A Conspiracy of Wolves

by Candace Robb

  ‘I could, I’ve little else to do, but I would rather be of help than stand about waiting for a moment to speak.’

  Lucie looked up from Alisoun’s pallet. ‘I’ve a favor to ask. Would you inquire about Muriel Swann? Find out whether she needs me?’

  ‘As you wish,’ said Michaelo, following Owen to the door. ‘And while we walk, I can briefly give you my news.’

  Moving out into the garden, Owen said, ‘I take it you did not want someone in that room to hear what you have to say?’

  ‘It touches on Geoffrey Chaucer.’

  Owen listened with interest as they walked. Geoffrey visiting a lodging in the Bedern that housed clerics used as messengers between the religious houses in York and Westminster, London, Canterbury, and elsewhere was interesting, but not unexpected.

  ‘And one thing more,’ said Michaelo. ‘Dom Jehannes had word of an important visitor biding at Holy Trinity Priory – the new archbishop’s secretary, Dom Leufrid. He arrived yesterday in the company of an emissary from Prince Edward, Antony of Egypt, who is biding at St Mary’s Abbey.’

  Forgetting himself, Owen slapped Michaelo on the back. ‘So it is Antony.’ An African scholar and military genius, Antony and Owen had enjoyed each other’s company at Kenilworth when Owen was in Grosmont’s service.

  ‘This means you are pleased?’ Michaelo asked.

  ‘I am indeed.’

  ‘But I tell you nothing new.’

  ‘I was not certain it was him. All I knew is that Gisburne traveled with Leufrid and a Moor in Prince Edward’s service.’

  ‘A Moor?’ A shrug. ‘There is one more item. Dom Leufrid is my kinsman. The one who robbed me of the money my family had provided to buy me a position of responsibility in one of the large abbeys near London and Westminster, set me on the path to become a prior or abbot.’

  ‘This man you despise is our new archbishop’s secretary?’

  ‘As I was to John Thoresby, he is to Alexander Neville.’ Michaelo laid a land on Owen’s forearm. ‘If you mean to protect York from this Neville, I would use all my knowledge, my connections, and my diplomatic skill to assist you. And I might dare say, I have been known to hold my own in a physical encounter.’

  Owen had not forgotten how he did so on a dangerous journey long ago.

  ‘Whether you work for the prince or the city, I wish to serve you, Captain.’

  Seizing the moment, Owen asked, ‘Might you find it in your power to shake off the penitential gloom, approach it with more mischievous glee?’ He grinned.

  Michaelo removed his hand. ‘I offer you assistance and you insult me?’

  Owen threw up his hands. ‘I mean it as no insult. I am in earnest.’

  Michaelo sniffed. ‘I seek only to redeem myself in working for the community.’

  ‘You would not take delight in hindering the loathsome Leufrid?’

  ‘You are not listening to me. I seek to atone for my sins. Pride, ill-will – what you suggest, that way lies damnation.’

  And who was Owen to push him from his path? ‘I meant only – your wit is refreshing. Laughter is a balm most welcome in my work.’

  Michaelo gave him a long look down the length of his noble nose. ‘My expressions of scorn amuse you?’

  ‘Oddly, yes. I miss the Michaelo who scoffs at fools.’

  ‘Even when you are the target? You, the one on whose broad shoulders all would lay their burdens?’

  ‘Would it not be virtuous to tutor me in humility?’

  A pause. ‘I will pray over the matter.’

  Owen was glad to hear a lighter note in Michaelo’s voice for he might be quite an asset. It amused Owen that all the while he’d thought Thoresby kept Michaelo as a penance, he had in truth harbored a bloodhound.

  ‘So Antony of Egypt is your friend?’ asked Michaelo.

  ‘He was the old duke’s good friend. I knew him in the field. An expert on obscure weaponry. I suppose the prince finds him useful. Or did in Aquitaine. But what is he doing here?’

  ‘If Prince Edward knows of your friendship, I would guess Antony is here to improve on Chaucer’s efforts to recruit you.’

  ‘You don’t trust Chaucer.’

  ‘I trust few men, and even fewer women. Children, not at all.’

  Owen chuckled, a gift on such a trying day.

  ‘I am pleased you are amused.’ Michaelo sniffed.

