by Candace Robb
They sat for a little while in silence, watching the lay sister gathering beauty in her basket.
Alisoun stepped out into Coney Street with a basket over her arm and a list in her head of the gifts Dame Muriel wished to have ready to present to the servants after the requiem mass. A peculiar idea inspired by a dream in which all deserted her in mourning. Upon awakening, she realized how dependent she was on all who were helping her through this darksome time, even the servants, and she meant to show her gratitude. Such extreme emotions neither surprised nor concerned Alisoun, for Magda had warned her that they were to be expected, particularly as a woman approached her lying-in. But it made it no less irritating that Alisoun must hurry out as soon as the shops opened, and without a servant to assist her – for that would ruin the surprise.
Dreams had troubled Alisoun’s sleep as well, dark dreams of great black beasts stalking the shadowy streets, fangs bared, their fiery eyes peering into the darkest corners, seeing all. The last thing she wished to do this morning was walk the streets alone. Though she knew it unlikely the streets were any less safe than on any other day, she could not seem to talk herself out of a strong sense of unease.
Folk greeted her with enthusiasm, lingering as if hoping she might share some gossip. After all, she was in the bosom of the bereaved family. She thanked them for their prayers and hurried on.
Her first call was a chandler’s shop. She was just stepping away with her purchases of oils and candles when she caught sight of Wren, the young maidservant who had been at Magda’s home the night of Hoban Swann’s murder. Her eyes went at once to the girl’s stomach, though it was far too early for her to be showing again.
‘Mistress Alisoun!’
Realizing Wren must have noticed her glance and might interpret it as judgment – that Alisoun blamed her for her master’s inability to keep his hands to himself – she readied an apology.
‘Wren, I—’
‘I am grateful to you, Mistress Alisoun. My mistress never missed me. I will keep you in my prayers all my days.’
‘And your master?’
Wren seemed to hesitate, then leaned close to whisper, ‘Master Tirwhit has stopped his nightly visitations.’
The name caught Alisoun’s attention. ‘Adam Tirwhit? He is your master?’ Not her place to question, just to heal, according to Magda, so she’d not asked the name of Wren’s employer.
‘So he is.’
The back of Alisoun’s neck felt prickly, Providence? So her mistress was Olyf Tirwhit, part of the circle Dame Muriel had spoken about. ‘The murders – your master and mistress have reconciled in their grief?’
‘No, it’s not like that. He’s accused her of having a lover. He watches her. Angry.’ She leaned close again, though they’d both kept their voices low as they stood beneath the eaves of a house next to the chandler’s shop. ‘She slips over to the house he leased next door whenever she has a chance. She pretends it’s the aged widow Poole she’s visiting, but she fusses with her hair and her clothes before she goes.’ A knowing nod.
Crispin Poole was her neighbor? Had God sent Wren to her? Or … Alisoun almost backed away. Wren seemed too eager. It was of course possible that Crispin was Olyf’s lover. Or she feared that whoever had murdered two of her kin might aim the next arrow at her own heart, and Crispin, a former soldier, might protect them. Though he had but one good arm … Alisoun had heard Captain Archer say that a soldier injured in the field went on.
‘But the troubles began after he returned, so no one else trusts Crispin Poole. Neither her brother nor her father did, may God grant them rest. I pray my mistress is not walking into danger.’ Wren grasped Alisoun’s arm. ‘Are we in danger?’
Alisoun was now convinced that it was no accident Wren had discovered her here. Had she been scheming from the start? Coming to Alisoun the very night Hoban Swann was murdered? Keeping her from rushing out when she heard the dogs? ‘I doubt you need fear for yourself. But if you see anything that seems a threat to your mistress, you might send me word.’
A hesitant nod, then more vigorous. ‘I will. I want to help.’
‘Bless you. I am biding at the Swann home on Coney Street. Dame Muriel is with child, and with all that has happened she felt the need of me. Her losses – her husband, his father, I fear she might succumb, and lose the baby.’
‘Poor woman.’ Wren wiped her eyes with her sleeve.
