A Conspiracy of Wolves

‘Not on my clean floor, Bede. Out in the alleyway with you,’ Bess Merchet warned as she entered the public room in the nick of time. ‘And you’re out for good if I catch you spreading such lies in my tavern again.’ With hand to mouth, Bede lurched across the floor, almost knocking over a man who had risen to propose a toast at the next table. ‘I count on you to remind him what he risks,’ Bess told the old gossip’s companions. ‘And it goes for all of you as well. Dogs attacked Hoban. There are no wolves in Galtres, nor in all of England, not any more.’

As if apologizing for her guest, Bess bobbed her head to Bartolf Swann, who had left his seat back in the corner of the tavern, where he’d been drinking with a pair of stonemasons, and was weaving his way amongst the tables, heading for the door. The old man nodded blearily as he departed.

‘She would make a fine bailiff,’ said Geoffrey.

To the other side of Owen, Hempe choked on his ale. ‘A woman? She could never pull her weight.’

‘Oh, I think you are wrong about that, master bailiff.’

Hempe leaned close to Owen. ‘Master Chaucer goes too far.’

‘He meant to rile you, and he succeeded. Be easy, George.’

It was not entirely true, Bess’s claim. There were still a few wolf packs in England, or so it would seem. Whitby Abbey boasted wolf pelts of recent vintage, and the monks of Rievaulx Abbey had reported a wolf pack on the north moors the previous winter, feeding on sheep. Magda Digby knew of a pack that wintered in Galtres, though the warden of the forest denied it, blaming the loss of livestock on poaching outlaws.

So that part of Bede’s story was possibly more accurate than Bess gave him credit for, and the rest was not entirely his imagining. Hoban’s grandfather had been attacked by a pack of wild dogs, not wolves, at the very moment of his grandson’s birth. The midwife had crossed herself when she heard and said it bode ill for the boy. That was long before Owen had come to York, but he had heard the story from enough folk to give it credence. Curséd old man, conjuring the horror of Hoban’s murder in the presence of his grieving father.

Geoffrey rocked his tankard on the table as he observed the room with a half-smile. Owen followed his gaze to the one-armed merchant, Crispin Poole.

Curious, he leaned over to ask, ‘Are you acquainted with Poole?’

Starting, Geoffrey bowed his head as if realizing how he had been staring. ‘He intrigues me. As if a pirate donned the clothing and the bearing of a man of means, a prominent citizen of the city. We are not acquainted, but I hope to remedy that.’

‘The prince is interested?’

Geoffrey looked at him askance. ‘Why would you think that? How would His Grace know of this man?’

‘You discomfited him, Master Chaucer,’ said Hempe. Indeed, Poole now stood, counting out some coin. ‘No amount of tailoring can hide his stump of an arm. A man knows better than to stare.’

Owen agreed. He felt a kinship with Poole. They’d had a few ales together, sharing their mutual discomfort about their appearance. Poole had seemed keen to hear about how Owen had created a new life, started a family. I envy you, Archer.

‘I will seek him out and beseech his forgiveness at the first opportunity,’ said Geoffrey.

‘Oh, aye, that would surely win his favor.’ Hempe made a face at Owen as if to say his companion was quite mad.

But he was wrong about that. Geoffrey’s mind was sharp, focused. What was his business with Crispin Poole, that is what Owen wished to know. He would bear watching.

‘So what have Alfred and Stephen discovered?’ Hempe asked.

‘Still no one at Bartolf’s,’ said Owen. ‘They’ve begun searching all the properties nearby. A neighbor told them Cilla rarely worked for just one household, she once worked for Bess – for all of a day – but we’ve found no one who’s seen her since Hoban’s death.’

‘Worked here for a day?’ Geoffrey laughed. ‘What was her crime?’

‘More than a little mad, as Bess put it,’ said Owen.

‘And the taverner would have none of that.’ Hempe laughed.

According to Bess, Cilla had also worked for Archdeacon Jehannes for a brief period. Perhaps he might offer some insight.

‘And none of the barbers recognized the salve?’ Owen asked Hempe.

‘None would admit to it.’

‘Would you?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Such a murder, and then the bailiff’s man comes round with such a question.’

‘A wretched business, all in all,’ Hempe mumbled into his tankard.