A Conspiracy of Wolves

‘Keep an ear pricked about Paul Braithwaite,’ Owen told Alfred as they parted on Coney Street. ‘I don’t know what I’m looking for. Any gossip, any enemies. And Galbot. Find out if he’s a local man. Hempe’s men might know. I want to see how Ned’s been received, then I’ll go to see Archdeacon Jehannes.’

Alfred nodded and strode off.

At the Swann house he found Ned out in the back garden pushing a barrow behind the cook, who was picking late-season herbs for a stew. Ned excused himself and stepped aside to talk to Owen.

‘They’ve put you to work out here?’

‘I offered. I thought it a good way to hear the gossip of the household, Captain.’ He grinned. ‘And I have. I can tell you that the servants resented Olyf Tirwhit ordering them about last night, saying she’d never have dared if their mistress had not been bedridden. Dame Muriel and Dame Olyf – no affection there, it seems.’

‘Do you know why?’

Ned shook his head, then lifted his cap and bowed to someone approaching.

‘Lucie!’ Owen took her hands. ‘Any news?’

‘I must get right back, but I saw you down here and wanted to give you a message from Dame Muriel.’

He listened with interest about Hoban’s ‘circle’, the secrecy, the discomfort about Crispin Poole’s return, her dislike of Paul Braithwaite’s dogs. He had Ned tell her what the servants said about Olyf and Muriel.

‘There may be something there,’ said Lucie, ‘though we need more.’

‘Did you show Alisoun the pouch?’

‘Forgive me, but she is exhausted. I thought it better to wait.’

As Archdeacon of York, Jehannes had a substantial house near the minster. Surrounded by a modest but welcoming garden, it was a place of refuge. Owen often came here seeking the counsel of his good friend. Jehannes managed to retain an innocent joy and an open heart.

A young clerk opened the door to Owen, gesturing with a finger to his lips that he must enter the hall in silence. ‘As you can see,’ he whispered, ‘Dom Jehannes and Brother Michaelo are at prayer.’

The two knelt at prie dieus before a corner altar, heads bowed, hands pressed together. The clerk escorted Owen to a seat by a low window that looked out onto a walled garden, and offered him a cup of wine.

The hall was simply furnished, Jehannes’s spiritual life being that which drew his attention. Yet where in the past neither hangings nor painted plaster had brightened the interior, that was no longer so. His cook had wed a stonemason who worked at the minster, and the couple, both artists, had transformed the hall. Tree boughs arched along the walls, beneath which hung large embroidered panels depicting the flora and fauna of the moors. With paint and thread they brought the beauty of the North into Jehannes’s home.

Once Owen had settled, sampled the fine wine, studied the artwork, the well-tended beds of herbs and roses in the garden, he turned his mind to Muriel Swann’s warning. An unexpected revelation, old friends keeping a secret, excluding Muriel, though her brother was part of it. And Crispin Poole. Might it be nothing but a cache of fear unleashed by recent, horrific events? Or was it possible that Poole’s return had stirred up some darkness from their shared past? Owen searched his memory for any clues in his conversations with the man, but Poole’s only mention of ill feelings pertained to John Gisburne, who had provided him with letters of introduction to influential merchants in the city – apparently at the command of a patron whom Poole declined to name. It was not done graciously, and though the letters had gained him entry into business, he’d been received coolly in society, and ignored by Gisburne’s family. Perhaps it was time to dig into Poole’s past.

‘I sense a storm brewing in that head of yours.’ Jehannes smiled as he settled across from Owen. ‘More wine?’

Owen declined the offer. ‘I came to ask you about a woman you once employed – Cilla.’

Jehannes frowned. ‘Cilla?’ He began to shake his head, then his eyes widened with memory. ‘Ah, Cecelia, the odd little woman who wanted nothing to do with a secure position. I’d forgotten she preferred to be called by that odd name.’ He glanced up as he noticed Brother Michaelo hovering nearby. ‘Michaelo, you are welcome to join us.’

The monk glanced at Owen, who waved him to a chair beside him.

‘So you remember her,’ Owen prompted.

Jehannes smiled. ‘Oh yes. Quite a peculiar woman, dancing about, making the oddest noises. In truth, I enjoyed her presence, though I cannot say I ever understood her. Hard worker. Alas, she likes to drift, work a few days here, a few days there, then disappear for a week or so. We parted as friends, I like to think. She left me feeling as if I might be the dullest man in the North country. What is your interest in her?’

‘She worked for Bartolf, kept his house in Galtres. No one’s seen her since Hoban’s murder.’

‘I pray she is safe. As I say, she stayed nowhere long. She might have moved on beforehand.’