A Conspiracy of Wolves

Lucie had favored the council’s offer until Geoffrey appeared at Freythorpe with specifics about the one from Prince Edward. The prince offered a far more generous stipend than did the York council, as well as property, status, even a knighthood if Owen wished. He most assuredly did not, and Lucie supported him in that. Nor did she care a whit for wealth or status. It was the work she believed would be to his liking, more varied and potentially far more interesting than keeping order in the city. No doubt. But Owen knew the prince’s reputation, the brutality of his raids in Gascony, and the cold-blooded sentences he laid down on anyone who crossed him. Even now, as ill as he was, Prince Edward’s reputation was that of a querulous, vindictive lord. And what about his illness? How long would he have need of Owen?

‘Both he and Princess Joan hope that you would continue to work for her, and the young Prince Richard,’ Geoffrey had assured him. Teasing Owen that he seemed to be weakening, Geoffrey had quickly gone on to explain how it would work. Owen already had influential friends in York and elsewhere in the shire who might be encouraged to share information with him and invite him to accompany them on visitations throughout the area, introducing him to others in the prince’s affinity. ‘And your delightful Lucie, daughter of a knight. The prince is keen to make her acquaintance, as is my lady. An invitation to one of their northern estates, perhaps?’

Owen thought Lucie might enjoy such an honor. And he would take pleasure in making it possible, even more in escorting her. He disappointed himself in finding the proposal tantalizing. Against all reason he missed the status he’d held as Thoresby’s spy and captain of guards.

‘Captain of bailiffs,’ Michaelo sniffed. ‘You would choose that over the prince’s household?’

‘I take it you would not.’

‘I envy you the luxury of choice.’

The Swann home stood on a double messuage in Coney Street. A fine wooden archway opened into a modest yard leading to a fine hall with a grand iron-bound oak door.

‘A well-designed entry that shields the hall from the busy street,’ Michaelo noted. ‘Much more suited to the status of the family than the house in Galtres.’

At Owen’s knock, the door was flung open by a young manservant, his red eyes attesting to his affection for his late master.

‘Captain Archer. They await you in the buttery,’ he said, bobbing his head to both of them as he stepped aside to allow them passage.

The hall was lofty, with a tiled floor. Near the fire circle at its heart a woman paced, her silk and velvet gown shifting colors in the firelight. A rosary swung from her hands and her lips moved in prayer. Janet Braithwaite, Muriel Swann’s mother. She was a large, imposing woman.

‘God help us,’ Michaelo murmured. ‘She has a taste for going to law, ever vigilant regarding her “due”. She took His Grace to law over a perceived slight.’

‘Did she win?’

‘Against John Thoresby?’ Michaelo sniffed.

Apparently there was much Owen did not know about the late archbishop’s standing in the community.

As soon as the servant informed her of the visitors, Dame Janet turned toward them. As she approached she wrapped the rosary round her left wrist as if a bracelet and shook out her skirts as if prayer were a dusty business. Her eyes bore no signs of grief, though her face was pinched in worry. ‘You have brought a monk, Captain Archer? But I summoned our parish priest.’

‘Brother Michaelo is not a priest,’ said Owen. ‘He is kindly assisting me, recording everything for Bartolf, as he would if the victim were not his son.’

‘I see.’ Janet nodded to Michaelo. ‘I will have the boy summon Bartolf. He is just out in the kitchen. I did not want him plucking at Hoban’s shroud.’

‘He is coroner,’ said Owen. ‘He knows not to do that.’

‘When not in his cups,’ said Janet. ‘Which is rare these days. The men said you had them wrap Hoban with care, that it was important not to disturb him until you arrived, and I saw to it that no one did so.’ She began to turn toward the servant.

‘No need to summon him, not yet,’ said Owen.

‘The old bear will not like it that he was not told of your presence.’

‘First I would speak with Bartolf’s manservant, Joss. Where might I find him?’ Owen preferred to speak to the servant away from his master, and then examine the body without the father’s witness.

‘The one who precipitated all this? The old bear cursed him and turned him out. I went after him, ordered him back to the house in Galtres where he might be of some use. It is possible the dogs might return to the house. Not the horse. Alas, the horse was a hire, according to my daughter. Hoban was in a hurry to ride out before nightfall, no time to have his readied – it’s stabled across the river. He meant to hire one from a stable outside Bootham Bar. More expense for them.’ She frowned. ‘So you did not stop at the house?’

‘I did. Joss had not returned.’

‘The lout. He should have been there hours ago.’