A Conspiracy of Wolves

By now the Swanns, Braithwaites, and Tirwhits stood assembled before Geoffrey. Clearing his throat, he recited the tale plainly, with no bardic embellishments – though he had considered some poetic phrases.

He watched their reactions. Owen would ask. Olyf’s cry of relief when she heard of Crispin’s absence won a poke from her husband and a disgusted look from Muriel. Paul Braithwaite looked drained of blood and teetering, but they all reeked of sweet wine, so it might mean nothing. To their credit, though in their cups the group listened with interest and concern. He noticed that none asked for details of Dame Euphemia’s injuries, none cried out at the profound cruelty of attacking a blind, elderly woman – he’d been wise to omit his embellishment regarding her snowy white hair falling down round her shoulders, one long strand dipped in her would-be murderer’s blood. It would have been wasted on this audience. However, all expressed amazement at Alisoun’s courage – and that of the manservant – and dismay about the extent of the young woman’s injury, tempered with relief that Magda Digby and Lucie Wilton were there to nurse her.

‘Oh, my dear Alisoun.’ Muriel Swann looked as if she might faint. ‘She has been so kind, so caring. What can I do?’

‘Continue with the regimen she has prescribed, daughter,’ said Janet Braithwaite. ‘Give birth to a healthy baby she will delight to see when she is able.’

As an argument ensued between mother and daughter, Geoffrey took the opportunity to slip away. Opening the garden gate, he lingered at the spot where Bartolf had been murdered. Except for the hours spent in his company on the way to York, Geoffrey had not known the man. Nor had that encounter allowed insight into his character. On that day he’d not been the respected, perhaps feared coroner of Galtres, but a mere mortal man shattered by the violent murder of his only son. What had he been like the day before? Geoffrey would never know.

Owen and Crispin headed back across the river, both alert for the missing man and dog.

‘So Gisburne is not to be trusted,’ Crispin noted.

‘In my experience, no.’

‘He behaved in such wise when you were Thoresby’s man? Did the archbishop do nothing?’

‘He would allow Gisburne to make a generous donation to the fund for the minster’s Lady Chapel.’

‘But John Thoresby was highly regarded. A saint compared to Neville.’

‘He was no saint.’ Owen glanced at Crispin. ‘It would seem you are doing more than making a list of influential citizens for Neville.’

The man pressed his lips together, eyes fixed on the street ahead.

Owen grew impatient. ‘So you choose not to speak.’

‘No. I– I would be your friend, and so I hesitated to tell you. The city dreads the arrival of the new archbishop. His reputation being what it is, they see him as a wolf, not a shepherd of souls. And I’m to be to Neville what you were to Thoresby. I will have few friends here.’

Worse than Owen had guessed, but fair warning. ‘You have my sympathy. And I would say that even were it not Neville.’ Though had it been Richard Ravenser … But there was no point in such thoughts.

‘But you said– One night in the York Tavern you admitted to missing Thoresby.’

‘The man, yes. And the knowledge, the support, the authority I enjoyed. But he could be maddening. Powerful men are, in my experience.’ A grunt of agreement. ‘You are at ease with Neville?’

A bitter laugh. ‘No one is at ease with the man. I’ve yet to hear anyone speak of him with any affection.’

‘This Leufrid?’

‘Alexander Neville and Dom Leufrid are two of a kind. Cold, ruthless.’

‘Men of the Church.’

‘Ambitious men for whom the Church was the way to power.’

Owen liked the way Crispin thought – to a point. But as Prince Edward’s man or the captain of the city, Owen would need to watch every word, every gesture when in Poole’s company. Pity. They might have been friends, in another time.

‘I should tell you, Gisburne spoke of another man on the barge, a Moor, he did not name him, but an emissary from Prince Edward.’

A Moor? Owen wondered … ‘Emissary to–’

‘You, as I understand it. Apparently the prince is keen to add you to his household. Quite an honor. But I thought Geoffrey Chaucer was seeing to that.’

‘His Grace grows impatient?’ Owen shrugged, though his mind was racing. Might it be his old friend? ‘What had Gisburne to say of that?’

‘That you were Icarus, in your arrogance flying too close to the sun.’ Poole chuckled. ‘By the rood, the man envies you.’

‘He must have little experience of His Grace the prince.’

‘That is what I said.’

Yes. They might have been very good friends. But back to the matter at hand.

‘When I told you of the attack on Dame Euphemia,’ said Owen, ‘you called her a damnable woman, said you’d feared – what? What does your mother have to do with the murders? Why would the man who lunged at her shout something about his father’s honor?’

‘You implied her injuries were minor. But if he lunged at her – who intervened? She sees only the faintest shadow in the best light. She could not defend herself.’