A Conspiracy of Wolves

by Candace Robb

  ‘And bring them justice?’

  ‘Justice? No. Breathing life into the dead, undoing their injuries – that would be justice, but that I cannot do. I seek to prevent further violence, expose the corruption …’ Owen’s words sounded hollow to him even as he uttered them. ‘It is little enough.’

  ‘You are an honorable man, Captain.’ Michaelo held Owen’s gaze for a moment. ‘God surely blesses your work. Perhaps this is His intent, the work through which I might atone for my sins, serving you in this endeavor.’

  It seemed he had taken to heart Owen’s hint of having a possible ongoing need for his services. Time would tell whether the monk embraced that challenge. ‘To Bartolf’s home then. I pray the servant Joss is there.’

  ‘Do you suspect him?’

  ‘Until I talk to him, I’ve no way of knowing.’ But how Joss received them might help Owen understand why Bartolf had become so concerned about entrusting the dogs to him that Hoban had felt it necessary to ride out of an evening to rescue them.

  The ride to Bartolf’s home gave Owen more to puzzle over. The track was wet and overgrown, part of the marsh when the Ouse flooded, hardly the path Hoban would commonly take. Why had he done so as night fell? And how did Joss happen on Hoban’s body? With his one eye Owen swept the narrow track, looking for anything that seemed out of place. Again it was Michaelo, following, who found it.

  ‘An item fallen beside the track,’ he called out. ‘To your left, wedged in a low branch.’

  Owen’s blind side. He dismounted, guided to the spot by the monk, who remained astride.

  ‘There,’ said Michaelo, ‘near your right knee.’

  Crouching down, Owen saw it, brown and easily dismissed as a dry leaf or part of the trunk, a leather pouch that fit in his palm. He opened it, finding within a waxed parchment packet containing an oily salve. He sniffed. Betony, boneset, and something else he could not identify – but Lucie would know what it was. The combination suggested a wound and a broken bone, common enough among country laborers, horsemen. Owen tucked it into his scrip.

  Michaelo leaned down. ‘Is it useful?’

  ‘That depends on who dropped it, and when.’

  No smoke rose from the long, low house, no dogs prowled the fenced area to one side. The gate was fastened, the structure appeared to be complete and undamaged. No one answered as Owen called out and opened the door. Spare furnishings, bowls, and moldy bread sat on a shelf along the wall that looked out into the dogs’ enclosure. Up the ladder to the loft, a pallet was piled with skins, an overturned jug and bowl.

  ‘Had he no one to tidy and cook for him?’ Michaelo said with disgust.

  ‘If so, whatever he paid them was too much,’ said Owen. ‘Perhaps Joss did it all.’ Or someone else was missing.

  Exiting the house, Owen spied the well-worn track he recalled taking the few times he had called on Bartolf. Much wider, more appropriate for accommodating Hoban on horseback with the dogs ambling along. ‘Seems to me this would have been Hoban’s choice to and from the house at dusk, not the narrow track to the clearing where he was killed.’

  ‘Perhaps the way along the marsh was not his choice?’

  ‘Possible, though I saw no sign of struggle at the house.’

  Before mounting his horse, Owen cupped his hands and called out for Joss. Waited. Called again. Nothing.

  ‘Perhaps he often disappeared,’ said Michaelo, ‘and that caused Bartolf to worry about the dogs.’

  ‘Yet he spent several days in York without concern.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Michaelo.

  As he led the way down the more traveled track Owen took the right-hand side. Though it meant he must turn in the saddle to look at Michaelo, he could search the right side of the track with his good eye while his companion searched to the left. So occupied, they rode in silence for a while.

  ‘Geoffrey Chaucer must have galloped to Freythorpe Hadden the moment he had word of Dame Philippa’s death,’ Michaelo suddenly said. ‘One wonders how he retains his position in the royal household, he spends so much time away.’ He adjusted himself in the saddle so he might glance at Owen. ‘How did Chaucer hear of her passing?’

  ‘He came north on a mission, learned of our loss from the Merchets at the York Tavern.’

  ‘Ah. That explains much. Yes, I see. He came north on a mission for Prince Edward, did he not?’

