A Conspiracy of Wolves

by Candace Robb

  ‘Ned. But he was gone by the time we searched the house. Whoever he was, he’d lit a fire there.’

  ‘So he spends time there. Watching the Swann house?’ Lucie crossed herself. ‘Someone is helping them, someone with the means to hide the men and their dogs, and provide a way for them to move about the city.’

  Owen nodded, walking toward the folk peering out from the hovels. But he managed only to frighten them back into their shells. He turned back to Lucie and Michaelo with a muttered curse.

  ‘They’re frightened,’ said Michaelo.

  ‘A hellhound, the girl called it,’ said Lucie. ‘Do what you need to do, my love. You must find this man.’

  As Owen stepped through the doorway the tavern grew quiet, all eyes on him, eager for news. An old, familiar experience. He was glad he’d left his bow and quiver with Tom at the door. ‘We know nothing more than we did last night,’ he told the Merchets’ patrons.

  Someone asked if Old Bede had been found.

  ‘We are still searching.’

  Folk crossed themselves, then went back to their conversations as he made his way to the far corner where Geoffrey presided.

  ‘Is it true?’ Geoffrey asked. ‘You have nothing?’

  Owen settled on the bench and sighed as his back met the cool outer wall, ignoring the question.

  Bess placed a full tankard before him. ‘Drink up.’

  She was walking away when Owen touched her elbow. ‘On the night Hoban was murdered, was Crispin Poole in the tavern?’

  She tucked in her chin, eyes down, remembering. A slow nod. ‘Yes, he was. Tucked here in the corner. Stayed a long while, alone, drinking little. If he was waiting for someone, they never came.’ To Geoffrey she said, ‘Best leave the captain in peace. I know that look, he’s come to think.’

  ‘I am yours to command, Sweet Bess,’ said Geoffrey, holding out his tankard for a refill.

  But on this particular evening, Geoffrey’s silence was the last thing Owen wanted.

  ‘You made no mention of Sir John Holland,’ said Owen. ‘I would have nothing to do with him?’ He did not trust Princess Joan’s son by her first husband, a young man he found cruel and undisciplined.

  Geoffrey perked up. ‘Not here seeking peace after all? The prince has given much thought to your dislike of Sir John. Though he believes it possible you misjudge his stepson, he values you precisely because you are your own man. You would have no need to communicate with Sir John. What say you?’

  ‘Sweetens the prospect.’

  ‘So you accept?’

  ‘I am considering the prince’s proposal with the care it deserves.’

  ‘Stubborn Welshman. You brought it up to torment me.’

  The ale was beginning to take effect. Owen stretched out his legs and yawned. ‘Muriel Swann believes that Crispin Poole might hold the key to all that has happened. You have an interest in him.’

  Geoffrey narrowed his eyes. ‘What has he to do with the prince?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Nothing, so far as I know. My interest, as you call it, is mere curiosity. The man intrigues me. He seems morose, as if regretting his return. Was it his choice, I wonder.’

  ‘Have you learned anything?’

  ‘How can one bide at the York and not hear about a battle-scarred prodigal son returned? But we’ve not been introduced.’

  ‘Battle?’ He’d not asked Crispin how he’d come to lose the arm, assuming the man wearied of the tale, as Owen did the story of his blinding. ‘Tell me what you know.’

  ‘Is that an order? Am I addressed by the new captain of York’s bailiffs? But soft – you still have no authority over me. Though I am biding in your city, I’m here on the king’s business—’

  ‘Have pity, Geoffrey. Two people have been murdered, and I’m desperate for even a hint of a cause that might connect their deaths.’

  ‘Other than blood? Perhaps you might look to their friends. Speaking of which, our friendship feels brittle of late. You are keeping things from me.’

  ‘As you are from me. How do I know we’re not working at cross-purposes?’

  ‘Owen! You know me better than that. How could you think I would undermine your efforts to find the murderers before more harm is done?’

  He did know him better than to think that. For the most part. He had decided to trust Geoffrey when Princess Joan brought trouble to the archbishop’s palace of Bishopthorpe, and his trust had been rewarded. Yet there was ever a strange friction between them, and Owen found it difficult to relax with the man. Still, he had never, to Owen’s knowledge, worked against him. In apology, Owen told Geoffrey what Lucie had learned from Muriel, the ‘circle’, the secrets, their unease upon Poole’s return. ‘Tell me about him.’

