man on the ground.

Alfred grasped the man’s shoulder and shook him.