A Conspiracy of Wolves

by Candace Robb

  Goldbarn’s part did not surprise Lucie – he had been the subject of much gossip, though it was his use of forest resources for personal gain that had ruined him. But Bartolf Swann?

  ‘Did you have such feelings for Olyf?’ Lucie asked.

  ‘No. Never. She was so like Paul, quick to anger, slow to forgive. I never felt at ease with her.’

  ‘And now?’ asked Owen.

  ‘She has not changed,’ said Crispin. ‘Not a whit.’

  ‘Forgive my interruption,’ said Lucie. ‘I pray you, continue with the story. Your mother had warned you about Bartolf …’

  ‘Assuming that my mother meant that Gerta was no virgin, I am ashamed to confess I was emboldened, sought opportunities to catch her alone. Only then was I aware of her silence and clear unease whenever Paul’s hounds wandered her way. And I made another discovery. Something followed her overhead, up in the trees. It was more than the rustlings of birds or small animals. I caught glimpses – a foot quickly withdrawn, an arm, fingers wrapped round branches. Gerta was never actually alone. She had a companion, a girl who dressed as a boy – short tunic and leggings. She hid up in the trees watching, occasionally dropping things from her high perch to frighten away the dogs.’

  ‘So Gerta had a witness to your encounters,’ Owen said.

  Crispin’s frown deepened, dark brows pressing together, his focus sharpening, as if Owen’s observation had yanked him from the past. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Gerta’s younger sister?’ Lucie asked.

  ‘I thought so, but later, something Warin said …’

  ‘I did not mean to interrupt,’ said Owen. ‘Go on. You’d noticed her unease about the dogs.’

  ‘Yes. The next time I managed to speak with her away from my friends, I asked why she feared them. Why her sister abused them. “Wolves”, she called them. She told me that in her homeland they prowled the forests and ate children. She swore it was true. I told her they were hounds, not wolves, and I would keep her safe. But she would not go near them.’ He bowed his head. ‘I should not have told the others. I don’t know why I did. They could be so cruel. Hoban and Olyf encouraged Paul to let the dogs off their leads the next time Gerta appeared. She threw pebbles at them, then ran, saying she would set her brother on them if they did that again.’

  ‘A foolish thing to do, if she feared them so,’ Owen noted.

  Crispin looked away. ‘I admired her. Even when confronted with what she most feared, she defied us. What courage. But if there is any blame in this, it is mine. I should have kept her secret.’

  Lucie was keeping a tally. So far he’d mentioned another girl and a brother.

  ‘The next day Bartolf informed Hoban and me that Paul could no longer bring the hounds into Galtres. Hoban insisted I accompany him when he told Paul. While Hoban talked, Paul groomed his bloody hounds, whispering to them that he would let them eat her tender flesh, cooing to them about how they were strong and faster than any girl.’ Crispin poured himself more wine, but set it aside. ‘We’ll get her,’ he said. ‘We’ll get the bitch.’ He picked up the wine and drank.

  ‘An ugly tale,’ said Owen.

  A curt nod. ‘But then we did not see Gerta for a long while. Autumn came, then winter, a time when we seldom went out into the forest. And then, in spring, when the river swelled with the snowmelt from the moors, Hoban caught sight of her walking by the river. He saw her there several days in a row, at the hour when he was walking home from school.’

  ‘His family was not living in the city that year?’ Owen asked.

  ‘No. Bartolf was failing as a merchant. The family was forced to sell land and lease their big home in the city – it fetched a good rent.’

  ‘So he discovered the place she walked in the afternoon,’ said Lucie, guiding him back to the story.

  ‘Yes. We found her at last. And no sign of her companion in the trees.’ Crispin closed his eyes for a moment. ‘I make it sound like an innocent game. But I knew it was not. It felt wrong to me. Frightened me. Their idea arose out of anger, and a desire to hurt a young woman who made them feel foolish, and who had bested them, finding a way to forbid Paul to bring his hounds into the forest unlawed. I wanted to excuse myself, but I feared they would turn on me.’

  ‘Did you try to talk to them?’ Owen asked.

  ‘Or warn her?’ asked Lucie.

  ‘No. This thing with Gerta, it changed them. I was with them because I wanted to keep them in sight, make certain they weren’t coming after me, and the only way to do that was to be part of it. They meant to hurt her.’ He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘I should have warned her.’ He stared at the floor.

