‘My wife says I am mad to let it weigh on me, accuses me of mourning for him more than for my friend and his father.’
‘She does not share your passion for the hounds?’
‘Not in the least, though she enjoys spending the wealth they bring.’
‘The pricked ears, the wide chest, the noble bearing – did you breed that into Tempest?’
A proud nod.
‘How do you learn to raise such fine animals? An apprenticeship?’
‘Of a sort, though not regulated by a guild.’ He told Owen how he had befriended the master of hounds on the neighboring estate, how the man agreed to train him in exchange for his work in the kennels. He spoke as if Owen were a prospective buyer, emphasizing his long apprenticeship, the status of his customers – including a few members of the powerful Percy and Roos families, but no Nevilles. His clear affection for the hounds began to soften Owen’s attitude toward him. It sounded as if he’d built his success on treating the animals with respect and love.
‘Your family lived out in the country when you were a lad?’
‘On our manor, where Elaine and I have raised our family, and here in the city.’ He turned a little, facing Owen, and, in a much cooler tone, said, ‘You waste your time pretending interest in my business, Captain. You’ve suspected me all along. I know you count the Riverwoman a friend. She pointed to me as a man with dangerous hounds, am I right?’
Owen did not need to act as if he were caught by surprise, for he was. ‘What has Magda Digby to do with this? And with you?’
The sad eyes challenged him. ‘I was but a boy when she warned me not to betray the trust of the hounds by involving them in our pranks. Her concern was for them, and her words changed how I saw them. She woke my love for them. But she does not believe I’ve changed, eyes me with disdain when we pass in the street. She told you none of this?’
‘No. I’ve not spoken to her since I left her at Freythorpe Hadden, nursing the steward’s wife. For all I know she’s not yet heard of the murders.’
Paul Braithwaite blinked. ‘Not here? God’s blood, and you let me think–’
‘It was you who spoke of her, not I. How had you used the dogs?’
‘Childish mischief. Laughed to see folk bolt when a great hound moved toward them with seeming purpose. She warned me that folk might want to harm my dogs because of that fear, as they do wolves, asked me whether I’d thought of that, how I thought I’d bear that. I crumpled to think of it.’
‘Tell her some time. She will warm to you when she hears how you care for them now.’
‘So what do you want?’
‘I sought you out as one whose knowledge of hounds might help me in finding the men who murdered the Swanns. I’m curious about this practice of lawing in the royal forests.’
‘Pah. All to protect the king’s hunt. His steward culls the herds of deer and hunts the boar for his own pleasure, not the king’s.’
‘Cutting off the claws – do the animals suffer?’
‘Do they feel it, do you mean? Of course they feel it.’ Paul took off his hat and raked a hand through his hair. ‘I do not subject mine to that savage practice. Never will.’
‘Can you think of anyone who might risk taking their unlawed dogs into the forest?’
‘If I heard that anyone had done that to my dogs …’
Tempting to mention that he had as a boy, but Owen was after something else. ‘Not yours, but someone heedless of his animals.’
‘There are plenty who count them dumb beasts.’
‘The Neville family? Have they ever brought such dogs into the forest?’
‘I know nothing of the Nevilles.’
‘Did Hoban and Bartolf have any business with them?’
‘The great Nevilles own property in Galtres, so Bartolf might have encountered them as coroner, but I do not recall him mentioning the family. Hoban’s trade did not put him in such company.’
‘You and Hoban were good friends?’
A glance down at his hands. ‘We were, though once wed, with children and work, I saw him only on occasions the family came together, or I came to the city for a civic celebration.’
‘He was a good husband to your sister?’
The gentle smile previously reserved for dogs lit the long face. ‘He was a man smitten to the bone, Captain. And so eager to meet his son – sure he was Muriel carries a son and heir.’ His voice broke. He slapped his thighs and rose. ‘Speaking of Hoban, I should say a few words in his memory.’
Owen rose with him, met his stride as Paul headed back toward the hall, thinking it a kindness to bring his thoughts back to the dogs. ‘The attack on Tempest – such violence. It worries me. I’ve heard from your father that you favor large, powerful dogs. And you mentioned the Riverwoman’s warning. Could this have been meant as retribution?’
‘Tempest? No.’
‘Have any of your hounds injured another’s animals? Or a man?’
Paul began to trip, but caught himself. ‘No.’
‘Some folk have long memories. Anyone who blamed you or your dogs for a loss?’
Paul quickened his stride.
No challenge for Owen’s long legs. ‘You did not know that Magda Digby’s been away all this time?’
‘I told you I didn’t.’
Silence through the kitchen, stumbling once as he tried to avoid a serving man carrying a tray with two steaming platters of meat. At the door of the hall, Paul removed his hat, smoothed back his hair, set the hat back at a slight angle.
‘One more question,’ said Owen, startling the man, who’d clearly thought himself alone. ‘Who has dogs that might be trained to attack as Hoban and Bartolf were attacked?’
‘I have been wondering that myself. To so bond with the animals as to train them to assist you in attack, which this seems, yet do what he did to Tempest?’ Paul’s large eyes seemed black in his pale face. ‘No, I know of no such monster. Now you must allow me to return to my family. My sister has suffered a terrible loss.’
Not him, his sister.
‘Was Hoban party to the pranks for which Magda reprimanded you?’ he asked, but too late. Paul had gone straight to his sister, leaning close, speaking to her.
10
Lying Dead in the Garden
Alisoun crept down the alley, prepared to assess her best aim as quickly as she might. As she walked she noticed an overturned bench where the alley gave way to the garden, a trampled flowerbed, the soil churned. Now she could hear a woman begging for her life, answered by a growl. In the distance a man cried out in agony. Holding her breath so as not to give herself away, Alisoun crept to the end of the house and peered around. Not much farther than an arm’s length along the back wall of the house stood Euphemia Poole, her sightless eyes wide with terror. A brindle-coated creature – wolf? – had her pinned against the house with its forepaws on her shoulders, its head so close it might catch the woman’s breath. Twenty or more paces past them two men struggled with a pitchfork, one of them bleeding, his knees beginning to give out, clearly overpowered by his tall, hefty opponent.
Suddenly a man rushed out from behind a garden shed, shouting, ‘For my father’s honor!’ and brandishing a long, curved dagger as he made straight for Euphemia and the creature. Alisoun stepped out and drew her bow, aiming for his shoulder. But she’d misjudged his speed and the arrow skewered his neck. He threw his weapon as he stumbled and fell to the ground. Alisoun stepped out of the dagger’s trajectory and reached for another arrow.