A Conspiracy of Wolves

Owen told him about the others. ‘And the dogs seem to be everything to him. Losing three. Even if I’m right about the burnt bones, he believes they’re gone.’

‘You are thinking that Roger and Galbot, perhaps both Warin’s sons, plotted this revenge? But what about Gerta? Had she any family left?’ Michaelo asked.

‘I don’t know. Josh? Cilla?’ Owen rubbed the scar beneath his patch. ‘Or is she Warin’s daughter?’

‘How are the hounds moving through the city unseen?’

‘How indeed?’ Owen was not ready to claim there were no dogs in the city, only a woman dressed as one. ‘Hempe or I would hear about it. Since the murders of Hoban and Bartolf, folk are on the watch. After Old Bede’s flight I wondered whether they might be going by boat, but they’d still need to move through the city streets to reach the river. Speaking of Old Bede, I want him to see Roger’s body, find out whether he’s the man who threatened him.’

‘Send your would-be warriors Alfred and Stephen?’ Michaelo suggested. ‘They might sleep there, return with him on the morrow.’

Owen agreed. ‘He’s not been troubled at Magda’s house since an initial try. It’s as if they’ve forgotten him.’ He rubbed his head. ‘In the morning, I will go back, try to learn more about Galbot. By then Paul Braithwaite should have a clearer head.’

Michaelo rose. ‘I will leave you to speak with the others, and then get some rest. You and Mistress Alisoun will be in my prayers.’

A fresh wind stirred the autumn leaves, sending up a rich scent of damp, turned earth mixed with the powdery scent of leaf mold. There was a sharpness to the breeze, a sign of autumn catching hold. Owen and Magda sat on a bench far back in the garden, near the grave of Lucie’s first husband, Nicholas.

‘Her life was quieter then.’

‘Clear thy mind, Bird-eye. Be at peace for a while.’

He tried, turning his attention to the sounds of the night garden, animals on the prowl down below, a cat slinking along the top of the wall, a great winged creature swooping down, the cry of its prey, the draft from its wings as it flew away over Nicholas Wilton’s grave.

‘What am I not seeing?’

‘Be at ease. Thou art close to understanding.’

He did not believe it.

‘Tell Magda what thou hast heard, observed. Spin the pieces out onto the night winds. In the morning thou canst collect them, after a dreamless sleep.’

He doubted he would sleep at all, anticipating a night fighting with the order of things, weighing the possibilities. But Magda was here, and willing to listen, and so he told her everything that had happened, all that had been revealed, doing his best to recount it in order without too much repetition. She gave him her full attention, staring into his eye, all the while so still he could not even hear her breath. When he was finished, she turned away, gazing out on the garden.

‘How did you know that Cilla, or some woman, was the beast folk see in the city?’ he asked.

‘Ah. So that is the answer to the riddle.’

He waited for more, for at least a chuckle. When he could no longer bear her silence, he asked, ‘What do you think?’

‘For the children of Warin to carry such hate for so long …’ Magda bowed her head for a moment, then turned to Owen, her gown flickering in the moonlight, as if her power wrapped round her as she moved.

Owen had been so keen on discovery he’d not stopped to think of the pain motivating the tale as he saw it. If his theory was correct, Warin’s children meant for the Swanns, the Braithwaites, and the Pooles to experience as much pain as they’d suffered. ‘What about Gerta’s family?’ Owen asked. ‘Do you remember Gerta, the charcoal-burner’s daughter?’

‘Hard workers far from home. Two children they had, a boy and the girl. The lad was content to learn his parents’ art – for it takes skill and practice, building the frame for the fire, gathering the correct wood, tending the burning so that it is slow but does not burn out.’

‘But Gerta?’

‘Pretty Gerta hungered for a man who would adore her and take her away. But who would desire a lass who stank of the burning and was coated in ash and soot? She begged Warin and his wife Mary to take her in, let her be Cecelia’s sister.’

‘Cecelia,’ Owen felt a chill. ‘Cilla?’

‘Mayhap. She was a wild one, dressing like her brothers, fleet-footed and strong, scrambling and climbing, watching the birds and beasts, learning their calls. All three were children of the forest and the river, at ease anywhere, ever following Magda while she harvested herbs, roots, and bark, seeking to learn all they might.’

It sounded like the woman. ‘Were you here at the time of Gerta’s death?’

‘Nay. It was flood time, when Magda tucks her belongings in the rafters and goes up on the moors, tending those too far to come to her. By the time Magda returned, the families were gone, fled when Warin was hanged.’ She was quiet again. And then, softly she said, ‘Hard times scatter families. Like wolves, together when the hunting is good, scattering when prey is scarce. Yet these came together a score of years later?’ A grunt.