  As he was biding in the home of Archdeacon Jehannes, Michaelo had been privy to some of Owen’s discussions with his friend, and knew that a visit from Geoffrey was imminent. The prince grew impatient for an answer to his generous offer. Prince Edward, the future king, hero of Crécy and Poitiers, wanted Owen in his retinue, to be his spy in the north. He would have Owen keep his ears pricked for news of the powerful Northern families – the Percys and the Nevilles in particular – and report to him quarterly, or on the occasion of something he should hear at once. Owen had first been recruited by the prince’s wife while his liege lord the archbishop yet lived. But coming from the prince himself – it now carried so much weight it felt like a royal command. Chaucer understood, and had tried to soften that with visions of the great honor it would be to serve the future King of England.

  ‘The matter of your position in his household?’ said Michaelo, misunderstanding Owen’s silence.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A pity that the prince uses your friend as mediator, with the risk that such coercion might cause a rift between you.’

  ‘A rift? Hardly.’ Geoffrey was ever irritating.

  ‘My error.’

  Owen turned in his saddle to look at his companion. ‘I take it you have considered Jehannes’s idea that you serve as my secretary should I join the prince’s household?’ The position would require much correspondence, and who better qualified than the former secretary of an archbishop? Michaelo was also acquainted with many Nevilles and Percys, indeed, he had dealt with all the noble families in the North, overseeing the preparations for their visits to the archbishop and accompanying His Grace to their castles and manors.

  ‘I have, Captain. I can think of no one better suited to the task.’ Owen grinned in response, but Michaelo was quite serious as he continued. ‘I would be honored, should you so wish it. Though my purpose was not to pry.’

  Owen doubted that. The monk was likely eager to know whether he might once again move in high circles.

  ‘My point was,’ Michaelo paused as if searching for the right words, ‘I fail to see how this afternoon’s task proves my capability. Your duties for the prince would not be those of a coroner.’

  ‘I disagree. If all were peaceful amongst the great families of the North, His Grace would have no need of me. Powerful men are no more likely to die in their beds than are the citizens of York. Prince’s man or captain of bailiffs, I might have need of you in investigating a violent death.’

  That was the other possibility. The mayor, aldermen, and wealthy merchants of York wished Owen to take up the work of captain of the city bailiffs, a position they had proposed with him in mind; indeed they could not understand why he would hesitate – a comfortable annuity, status in the city, work that was not much different from his previous responsibilities as the archbishop’s captain of guards. Ah, but the difference was all – except for his journeys to his and Lucie’s manors south of the city, Owen would have no cause to travel far. He would be home with his family, among his friends, with never the threat of long stretches away. It seemed ideal.

  Yet he hesitated. With Lucie’s shop, the York house, her father’s manor and his own, which had come to him by Archbishop Thoresby’s gift, his family did not need the city’s annuity. As a third option, Owen might occupy himself, as he had done since Thoresby’s death, seeing to their land and business, answerable to no one but his family and his own conscience. But whenever he considered that aloud, Lucie asked why, then, he continued to retain two of his former men. Alfred and Stephen had helped him rid his new manor of a band of thieves, and he’d left them there fo
r a few weeks with Rollo, the steward he’d hired. But that had been several months ago. He was bored, she said. Bored with the life he’d yearned for all the while he worked for Thoresby. The old crow must be laughing in Heaven.

  Lucie had favored the council’s offer until Geoffrey appeared at Freythorpe with specifics about the one from Prince Edward. The prince offered a far more generous stipend than did the York council, as well as property, status, even a knighthood if Owen wished. He most assuredly did not, and Lucie supported him in that. Nor did she care a whit for wealth or status. It was the work she believed would be to his liking, more varied and potentially far more interesting than keeping order in the city. No doubt. But Owen knew the prince’s reputation, the brutality of his raids in Gascony, and the cold-blooded sentences he laid down on anyone who crossed him. Even now, as ill as he was, Prince Edward’s reputation was that of a querulous, vindictive lord. And what about his illness? How long would he have need of Owen?

