A Conspiracy of Wolves

3 Salves, Barbers, Secrets

Home at last, God be thanked. Owen paused at his garden gate, watching his two eldest race round the tall linden in raucous play. He took advantage of their distraction to slip into the workshop behind the apothecary, hoping that Jasper might have a moment to examine the salve. It was even possible that he’d prepared it.

He heard voices, but the shop appeared empty until he looked beyond the counter and saw his son placing small packages into a basket held by a young woman. They spoke quietly, but the tone was playful, teasing. When the basket was full, Jasper took it from her arm and carried it as he escorted the young woman to the door, bowing as he handed it to her. She blushed up at him, then hurried out into the street with a soft Benedicite.

When had Jasper grown so tall, and so courtly? With his fair hair ever tumbling in his eyes, he still seemed a lad to Owen, but he was a man now. Eighteen.

Owen strode forward into the shop.

‘Da!’ Jasper looked satisfyingly happy to see him. ‘Is it true Hoban Swann was felled by his own dogs?’

The rumors had begun. ‘I am not certain what happened, but I doubt his dogs were the attackers. Unless Zephyrus and Apollo have mastered the use of a dagger. I would appreciate your not spreading that round.’

‘That the dogs are gods, running loose with daggers?’ Jasper laughed. ‘Who would believe such a tale? Have you found them?’

‘No. I’ve found precious little for my pains.’ It was Owen’s turn to grin. ‘She is pretty.’

A vivid blush, the curse of such fair skin and hair. ‘She is betrothed to a blacksmith. Fortunate man. He’ll never deserve her.’

‘And you would?’

‘My heart belongs to a brown-haired, brown-eyed healer.’

Pity, Owen thought. ‘Speaking of whom, Alisoun said this was not her preparation. Perhaps yours?’ He drew out the pouch, opened it, placed the parchment on the counter.

Jasper bent down to sniff, glanced up. ‘Safe to handle?’

‘I am unharmed. I smell boneset and betony. What do you think?’

Jasper opened the packet. Taking a little on a fingertip, he tasted it. ‘Not much else. Some calendula to soften a scar, I think. Not mine. Wrapping’s wrong. A barber’s stock? They set children’s and laborers’ limbs after falls, accidents with carts. Often the broken bone is only one of the injuries. This would serve wounds as well. And dog bite.’

‘Has anyone come in for something for the bite of a dog?’

‘While you were away? No. Though there’s been talk about wolves in the forest while you were away.’ He sniffed again. ‘Calendula.’ He nodded. ‘Ma told me about Tildy. What do you think?’

‘Pray for her, son. Magda is a healer, not a miracle-worker.’ Owen picked up the packet, and was returning it to the pouch when Jasper made a sound as if about to speak. Owen glanced up, curious.

Jasper fingered the pouch. ‘Any markings?’

Owen turned it over. The pouch had been fashioned from a mere scrap of leather of poor quality, worthless but for keeping out the weather. Someone had sewn it together and added a narrow strip of leather to tie it closed. A common item. ‘Nothing but a long score.’ He held that to the light. ‘Do you recognize it?’

Jasper hesitated, then shook his head.

Lucie paced the hall with baby Emma in her arms while the nursemaid helped Kate prepare food for the older children. As Kate was Tildy’s sister, Lucie had invited her to sit for a moment on her return and have a bowl of ale as they exchanged their news. The young woman had listened to Lucie’s account of her sister’s condition with outward calm, but her hands had shaken as she poured more ale. Soon came tears, and a flood of questions Lucie could not answer. That Magda Digby attended her sister was a great comfort, but Lucie judged it wise to ask the children’s nurse, Lena, to assist in the kitchen while Kate caught her breath.

Emma had just fallen asleep in Lucie’s arms when Owen returned. She put a finger to her lips as he began to speak.

He slumped down onto a chair, groaning as he stretched out his legs.

‘A long day, I know,’ she said softly. They’d departed Freythorpe shortly after dawn. ‘Sit down, have some ale. Bess brought it when she saw we’d returned.’

‘Sit with me?’

She was about to protest that Emma might wake if she stopped walking, but seeing in the shadows beneath his eyes the toll the day had taken, she relented. Lena could take over now. ‘I’ll be but a moment. Some bread and cheese?’

‘And ale?’

She smiled, humming under her breath as Emma stirred.

When she returned without the baby, Owen took no time in launching into an account of all that he’d witnessed since parting from her on the road. A long day indeed. She was surprised that a man had murdered Hoban, not wild dogs. She’d heard the rumors. Whether or not she also felt relief, she could not decide.

