A Conspiracy of Wolves

‘Would you know of a reason Hoban might have carried a salve for a wound? Or had he broken a bone of late?’

‘Not that I recall, but my daughter would know. After you have examined the body, I will take you up to her.’ Without further comment Janet escorted the two of them to the buttery at the end of the hall.

Hoban had been placed on a stone counter. Oil lamps and a lantern provided light, the two guards standing over him. Two servants carrying bowls of oil and water stood by, awaiting instructions. Bartolf sat in a corner, head bowed.

‘What are you doing in here?’ Janet demanded.

‘Praying for my son.’ Bartolf’s voice was hoarse with grief. His eyes silenced his challenger. ‘The servants are ready to assist you in cleaning the body so that you might better see the wounds, Captain,’ he said.

So much for sparing the old man. ‘Do you have a pair of scissors to cut the cloth?’ Owen asked.

One of the servants lifted a pair, offering to do it himself.

‘I prefer to begin,’ said Owen. He instructed the guards in freeing enough of the cloak that he might gain purchase in cutting through the wool. It was hard work, the wool stiffened by the dried blood. His hands would ache tonight.

Janet Braithwaite’s silks rustled as she joined Owen at the table. She groaned when Hoban’s head was uncovered. ‘My poor Muriel must not see this.’ She placed a beringed hand on the scissors. ‘Permit me to do this, Captain. A woman of his family should prepare his body.’

Owen saw no reason to object. ‘Of course.’ He nodded to the guards. ‘Steady his head and shoulders as best you can.’

Bartolf stood near his son’s head, his face a mask of anger. ‘I will gut Joss, the bastard. He’s guilty. He’s the one. Why else run away? I curse the day I hired him.’

So he’d overheard Owen’s conversation with Dame Janet. Quietly advising Brother Michaelo to ignore any such outbursts, Owen was answered by an indignant sniff.

When the clothing was cut away, Owen motioned the servants to lift the body so that Dame Janet might remove the blood-stiffened fabric from beneath Hoban, the guards still steadying the head and shoulders.

‘Now work some of the oil into the crusted blood on his face, then his torso, using wet cloths to wash it away once it has softened. Gently,’ Janet said as the young man jostled the head.

While Janet oversaw the servants, Owen motioned for Michaelo to record that only the one leg and foot were injured, the fingernails broken and possibly one finger, and one palm was crossed by what looked like a wide, ragged wound, the sort caused when gripping the reins with bare hands as one falls from the horse. ‘When you are finished with the head and torso, clean the hands,’ he said to the servants. Someone approached him from behind.

‘This is Father Paul,’ said Dame Janet.

‘We will not be long,’ Owen told him, keeping his eyes on the servant who cleaned the torso. As he worked, several stab wounds were revealed on the stomach just below the ribs. The other worked the hands. Owen saw that he was right about the reins. So Hoban was not wearing gloves. Perhaps in his haste he had forgotten them.

Now for the most difficult part – the men supported the head while Owen and Bartolf – he insisted, a father’s right – turned Hoban onto his side to examine the back. Scratches, no more. They had just resettled him on his back and adjusted the head when Michaelo touched Owen’s arm and looked toward the door.

Muriel Swann stood in the doorway, head bowed, hand to heart. All those present followed suit. She took a step forward, then hesitated at the buttery threshold, a mere whisper of a woman, her silk gown loosely hanging from a thin frame that accentuated her swelling stomach. She looked toward her husband’s body with fevered eyes. The servants bowed and withdrew, but when Owen asked if she wished to be alone with Hoban, Muriel shook her head. Her gown released the scent of lavender as she moved to where her husband lay. As she beheld him a sob shook her, and Alisoun, invisible until that moment, hurried into the room, whispering something to her charge. Muriel held up a hand. ‘A moment.’

Time stood still as the mother-to-be bent to her murdered husband, touching, kissing, whispering endearments. Bartolf stood with head bowed, his body shaking with sobs. Owen was about to turn away when Muriel made a sound like a long sigh and began to slump to the stone floor. He lunged forward and caught her, lifting her in his arms. Though she carried a child in her womb she had little substance. Alisoun led him out through the hall and up outside steps to a bedchamber in the solar. Dame Janet followed on their heels, moving round to the foot of an elegantly draped bed. Alisoun turned back the bedclothes so that Owen could settle his charge on the silken sheets. Muriel stirred, but did not open her eyes as Alisoun drew the covers over her.

‘I told her she should not look on his face, for the baby’s sake,’ Dame Janet sobbed. ‘I pray he will not bear the mark of the devil.’