A Conspiracy of Wolves

6 A Matter of Conscience

In the early hours, after Dame Janet at last departed for her own home, Muriel fell into a deep sleep. Alisoun was sitting in a chair beside the bed, dozing fitfully, when one of the servants placed a blanket over her. The warmth was welcome, but steady sleep still eluded her. She’d dreamt of her parents, faceless, but somehow recognizable. Sometimes, when surprised by her reflection in water, she saw her mother in the set of her own mouth, her cheekbones, her hairline, and her father in the shape of her eyes and nose. But she could no longer put those features together into clear memories of their faces. How long would it take Muriel to forget Hoban’s appearance? Would she remember that her husband was handsome, but be unable to see what made him handsome?

Alisoun gently rubbed the ribbon edging of the scrip she wore to hold her medicines. Jasper had bought the ribbon for her at the Lammas Fair, and she’d sewn it to her scrip so that it would be with her wherever she went, reminding her that she was loved. She had felt so alone since her father’s death, the one person who had made her feel as if she had blessed his life. Magda was good to her, but Alisoun did not feel she had a place in the Riverwoman’s heart. Jasper’s love had been a revelation. She’d felt whole again. But she had ruined that when she lied to the father he respected above all others. Alone again. She tucked her hands beneath her and bit back tears, refusing to cry over Jasper. No, refusing to cry over her own fecklessness. She could think of no way to explain why she protected Crispin Poole, except that she had promised. Magda would never break a promise.

But would she have agreed to such a secret?

Was it just the promise? Wasn’t it more than that? He’d been bitten. A deep, bone-scraping bite. And he’d been shaken by the experience. That was not the reaction of a guilty man.

What she needed to do was prove his innocence.

Her charge stirred in the bed. Alisoun did not wish Muriel this awakening, as the horror and sorrow of the previous evening added to that of her husband’s death. She worried for the health of the baby.

‘Alisoun?’

‘I am here beside you.’

‘My husband. His father. Was it a dream?’

She felt the question like a hand squeezing her heart and heard Magda’s voice in her head, Breathe deep. Know her pain, but do not take it on. She needs thee sound, whole, strong, unwavering. ‘No. Not a dream.’ Alisoun took Muriel’s hand and guided it to her stomach. ‘Bring your heart here. Here there is life.’

Muriel pulled her hand from Alisoun’s and turned on her side as a sob racked her thin frame. Alisoun rose to gather the herbs for a morning tisane, then opened the door to tell the maidservant to bring hot water. And so a new day of grieving began.

‘Swam to Magda’s from the King’s Staithe? Most men half his age couldn’t do that.’ Owen had never believed half of the old man’s stories. ‘I underestimated him.’

Alfred laughed. ‘I’m not saying he wasn’t half dead when he washed up on the rock, and shaking so hard I built up the fire, wrapped him in blankets, and prayed he did not go from freezing to burning with fever.’

But as far as the man whom Old Bede suspected had pursued him, Hempe, who’d just joined Owen, Lucie, and Alfred in the kitchen, remembered little. ‘If it is the same man.’ He shrugged. ‘His name was John, like half the shire. I don’t know where he was from. The trouble was his dog. Big. Nasty. Trained to attack anyone who challenged his master. Mauled more than one who came at John, and some who didn’t. That’s several years ago or more. Do you recall it, Owen?’

‘No, but I’ve had little to do with the staithes,’ said Owen. ‘Did he have any friends? Family in the city?’

It was Alfred who’d piped up. ‘Now I remember. John with the wolf dog.’

‘Wolf dog?’

‘He called it a mastiff, but it looked more wolf than dog to most of us.’ Alfred ran his hand over his bald head. ‘The man was a queer sort. Dead eyes. Quiet. Too quiet.’

‘Young? Old?’

‘Alfred’s age, more or less,’ said Hempe. ‘I’ll ask about him down at the staithe. Maybe someone knows where he’s been, and where he is now.’

‘And if anyone noticed a small boat on the staithe,’ said Owen, ‘something that could glide away in the night, no one the wiser.’

Hempe nodded.

‘What of Bartolf’s servants?’ Owen asked Alfred. ‘Did you or Stephen learn anything?’

