A Conspiracy of Wolves

Tempest was a large dog, but not so large as to make Galbot, who was of middling height, seem short. Still, Ned was guessing.

Jasper had ducked into the workshop and reappeared with Owen’s bow and a quiver of arrows. ‘I pray you don’t need them.’

Owen pressed his shoulder in thanks and strode out after Ned, who had hurried ahead. Owen kept a casual gait. No need to raise an alarm.

Ned waited by the house. ‘They stood right here, looking up.’ He pointed to the windows on the upper floor of the Swann home. ‘Alisoun was walking Dame Muriel back and forth,’ he said quietly. ‘I’d heard the creaking up above, came out to see who it was. Then I noticed the man and dog standing here.’ He raised his hand in greeting as Alisoun appeared at the railing, but she did not respond, backing out of sight.

Owen tried the latch on the door. Not locked. In fact, the door swung inward at his touch. ‘You?’

‘No. I found it this way.’

Owen pushed it wide and stepped into a corridor, kitchen and pantry to either side. He stopped, held his breath, listened. He motioned to Ned to search the rooms to either side while he moved forward into the hall. Warm coals in the fire circle. The Fentons had been gone for weeks, but someone had been here today. The street door was slightly ajar. No one on the street with a dog.

‘Damn,’ Ned muttered at his shoulder. ‘He moves quickly.’

‘And unnoticed. He knows this street. Knows this house, perhaps. At least we know he’s still in the city. Warn Alisoun. But first, go to the Braithwaites – you know it, two doors away?’ Ned nodded. ‘See whether the dog Tempest is tied up in front of the house, guarding it. If not, ask to talk to Galbot, his handler. See whether they’ve been out walking.’

‘But what if it was him, and he’s up to no good?’

‘He’ll know that we noticed. Come to the York Tavern to tell me what you learn. Wait for me if you return before I do.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘The minster yard.’

With a nod, Ned strode out into Coney Street.

With that long, fast stride, hand resting on his sheathed dagger, Lucie knew that Owen expected trouble. She broke away from Michaelo to hurry to him.

‘Owen!’

He took a moment to recognize her. Clearly she did not fit the scene he’d envisioned. ‘God be praised.’ He gathered her to him in a fierce embrace.

‘What is it?’ asked Michaelo, joining them.

‘A man and a large dog watching the Swann home. They disappeared and I–’ He stepped away from Lucie, shaking his head. ‘I encouraged you to go to Cilla and then when I thought–’

She stood on tiptoe to kiss his lips. ‘We did not find her. The man with the hellhound took her away, according to a little girl. And a woman who did not stay long enough for me to see her told me not to worry, the beast cannot harm Cecelia. I did not have a chance to ask what she meant by that. Who saw the man with the dog?’

‘Ned. But he was gone by the time we searched the house. Whoever he was, he’d lit a fire there.’

‘So he spends time there. Watching the Swann house?’ Lucie crossed herself. ‘Someone is helping them, someone with the means to hide the men and their dogs, and provide a way for them to move about the city.’

Owen nodded, walking toward the folk peering out from the hovels. But he managed only to frighten them back into their shells. He turned back to Lucie and Michaelo with a muttered curse.

‘They’re frightened,’ said Michaelo.

‘A hellhound, the girl called it,’ said Lucie. ‘Do what you need to do, my love. You must find this man.’

As Owen stepped through the doorway the tavern grew quiet, all eyes on him, eager for news. An old, familiar experience. He was glad he’d left his bow and quiver with Tom at the door. ‘We know nothing more than we did last night,’ he told the Merchets’ patrons.

Someone asked if Old Bede had been found.

‘We are still searching.’

Folk crossed themselves, then went back to their conversations as he made his way to the far corner where Geoffrey presided.

‘Is it true?’ Geoffrey asked. ‘You have nothing?’

Owen settled on the bench and sighed as his back met the cool outer wall, ignoring the question.

Bess placed a full tankard before him. ‘Drink up.’

She was walking away when Owen touched her elbow. ‘On the night Hoban was murdered, was Crispin Poole in the tavern?’

She tucked in her chin, eyes down, remembering. A slow nod. ‘Yes, he was. Tucked here in the corner. Stayed a long while, alone, drinking little. If he was waiting for someone, they never came.’ To Geoffrey she said, ‘Best leave the captain in peace. I know that look, he’s come to think.’

‘I am yours to command, Sweet Bess,’ said Geoffrey, holding out his tankard for a refill.

But on this particular evening, Geoffrey’s silence was the last thing Owen wanted.

‘You made no mention of Sir John Holland,’ said Owen. ‘I would have nothing to do with him?’ He did not trust Princess Joan’s son by her first husband, a young man he found cruel and undisciplined.