Almost dawn, a hint of light to the east. Owen lay on the roof of Jehannes’s house, watching, waiting, bow beside him, arrows ready. Word had gone out round the city of the unexpected honor being given the fallen David Wells: a mass in St Helen’s, burial in the churchyard, by order of the Bishop of Winchester, a peace offering as he departed the city. Peace for whom, people would wonder. Not for those with reason to hate Wells and his kin for the murder that alerted Owen to their presence. And why? David had attacked the bishop’s men. They would puzzle over it in the taverns for days to come.
Down below, a figure stood in the hall doorway, awaiting his cue. Behind the house, men guarded the coffin. David’s body had been brought by cart from the castle to the archbishop’s chapel after sunset, Walter and Arn lying pressed to either side of the coffin beneath the covering cloth. Dom Jehannes, Brother Michaelo, Dom Antoine, and Dom Sebastian had taken turns sitting the vigil, Owen’s men on watch in the shadows. In the archbishop’s palace beyond, Owen had moved among the rooms, listening. No sign of the fox, though nearby two men were pulled from the river, beaten, unconscious, but alive. The Malton brothers. Brother Henry made room for them in St Mary’s infirmary. He found no old, festering wounds on either man. All were fresh.
After a fitful sleep in the early hours, Owen had broken his fast with Jasper, who was determined to greet the dawn on the roof.
Now, as light teased the darkness, Owen watched, listened. Though alert and ready, he was calm, the hour come at last. He thought only of Reynard’s victims living and dead. He did not count himself among them.
Life stirred in the shacks of the poor in the shadow of the minster, making ready to disperse for the daylight hours. Owen waited.
At last, as dawn silvered the minster towers, he dropped a stone. Below him, the man stepped out from the archdeacon’s doorway. He wore the dark, simple robes of a cleric, his modest appearance belied by a manservant rushing out with a fur-lined cloak. ‘Your Grace, the chill,’ he said, draping the cloak around his master’s shoulders, the hood over his head. As His Grace walked slowly back and forth down below, prayer beads softly clinking, Owen watched the trees in the yard, the rooftops, listened for footsteps. All was quiet.
His Grace retired into the house as Sir Francis and his men arrived. Making his way down, Owen greeted them, taking the knight aside to inform him that the requiem had been moved to St Helen’s across from his home, discuss the strategy.
‘Abbot William wishes me to inform you that he disapproves,’ said Francis. ‘Though I guessed your purpose, I did not argue with him.’ He took a deep breath. ‘You have complicated the departure. Do you expect more than Reynard and Madoc?’
‘I can’t be certain. Tell your men to look to mine, notice who they’re watching.’
‘Of course. I wondered. The man in the bishop’s cloak. It’s not …’ He stopped when Owen held up his hand. ‘It is a risk,’ said Francis.
‘All who participate in the ceremony are at risk,’ said Owen. ‘I pray I can depend on you and your men to assist mine in protecting the crowd?’
‘You may be sure of that, Captain.’
While Owen observed Neville’s men taking their posts for the procession, the master mason from the minster works and Marcus Bolton, David’s last employer, approached, leading a group of men who worked in the yard. Dom Jehannes stepped out to greet them, escorting them to the coffin waiting on the cart.
Owen moved on to the church, searching it with Alisoun and Bard before helping Rhys across the street and placing a stool for him beside where his brother’s coffin would sit during the mass. Late the previous day, Owen had arrived home to discover him standing with one arm round Magda and the other round Kate, taking shuffling steps. Not only conscious and sitting up, but walking? ‘What miracle is this?’
‘He woke with a cramp in his leg. It will weary him more than Magda would like, but pain, too, is wearying.’
‘Good,’ Rhys gasped. ‘It’s gone.’
Owen helped them seat him on the settle by the fire, while Kate took his bedding outside for a good shake.
‘If we help you cross to St Helen’s Church, do you think you can sit through your brother’s requiem in the morning?’ Owen asked.
Rhys had looked at him in wonder. ‘It is happening? Where will he be buried?’
‘Outside in the churchyard. I warn you, there is danger. But you will be guarded, and your brother will be blessed and buried.’
The grieving brother sat quietly now, head bowed, praying, as the bells of St Helen’s began to toll overhead.
Leaving him in the company of Tupper Merchet, Owen went out to watch as the coffin bearers and clerics processed through the minster gates and crossed into Stonegate. A few brave souls stood outside their doors watching. Owen signaled for all guarding the church and churchyard that the procession was near.
Still no move from Reynard and company.
Arn and Walter carried the coffin into the church, assisted by Marcus Bolton and the master mason. Then uncle and cousin supported Rhys to the coffin, all three bowing their heads to pray.
Throughout the service all the worshippers stood tense, heads turning at the smallest, unexpected sound. Owen had not expected such a sizable crowd, could not guess how many were there because the tale of the brothers touched their hearts, how many in defiance of those who wished to terrorize their city, how many merely curious.