‘Stephen came as we were leaving the rock,’ said Lucie. ‘No one has seen Cilla since Hoban’s death. But a neighbor says he heard a woman shriek not long before he heard Swann’s dogs barking the night Hoban was murdered.’

Hempe had risen from the table with a grunt, thanking Lucie for the bread and cheese. Owen stayed him a moment. ‘What of Bede’s daughter? Can we tell her he’s safe? Do you think Winifrith could behave as if she’s still desperately waiting for news of him? It would be cruel to draw out her worry, but far crueler to risk her father’s life.’

‘Tell her,’ said Hempe. ‘Winifrith’s strong. When she was widowed she told her children she would not bring in a man who would beget more children on her who he would love more than them. That their granddad would now be their father. You can trust her to do whatever she must to protect Old Bede.’ He bowed his head. ‘I’d offer to be the one to go to her, but I don’t want her to think … we once … and now I’m married …’

‘I’d not put either of you through such agony. I’ll speak with her before I attend Janet Braithwaite.’

‘You are a good friend,’ said Hempe. ‘I’ve arranged for Ned, one of my men – he’s not been with me long but he served you in the archbishop’s guard for a short time – to join the servants at the Swann home, listen, watch. Dame Janet approved the idea, and convinced Dame Muriel.’

‘Ned’s a good lad,’ said Owen. ‘I should inform Alisoun who he is.’

Lucie touched Owen’s arm. ‘I’d rather you see to Janet first. She is of course fiercely protective of her daughter at the moment, a difficult pregnancy and now such grief. Janet’s factor was short with Jasper in the shop, and if you don’t attend his mistress, he’ll be back. Ah. Here’s Ned now.’

The young man was bounding along the gravel walkway and came to a skittering halt outside the open garden door. He doffed the hat holding back his unruly hair, dark as Owen’s, to bow to Lucie, then nod toward Hempe and Alfred. ‘Is it true, Captain? You’ve need of me?’

Owen laughed. ‘Are you so eager to escape the bailiffs’ company?’

‘They seldom need me, so I’m stuck at my father’s cooperage. Back-breaking work, coopering. Is this about the murders?’

While Lucie wrapped up the medicine she’d prepared for Muriel, Owen explained why the household needed protection.

‘I’ll guard Mistress Alisoun and the household with my life, Captain. You may be sure of that.’

‘Mistress Alisoun is able to defend herself, Ned, have a care with her,’ said Owen. A kindness, as there was a gleam in the young man’s eyes. So Jasper had a rival. Owen recalled that the young man had wooed a serving maid when in service at Bishopthorpe Palace. Perhaps it meant little.

Ned put a finger to the side of his nose and winked. ‘I am aware of Mistress Alisoun’s courage, Captain. And her skill with a bow.’

Owen thought to say more, but Lucie gave him a look signaling it was best left as it was. The four of them departed the house, Owen and Alfred leaving Ned and Lucie at the gate of the Swann residence, then continuing on to the Braithwaite residence farther down Coney Street. They were announced by the barks of a mastiff pulling against his chain near the hall door, his claws rasping on the stones. Not lawed.

A man appeared in the doorway, followed by Dame Janet who called out a welcome as the man crouched to the dog, softly speaking to it while stroking it behind the left ear until it settled back down.

‘Forgive the noise, but he is an effective guard, isn’t he?’ said Dame Janet.

Perhaps. But it was one thing to bark, another to know how to attack. And how to control a dog so trained.

‘Do come in.’ The woman who had the previous night wept and wrung her hands now wore an air of calm authority as she led them into the hall. Olyf and Adam Tirwhit sat side by side on a cushioned bench lit by the afternoon sun pouring in through a high window. Her head rested on his shoulder and he held her close, his head bowed. Near them was another couple, plump with prosperity, he garbed in a dark jacket and leggings, she in a gown a subtle shade of blue adorned with seed pearls, her hair caught up in a silver-threaded crispinette. ‘I do not believe you know my son Paul and his wife Elaine,’ Janet said quietly.

Olyf straightened and moved away from her husband as Owen and Alfred took seats near them. Janet wasted no time. As soon as Owen introduced Alfred, their hostess went straight to the point. Owen would be generously compensated. He had only to tell them what he needed and he would have it at once. The city needed him. The mayor, council, and sheriff agreed that Owen should take charge.