  ‘Your friend the Austin canon—’

  ‘Erkenwald?’ A former soldier, he had put aside his weapons and taken up the cross, serving for some years now at St Leonard’s Hospital. Owen had once coaxed him into action to save Alisoun Ffulford when she ran away from the hospital’s orphanage and straight into trouble.

  Geoffrey grinned. ‘Such a stout name.’ He sat back, arms crossed over his belly, ready to tell a tale. ‘Before Erkenwald took his final vows he accompanied an elder canon to Avignon. There he encountered Poole, a one-armed merchant catering to the English bearing petitions to the Holy See. The story there was that Poole had been felled in battle by a mace to his remarkably thick skull. He woke to find himself trapped beneath a mortally wounded destrier that was crushing his arm as it thrashed in its death agony.’

  ‘Beneath a great beast and he lost only the arm?’ said Owen. ‘Most fortunate of men.’

  ‘I sensed that the canon doubted it happened quite that way. But it is the story Poole tells. However he lost the arm, he seemed a merchant of some account.’

  ‘He must have had a patron,’ Owen noted.

  ‘If he did, Erkenwald did not say. But what I know is that he has friends at court. And among influential merchants in the North, such as John Gisburne, who furnished him with letters of introduction to his guild members here in York.’

  ‘A merchant with friends at court – I can see why Crispin Poole would win John Gisburne’s support. Poole did mention the letters of introduction, but it appears Gisburne did that and no more. His family has ignored Poole.’ Owen remembered the man’s clenched jaw. He’d felt the slight. To Owen’s mind, Poole was better off without him. But Gisburne’s influence would be invaluable to a merchant. He was currently in Westminster sitting on the king’s commission on the wool market, having once been in charge of the wool staple in York. It was said he kept the outlaws he called household guards with him there, no doubt enriching Gisburne with thievery and crooked business transactions while he concocted ways to cheat the king. Owen knew firsthand the man’s ruthlessness. ‘So Poole has a patron of some influence at court?’

  ‘Talk to Erkenwald. I’m certain he knows more.’

  ‘Why did you approach him about Poole? Does this have to do with your mission here?’

  ‘To be honest, I don’t know whether it does or no, but I saw Poole leaving the grounds of St Leonard’s Hospital, turning to nod to Dom Erkenwald.’

  So Geoffrey was following him. Owen tucked that away. ‘When did you witness this?’

  ‘The day I arrived, then departed for Freythorpe Hadden.’

  So quickly noted. To Owen that meant Geoffrey had known of Crispin Poole before his arrival in York.

  ‘I swear to you that I’ll do everything in my power to help, not hinder your investigation of the murders of these good men,’ said Geoffrey.

  ‘Crispin Poole’s friends at court – that’s your interest, eh? You are to uncover what it is he’s doing for them, this one-armed merchant?’ Owen believed he’d hit the mark, though Geoffrey’s flinch was subtle. Was it Alexander Neville? As Owen could not guess whether Prince Edward favored the new archbishop or considered him as a threat, he thought it best not to mention him. Not yet. ‘So as l
ong as my discoveries do not inconvenience either the king or his heir, you’ll allow me to bring the murderers to justice?’

  ‘Allow? I’ve no such power over you, my friend.’

  They exchanged smiles, saluted each other with their tankards, then drained them.

  ‘Thank you, my friend.’ Owen pushed back from the table. He would rise early and catch Erkenwald at the beginning of his day. ‘One more thing. Have you ever seen Poole with a dog?’

  ‘Ah. Back to the murders.’ Geoffrey shook his head. ‘I’ve seen no dog with him.’ He nodded toward the door. ‘The lad’s been watching us for a while.’

  Ned sat at a table near the door with Alfred.

  Owen thanked Geoffrey and crossed the room to his men. Catching sight of him, Alfred rose, just raking a hand across his bald pate as if to smooth back his long-vanished hair, a nervous habit. Nothing of use to tell him, Owen guessed. Ned looked more sanguine, rising slightly and bobbing his head.

  ‘Come to the house with me, I would have my wife hear your news as well,’ Owen said, leading them out the door and through the garden gate.

  Lucie rose from the window-seat where she and Jasper had been talking.

