A Conspiracy of Wolves

by Candace Robb

  Alisoun put an arm round the woman, leading her back to the cushioned chair by the foot of the bed, near a lit brazier, and told the servant seated near the door to pour Dame Janet a cup of wine.

  Asking Alisoun to step out onto the landing for a moment, Owen showed her the medicine pouch, explaining where Brother Michaelo had found it. ‘Do you know the place?’

  For a moment Alisoun stared and seemed to stop breathing, but then said simply, ‘I know the track along the river.’

  Owen opened the pouch, holding out the salve wrapped in parchment. ‘I hoped this might be your preparation, or Magda’s. I am keen to know for whom this was prepared.’ He offered it to her, expecting her to examine it.

  But she tucked her hands behind her back. ‘I am sorry, but I cannot help you. I pray you forgive my haste, but I must attend Dame Muriel. Her mother is of little help.’

  ‘Surely you cannot know whether or not it is your preparation until you smell it. I can tell you that it contains betony and boneset.’

  ‘A common mixture,’ she said.

  ‘Might you at least tell me what the third ingredient is?’ He held it up to her nose.

  She recoiled. ‘You waste my time, Captain, for I do not wrap salves this way.’

  He believed that she did. But he must step lightly with Alisoun or risk losing any chance of coaxing her to help him.

  ‘What has this to do with Hoban’s murder?’ Her tone was of one offended.

  ‘Permit me to explain. Hoban might have dropped this – or it might have been dropped by his attacker.’

  ‘Oh.’ The sound was little more than a whisper. ‘I prepare so many salves, Captain.’

  ‘This would be for a wound or a broken bone. As you know, of course.’

  ‘I cannot tell what it contains.’ She gave her head a little shake as she stepped away from him. With her abundant hair wrapped in a white kerchief, her head seemed too large for her long, slender neck, giving her the look of a plucked chick. A frightened one.

  ‘It may come to you. If it does, I pray you send word.’

  ‘Of course, Captain. Magda – Mistress Wilton came to tell me that Magda stayed behind to attend a birth at Freythorpe?’

  ‘Tildy, our former maidservant,’ said Owen. Of course Lucie would have the presence of mind to alert Alisoun to the delay.

  ‘Do you know how long she will be away?’

  ‘Until Tildy is safely delivered. Pray God that she is, and soon.’

  Alisoun crossed herself. ‘May God watch over dear Tildy.’

  Clearly an afterthought, which troubled Owen. A healer’s first concern should be for the patient.

  ‘I leave Dame Muriel in your competent hands,’ Owen said. Pray God her indifference was a passing mood.

  He noted how Alisoun hesitated, as if gathering her wits about her before returning to the bedchamber. Understandable in the circumstances, yet her demeanor troubled Owen. Alisoun being prickly was normal. And she did carry much responsibility here in this house of mourning, holding the lives of mother and child in her hands. But he sensed a reluctance to engage with him. He was almost certain she had recognized the pouch and the salve, yet refused to admit it. Why?

  Down in the hall, Owen thanked Michaelo for his assistance.

  The monk gathered his things and rose with a grimace he attempted to hide with a bow. Sore from the long ride and the discomfort of writing in far from ideal circumstances, Owen guessed. ‘I will have a report for you on the morrow, Captain.’

  ‘Rest first. Send word when I might collect it.’

  Michaelo bobbed his head and departed with less than his usual grace.

  In the kitchen, Owen discovered Bartolf dulling his grief with ale. From the looks of him, he was making good progress. A pity to pull him back.

  ‘I have some questions for you.’

  Bartolf squinted at Owen. ‘Of course you do, Captain. ’S why I came for you, to set about finding my Hoban’s murderer. How might I assist you?’ His words slurred as his head wobbled over the tankard and his eyelids fluttered.

  ‘Is Joss the only one working for you at the house in Galtres?’

  Bartolf slowly shook his head. ‘Nay, Cilla keeps my house. Not so young na more, but we’re none of us so young anymore.’ He let his head drop as if it were too heavy to support, rolled his eyes upward to peer at Owen through the bush of white hair. ‘Is it true Joss has bolted?’

  ‘He’s not at the house, but whether he chose to run off is more than I can say at present.’ Owen lifted the man’s chin. ‘Why did you suddenly worry about the dogs?’