Slipping from the church as the mass ended, Owen slowly walked past his home, the apothecary, the York Tavern, and down along the south end of the cemetery. He paused a moment at the south steps, watching the gravedigger tidy the hole for the coffin. Nodding to him when the digger glanced up, his eyes wary until they saw who stood there, Owen continued his circuit, moving up the far side toward Stonegate, closing his eye now and then to listen and reach for a sense of danger. A prickle of something, but faint. He saw no sign of what it might be. At the corner opposite the church he entered a goldsmith’s shop as arranged earlier and up to the first floor, moving through a cluster of excited apprentices to take his place at the window. He warned them to back away, then readied his bow.
The procession flowed out of the church, Dom Antoine and Dom Sebastian followed by Dom Jehannes and His Grace, then the coffin, with Arn and Walter to the fore, the masons behind. After the coffin came Lucie and the children, quickly crossing the street and disappearing into the house. Owen breathed a little easier. Now came neighbors and men from the minster stoneyard, some hastening away, others walking solemnly up among the graves. Tupper Merchet and Rhys brought up the rear, going straight to Owen’s house. The brother would have his moment at the grave later.
Sir Francis and his men closed in around the walled churchyard, watching the rooftops and windows as well as the crowd. As Dom Antoine intoned a prayer, Owen saw movement in a window to his right. An arrow flew out, striking His Grace, another arrow flying from the apothecary roof, over the people clustering around the fallen cleric, striking the shooter in the window. He jerked, then slumped over the windowsill, bow and arrow tumbling down into the street. Canter. Well done, my son.
In the midst of the chaos round the grave, a large man threw back his hood and rushed Arn, knocking him down. Marcus Bolton bent to help and was pulled away by one of his fellows as an arrow pierced the thigh or hip of the attacker. On the York roof, Ned reached for a replacement arrow. Bolton grabbed the wounded attacker and threw him off Arn. Walter helped his son to his feet, supporting him. Dom Jehannes tried to quiet the crowd, motioning for Antoine to continue as he bent to His Grace. Hempe pushed through the crowd, plucking up the one who had tackled Arn, dragging the flailing man away. As Owen had guessed, it was Madoc. Ned had shot him through the thigh.
Dom Antoine turned from the grave, blessing the crowd. Dom Jehannes helped His Grace to his feet, solicitous, helping remove the heavy cloak with the arrow, revealing Brother Michaelo, shaken, but uninjured.
They had Madoc and Canter. Where was Reynard?
Sir Francis and his men departed with Wykeham’s servants and priests, and the bishop’s cloak. They would meet His Grace at the castle, then cross the river to the priory by barge. Crispin Poole was in charge of the archers who would guard them from the Old Baile once they crossed out of the castle’s protections. Brother Michaelo had withdrawn to Jehannes’s to shed the chain mail, complaining of its weight. He’d been winded, and anticipated a painful bruise, but nothing serious. Magda and Lucie were caring for Arn in the house. The knife had gone deep. Owen had left Walter pacing in the garden, watched by two of the sheriff’s men.
But Reynard was still out there.
Jasper stood near the garden gate, looking out toward where Madoc and Canter lay bound and under guard. ‘He’s the one who attacked us,’ he said. ‘Madoc, not Reynard.’
‘And on the tavern roof?’
‘No. Pale hair. So it was Reynard I stabbed with the arrow. I am glad. But where is he? Why wasn’t he here?’
‘He is here.’ Owen felt it in his bones, and saw it in Madoc’s eyes as he watched him, trying to look smug but faltering – he was in pain, the arrow through his thigh forcing him to lie with the leg bent. Reaching down, Owen gave the arrow a twist. Madoc clenched his teeth, barely daring to breathe. ‘Where is the fox?’
‘I see he has you worried. He is out there laughing. Three of us against so many. And still he’s free.’ Madoc coughed.
‘I’ll help you up.’ Owen lifted him up by his collar, propped him against the coffin cart, then punched him in the face. And again. Blood flowed from his nose. ‘That’s for my children.’ Punched him in the gut. ‘And for Rhys.’
Doubled over, Madoc still could not resist peering up with a bloody leer. ‘And the cousin?’
‘I’ll allow you that.’ Owen nodded to Hempe. ‘Toss him in the cart.’
He crouched down to Canter. ‘What did he offer you?’
‘Not enough,’ the man mumbled, looking at the arrow in his shoulder. ‘I’m ruined for the bow.’
‘Some of Jonas Snicket’s hoard?’
‘And escaping the north. We’re nothing here.’
Madoc chuckled. Owen reached out and fiddled with the arrow in his thigh. ‘Quiet.’ He studied Canter, took hold of his hands, examining the bruised and scabbed knuckles. ‘Who helped you beat the Malton brothers and toss them in the river?’
‘That bastard.’ He nodded toward the cart.
‘Toss him up,’ he told the men. Canter was Hempe’s to bloody, his recruit. Jasper had caught him in the shoulder, preventing him from taking another shot. He’d commended his son on his choice. I thought it’s what you would do. He was right.
He called to Alisoun and Bard. ‘Let’s hunt a fox.’
