A Conspiracy of Wolves

Just past Overton, he guided his horse onto a track through coppiced woodland leading toward the marsh, fanning at the insects determined to blind his one good eye as he searched for signs of passage along the underbrush. He had instructed Michaelo in what to watch for. If the attacker had come through at night with a horse and one or more dogs, the animals at least would have spilled over the trail somewhere.

‘It seems to me that unless Hoban’s animals fled at the first sign of danger there must have been more than one attacker,’ Michaelo had observed.

The monk showed promise in his attention to detail.

They’d almost reached the Swann property when Michaelo called Owen’s attention to trampled underbrush at the turnoff to a narrow track.

Observant. He might just do. Owen thanked him.

The ground grew spongy, part of the marsh in a flood, and the insects even more insistent and loud, the buzzing and whining almost dizzying, conjuring in Owen unwanted memories of fields of corpses stewing in the sunlight after battles, the ever-present droning of flies feasting. He reflexively covered his nose and mouth. But the vision passed, and he muttered a prayer of thanks as the way opened into a clearing and the insects thinned out, heading for the more interesting body covered by a blood-stained cloak. Two men stood guard, one using a leafy branch in a futile effort to fend off the flies.

‘We’ll walk the horses from here,’ said Owen. As he dismounted, he noticed how Brother Michaelo lifted the hem of his habit and tucked it into his belt in order to follow suit, glancing down with distaste at the blood-stained weeds near his booted feet.

‘Yet so far from the body,’ the monk muttered.

That was important. ‘Either Hoban was dragged, or he was not the only one injured,’ said Owen.

He could smell it now, the strong, metallic scent. It took a great deal of blood to overpower the ripeness of the early autumn marsh. The scent spooked the horses, and it took much coaxing to lead them closer to the body. The guards had covered their noses and mouths with rags – more for the swamp odors than for the blood, Owen guessed. Some believed the pestilence came from the odor of decay.

‘Tie up the horses by that stand of trees,’ Owen ordered Michaelo. ‘Then come and join me by the body. Be ready to record my observations.’

Lifting the rag from his mouth, one of the guards said, ‘Well met, Captain Archer, well met. We did not hope to see you so soon.’

‘I am here to record the condition of the victim and the surrounding woods. What are your orders concerning the removal of Master Hoban’s body?’

‘The sheriff is sending a cart. We are to take it to Swann’s home on Coney Street.’

Michaelo joined them. ‘It would be a help if I might sit to write,’ he said.

The man fanning the flies nodded in the direction of an uprooted stump.

‘That will do.’ Michaelo waited, but when no one rushed to bring it to him, he reluctantly fetched it, dragging it a few feet.

‘Closer,’ said Owen. ‘It is better if you see for yourself what I am describing.’

With a sigh, Michaelo bent to the work of dragging it up to where Owen stood. Brushing off his hands, he sat down with grace and drew a wax tablet and stylus from his pack.

Owen crouched beside the body and nodded to the guards to lift the cloak away. Hoban’s pale gold hair was matted with blood, his comely face twisted in pain and terror above an unnatural rictus that had been carved across his throat. Michaelo breathed in sharply at the sight, but made no complaint. Nor did he gag. All good signs.

Before beginning his examination, Owen bowed his head over Hoban’s body. ‘O Lord, I beseech you to receive him with love, and give comfort and ease to his wife, Muriel, his unborn child, and his father, Bartolf, who have lost one dear to them,’ he prayed.

Michaelo and the guards responded with ‘Amen.’

Owen used the hilt of his dagger to lift Hoban’s chin, gingerly, for there was little left connecting head to body.

‘Large dogs. Or wolves,’ said one of the men. ‘Ripped out his throat.’

Quietly, for Michaelo’s ears, Owen corrected the account. ‘A man wielding a knife slit Hoban’s throat ear to ear.’ His right shoe was missing, his stocking torn and blood-stained, his foot partially gnawed, his calf clawed. ‘But a dog might have brought him off his horse,’ said Owen. ‘We will know more once we cut his clothes away.’

Michaelo glanced up, his stylus poised above the wax tablet. ‘We?’

Owen chose to ignore him. ‘But we will not do that here.’ He looked up at the guards. ‘Let me show you how to support the head and shoulders while we wrap him in the cloak, as in a shroud.’

The guards knelt and followed his instructions, working gently, with respect.

When Hoban Swann was shrouded, Owen thanked the guards and rose to take a slow turn round the clearing to see what it might reveal. Brother Michaelo followed, wax tablet in hand.