by Candace Robb
‘A young woman murdered twenty years ago. An innocent man was hanged for it. Bartolf Swann gathered and presided over the coroner’s jury who condemned him.’
‘Bartolf,’ said Honoria. ‘I see. No wonder Cilla left when they appeared.’
‘When was that?’
‘More than a year ago. Galbot and Roger – they are kin to the condemned man? Or to Gerta?’
‘A tale for another time.’ Owen had been watching the young woman, how she looked round the kitchen, smiled at Corm, who grinned back like an idiot, but did not help Honoria with her narrative. ‘What I need to know is where your father and your uncle are headed, Wren,’ he said, leaning toward her. ‘Would you tell me?’
She looked up at him, blinking the cat eyes, shrinking into herself. He had that effect on some people.
Honoria turned to Corm. ‘He says it’s Paul Braithwaite who is in danger.’
‘Why do you think that?’ Owen asked Corm.
‘Wren mentioned the killing of a guard dog – Tempest? – being just a warning. When I asked her what she meant she went quiet, said she’d already talked too much.’
‘When did the two of you talk?’ Honoria demanded.
‘She came out for some ale when I’d come down from – you know,’ said Corm. ‘I told her who I was. We talked a while.’
So that is how they became so cozy. Owen hoped it was just talk.
Kate set a jug of ale and five cups on the table. ‘To fortify you.’
All four helped themselves, thanking her for her thoughtfulness. Owen wondered about the fifth cup, but understood when Lucie stepped through the door.
She carried his bow and a quiver of arrows. ‘Magda said you might need this. Was she right?’
‘She was. Bless you.’
Lucie kissed him and then laid the bow and quiver on the table as she welcomed Honoria to their home. As Owen introduced Wren and Corm, Lucie nodded. ‘Magda would like Wren to come into the hall, speak with Alisoun.’
‘She is awake?’
‘Yes. And she wishes to speak to you,’ Lucie said, holding Wren’s gaze. ‘I’ve sent for Brother Michaelo. I believe we might like a written account of all we learn from this young woman.’
Puzzled, Owen took Lucie aside. ‘How do you know so much?’
‘Magda. Do not ask me how she knows these things. I cannot explain.’
Wren rose, asked to be taken to Alisoun. ‘I want to ask her forgiveness.’
Kate offered to escort her. As they left the room, Lucie turned back to Owen. ‘She is in danger?’
‘Wren is injured. The paint covers it.’ He told her what he knew so far.
The young woman was soon back in the room. Her posture had changed, straightened, her gaze direct.
‘Brother Michaelo is here,’ Kate announced, stepping back to allow him in.
‘How did you come so quickly?’ Lucie asked.
Michaelo bowed to her, shifting a pack he wore slung over one shoulder. ‘I was at prayer. Jehannes believed it wise to interrupt me. It is urgent, I trust?’ He glanced round the room, stopping at Wren. ‘This is not some jape?’
Owen and Lucie assured him not as they escorted him and Wren to the table. Owen introduced Honoria and Corm, explaining all as briefly as possible. Had he not sensed time was of the essence he might have been amused with Michaelo’s obvious discomfort about dealing with a bawd and a painted girl. But he prayed the monk simply settled to his work.
Shifting a little on the bench, the young woman watched as Michaelo took a seat across from her and a little to one side and pulled from his scrip a quill, an inkpot, and two stones to weigh down the curling parchment, which was the last item he drew out, smoothing it and placing the stones with care. As he sharpened the end of the quill, he asked Wren’s permission to record what she said.
‘You’ll write down my words?’ asked Wren. ‘Just as I say them?’
‘Perhaps not every word,’ said Michaelo, ‘but the essence of what you say. Even when I was secretary to His Grace the Archbishop of York I … took care to make clear his meaning.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ Wren asked Owen.
As Lucie settled on the bench beside Michaelo to assist him, Owen chose his words with care. Everything depended on gaining Wren’s trust. ‘Am I right in thinking that much of what has happened with the Swanns, the Pooles, and the Braithwaites arises from your family’s anger at the lies told about them, about how Gerta died? The lies that killed your grandfather?’
Wren gave a noncommittal shrug.