‘She and Master Hoban waited so long for this child. But Captain Archer means to find the murderers,’ said Alisoun, ‘and if there is anything I might learn to help him …’
‘So I should bring word to you about anything that I learn about Dame Olyf and Master Crispin?’
She was keen to focus on them. ‘Or anything that happens at either house that does not seem as it should. Any strangers loitering about.’
‘Strangers,’ Wren whispered.
‘Yes. Can you do that?’
‘I can, Mistress Alisoun. But why are you here in the market when the Swanns are to be buried this morning at St Helen’s? Does Dame Muriel not need you?’
Was that what she was after this morning? ‘I might ask the same of you. Did Dame Olyf not need your help dressing?’
‘She woke me before dawn to dress her, then left with the master to be with the family. Did you not see her?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, perhaps they went to the Braithwaite home.’
‘And you are not attending her today?’
‘Blessed be, no. But I must be on my way, I’ve much to do before they return this evening.’ She began to turn away, then stopped, staring at a man emerging from an alleyway close to them.
Alisoun shifted feet to see beyond the people milling about in between. A servant’s dress, patched, something handed down from his master, a large wart on the side of his nose.
‘Who is that?’ Alisoun asked.
‘Who?’
‘You held your breath as you watched him, you know of whom I speak.’
‘I— He was out near the midden last evening. I shooed him away.’
‘He was in the Tirwhit yard last evening?’ Alisoun tried to keep her voice steady. That wart … She recognized him. He had once come to Magda for savine, a type of juniper, so he might make a paste to remove the wart, he said. Magda had refused him, for it might also be used as a poison, offering a paste of houseleek instead. He had brushed it away, demanding the savine. Tie a toad round thy neck, Alisoun had snapped. Red-faced and cursing, he’d hurried off, slipping and sliding across the rocks to the riverbank in his blind fury. Magda had chided Alisoun. Insult a seeker with a useless charm and he’ll never return. Alisoun had not known it was useless, though she admitted she’d meant to insult him. What do you mean, a seeker? Magda had looked at her, disappointed. Thou’rt not such a fool as to believe he was after a cure?
‘He was lurking back there,’ said Wren, ‘watching the houses. Both of ours.’
There was more to the memory – Magda had muttered something about Bartolf the coroner being a fool for keeping him. Was he Joss, the missing servant? ‘You said you shooed him away?’ she asked. ‘What did he then?’
‘Backed away into the dark.’ Wren gave a little shiver.
‘Did you tell your master or mistress?’
‘No. They were fighting and fussing about today, what to wear, who would be at the church, then at the meal. Master Adam was that angry that it was to be only kin. He said Master Bartolf was coroner and deserved the mayor and council in attendance. The mistress said he cared not a whit about her father but wanted to preen before the important folk. Why? Is he important?’ Wren turned to look at him, but he was disappearing between the stalls.
‘Let me know if he comes back to the house,’ Alisoun said, then hurried after him.
‘You can trust me!’ Wren called after her.
Pray God she knew better than to do that. Though Alisoun pushed her way through the crowd, she saw no sign of the man. But she knew more than before, enough to kno
w that she must tell the captain everything. She would take him aside at the dinner later. And, after she had completed the shopping, she had a thought to take a look at the Tirwhit residence.
At the cutler she picked out a flesh hook for the cook, and a cheap rush light holder for Dame Muriel’s maidservant.
Hurrying back to the house with her basket of gifts, she took her first opportunity to ask Dame Muriel how she might know the missing manservant – in case he was about in the city.
‘Joss?’ Muriel made a face. ‘You would know him by the wart on his nose. A disgusting thing. Have you seen him?’
‘I did not know what to look for.’
‘Now you do. Come, set all this aside. We will present the gifts to the staff in the kitchen before the feast in hopes of lifting their spirits so they might carry out their duties on this sorrowful day.’
Alisoun made a show of realizing she’d forgotten something. ‘I will not be long, Dame Muriel.’ Up in the bedchamber she tucked her bow and quiver in a sack and slipped down the steps to the yard.
NINE
A Dog in the Night
Owen felt the weight of his responsibility as he parted with his friend, mulling over his words, In Thoresby’s service you had both the city and the realm in your hands. To recreate that you must needs accept both offers – captain of York’s bailiffs and spy for the prince. A double burden. Was that what he wanted?