‘I can tell you what Bess has heard about the Swanns,’ she said. ‘Talk in the city is that Bartolf has become forgetful. He’s been missing appointments. Muriel and Hoban feared he was drinking too much. Or too alone out there. They invited him to bide with them in the city for a fortnight.’

Owen took a good long drink. ‘And he agreed?’

‘Bess did not say whether he argued about it.’

‘Did Bartolf mention it to you?’

‘He said little on the journey back. I will ask Alisoun to keep her ears pricked for gossip in the household.’

‘That would be helpful.’ Owen finished the bread and cheese, washing it down with ale, then sat back, looking less drained by the day. ‘The old man’s mind is so muddled with grief and drink I doubt I’ll learn much more from him.’

‘Poor man. And Muriel – may God watch over her.’

‘May He do a better job than He has so far.’ Owen took another long drink. ‘What do you know of Bartolf’s servants Cilla and Joss?’

‘Nothing at all about him. You might ask Bess about Cilla. Everyone’s worked at the York at one time or another. I’ve heard that she considers herself a healer, though she’s said to do more harm than good. Magda would be able to tell you more. Pray God she returns soon, with happy news.’ She shivered, remembering Daimon holding his wife’s swollen hand, whispering prayers.

‘Tildy. Yes.’ Owen pulled Lucie close and she rested her head against his chest. They sat that way, in comforting silence, until Hugh and Gwenllian came thundering in from the garden.

Lena quickly opened the kitchen door and herded them in.

But Lucie sat up, the moment gone. ‘Will you join Geoffrey at the York this evening?’

‘I’d forgotten. I’d best, or he will tell tales about me.’

Owen’s distrust of Geoffrey Chaucer puzzled Lucie. Yes, Geoffrey was a gossip, but he was also a loyal friend who would never tell a tale that might damage or even challenge Owen’s standing in the city. He had hurried to Freythorpe Hadden upon arriving in York and hearing of Dame Philippa’s death. Geoffrey had been fond of Philippa, and she of him. While biding with them in York after the archbishop’s death, Geoffrey had endeared himself to Lucie by keeping her ailing aunt entertained. Arm in arm, he and Philippa would stroll round St Helen’s churchyard and down Stonegate, she telling him what she could remember of the people passing by – her memory came and went – he embellishing the bits with invented tales of their younger, secret exploits, inspiring much laughter. Philippa could talk of nothing else when he was called back to London. Such a storyteller, he is! And wise. Yet Owen now doubted his sincerity.

For the moment, Lucie bit her tongue, thankful that Owen asked for no response, deep in thought, reaching out to pour more ale. She sat sipping her own for a while, resisting the temptation to tease him about how eagerly he had taken up the search. She did not want to influence his decision about the future. For so long she had worried about how he would occupy himself without his work for Thoresby.

She had not pushed, knowing that he still mourned the archbishop, the man he’d resented in life. It was a hard lesson for Owen, seeing in hindsight the extent to which Thoresby had given him the freedom to go about his work as he saw fit. A betrayal and a death had cast an additional pall over his last days with the archbishop, and Lucie had suspected Owen wanted to be left in peace to grieve a while longer. But when Bartolf and Brother Michaelo hailed them on the road home, Owen had not hesitated to engage. It seemed God did not intend to allow him a moment of idleness.

The people of York would be pleased that he had taken this in hand. Their friends, the guildsmen, the city bailiffs, the mayor and aldermen, Princess Joan, Prince Edward, Geoffrey Chaucer – they had all anxiously waited for him to take the first step into his future. Especially Geoffrey, for it was he who had suggested Owen to Princess Joan. Would this investigation lead to his accepting the role of captain of bailiffs? Lucie had considered it a tame post relative to that proposed by Prince Edward, but Hoban Swann’s murder seemed to suggest otherwise.

‘The Swanns are fortunate to have your help,’ she said when Owen seemed to be surfacing.

He frowned down at the bowl he had just picked up. ‘I have learned nothing of use.’

‘You will.’

His dark eye bore into her, then he suddenly grinned, melting her heart. ‘Divine revelation?’

She leaned over to kiss his dimple. ‘Belief in you, my love.’

‘In truth I’ve come away with more questions than answers. Will you see Alisoun soon?’

‘I can. You said she seemed troubled?’

‘I did. It might be the weight of responsibility, but I would be grateful if you would talk with her.’ Owen drew her up into an embrace ending with a long kiss.

‘Well now,’ Lucie said as they parted. ‘I look forward to tonight.’

‘I will not tarry at the tavern.’

‘Best not.’ She laughed. ‘I forgot to ask how Brother Michaelo coped – the forest, the swamp, the blood?’

‘Better than I had expected. He is useful. Quite useful. Observant. It was he who found the pouch.’

