by Candace Robb
When they’d had no sign of their quarry by midmorning, Owen asked the servant, Alan, if he knew a way that might bring them to the manor more quickly than by the road.
‘I know a way for men on horse, willing to jump the becks and go by hill and dale.’
‘We will follow you.’
The rain began just as they left the road. A cooling drizzle at first, increasing to a soft rain. The horses perked up away from the dust and noise of the road and by early afternoon the manor was in sight. From the crest of a hill Alan pointed out the main house and buildings. A substantial house, the base stone, the upper story timber, it looked much like Freythorpe Hadden just miles beyond. The stable and barn were large and well kept, the gatehouse just visible down a long, winding lane. ‘Over the next hill you will see the kennels. The mistress wanted them well away from the house and chickens,’ said Alan.
‘It’s too quiet,’ said Hempe.
Owen agreed. It was so still that the breath of men and horses, leaves catching the breeze, and the patter of rain were the loudest sounds. ‘Even in rain one would expect to see folk moving about between the buildings, right, Alan?’
‘Something is very wrong, Captain. It is never so quiet.’ Alan moved as if to mount his horse.
‘You will move when I give the order.’
Alan glanced round at the others. ‘I am worried about my wife.’
‘We’re here to protect them,’ said Alfred.
Owen nodded his approval to Alfred. ‘Besides the gatehouse entrance, there must be others, for farm wagons, the kennels?’ he asked Alan.
‘The farm wagons go through the gatehouse entrance,’ said Alan. ‘There’s a narrow track coming up from the south, unguarded, but fit only for a man on foot or mounted. No carts.’
‘And the kennels?’
‘Over the next rise, you’ll see the lane that leads to the kennels. Almost as wide as the main way, and smooth, to impress the wealthy coming to purchase hounds for their hunting packs.’
They remounted and moved on with care, riding down into the yard before the house. A small dog came rushing from the stables, barking a warning.
‘The mistress’s pup,’ said Alan.
Horses whinnied in the stables, some chickens clucked. So quiet. But no. Was it a trick of the wind? Or were those voices in the distance? Raised voices?
Owen motioned Alfred and one of Hempe’s men to find the source of the sound. He dismounted and entered the house with Stephen, Hempe and the others standing guard without. A substantial hall, old as that at Freythorpe Hadden, deserted but for an aged cat curled up near the fire circle. As he and Stephen crossed the room it reared up and hissed at them.
A voice called out from the passage leading from the hall to the service rooms, ‘Is someone there? I’m in the pantry, collecting pots for water.’
Following the voice, Owen startled a girl about Gwenllian’s age, causing her to drop two large wooden bowls on the rush floor. He held up his hands, showing her he had no weapon.
‘Might I pick those up for you?’ he asked.
The fierce look in her eyes reminded him of Elaine Braithwaite.
‘I am Owen Archer, captain of bailiffs in York.’ Not that he’d decided, but he thought it might reassure her. ‘And this is one of my men. We are here to help. Are your parents here?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘They left York early this morning with a man from the kennels. Galbot.’
‘The kennels.’ The girl sobbed. He noticed now that the scarf that held back her fair hair was damp as if she’d been out in the rain.
He approached with care, crouching down to pick up the bowls, setting them on a shelf beside her. Then he took her hands, looked up into her eyes. ‘What has happened here, child?’
‘Men took the hounds this morning and set fire to the kennels. We’re trying to put it out before it spreads to a hay barn nearby. My brother took some men to search for the hounds. We can hear them. The fire has frightened them.’ Her voice broke.
‘But the hounds are clear of the fire?’
‘Must be.’
‘Are the strangers still here?’
‘Don’t know. Will they hurt us?’
‘Not now that we’re here. Where were you going with this – what is your name?’
‘Alice. Everyone on the manor formed a chain from the fishpond to get water to the fire.’
‘How far is it, Alice?’
‘Just over the next hill.’
‘Were the strangers on horseback?’
‘Yes.’
‘Courage, Alice. My men will go to the kennels.’
‘God watch over you!’
Stephen was already hurrying back out through the hall, calling out to Hempe what he’d heard.