Adam Tirwhit quickly added his plea that Owen do all that he could to bring the murderer of his wife’s father and brother to justice. Anger sharpened his words so that the plea came out sounding more like a command.

Olyf silently nodded in agreement, her face pale, her eyes such wells of suffering that Owen knew the image would haunt him until he had solved this.

‘They insisted on seeing the bodies of father and son,’ Dame Janet murmured, as if their emotion required explanation.

Owen expressed his sorrow for their loss, speaking of both men’s goodness, halting as Olyf’s tears overflowed. ‘I will do all in my power to find their murderers.’

A brisk nod from Janet. ‘May God guide you in your task. How might we assist you?’

‘I have questions. But if it is too soon–’

Adam was shaking his head. ‘Let us waste no time.’

‘Is there somewhere we might talk out of hearing of the servants?’

Janet glanced back at the two servants who stood out of the way but close enough to hear any command. ‘I had not thought – I trust them all or I would not–’ She stopped herself with a finger to her lips. ‘My husband’s parlor.’ Rising, she motioned for her guests to follow.

Owen began by asking about the dog now guarding the house. ‘He is new to the household?’

‘He is mine,’ said Paul Braithwaite. ‘It’s a long ride. My manor is near your wife’s. I thought it prudent to bring him. Protection for myself, my wife, my parents’ household.’ He cleared his throat twice as he spoke.

‘I believe he has all his claws?’ Owen asked.

A frown, then a nod of understanding. ‘I never take my dogs into royal forests, no. A cruel practice, lawing.’ Paul glanced at Olyf, but she held her gaze on Owen, as if drawing hope from his presence. Tearless now.

Why had Paul glanced at her?

‘I brought all the staff together this morning to introduce them to Tempest,’ said Janet. ‘To reassure them.’

Owen inclined his head to acknowledge her, but he was more interested in her son. He’d not realized that Paul Braithwaite’s manor was near Freythorpe Hadden, which was south of the city. He thought of the boat on the bank near Hoban’s body. Perhaps someone had ferried Bartolf’s dogs over to the south bank of the Ouse. ‘It was your man who calmed him just now by the door?’ Owen asked. Paul nodded. ‘Might Alfred have a word with him after we’ve finished here? He might have some helpful advice about the dogs we’re searching for – the attackers and those missing from the Swann house in the forest.’

‘Of course,’ said Paul.

In the end, they had nothing of use to tell him.

‘When will you bury Bartolf and Hoban?’ Owen asked.

All looked to Janet Braithwaite.

‘Tomorrow. I prefer to wait until my husband returns, which should be tonight. Muriel is still his baby daughter, you know how it is. He will want to be there.’ A nod, as if that was settled. ‘We plan a quiet service in St Helen’s, no great feast in their memory until their murderers are apprehended and punished. Just family.’

‘Send word to me of the timing. I want the bailiffs’ men on the watch.’

‘I will, Captain.’

Owen stood. ‘I will leave you in peace for now.’ He nodded to Alfred. ‘See about the dog.’

Paul rose. ‘I will accompany you.’

‘I would prefer you did not,’ said Owen, watching the man’s reaction.

Clearly uneasy, he said, ‘Galbot is a man of few words, Captain. He might need my coaxing.’

‘Alfred has experience questioning quiet servants,’ Owen assured him, staring him into compliance.

Winifrith studied Owen’s face as he spoke, as if reading there whether or not she believed him. ‘He’s a swimmer, my da, that is so. Proud of it, he is. Goes in the water at night, mostly, so there’s no traffic, you see. So I can believe he did that. Between the wolf and the dog–’ She nodded. ‘So he saw he was stuck with two sorry choices. In his cups, that’s not the time to swim. Not so drunk after all. God be thanked.’ She made a sound between a laugh and a sob. ‘There are some think he’s taking up space with no good purpose on God’s earth, but he’s been a good father to me and my little ones.’ She surprised Owen with a hug. ‘Bless you, Captain Archer.’ She stepped back, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. ‘And bless Alfred and the young ones who are hiding him. I couldn’t hope for better protection. And the Riverwoman’s dragon will watch over him.’ Her face suddenly tightened. ‘But my little ones. I cannot tell them he’s safe, they’re sure to come out with it. God forgive me, I must lie to them and let their dear hearts grieve.’

