A Conspiracy of Wolves

‘Pray God I can refuse that.’

‘And the city’s wishes?’

Owen shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Is there anything that appeals to you in his proposal?’

‘I confess I do miss the access to knowledge of folk beyond the city and my family’s lands. For just such moments when danger arrives from beyond my ken.’

‘You do not yet know that the evil comes from without. But I understand.’ A little smile. ‘Righting wrongs. You cannot help yourself, can you?’

‘What do you mean?’ Owen asked, but he knew, he waved his friend quiet before he could respond. ‘No, you are right. I missed the hunt.’

‘In Thoresby’s service you had both the city and the realm in your hands. To recreate that you must needs accept both offers – captain of York’s bailiffs and spy for the prince.’

‘I have made no decision.’

‘No?’ A wry grin. ‘For now, I pray you restore peace to our fair city.’ Erkenwald made the sign of the cross, blessing Owen. ‘May God grant you the wisdom to see the way to justice.’

‘Amen.’ Owen bowed and crossed himself. But the blessing gave no ease. ‘Justice? Nothing will bring back Bartolf, or resurrect Hoban so he might at last be the father he yearned to be.’

‘No. But you must and will pursue the guilty and deliver them up to the crown. It is your nature to do so. Yours is a heavy burden of conscience, my friend. I will pray for you.’

‘I count on your prayers,’ Owen said. ‘Do you sense that Poole has put aside his martial past? That he is now a man of commerce, no more?’

Erkenwald let out a sigh. ‘I cannot say. I sensed a deep sadness in him, but whether that might move him to violence or peace …’ The canon shook his head. ‘I confess I cannot find it in me to believe him sincere, but that is my sin, not his. My earlier impression of him, in France – I cannot yet see beyond that.’

‘I will talk to him tomorrow. I would today, but the requiems …’

‘You have your hands full.’

Owen mentioned Cilla, that Lucie had hoped to talk to her in the minster yard. ‘Have you met her?’

‘I have. Why?’

‘She worked for Bartolf Swann.’

‘Ah. I do recall mention of that. She sought a post here, but chafed at the rules, wanted to work as it pleased her. Mark me, her manner might be unsettling, but Cecelia, or Cilla, as you will – she has her feet firmly on the earth. She is cunning. Scheming.’

‘That is a new wrinkle.’

‘I cannot speak to her purpose, but our disinterest angered her.’

Perceptive man. ‘I could use your help.’

‘You know where to find me.’ Erkenwald’s scar twisted his smile.

‘I meant out beyond St Leonard’s gates.’

‘That is not my calling.’

‘You are so certain?’

‘I am. Now, Brother Michaelo …’ Erkenwald frowned. ‘No, in truth I cannot imagine him in anything but those tidy robes.’

‘He has hidden depths.’

‘I’ve no doubt of that.’

They sat for a little while in silence, watching the lay sister gathering beauty in her basket.

Alisoun stepped out into Coney Street with a basket over her arm and a list in her head of the gifts Dame Muriel wished to have ready to present to the servants after the requiem mass. A peculiar idea inspired by a dream in which all deserted her in mourning. Upon awakening, she realized how dependent she was on all who were helping her through this darksome time, even the servants, and she meant to show her gratitude. Such extreme emotions neither surprised nor concerned Alisoun, for Magda had warned her that they were to be expected, particularly as a woman approached her lying-in. But it made it no less irritating that Alisoun must hurry out as soon as the shops opened, and without a servant to assist her – for that would ruin the surprise.

Dreams had troubled Alisoun’s sleep as well, dark dreams of great black beasts stalking the shadowy streets, fangs bared, their fiery eyes peering into the darkest corners, seeing all. The last thing she wished to do this morning was walk the streets alone. Though she knew it unlikely the streets were any less safe than on any other day, she could not seem to talk herself out of a strong sense of unease.

Folk greeted her with enthusiasm, lingering as if hoping she might share some gossip. After all, she was in the bosom of the bereaved family. She thanked them for their prayers and hurried on.

Her first call was a chandler’s shop. She was just stepping away with her purchases of oils and candles when she caught sight of Wren, the young maidservant who had been at Magda’s home the night of Hoban Swann’s murder. Her eyes went at once to the girl’s stomach, though it was far too early for her to be showing again.

‘Mistress Alisoun!’

Realizing Wren must have noticed her glance and might interpret it as judgment – that Alisoun blamed her for her master’s inability to keep his hands to himself – she readied an apology.

‘Wren, I–’

‘I am grateful to you, Mistress Alisoun. My mistress never missed me. I will keep you in my prayers all my days.’

‘And your master?’

Wren seemed to hesitate, then leaned close to whisper, ‘Master Tirwhit has stopped his nightly visitations.’