Alfred was out there, telling a similar story, but he’d heard that three men – and a beast that walked upright – were still at the kennels, watching the approach. He’d sent his companion to alert the water line that they were coming, not to interfere.
The seven set off at a gallop.
From the next rise the burning kennels were visible, smoke filling the valley, and now Owen could hear the dogs, barking, though not frantic. He ordered Alan to take one of Hempe’s men and follow the sound, find the dogs.
‘Do not confront anyone,’ Owen ordered. ‘Report to me at the kennels.’
Alan chose Pete, and the two rode down into the dale.
‘Why are we hesitating?’ Stephen asked.
‘The wagon,’ Alfred noted, pointing to a point far from the kennels. ‘Two men running toward the fire.’
‘Three men on horseback await them,’ said Hempe.
Otto, Rat, and who? Someone from the manor? Cilla?
‘What is that?’ One of Hempe’s men pointed to a figure joining the three men. Hairy, yet walking upright.
‘I believe that is our beast – the wolf all have seen in the city,’ said Owen. ‘More likely a human wearing skins.’
‘The world’s gone mad,’ Hempe said.
Owen noticed that Alan and Pete had changed their course, heading somewhere back beyond the burning kennels.
‘Right. Arms ready,’ Owen called. ‘Alan and Pete will see the dogs are safe. Our goal is to disarm everyone and keep them down on the ground, alive.’ He’d already strung his bow, though his aim would be challenged by the smoke as they descended into the dale that cradled the kennels. The curse of a single eye, a blink and he was blind. If only the rain would come down harder and douse the fire. He reminded the others to be aware that their mounts might react to the blaze. ‘If they appear to shy, dismount.’
As they rode down into the dale, Owen was able to distinguish the runners – Paul Braithwaite out ahead, Galbot right behind him. Did Paul not realize the dogs had been moved? Reining in his horse, Owen dismounted, aimed, and hit Galbot in the shoulder. As the man slowed, Owen drew out another arrow, aimed, hit him in the leg. Galbot was down.
But Paul was almost to the group awaiting him.
And then something in the kennels collapsed, billowing smoke masking the drama.
Alfred, on foot, paused by Owen. ‘Bad luck.’
Owen cursed.
‘I’m for the riders,’ said Alfred. ‘No, look, one’s dismounting.’ He broke into a run, barreling into the man.
The other mounted man began to charge Alfred, who was rising after punching his target into stillness.
The smoke cleared just enough for Owen to recognize Joss on the horse. He aimed, hit his shoulder. Joss crumpled over the saddle, then slipped to the ground, where Alfred caught him, dragging him over to his companion.
Owen strode toward the burning kennels, hoping to find Paul Braithwaite. He dodged abandoned horses that milled about, panicked. Two of Hempe’s men tried to guide them away from danger. Seeing a man raising a blade toward Stephen’s horse, Owen took aim, caught him in the arm. The man dropped his weapon and Hempe rode him down, then rode after the horses and one rider heading south
. One of his men caught an abandoned horse and followed.
As the rain and wind picked up, Owen was able to pick out Paul Braithwaite, still heading for the kennels, though stumbling, as if he’d been injured or overcome by the smoke. Hoping to halt him, Owen took aim. Just as he let fly the arrow, the one wearing skins jumped onto Paul’s back and took the arrow in the back of the right leg. Paul shrugged off his attacker and, stepping round the fallen beam, walked into the kennels.
Owen plucked up Paul’s pursuer. She cursed and pummeled him as he carried her away from the mouth of the fire, dropping her near Alfred.
‘God help him,’ Alfred groaned, staring back at the kennels.
It was Paul, stumbling out of the mouth of the building, his clothes and hair alight. Seeing Alan and Pete rounding the side of the building each holding a sloshing bucket in his free hand, Owen shouted, ‘Braithwaite!’
After a moment of confusion, both of them emptied their buckets of water onto the man, who’d dropped down and was rolling along the ground, just missing the woman, who had made it to her knees. Cilla, the wolf, he guessed, her painted face showing beneath the wolfskin hood.
