A Conspiracy of Wolves Page 6

  ‘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.’

  FOUR

  A Rumor of Wolves

  For a moment Owen let the sounds of a busy night in the York Tavern override the voices of his two companions, George Hempe and Geoffrey Chaucer – tankards thumping on the long tables, feet stomping on the floor in time to Tucker’s fiddling, laughter rising up, folk greeting latecomers, and beneath it all the steady rumble of men’s deep voices. He leaned back and stretched out his legs with a sigh of contentment.

  Until Old Bede coughed out his latest conspiracy. ‘The sheriff says he was beaten but he did not show us the body, did he? Wolves attacked Hoban’s grandfather the hour Hoban was born. It’s true. And now the wolves have returned to Galtres. The sheriff and the mayor, and some what are sitting right in this room’ – his eyes slid to Owen’s table – ‘don’t want us to know, but it’s plain, eh?’ The old man sucked his teeth and his eyes narrowed to slits as he prepared to hawk up his bile and spit it out.

  ‘Not on my clean floor, Bede. Out in the alleyway with you,’ Bess Merchet warned as she entered the public room in the nick of time. ‘And you’re out for good if I catch you spreading such lies in my tavern again.’ With hand to mouth, Bede lurched across the floor, almost knocking over a man who had risen to propose a toast at the next table. ‘I count on you to remind him what he risks,’ Bess told the old gossip’s companions. ‘And it goes for all of you as well. Dogs attacked Hoban. There are no wolves in Galtres, nor in all of England, not any more.’

  As if apologizing for her guest, Bess bobbed her head to Bartolf Swann, who had left his seat back in the corner of the tavern, where he’d been drinking with a pair of stonemasons, and was weaving his way amongst the tables, heading for the door. The old man nodded blearily as he departed.

  ‘She would make a fine bailiff,’ said Geoffrey.

  To the other side of Owen, Hempe choked on his ale. ‘A woman? She could never pull her weight.’

  ‘Oh, I think you are wrong about that, master bailiff.’

  Hempe leaned close to Owen. ‘Master Chaucer goes too far.’

  ‘He meant to rile you, and he succeeded. Be easy, George.’

  It was not entirely true, Bess’s claim. There were still a few wolf packs in England, or so it would seem. Whitby Abbey boasted wolf pelts of recent vintage, and the monks of Rievaulx Abbey had reported a wolf pack on the north moors the previous winter, feeding on sheep. Magda Digby knew of a pack that wintered in Galtres, though the warden of the forest denied it, blaming the loss of livestock on poaching outlaws.

  So that part of Bede’s story was possibly more accurate than Bess gave him credit for, and the rest was not entirely his imagining. Hoban’s grandfather had been attacked by a pack of wild dogs, not wolves, at the very moment of his grandson’s birth. The midwife had crossed herself when she heard and said it bode ill for the boy. That was long before Owen had come to York, but he had heard the story from enough folk to give it credence. Curséd old man, conjuring the horror of Hoban’s murder in the presence of his grieving father.

  Geoffrey rocked his tankard on the table as he observed the room with a half-smile. Owen followed his gaze to the one-armed merchant, Crispin Poole.

  Curious, he leaned over to ask, ‘Are you acquainted with Poole?’

  Starting, Geoffrey bowed his head as if realizing how he had been staring. ‘He intrigues me. As if a pirate donned the clothing and the bearing of a man of means, a prominent citizen of the city. We are not acquainted, but I hope to remedy that.’

  ‘The prince is interested?’

  Geoffrey looked at him askance. ‘Why would you think that? How would His Grace know of this man?’

  ‘You discomfited him, Master Chaucer,’ said Hempe. Indeed, Poole now stood, counting out some coin. ‘No amount of tailoring can hide his stump of an arm. A man knows better than to stare.’

  Owen agreed. He felt a kinship with Poole. They’d had a few ales together, sharing their mutual discomfort about their appearance. Poole had seemed keen to hear about how Owen had created a new life, started a family. I envy you, Archer.

  ‘I will seek him out and beseech his forgiveness at the first opportunity,’ said Geoffrey.

  ‘Oh, aye, that would surely win his favor.’ Hempe made a face at Owen as if to say his companion was quite mad.

  But he was wrong about that. Geoffrey’s mind was sharp, focused. What was his business with Crispin Poole, that is what Owen wished to know. He would bear watching.

  ‘So what have Alfred and Stephen discovered?’ Hempe asked.

  ‘Still no one at Bartolf’s,’ said Owen. ‘They’ve begun searching all the properties nearby. A neighbor told them Cilla rarely worked for just one household, she once worked for Bess – for all of a day – but we’ve found no one who’s seen her since Hoban’s death.’

  ‘Worked here for a day?’ Geoffrey laughed. ‘What was her crime?’

  ‘More than a little mad, as Bess put it,’ said Owen.

  ‘And the taverner would have none of that.’ Hempe laughed.

  According to Bess, Cilla had also worked for Archdeacon Jehannes for a brief period. Perhaps he might offer some insight.

  ‘And none of the barbers recognized the salve?’ Owen asked Hempe.

  ‘None would admit to it.’

  ‘Would you?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Such a murder, and then the bailiff’s man comes round with
such a question.’

  ‘A wretched business, all in all,’ Hempe mumbled into his tankard.

  The sun was low in the sky and a freshening breeze had dispelled the late-afternoon warmth. Lucie stood at the entrance to the walled herb garden considering the order of her autumn chores. She had lost time with the trip to Freythorpe and there was much work ahead before the first frost. Owen enjoyed doing the digging and the heavier work, but with Hoban’s murderer to find he might not now have time to help. If only Edric, her second apprentice, had stayed until after Yuletide, as originally planned. But as he’d never seemed at ease after his falling out with Jasper over Alisoun’s affections, Lucie had not tried to dissuade him from what appeared to be an excellent opportunity in Beverley.

  ‘Dame Lucie?’ Alisoun stood beneath the linden.

  With a fleeting thought of having summoned the young woman with her reverie – why did such fantasies arise at dusk? – Lucie hastened toward her, noticing that the young woman shivered in the cooling evening. ‘You came out without a cloak or wrap? Is it Dame Muriel? Do you need help?’

  ‘I would welcome some advice, but I was most eager to speak with the captain. Is he here?’

  ‘No. He’s at the tavern. Might I help?’

  ‘Did you know he gave his men leave to sleep in Magda’s house last night without ever asking my permission?’

  ‘He did not—?’

  ‘Dame Magda entrusted her home to me in her absence. It is my responsibility. But he never thought to ask.’

  Accustomed to the young woman’s temper, Lucie did not take offense at her abruptness. ‘He knows better than to do that,’ she said. ‘I will speak with him, though I do not believe he meant for them to stay another night.’ She put an arm round Alisoun’s slender shoulders. ‘Come in, do. We will talk in the warmth.’

  Lucie guided Alisoun past the table where Jasper poured over some books. ‘My first husband’s garden journals,’ she said softly.

  Alisoun greeted Jasper as she passed him, but he did not even look up from his reading. A falling out? Lucie wondered. She led Alisoun to a long bench by the window.