A Fox in the Fold

Twenty Setting Up the Board

As he approached the palace kitchen, Owen half expected Maeve to open the door, beckoning him in. Archbishop Thoresby’s cook had been devoted to keeping up Owen’s strength, tempting him with meat pies, cheese, fine bread – he had enjoyed every morsel, the quality of her creations equal to that of Tom Merchet’s ale. But today he found an echoing silence and the smell of old fires, damp, and the stench of rotting rushes and animal droppings. He found the corner with the blood-stained rushes, plucked some up to take out into the light. Perhaps a day old.

Pushing on through, he explored the rooms off the kitchen passage, up into the echoing hall. How bitter he had been when he first entered this place. Half-blinded and then robbed of the life he had made for himself in the old duke’s service, sent on a mission to a land of snow and sleet, streets crowded, noisy, cursed with the bells of what seemed a hundred churches crammed inside the walls, he had hated everything about his new life. Most of all, he had hated Reynard.

Leaving the great hall, he continued to the more private chambers. He had spent many an hour in Thoresby’s parlor. Day and night a fire had burned, a flask of brandywine and cups set near the archbishop’s favorite high-backed chair. His throne, Owen had thought it. Gradually his bitterness had eased, or been diverted toward resentment of the time spent away from Lucie and his growing family. He had earned the respect of the people of York, finding friends in unexpected places – Dom Jehannes, once Thoresby’s secretary; the Merchets; Dame Magda …

He found blood smeared on the windowsill. Still not proof it was Reynard who was weakened.

As he moved on toward the chapel, listening for sounds, tasting the sour air, Owen felt at peace with his new plan for the morning, and with his purpose in flushing out the fox and his cubs. At first he had sought revenge, but no longer. Reynard’s attempt to destroy him had been the catalyst turning him away from the life of a captain of archers to something much more satisfying. The fox and his comrades must answer for their present crimes, not those of the past. Completing his circuit of the palace and finding no one lurking in the shadows, Owen headed home to dine with his family.

Dame Alys hissed as her son was half carried, half dragged into her chamber, his bare feet caked with dirt and blood.

Owen motioned toward a bench opposite where he sat with Michaelo so that the light would illuminate Gunnell’s every expression.

The man slumped on the bench and demanded to know with what he was charged.

‘Theft at the very least,’ said Owen. ‘We found in your house a quantity of stolen items. This is your opportunity to confess your part in the attack on Jonas Snicket. We are of the impression that you planned it and carried it out with the assistance of his servant Pete, whom you later silenced with a push from the solar of your home.’

‘Pete? No.’ Gunnell caught himself. ‘I am saying nothing until I have food, drink, and shoes.’

‘So be it,’ said Owen, nodding to the guards. ‘Take him back.’

The guards advanced on Gunnell, who looked to his mother. ‘Tell them I am innocent.’

‘No more, Laurence.’ Her tone was sharp, not placating as before. ‘As it is I must spend the remainder of my days atoning for my silence, praying that it is not too late to save my soul.’

‘You will not abandon me!’ he cried, the demand of a child stamping his foot in outrage.

Dame Alys turned to Owen. ‘I will tell you all you want to know on the condition that you permit me to retire to my brother’s house in Wakefield to live out my life in peace.’

‘That is not for me to say. But if you help the sheriff in this, I believe he would accept your banishment from York.’

Gunnell squirmed as the guards lifted him from the seat. ‘Mother!’

She looked away, turning back to Owen only when the door shut, muting his curses. ‘Some wine,’ she said to her maidservant, sitting with eyes closed until the bowl was put in her hands. Sipping it, she met Owen’s gaze. ‘I pray you are never so disappointed in your child,’ she said. ‘You were correct, of course, he failed at his father’s trade. I watched and said nothing, believing he would pick himself up and start again. My fault he took to theft while pretending the shop was doing well?’ She crossed herself. ‘It might have gone on this way until Gisburne and the others tracked him down and had their way with him. But Reynard found him first, insinuating his way into the shop and taking up residence. My son foolishly believed he might offer the man a portion of the gain from the plan he and Pete had devised to steal old Snicket’s treasure. They waited only for Laurence to find a trustworthy company of travelers with whom to go south to London. So he proposed the partnership. Stupid, stupid man. How could he not see the trap? From that moment Reynard had only to threaten taking the tale to the sheriff to get what he wanted from my son. The attack was his command. The money? Laurence has not seen it since handing it over to the man. But as I said, Laurence was gone before Pete’s fall. The other one escorted him from the city. The large man. Madoc.’