  ‘You had found her,’ Lucie prompted.

  A nod. ‘We left school early and hurried out into the forest with two of Paul’s largest hounds – by now he had seven of them. She was right where Hoban had said she’d be, walking, singing to herself, looking so content. I could have shouted a warning. But I didn’t. I was a coward. As we moved closer Olyf stumbled over a rock and cursed. Gerta heard it, turned toward the sound, and Paul chose that moment to let loose the dogs, shouting the order to attack.’

  Crispin had gestured with his stump, and now, frozen in the air, he glanced at it with loathing. Lowered it. ‘So many penances – my crippling, my duty to my mother.’

  ‘What happened?’ Owen asked.

  ‘Gerta screamed, threw a stone at them, then turned and jumped into the river. From the moment she hit the water it was plain she could not swim. And even if she could, the current was so strong. I dived in after her. So cold, and the water so dark – I hadn’t thought about how impossible it would be to see her in the choppy current. I had never been in the river in a flood. Something hit me and I went under. I thought I was dead. I could not tell which way was up. But I was pushed against the bank and caught on to a branch, pulled myself up along it. I was catching my breath when I saw her red skirt. And then I saw her hand. I swam out. Death would be better than to live knowing I’d given up trying to save her, save her from the death I brought on her. I don’t know how many times I went under, lost sight of her, saw her again, then lost her, but she’d caught a log and was managing to keep her head up. I kept swimming toward her. When I reached her I thought, at last! But she was draped over the log, limp. Alive? I could not stop to check, just worked on pulling the log to shore. But then – if I climbed out first, I had to let go of the log and risk losing her. And there was Warin, the poacher, crouching down, lifting her out.’

  ‘He put her on the ground face down and pushed the water from her lungs. When she began to cough and retch, I sank to my knees and thanked God.’

  ‘God watched over her,’ said Owen.

  ‘Did he?’ Crispin looked doubtful. ‘She was so close to death.’

  ‘How did Warin come to be there?’

  ‘He said she lived with his family, his daughter’s close friend. His daughter had come to tell him what had happened. “Your friends won’t thank you,” he said, “but I do.” I told him they were not my friends and I didn’t deserve thanks. I wanted to come along, help him with her, but he told me to go home.

  ‘I followed anyway, for a while, until she woke and ordered me away. “Richard must not know about you,” she said. Warin growled at her, told her to be quiet about that ungodly man. “Don’t call him that. I love him. We are to wed.” Warin cursed and she ordered him to set her down. I asked who she was talking about, who she was to wed. Warin said Richard Goldbarn had been calling on her, bringing her gifts, filling her head with ideas. He cursed him. Gerta slapped him. I – I stumbled away, my heart breaking. The sergeant of Galtres – that old man and my Gerta? God help me, I loved her. I’d begun to think— When I reached home I told my father all of it, and said I wanted to go off to be a soldier. He locked me in my room. I found a way out, and left. I never saw my father again.’ Crispin’s voice broke. ‘All that while I had not understood what I felt for Gerta. I should have protected her.’

  Lucie allowed herself
a sip of wine as they sat for a moment in silence.

  ‘And then what?’ Owen asked.

  ‘Years later, in a camp before a battle, someone who had been in York at the time told me that a few days later her body was pulled out of the Ouse by a fisherman. She’d been dead before she went in the water, strangled, her head cracked open – maybe in the water, maybe by her strangler. The coroner’s jury – Bartolf’s jury – found Warin the poacher guilty, and hanged him at the crossroads.’

  Euphemia’s accusation now made no sense to Lucie. Nor to Owen – she saw him shaking his head. ‘Warin?’ Lucie asked. ‘But—’

  ‘Of course it didn’t make sense,’ said Crispin. ‘Until my father wrote to me – once I left the fighting and was in trade, I let him know where I was, and he wrote to ask my forgiveness. He’d told mother all I’d told him. Then, when Gerta was murdered so soon after I’d fled, she feared I would be accused – they’d say I did it and ran.’

  ‘You would be the obvious suspect,’ said Owen.