‘I pray it will not be for long, Dame Winifrith.’

‘Find the butchers and hang them so Da can come home.’

‘I mean to.’ While he was there Owen thought he might as well ask if she recalled John with the wolf dog. He was glad he did.

Winifrith sent a worried glance out into the small garden where the children played. ‘Is he the monster who’s murdered two good men and sent my da diving into the Ouse?’

‘Your father thought he might have been one of the men last night. Do you know anything more about him?’

She shook her head. ‘But ask any mother along the river and she’ll tell you he enjoyed frightening the children with that beast of his. He kicked one of the neighbor’s boys for throwing a pebble to keep the dog away, and the dog bit the poor lad in the leg. But that was several years ago. I thought us well rid of him. God help us.’ She crossed herself.

As they approached the Swann house, Lucie asked Ned how well he knew Alisoun.

‘I saw her every day when she and Dame Magda were caring for Archbishop Thoresby at Bishopthorpe, though I spoke to her only once or twice.’ He blushed and averted his eyes, looking relieved when a servant welcomed them into the hall.

‘Have a care. Dame Muriel’s well-being is in Alisoun’s hands, and hers alone. Consult her regarding anything relating to the mistress of the house.’

‘I will. And I’ll keep to the shadows so she forgets I’m there.’ Ned spoke with resolve.

Lucie bit back a smile at the thought of two stout wills colliding.

The house was quiet, subdued, the servants going about their work in silent watchfulness. Even Alisoun moved so quietly coming up behind Lucie that she startled her with a touch on her shoulder. She welcomed them both with warmth, noting that she’d not seen Ned since Bishopthorpe.

They smiled at each other, then both looked away.

Lucie thought it a good time to explain why he was there.

Alisoun thanked them, moving straight to a description of the behavior of the two men who had passed her in the yard, and how they smelled. ‘They reeked of dog, as if they’d been rolling about in a kennel. And blood, though it wasn’t until we were in the Fenton garden that I sorted that part. I smelled no ale on them.’ She nodded to Ned. ‘You will want to present yourself to the cook. He will tell you your duties, and where you will sleep.’

Lucie suggested she go up to Muriel. Alisoun and Ned rose as one, then he headed for the kitchen.

In the solar, Muriel sat by a small window, a bit of embroidery lying forgotten on her lap. She turned as they entered, greeting Lucie with a shake of her head. ‘I said no visitors, Alisoun.’

‘Dame Lucie has brought a physick to calm you and bring up your appetite, but she cannot advise me of the correct dosage without seeing you.’

Lucie sat down on a stool beside the grieving mother-to-be and took her hand. Despite the warmth of the day and of the room Muriel’s hand was cold. Lucie studied her eyes, felt her pulse, sniffed her breath. ‘You need food.’ Lucie told the servant who waited by the door to bring her mistress some broth. ‘Easily digested, even at such a time.’ Only now did she mention Muriel’s terrible loss. They sat in silence for a few moments, Lucie listening to Muriel’s shallow breathing. At last she rose to give the woman some privacy while instructing Alisoun regarding the physick, a small dosage during the day, more at night. Behind her, she heard Muriel begin to weep. She pressed a cloth to her mouth, as if trying to silence herself. Lucie returned to sit beside her, taking her free hand.

‘I depend on your husband to find the men who took Hoban from me,’ said Muriel. ‘And his father.’

A shiver ran from her hand to Lucie’s, who sat there a moment, head bowed, praying that Owen might safely bring the monsters to justice. Safely, I pray you, Lord. ‘He is already out and about, asking questions,’ said Lucie. ‘And he’s placed one of his trusted men in your home, to listen and observe, to go where Alisoun cannot go while she is with you. You are protected.’

Muriel pressed Lucie’s hand. ‘Bless you, both of you.’ She sat back as the servant returned with the broth.

Alisoun added the physick, then brought the bowl of broth to Muriel, recommending that she sip it while it was warm. Lucie was gratified to see the woman’s sunken cheeks flush with the warmth, and accepted a cup of watered wine to sip, appreciating the peaceful moment.

