He looked sick at heart. ‘Two houses away, yet I heard nothing in the night.’
‘Neither did anyone in the Braithwaite household, apparently.’
‘Then it was done with practiced stealth. God have mercy.’ Ned crossed himself.
‘If Alisoun returns, tell her, but impress upon her that she must say nothing about this to Dame Muriel. Trust that Janet Braithwaite knows the best for her daughter.’
As the bell in St Helen’s Church began to ring, George Hempe and a fellow bailiff led the procession from the Swann home, followed by the coffin-bearers – John and Paul Braithwaite, Adam Tirwhit, the two York coroners, the king’s forester of Galtres, and two of Hoban Swann’s household servants. The women of the households followed, and behind them, Owen, turning his head this way and that, checking for trouble with his one good eye.
Neighbors lined Coney Street and spilled into the lanes along St Helen’s churchyard, heads bowed, honoring the lives of two good men of the community. As Owen passed the apothecary, Lucie appeared, falling into step beside him.
‘Moments like this, all the neighbors …’ Lucie’s voice caught.
‘Moving, but dangerous. If one of them rushed forward with a knife, or set dogs on the gathering, and others entered the fray to help, no matter how well-meant–’ He stopped as they entered the church.
‘All is well,’ Lucie assured him.
Too well. He did not like this quiet.
‘Here,’ Lucie whispered, guiding him to the left rear corner. ‘We can observe the family without too much notice.’
Bless her. Blinded in his left eye, this spot afforded him the greatest range of vision without too much turning of the head.
Muriel Swann, slender and pale, placed her hands on her husband’s coffin. Her father drew her away, his arm around her, protective, loving. She shrugged him off and straightened, but in a moment her sob broke the silence. Her mother was quickly there, offering a scented linen, speaking softly to her.
‘Where is Alisoun?’ Owen wondered aloud.
When Lucie said nothing he turned to see what had her attention. Her gaze was fixed on Olyf and Paul, who had their heads together, whispering. As Owen watched, Elaine Braithwaite elbowed her husband. With what must have been a muttered curse and a look that spoke of more than the usual marital discord, Paul straightened. After an uneasy glance round that Owen just avoided missing, Olyf returned her attention to the priest.
The service continued uninterrupted, the families on their best behavior.
And Owen fought to keep his seat, his entire being shouting that he should be out on the streets, that the murderers would take this opportunity to deepen the family’s pain. He told himself he had sufficient men on watch. But it was little comfort.
It was a subdued gathering at the long tables set up in the Swann hall, the servants silently bringing in food, wine, ale.
Lucie leaned close to Owen. ‘Notice the order of the seating. A slight? Or a thoughtless error?’ On the dais sat Dame Muriel, flanked by her parents, her brother and his wife. Braithwaites all. Olyf Tirwhit, daughter and sister of those they honored at the feast, was seated down the table.
‘Either way, she feels the arrow,’ he said, nodding across the table at Olyf, who sat bolt upright with a stiff smile as guests paused to speak with her before taking their seats.
As Muriel rose to address the gathering, Elaine Braithwaite interrupted her.
‘My dear, I have just realized our error. Come, Paul, we have taken the places meant for dear Olyf and her husband. Forgive us, Muriel. The emotions of the day–’ She bobbed her head and drew her confused husband from his chair, gesturing for the Tirwhits to take their places.
Muriel bowed her head as the Tirwhits and Braithwaites changed places, but not in prayer. Owen could see how keenly she watched the exchange. Elaine settled across from Owen, Paul beside her.
Lucie touched Owen’s leg. ‘Make use of this. Find a moment to speak to Paul Braithwaite.’
Perhaps God did smile on his efforts this day.
As she turned into Low Petergate, Alisoun slowed her pace, beginning to question her impulse, trying to recall the image that had flashed in her mind, the danger that led her to bring her bow and a quiver of arrows. Magda encouraged her to pay attention to such forebodings, though not necessarily to act on them. Beyond Christchurch she paused. She knew the Tirwhit house. She’d accompanied Magda there when Adam was ill with a fever. His wife had been a pale presence, hovering in the shadows. Alisoun recalled thinking the woman was uneasy in Magda’s presence. Not unusual. She was wondering whether Adam Tirwhit’s home was the one nearer the church or farther away when she noticed Geoffrey Chaucer ambling past the nearest one, then turned to walk down the street beside it, his pace slowing, his head cocked as if he were listening to something. Curious, she headed for him. As she reached the house she thought she heard a woman’s cry, then – a growl? If it was a growl, it came from a large dog. Forgetting the man who’d drawn her attention to the house, she slipped into the alleyway beside it. Drawing her bow and quiver of arrows from the bag, she fastened the loose end of the string, drew an arrow, slung the quiver over her shoulder so that she could reach for more arrows if needed, and crept down toward the sounds of a struggle.
As Owen glanced round the laden table he noticed Paul Braithwaite down two goblets of wine in quick succession, whisper something to his wife, and rise abruptly, swaying as he glanced round, forcing his large, liquid brown eyes wide as if he might see more clearly, and tugging down on his short jacket as if it might assist him in balancing.
At the risk of insulting the man, Owen darted round and caught him as his first step went awry. He steadied him on his feet. ‘I wonder whether I might impose upon you as an expert in hounds?’ he said, nodding to the curious Elaine Braithwaite to reassure her that he would see to her husband. He guided him down the table, past the servants moving about the kitchen, and out into the back garden.
With a muttered excuse, Paul Braithwaite rushed toward the privy and into the small enclosure. Owen heard a brief, unpleasant exchange within, and a young manservant burst out the door holding one hand over his cock, the other tugging at his leggings as he hurried back to the kitchen.
Pacing the perimeter as he waited for the man to emerge from the privy, Owen greeted the bailiff’s man standing at the far end.
‘The lad – Ned, he’s sitting on the steps to the solar, watching the Fenton garden next door,’ said Hempe’s man. ‘Worried about Mistress Alisoun. She returned from market, fetched a pack, and left again – almost running when I saw her head through the back gardens. Toward the tavern yard.’
Owen could not understand why on this of all days she had vanished. Tempted to send Ned off searching for her, he reassured himself that with all the men set round the city and at Magda’s house someone would be alert to trouble wherever Alisoun might be. ‘Did she look round to see whether she was followed?’
‘Nay.’
Thanking him, Owen settled on a bench far enough from the privy that the stench was masked by the pleasing scents from the kitchen, strong enough that his stomach growled in anticipation.
When Braithwaite reappeared he was still bleary-eyed, but he walked a straighter line and seemed in no danger of toppling. Though his features were regular and well proportioned, there was a morose quality to his face, with his brown eyes dipping downward toward the temples, and his mouth arching the same way. ‘I am in your debt,’ he sighed as he slumped down on the bench beside Owen, doffing his brown velvet hat and wiping his brow with his elegant sleeve.
‘Fresh air clears the head,’ said Owen. ‘I do not envy you this public event on the day you suffered such a loss. It can cut as deep as that of the loss of a brother, I know. One of our herding dogs fell down a well when I was a lad. I mourned him for months.’