  ‘Both he and Princess Joan hope that you would continue to work for her, and the young Prince Richard,’ Geoffrey had assured him. Teasing Owen that he seemed to be weakening, Geoffrey had quickly gone on to explain how it would work. Owen already had influential friends in York and elsewhere in the shire who might be encouraged to share information with him and invite him to accompany them on visitations throughout the area, introducing him to others in the prince’s affinity. ‘And your delightful Lucie, daughter of a knight. The prince is keen to make her acquaintance, as is my lady. An invitation to one of their northern estates, perhaps?’

  Owen thought Lucie might enjoy such an honor. And he would take pleasure in making it possible, even more in escorting her. He disappointed himself in finding the proposal tantalizing. Against all reason he missed the status he’d held as Thoresby’s spy and captain of guards.

  ‘Captain of bailiffs,’ Michaelo sniffed. ‘You would choose that over the prince’s household?’

  ‘I take it you would not.’

  ‘I envy you the luxury of choice.’

  The Swann home stood on a double messuage in Coney Street. A fine wooden archway opened into a modest yard leading to a fine hall with a grand iron-bound oak door.

  ‘A well-designed entry that shields the hall from the busy street,’ Michaelo noted. ‘Much more suited to the status of the family than the house in Galtres.’

  At Owen’s knock, the door was flung open by a young manservant, his red eyes attesting to his affection for his late master.

  ‘Captain Archer. They await you in the buttery,’ he said, bobbing his head to both of them as he stepped aside to allow them passage.

  The hall was lofty, with a tiled floor. Near the fire circle at its heart a woman paced, her silk and velvet gown shifting colors in the firelight. A rosary swung from her hands and her lips moved in prayer. Janet Braithwaite, Muriel Swann’s mother. She was a large, imposing woman.

  ‘God help us,’ Michaelo murmured. ‘She has a taste for going to law, ever vigilant regarding her “due”. She took His Grace to law over a perceived slight.’

  ‘Did she win?’

  ‘Against John Thoresby?’ Michaelo sniffed.

  Apparently there was much Owen did not know about the late archbishop’s standing in the community.

  As soon as the servant informed her of the visitors, Dame Janet turned toward them. As she approached she wrapped the rosary round her left wrist as if a bracelet and shook out her skirts as if prayer were a dusty business. Her eyes bore no signs of grief, though her face was pinched in worry. ‘You have brought a monk, Captain Archer? But I summoned our parish priest.’

  ‘Brother Michaelo is not a priest,’ said Owen. ‘He is kindly assisting me, recording everything for Bartolf, as he would if the victim were not his son.’

  ‘I see.’ Janet nodded to Michaelo. ‘I will have the boy summon Bartolf. He is just out in the kitchen. I did not want him plucking at Hoban’s shroud.’

  ‘He is coroner,’ said Owen. ‘He knows not to do that.’

  ‘When not in his cups,’ said Janet. ‘Which is rare these days. The men said you had them wrap Hoban with care, that it was important not to disturb him until you arrived, and I saw to it that no one did so.’ She began to turn toward the servant.

  ‘No need to summon him, not yet,’ said Owen.

  ‘The old bear will not like it that he was not told of your presence.’

  ‘First I would speak with Bartolf’s manservant, Joss. Where might I find him?’ Owen preferred to speak to the servant away from his master, and then examine the body without the father’s witness.

  ‘The one who precipitated all this? The old bear cursed him and turned him out. I went after him, ordered him back to the house in Galtres where he might be of some use. It is possible the dogs might return to the house. Not the horse. Alas, the horse was a hire, according to my daughter. Hoban was in a hurry to ride out before nightfall, no time to have his readied – it’s stabled across the river. He meant to hire one from a stable outside Bootham Bar. More expense for them.’ She frowned. ‘So you did not stop at the house?’

  ‘I did. Joss had not returned.’

  ‘The lout. He should have been there hours ago.’

  ‘Would you know of a reason Hoban might have carried a salve for a wound? Or had he broken a bone of late?’

  ‘Not that I recall, but my daughter would know. After you have examined the body, I will take you up to her.’ Without further comment Janet escorted the two of them to the buttery at the end of the hall.

  Hoban had been placed on a stone counter. Oil lamps and a lantern provided light, the two guards standing over him. Two servants carrying bowls of oil and water stood by, awaiting instructions. Bartolf sat in a corner, head bowed.