‘This is your chance to record what truly happened,’ said Owen. ‘If we present such a record to the king’s officials we might protect you from any judgment against your family.’
‘No one has ever questioned grandfather’s guilt. None but us.’
‘I would not blame you for doubting my word. But I swear to you that I mean to help you if I can. Would you tell me what happened yesterday?’
‘Da beat me.’
‘Why?’
‘He says I betrayed him. He saw me talking to Mistress Alisoun. I told her too much and she went to the Poole house, murdered my uncle Roger.’
‘Alisoun was protecting an innocent victim.’
‘The widow Poole lied about my Granddad. Had him hanged.’ Owen could not deny that. ‘Da says I can never go home.’
‘Where is home?’
Wren tilted her cup from side to side, watching the ale slosh about.
‘Why don’t you tell me your family’s story about Gerta and your grandfather?’
Silence.
‘Your kin have used you, haven’t they?’ Lucie asked. ‘Forced you to work for the Tirwhit family and spy on them and on the Pooles?’
Wren looked up, chin forward. ‘I liked it there. They were nice to me.’ She pushed the ale aside. ‘If I tell you things, could I go back to them? The Tirwhits?’
‘If they agreed,’ said Lucie. ‘If not, I would do my best to find you work in another household.’
‘But you won’t promise. What of you, Captain?’
‘I have no such power,’ said Owen. ‘Would you not wish to be with your parents if we could find a way?’
‘They made me lie to Mistress Alisoun, tell her Master Adam laid with me.’
Not an answer to his question. Or was it a no? ‘Is that why you told Alisoun your father was watching the Poole home? Because they made you lie about a man you respect?’
Wren looked away, her chin trembling. ‘Lying’s a sin.’
Owen reached out for Wren’s hand, meaning to comfort her, but she twisted away.
‘Were you angry with him?’ Owen asked.
‘He’s not a bad man. But bad things happened to his sister, and he can’t forget.’
Lucie gently touched Wren’s forehead above the black eye. ‘He is cruel to you.’
A shrug. ‘Don’t know why I told her.’
‘You’re angry with your kin?’ Lucie asked.
She gave Lucie a look as if to say it was a daft question, of course she was. ‘They killed the Swanns. And the dog. That’s not right. The priest said in church that a wrong done for a wrong isn’t a right.’ She wiped her face with her sleeve, smearing the paint and staining the fabric. ‘The Riverwoman will put a curse on me for leading Mistress Alisoun into danger.’
Owen knew Magda did not dabble in curses. But no matter. ‘Did your parents and uncles have any help?’ he asked.
Wren picked at the paint on her sleeve. ‘Otto and Rat.’
Owen glanced at Honoria, who nodded. ‘Tell me about them,’ said Owen.
‘I don’t like them. This was about our family honor. Now we’re just outlaws.’
‘Who are they?’
A shrug. ‘They know the city well. Helped us hide.’ She reached for Lucie’s hand. ‘I did need Mistress Alisoun. I used a drink to rid me of a baby – something my mother gave me – but then I kept bleeding. It wasn’t Master Tirwhit’s I carried. Rat and Otto—’ She bit her botto
m lip, averted her eyes.
Honoria moaned and went to Wren, crouching beside her, taking her hand. ‘I am so sorry.’
‘Born in a brothel, wasn’t I?’
‘That means nothing,’ said Honoria.
‘You will find me a place, Mistress Wilton?’
Lucie touched Wren’s cheek. ‘I will, I promise. Now will you tell me what you know of Gerta’s death, and what your family and those men have done to avenge her and your grandfather?’
‘Would you like more ale?’ Honoria asked as she lifted the jug.
‘I would.’ After Honoria poured, Wren took a long drink.
Her tale was much like Crispin Poole’s, though the lads and Olyf were painted in a much less complimentary light, and the lechery of Bartolf and Goldbarn, the sergeant of the forest, was held up as proof the three lads and the girl were up to no good. As the ale dulled Wren’s guardedness and she spun the tale of the two families united in their grief and despair, Owen was glad of Michaelo’s pen scratching away, Lucie helping him open more of the parchment as sections filled, for it was a tale the coroner should hear in full.
‘But what of Gerta’s murder?’ Owen asked. ‘You’ve not told us the real story.’