  They had reached the Swann home.

  ‘If you learn anything I should hear at once, come to me at the Braithwaite home, two houses away,’ said Owen.

  ‘I know the place. Shall I drop a line in the water, see what bites?’

  Already taking Owen’s request to heart? Owen told him about Wren’s apparent connection to Roger and his fellow attacker, how she had been seen talking to them. ‘It has me wondering about all the servants. Galbot – I will ask about him. See if you can learn when Joss and Cilla joined Bartolf’s household. And when the Tirwhits hired Wren.’

  With a bow, Michaelo glided into the yard of the Swann home.

  Skirting the hall, where John and Paul Braithwaite were loudly trading insults, Owen followed the servant to the garden, where Elaine Braithwaite sat beneath the graceful limbs of a young oak, straight-backed and bristling as she watched the house.

  ‘Captain?’ She began to rise, attempting to shake out the wrinkles in her costly gown, a futile effort that almost toppled her. She might just be drunk enough to speak freely.

  ‘Might I join you for a moment?’ Owen slipped onto the bench beside her and stretched out his legs with a sigh. ‘May we soon see an end to this troubling day,’ he muttered.

  ‘Has the widow Poole proved ungrateful for your interest?’ A slight slurring of words proved Owen correct about Elaine having availed herself of the fine wine at the feast. ‘Watch yourself with that one,’ she said. ‘People pity her, a widow, blind, her son returning a cripple, but she is sly, cruel.’

  ‘You consider Crispin Poole a cripple?’

  ‘Do I offend you? Surely you do not see yourself in him. The loss of one eye is a small thing – and that scar and patch only enhance your appearance.’ She reached toward him, as if to touch his cheek, then remembered herself. ‘But a hand, a useful arm.’ She touched Owen’s forearm. ‘Such strength. Your wife is most fortunate – I see how you regard her, the warmth in your eyes, how the two of you lean toward each other, sharing your thoughts, laughing at each other’s wit. Paul thinks only of his precious hounds. Heavenly Mother, what is it with some men and their hounds? I love my children, Captain, never doubt it, but Paul is the bane of my life.’

  ‘He is caught up in grief over the killing of Tempest?’

  Elaine squeezed his arm. ‘You would think it had been his child the way he moans and tears up at the mere mention of the monster. But it’s only the latest.’

  Only the latest. This is what he’d come to hear about. ‘Tempest was not the first to die?’

  ‘Oh, no. A fortnight past a pair of his prized mastiffs went missing. You would think—’ A shrug. ‘As I said, he regards them as his children.’

  ‘A pair went missing? Did he search for them?’

  ‘I am surprised he did not think to hire you – but you were – oh, forgive me, you have a recent loss. Dame Philippa. She was a kind, God-fearing woman.’

  ‘We do grieve her passing,’ said Owen. He let the silence fall. Patience. Then, ‘Has Galbot returned?’

  ‘Galbot.’ A snort. ‘He is almost as mad regarding the hounds as Paul, though it is his job. No. He is still on the loose.’

  ‘How long has he worked for your husband?’

  ‘A year? No longer than that. Ungrateful wretch. Paul hired him as a favor to Bartolf. He came with the dogs, you might say. You know that Paul recently bought a few dogs from the old man? Wolfhound bitches, Aphrodite and Circe. Such names!’

  ‘So they were not the pair that went missing?’

  ‘No. Not Bartolf’s beloveds. May his soul rest in God’s love.’ She crossed he
rself. ‘Bartolf had no need for a servant dedicated to the two dogs he had left. Galbot needed work. Paul hired him.’

  ‘How had Bartolf come to hire Galbot?’

  ‘The servant Cilla coaxed him to hire the man. I only know because Paul made such a fuss about him, how his previous master’s loss was Paul’s gain, the man was so good with hounds, how he wished to thank Cilla.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I know no more of him. I have nothing to do with the kennel.’

  ‘The two who went missing – did Paul hold Galbot responsible?’

  ‘I did. But the man knew how to please his master, wailing almost as loudly, rushing about searching for them. He beat his chest, he was responsible, having trained them.’

  ‘So he thought they’d run off?’

  Elaine frowned, swaying a little. ‘Perhaps that is what he meant. I didn’t care. Two less, good riddance.’