  ‘Zephyrus and Apollo? Because—’ Bartolf blinked as if he’d just lost the thought. ‘Rumor, that was it. A rumor of a wolf roaming near the house, and that lout Joss would run before he’d protect the hounds.’ He closed his eyes. ‘And someone’d seen Zephyrus and Apollo running loose.’ A sloppy nod. ‘Running loose!’ He banged his fist on the table.

  A wolf. Was this what Magda had foreseen? ‘Who had seen them? Who had seen the wolf?’

  Bartolf’s head wobbled. ‘Stopped me in street as I came from tavern.’ His eyelids were closing. ‘Didn’t know him, but he knew me.’

  ‘Someone came up to you and told you he’d seen a wolf in the forest? And your dogs running loose?’

  ‘Zactly.’

  Had one person really given him both pieces? Or had Owen just put the idea in his head?

  ‘Did you tell anyone about this when you came home?’

  ‘Hoban.’

  Bartolf attempted to pour himself more ale. Owen took the jug and poured a small amount into the bowl, then set the jug out of Bartolf’s reach.

  ‘Were you and Hoban alone when you told him?’

  ‘Why d’you ask?’

  ‘I am hoping that you described the man who stopped you on the street, might even have said his name, and someone here in the house overheard.’

  ‘What man?’

  Owen closed his eye and prayed for patience. Changing the subject, he asked, ‘Where does Cilla live?’

  ‘Oh, Cilla. She works for many, not just me.’ Bartolf reached up to scratch his head, found he was still wearing his hat. ‘Bloody – I kept this on to remind myself to go back out there, search for Zeph and Pol.’

  ‘My men will search for them at first light, Bartolf. Tell me, are they lawed?’

  ‘Course they’re lawed. Three claws cut off on each paw, poor fellows, but that’s the rule of the forest. See? That’s why I worry. Joss – he doesn’t remember they can’t defend themselves against wolves or dogs who haven’t lost claws. Shouldn’t be in the wood, not like that, but I’ve heard howling and I fear— Then this man, he said a wolf is about. Hoban went to bring them home.’ Bartolf sucked in breath. ‘My son.’

  Quickly, before the man began to sob, Owen asked him who he used as a scribe.

  ‘Elwin. He clerks at the minster. I’d send for him when I had need.’ Bartolf touched his hat and began to scramble to his feet. ‘My dogs.’

  ‘I told you, my men will search for them at first light. You stay here tonight. Get some rest. Stay safe. Muriel needs you.’

  ‘Oh, aye, the poor bairn. Aye.’ As Owen was rising Bartolf grabbed his arm. ‘First light? You swear?’

  ‘They will spend the night at the Riverwoman’s house and go forth at dawn. I swear.’

  ‘Bless you, Captain. Bless you.’

  Owen patted him on the shoulder and took his leave, promising again to search for the dogs. Bartolf, slumped, did not look up.

  Alisoun handed Dame Janet a cup of wine and then moved to the window of the bedchamber, opening the shutters for some air. Her heart jumped as Captain Archer strode out from the kitchen, taking off his hat as he paused in the back garden and raked back his hair. The dark curls were threaded with silver that caught the late-afternoon sun. So handsome. Lucie Wilton was a most fortunate woman. Alisoun fought the urge to hurry down to catch him, tell him she’d been frightened, but she’d thought better of it and wa
nted him to know that she had prepared that salve for Crispin Poole after he was attacked by a large dog. The captain would do all he could to protect her, and Poole as well, if he was innocent, she knew that. All she need do was run down.

  But she just stood there, watching him don his hat and stride off.

  THREE

  Salves, Barbers, Secrets

  Home at last, God be thanked. Owen paused at his garden gate, watching his two eldest race round the tall linden in raucous play. He took advantage of their distraction to slip into the workshop behind the apothecary, hoping that Jasper might have a moment to examine the salve. It was even possible that he’d prepared it.

  He heard voices, but the shop appeared empty until he looked beyond the counter and saw his son placing small packages into a basket held by a young woman. They spoke quietly, but the tone was playful, teasing. When the basket was full, Jasper took it from her arm and carried it as he escorted the young woman to the door, bowing as he handed it to her. She blushed up at him, then hurried out into the street with a soft Benedicite.

