A Conspiracy of Wolves

Stepping aside, near the brazier where it was warm in the draughty hall, Magda began by describing Alisoun’s and Euphemia’s injuries. Owen interrupted her to ask whether the hound had clawed Euphemia.

‘No open wounds, but marks of claws raking her shoulders. Not one of Bartolf’s, Bird-eye. All claws intact.’

She finished with Dun’s injuries. All this he might have learned from Lucie, but his next question, about how Magda had known of Hoban’s murder, was his reason for taking her aside.

‘Magda recognizes the signs, not how or why this or that is revealed to her. She has no answers for thee, Bird-eye. This is thy conspiracy of wolves. Thou hast the charge, Magda merely warned thee. Thy task. Open thine eye.’ She tapped the place between his eyes, then pressed there.

Sensing her finger sinking into his skull, Owen jerked away in confusion.

But Magda’s hands lay idle in her lap.

He felt a shower of needle pricks across his blind eye. ‘I don’t understand. Had I the Sight I would have known what was to come, I might have prevented Hoban’s murder. And Bartolf’s.’

‘Not fore-seeing, clear-seeing. A gift to all who count on thy protection. Trust thyself. Thou seest far more clearly than most.’

Her answer frustrated him. Clear-seeing? Once perhaps. But he was sorely out of practice. He tried another approach to the question.

‘A conspiracy of wolves – what did you mean by that?’

‘That is for thee to discover. And how thou must move forward.’

‘The prince or the city? Is that what you mean?’

‘That as well.’

‘You speak in riddles.’

‘Thou’rt a riddle-breaker.’

No, he was not, though people thought it of him, expected him to find the answers, he had no gift for this. Never had.

‘What did you mean by the question about what folk see when they see a wolf?’ Owen asked. ‘How could it not be the animal?’

‘A riddle for thee, Bird-eye.’ Magda rose, shaking out her multicolored skirts. ‘Magda has work to do. And thou must hear One-arm’s story.’

‘It cannot be easy for you to see your elderly parent the victim of a violent attack, no matter your differences,’ said Owen, settling back in his chair after tasting the wine and finding it to his liking – a welcome blessing on such a day. ‘We who took up arms in our youth, we come to believe we are hardened to violence, that we can bear anything. But if we’ve come away with our souls intact, tarnished but whole, we know there is no hardening that can blunt our hearts to the suffering of those we love.’

‘Love,’ Crispin mumbled, then drank down his cup of strong wine in such haste it might fell a smaller man. Rising from his seat, he turned his back to Owen, facing the window. ‘Love my mother? Pity her?’ He flexed his shoulders. ‘As a boy I prayed for the wisdom to remember to tell her nothing of petty slights as friends fell away, wary, untrusting. I could not blame them. She said she was protecting her family. Protecting. Pah. She was the death of my father, and as the fruit of her womb I am cursed. Soldiering did not harden me, she did. Sympathy for her injuries? She knows better than to look to me for that.’

Owen sat silent, absorbing this bitter speech, so unexpected. He was glad that Magda and Lucie listened from across the room. He might later doubt what he was hearing, the anger, the long resentment.

‘She brought it upon herself,’ said Crispin. ‘The blindness? She’d seen nothing but the poison in her soul for so long, it did not matter.’ He returned to his seat, poured another cup of wine, drank it down, poured another, sat looking into the cup. ‘I thought I could return, right the wrong, make amends. Too late. God help me, but I almost wish it were she lying there in the garden, that the Lord God decided we’d enough of the spiteful, hateful woman, and Gerta’s and Warin’s kin would have their revenge.’ He moved the cup in his hand. Owen could imagine the wine swirling within, how the movement caught the eye, held it, pulled it down. ‘Forgive me. You must think I speak in riddles.’

‘Not riddles, but a tale begun midway. Why don’t you begin with meeting the man lying in the garden? Tell me about him.’

‘It will make little sense without all the rest.’

‘Begin with what might help me understand what has been happening, and we’ll see.’

‘As you wish.’ Crispin considered. ‘Perhaps a week before Hoban’s murder, I walked out to Bartolf’s house in the forest at twilight, in the company of my men. I hoped the old coroner could help me clear a man’s name. But he refused to talk. Told his hounds to take a good sniff and attack me if I dared return.’

‘Bringing your armed men with you might have suggested a less than friendly purpose,’ Owen said.

‘I had them stay back, out of sight.’

‘How did you approach? By the main track or along the river?’

‘Why?’

‘Can you recall?’

‘Along the river. Much shorter when on foot.’

‘You know that track well?’

‘I did as a boy.’

‘Was Bartolf standing outside, aware of your approach?’