‘I’ll bring more water,’ Alan called, riding off.
Pete jumped from his horse, rushing to Braithwaite as Owen and a man with a blanket reached them. The man opened the blanket and threw himself on Paul, attempting to smother the flames. Out of nowhere, Cilla jumped on him, pulling him away from Paul. Beyond them, another large beam fell in the entry to the kennels, sending out flaming splinters. One fell on Cilla.
Owen grabbed her up, pulling her away. ‘You’re burning!’
He struggled to contain her thrashing arms and legs, gave up and pushed her down to roll her along the muddy ground, but the arrow in her leg prevented that. With a knife, he tore at the skins, splitting the seams and tearing them away. Beneath, her shirt and leggings were filthy, but not on fire.
‘Step away, Captain!’
As Owen did so, Alan tossed a bucket of water on the skins. Cilla tried to crawl away, but collapsed on her wounded leg, snarling and cursing, thrashing about, trying to remove the arrow. The way she moved was more animal than human.
Owen blinked away the smoke, looking at Alan. ‘Thank you.’
‘Everyone on the land, servants and tenants, has formed a line from the fishpond, passing buckets and pots of water. The building’s gone, but they hope to contain it.’ He shook his head at the woman writhing on the ground. ‘Who is she?’
‘Cilla.’ Owen went to Paul, sinking down on his knees. Blackened, bleeding, the man’s breath came in rasps. A woman from the manor came with a wineskin, crouched down and poured wine into Paul’s open mouth before Owen could stop her – he was breathing through his mouth, he would choke. Paul coughed, convulsed, and the rasping ceased. Owen crossed himself, then closed the dead man’s eyelids.
The woman began to sob. Owen handed the skin to her, told her to take it to her mistress out on the cart.
Rising, Owen tossed Alan the blanket. ‘Cover Cilla. Take her aside. We’ll move them in the wagon.’
Alfred joined him. ‘All secured.’
‘Fetch Galbot.’
‘He’s not going anywhere, thanks to you.’
‘Oh yes he is.’ He’d worked here long enough to know the terrain, and he’d worked with the dogs.
Alfred dragged the man to Owen.
‘You heard them barking. You’ll have an idea where they are.’ Owen yanked him up, pulled down his shirt to pin his arms to his sides and tied the sleeves behind him. ‘Lead us there,’ he commanded.
‘I can’t walk,’ Galbot protested.
‘We’ll assist you,’ Alfred growled.
Owen told Stephen to guard the rest. Passing Pete beside the burning building, Owen ordered him to help Stephen. ‘The kennels are lost. Let the household do what they wish with the fire. You see to the men.’
Some folk on the line passing buckets and pots of water called out to them, asking what had happened. Others cursed Galbot for betraying the family. But Owen and Alfred kept their attention on their prisoner, who hobbled along between them, coughing and cursing. He led them through a copse of trees and out into a clearing at the end of the dale. A wattle fence huddled against the rising hill. The dogs were within. As Galbot approached they began barking excitedly, a welcome. Of course they would know their trainer. Three men stood guard with pitchforks, lowering them and pointing them toward Owen, Alfred, and Galbot.
‘Master John Braithwaite sent us here,’ Owen called out.
One of the three stepped forward, shouting, ‘Galbot, you traitor!’ He was younger than Owen had at first realized, and from his clothing it was clear he was not a laborer.
Owen jerked on Galbot’s arms. ‘Who is he?’
‘Adam Braithwaite, Paul’s son and heir. Good with the dogs. And those are the men who care for the kennels. You’re tearing my arms from my shoulders.’
‘Are you Captain Archer?’ Adam demanded.
‘I am.’ One of the rare moments when Owen’s scarred face and patch could be counted a blessing.
‘Where is my father?’
‘We will speak of him.’ Owen gestured toward where Alfred crouched over a man lying outside the enclosure, a torch jammed down into the mud still smoldering beside him. ‘Who is he?’
‘One of this traitor’s men. He meant to set fire to the fence, kill the dogs. I thought you cared for them, Galbot.’
Owen tugged on Galbot’s arms. ‘Who is he?’
