A Conspiracy of Wolves

‘Curing rashes, quieting the thoughts, purifying the liver. The barbers add it to many salves.’ Lucie took another sip as she blinked away the dust. How strange to see Brother Michaelo in an oft-mended, ill-fitting habit. Had Owen not warned her, she would have wondered what mishap had necessitated his borrowing a fellow monk’s clothes. She took off her apron, setting it aside and smoothing down her simple gown.

‘Come.’ She plucked a hood and a short summer cloak from the pegs by the door, completing her costume for the mission, and picked up a basket of remedies she’d gathered, choosing them in the hope that Cilla was amenable to her ministrations.

Jasper appeared in the doorway to ask whether he should finish the work.

‘No need. I will not be long.’ She did not bother to reprimand him for the discourtesy of ignoring Michaelo. Jasper’s deep-set distrust of the monk was not easily mended. ‘I am grateful to you for closing up the shop this evening.’

As they walked up Stonegate, Lucie wondered aloud why Cilla would seek refuge in the minster yard.

‘To an extent, it is a safe haven,’ said Michaelo. ‘The folk living there keep careful watch, knowing that at the first sign of trouble the dean and chapter will drive them off and destroy their hovels to prevent their return, so they do their best to keep the peace.’

‘How terrible it must be to …’ She was interrupted by a man expressing his thanks that Owen was to be captain of the city bailiffs.

‘He will see to scoundrels and crooks,’ the man said.

When Lucie explained that he had taken on his present investigations as favors to the Swanns and the Braithwaites, that nothing had been decided about Owen’s future, the man seemed to wilt.

No sooner had he walked on than a woman touched Lucie’s arm, shyly asking whether Owen had found Old Bede, and whether it was true that a wolf was running loose in the city. No wolf in the city, Lucie assured the woman, but Old Bede was still missing. Again, the disappointment was visceral.

‘Their fear has me questioning the wisdom of escorting you to the crowded yard,’ said Michaelo.

‘I take responsibility for my own safety,’ said Lucie. She was watching alleyways and the shadowy areas close to the shop fronts, alert for danger. ‘Are the dean and chapter eager to evict the poor from their yard?’

‘I have no doubt they pray for a reason to do so.’

Lamps were being lit in the homes they passed, and within the minster gates the stonemasons were saying their goodnights as they quit work on the east end, Thoresby’s Lady Chapel.

‘He would be pleased that the building continues,’ she said as they passed.

‘Let us pray that the dean and chapter manage to hide the funds from the grasp of the new archbishop,’ said Michaelo.

‘He is a greedy man?’

A sniff. ‘He is a Neville. Sir Richard Ravenser would have seen it finished, and finished well.’ Thoresby’s nephew and the late archbishop’s personal choice to succeed him. The powerful Nevilles had outmaneuvered him, winning the king’s support. ‘An opportunity squandered,’ said Michaelo. He drew a square of linen from his sleeve as they approached the shacks huddled against the north end of the minster. Lucie caught a scent of lavender as he shook it out and held it to his nose.

And yet, as they picked their way along a narrow path between the shacks folk smiled and bobbed their heads at Michaelo as if he were a familiar, trusted figure. He nodded in turn, and responded to many by name. Wattle and daub, reed mats, piles of stones, half-burnt timbers – the folk fashioned their dwellings with whatever came to hand, and few seemed sufficient to protect them from the harsh Yorkshire winter to come.

‘Did you tell Cilla you were bringing me?’

‘No, I merely inquired as to her welfare, having heard that she’d suffered a fall and badly bruised her face. Here we are.’ He handed Lucie the basket.

Tucked into the corner where the nave met the north transept, the shelter was nothing more than planks of wood angled against the stone edifice. Well shielded from the wind, perhaps, but little else. The sharp angle shaded it, so the stone would be cold and damp.

‘If it’s Cecelia you seek, you’ll not find her here.’ The speaker leaned on a crutch fashioned from a branch, the top wrapped round with rags as filthy as the ones that hung from his large, emaciated frame. ‘Gone in the night.’

‘Gone?’ Michaelo looked round as if not believing him.

Lucie looked round, noticed a girl peering out from the shelter beside Cilla’s. She crouched down to speak to her. ‘I brought salves for Cecelia. I’d heard she was badly bruised.’

The girl’s head seemed to sink into her shoulders as she shied away.

‘Would you know where I might find her?’

A shake of the head revealed horrible scarring from a burn on one side of her face, and Lucie realized that the child had only one arm.

‘She won’t want you to find her.’ Her mouth twisted as she spoke, the scar making it difficult for her to form her words.