  ‘I wish she had let it lie. Father could have warned me to stay away, and I would have. My return has brought no joy to anyone. But Mother prayed for my return. So she had Father go to Bartolf and tell him that Gerta had told me she feared Warin, he had an unholy lust for her. It suited Bartolf. He must have been frantic for his friend Richard Goldbarn, fearing he’d be blamed, and how could Bartolf defend him.’

  ‘You believe Goldbarn murdered her?’ Owen asked.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Who else might it be?’

  ‘You describe her as quite beautiful, wandering the forest alone, or with another young woman. Crispin, it is not at all obvious Goldbarn was guilty,’ said Lucie. ‘Have you ever heard any proof of it? Any witnesses?’

  ‘I had Elwin check the coroner’s report. Very little is said other than that Warin was seen bending over her a few days earlier, then carrying her, apparently in a faint, through the wood.’

  ‘When you carried her out of the water, were Paul, Hoban, and Olyf there?’ asked Owen.

  ‘If they were, I did not notice. The next time I saw any of them was this summer, on my return to York.’

  ‘So they’d not run downstream to help you?’ asked Lucie.

  Owen surprised her by asking before Crispin could speak, ‘Did you sense at any time that someone was watching you and Warin? Other than his daughter, Gerta’s friend?’

  Crispin looked from one to the other. ‘Are you asking whether they hid from us, but watched? And they were the ones who blamed Warin?’

  ‘Or part of their witness was used against him,’ said Owen.

  Crispin palmed his eyes, shook his head. ‘A darkness that has shaped my life.’

  ‘Do you know anything about the blinding of one of Paul’s dogs?’ asked Owen. ‘His father said he was a boy when it happened.’

  ‘Not while I knew him. I learned of it on my return.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I rule out nothing as unimportant at this point.’ Lucie heard her husband’s frustration in his comment. ‘Was it Dame Olyf?’ he asked.

  A strangled laugh. ‘Olyf? It is one of the few things she will not speak of.’

  ‘So you asked her about it?’

  ‘I did. And the look on her face – I would have guessed she was the one who had crippled his beloved hound. But she and Paul are still friendly.’ A shrug.

  ‘Do you have any idea who might have done it?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Is that Warin’s son lying in the garden?’ Lucie asked. ‘Avenging his father?’

  ‘Yes. He was the man in the wood, with the dog or wolf that attacked me. I don’t know his name. There was another brother, and the daughter, but I never knew their names.’

  To Lucie’s surprise, Owen rose. ‘I have heard enough for now. I must return to the Swann home.’

  ‘Shall I come?’ Lucie asked.

  ‘No,’ said Magda. ‘Hast thou not heard the cart on the cobbles?’

  Owen had walked over to the window. ‘It’s Jasper, with Bess’s donkey cart.’

  ‘The lad comes for Alisoun,’ said Magda. ‘Good.’

  Not so ready as Owen to cut off the conversation, Lucie turned back to Crispin. He stood looking about as if uncertain what he should do. ‘Dame Euphemia accused an innocent man?’ Lucie asked, hesitated, then added, ‘Knowingly?’

  ‘She did,’ said Crispin. ‘Plucked his guilt out of the air and embroidered a tale to fit it, then gave my father not only the tale, but a list of folk who should sit on Bartolf’s jury. Ask Janet Braithwaite. She threw that in my face when I called at the house. It killed my father, I’m sure of it. He could not live with the guilt. Monstrous woman. She-devil.’

  Owen had turned to listen. ‘You said you saw the coroner’s report. Did they list the names on the jury?’

  ‘No. They seldom do, unless one of the members added information, argued a certain point.’ Crispin frowned. ‘My father was on it. He mentioned John Braithwaite, Will Tirwhit – Adam’s father, and the master of hounds who was training Paul at the time – I cannot recall his name …’

  ‘Was John Gisburne on the list?’ Owen asked.

  ‘He did not mention him, and I thought at the time it was unusual for men of Braithwaite’s and Tirwhit’s stature to sit on a coroner’s jury; they rarely do. My father had sat on a few, but it’s usually those hoping to make a name for themselves, not those who’ve sat on the council.’

  Someone knocked on the hall door.

  ‘That will be Jasper,’ said Lucie. She crossed the hall to welcome him.

  He bobbed his head to her as she opened the door. ‘I thought Alisoun would be more comfortable in our home. And you would not need to be away.’ Jasper’s eyes pleaded.

