by Candace Robb
But Magda’s hands lay idle in her lap.
He felt a shower of needle pricks across his blind eye. ‘I don’t understand. Had I the Sight I would have known what was to come, I might have prevented Hoban’s murder. And Bartolf’s.’
‘Not fore-seeing, clear-seeing. A gift to all who count on thy protection. Trust thyself. Thou seest far more clearly than most.’
Her answer frustrated him. Clear-seeing? Once perhaps. But he was sorely out of practice. He tried another approach to the question.
‘A conspiracy of wolves – what did you mean by that?’
‘That is for thee to discover. And how thou must move forward.’
‘The prince or the city? Is that what you mean?’
‘That as well.’
‘You speak in riddles.’
‘Thou’rt a riddle-breaker.’
No, he was not, though people thought it of him, expected him to find the answers, he had no gift for this. Never had.
‘What did you mean by the question about what folk see when they see a wolf?’ Owen asked. ‘How could it not be the animal?’
‘A riddle for thee, Bird-eye.’ Magda rose, shaking out her multicolored skirts. ‘Magda has work to do. And thou must hear One-arm’s story.’
‘It cannot be easy for you to see your elderly parent the victim of a violent attack, no matter your differences,’ said Owen, settling back in his chair after tasting the wine and finding it to his liking – a welcome blessing on such a day. ‘We who took up arms in our youth, we come to believe we are hardened to violence, that we can bear anything. But if we’ve come away with our souls intact, tarnished but whole, we know there is no hardening that can blunt our hearts to the suffering of those we love.’
‘Love,’ Crispin mumbled, then drank down his cup of strong wine in such haste it might fell a smaller man. Rising from his seat, he turned his back to Owen, facing the window. ‘Love my mother? Pity her?’ He flexed his shoulders. ‘As a boy I prayed for the wisdom to remember to tell her nothing of petty slights as friends fell away, wary, untrusting. I could not blame them. She said she was protecting her family. Protecting. Pah. She was the death of my father, and as the fruit of her womb I am cursed. Soldiering did not harden me, she did. Sympathy for her injuries? She knows better than to look to me for that.’
Owen sat silent, absorbing this bitter speech, so unexpected. He was glad that Magda and Lucie listened from across the room. He might later doubt what he was hearing, the anger, the long resentment.
‘She brought it upon herself,’ said Crispin. ‘The blindness? She’d seen nothing but the poison in her soul for so long, it did not matter.’ He returned to his seat, poured another cup of wine, drank it down, poured another, sat looking into the cup. ‘I thought I could return, right the wrong, make amends. Too late. God help me, but I almost wish it were she lying there in the garden, that the Lord God decided we’d enough of the spiteful, hateful woman, and Gerta’s and Warin’s kin would have their revenge.’ He moved the cup in his hand. Owen could imagine the wine swirling within, how the movement caught the eye, held it, pulled it down. ‘Forgive me. You must think I speak in riddles.’
‘Not riddles, but a tale begun midway. Why don’t you begin with meeting the man lying in the garden? Tell me about him.’
‘It will make little sense without all the rest.’
‘Begin with what might help me understand what has been happening, and we’ll see.’
‘As you wish.’ Crispin considered. ‘Perhaps a week before Hoban’s murder, I walked out to Bartolf’s house in the forest at twilight, in the company of my men. I hoped the old coroner could help me clear a man’s name. But he refused to talk. Told his hounds to take a good sniff and attack me if I dared return.’
‘Bringing your armed men with you might have suggested a less than friendly purpose,’ Owen said.
‘I had them stay back, out of sight.’
‘How did you approach? By the main track or along the river?’
‘Why?’
‘Can you recall?’
‘Along the river. Much shorter when on foot.’
‘You know that track well?’
‘I did as a boy.’
‘Was Bartolf standing outside, aware of your approach?’
Crispin paused, his eyes far away. ‘No. A man – I took him to be a servant – he shouted toward the house that someone was coming down the path.’
‘How did he come to see you?’ Owen asked.
‘Now you ask, he was on that trail, as if waiting.’