  ‘What are you doing in here?’ Janet demanded.

  ‘Praying for my son.’ Bartolf’s voice was hoarse with grief. His eyes silenced his challenger. ‘The servants are ready to assist you in cleaning the body so that you might better see the wounds, Captain,’ he said.

  So much for sparing the old man. ‘Do you have a pair of scissors to cut the cloth?’ Owen asked.

  One of the servants lifted a pair, offering to do it himself.

  ‘I prefer to begin,’ said Owen. He instructed the guards in freeing enough of the cloak that he might gain purchase in cutting through the wool. It was hard work, the wool stiffened by the dried blood. His hands would ache tonight.

  Janet Braithwaite’s silks rustled as she joined Owen at the table. She groaned when Hoban’s head was uncovered. ‘My poor Muriel must not see this.’ She placed a beringed hand on the scissors. ‘Permit me to do this, Captain. A woman of his family should prepare his body.’

  Owen saw no reason to object. ‘Of course.’ He nodded to the guards. ‘Steady his head and shoulders as best you can.’

  Bartolf stood near his son’s head, his face a mask of anger. ‘I will gut Joss, the bastard. He’s guilty. He’s the one. Why else run away? I curse the day I hired him.’

  So he’d overheard Owen’s conversation with Dame Janet. Quietly advising Brother Michaelo to ignore any such outbursts, Owen was answered by an indignant sniff.

  When the clothing was cut away, Owen motioned the servants to lift the body so that Dame Janet might remove the blood-stiffened fabric from beneath Hoban, the guards still steadying the head and shoulders.

  ‘Now work some of the oil into the crusted blood on his face, then his torso, using wet cloths to wash it away once it has softened. Gently,’ Janet said as the young man jostled the head.

  While Janet oversaw the servants, Owen motioned for Michaelo to record that only the one leg and foot were injured, the fingernails broken and possibly one finger, and one palm was crossed by what looked like a wide, ragged wound, the sort caused when gripping the reins with bare hands as one falls from the horse. ‘When you are finished with the head and torso, clean the hands,’ he said to the servants. Someone approached him from behind.

  ‘This is Father
Paul,’ said Dame Janet.

  ‘We will not be long,’ Owen told him, keeping his eyes on the servant who cleaned the torso. As he worked, several stab wounds were revealed on the stomach just below the ribs. The other worked the hands. Owen saw that he was right about the reins. So Hoban was not wearing gloves. Perhaps in his haste he had forgotten them.

  Now for the most difficult part – the men supported the head while Owen and Bartolf – he insisted, a father’s right – turned Hoban onto his side to examine the back. Scratches, no more. They had just resettled him on his back and adjusted the head when Michaelo touched Owen’s arm and looked toward the door.

  Muriel Swann stood in the doorway, head bowed, hand to heart. All those present followed suit. She took a step forward, then hesitated at the buttery threshold, a mere whisper of a woman, her silk gown loosely hanging from a thin frame that accentuated her swelling stomach. She looked toward her husband’s body with fevered eyes. The servants bowed and withdrew, but when Owen asked if she wished to be alone with Hoban, Muriel shook her head. Her gown released the scent of lavender as she moved to where her husband lay. As she beheld him a sob shook her, and Alisoun, invisible until that moment, hurried into the room, whispering something to her charge. Muriel held up a hand. ‘A moment.’

  Time stood still as the mother-to-be bent to her murdered husband, touching, kissing, whispering endearments. Bartolf stood with head bowed, his body shaking with sobs. Owen was about to turn away when Muriel made a sound like a long sigh and began to slump to the stone floor. He lunged forward and caught her, lifting her in his arms. Though she carried a child in her womb she had little substance. Alisoun led him out through the hall and up outside steps to a bedchamber in the solar. Dame Janet followed on their heels, moving round to the foot of an elegantly draped bed. Alisoun turned back the bedclothes so that Owen could settle his charge on the silken sheets. Muriel stirred, but did not open her eyes as Alisoun drew the covers over her.

  ‘I told her she should not look on his face, for the baby’s sake,’ Dame Janet sobbed. ‘I pray he will not bear the mark of the devil.’