  ‘Did he find them?’

  ‘Bones. Burnt bones left at the gate a few days after they went missing.’ She stopped, forced a smile, and rose.

  Owen turned to see who approached.

  ‘My dear.’ Elaine’s voice was suddenly sickeningly sweet. ‘I have just been asking the captain about Dame Euphemia.’

  Paul Braithwaite walked toward them with the exaggerated care of one who fears falling flat on his face. But where Elaine simply seemed wobbly, he seemed on the verge of a faint. ‘And how is the old bitch?’ he slurred, blinking at Owen.

  ‘Husband! You shame me with such speech.’ Elaine excused herself and swept off to the house.

  ‘Bitch. She despises everything that puts all that silk and velvet on her fat shoulders.’

  ‘She tells me that Tempest was the third of your hounds to die of late.’

  ‘Did she? Bitch.’ Paul slumped down beside Owen. ‘Though it is true.’

  ‘Burned,’ she said.

  ‘And the bones left at the gate. Handsome mastiffs. How I will replace them I know not. Already paid for. I’d just completed their training.’ Paul groaned. ‘And now Tempest. Someone threatens my kennels. I leave in the morning. I’m worried about the others.’

  ‘And you did not think to tell Hempe or me?’

  ‘Hempe. Pah. He’s already chosen Crispin as the mind behind all this. He might be elevated to the council with this one.’

  ‘Tell me about Gerta.’

  A choked silence. Paul turned on the bench to stare at Owen. ‘That pathetic— Crispin told you. Of course he did. Saint Crispin, rescuing her from the flood. He blamed me, but he was part of the plan. We meant only to teach her a lesson.’

  ‘How do you know he blamed you? He says he did not see you again until he returned this summer.’

  ‘His bitch of a mother told me, didn’t she? She threatened to tell the tale if Father did not agree to be on the coroner’s jury when the filthy little whore was found strangled and tossed into the Ouse. All Euphemia cared about was that the blame didn’t fall on her precious Crispin. You can’t blame me for Gerta.’

  ‘What I think is of no concern to you. It’s Warin’s son Roger and his accomplices.’

  ‘Warin?’

  ‘His son attacked Dame Euphemia.’

  A stunned silence. Paul had gone gray. ‘God help us.’

  ‘The other escaped. I don’t know who he was.’

  Paul tried to rise, but he was shaking too hard. ‘I must see to my hounds.’ A sudden retch, and he doubled over, spilling out his spleen.

  Elaine Braithwaite burst from the house, running to him. ‘Help me carry him into the house, Captain.’

  As Elaine and her maidservant fussed over Paul, Owen took John Braithwaite aside.

  ‘I wondered. What is your memory of the coroner’s jury in the death of Gerta, the daughter of the charcoal-burner in Galtres?’

  Braithwaite had been sitting at ease with a cup of brandywine. ‘Who?’

  ‘Shortly after Crispin Poole went away.’

  ‘Oh, that vixen. Why bring up that old story?’

  ‘What do you remember?’

  ‘She’d been leman not only to the poacher but to the sergeant of Galtres. Tasting the high and the low, that girl. But her death, that was not right.’

  No slurring. That was a relief. Dealing with two drunks was more than enough for one day.

  ‘Did you believe the evidence against Warin?’ Owen asked.

  ‘Believe? He pretended to foster her, Archer, and then took her. Goldbarn learned of it from her. She was so frightened. But he did not act swiftly enough.’

  So that was how they’d framed it. ‘Goldbarn claimed she told him this and he’d meant to protect her?’

  ‘Do I detect disbelief, Captain? On what grounds?’

  ‘Did he have evidence?’

  ‘You know how coroner’s juries work. Warin was judged a danger to the community.’

  ‘So said Goldbarn, who might have otherwise been suspect. Or was there someone else?’

  ‘Goldbarn? Well, the man was a rogue, it’s true, but …’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘I suppose Crispin Poole. It was his father who presented the charge.’

  ‘As for that, would it not have been easy enough to prove Crispin had already departed when this happened?’

  ‘Tricky. She was murdered just a few days after he is said to have left the city. But he might have lingered in the forest.’

  ‘To what end? He’d risked his life saving her the first time.’