  When had Jasper grown so tall, and so courtly? With his fair hair ever tumbling in his eyes, he still seemed a lad to Owen, but he was a man now. Eighteen.

  Owen strode forward into the shop.

  ‘Da!’ Jasper looked satisfyingly happy to see him. ‘Is it true Hoban Swann was felled by his own dogs?’

  The rumors had begun. ‘I am not certain what happened, but I doubt his dogs were the attackers. Unless Zephyrus and Apollo have mastered the use of a dagger. I would appreciate your not spreading that round.’

  ‘That the dogs are gods, running loose with daggers?’ Jasper laughed. ‘Who would believe such a tale? Have you found them?’

  ‘No. I’ve found precious little for my pains.’ It was Owen’s turn to grin. ‘She is pretty.’

  A vivid blush, the curse of such fair skin and hair. ‘She is betrothed to a blacksmith. Fortunate man. He’ll never deserve her.’

  ‘And you would?’

  ‘My heart belongs to a brown-haired, brown-eyed healer.’

  Pity, Owen thought. ‘Speaking of whom, Alisoun said this was not her preparation. Perhaps yours?’ He drew out the pouch, opened it, placed the parchment on the counter.

  Jasper bent down to sniff, glanced up. ‘Safe to handle?’

  ‘I am unharmed. I smell boneset and betony. What do you think?’

  Jasper opened the packet. Taking a little on a fingertip, he tasted it. ‘Not much else. Some calendula to soften a scar, I think. Not mine. Wrapping’s wrong. A barber’s stock? They set children’s and laborers’ limbs after falls, accidents with carts. Often the broken bone is only one of the injuries. This would serve wounds as well. And dog bite.’

  ‘Has anyone come in for something for the bite of a dog?’

  ‘While you were away? No. Though there’s been talk about wolves in the forest while you were away.’ He sniffed again. ‘Calendula.’ He nodded. ‘Ma told me about Tildy. What do you think?’

  ‘Pray for her, son. Magda is a healer, not a miracle-worker.’ Owen picked up the packet, and was returning it to the pouch when Jasper made a sound as if about to speak. Owen glanced up, curious.

  Jasper fingered the pouch. ‘Any markings?’

  Owen turned it over. The pouch had been fashioned from a mere scrap of leather of poor quality, worthless but for keeping out the weather. Someone had sewn it together and added a narrow strip of leather to tie it closed. A common item. ‘Nothing but a long score.’ He held that to the light. ‘Do you recognize it?’

  Jasper hesitated, then shook his head.

  Lucie paced the hall with baby Emma in her arms while the nursemaid helped Kate prepare food for the older children. As Kate was Tildy’s sister, Lucie had invited her to sit for a moment on her return and have a bowl of ale as they exchanged their news. The young woman had listened to Lucie’s account of her sister’s condition with outward calm, but her hands had shaken as she poured more ale. Soon came tears, and a flood of questions Lucie could not answer. That Magda Digby attended her sister was a great comfort, but Lucie judged it wise to ask the children’s nurse, Lena, to assist in the kitchen while Kate caught her breath.

  Emma had just fallen asleep in Lucie’s arms when Owen returned. She put a finger to her lips as he began to speak.

  He slumped down onto a chair, groaning as he stretched out his legs.

  ‘A long day, I know,’ she said softly. They’d departed Freythorpe shortly after dawn. ‘Sit down, have some ale. Bess brought it when she saw we’d returned.’

  ‘Sit with me?’

  She was about to protest that Emma might wake if she stopped walking, but seeing in the shadows beneath his eyes the toll the day had taken, she relented. Lena could take over now. ‘I’ll be but a moment. Some bread and cheese?’

  ‘And ale?’

  She smiled, humming under her breath as Emma stirred.

  When she returned without the baby, Owen took no time in launching into an account of all that he’d witnessed since parting from her on the road. A long day indeed. She was surprised that a man had murdered Hoban, not wild dogs. She’d heard the rumors. Whether or not she also felt relief, she could not decide.

  ‘I can tell you what Bess has heard about the Swanns,’ she said. ‘Talk in the city is that Bartolf has become forgetful. He’s been missing appointments. Muriel and Hoban feared he was drinking too much. Or too alone out there. They invited him to bide with them in the city for a fortnight.’

  Owen took a good long drink. ‘And he agreed?’