  ‘Any news?’ she asked, motioning the men to the table. Kate hurried out with a pitcher of ale, blushing at Ned’s greeting. The young man was far too generous in his attention to young women.

  ‘I’ve none to offer. Learned nothing of use,’ said Alfred as he settled on a bench. ‘Braithwaite’s manservant Galbot was reluctant to talk.’ Bringing Ned up to date, he described the dog Paul Braithwaite had brought to guard his parents’ home.

  ‘A man lacking tact,’ Ned noted.

  ‘It would seem,’ said Owen. ‘Everyone copes with loss in their own way. And with such violent deaths, fear competes with their grief. Paul Braithwaite might feel this is how he might contribute to the protection of his family. He looked to Olyf Tirwhit, Bartolf’s daughter, for approval, which puzzled me.’ He glanced over at Lucie, who nodded, interested. ‘I am hoping to have news about the dog and his handler.’ He looked to Ned.

  ‘I found Galbot and the dog in the kitchen, and the cook complained they’d been there a while. Not the pair I’d seen.’

  ‘A coincidence that Galbot took Tempest off guard when another dog was in the area?’ Owen wondered aloud as Ned drained his bowl and set it aside.

  The young man sat forward. ‘I did talk to someone on the street, asked if he’d seen a man with a large dog. He had not, but he mentioned a cart sitting in front of the Fentons’ house for a time. He’d wondered whether the family had returned, but when he came out of his house it was gone.’

  ‘He moves the dog about in a cart?’ Lucie wondered.

  ‘Clever,’ said Jasper. ‘Folk might not even notice the dog in a cart.’

  ‘Was George Hempe in the tavern?’ Lucie asked. ‘Does he know about tomorrow’s service in St Helen’s?’

  ‘No.’ Owen looked to Alfred.

  ‘I will tell him we’ll need men at the two houses, and the church,’ said Alfred. ‘Will they bury them in St Helen’s churchyard?’

  ‘She did not say,’ said Owen.

  ‘Several of her ancestors are buried beneath the church,’ said Lucie.

  They spoke of Crispin Poole and of Cilla’s disappearance, Jasper muttering something about a fool’s errand to the minster yard, Michaelo merely seeking attention. Owen was left feeling frustrated when Ned and Alfred rose to leave and Jasper headed for his bed over the shop.

  ‘Stay a moment,’ Owen said to Alfred. ‘Early in the morning, before you set up for the burial, take one of the bailiff’s men and walk the route a cart would take from the Fenton home to John Gisburne’s manse, ask anyone you see along the way whether they noticed a man with a dog in a cart today.’

  ‘I thought the lad said who would notice?’

  ‘But if someone, just one person, did—’ Owen nodded to him.

  ‘Gisburne. Aye.’ Alfred whistled as he stepped out the door.

  ‘Much as I dislike him, I see no evidence,’ said Lucie.

  Owen knew she was right. ‘Perhaps I do it for spite, but if we learn anything, all the better.’

  ‘We need to see the pattern in the attacks,’ said Lucie as she lit their way up to their bedchamber.

  ‘The Swanns are the center.’

  ‘And Crispin Poole the spur?’ Lucie turned on the steps to regard Owen. ‘Why did he leave when he did, do you know? A falling-out with Hoban?’

  ‘And a dog somehow involved, is that what you’re thinking?’ Owen could not help but grin as he kissed her.

  ‘Laugh if you like, but it might fit the pattern.’

  ‘And Bartolf?’

  ‘As coroner, he might have had ideas about how his son should comport himself. Perhaps he blamed Crispin for some mischief.’

  ‘And that led to murder?’

  ‘You might scoff at the idea, but it all fits.’

  She continued up the steps, leaving Owen to wonder why he was so quick to reject the idea. He hurried to catch up with her.

  ‘Then you suspect Crispin?’

  She paused. ‘Perhaps. Or perhaps as Hoban’s friend he was protected.’

  ‘Then why leave?’

  ‘There are gaps in the tale, I admit it. I should not have proposed it.’

  ‘No, I am glad you spoke of this.’ In fact, the more he considered it, the more he wondered whether the answers lay in the past. ‘You are a wonder,’ he said as she set the lamp on the shelf inside their door. He picked her up and carried her to the bed.