Wren glanced out the window. ‘As my ma tells it, the one with the hounds, Paul, he came alone to the wood that day, ’cept for the animals. Beasts, they were, taller, more frightening than those he’d brought before, and he hunted Gerta.’
Dawn now. As Owen looked out at the garden he realized he wasted precious time. He knew now who had murdered Gerta. He rose. ‘I must go to the Braithwaite home. I am grateful, Mistress Wren. You are brave to tell me all this. I pray you, tell the remainder to my wife and Brother Michaelo. Then rest here. You will be safe.’
Lucie and Honoria bent to each other, whispering. Owen watched them out of the corner of his eye as he tugged on his boots, slung the quiver over his shoulder, tucked his unstrung bow in his belt. So at ease with each other. He’d not expected that.
‘Rain is coming,’ said Honoria. ‘I smell it in the air.’
‘All the better,’ said Lucie, rising from the table. ‘I’ve no time for the garden today. Let it drink its fill. Take a cloak, my love.’ She plucked a short cloak from the hook by the door and draped it over Owen’s arm, then handed him a small pack. ‘In case you use the arrow and want your captive to live. You know how to use these.’
Owen looked into his wife’s steady gray-blue eyes. Her medicine pack was sacred to her, a thing all in the household knew not to touch. ‘Thank you for entrusting me with this. I will use it wisely,’ he said.
She searched his eyes, touched his cheek. ‘I know you will, my love. Come home to me whole and well. May God watch over you and all your company.’
‘Amen.’ He kissed Lucie, held her tight for a moment.
‘Shall I escort Old Bede home?’ Lucie asked as they moved apart.
‘Let Crispin host him until I return. But you might tell Winifrith where he is. And have Michaelo take Alisoun’s account as long as he is here. Bless you for thinking of that. I know the coroner examined Roger, but I will feel better that he knows as much as possible before he assembles a jury.’ He whispered a blessing, then slipped out the garden door with Corm.
‘Dame Lucie and Dame Honoria?’ Corm chuckled as they crossed the York Tavern yard.
‘Both honorable women,’ said Owen with a look that silenced the young fool.
Honoria and Wren asked if they might accompany Lucie and Brother Michaelo when they moved into the hall. Alisoun was reclining against a pile of cushions and sipping from a small wooden bowl as she watched Magda pacing before the long window that looked out on the garden. It was Lucie’s favorite feature of the hall, the long window, actually several smaller windows separated only by strong timbers, stretching half the length of the room. Owen was keen to glaze them with the rents from his new manor, but Lucie was content with the fitted shutters. When they were opened, she welcomed the freshening breeze bringing the scents of the medicinal garden.
‘Might we speak with you a moment, Alisoun?’ Lucie asked.
‘Dame Honoria?’ Alisoun frowned. ‘Are you caught up in the troubles as well?’
Honoria asked if she might sit beside her, looking not only to Alisoun but to Magda as well, who motioned for her to do so. Settling on a stool beside Alisoun’s pallet, Honoria took her hand and briefly told her of the night’s events, while Michaelo settled himself at a small table nearby.
‘I did not mean to take his life,’ Alisoun whispered.
Lucie, seated at the foot of the pallet, assured her that they all understood. ‘If you would just tell us what happened, as you remember it.’ She was disappointed to hear how little Alisoun had witnessed, yet she repeated what she’d said the previous evening, that as the hound fell into her it felt wrong somehow.
‘I wish I could say how. A feeling that it was not what it seemed and then I was trying to catch myself before I fell. I am sorry.’
Honoria squeezed Alisoun’s hand. ‘You saved Dame Euphemia’s life, I think.’
‘If you are not too weary of speech, would you tell us about the night Crispin Poole came to you, after he was bitten?’ Lucie asked.
Alisoun obliged.
Honoria winced at the details, hissed at his request for secrecy. ‘He might have prevented all this.’
Lucie was not so certain. Vengeance taken twenty years later? Would she have guessed it?
Suddenly Alisoun struggled to sit up, her eyes moving as if she were debating with herself. ‘The beast pushed me over, not as a great animal would do, a sort of leap, but pushed.’
Thinking of Euphemia’s comment, Lucie asked, ‘So it might have been a man or a woman?’