‘So you will use him again?’

‘If he is willing, I am glad to do so.’

‘You secretly delight in his sardonic mutterings.’

‘At present there is little of that. Too little. I could use a distraction from the grim parts of the task.’

‘Then I pray he recovers his righteousness.’

After sending Alfred and Stephen away to spend the night in Magda Digby’s home so they might begin their search for Joss, Cilla, and the dogs at first light, Owen had spent a few hours in the York Tavern with Geoffrey and his friend George Hempe, a York bailiff. Geoffrey’s presence happily prevented Hempe from pursuing his campaign to convince Owen to take on the captaincy of the bailiffs. Both were keen to hear what he’d learned of Hoban Swann’s murder, and to offer their opinions. Bess suggested Owen ask Bartolf’s nearest neighbors about Cilla’s whereabouts. As Bartolf had said, she worked around, for whoever needed an extra hand.

‘But she may be of little help,’ Bess had said. ‘She’s a queer one, that woman, speaks in squeaks and squawks, growls, hisses, and moves in prances and springs. Mark me, she’s more than a little mad. Yet she’s a hard worker, will take on any task and do her best, which is better than most. But God help those fool enough to call for her when they need a midwife. I’ve heard such tales …’ Bess had rolled her eyes.

‘May God watch over Cilla.’ Lucie said when Owen told her.

‘Amen.’

Even with that worry, Owen had no trouble engaging Lucie in some bed sport before sleep.

Shortly after dawn, Alisoun woke to the sounds of Dame Muriel and her mother, who had chosen to sleep the night with her daughter. Muriel talked and wept as Dame Janet stroked her hair and assured her that all would be well, she must be strong for her child. Alisoun slipped away to fetch some food and replenish the watered wine mother and daughter had sipped through the night.

In the kitchen she found Bartolf Swann snoring by the fire, the cook grumbling as he moved about his morning chores trying not to wake the old man.

‘You’ll be comforted to know that Captain Archer’s men stayed the night at the Riverwoman’s,’ he said as he gathered bread and cheese for her, and filled the jug with more wine. ‘They will keep trouble from your door.’

‘What right had he–’ Alisoun stopped herself when she saw the curious look the cook gave her. Of course he would expect her to be eased by that. ‘How do you know this?’

‘The master. After the household went to bed he talked and talked. Much of it jabber – pushing away the devils that haunt a man when he’s gone past sensible drink. He’ll drink himself into the grave. But who can blame him, poor man, his only son?’

She remembered standing at Magda’s door in the deepening evening watching the broad back of Crispin Poole as he crossed over to the bank. And that other observer, standing at the edge of the wood. Had Poole dropped the salve, or had it been taken from him? Either way, she imagined him coming to the house yesterday at dusk, needing more, and discovering the captain’s men there. He would be angry, thinking she had betrayed him. But why would she? What had his misadventure to do with Hoban Swann? Except – the dogs. How he’d insisted it was but one dog, though she was certain she’d first heard a pair. God help her.

She should not have used that particular pouch. She and Jasper had found the scrap of leather, making up a story about what had scored it, silly chatter. And now, when the captain showed it to Jasper, he’d see the mark and remember. Would he betray her? Of course he would, he would do anything to earn the captain’s approval. He was ever talking about the time he’d helped the captain catch a thief and a murderer. That was when he’d began calling him ‘da’ instead of ‘the captain’.

She delivered the jug of wine to Muriel’s chamber. Mother and daughter were at last asleep, a small miracle. By the light coming through the shutters Alisoun guessed that Jasper might be up by now, readying the shop for early customers or sweeping the street in front. She could go to him, but he would want to know why she begged the favor of secrecy. What would she say? I know of a man who was attacked by dogs but I’m certain he did not murder Hoban Swann? But how could she possibly be certain? She knew little about Crispin Poole. She did not understand why she was so keen to defend him. Because she did not trust the captain to believe his innocence?

Holy Mother, help me. Give me a sign to show me the way. Alisoun plucked her shawl from a hook by the door, hurried down the steps and through the gate into the neighbors’ back garden, taking the path to the York Tavern’s yard, next door to the apothecary. She hurried along, letting her eyes wander round the flowerbeds and fruit trees, up to the dawn sky, but suddenly she stopped, a voice in her head warning her that hurrying to Jasper to find out whether he’d betrayed her was a betrayal in itself. He would guess it was important. What could she say? Is this my sign, Blessed Mother?

Turning round, she hurried back to the Swann house, her heart pounding, frightened by her own confusion.

