A Conspiracy of Wolves

‘Laugh if you like, but it might fit the pattern.’

‘And Bartolf?’

‘As coroner, he might have had ideas about how his son should comport himself. Perhaps he blamed Crispin for some mischief.’

‘And that led to murder?’

‘You might scoff at the idea, but it all fits.’

She continued up the steps, leaving Owen to wonder why he was so quick to reject the idea. He hurried to catch up with her.

‘Then you suspect Crispin?’

She paused. ‘Perhaps. Or perhaps as Hoban’s friend he was protected.’

‘Then why leave?’

‘There are gaps in the tale, I admit it. I should not have proposed it.’

‘No, I am glad you spoke of this.’ In fact, the more he considered it, the more he wondered whether the answers lay in the past. ‘You are a wonder,’ he said as she set the lamp on the shelf inside their door. He picked her up and carried her to the bed.

Stepping out onto the landing, a respite from the warm room and Dame Muriel’s snores, Alisoun stretched her arms over her head and breathed deeply. She wished she might quiet her mind. If not for lying to the captain, she might feel good that the grieving widow and expectant mother in her care slept deeply tonight, that her ministrations were effective and appreciated. She’d not set out to lie, merely to protect by silence. But with that false step she had begun a precipitous fall, and now she felt as if she were down in a pit she must escape, but could find no purchase with hands or feet, no way to pull herself out.

Something struck her arm, and again. Pebbles. Down below, Ned motioned for her to join him in the garden. She hurried down.

‘You have a good aim,’ she said. ‘But if I’d cried out, I would be cursing you for causing me to wake Dame Muriel.’

‘I kept waving to you, but you did not see me. I saw you out there earlier, when Captain Archer and I were searching for the man and beast I’d seen. Did you see them?’

‘I did. I was thinking how to slip away to tell you when I saw you go into the yard. Did you catch them?’

‘No. Have a care, Alisoun. He’d lit the fire in the hall. Who knows how long he was there, or whether he’ll return? He’s watching this house.’

So Ned had entered the house. Had he seen Poole? Had she? She was no longer certain, and the thought of what might have happened tightened her throat. ‘Why would someone watch the house?’ she whispered.

‘We cannot know that until Captain Archer discovers why Hoban and Bartolf were murdered, and in such wise. The beasts … They play a role. One has been seen at the minster yard. They call it a hellhound. Danger is abroad. I wanted you to know.’

She needed no warning about that. But she was grateful for the information. ‘Thank you. But why are you telling me this?’

‘I know you can defend yourself. I did not mean to offend you.’

This was what lying brought, a distrust of everyone, even those who befriended her. Stupid, stupid, stupid. What was Crispin Poole to her? He had not bothered himself about her safety.

‘You did not offend me. I am grateful for this, Ned. I feel responsible for the mistress of this house. I meant merely that I wondered whether Captain Archer had given you leave to tell me of this.’

‘Would he not want you to be safe?’

But I lied to him. Again she tripped over her own mistake. ‘Of course. I don’t know why I asked. I should return. I would not want Dame Muriel to waken and wonder where I was.’

‘Until tomorrow.’

‘Yes.’ She bobbed her head and hurried back into the house, starting as she stepped into the hall and caught a movement at the corner of her eye. A cat mewed. Alisoun crouched down to pet her. ‘Have a care, Viper,’ she whispered, smiling at the cat’s name. It was said that Muriel’s brother had disliked the cat, and had called her ‘viper’ to irritate his sister. But she had embraced the name, celebrating the ferocity of the gray and black tabby. ‘There are evil dogs abroad in the night.’ Alisoun shivered as she said it, looking round the four corners of the long room.

8 Old Soldiers and Intrepid Maids

‘You were thrashing about before I woke you,’ Lucie whispered in Owen’s ear. ‘Were you dreaming of the jongleur’s leman?’

She knew him so well. In times of trouble Owen’s scarred left eye prickled and ached, and he relived the night that ended his career as captain of archers. In a camp in Normandy, he’d caught a man slashing the throats of the noble hostages in his care. A Breton whose life he had saved. His thanks was betrayal. Owen’s fury had distracted him and he’d not noticed the jongleur’s companion until she’d slashed his eye, blinding him. But that was not the unpleasantness from which he’d just awakened.

‘No, wolves. Packs of them, circling a battlefield piled high with bodies. I could hear cries for help from those still alive, but trapped beneath the fallen.’ Bile rose in his throat. The dream still felt too real.

‘God have mercy.’ Lucie brushed back his hair and kissed his forehead. ‘You will find the murderers, my love. Have faith.’