As he made his way out of the hospital grounds the morning dimmed, a cluster of clouds obscuring what had been a bright morning sun. Footless Lane was quiet, but as Owen rounded the corner onto Coney Street he once again fielded questions about Old Bede, expressions of relief that he was investigating the deaths, and queries as to when the Swanns would be buried. Beneath it all, he questioned his hesitation about Crispin Poole. So many fingers pointing to him, a man of war, a man of violence, with retainers to carry out his blood-feud while he sat at the York Tavern. But what was the feud? What were the Swanns to him? That was the missing piece. He shook himself out of the puzzle. He must be alert, this day of all days.
On the route from the Braithwaite home, past the Swanns’, round toward St Helen’s, the bailiffs’ men stood with hands on weapons, making a clear statement of their intent – to guard the funeral procession with force, if necessary.
Bless Hempe. Difficult to believe he and the man had begun as adversaries. But, thinking back to George’s early distrust of Owen it was clear he’d simply been doing his job, protecting the folk of York from what seemed to him an untrustworthy toady of the archbishop. To Owen, George Hempe had been a bumbler preventing him from solving the murder of a midwife who had saved Lucie’s life. Now he trusted Hempe, understood him, but also knew his limitations. Owen had made certain his own men were in place, Ned at the Swann home, Alfred at the church, and, once the Braithwaites departed, Stephen would be in place to stand guard at their home. Owen was just wondering where Stephen was when the man hailed him.
‘Anything odd at Poole’s home?’ Owen asked as Stephen joined him. He’d placed him there for the early morning, out of curiosity more than suspicion. He was glad of it now.
‘Quiet. All the noise came from the Tirwhit house beside him. They are a fighting couple, though once they stepped out of the house they played the loving pair. Their maidservant left shortly after they did, very early, but not with them.’
‘Any cause to think the maid was heading for trouble – or to cause it?’
Stephen’s craggy face drew down into thought. ‘Had a basket over her arm, a light step. I took her to be a lass on her way to market, nothing more.’
‘And Hempe’s men are at Magda Digby’s?’
‘Arrived last night, they did. He chose well, Rose and Rob took to them, and they will say nothing of Old Bede’s presence. Those young ones – that’s a pair will never settle for quiet lives, I’ll wager.’
Owen grinned at the clear admiration in the man’s eyes, but it all sounded too comfortable.
‘Your friend, the king’s man,’ said Stephen, ‘Chaucer? Noticed him idling round Poole’s house. Wandered on off when he saw me watching him. What’s his business with Poole?’
‘I wish I knew. He seems far too interested in him.’
‘Ah. Then I apologize, for I followed him and asked that he take my place watching Poole’s.’ Stephen shook his head. ‘Alfred warned me that the more time I spent in your service, the more I’d conjure problems everywhere, and spend my nights trying to solve them. There’s something odd about Poole, and his taking the house beside the Tirwhits, moving his good mother from her home of many years to that large, drafty place.’
Owen had not placed someone at Poole’s or Tirwhit’s homes for the day. An oversight he’d suddenly regretted. ‘And did Chaucer agree?’
‘He did. And showed me he is armed. A surprisingly good piece of steel, that dagger of his.’
‘Well done.’ Who better to watch Poole than the man with such a keen interest in him?
Grinning with pride, Stephen nodded toward the Braithwaite yard. ‘Polishing up the stones for the guests?’
A serving man was on his hands and knees, scrubbing the pavement where the dog had sat the previous day. ‘They had a dog chained there yesterday,’ said Owen. ‘I wager they ignored it and the poor beast was made to sit in its own piss and shit.’
Stephen laughed. But Owen was troubled, not really believing Paul and Galbot would have neglected Tempest.
‘Walk round the house, then stand guard here,’ said Owen.
‘As you wish, Captain.’
As Owen reached the spot he was glad Stephen had not taken him up on the wager. He smelled blood, not a dog’s droppings. Indeed, the water in the servant’s bucket was stained red.
‘What has happened here?’