  ‘Bess did not say whether he argued about it.’

  ‘Did Bartolf mention it to you?’

  ‘He said little on the journey back. I will ask Alisoun to keep her ears pricked for gossip in the household.’

  ‘That would be helpful.’ Owen finished the bread and cheese, washing it down with ale, then sat back, looking less drained by the day. ‘The old man’s mind is so muddled with grief and drink I doubt I’ll learn much more from him.’

  ‘Poor man. And Muriel – may God watch over her.’

  ‘May He do a better job than He has so far.’ Owen took another long drink. ‘What do you know of Bartolf’s servants Cilla and Joss?’

  ‘Nothing at all about him. You might ask Bess about Cilla. Everyone’s worked at the York at one time or another. I’ve heard that she considers herself a healer, though she’s said to do more harm than good. Magda would be able to tell you more. Pray God she returns soon, with happy news.’ She shivered, remembering Daimon holding his wife’s swollen hand, whispering prayers.

  ‘Tildy. Yes.’ Owen pulled Lucie close and she rested her head against his chest. They sat that way, in comforting silence, until Hugh and Gwenllian came thundering in from the garden.

  Lena quickly opened the kitchen door and herded them in.

  But Lucie sat up, the moment gone. ‘Will you join Geoffrey at the York this evening?’

  ‘I’d forgotten. I’d best, or he will tell tales about me.’

  Owen’s distrust of Geoffrey Chaucer puzzled Lucie. Yes, Geoffrey was a gossip, but he was also a loyal friend who would never tell a tale that might damage or even challenge Owen’s standing in the city. He had hurried to Freythorpe Hadden upon arriving in York and hearing of Dame Philippa’s death. Geoffrey had been fond of Philippa, and she of him. While biding with them in York after the archbishop’s death, Geoffrey had endeared himself to Lucie by keeping her ailing aunt entertained. Arm in arm, he and Philippa would stroll round St Helen’s churchyard and down Stonegate, she telling him what she could remember of the people passing by – her memory came and went – he embellishing the bits with invented tales of their younger, secret exploits, inspiring much laughter. Philippa could talk of nothing else when he was called back to London. Such a storyteller, he is! And wise. Yet Owen now doubted his sincerity.

  For the moment, Lucie bit her tongue, thankful that Owen asked for no response, deep in thought, reaching out to pour more ale. S
he sat sipping her own for a while, resisting the temptation to tease him about how eagerly he had taken up the search. She did not want to influence his decision about the future. For so long she had worried about how he would occupy himself without his work for Thoresby.

  She had not pushed, knowing that he still mourned the archbishop, the man he’d resented in life. It was a hard lesson for Owen, seeing in hindsight the extent to which Thoresby had given him the freedom to go about his work as he saw fit. A betrayal and a death had cast an additional pall over his last days with the archbishop, and Lucie had suspected Owen wanted to be left in peace to grieve a while longer. But when Bartolf and Brother Michaelo hailed them on the road home, Owen had not hesitated to engage. It seemed God did not intend to allow him a moment of idleness.

  The people of York would be pleased that he had taken this in hand. Their friends, the guildsmen, the city bailiffs, the mayor and aldermen, Princess Joan, Prince Edward, Geoffrey Chaucer – they had all anxiously waited for him to take the first step into his future. Especially Geoffrey, for it was he who had suggested Owen to Princess Joan. Would this investigation lead to his accepting the role of captain of bailiffs? Lucie had considered it a tame post relative to that proposed by Prince Edward, but Hoban Swann’s murder seemed to suggest otherwise.

  ‘The Swanns are fortunate to have your help,’ she said when Owen seemed to be surfacing.

  He frowned down at the bowl he had just picked up. ‘I have learned nothing of use.’

  ‘You will.’

  His dark eye bore into her, then he suddenly grinned, melting her heart. ‘Divine revelation?’

  She leaned over to kiss his dimple. ‘Belief in you, my love.’

  ‘In truth I’ve come away with more questions than answers. Will you see Alisoun soon?’

  ‘I can. You said she seemed troubled?’

  ‘I did. It might be the weight of responsibility, but I would be grateful if you would talk with her.’ Owen drew her up into an embrace ending with a long kiss.

  ‘Well now,’ Lucie said as they parted. ‘I look forward to tonight.’