A Conspiracy of Wolves

She smiled sleepily as she kissed him. ‘Such a sweet voice she has, though nothing like Alisoun’s.’ Lucie rolled over on her back. ‘Poor Alisoun, plucked from the peace of Magda’s rock and set in the path of danger.’

‘If she did lie to me, she was already in danger.’

‘True. Poor Jasper, he was so angry with her. He glared at me when I told him to escort her back to the Swann house.’

‘It was not his choice to walk her home last night?’

‘No. He was such a boor about it that I locked Nicholas’s books away until his temper cooled and he apologized. But he had cause.’

‘Not to glare at you.’ He saw the worry in Lucie’s eyes. ‘Alisoun would be even less safe at Magda’s house.’

Lucie sighed. ‘I know. I’m worried that both she and Jasper might be at risk if the pair of drunks murdered Bartolf.’

‘I thought of that as well. I’ll see to protecting them.’ Owen heard the kitchen door open. ‘Kate’s awake. I’ll bring in some wood for her.’

She smiled. ‘Kate is quite capable of bringing in the wood. But I know, you need to stretch your legs while you plan out your day.’ She kissed him and slipped back down beneath the covers. ‘I’ll escort the twins to Magda’s. Let Jasper burn off some of his temper with good honest work alone in a crowded apothecary. I will make my apologies to Alisoun later. Such a pair we are, inviting intruders into her home.’

‘Why you? Why walk into danger?’

She propped herself on one elbow, reaching out to touch his cheek. ‘How can I ask it of Rose and Rob if I think it too dangerous to go myself?’

‘Perhaps–’

She touched a finger to his lips, silencing him. ‘We have no cause to believe we will come to harm, my love. It is Alisoun who needs our protection. Don’t worry about me.’

‘But I do. You are my anchor.’

‘And you are mine. I will be careful, my love.’ Her steady gaze assured him.

Owen dressed in the soft dawn light filtering through the shutters and stepped out onto the landing to begin his day.

The rising sun touched the rooftops, but already it was disappearing behind low clouds, the sort of late-summer overcast that kept the dew and the river damp trapped, thickening the air, dragging down the spirit. Owen paused at the gate into the tavern yard, observing a woman who paced back and forth near the tavern door, wringing her hands and mumbling something to herself – prayers, perhaps. He could not quite place her. Simple dress, a faded brown with some shine at the elbow and a patch on the skirt, tidily sewn. He opened the gate, letting it squeak loudly to warn her of his presence.

She turned toward him, her hands to her heart. ‘Captain Archer. God bless, you are just the man I hoped to see. Tom Merchet told me to wait right here, you would be over before long. It’s my Da, Old Bede as they call him. He didn’t come home last night. I’ve looked all the places he sometimes sleeps it off and no one saw him after he left the tavern. I’m that worried, Captain. With the murder last night, and Tom Merchet saying Da had been out in the yard, he might have seen something.’ Owen recalled her name now, Winifrith. ‘You must find him for me. I pray you.’ She drew a penny from her sleeve. ‘I’ve little to offer.’

Owen gently closed her fingers over the coin. ‘There’s no need, Dame Winifrith. Just tell me where you’ve looked and I’ll take over your search. I need him as well.’ He offered her his arm. ‘Shall we talk in the tavern over a bowl of ale?’

After she’d departed, Owen sat a while with Tom and Bess.

‘I wondered about him when he returned,’ Bess said. ‘We’ve danced this dance many a night and he’s always walked back in with a proud glare, but not last night. He sat slumped over in his chair and said little while I had the doors locked so they wouldn’t all spill out and crowd round poor Bartolf. Do you think Old Bede saw something?’

Owen told them about the two drunks.

Tom frowned down at his hand on the table, shaking his head. ‘No one left in that condition last night, except for Old Bede. And Bartolf, I suspect. The stonemasons sitting with him walked straight lines out the door. Poole never drinks much, though he pays as if he does.’

Bess agreed that only Bartolf and Old Bede had been drunk. Nor did Owen recall anyone else leaving during that time.

‘Nor I,’ said Geoffrey from the doorway. ‘I’ll come with you, Owen. I’ve developed a fondness for the old gossip.’

‘Go on, then, you two,’ said Bess, ‘find the old troublemaker.’