‘When did you learn all this?’

‘He confessed all to me not long before Madoc took him away. Some I had guessed earlier – the chests of stolen items.’

‘Who was it attacked Jonas Snicket?’

‘Laurence and Pete. When I learned that Pete had gone to you pretending to be a victim, I lost all pity for him. Wicked old man. I left the house, my excuse my ailing neighbor. I could not trust what I would say when Pete woke, and I had promised Laurence I would say nothing.’

‘Have you any idea where Reynard and Madoc are now?’

‘None. In truth, I would not know Reynard if I passed him in the street. He has kept out of my sight.’

‘Is he injured?’

‘I know nothing about that. Madoc has a slight limp and a bandage on his neck.’

‘Are there others with them?’

‘I know only of my son’s connection with the pair.’

‘Has he spoken of the taverners of the Bell and the Green Man?’

‘The Bell is so near the shop. Laurence mentioned it from time to time. But no names, and nothing beyond a place to retreat to in foul weather. I do not understand what he was doing at the Green Man.’

‘Why did you not come to us?’ Owen asked. ‘Save him from himself?’

‘I could not betray my son. I know the punishment for theft.’ She eyed him coldly. ‘You will see with your own.’

God grant Owen never knew the pain.

‘What I know of Reynard is that he takes credit for blinding you,’ she said. ‘He boasts of it as proof of his prowess. Yet he hates you still. Madoc does as well. Is it true? Was it this Reynard who blinded you?’

‘He failed in his duty the night I was injured, deserting his watch so that a spy could sneak into the camp. I fought the spy and his woman, not Reynard. But I am not surprised he changed the tale of his shame.’

‘Do you hate him?’

‘I did once. No longer – at least not for that.’ For the threat to his family, yes. Owen rose. ‘I am grateful for all you have told me.’

Brother Michaelo followed him from the room. ‘She knew so much and said nothing all this time. Why now?’

‘I imagine her son is wondering the same thing. Shall we see?’ Owen saw the monk’s reluctance. ‘Perhaps you might tell Sir Ralph of tomorrow’s burial. That Walter and Arn should be allowed to clean themselves for being released into my care tonight. Have them carted to Jehannes’s garden shed with David’s coffin. Under guard.’

Michaelo bowed. ‘I will go to them after that? Tell them?’

‘Yes. I will find you there.’

The lantern caught the sheen of damp on the stone walls, the dust rising from the foul rushes. The cell held the ghosts of former prisoners, their gut-emptying fear, the damp overlaying it. Gunnell had yet to make his mark. As the man struggled to sit up, Owen saw the blood-smeared face. He’d been wrong. Gunnell would leave his mark in this dark place.

‘Come to gloat?’

Owen called for clean rags, water, a jug of ale and two bowls. He placed a bench near the door. ‘No. I have seen my fill of men like you. I find no sport in kicking you.’

A guard returned with the rags and water.

‘Clean your face, then wash out your mouth,’ said Owen.

Gunnell made fast work of it. By the time he handed the bucket to the guard, another had come with the ale.

‘Wash out the taste with this.’ Owen poured a bowl and handed it to Gunnell.

‘You have me treated like a cur, then show mercy. Why?’

Owen settled on the bench. While Gunnell drank, he began the tale of a captain of archers and his best marksman, through to the night of betrayal.

‘What then?’

‘My injuries were all that I knew for months. As the fog of pain lifted for me, my trusted men helped me remember who had the watch that night, who failed me. For a while I would not hear it, mired in my own failure. I was the fool to trust the jongleur. But I did consult with the old duke, who had already listened to Leif, my second, and sent a captain to investigate. Reynard expressed remorse, begged a chance to prove himself. “Trust that he will never see advancement in my ranks,” said the old duke. “Look now to your own healing. I need my captain back.”’

‘You shrugged and moved on.’ Gunnell spat into the rushes. ‘And he was someone else’s problem.’

