A Conspiracy of Wolves

Lucie resolved to keep her mind on her work. Grief must wait. ‘I will see to Dame Euphemia myself.’

‘Nay. Magda will assist thee.’

‘But Euphemia–’

‘Who is to tell her?’ A conspiratorial smile. ‘She is not aware of aught at present.’

Working together, Lucie and Magda examined Euphemia, deciding how she could best be moved without causing further injury. A shoulder out of joint and a swollen ankle already bringing up a bruise appeared to be the worst of what she had suffered, though at her age such an abrupt drop to the ground might well break fragile bones. Geoffrey and Dun, who had been replaced by a thick cushion beneath Alisoun’s shoulders and head, carried Dame Euphemia to her bed, assisted by Lucie. The maid, Eva, fussed over her mistress’s placement. And still Euphemia did not wake. A too-deep sleep?

Magda shook her head at Lucie’s concern. ‘Her pulse is strong.’

In silence they set Dame Euphemia’s shoulder and wrapped her ankle and her swollen knee. The elderly woman slept the while.

‘When she wakes, if she protests your presence, will we move Alisoun?’ Lucie asked.

‘Not until she rouses. Dame Euphemia may fume in her chamber. Her inner blindness came upon her over many years, as she drew in on herself until she could see no one but her husband and her son.’

After Geoffrey carried Alisoun to the bed Eva had prepared for her in the hall, Lucie saw to the manservant, asking Dun about his own injuries. Sprains, a blossoming black eye and a gash on his cheek – the caked mud had stopped his bleeding, and a hand beginning to spasm. She thanked him for caring for Alisoun despite his discomfort. Then she set to work cleaning his hands and face in order to find the wounds and bandage them, splinting two fingers, wrapping a sprained ankle, backing off when with fear in his eyes he begged her not to sew the wound on his face.

‘It will take longer to heal, and the scar will be more noticeable.’

‘Folk do not see me. And I was never fair to look upon.’

‘You fought with courage today,’ she said. ‘The Pooles should be grateful.’

‘Dame Euphemia has always been a fair mistress.’

‘And her son?’

‘Kinder than his mother, truth be told.’

‘You will need help for a while. But Crispin Poole brought his own servants, did he not?’ She was prying, for they looked like retainers, not house servants.

‘One of them dresses him, assists where he struggles with but one hand. The other,’ Dun leaned in close, ‘he does little but walk about, spying on folk.’

‘They accompanied him today?’

‘No, they have been away. In Galtres, I think, watching the coroner’s property.’

‘Why?’

He shook his head.

‘How kind of him to watch over Bartolf’s house,’ said Lucie, storing that away for Owen. ‘I will speak to your mistress about hiring someone to assist you for a time.’

He pressed her forearm in gratitude.

The hall was a long, high, echoing space with few furnishings or hangings. Not an inviting room. Magda bent over Alisoun, smoothing back her hair, murmuring to her. She claimed to use no charms, but Lucie knew she fashioned bundles of herbs, stones, feathers, and twigs, and had experienced the power of her murmured words, a deep warmth, heavy limbs and eyelids, the silencing of thought.

Sensing Lucie behind her, the healer glanced over her shoulder. ‘Magda will stay with Alisoun until she is well enough to move to thy home or the river house.’

On St Andrewgate, Owen noticed a woman hurrying in his direction, peering back over her shoulder as she tugged her child along behind her. He hailed her and asked whether she had seen a man and a large dog.

The woman lifted her child up in her arms, hugging her tight. ‘I did see them, though the creature was like no dog I’ve ever known. The man clutched the collar of the beast with one hand, dangling a knife from the other. I screamed and scooped up my Jen, and others shouted. He fled into the Bedern.’

‘Can you describe the man you saw, what he wore?’ Owen asked.

She closed her eyes, rocking the child as she conjured the image. ‘Not so tall as you, brown hair, no hat. His clothes – a worker’s garb, leather tabard. Nothing to set him apart.’

Could it be Galbot? He’d worn a leather vest. Owen cursed himself for not asking Paul Braithwaite how long Galbot had worked for him, what he knew of the man’s past. But by then he’d fled, so it would have done little good. At the funeral feast he’d had a moment with Elaine Braithwaite, nothing of note until she said something about Tempest’s death not being the first loss Paul has suffered, his precious dogs. She’d been silenced by John Braithwaite, who said her jealousy regarding the dogs was unbecoming. Owen must speak to Paul.

He thanked the woman.

‘You will protect us, Captain? Protect the city?’