A Conspiracy of Wolves

‘Well you might wonder, Captain Archer. It seems Bartolf knows of your close friendship with the archdeacon and thought to engage Jehannes’s help in persuading you to take on the task of finding his son’s murderer. The archdeacon advised him to leave you in peace to mourn Dame Philippa, but the old man would not hear of it.’ Michaelo glanced over at Bartolf with a look of distaste. ‘So many years serving as coroner, yet look at him – did he believe his own seed immortal?’ An impatient sigh. ‘But as I saw he could not be dissuaded, I offered to escort him to Freythorpe, as I know the way.’

‘Father, what has happened?’ Gwenllian asked sleepily from the cart.

‘Hush, my love. Some trouble in the city, nothing to do with you.’ Owen kissed her and coaxed her to lie down beside her brother. ‘Rest. We will be home soon.’

Lucie seemed to have noticed that Gwenllian had awakened and had drawn Bartolf farther off the road, in the shade of a tree. Alfred and Geoffrey held the man steady while Lucie cleaned and bandaged his wounds. As Owen went to join them he heard the old man muttering about dogs, his son’s throat torn, a bloody clearing near his home in the forest.

The wolves circle their prey. ‘He was savaged by dogs?’ Owen asked Michaelo, who had followed him.

‘So he says.’

‘Bartolf’s dogs?’ Swann kept a brace of hounds at his property in Galtres.

‘He is adamant that his own dogs would never harm Hoban. But one wonders. Hoban’s purpose in riding out yesterday evening was to bring the hounds back to his home in the city, where his father has been biding. This morning, discovering Hoban had not returned, Bartolf took a servant and rode out. They found him in a clearing.’

‘And the hounds?’

‘Gone. As is his horse.’

‘Not at the house?’

‘No. Zephyrus and Apollo – hounds with the names of pagan gods.’ A sniff. ‘Nowhere to be seen.’

‘Why did he ride out in the evening? Why not wait for morning?’

‘I have asked as little as possible, Captain, but I believe someone informed him his hounds were running loose, and he was wild with worry, insisting on riding out himself. Hoban thought to calm him by bringing the hounds to him. I should say that Bartolf had enough presence of mind to request one of the York coroners to record the death, knowing he could not do so with any clarity.’

‘I am glad to hear that. The coroner will have left a guard over the body.’

Lucie joined them. ‘I have given him something to calm him. He will soon sleep.’

Indeed, propped against the trunk of the tree, eyes closed, his breathing rough but beginning to calm, Bartolf seemed well on the way to slumber.

Owen crouched down and gently roused him. ‘You will ride back to York in the cart with my wife and children, Bartolf. Alfred and Master Chaucer will accompany you.’ He glanced up at Lucie. ‘Brother Michaelo and I will ride ahead.’

She nodded her agreement.

Owen assisted Bartolf to his feet. ‘Michaelo says that one of the York coroners was out there?’

‘Gerard,’ said Bartolf, his voice weak. ‘Been and gone. Left his men to guard my son.’

‘Has Mauley been informed?’ asked Owen. ‘As sergeant of Galtres he should be.’

‘Mauley, of what use is he?’ Bartolf whined.

‘He’s gone south,’ said Michaelo.

‘How do you know that?’ Owen asked.

‘I am a scribe for hire at present, Captain.’

Useful.

Bartolf clutched at Owen’s sleeve. ‘You will find my son’s murderer? You will see that justice is done?’

‘I will go to where he lies and learn as much as I can,’ said Owen. ‘That is all I can promise for now.’

‘Do not leave me behind!’

Lucie met them at the cart. ‘Bartolf, you and I must go to Muriel. Remember, she carries your son’s child. She must not feel alone.’

‘Muriel. Oh, my poor child.’ Bartolf gave a sob of dismay. ‘I meant to send for Mistress Alisoun. Pray God someone had the wit to do so.’

‘He had not the wit,’ Michaelo muttered as Owen drew him away. ‘What need have we of a coroner for the forest of Galtres? How often is that shaggy man called upon to sit a jury and decide whether a crime is committed, and who responsible? Is that not the job of the steward of Galtres, punishing the poachers and thieves who haunt the woods and marshes? What other sort of crime is there? Why would Swann care to chase after such riff-raff?’

Many wondered that. It was a lesser post than that of the coroners of York. Why would a successful merchant such as Swann have been chosen to serve the crown in such a capacity? He received no pay for it, no lands or titles. At least, nothing official.

‘I am not so well acquainted with Bartolf as to answer your questions,’ said Owen. ‘But as to the crimes, the small villages in the forest have their share of trouble, though not so often as in York.’ And yet as the years fell away Bartolf had spent more and more of his time at his small home in the forest, leaving the townhouse to his wife and children, and, upon his wife’s death, his son and heir. His trading partners had grown accustomed to dealing with Hoban rather than his father.