‘Bastard,’ Galbot growled as he averted his eyes from young Adam’s glare. ‘No wonder the others had me bring the Braithwaites. I didn’t know they meant to torch the dogs.’
‘No love for them?’
‘I’m the only one cares for them.’ Not Tempest, Owen thought. ‘Cilla and Joss would have killed them first. Only Paul Braithwaite was to die here, the final tally, the most important. He murdered Gerta to avenge the blinding of his hound.’
‘How dare you accuse my father of murder!’ Adam cried, stepping forward.
‘Because he was a murderer,’ growled the man on the ground.
Alfred grasped the man’s shoulder and shook him.
FIFTEEN
A Conspiracy of Wolves
Elaine Braithwaite stood at the door of the manor house, her arms wrapped round her as if to keep her still. Stepping back to allow them entrance, she stood transfixed as Owen and Alan carried Paul Braithwaite’s litter past her, into the hall, as if she could not believe the horror of her husband’s body. Her son Adam walked behind them, shoulders back, eyes trained ahead as tears rolled down his cheeks.
Hempe had returned with the horses, and he and one of his men had helped Elaine and her maidservant from the cart, bringing them up on their mounts to return to the manor house.
‘Brother.’ Alice, who stood holding a baby, bobbed her head at Adam, then motioned to the two girls beside her. Paul’s children solemnly led the litter-bearers through the hall and down a corridor to a small chapel, comporting themselves with dignity despite their muddied clothes and damp hair.
‘Set him down before the altar, awaiting the priest and the coroner,’ Elaine said from the doorway.
When the litter was placed on the stone floor, Owen asked the widow what else they might do to help.
Her composure crumbled, and she bowed her head, sobbing. Owen put his arms round her, holding her until she quieted. The children looked on with grief-stricken expressions.
Wet, weary, Owen felt the chill settling into his bones. He was grateful when at last Elaine took a deep, shaky breath and backed away.
‘What must you think of me?’ She dabbed at her face with a linen, then shook out her skirts. ‘You will forgive me. It has been such a day.’
‘Of course.’
‘We are all in your debt.’
‘I failed to prevent your husband’s death.’
‘I watched from the wagon, Captain, I saw him walk into that burning building.’
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br /> ‘The hounds—’
‘He walked into the flames for his sins, Captain. I was beside him in the wagon when we saw the flames, then heard the baying. When I cried out – no matter what I thought of his passion for them, they were God’s creatures and I quaked at their danger – he patted my hand, assured me that they must have been rescued from the fire.’ She kissed Owen’s cheek, then went to kneel beside her husband’s body.
Owen withdrew to the stables to see to the injured.
Joss, Galbot, and Cilla huddled in a corner away from four others, talking quietly. When Owen appeared, Galbot called down curses on him and his family. Owen ignored him as he called Stephen and two of Hempe’s men over to help him hold the man down while he removed the arrows, cleaned the wounds, packed them with the paste Lucie prepared for deep cuts, bandaged them, all to a litany of curses.
Next he saw to Cilla’s leg. She no longer struggled – he’d slipped a bit of poppy juice in the wine he told her to drink before he pulled out the arrow. But she muttered to herself, and something she kept saying intrigued him enough that he tried to talk to her.
‘Is that what you were doing, playing the wolf?’
‘I am cat, hear me hiss at you.’ She did a fair job, baring her teeth as she did so. The paint was quite like her daughter’s.
‘Who is the wolf?’
‘And I am wolf.’ She growled. ‘Goldbarn told Gerta the privileged four were a wolf pack, bent on ruining all for us. Conspiring to destroy all that we gleaned from the wood.’
‘Richard Goldbarn said this?’
‘Gerta thought he meant to wed her. My beautiful Gerta.’ She whimpered, tucking her chin in her chest. As Owen wrapped her leg she made animal sounds, little cries and yips. A chilling performance.
He moved on to Joss, his face bloody, one eye swollen shut, and, of course, the arrow in his shoulder. He told Stephen to hold Joss down.
‘Righteous ass,’ Joss muttered.
‘I thought this was all about family vengeance, yet you beat your own daughter.’