A Conspiracy of Wolves

Brother Michaelo had spent his time exploring the hall of the hospitium, standing by an open window breathing in the cool air. It would rain again, perhaps by evening. He’d just turned, attracted to the sound of the emissary’s laughter. Such a sound bespoke a man at ease in the world, a good sign.

‘He is a man of good humor,’ said Chaucer, stepping into the room. The captain had warned Michaelo that he might appear.

‘So he appears from this side of the door.’ Michaelo watched with interest as Chaucer glanced back toward the entrance to the hall. He sensed in the man an unease. He ignored Chaucer’s attempts at chatter, returning to his contemplation of the garden.

Antony grew serious. ‘The prince is aware that the citizens of York look to you for protection. He encourages you to accept the position. Pleasing the worthies of the city is all to His Grace’s advantage. We are establishing a foothold to watch the Nevilles, and they are certain to put some effort in influencing the mayor and his council. The dean and chapter as well. You are the perfect mediator and spy.’

Owen agreed, but he had not anticipated the prince’s encouragement. ‘How is it that I am so trusted by His Grace?’

‘You have my lady to thank for that. You remind her of her first husband Thomas Holland, a brilliant soldier and a most honorable man.’ Antony laughed. ‘So, you see? We are not sparring. What you propose is much to His Grace’s liking. Now come, sit, my friend. I have much to tell you. It was no accident that I traveled here in the company of Neville’s secretary.’ As Antony replenished their mazers, he expressed his delight that they would be working together.

‘So you will be my contact?’ Owen asked.

‘Either me or Sir Lewis Clifford, whom you have met. And respected, am I right?’

He was indeed.

‘Neither John Holland nor his elder brother are involved. Indeed, considering that Crispin Poole was in John Holland’s service, and would yet be there, doing his nasty work, had it not been for the loss of his arm – well, I advised His Grace that we might regret his involvement.’

Holland and Poole. ‘I am glad to know of that connection. Is that why Chaucer was so interested in Poole?’

‘He did not tell you? So he can hold his tongue when ordered. I am glad that is so. Holland let Poole go the moment he ruined his career as an assassin. Nevertheless …’ Antony smiled at Owen. ‘Clifford and I both regard you as an excellent judge of men.’

Owen began to protest. He had made his share of mistakes, tragic ones. But Antony waved away his argument.

‘We are none of us gods, Owen.’

The hall was quiet, so much so that Michaelo heard his cousin Leufrid greeting Brother Oswald on the lawn.

‘I pray you did not invite Dom Leufrid to attend us here,’ he said, moving toward Chaucer with murder on his mind.

The man rose, hands up as if ordering Michaelo to halt where he was. ‘Captain Archer planned this. I merely carried out his orders. I was to escort him, but the man hired a chair to carry him here.’

A chair. God help him. Michaelo stopped close to Chaucer, looking down at him. ‘If you are lying to me, you will regret it.’

‘Then I have nothing to worry about. But why do you so despise your cousin?’

‘He is a thief. He betrayed me in order to line his purse with my family’s silver.’

‘Yet without him you would never have served as secretary to Archbishop Thoresby. Nor would you now serve Captain Archer.’

‘Like the phoenix, I rose from the ashes. But that does not exonerate the one who threw me on the pyre.’

The creak of the heavy oak door heralded the arrival of Brother Oswald, Dom Leufrid close on his heels. Michaelo smirked to see the result of his cousin’s appetites, so corpulent as to prevent his arms from hanging at ease as he entered the hall, the movement something between a waddle and a trundle. How appropriate that Leufrid’s greed would be his ruin. No wonder he’d hired a chair. Never a comely man, his wide, flat nose was now lost in his pillowing cheeks accentuating his overlarge nostrils, and his eyes seemed beady in the midst of so much flesh. The hair round his tonsure was so thin as to seem a mere suggestion. And his habit. Michaelo wrinkled his nose at the soiled hem – of course the man could not see it, he’d likely not seen his feet for years, his belly protruded so far. It was difficult not to laugh as Michaelo stepped forward, bowing to Leufrid in welcome.

‘We meet again, cousin.’

‘Michaelo?’ The frog turned to glare at Chaucer. ‘What is this? I was told I would be meeting with Master Antony.’

‘That is correct,’ said Chaucer. ‘He is presently meeting with Captain Archer, an old friend. Brother Michaelo is the captain’s scribe.’

Scribe. Michaelo was more than a scribe. But this was not the time to argue the point.

‘I will return at another time.’ Leufrid turned round, startling Brother Oswald, who stood close behind, watching with interest.