Holy Mother, help me. Give me a sign to show me the way. Alisoun plucked her shawl from a hook by the door, hurried down the steps and through the gate into the neighbors’ back garden, taking the path to the York Tavern’s yard, next door to the apothecary. She hurried along, letting her eyes wander round the flowerbeds and fruit trees, up to the dawn sky, but suddenly she stopped, a voice in her head warning her that hurrying to Jasper to find out whether he’d betrayed her was a betrayal in itself. He would guess it was important. What could she say? Is this my sign, Blessed Mother?
Turning round, she hurried back to the Swann house, her heart pounding, frightened by her own confusion.
‘I’ve spoken with all the gate guards,’ said Hempe. ‘Sounds like Joss entered and left by Bootham Bar, both times in a hurry. On his way out, he pushed past a family who were in the queue, saying he must make haste, he’d been ordered back to the Swann home in Galtres to stand guard. Toby let him pass. “Thought it best to see the back of him before he started brawling,” he said.’
‘So he headed back to Bartolf’s home but never arrived,’ said Owen. ‘I don’t like that.’
‘Nor do I.’
‘And what of Hoban? Had he gone out alone?’
‘Alone but for a hired horse spooking at all the folk – he left just before the closing of the gates. Said he was doing a favor for his father, fetching his beloved dogs, and the warden agreed to watch for him, let him back in. Course he never came. No one apparently following him. Nor Joss when he came in early in the morning.’
‘How early?’
‘Almost the first one at the gate.’
‘So early,’ said Owen. ‘What was he doing out on that track at such an hour?’
‘Might he have heard something?’
‘Hoban would have died quickly,’ said Owen. ‘By morning there would be nothing to hear.’
‘So the manservant heard him attacked in the night, but stayed put until first light?’ Hempe suggested.
‘I want to find Joss,’ said Owen as he handed Hempe the leather packet containing the salve. ‘Could you have a man go round to the barbers in the city? Ask whether this was made by them, and, if so, for whom? How long ago?’
Hempe frowned down at it.
Thinking he’d offended the man, Owen reached for the pouch. ‘Forgive me. You have your own duties.’
Hempe closed his hand round the packet. ‘Not at all. I’m just trying to decide who has the wits for the task.’ He glanced up with a wink. ‘I have it. Just the man.’
As Owen was thanking Hempe, Brother Michaelo opened the garden gate and stepped through. ‘Now that’s a sight I never expected to see. You move in ever-widening circles,’ Hempe said, chuckling.
‘Benedicite, Captain, Master Bailiff.’ Michaelo handed Owen two rolls of parchment. ‘One for you, Captain, and one for the city, if they should wish to have a record.’
Hempe nodded to both of them. ‘I must be off. I will let you know what we discover,’ he said, holding up his clenched hand.
Owen thanked him and turned to Michaelo. ‘You are faster than I’d hoped. So. Now that you’ve had a night to sleep on it, are you willing to work with me again?’
‘The experience was – I had not understood the burden of your work. Observing you, I felt–’ Michaelo lifted his hand as if to brush aside the thought. ‘I would be honored to work with you again, Captain, if it please you.’
‘Good. I have not yet broken my fast. Would you care to join me while we talk?’ Owen gestured toward the house.
‘I do not wish to impose myself–’
‘I invited you so that we might discuss business. It is I who impose.’
The monk bowed. ‘I am at your service.’
Lucie observed them with some curiosity as she called to Kate to bring food to the hall. ‘The children are at market with Lena, so you should not be disturbed,’ she said as she moved toward the garden door.
‘I pray I am not interrupting your morning,’ said Michaelo.
Lucie assured him she had been on her way to the shop when they arrived. ‘You are always welcome in my home, Brother Michaelo. Benedicite.’ On a pilgrimage to St David’s in Wales, Brother Michaelo had been a loving companion to Lucie’s father, Sir Robert D’Arby, nursing him in his final illness. When Michaelo returned to York he had brought the news of her father’s death, and shared with her all he could recall of her father’s last days. He had been a great comfort to her while Owen remained in Wales.
‘Ale?’ Owen asked.
When Michaelo nodded, Owen poured for both of them, helped himself to some bread and cheese, and ate quietly for a moment, watching the monk study the room while he sipped his ale.
‘A handsome, most comfortable hall,’ said Michaelo when he noticed Owen’s one-eyed regard.
‘It is. A generous gift from your friend Sir Robert.’
‘My–’ Michaelo bowed his head. ‘May he abide in God’s grace.’
It was on that journey that Owen had witnessed the gentler side of the usually sharp-witted, arrogant Norman monk. A revelation. And, afterward, he’d benefitted from the man’s discretion about his involvement with Welsh rebels.
‘Do you know Elwin, the clerk who serves as Bartolf Swann’s scrivener?’
‘No, but if he is a clerk I should be able to find out about him. What do you need to know?’
‘For the moment, merely where I might find him.’
They were interrupted by the arrival of Geoffrey Chaucer.
‘Oh, forgive me, I–’ He looked from one to the other, clearly interested.
‘Brother Michaelo has already delivered the report of my observations,’ said Owen.
Michaelo rose. ‘I will see to the other matter we discussed, Captain.’
Owen thanked him.
When Michaelo had departed, Geoffrey took his chair and helped himself to some ale. ‘What did I miss?’
‘Nauseating courtesy. I must find a way to resurrect the more palatably snide Brother Michaelo.’
4
A Rumor of Wolves
For a moment Owen let the sounds of a busy night in the York Tavern override the voices of his two companions, George Hempe and Geoffrey Chaucer – tankards thumping on the long tables, feet stomping on the floor in time to Tucker’s fiddling, laughter rising up, folk greeting latecomers, and beneath it all the steady rumble of men’s deep voices. He leaned back and stretched out his legs with a sigh of contentment.
Until Old Bede coughed out his latest conspiracy. ‘The sheriff says he was beaten but he did not show us the body, did he? Wolves attacked Hoban’s grandfather the hour Hoban was born. It’s true. And now the wolves have returned to Galtres. The sheriff and the mayor, and some what are sitting right in this room’ – his eyes slid to Owen’s table – ‘don’t want us to know, but it’s plain, eh?’ The old man sucked his teeth and his eyes narrowed to slits as he prepared to hawk up his bile and spit it out.
‘Not on my clean floor, Bede. Out in the alleyway with you,’ Bess Merchet warned as she entered the public room in the nick of time. ‘And you’re out for good if I catch you spreading such lies in my tavern again.’ With hand to mouth, Bede lurched across the floor, almost knocking over a man who had risen to propose a toast at the next table. ‘I count on you to remind him what he risks,’ Bess told the old gossip’s companions. ‘And it goes for all of you as well. Dogs attacked Hoban. There are no wolves in Galtres, nor in all of England, not any more.’