Out of the quiet, Muriel asked the servant to wait outside. As soon as the young woman drew the door shut behind her, Muriel said, ‘I should have come to Captain Archer about my suspicions. If I had done so–’ A deep breath. ‘You must tell him to look at Hoban’s circle, his sister, her husband, and my brother Paul.’ She crossed herself and turned to gaze out the window, her hand to her heart.

His circle? Lucie glanced at Alisoun, who shook her head. She was about to ask what Muriel meant when she gave a little moan, pressing a hand to her stomach.

‘Rest now,’ Lucie whispered, stroking Muriel’s back to relax her.

But Muriel shook her head. ‘They keep some secret, I’ve always felt it. Hoban kept things from me. At first I told myself he protected me, sheltered me in his love, but …’ She caught her breath and pressed Lucie’s hand, her eyes swimming with tears. ‘I do not like to say it of him. He was so happy about being a father. And I loved him so.’

‘A little more of the physick, Alisoun,’ Lucie said, ‘in some watered wine.’

Muriel shook her head. ‘No. No first let me tell you what you must tell your husband. Since Crispin Poole returned – you know of whom I speak?’ Lucie nodded. ‘Since then, they’ve whispered and argued under their breaths. Frightened. Or angry. Both?’ She rubbed her forehead. ‘How can I be certain of anything when he would never tell me? Nor would she, Olyf–’ She crossed herself. ‘Poor woman, she has lost brother and father. I do not like speaking ill of her. But she is a shrewd one, though she plays the innocent.’

Alisoun knelt in front of her charge and took her hands, catching her eyes and holding the gaze, calming her.

As Magda would do. Lucie asked if she should go.

‘No!’ Muriel broke away from Alisoun and took Lucie’s hand. ‘Crispin Poole. As I said, since his return, they’ve not been the same. The captain must hear this.’

‘Poole,’ Alisoun whispered, so softly that Lucie almost missed it.

She glanced at her. The young woman seemed lost in herself. Crispin Poole. He had consulted Lucie earlier in the summer about pain in what remained of his right arm. The haunting of the lost hand and forearm. She had sent him to Magda Digby, who knew how to work with such soul wounds. Owen knew him better than she did. ‘I will tell my husband what you have said,’ Lucie promised.

Muriel nodded. ‘My brother asked me if I wanted his dog Tempest here. Stupid man. A dog? After what a dog did to my husband? I’ve always hated his dogs.’

‘Whose? Your brother’s? Has Paul always kept dogs?’ Lucie asked.

‘Breeds them for hunting. Wealthy men come from far and wide to purchase his beasts. I believe his wife – Elaine – I believe she hates them as much as I do.’ She gave a sob. ‘Hoban never blamed me for being barren, ever. He was the most patient, loving man. When I told him I was at last with child … How his eyes lit up …’ Muriel stared out the window, her body shaken with sobs.

Alisoun handed Lucie a cup of watered wine containing more of the physick. ‘For the baby’s sake you must rest,’ said Lucie.

Muriel drank it down quickly, then rested her head against the back of the chair with a sigh. ‘I can sleep now. Captain Archer will know what to do.’ Alisoun helped her rise, supporting her with an arm round her waist as she slowly crossed the room to the bed.

When Muriel was asleep, Alisoun joined Lucie on a bench by the window, thanking her for coming. ‘Your presence is a balm for her.’

Lucie noticed shadows of exhaustion beneath Alisoun’s eyes. She wanted so much to ask about the pouch, but it was not the time. ‘Would you like me to stay with her while you rest?’

Alisoun let her shoulders slump. ‘Would you? I’ll just lie down here. If Dame Janet or Dame Olyf should come–’

‘I doubt Janet Braithwaite will have the time to visit her daughter today, but if she does, she can wait in the hall. The same for Dame Olyf.’

‘Bless you.’

Lucie poured the weary young woman a cup of wine, then told the servant to shutter the window. In the dim quiet, Alisoun slipped out of her dress and beneath the bedclothes, and Lucie settled beside the sleeping widow, letting her mind quiet before sorting through Muriel’s tearful confidences.

