A Conspiracy of Wolves

Upon Archbishop Thoresby’s death his secretary, Brother Michaelo, had found himself without a home, without a purpose. A Benedictine, he had left the Abbey of St Mary’s in York during the incumbency of the reasonable Abbot Campion. Unfortunately, the current abbot, knowing of Michaelo’s penchant for handsome young men, and a long-ago attempt to poison the abbey infirmarian, refused to receive him back into the fold. An earlier plan to return home to Normandy and seek a place in a modest priory near his ancestral home was one Michaelo had pursued with reluctance. Seeing the monk’s wretchedness and believing there must be work for a man of Brother Michaelo’s experience in the city, Jehannes, Archdeacon of York, had invited the monk to bide with him for a time. He himself had need of a secretary, though the work was intermittent, not enough to keep Michaelo regularly engaged. Jehannes hoped to find other clerics who might need some of the monk’s time. But Michaelo’s reputation preceded him, and so far clerics proved reluctant.

‘It is indeed Michaelo,’ said Owen, ‘accompanied by Bartolf Swann, if I am not mistaken.’

‘Who?’

‘Coroner of Galtres Forest,’ said Owen.

‘What business would Michaelo have with such a man?’ Geoffrey asked a little breathlessly, as if anticipating a good tale. ‘Do you suppose they are taking ship together?’

‘I very much doubt it,’ said Owen. ‘Michaelo would drive Bartolf mad with his fussing.’

The elderly Bartolf was far more likely to be riding south to consult with Magda Digby about one of his mysterious ailments, which, according to the Riverwoman, were merely signs of aging in a man who moved as little as possible and drank wine to the point of passing out every night. Though he’d been a man of sufficient status and wealth to be appointed coroner, he had suffered a series of setbacks and had perforce handed the business to his son some time before Owen’s arrival in York ten years earlier. His son Hoban had managed to restore the family fortune and, acting as his father’s banker, ensured the mayor and the king’s officers that his father now had sufficient wealth to perform the duties of coroner without danger of compromise – as much as any coroner for the crown. Even so, the man dressed more like a laborer except on official occasions, his clothes ill-fitting as he shrank with age, his copious white hair kept somewhat under control by a felt hat crammed low over his forehead, his pale eyes peering out through a snowy, greasy thicket. Many a widow in York yearned to clean him up – he had once cut a fine figure, when his wife was alive, and many remembered him with fondness. Today, he looked as if his horse had dragged him much of the way.

Owen dismounted. ‘Master Bartolf, Brother Michaelo, good day to you,’ he called out as the riders drew up beside him.

‘Benedicite, Captain Archer, Master Chaucer.’ Michaelo’s delicately arched nose quivered. ‘God’s grace is upon us, that we should meet you on the road home. We were on our way to Freythorpe.’

Is this what Magda had seen?

While the monk spoke, his companion had scrambled from his mount and made straight for Owen, latching onto his arm. ‘My son! My son! You must come at once. I’ve left orders that he should stay as we found him, though, God help me, it pained me to leave him lying in his own blood. But I said Captain Archer must see it all as it was. He will find who did this to my Hoban.’

‘Hoban?’ Owen looked up at Michaelo.

The monk crossed himself. ‘His son Hoban has been found dead in the wood. I have told Master Bartolf that you are the prince’s man and cannot be expected to help in this, but he’ll not be swayed.’

‘I am nobody’s man at present,’ Owen said.

‘No?’ Michaelo glanced over at Geoffrey Chaucer with a little sniff. ‘Your friend must be disappointed. But all the better for Bartolf Swann.’

Alfred had drawn the cart up to the dismounted horsemen and had hurried round to assist Lucie in stepping down.

‘Dame Lucie.’ Brother Michaelo bowed to her. ‘I pray you forgive us for intruding on your mourning.’

Lucie waved him silent as she joined Owen and the distraught Bartolf. ‘My dear Bartolf, you are injured. Let Brother Michaelo tell the tale to my husband while I see to that gash on your head.’ He had blood caked on his cheek and in the hair over his left temple.

‘What do I care about my old head, Dame Lucie, my son is murdered–’

‘I insist.’ She nodded to Owen as she put an arm round the old man and led him away to the back of the cart, where she kept a basket of supplies.

Owen was grateful for Lucie’s graceful intercession. ‘How do you come to be escorting Bartolf Swann?’ he asked Michaelo, now also dismounted.