‘I’ve spoken with all the gate guards,’ said Hempe. ‘Sounds like Joss entered and left by Bootham Bar, both times in a hurry. On his way out, he pushed past a family who were in the queue, saying he must make haste, he’d been ordered back to the Swann home in Galtres to stand guard. Toby let him pass. “Thought it best to see the back of him before he started brawling,” he said.’

‘So he headed back to Bartolf’s home but never arrived,’ said Owen. ‘I don’t like that.’

‘Nor do I.’

‘And what of Hoban? Had he gone out alone?’

‘Alone but for a hired horse spooking at all the folk – he left just before the closing of the gates. Said he was doing a favor for his father, fetching his beloved dogs, and the warden agreed to watch for him, let him back in. Course he never came. No one apparently following him. Nor Joss when he came in early in the morning.’

‘How early?’

‘Almost the first one at the gate.’

‘So early,’ said Owen. ‘What was he doing out on that track at such an hour?’

‘Might he have heard something?’

‘Hoban would have died quickly,’ said Owen. ‘By morning there would be nothing to hear.’

‘So the manservant heard him attacked in the night, but stayed put until first light?’ Hempe suggested.

‘I want to find Joss,’ said Owen as he handed Hempe the leather packet containing the salve. ‘Could you have a man go round to the barbers in the city? Ask whether this was made by them, and, if so, for whom? How long ago?’

Hempe frowned down at it.

Thinking he’d offended the man, Owen reached for the pouch. ‘Forgive me. You have your own duties.’

Hempe closed his hand round the packet. ‘Not at all. I’m just trying to decide who has the wits for the task.’ He glanced up with a wink. ‘I have it. Just the man.’

As Owen was thanking Hempe, Brother Michaelo opened the garden gate and stepped through. ‘Now that’s a sight I never expected to see. You move in ever-widening circles,’ Hempe said, chuckling.

‘Benedicite, Captain, Master Bailiff.’ Michaelo handed Owen two rolls of parchment. ‘One for you, Captain, and one for the city, if they should wish to have a record.’

Hempe nodded to both of them. ‘I must be off. I will let you know what we discover,’ he said, holding up his clenched hand.

Owen thanked him and turned to Michaelo. ‘You are faster than I’d hoped. So. Now that you’ve had a night to sleep on it, are you willing to work with me again?’

‘The experience was – I had not understood the burden of your work. Observing you, I felt–’ Michaelo lifted his hand as if to brush aside the thought. ‘I would be honored to work with you again, Captain, if it please you.’

‘Good. I have not yet broken my fast. Would you care to join me while we talk?’ Owen gestured toward the house.

‘I do not wish to impose myself–’

‘I invited you so that we might discuss business. It is I who impose.’

The monk bowed. ‘I am at your service.’

Lucie observed them with some curiosity as she called to Kate to bring food to the hall. ‘The children are at market with Lena, so you should not be disturbed,’ she said as she moved toward the garden door.

‘I pray I am not interrupting your morning,’ said Michaelo.

Lucie assured him she had been on her way to the shop when they arrived. ‘You are always welcome in my home, Brother Michaelo. Benedicite.’ On a pilgrimage to St David’s in Wales, Brother Michaelo had been a loving companion to Lucie’s father, Sir Robert D’Arby, nursing him in his final illness. When Michaelo returned to York he had brought the news of her father’s death, and shared with her all he could recall of her father’s last days. He had been a great comfort to her while Owen remained in Wales.

‘Ale?’ Owen asked.

When Michaelo nodded, Owen poured for both of them, helped himself to some bread and cheese, and ate quietly for a moment, watching the monk study the room while he sipped his ale.

‘A handsome, most comfortable hall,’ said Michaelo when he noticed Owen’s one-eyed regard.

‘It is. A generous gift from your friend Sir Robert.’

‘My–’ Michaelo bowed his head. ‘May he abide in God’s grace.’

It was on that journey that Owen had witnessed the gentler side of the usually sharp-witted, arrogant Norman monk. A revelation. And, afterward, he’d benefitted from the man’s discretion about his involvement with Welsh rebels.

‘Do you know Elwin, the clerk who serves as Bartolf Swann’s scrivener?’

‘No, but if he is a clerk I should be able to find out about him. What do you need to know?’

‘For the moment, merely where I might find him.’

They were interrupted by the arrival of Geoffrey Chaucer.

‘Oh, forgive me, I–’ He looked from one to the other, clearly interested.

‘Brother Michaelo has already delivered the report of my observations,’ said Owen.

Michaelo rose. ‘I will see to the other matter we discussed, Captain.’

Owen thanked him.

When Michaelo had departed, Geoffrey took his chair and helped himself to some ale. ‘What did I miss?’

‘Nauseating courtesy. I must find a way to resurrect the more palatably snide Brother Michaelo.’