‘Keep an ear pricked about Paul Braithwaite,’ Owen told Alfred as they parted on Coney Street. ‘I don’t know what I’m looking for. Any gossip, any enemies. And Galbot. Find out if he’s a local man. Hempe’s men might know. I want to see how Ned’s been received, then I’ll go to see Archdeacon Jehannes.’

Alfred nodded and strode off.

At the Swann house he found Ned out in the back garden pushing a barrow behind the cook, who was picking late-season herbs for a stew. Ned excused himself and stepped aside to talk to Owen.

‘They’ve put you to work out here?’

‘I offered. I thought it a good way to hear the gossip of the household, Captain.’ He grinned. ‘And I have. I can tell you that the servants resented Olyf Tirwhit ordering them about last night, saying she’d never have dared if their mistress had not been bedridden. Dame Muriel and Dame Olyf – no affection there, it seems.’

‘Do you know why?’

Ned shook his head, then lifted his cap and bowed to someone approaching.

‘Lucie!’ Owen took her hands. ‘Any news?’

‘I must get right back, but I saw you down here and wanted to give you a message from Dame Muriel.’

He listened with interest about Hoban’s ‘circle’, the secrecy, the discomfort about Crispin Poole’s return, her dislike of Paul Braithwaite’s dogs. He had Ned tell her what the servants said about Olyf and Muriel.

‘There may be something there,’ said Lucie, ‘though we need more.’

‘Did you show Alisoun the pouch?’

‘Forgive me, but she is exhausted. I thought it better to wait.’

As Archdeacon of York, Jehannes had a substantial house near the minster. Surrounded by a modest but welcoming garden, it was a place of refuge. Owen often came here seeking the counsel of his good friend. Jehannes managed to retain an innocent joy and an open heart.

A young clerk opened the door to Owen, gesturing with a finger to his lips that he must enter the hall in silence. ‘As you can see,’ he whispered, ‘Dom Jehannes and Brother Michaelo are at prayer.’

The two knelt at prie dieus before a corner altar, heads bowed, hands pressed together. The clerk escorted Owen to a seat by a low window that looked out onto a walled garden, and offered him a cup of wine.

The hall was simply furnished, Jehannes’s spiritual life being that which drew his attention. Yet where in the past neither hangings nor painted plaster had brightened the interior, that was no longer so. His cook had wed a stonemason who worked at the minster, and the couple, both artists, had transformed the hall. Tree boughs arched along the walls, beneath which hung large embroidered panels depicting the flora and fauna of the moors. With paint and thread they brought the beauty of the North into Jehannes’s home.

Once Owen had settled, sampled the fine wine, studied the artwork, the well-tended beds of herbs and roses in the garden, he turned his mind to Muriel Swann’s warning. An unexpected revelation, old friends keeping a secret, excluding Muriel, though her brother was part of it. And Crispin Poole. Might it be nothing but a cache of fear unleashed by recent, horrific events? Or was it possible that Poole’s return had stirred up some darkness from their shared past? Owen searched his memory for any clues in his conversations with the man, but Poole’s only mention of ill feelings pertained to John Gisburne, who had provided him with letters of introduction to influential merchants in the city – apparently at the command of a patron whom Poole declined to name. It was not done graciously, and though the letters had gained him entry into business, he’d been received coolly in society, and ignored by Gisburne’s family. Perhaps it was time to dig into Poole’s past.

‘I sense a storm brewing in that head of yours.’ Jehannes smiled as he settled across from Owen. ‘More wine?’

Owen declined the offer. ‘I came to ask you about a woman you once employed – Cilla.’

Jehannes frowned. ‘Cilla?’ He began to shake his head, then his eyes widened with memory. ‘Ah, Cecelia, the odd little woman who wanted nothing to do with a secure position. I’d forgotten she preferred to be called by that odd name.’ He glanced up as he noticed Brother Michaelo hovering nearby. ‘Michaelo, you are welcome to join us.’

The monk glanced at Owen, who waved him to a chair beside him.

‘So you remember her,’ Owen prompted.

Jehannes smiled. ‘Oh yes. Quite a peculiar woman, dancing about, making the oddest noises. In truth, I enjoyed her presence, though I cannot say I ever understood her. Hard worker. Alas, she likes to drift, work a few days here, a few days there, then disappear for a week or so. We parted as friends, I like to think. She left me feeling as if I might be the dullest man in the North country. What is your interest in her?’

