‘Master Chaucer.’ The monk startled him.
‘You do like to steal up on a man,’ Geoffrey exclaimed. But he smiled, ever charmed by how Michaelo floated rather than walked.
‘I understand there has been another attack?’ The monk’s nostrils quivered on the last word.
‘No deaths this time, much thanks to Alisoun Ffulford, who shot down one of the attackers, routed the other. I witnessed her courage, and that of Dame Euphemia’s manservant. The surviving attacker ran off with the hound. Captain Archer asks you to walk through the minster yard as he believes it your custom to do of an evening, offering comfort. While you do, keep your ears pricked for any whispers of a man and a hound, wolf, whatever they call it.’
Such a smooth, etched face, homely when in repose, but now, as the monk’s pleasure in being called to serve lifted all the corners – why, he could be quite handsome. Geoffrey had never seen him look so – beatific. He had an amusing thought. Owen Archer was a handsome man in his own way, certainly the women behaved as if he were uncommonly alluring. Was Michaelo smitten? Oh, now that would be delicious.
‘And if I learn anything? See anything?’ the monk asked.
Geoffrey prayed he’d not smiled. How to explain? ‘My mission, after speaking with you, is to inform the mourners at Swanns’ of the state of the victims at the Poole home. Then I am to await Archer at his house. Come to me there.’
Michaelo tucked his hands up his sleeves and bowed to Geoffrey. ‘I will do as the captain asks.’
Geoffrey had no doubt he would.
Brother Michaelo saw the king’s man out the door. How the captain could entrust that man on such a mission … Perhaps he’d merely meant to keep the blankly smiling fool out of the way, and out of earshot. For the captain knew that Chaucer was a gossip. A prudent ploy? Yes, that must be it. Michaelo was moved that Owen recalled his practice of providing spiritual counsel to those living in the minster yard. Dame Lucie perhaps described his reception. He wondered when they shared such moments in their day. In bed before sleep? What must it be like to have such a companion?
He shook himself. Such thoughts did him no good. He had work to do.
Chaucer … Geoffrey Chaucer had not mentioned stopping first in the Bedern. Michaelo wondered whether that part of Chaucer’s route concerned his own official mission for the prince. One must never forget. Several of the clerks residing in those lodgings were used by officials in the city as messengers to London and Westminster. Paired with the matter of the stranger who had arrived at the abbey staithe last night in the company of Archbishop Neville’s secretary, the former intending to bide at the abbey, the latter at Holy Trinity Priory in Micklegate, there might be treachery afoot. The captain should know of these developments.
The thought of the new archbishop’s secretary brought on a headache, and Michaelo paused, composing himself. Of all the clerics in the land, that Neville should choose Michaelo’s cousin Dom Leufrid, the thief who stole the money Michaelo’s family had intended would buy him a comfortable position in a wealthy abbey in the south of England. Because of Leufrid’s greed Michaelo had wound up in York, so far north, with little to offer the abbot, a distant cousin. Leufrid, the bastard, now secretary to the worm who had stolen the archbishopric from Thoresby’s worthy nephew, Richard Ravenser – infuriating.
Michaelo prayed for the compassion to forgive, but deep in his heart he yearned to ruin the loathsome Leufrid.
Hereby lies a tale, Geoffrey thought as he hurried down Stonegate. The blind goodwife and the wolf. Pity it wasn’t a fox, but what of a wolf dressed as a man? The wolf fools all but the blind. She ‘sees’ him for what he is and cunningly turns the tables … Pah. He had more immediate concerns on which to train his mind. He ordered his thoughts as he cut through the yard of the York Tavern and passed through the Fenton garden into the yard of the Swann home.
As soon as he stepped through the door conversations halted, servants carrying platters turned to look at the new arrival, and the musicians ceased playing. He’d hoped for a quiet word, but that was clearly not to be.
In a rush of silk, Olyf Tirwhit was upon him.
‘Is Crispin injured? I should go to him–’ Her breath was sweet with wine and she staggered aside as her husband stepped between them.
Geoffrey was relieved to see Muriel Swann and Janet Braithwaite in the man’s wake, John Braithwaite, Paul, and his wife not far behind. Ned brought up the rear, hurrying in from the kitchen.
‘I suggest we step into another room,’ Geoffrey said. ‘All eyes in the hall are upon us. You can then decide how much information to share with your guests.’
Janet led the group into the buttery, a morbid venue, Geoffrey thought, remembering Bartolf’s bloody corpse on the table, and no doubt Hoban’s before that.
‘I heard from the bailiffs’ men, and much has passed round the hall,’ said Ned. ‘Is it true that Mistress Alisoun shot a man between the eyes?’
‘Neck.’ Geoffrey touched either side. ‘As if preparing to roast his head over a fire.’
The young man’s grimace halted Geoffrey from further comment.
‘I pray you tell me, is it true that Alisoun is mortally wounded?’
Geoffrey patted Ned’s shoulder. ‘Magda Digby and Lucie Wilton tend her.’ The young man gave a cry like a whimper. Seeing his distress, Geoffrey regretted speaking while distracted.
‘Is she?’ Ned asked.
Geoffrey could hardly soften it for the lad when he was about to share the ugly details with the rest of those gathered in the buttery. ‘I pray you, patience. I hope to make one report to all here.’ He patted Ned’s arm.
By now the Swanns, Braithwaites, and Tirwhits stood assembled before Geoffrey. Clearing his throat, he recited the tale plainly, with no bardic embellishments – though he had considered some poetic phrases.
He watched their reactions. Owen would ask. Olyf’s cry of relief when she heard of Crispin’s absence won a poke from her husband and a disgusted look from Muriel. Paul Braithwaite looked drained of blood and teetering, but they all reeked of sweet wine, so it might mean nothing. To their credit, though in their cups the group listened with interest and concern. He noticed that none asked for details of Dame Euphemia’s injuries, none cried out at the profound cruelty of attacking a blind, elderly woman – he’d been wise to omit his embellishment regarding her snowy white hair falling down round her shoulders, one long strand dipped in her would-be murderer’s blood. It would have been wasted on this audience. However, all expressed amazement at Alisoun’s courage – and that of the manservant – and dismay about the extent of the young woman’s injury, tempered with relief that Magda Digby and Lucie Wilton were there to nurse her.
‘Oh, my dear Alisoun.’ Muriel Swann looked as if she might faint. ‘She has been so kind, so caring. What can I do?’
‘Continue with the regimen she has prescribed, daughter,’ said Janet Braithwaite. ‘Give birth to a healthy baby she will delight to see when she is able.’
As an argument ensued between mother and daughter, Geoffrey took the opportunity to slip away. Opening the garden gate, he lingered at the spot where Bartolf had been murdered. Except for the hours spent in his company on the way to York, Geoffrey had not known the man. Nor had that encounter allowed insight into his character. On that day he’d not been the respected, perhaps feared coroner of Galtres, but a mere mortal man shattered by the violent murder of his only son. What had he been like the day before? Geoffrey would never know.