A Conspiracy of Wolves

Crispin Poole bowed his head over Alisoun. He meant to pray, but he was too aware of the Riverwoman’s keen regard, feeling her eyes, blue, sharp, seeing through to the rot at the core of him. Raising his head, he met her gaze.

‘I have sinned against this young woman.’

‘And thyself. Lives might have been saved with timely warnings. Is that not so, Crispin Poole?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell all to the captain. From the beginning.’

‘Will she live?’

‘Live? Alisoun will rise from this. But the damage – it is too soon to tell.’

‘Damage,’ he repeated to himself. ‘I have been a coward.’

‘Go. Speak to Archer.’

Rising, Crispin found that Owen had left the hall. Moving down the corridor he heard voices in his mother’s bedchamber. They were there, Owen and his wife the apothecary, speaking with his mother. Euphemia sat up against a pile of pillows telling Archer and his wife that Crispin was her only child. She’d merely meant to protect him. He was the archbishop’s emissary now – surely she had been right, his life was worth more than a poacher’s.

Loathsome hag. ‘What is this? Has she been–’ Crispin checked himself, sensing the Riverwoman in his mind, warning him to put all else aside and tell Owen all he knew so that he could judge what might yet be salvaged. ‘Come, Archer. I have a tale to tell. You will find it quite at odds with what you’ve heard here.’

‘Your mother–’

‘Lies. She twists the tale to her purpose. Come, both of you. Let me tell you what happened, as far as I know it.’

To Crispin’s astonishment, Owen thanked Euphemia for her willingness to talk to him, saying that she had been a great help.

Lucie welcomed Crispin’s invitation to join the conversation about to resume. When he and Owen had first talked, she’d intended to listen, but Eva had summoned her. Her mistress was awake and wished to speak with Lucie.

Magda had motioned for her to go on.

Dame Euphemia had sat propped up in her bed, her hair now tidied in a long braid. She’d gestured for Lucie to come close.

‘I would touch your arm as I speak. To know you are here, listening.’

Lucie had obliged her, moving a stool close to the bed where Euphemia might comfortably reach her arm. Imagining she was about to hear a complaint about Magda’s presence, Lucie was surprised when Euphemia asked, ‘Is it true that the Riverwoman’s apprentice saved me from the madwoman? And that she’s badly injured?’

‘Alisoun Ffulford shot the man coming at you with a knife.’

‘I know nothing of a man. What of the madwoman?’

‘Do you mean the hound that pinned you to the wall?’

‘Hound?’ Euphemia shook her head. ‘She had a smell about her, but she was quite human, I assure you.’

Lucie thought of Magda’s words, the ones that had puzzled Owen. What do folk see when they see a wolf, Bird-eye? The animal? Think again. As soon as the hall went quiet, Lucie had asked permission for Owen to join her at Euphemia’s bedside. The woman had agreed to speak with him. Once Lucie fetched Owen, she’d asked Euphemia to repeat all she’d told her. She’d done that, and more.

As they followed Crispin back out into the hall, Lucie and Owen spoke softly, sharing their impressions of Euphemia, a mix of understanding and horror at the coldness with which she had condemned a man whom she did not know for certain to be guilty of the crime for which he stood accused.

Lucie accepted with appreciation the offer of the high-backed chair. Her day had begun in the apothecary, preparing the autumn salves and potions, which she’d abandoned to join the funeral procession, standing through the mass, sitting for a while at the funeral feast, then rushing to collect what she might need to come here and assist Magda. Her back complained. Accepting a cup of wine, she set it aside, not wanting to miss any part of Crispin’s tale.

Now she watched Owen sit forward, hands on thighs, head turned slightly to the left, training his good eye on Crispin, who sat with his shoulders curled subtly inward, as if protecting his heart. She did not yet have a clear sense of Crispin Poole. Emissary to Neville – that did not speak well of him. Yet Owen liked him – or he had. She watched Crispin squirm under Owen’s keen regard. That was good. The more intimidating he found her husband, the more likely he would speak the truth, and answer all questions.

‘Why do you and your mother have a different version of the tale?’ Lucie asked.

Crispin seemed relieved to turn his attention to her. ‘I don’t know how much you heard earlier.’ He rubbed his forehead with his one hand, glanced out into the hall, his eyes meeting Magda’s. ‘It is best that I start at the beginning. The true beginning.’

‘Do, I pray you,’ said Lucie.

Owen settled back, arms crossed before him, ready to listen.