  A frown. ‘The first time?’

  ‘When your son frightened her with his dogs.’

  ‘Paul? What had he to do with this?’

  ‘You didn’t know she’d almost drowned a few days earlier?’ Owen told him of the cruel joke.

  ‘Paul?’ Braithwaite was far away for a moment, then shook his head. ‘I cannot recall his behavior at the time, except that he was angry with Crispin. So angry.’ He stopped, as if something had occurred. ‘I did wonder whether an argument among the friends had sent him off, fuming. You know how passionate youth can be about nothing. Or perhaps – I thought it might have been Crispin who had blinded Paul’s hound, though my son never named him.’ Braithwaite drained his cup. ‘But why are you asking about this?’

  ‘Because one of the men who attacked Euphemia Poole was Warin’s son, Roger. He’s now dead.’

  A jerk, as if John felt the news as a physical strike. ‘Warin’s son? Warin had a family?’

  ‘Why would you presume otherwise? A man desperate to feed his family – that is the usual cause for breaking the law of the forest among the common folk.’ Owen made an effort to speak without rancor, though the man had raised his bile.

  ‘I never wished to sit on the jury.’

  ‘But you did. Why?’

  ‘I did it because Edmund Poole—’ Braithwaite frowned at something on the ceiling. ‘Now I think of it, he threatened to reveal some mischief our sons had got into. Or so Euphemia told my wife.’ He returned his attention to Owen, leaning toward him. ‘These attacks— Is Paul in more danger?’

  ‘I cannot say. You might have mentioned the dogs that had gone missing earlier, the burnt bones left at your son’s gate.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Paul said nothing to you of the dogs gone missing before all this began? A few days later their burnt bones were left at the gatehouse?’

  Braithwaite was breathing too hard. ‘It began with Paul?’

  ‘John, are you—’

  Pressing his hand to his heart, Braithwaite struggled to rise, but collapsed back on the chair, breathing shallowly. Owen knelt to him, asking how he could help.

  ‘Brandywine. Table by the window.’

  As soon as Owen saw that John Braithwaite was able to lift the cup to his mouth and sip, he went in search of Janet Braithwaite, who was ministering to her son.

  ‘Your husband is ill. His heart, I think. Should I send for his physician?’

  ‘Because your wife and the Riverwoman dare not leave Euphemia’s side?’


  ‘No, because they are in the process of settling Alisoun Ffulford in my home,’ Owen answered in a quiet voice. ‘I thought your physician might come more quickly.’

  Janet looked chastised. ‘Forgive me. I don’t know where to turn first. I will send a servant for Master Saurian. Do the job I hired you for, Captain. Find the monsters who would tear us down.’

  ‘I will explain later, but I warn you to be careful of any servants who have not been in your household, or your daughter’s, a long while. Watch them, say nothing of importance in their presence.’ He nodded to her and withdrew.

  ‘It’s Galbot, that’s who he speaks of,’ he heard Elaine say. ‘If that scoundrel returns, lock him in the cellar.’

  It was with a sense of escape that Owen stepped out of the Braithwaite home into the gathering twilight. He paused at the spot where Tempest had bled to death. What might motivate a man to slit the throat of an animal entrusted to his care? The unjust execution of his father might carry him to such an act. It was possible Galbot was Warin’s son. If so, the brothers had sustained a long simmering anger, waiting almost twenty years for Crispin’s return, and then planned a slowly unfolding series of attacks to sate their hunger for vengeance. That required great discipline.

  His conversations had opened up new questions for Owen, and what he wanted most now, besides the comfort of his home, was quiet in which to gather his thoughts.

  ‘Captain!’

  Stephen and Alfred came striding toward him.

  ‘A servant went running past,’ said Stephen. ‘Has there been another attack?’

  ‘Summoning a physician. John Braithwaite’s heart gave way to the news that his son might still be in danger.’

  ‘Not dead?’

  ‘No, God be thanked. The long day took its toll. I told him far too much at once. He could not cope.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘The captain needs a rest,’ said Alfred, poking Stephen in the ribs. ‘A better question is what would you have us do now?’

  ‘Find Hempe, tell him to have a few men watch this house.’

  ‘You think they’re next?’ asked Stephen.