‘When Bartolf threatened you, did you leave at once? Or did you challenge him? Did the dogs attack?’
‘I could see he was drunk, as usual, and there is no reasoning with an adamant drunk, so I left. And, no, his dogs did not attack.’
Noting the emphasis on the word ‘his’, Owen drew out the pouch he’d carried for days. ‘I ask because of this, a salve for a dog bite. Someone dropped it on that trail. Recently. It had not been out in the weather when I found it.’
‘I was attacked – and bitten – that night, but not by Bartolf’s dogs. Another. On my way back. There was a man crouching down on the bank, and near him, in the shadow of a tree – well, I thought it a wolf, and that the man might not be aware of his danger. I called out to warn him. It was then the beast turned toward me. Leapt at my throat. I shielded my neck with my useless arm and drew my knife, but it was so quick. Its teeth were in me. My men were rushing him, they tell me, when the man whistled and the animal let go. Just like that. Man and beast backed away, the man shouting that he would avenge his father, and then they vanished.’
‘His father is the one whose name you hoped to clear?’
‘Warin, yes.’ Crispin cursed. ‘This will make no sense to you.’
‘Did your men give chase?’
‘Tried, but by then it was dark and the marsh dangerous.’
‘It was you who had chosen the marsh path.’
‘My men are not from here.’
‘Where were your men today when your mother was attacked?’ Owen asked.
Crispin had been watching Owen, no doubt guessed he was aware of his reluctance to be forthcoming. Now he made a face as if conceding. ‘I’ve had them watching Bartolf’s house in the woods for several days.’
‘Why?’
‘It all began there, or near there.’
‘You mean Hoban’s death and all that’s happened since?’
‘Yes.’
‘And have your men observed anything?’
‘Nothing. No one has come to the house, nor have the dogs or the horse returned.’
‘Did it not occur to you that folk should be warned of the man and his wolf? If not that night, then at least after Hoban was attacked in the same place, with a beast involved?’
‘I told you, none of this will make sense without all that went before.’ Crispin averted his eyes.
‘A lone man and his dog could not do all this,’ said Owen. ‘Today two men attacked.’
‘I have no idea who the other might be.’
‘So that night, you were bleeding, and near the home of the Riverwoman.’
‘She was away. Mistress Alisoun tended me. And I am grateful.’
‘She prepared this pouch of salve for you?’ Owen dangled it by the cord.
‘Yes.’
So Alisoun had lied to him.
‘It seems there is a limit to your gratitude, and your trust. I recall you asking whether she’d spoken of you. And you said you felt responsible for her injury. Did you swear her to secrecy?’
‘I did.’
‘Why?’
Crispin winced. ‘Neville. I did not know when I accepted the mission that I would find I was so reviled by my old friends. I expected resentment – I escaped, they were still here. But there was much I did not know. So much.’
‘And now you do?’ Owen asked.
A nod. ‘I should not have come.’
‘The old friends you speak of?�
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‘Hoban, Paul, Olyf, Adam.’
Muriel’s trio plus one. ‘Alisoun saw to your arm and you swore her to secrecy so that Alexander Neville would not hear of this trouble and have no more to do with you.’
Clenched jaw. Good. He might forget himself.
‘You deride me,’ Crispin said.
‘Not without cause. Go on. What did you do next?’
‘I came home.’
‘After curfew? You have a friend at Bootham Bar you counted on to let you through past curfew?’
‘I told a tale of my widowed mother, blind, worried for me. Folk believe I returned to care for her. I make use of that.’ Crispin took off his velvet hat, wiped his brow. His hand trembled. ‘Why did Bartolf not accuse me of Hoban’s death? I waited, expecting it.’
‘Because he threatened you with his dogs?’
‘He was not so different from my mother, ever one to use his position as coroner to deflect blame from his family and his powerful friends.’ Crispin’s full lips curled in disgust.
‘And you? You knew of the danger and warned no one. Not even Alisoun.’
‘That’s not the same.’
‘No?’ Owen glanced at Magda, who shook her head. Let it be, Bird-eye. ‘So this man who attacked you, was his complaint against Bartolf?’
