A Conspiracy of Wolves

Owen’s height, patch, and reputation preempted any plan to slip through the city unnoted. Folk called out to him, asking about the attack at Poole’s home. Word had spread quickly, but the city was haunted by the deaths, the specter of great wolves prowling the streets. Owen envied Hempe. Though he’d served as bailiff for years, he was the sort of man who could move through a crowd unremarked, vaguely familiar, unthreatening. Except, of course, for those he’d arrested. One of those skittered away from them near St Crux, sliding into the shadows, but Hempe had his men drag him out.

‘Brown-haired man in a leather jerkin in the company of a large hound. You see anyone like that, you find one of my men as quick as you may and I’ll overlook your latest theft.’

‘The purse? But there were naught in it, Master Bailiff.’

‘Leave it on her doorstep and I’ll forget about it – if you keep an eye out.’

A vigorous nod and the man loped away.

‘He’s simple, but he has an eye. The purse was valuable in itself. And he never wastes his time on those with nothing of value. He knows everyone’s worth in the city.’

‘You should hire him.’

‘I would, but he disappears. He’s plagued by fits. The Riverwoman puts a few drafts in him, gives him a cot while he sleeps it out, and he’s back on the streets, bright and keen as ever.’

‘The city depends on her for a great deal.’

‘And you. Even in death you will be revered – your corpse will work miracles, mark me.’ Hempe laughed.

By the time they reached the Ouse Bridge Owen no longer heard the questions about the attack, his mind on Gisburne, how to handle him. The man was slippery as an eel, powerful in the city and the shire, rotten to the core. That his fellow merchants and city counselors overlooked his criminal dealings confounded Owen. Lucie believed they feared what he knew of them, for his men spied on all in the city. What might he have to gain in aiding the attacks on the Swanns and their friends? Did he hope to take on the role of coroner? Surely his calls to parliament already gave him more power than would the post of coroner in Galtres. Perhaps a favor for a friend?

Owen nodded to one of the Graa clan, wealthy, powerful, and assured the man he would soon give the mayor his decision regarding the position of captain of bailiffs.

‘We need you, Archer. Today’s attack makes that plain. A blind widow?’

Hempe was grinning about the support for Owen as captain when Owen said, ‘Crispin Poole approaches.’

The man they sought was obliging them by making his way toward them through the throng of folk on the bridge. As Crispin grew near, Owen heard people hailing him to express concern for his mother. Graa hastily took his leave.

‘God’s blood, they’ve attacked my home?’ Crispin growled as he reached Owen and Hempe. ‘I hope you are on their heels.’

‘We’re on yours, to be frank,’ said Owen. ‘What did Gisburne want of you this morning?’

‘I couldn’t say. No reason for a sudden summons.’ Crispin glanced at the folk pressing round them, eager to hear.

‘Move on,’ Hempe called out.

‘Damnable woman,’ Crispin muttered. ‘I feared – is my mother alive?’

Damnable woman? ‘Yes,’ said Owen. ‘Injured, but I do not believe her life is in danger.’

‘God watches over her. Heaven knows why.’ Crispin’s eyes flicked between Owen and Hempe. ‘Are you come to escort me home? Both of you? Do you think the attack was meant for me? That I might be attacked on the way?’

‘The man who came at your mother shouted something about vengeance for his father’s honor,’ said Owen. ‘He seemed to be addressing her, according to Chaucer.’

Crispin blanched, there was no other word for it. White round the mouth, which opened a little in a prolonged sigh. ‘I see.’

‘Do you? We would like to know what exactly you see,’ said Owen.

‘It is a long tale.’

‘Has it anything to do with the death of a young woman named Gerta?’ Owen was rewarded by Crispin’s muttered curse. ‘We will talk later. At your house.’

‘Not now? You are not headed there?’

‘I would like to watch Gisburne’s face as he’s told about your mother’s ordeal. You were summoned to Micklegate – John Gisburne’s home, and while you were away …’

‘You are thinking Gisburne arranged for me to be away?’ Crispin looked aside, as if working to control his temper. ‘I will accompany you.’

‘Then come,’ said Hempe, breaking his silence. ‘We continue to draw a crowd.’

Owen glanced round, nodded to folk who began to ply them with questions. ‘If you will let us pass,’ he said, beginning to push through them.

‘And how readily the crowd parts for the captain,’ Hempe muttered, still amusing himself about how the folk venerated Owen.

‘How did Gisburne behave?’ Owen asked Crispin when they were clear of the worst of the crush of curious onlookers.

A shrug. ‘Friendly. He served wine, cheese, and bread, asked how I liked the house in Colliergate – with the air of having arranged it for me.’

‘Had he?’