Owen deserved that. Had he insisted on punishing Reynard, expelling him – how many victims might he have saved, not just those he knew of? ‘In time, when my eye did not open to the light, the old duke found another use for me.’

‘Reynard sounds no better, no worse than most.’

‘The danger in him was his skill in turning good men into his toadies to punish others for resisting him, abandoning them when caught.’

Gunnell grunted. ‘As he did me. Is that why you are here? To shame me?’

‘The memories are snapping at my heels. To talk of them might release their hold. You are a captive audience.’ Owen lifted the jug. ‘More?’

Gunnell held out the bowl.

Owen settled back. ‘We found a bloody rag in the kitchen of the archbishop’s palace. Blood-stained rushes. The stench of sickness in the bandage. I see no such injury on you.’

‘No.’

‘Whoever it is will die without help.’

‘You think I don’t know that?’ Gunnell turned away.

‘That bothers you.’ He had found Laurence’s conscience.

‘He was an innocent. One of the Malton brothers. Noah. Madoc slashed him for trying to run.’

‘You saw this?’

‘No. Madoc told me. Warned me.’

‘Where is Noah now?’

‘They tell me nothing. Saw the young man once. He and his brother helped search Snicket’s house. Last I saw them.’

Tragic. If true. ‘Where is Reynard hiding?’

‘I told you, they tell me nothing. Haven’t seen him since he took the chest we found in Snicket’s house. He moves about by night, for the most part. At least that’s how it was when he hid in my shop.’

‘Anyone else sleep in the shop?’ Gunnell shook his head. So it was almost certainly Reynard’s scent on the bedding, the bandages, and the hat. ‘Madoc, the Malton brothers, who else joined him?’

‘Two taverners, but they’re no threat to you. Provide food, drink, sometimes shelter. Reynard trusts only Madoc with weapons.’

‘Not the brothers?’

‘I don’t know how he’s using Abel. Sounds like Noah’s of no use.’

‘Where does Madoc hide?’

‘Nowhere and everywhere. I’d say you trained them well, Captain.’

‘You are quiet,’ Michaelo noted as they crossed the city. ‘Setting the pieces on the board?’

‘Searching for the weakened king. Or the pawn.’

‘Do you believe it is the Malton brother who is injured?’

In addition to Reynard, perhaps. Unless some dark angel watched over the fox. Alisoun and Ned had just missed whoever Bard was tracking. Could the dog have confused the scents? But why would Noah run from them? No. Even had the fox bandaged Noah, leaving his scent on the rag, there was the bedding and the hat. More likely someone asked about a bloody bandage and a tale was spun, pointing to one easily discarded. Where were the brothers now? Should Owen call off the search on the river? Or might Reynard choose the river over rotting in some hole?

‘Owen?’

Startled by the monk’s use of his given name, he met the worried gaze. ‘It doesn’t fit.’

‘Care to tell me why?’

The monk nodded as he explained. ‘I see.’

This monk, once his enemy, was now his partner. And Owen hated the favor he must ask him. But not out here. ‘I will not rest easy until this is resolved. Not for my satisfaction, but for the safety of all taking risks to bring the two to justice.’

‘We have a common purpose,’ said Michaelo. He nodded ahead. ‘We have been sighted.’ One of Wykeham’s servants stood in Jehannes’s doorway.

With no time even to remove his cloak, Owen was set upon by Wykeham’s priests and servants, clamoring for assurance that the bishop was comfortable, demanding to know when they might join him.

‘His Grace is enjoying Sir Ralph’s hospitality. He is quite comfortable. You will see him after the requiem and burial tomorrow morning.’

Dom Jehannes whisked Owen and Michaelo into his parlor, shutting the door. ‘I cannot fault them. They feel responsible for His Grace, body and soul. But I have good news. When the dean opposed our using the chapel tomorrow, Dom Antoine sought Sir Francis’s help, quite wisely. The knight informed the dean that Sir John Neville would approve, that they were sent to assist you, Captain, in any way necessary to protect Bishop Wykeham and rid York of the outlaws. The dean suggested St Helen’s, offered to speak with the pastor, and all is arranged. Dom Sebastian has offered to preside over the mass and burial. Dom Antoine and I will assist. Now. Tell me how this came about, and what you hope to achieve.’

‘First let me add the last detail to the ceremony,’ said Owen, looking to Michaelo.