A Conspiracy of Wolves

Owen rose with him, met his stride as Paul headed back toward the hall, thinking it a kindness to bring his thoughts back to the dogs. ‘The attack on Tempest – such violence. It worries me. I’ve heard from your father that you favor large, powerful dogs. And you mentioned the Riverwoman’s warning. Could this have been meant as retribution?’

‘Tempest? No.’

‘Have any of your hounds injured another’s animals? Or a man?’

Paul began to trip, but caught himself. ‘No.’

‘Some folk have long memories. Anyone who blamed you or your dogs for a loss?’

Paul quickened his stride.

No challenge for Owen’s long legs. ‘You did not know that Magda Digby’s been away all this time?’

‘I told you I didn’t.’

Silence through the kitchen, stumbling once as he tried to avoid a serving man carrying a tray with two steaming platters of meat. At the door of the hall, Paul removed his hat, smoothed back his hair, set the hat back at a slight angle.

‘One more question,’ said Owen, startling the man, who’d clearly thought himself alone. ‘Who has dogs that might be trained to attack as Hoban and Bartolf were attacked?’

‘I have been wondering that myself. To so bond with the animals as to train them to assist you in attack, which this seems, yet do what he did to Tempest?’ Paul’s large eyes seemed black in his pale face. ‘No, I know of no such monster. Now you must allow me to return to my family. My sister has suffered a terrible loss.’

Not him, his sister.

‘Was Hoban party to the pranks for which Magda reprimanded you?’ he asked, but too late. Paul had gone straight to his sister, leaning close, speaking to her.

10 Lying Dead in the Garden

Alisoun crept down the alley, prepared to assess her best aim as quickly as she might. As she walked she noticed an overturned bench where the alley gave way to the garden, a trampled flowerbed, the soil churned. Now she could hear a woman begging for her life, answered by a growl. In the distance a man cried out in agony. Holding her breath so as not to give herself away, Alisoun crept to the end of the house and peered around. Not much farther than an arm’s length along the back wall of the house stood Euphemia Poole, her sightless eyes wide with terror. A brindle-coated creature – wolf? – had her pinned against the house with its forepaws on her shoulders, its head so close it might catch the woman’s breath. Twenty or more paces past them two men struggled with a pitchfork, one of them bleeding, his knees beginning to give out, clearly overpowered by his tall, hefty opponent.

Suddenly a man rushed out from behind a garden shed, shouting, ‘For my father’s honor!’ and brandishing a long, curved dagger as he made straight for Euphemia and the creature. Alisoun stepped out and drew her bow, aiming for his shoulder. But she’d misjudged his speed and the arrow skewered his neck. He threw his weapon as he stumbled and fell to the ground. Alisoun stepped out of the dagger’s trajectory and reached for another arrow.

‘Drop down, lass!’ someone shouted from behind.

She was glancing back to see who had spoken when she caught a movement at the edge of her sight – the creature was lunging toward her. Too late to aim, too late to do anything. It threw its weight against her, pushing the air from her lungs. She let go her bow and arrow, reaching out for something to break her fall, but her legs buckled beneath her and her head hit the ground. Searing pain, the darkness blood-red.

Geoffrey’s stomach twisted at the sound of Alisoun’s head hitting the edge of the stone wall. As soon as he saw that the beast was now moving toward the pair struggling on the other side of the garden, Geoffrey went to Alisoun. Blood flowed from a gash in her head and she lay motionless, alarmingly limp. Kneeling to her, he leaned close to listen for a heartbeat, any sound.

He lurched upright as one of the pair across the garden gave a sharp whistle. His opponent was on the ground, the beast pawing him. ‘Now!’ shouted the man, and he and the beast stumbled away, clumsy in their haste, heading through the back gardens toward St Andrewgate.

A faint rasp of breath. Geoffrey crossed himself, leaning down, felt Alisoun’s breath on his cheek, felt a pulse in her throat. God be thanked for this small mercy.

‘How might I help?’

Geoffrey looked up into the frightened face of the man who’d struggled with the other attacker. His face and clothes were filthy. ‘Are you injured?’ Geoffrey asked.

‘I’ll be limping and bruised, but I want to help.’

Sitting back on his heels, Geoffrey surveyed the garden. Dame Euphemia lay curled up on the ground, the man who’d thrown the dagger sprawled a few feet away. No question of his causing trouble. The other man and the beast were gone.

‘Your mistress?’

‘Injured, I do not know how badly.’

‘I am worried for her champion. What is your name?’

‘Dun, sir.’