As if apologizing for her guest, Bess bobbed her head to Bartolf Swann, who had left his seat back in the corner of the tavern, where he’d been drinking with a pair of stonemasons, and was weaving his way amongst the tables, heading for the door. The old man nodded blearily as he departed.
‘She would make a fine bailiff,’ said Geoffrey.
To the other side of Owen, Hempe choked on his ale. ‘A woman? She could never pull her weight.’
‘Oh, I think you are wrong about that, master bailiff.’
Hempe leaned close to Owen. ‘Master Chaucer goes too far.’
‘He meant to rile you, and he succeeded. Be easy, George.’
It was not entirely true, Bess’s claim. There were still a few wolf packs in England, or so it would seem. Whitby Abbey boasted wolf pelts of recent vintage, and the monks of Rievaulx Abbey had reported a wolf pack on the north moors the previous winter, feeding on sheep. Magda Digby knew of a pack that wintered in Galtres, though the warden of the forest denied it, blaming the loss of livestock on poaching outlaws.
So that part of Bede’s story was possibly more accurate than Bess gave him credit for, and the rest was not entirely his imagining. Hoban’s grandfather had been attacked by a pack of wild dogs, not wolves, at the very moment of his grandson’s birth. The midwife had crossed herself when she heard and said it bode ill for the boy. That was long before Owen had come to York, but he had heard the story from enough folk to give it credence. Curséd old man, conjuring the horror of Hoban’s murder in the presence of his grieving father.
Geoffrey rocked his tankard on the table as he observed the room with a half-smile. Owen followed his gaze to the one-armed merchant, Crispin Poole.
Curious, he leaned over to ask, ‘Are you acquainted with Poole?’
Starting, Geoffrey bowed his head as if realizing how he had been staring. ‘He intrigues me. As if a pirate donned the clothing and the bearing of a man of means, a prominent citizen of the city. We are not acquainted, but I hope to remedy that.’
‘The prince is interested?’
Geoffrey looked at him askance. ‘Why would you think that? How would His Grace know of this man?’
‘You discomfited him, Master Chaucer,’ said Hempe. Indeed, Poole now stood, counting out some coin. ‘No amount of tailoring can hide his stump of an arm. A man knows better than to stare.’
Owen agreed. He felt a kinship with Poole. They’d had a few ales together, sharing their mutual discomfort about their appearance. Poole had seemed keen to hear about how Owen had created a new life, started a family. I envy you, Archer.
‘I will seek him out and beseech his forgiveness at the first opportunity,’ said Geoffrey.
‘Oh, aye, that would surely win his favor.’ Hempe made a face at Owen as if to say his companion was quite mad.
But he was wrong about that. Geoffrey’s mind was sharp, focused. What was his business with Crispin Poole, that is what Owen wished to know. He would bear watching.
‘So what have Alfred and Stephen discovered?’ Hempe asked.
‘Still no one at Bartolf’s,’ said Owen. ‘They’ve begun searching all the properties nearby. A neighbor told them Cilla rarely worked for just one household, she once worked for Bess – for all of a day – but we’ve found no one who’s seen her since Hoban’s death.’
‘Worked here for a day?’ Geoffrey laughed. ‘What was her crime?’
‘More than a little mad, as Bess put it,’ said Owen.
‘And the taverner would have none of that.’ Hempe laughed.
According to Bess, Cilla had also worked for Archdeacon Jehannes for a brief period. Perhaps he might offer some insight.
‘And none of the barbers recognized the salve?’ Owen asked Hempe.
‘None would admit to it.’
‘Would you?’ asked Geoffrey. ‘Such a murder, and then the bailiff’s man comes round with such a question.’
‘A wretched business, all in all,’ Hempe mumbled into his tankard.
The sun was low in the sky and a freshening breeze had dispelled the late-afternoon warmth. Lucie stood at the entrance to the walled herb garden considering the order of her autumn chores. She had lost time with the trip to Freythorpe and there was much work ahead before the first frost. Owen enjoyed doing the digging and the heavier work, but with Hoban’s murderer to find he might not now have time to help. If only Edric, her second apprentice, had stayed until after Yuletide, as originally planned. But as he’d never seemed at ease after his falling out with Jasper over Alisoun’s affections, Lucie had not tried to dissuade him from what appeared to be an excellent opportunity in Beverley.
‘Dame Lucie?’ Alisoun stood beneath the linden.
With a fleeting thought of having summoned the young woman with her reverie – why did such fantasies arise at dusk? – Lucie hastened toward her, noticing that the young woman shivered in the cooling evening. ‘You came out without a cloak or wrap? Is it Dame Muriel? Do you need help?’
‘I would welcome some advice, but I was most eager to speak with the captain. Is he here?’
‘No. He’s at the tavern. Might I help?’
‘Did you know he gave his men leave to sleep in Magda’s house last night without ever asking my permission?’
‘He did not–?’
‘Dame Magda entrusted her home to me in her absence. It is my responsibility. But he never thought to ask.’
Accustomed to the young woman’s temper, Lucie did not take offense at her abruptness. ‘He knows better than to do that,’ she said. ‘I will speak with him, though I do not believe he meant for them to stay another night.’ She put an arm round Alisoun’s slender shoulders. ‘Come in, do. We will talk in the warmth.’
Lucie guided Alisoun past the table where Jasper poured over some books. ‘My first husband’s garden journals,’ she said softly.
Alisoun greeted Jasper as she passed him, but he did not even look up from his reading. A falling out? Lucie wondered. She led Alisoun to a long bench by the window.
‘Are you at ease biding in the Swann home?’ Lucie asked.
‘I would prefer to sleep at Magda’s, but I cannot in good conscience leave Dame Muriel at the moment.’
‘Of course. They are treating you well?’
‘If you are asking whether they treat me with respect, yes, they do. But I do worry that Dame Muriel might need a more experienced midwife. She picks at her food – the baby cannot be getting enough nourishment.’
‘Fear about her first pregnancy, and now her grief, her husband murdered – I am not surprised she has no appetite. But she must keep up her strength or the baby will grow strong as the mother weakens.’
‘Will you tell the captain he was wrong to send his men to Magda’s without asking my leave?’
‘I am sorry he was so thoughtless, Alisoun. Yes, I will speak with him. But surely you cannot think they would wreak havoc there? They respect Magda. Fear her a little, I think, and her dragon.’ Lucie took Alisoun’s hands. They were still cold. ‘Something warm to drink? Are you hungry?’
‘No, I cannot stay long. I know they are good men, that they will do no harm.’ Alisoun gestured as if at a loss to explain.
‘But my husband should have told you of his plan, and asked your leave.’
Alisoun’s expression brightened. ‘You understand.’
‘I do, Alisoun. I do.’ Owen doubtless devised the plan as he spoke to the men without a thought to how it might seem to Alisoun, how proud she was of the responsibility. He needed to apologize. ‘I will make it clear how he offended.’