A Conspiracy of Wolves

‘No. Olyf … Dame Olyf and I met by chance in the market a while after my return. I complained about the damp in my mother’s house and she mentioned that their neighbor was letting their house. Large, airy, empty.’

‘You and she were childhood friends?’

A glance as if checking Owen’s meaning, then a nod.

‘So what was the urgency?’

‘None that I could tell. He told me he will be in York for at least a fortnight, likely longer, and he means to fulfill his promise of introducing me to the prominent merchants in the city, see to it that I found satisfactory trading partners.’

‘Promised you?’

‘No. I’m of little value to him in myself. Who do I know? What luster might I add to his crown? No, he promised …’ Crispin seemed to be surveying the crowd with a worried frown.

‘Promised whom?’ Owen asked. ‘Is it Alexander Neville, His Grace the Archbishop of York?’

Crispin looked at him, startled. ‘You knew?’

‘I guessed.’

‘I see why the prince and the city want you to spy for them.’

‘Spy for the city?’ Hempe grunted. ‘We’ve no need of spies.’

Oh, but they did, with worms such as Gisburne and Neville about. Owen was sorry to be right. Neville and Gisburne. Now that was a pairing to turn a sour mood bitter.

‘A Neville,’ Hempe said, as if things began to make sense to him.

‘What are you to Alexander Neville?’ Owen asked.

He did not like Crispin’s reaction to the question, how he sped up and averted his eyes, pretending sudden interest in the fishmongers on the south end of the bridge.

‘Why should Neville care how you are received in York?’ Owen guessed, of course, but he was keen to hear how Crispin would phrase it.

‘I am a member of his household, in a sense, here to smooth the way for him with the citizens of York, provide him a list of those with influence.’

‘And Gisburne has presented himself as one who should appear on that list?’ Owen asked.

A small smile. ‘He has. But His Grace wishes an independent assessment.’

‘Then Gisburne would hardly cause you trouble.’

‘I would think not. I – he did impart some news. I suppose he wants me in his debt …’

‘That would be his way,’ said Owen. ‘This news?’

‘He traveled here in the company of the archbishop’s secretary, Dom Leufrid. On the archbishop’s barge.’

‘And this Leufrid could be expected to inform you of his arrival in York in short order?’ asked Hempe.

‘Not before he has received all the gossip available from the prior of Holy Trinity across from Gisburne’s house.’

‘So Gisburne did you a favor,’ Hempe noted.

‘He does not do favors, he makes deals,’ said Owen.

‘Might this attack have nothing to do with the recent murders? Bartolf and Hoban?’ Hempe wondered aloud. ‘You are aware that Gisburne retains an unusual number of armed servants, Poole?’

‘So I am told,’ said Crispin.

‘The man is a menace,’ said Hempe.

‘Even so, this attack on my house, I fear – in truth, I am quite certain it is related to the Swann murders. I will explain later.’

‘Something to consider,’ said Owen. ‘One of Gisburne’s household servants might have let slip your impending visit to someone who decided to make use of your absence.’

‘Hence your curiosity about Gisburne’s purpose,’ said Crispin. ‘I see. I have much to learn about the undercurrents in the city.’

‘It seems you are being forced to learn quickly,’ said Hempe.

Still standing at the southern edge of the bridge, Owen had begun to question his motive in confronting Gisburne himself. Hempe might handle it, allow Owen and Crispin to return to the scene of the attack.

‘Let us leave Gisburne’s household to Hempe and his men, Poole,’ said Owen.

‘And where will you be?’ Hempe asked.

‘At Poole’s house.’

Hempe grinned. ‘Good plan. It will be my pleasure to discomfit King John.’

Michaelo was expected back momentarily, Jehannes’s servant informed Geoffrey, and the archdeacon was also away. He invited Geoffrey to wait in the hall. When he’d left, Geoffrey turned slowly, absorbing the beauty of Jehannes’s hall, the painted vines, the hangings, and then, out the window, the garden planted with a thought to pleasing the eyes. He had never guessed the archdeacon a man of such refined taste.

‘Master Chaucer.’ The monk startled him.

‘You do like to steal up on a man,’ Geoffrey exclaimed. But he smiled, ever charmed by how Michaelo floated rather than walked.

‘I understand there has been another attack?’ The monk’s nostrils quivered on the last word.

‘No deaths this time, much thanks to Alisoun Ffulford, who shot down one of the attackers, routed the other. I witnessed her courage, and that of Dame Euphemia’s manservant. The surviving attacker ran off with the hound. Captain Archer asks you to walk through the minster yard as he believes it your custom to do of an evening, offering comfort. While you do, keep your ears pricked for any whispers of a man and a hound, wolf, whatever they call it.’