The servant started, so intent had he been on his work. ‘Oh, Captain Archer! It’s Master Paul’s dog, Tempest. We came out this morning to find him lying here in his own blood, his throat slit, poor beast. And nobody heard a thing. Not a thing.’ The man wiped his forehead, leaving a watery red smear. ‘Master John will be glad to see you.’
A dog trained to bark when a stranger approached, slaughtered while the household slept. Discovered hours earlier. And no one had come for Owen, the man they had retained to investigate the murders of the Swanns? He rose to find John Braithwaite standing in the doorway, his jacket unbuttoned, gray hair wild as if he had been raking his hands through it. A corpulent man of average height, Braithwaite depended on elegant dress and a haughty manner to impress. But this morning he was merely a fat man wishing he were anywhere but where he was, dealing with a dead dog and the burial of his friend and his son-in-law.
‘Captain Archer. I was glad to hear Janet had engaged you. This tragedy—’ He closed his eyes and crossed himself.
Owen expressed his condolences, then asked to see the dog.
Braithwaite shook his head. ‘We must hie to the Swanns and bear the coffins to the church, Captain. You’ve no time—’
‘I might at least see whether your intruder was skilled with a knife.’ Or I might gain nothing from it but the pain of witnessing a man’s brutal use of a creature bred to do his bidding, Owen thought.
With a shrug, Braithwaite ordered the servant to leave his scrubbing and show Owen the corpse.
‘Then escort the captain to my parlor.’ As John Braithwaite withdrew, he called out to a servant to bring wine and food, then told him not to bother, he would fast until the service.
‘I could use some wine,’ said Owen.
Braithwaite nodded. ‘Bring wine and food.’
Owen followed his guide back along the side of the house to a shed behind the kitchen. Someone had arranged the dog’s limbs so that he seemed at rest on his side atop an old cushion. Paul Braithwaite or Galbot? It was a clean cut, no more, no less than needed for a quick kill. Tempest’s slayer was likely the same man who had slit the throat of Hoban Swann.
‘Who laid him out?’ he asked the servant.
‘Galbot the trainer.’
‘Where might I find him?’
‘Went off to drink himself into forgetfulness, he said. Some don’t expect him back.’
As Owen followed the servant back into the hall he noticed Paul talking quietly to his mother and his wife, Elaine, all three dressed for show, though in muted colors. It might be a family occasion, but they were all aware the funeral procession would be observed.
In his parlor, John Braithwaite lifted his head from a contemplation of the floor and rose to greet Owen.
‘Is it true?’ Owen asked. ‘The servants found the dog first thing this morning?’
Braithwaite began to rake both hands through his hair, then self-consciously lowered them, folding them on his lap with a moan. ‘I could not believe it. Have we not suffered enough?’
‘When were you going to tell me?’
‘Ah. I thought … So you think the same as murdered the Swanns killed the dog?’
‘I think it likely. You said you were glad your wife came to me. But you’ve decided not to engage me?’
‘You misunderstand.’ Braithwaite looked stunned. ‘I was relieved to hear you would undertake the task. The city needs you, Captain. When such things happen – we pray they won’t, of course, but—’
Owen motioned that he understood. ‘We’ve little time. Just tell me what happened here with the dog.’
Braithwaite wiped his brow. ‘The servants alerted us and we hurried out – it was a terrible sight. My poor Janet, the day of—’ He stopped, apparently realizing he was again venturing into unnecessary detail. ‘It was done so silently, so brutally. Who would do that to us? And then Paul requested, as he is in mourning for his sister’s husband and his old friend … and the dog, he was fond of the dog, as one would be … He asked that we not inform you until after the requiem mass. He wishes to be quiet with his grief, pray at St Helen’s …’ Braithwaite sighed, studying his clasped hands, avoiding Owen’s eye.
No doubt his anger was obvious. ‘Paul’s old friend Hoban was brutally murdered and he wishes me to delay finding the murderer?’ Owen made no attempt to soften his tone. They needed to understand the danger. ‘Does your son believe the murderer will courteously wait until Hoban and Bartolf are buried? And his own dog? Perhaps—’ Owen stopped as two servants entered, laying out wine, cheese, bread, apples, nuts.