  Magda joined them at the door. ‘Alisoun agrees.’

  Jasper’s face brightened. ‘She is awake?’

  ‘She will be more at ease in thy home. Thou shouldst attend her, Lucie, settle her. Magda will soon join thee.’

  Lucie stepped back, inviting Jasper in. ‘But who is with the children?’

  ‘Master Geoffrey and Brother Michaelo.’ He nodded to Owen as he approached. ‘They both have much to tell you. Will you be there soon?’

  ‘Let’s move Alisoun, and then I will talk to them. Did Geoffrey say whether the guests are still gathered at the Swann home?’

  ‘They’ve gone. Dame Muriel felt ill.’

  Crispin followed them to the door. ‘I will send for my men. I can at least ease you of the burden of concern for us. If mother needs help, I will seek your advice, Dame Lucie.’ He thanked them both, and Magda, for all they had done. ‘I owe much to you, and especially Mistress Alisoun.’

  ‘Do not let down your guard,’ Owen warned. ‘Nothing is resolved.’

  THIRTEEN

  Bitter Words

  As they followed the clattering wagon down Low Petergate to Stonegate, Owen and Lucie compared Euphemia’s version of Gerta’s story to Crispin’s.

  ‘To accuse Warin,’ said Lucie. ‘I would have bid her good day, but I did not trust myself.’

  Nor had Owen. ‘We have a name now. Hempe says the dead man went by the name of Roger.’ Hempe had arrived just as they were about to depart. He had no news, but it was helpful to have a name.

  ‘Roger, son of Warin,’ Lucie said softly. ‘Is this all about vengeance for their father’s wrongful execution? Certainly the attack on Euphemia would make it seem so. She seemed to think what Geoffrey saw as a beast was a woman.’

  ‘So is that what Magda meant?’ Owen wondered. He found it difficult to believe. ‘Could Geoffrey be so fooled?’

  ‘A person wearing a skin, some claws – fear can twist our minds to see what we expect,’ said Lucie.

  ‘How do you think he, or they, chose the order, and how they attacked?’ Owen asked.

  ‘If it is vengeance, Roger – and perhaps his brother or a cousin – considered Bartol
f as much to blame as Euphemia – or more so. First her son was attacked, but the way he described it, it was a gesture, meant as a warning. Warin might have told his children the tale of Crispin’s brave rescue. Then Bartolf was made to suffer his son’s murder – or perhaps that was a mistake, corrected the next night when Bartolf was taken. Paul’s dogs were the spark, so he lost a dog. Then Euphemia, but Roger had not counted on Alisoun. The Tirwhits’ maidservant Wren is a puzzle. If she watched the house, had Roger placed her there? Was it she who learned of Crispin’s summons?’

  They were interrupted by passing folk telling Lucie that they prayed for Alisoun. She reassured them that she and Magda were caring for her. A few asked after Dame Euphemia. More were concerned about their own safety. Owen told them that he and George Hempe had their men searching for the man and dog. As happened since Bartolf’s murder, some folk reported sightings of fearsome beasts in the streets, or, more typically, in the alleyways. Owen had come to disregard them after Hempe’s men exhausted themselves hunting down phantoms. And if the beast were a woman in costume …

  At the house, Geoffrey rose from the floor, where he had been entertaining the children. Brother Michaelo sat on the bench outside the long hall window, in the shelter of the linden.

  ‘Escaping the children,’ Lucie quietly commented to Owen. ‘He winces when they speak, as if their high voices offend him.’

  ‘Our children might just save his soul,’ Owen said, winning a surprised laugh from Lucie.

  But levity soon vanished as the children observed Alisoun being carried in, their faces puckered in fear, while Geoffrey attempted to report all he’d observed. Lucie hugged Gwenllian and Hugh and whispered assurances.

  Owen rubbed the scar beneath his patch, the familiar shower of needle pricks joined now by a pressure between his eyes, as he listened to Geoffrey’s description of Paul Braithwaite’s face when he heard about the men who’d attacked Euphemia Poole. Owen could not quite gauge Paul’s part in all this, but it felt more significant than an old resentment regarding his dogs. Michaelo wanted to tell Owen something, in private, something he thought important. Owen put him off, telling him he hoped to return within the hour, asked if Michaelo could stay that long.