‘To an extent, but that particular sin I lay at the feet of the woman who bore me.’ Crispin looked over at Alisoun. ‘I was wrong to put myself ahead of that young woman. I have grievously wronged her.’
‘And others.’
‘Might I have a moment with her?’
Owen did not feel the man deserved it. But he agreed, rising to stretch his legs.
Lucie joined him. ‘Come with me. There is something you must hear.’
Crispin Poole bowed his head over Alisoun. He meant to pray, but he was too aware of the Riverwoman’s keen regard, feeling her eyes, blue, sharp, seeing through to the rot at the core of him. Raising his head, he met her gaze.
‘I have sinned against this young woman.’
‘And thyself. Lives might have been saved with timely warnings. Is that not so, Crispin Poole?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell all to the captain. From the beginning.’
‘Will she live?’
‘Live? Alisoun will rise from this. But the damage – it is too soon to tell.’
‘Damage,’ he repeated to himself. ‘I have been a coward.’
‘Go. Speak to Archer.’
Rising, Crispin found that Owen had left the hall. Moving down the corridor he heard voices in his mother’s bedchamber. They were there, Owen and his wife the apothecary, speaking with his mother. Euphemia sat up against a pile of pillows telling Archer and his wife that Crispin was her only child. She’d merely meant to protect him. He was the archbishop’s emissary now – surely she had been right, his life was worth more than a poacher’s.
Loathsome hag. ‘What is this? Has she been—’ Crispin checked himself, sensing the Riverwoman in his mind, warning him to put all else aside and tell Owen all he knew so that he could judge what might yet be salvaged. ‘Come, Archer. I have a tale to tell. You will find it quite at odds with what you’ve heard here.’
‘Your mother—’
‘Lies. She twists the tale to her purpose. Come, both of you. Let me tell you what happened, as far as I know it.’
To Crispin’s astonishment, Owen thanked Euphemia for her willingness to talk to him, saying that she had been a great help.
Lucie welcomed Crispin’s invitation to join the conversation about to resume. When he and Owen had first talked, she’d intended to listen, but Eva had summoned her. Her mistress was awake and wished to speak with Lucie.
Magda had motioned for her to go on.
Dame Euphemia had sat propped up in her bed, her hair now tidied in a long braid. She’d gestured for Lucie to come close.
‘I would touch your arm as I speak. To know you are here, listening.’
Lucie had obliged her, moving a stool close to the bed where Euphemia might comfortably reach her arm. Imagining she was about to hear a complaint about Magda’s presence, Lucie was surprised when Euphemia asked, ‘Is it true that the Riverwoman’s apprentice saved me from the madwoman? And that she’s badly injured?’
‘Alisoun Ffulford shot the man coming at you with a knife.’
‘I know nothing of a man. What of the madwoman?’
‘Do you mean the hound that pinned you to the wall?’
‘Hound?’ Euphemia shook her head. ‘She had a smell about her, but she was quite human, I assure you.’
Lucie thought of Magda’s words, the ones that had puzzled Owen. What do folk see when they see a wolf, Bird-eye? The animal? Think again. As soon as the hall went quiet, Lucie had asked permission for Owen to join her at Euphemia’s bedside. The woman had agreed to speak with him. Once Lucie fetched Owen, she’d asked Euphemia to repeat all she’d told her. She’d done that, and more.
As they followed Crispin back out into the hall, Lucie and Owen spoke softly, sharing their impressions of Euphemia, a mix of understanding and horror at the coldness with which she had condemned a man whom she did not know for certain to be guilty of the crime for which he stood accused.
Lucie accepted with appreciation the offer of the high-backed chair. Her day had begun in the apothecary, preparing the autumn salves and potions, which she’d abandoned to join the funeral procession, standing through the mass, sitting for a while at the funeral feast, then rushing to collect what she might need to come here and assist Magda. Her back complained. Accepting a cup of wine, she set it aside, not wanting to miss any part of Crispin’s tale.