Alisoun met her eyes. ‘That would explain it.’
Hempe was already in the hall apologizing to Janet Braithwaite, who was wringing her hands. The bailiff’s wife, an early riser, had shaken him awake with the news that two of his lads had been left on their doorstep, all trussed up and swearing they’d been attacked by wolves.
‘Tied up by wolves. Nothing between their ears, nothing,’ Hempe growled. ‘Sleeping is what they were doing instead of standing watch.’
When Owen and Corm relayed their news, Janet Braithwaite’s face was ashen. ‘How could this happen? How could he be such a fool to go with Galbot?’
Owen cursed beneath his breath. ‘With Galbot? Paul went willingly? Did you see him?’
‘The cook says Galbot woke Paul, told him he’d been following Joss and Cilla, had heard them planning to attack the kennels at the manor, and my son decided he must leave at once. He would tell the guard at Micklegate Bar it was an emergency. They’d gone down to the kitchen so as not to wake Elaine, though she followed soon after, and cook overheard them talking.’
Apparently John’s collapse the previous night had so shaken the household that the servants had forgotten that Galbot was not to be admitted. Or someone had forgotten to issue the order.
‘Elaine insisted on accompanying Paul. Cook says she muttered about being ruined as she gathered food for the journey. They were away before John and I wakened.’
‘Is there someone here who knows the way to your manor?’ Owen asked. ‘Knows it well enough to leave the main road?’
Janet gestured to a manservant who had stepped forward. ‘Alan grew up on the manor. You are welcome to take our horses—’
‘I can provide them,’ said Hempe. ‘This is my fault. I chose the lackwits who bungled the watch.’
‘My husband would assist, but …’ Janet’s voice caught.
‘Was Saurian able to help?’ Owen asked.
‘He made him comfortable, but said John must have a long rest.’ She waved away any further comments. ‘You must be off. Save my son!’
Out in the yard, Alfred waited, eager to give Owen the news that Old Bede had seen the body at the Poole home, and had identified him to Burnby the coroner as one of the men who had threatened him on the stai
the the night of Bartolf’s murder.
‘Any trouble bringing him into the city?’ Owen asked.
‘None. Whoever might have wanted him …’
‘They are on the road to Paul Braithwaite’s manor, or already there,’ Hempe said.
Alfred looked from one to the other. ‘Are we off to the country, Captain? Shall I round up a few more men?’
‘Where is Stephen?’
‘With Poole, awaiting further orders – what to do about Old Bede, for one, and Bartolf’s dogs. Poole’s men found them wandering near Bartolf’s house in Galtres, injured and half-starved. They brought them to Poole.’
‘Run, fetch Stephen, and meet us at the stables outside Micklegate Bar. Tell Old Bede to stay at Poole’s house until we return. As for the dogs, I don’t know what to do with them.’
‘Bring along any of my men you might see,’ said Hempe. He ordered Corm to stand guard at the Braithwaite house. ‘You do know how to defend yourself?’
The young man straightened and his eyes went cold as he drew his knife.
Hempe grunted. ‘You’ll do, though I do wonder. All that practice at the butts of a Sunday and Captain Archer’s the only one who thinks to grab a bow and quiver of arrows when trouble arises? If he becomes our captain, I pray he’ll have you men practicing daily.’
It was a thought. For his part, Owen was glad he’d done some hunting with the bow while at Freythorpe. He knew how easily he could lose his form.
The gate captain at Micklegate Bar recalled the Braithwaites departing with their cart of goods. ‘The pair were bickering something terrible.’
‘How many in their party?’ Owen asked.
‘The Braithwaites and their servants, a man and a woman.’
‘No one else? No one who seemed to be following them?’ Owen asked.
‘We opened the gates for them only, Captain. They’d word of trouble at their manor.’
The hope was that the cart would slow Galbot, Paul, and Elaine sufficiently that Owen’s company might overtake them long before they reached the manor. It was a half-day’s ride, slightly less than the journey to Freythorpe Hadden. As they began their journey, Hempe muttered about time wasted interrogating Gisburne’s household. Owen still believed someone there had gotten word to Roger and Galbot, but to say so would be to insult Hempe, who needed to be sharp for the day ahead. And it might have been Wren, though she had not mentioned it.