  Stepping out onto the landing, a respite from the warm room and Dame Muriel’s snores, Alisoun stretched her arms over her head and breathed deeply. She wished she might quiet her mind. If not for lying to the captain, she might feel good that the grieving widow and expectant mother in her care slept deeply tonight, that her ministrations were effective and appreciated. She’d not set out to lie, merely to protect by silence. But with that false step she had begun a precipitous fall, and now she felt as if she were down in a pit she must escape, but could find no purchase with hands or feet, no way to pull herself out.

  Something struck her arm, and again. Pebbles. Down below, Ned motioned for her to join him in the garden. She hurried down.

  ‘You have a good aim,’ she said. ‘But if I’d cried out, I would be cursing you for causing me to wake Dame Muriel.’

  ‘I kept waving to you, but you did not see me. I saw you out there earlier, when Captain Archer and I were searching for the man and beast I’d seen. Did you see them?’

  ‘I did. I was thinking how to slip away to tell you when I saw you go into the yard. Did you catch them?’

  ‘No. Have a care, Alisoun. He’d lit the fire in the hall. Who knows how long he was there, or whether he’ll return? He’s watching this house.’

  So Ned had entered the house. Had he seen Poole? Had she? She was no longer certain, and the thought of what might have happened tightened her throat. ‘Why would someone watch the house?’ she whispered.

  ‘We cannot know that until Captain Archer discovers why Hoban and Bartolf were murdered, and in such wise. The beasts … They play a role. One has been seen at the minster yard. They call it a hellhound. Danger is abroad. I wanted you to know.’

  She needed no warning about that. But she was grateful for the information. ‘Thank you. But why are you telling me this?’

  ‘I know you can defend yourself. I did not mean to offend you.’

  This was what lying brought, a distrust of everyone, even those who befriended her. Stupid, stupid, stupid. What was Crispin Poole to her? He had not bothered himself about her safety.

  ‘You did not offend me. I am grateful for this, Ned. I feel responsible for the mistress of this house. I meant merely that I wondered whether Captain Archer had given you leave to tell me of this.’

  ‘Would he not want you to be safe?’

  But I lied to him. Again she tripped over her own mistake. ‘Of cou
rse. I don’t know why I asked. I should return. I would not want Dame Muriel to waken and wonder where I was.’

  ‘Until tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes.’ She bobbed her head and hurried back into the house, starting as she stepped into the hall and caught a movement at the corner of her eye. A cat mewed. Alisoun crouched down to pet her. ‘Have a care, Viper,’ she whispered, smiling at the cat’s name. It was said that Muriel’s brother had disliked the cat, and had called her ‘viper’ to irritate his sister. But she had embraced the name, celebrating the ferocity of the gray and black tabby. ‘There are evil dogs abroad in the night.’ Alisoun shivered as she said it, looking round the four corners of the long room.

  EIGHT

  Old Soldiers and Intrepid Maids

  ‘You were thrashing about before I woke you,’ Lucie whispered in Owen’s ear. ‘Were you dreaming of the jongleur’s leman?’

  She knew him so well. In times of trouble Owen’s scarred left eye prickled and ached, and he relived the night that ended his career as captain of archers. In a camp in Normandy, he’d caught a man slashing the throats of the noble hostages in his care. A Breton whose life he had saved. His thanks was betrayal. Owen’s fury had distracted him and he’d not noticed the jongleur’s companion until she’d slashed his eye, blinding him. But that was not the unpleasantness from which he’d just awakened.

  ‘No, wolves. Packs of them, circling a battlefield piled high with bodies. I could hear cries for help from those still alive, but trapped beneath the fallen.’ Bile rose in his throat. The dream still felt too real.

  ‘God have mercy.’ Lucie brushed back his hair and kissed his forehead. ‘You will find the murderers, my love. Have faith.’

  How could she be so certain? ‘I’ll borrow yours for now, until I’ve made some progress.’

  She kissed the scar radiating out from his left eye. ‘I have more than enough faith in you for both of us. It’s past dawn, my love, and you wanted to catch Erkenwald before he goes on his alms rounds. You must hurry!’

  They made their way down the steps, shoes in hands so as not to wake the children. In the kitchen, Kate had set up a table by the open garden door, bread, cheese, and fruit, a pitcher of Tom Merchet’s ale.