Alisoun refreshed Bard on Reynard’s smell with the bandage and the handful of blood-soaked straw, hoping the scent was still strong enough. They set out, circling the walled cemetery.
At first Bard meandered, unable to find a trail. But just past the house where Canter had positioned himself, the dog shot into a narrow alley and straight to a small cart tucked beneath the eaves. He circled it, then headed to the back of the house, spinning around, then running to a partially collapsed shed. Barking, he returned to Alisoun, sitting at her feet.
Owen crouched down and peered into the shed, saw the eyes, smelled the prey, the wounded fox, huddled in a corner.
Alisoun fetched the cart.
‘Took you awhile … lordling Captain.’ A weak chuckle. ‘Ran you a … merry chase.’ Reynard slurred his words, his breath rasping. Owen smelled wine on his breath. ‘Saw it all. Outwitted us … in the end. Madoc missed the … switch. If I’d …’ He closed his eyes, his breathing shallow.
Owen reached in to draw Reynard out by his feet, the stench of sweat, sickness, wine, and the festering wound stinging his nose. He helped him sit up. Fever wrapped Reynard in heat, yet he shivered. In the light, the visible signs of impending death, the mottling of the skin, the stain on the stomach blood mixed with pus.
‘You crawled in there to die in peace?’
‘Peace.’ The attempt to spit left Reynard gasping for breath.
Alisoun helped lift the dying man into the cart, then crouched to Bard, rubbing his ears. ‘Where shall we take him, Captain?’
‘The tavern yard. We’ll ask Magda what might ease his misery.’ It might revive him sufficiently to answer for himself.
‘Don’t want your pity.’
‘Nothing more than I would do for any suffering creature,’ said Owen, picking up the cart handle and maneuvering out of the alley.
‘Cut me down, damn you,’ Reynard shrieked. ‘End this.’
A woman hurrying by crossed herself.
‘It was over for me long ago,’ said Owen. ‘You might have proved me wrong, gained a lord’s trust. What did this festering hatred gain you?’
‘Hell.’ The fox closed his eyes and curled round his rotting flesh.
Late in the day, Owen sat by the fire in Sir Ralph’s parlor in the castle.
‘My men tell me Reynard curses when they apply the salve Dame Lucie prepared for him,’ said the sheriff. ‘Is it extending his life? Will he live to answer to the king’s justice?’
‘All that can be done is to make him more comfortable,’ said Owen. ‘With or without it, he has a few days left, at most a week, according to Dame Magda.’
‘You took pity on your enemy?’
‘I take no pleasure in his suffering. Madoc, on the other hand …’ Owen sipped his wine.
‘For attacking your children,’ said Sir Ralph. ‘I saw your handiwork. That I understand. And Canter – George Hempe instructed him with black eyes and a broken nose. I am sorry you suffered a betrayal. But you did say Reynard had a honeyed tongue.’
‘Better men than Canter fell for it.’
‘Still. Could he not see the man was ailing?’
‘Madoc promised him Reynard’s share.’
‘A fool to believe such a man.’ The sheriff shook his head, as if mystified. ‘You might have heard that the Maltons have come for their sons. The father says Noah and Abel had dragged the corpse out into the field and stripped it. For him. Good cloth when cleaned and mended. Later that morning, Reynard and Madoc came accusing them of murdering their mate, threatening to kill them all unless the sons helped them. Father and mother were watched while the sons kept my men from the house. Later they took them away. Malton swears his sons are innocent. Should we believe him?’
‘If for a moment either one saw gain in it, being beaten and tossed in the river sobered them,’ said Owen. ‘It seems sufficient punishment.’
‘They have been talkative. Said Madoc arrived weeks before the others and struck up conversations in taverns, found friends in the taverners of the Green Man and the Bell. Barker and Dunn eventually offered him a share in their business with Gunnell, useful as a stranger, well-spoken.’
‘I gave Madoc too little credit.’ But in the end even Dunn and Barker had deserted him, taking off with Snicket’s hoard on the day of reckoning. They’d been caught by the sheriff’s men on the road south, recovering the old man’s treasure for the king. Canter was the only one to hang on. And a few lads rounded up by Poole at the Old Baile.
‘What of Walter and Arn Wells?’ asked Owen.
‘Bishop Wykeham wanted them sent to Winchester for trial, but I cannot permit that. Their crimes were committed on my land, and in the city of York.’
‘They attacked the bishop’s men. Murdered one of them.’
‘And injured yours. They will be given a fair trial, I promise you. It was enough that I agreed to His Grace’s wish that David Wells be buried with grace. What of young Rhys? Will he return to the land, or stay on here, to work in stone?’
‘He says his place is with his mother, now alone.’
‘Ah.’ The sheriff raised his glass. ‘It has been an honor to work with you.’
Owen raised his glass. ‘And with you.’
‘I am in your debt. I see why Prince Edward chose you.’
‘You will sleep at home tonight?’
‘Tomorrow. My men need rest before riding out.’
Owen drank deep, letting the fine wine warm him. Tonight he would sleep well.