‘She worked for Bartolf, kept his house in Galtres. No one’s seen her since Hoban’s murder.’

‘I pray she is safe. As I say, she stayed nowhere long. She might have moved on beforehand.’

‘Perhaps. But the manservant who raised the hue and cry is also missing,’ said Owen. ‘What do you know of her background?’

‘Nothing. I would not know where to tell you to search.’

‘The two of you were deep in prayer. For the Swanns?’

Brother Michaelo inclined his head.

Jehannes sighed. ‘That, of course. But you must know, I have just received word that our new archbishop, Alexander Neville, means to visit the minster after Martinmas. So soon!’

‘And you dread it.’

‘I do. He was insufferable as a prebend of the minster, but as Archbishop of York, heady with power … God help us.’ Jehannes made an apologetic face as he crossed himself.

‘God help us indeed,’ Owen muttered.

Michaelo sniffed. ‘I cannot believe Alexander Neville has anything to do with this tragedy. His nose is far too high in the air for him ever to lay eyes on a family such as the Swanns.’

‘I pray you are right,’ said Jehannes.

‘And yet …’ Michaelo paused for effect, catching Owen’s eye. ‘In inquiring about Elwin, the clerk Bartolf Swann used as his recorder, I learned that he has worked for several of the minster canons, including Alexander Neville. He’d had little work from him until Neville was campaigning for the archbishopric, and then his orders came from the family rather than the man himself. Kept him busy. He might prove interesting …’

‘Thank you, Michaelo,’ said Owen. ‘That gives me much to consider.’ Much unpleasantness. Was this a Neville battle? Why would they slaughter such a family? Michaelo was right, the coroner of a royal forest was beneath them.

‘There is one more thing about Elwin. While I was talking to him, he was called to the home of Crispin Poole.’

‘Oh?’ Owen was interested. Poole again.

Michaelo rose. ‘And I believe I might be of further use to you. A woman who goes by the name of Cilla has been biding in the minster yard for the past few days. Badly bruised face, when I caught sight of her.’ He raised a warning hand as Owen began to rise. ‘Not you, you are too noticeable, and not until sunset. Perhaps I might take Dame Lucie to her, to see whether there is aught she might do for the injury?’

‘You are a wonder, Brother Michaelo.’

The monk bowed his head and coughed, as if to hide his pleasure in the compliment. ‘I seek to serve.’

‘Bless you. I will consult Lucie. If she agrees, she will meet you here after sunset. I will escort her.’

‘Better that I escort her from your home, Captain. As if fetching her to someone in need.’

Owen glanced at Jehannes, who gave a subtle shrug.

‘Of course. Most prudent.’

‘And now I shall go see to some tasks.’ Michaelo bowed to Owen, to Jehannes, and withdrew.

Owen said nothing for a few minutes, absorbing the fact that Michaelo was aware of the poor who lived in shacks pressed up against the minster walls.

‘His penance,’ Jehannes said, softly. ‘He dons an old, threadbare habit and goes among them, offering some of his food, praying with those who ask. Difficult to believe?’

‘I had no idea.’

‘Nor had I. I saw him return one evening and asked what had happened – I thought he’d had some mishap, tumbled into the river, borrowed some old clothes at the abbey. He told me. Reluctantly. Since then I’ve learned a little from Brother Henry in the infirmary, things he learned from his teacher, Brother Wulfstan. You know Michaelo is of noble birth, Norman. One of twins. Both sons raised as if to be heir to the land, until Michaelo’s brother won over his father with his martial skill and popularity amongst his peers. Still, Michaelo, with his education and noble mien, expected money to cross hands ensuring him a swift rise in the Church in France or here in England. But something went awry, and he was sent off to a distant cousin in York, abbot of St Mary’s, a man of no influence.’

‘Abbot of St Mary’s? Campion?’

‘His predecessor, who died within months, leaving gentle Campion to deal with the resentful Norman whose cousin had decided he should begin humbly and prove his worthiness.’

‘It explains his resentment.’

‘And his contentment in John Thoresby’s service. If you do accept the prince’s offer … Well, you see why he is so eager to prove to you his worthiness.’

It explained a great deal.