Now she watched Owen sit forward, hands on thighs, head turned slightly to the left, training his good eye on Crispin, who sat with his shoulders curled subtly inward, as if protecting his heart. She did not yet have a clear sense of Crispin Poole. Emissary to Neville – that did not speak well of him. Yet Owen liked him – or he had. She watched Crispin squirm under Owen’s keen regard. That was good. The more intimidating he found her husband, the more likely he would speak the truth, and answer all questions.
‘Why do you and your mother have a different version of the tale?’ Lucie asked.
Crispin seemed relieved to turn his attention to her. ‘I don’t know how much you heard earlier.’ He rubbed his forehead with his one hand, glanced out into the hall, his eyes meeting Magda’s. ‘It is best that I start at the beginning. The true beginning.’
‘Do, I pray you,’ said Lucie.
Owen settled back, arms crossed before him, ready to listen.
Crispin began softly, describing the close circle of friends, all eager to escape the bonds of their parents, considering themselves old enough to take their places beside the adults – Paul Braithwaite, and Hoban and Olyf Swann. ‘I should say Paul and his hounds. We teased him that he felt naked without a pair flanking him.’ In summer, the Swann family would spend much time at the house in Galtres, away from the stench of the city. The four friends liked the green spaces outside the city walls, though Paul was uneasy moving too far into Galtres, worried about his dogs as they were not lawed, and he’d no intention of subjecting them to such pain. Bartolf Swann had a word with the sergeant of Galtres about the unlawed hounds, promising that the boy would never allow them to run free while in the forest, and that John Braithwaite would pay generously for any damage they might cause. The sergeant, Richard Goldbarn, had agreed.
In the long, slow days of summer the four of them enjoyed the woods, the river. At first, that last summer was no different than those that went before. Until they noticed Gerta, whom they knew to be the charcoal-burner’s daughter, following them.
Her family had been known to them for a long while, shunned, as their kind were, their skin tanned and stinking of fire and ash. Yet that last summer, Gerta bloomed, her light-brown tresses streaked with sunlight, her skin a warm olive, glowing with health – it was impossible for the three lads to think of her a
s one to shun. She seemed curious about them, following them at a distance, watching. Olyf tried to shoo Gerta away, once even tossing the basket Gerta wove as she sat and watched into the river, but the boys enjoyed the attention. It did not matter to them one whit that she was of lowly status. They adored her.
Lucie asked softly, ‘What did Gerta do when Olyf threw her work into the Ouse?’
‘Nothing. She began a fresh basket with what reeds she had left.’ He paused a moment, as if remembering. ‘There was something about her, how she settled down with a task – baskets, darning – and watched with the ghost of a smile that dimpled her cheeks. Her eyes were dark and deep, they seemed able to bore into us. And we lads felt she found us empty. It made us compete all the harder for her admiration – running, climbing, hefting rocks and logs to show off our strength. God’s nails, we were fools. Now and then she taunted us – “Idle boys,” she called us, “pampered princes.” Or yawned, which was most maddening. The more she discounted us, the harder we worked to impress her. And the louder Olyf cursed us, cursed Gerta. Even worse, Gerta favored me, catching me away from the others, asking questions. And once she asked me to take off my clothes, she wanted to see a boy’s body. I did, but only when she started taking hers off as well. We touched each other. God’s blood, I wanted her so badly. But she picked up her clothes and ran from me. The others found me stumbling into my clothes, my hard cock making it difficult. Hoban accused me of forgetting I was meant for Olyf.’
‘Were you?’ Owen asked.
‘I’d known for a long while that Olyf believed it to be so, but my mother laughed at the idea, insisting I must make a better marriage than that. Far better. To her, the Swanns were nothing. But she’d never explained why until she overheard me arguing with Hoban about Olyf being my intended. After he left, mother told me that she knew things about Bartolf Swann, that he was a lecher, using his power as coroner, as did his friend Richard Goldbarn his power as the sergeant of the forest, to ensnare the daughters of the tenants in the forest, use them until they conceived bastards, then toss them to the Riverwoman and wash their hands of them. And Bartolf took bribes regarding jury selections.’ When Crispin mentioned Magda he glanced up sharp, looking to her. But Magda had her back to them, mixing something over the fire.