Shifting a little on the bench, the young woman watched as Michaelo took a seat across from her and a little to one side and pulled from his scrip a quill, an inkpot, and two stones to weigh down the curling parchment, which was the last item he drew out, smoothing it and placing the stones with care. As he sharpened the end of the quill, he asked Wren’s permission to record what she said.
‘You’ll write down my words?’ asked Wren. ‘Just as I say them?’
‘Perhaps not every word,’ said Michaelo, ‘but the essence of what you say. Even when I was secretary to His Grace the Archbishop of York I … took care to make clear his meaning.’
‘Why are you doing this?’ Wren asked Owen.
As Lucie settled on the bench beside Michaelo to assist him, Owen chose his words with care. Everything depended on gaining Wren’s trust. ‘Am I right in thinking that much of what has happened with the Swanns, the Pooles, and the Braithwaites arises from your family’s anger at the lies told about them, about how Gerta died? The lies that killed your grandfather?’
Wren gave a noncommittal shrug.
‘This is your chance to record what truly happened,’ said Owen. ‘If we present such a record to the king’s officials we might protect you from any judgment against your family.’
‘No one has ever questioned grandfather’s guilt. None but us.’
‘I would not blame you for doubting my word. But I swear to you that I mean to help you if I can. Would you tell me what happened yesterday?’
‘Da beat me.’
‘Why?’
‘He says I betrayed him. He saw me talking to Mistress Alisoun. I told her too much and she went to the Poole house, murdered my uncle Roger.’
‘Alisoun was protecting an innocent victim.’
‘The widow Poole lied about my Granddad. Had him hanged.’ Owen could not deny that. ‘Da says I can never go home.’
‘Where is home?’
Wren tilted her cup from side to side, watching the ale slosh about.
‘Why don’t you tell me your family’s story about Gerta and your grandfather?’
Silence.
‘Your kin have used you, haven’t they?’ Lucie asked. ‘Forced you to work for the Tirwhit family and spy on them and on the Pooles?’
Wren looked up, chin forward. ‘I liked it there. They were nice to me.’ She pushed the ale aside. ‘If I tell you things, could I go back to them? The Tirwhits?’
‘If they agreed,’ said Lucie. ‘If not, I would do my best to find you work in another household.’
‘But you won’t promise. What of you, Captain?’
‘I have no such power,’ said Owen. ‘Would you not wish to be with your parents if we could find a way?’
‘They made me lie to Mistress Alisoun, tell her Master Adam laid with me.’
Not an answer to his question. Or was it a no? ‘Is that why you told Alisoun your father was watching the Poole home? Because they made you lie about a man you respect?’
Wren looked away, her chin trembling. ‘Lying’s a sin.’
Owen reached out for Wren’s hand, meaning to comfort her, but she twisted away.
‘Were you angry with him?’ Owen asked.
‘He’s not a bad man. But bad things happened to his sister, and he can’t forget.’
Lucie gently touched Wren’s forehead above the black eye. ‘He is cruel to you.’
A shrug. ‘Don’t know why I told her.’
‘You’re angry with your kin?’ Lucie asked.
She gave Lucie a look as if to say it was a daft question, of course she was. ‘They killed the Swanns. And the dog. That’s not right. The priest said in church that a wrong done for a wrong isn’t a right.’ She wiped her face with her sleeve, smearing the paint and staining the fabric. ‘The Riverwoman will put a curse on me for leading Mistress Alisoun into danger.’
Owen knew Magda did not dabble in curses. But no matter. ‘Did your parents and uncles have any help?’ he asked.
Wren picked at the paint on her sleeve. ‘Otto and Rat.’
Owen glanced at Honoria, who nodded. ‘Tell me about them,’ said Owen.
‘I don’t like them. This was about our family honor. Now we’re just outlaws.’
‘Who are they?’
A shrug. ‘They know the city well. Helped us hide.’ She reached for Lucie’s hand. ‘I did need Mistress Alisoun. I used a drink to rid me of a baby – something my mother gave me – but then I kept bleeding. It wasn’t Master Tirwhit’s I carried. Rat and Otto–’ She bit her bottom lip, averted her eyes.
Honoria moaned and went to Wren, crouching beside her, taking her hand. ‘I am so sorry.’
‘Born in a brothel, wasn’t I?’
‘That means nothing,’ said Honoria.
‘You will find me a place, Mistress Wilton?’
Lucie touched Wren’s cheek. ‘I will, I promise. Now will you tell me what you know of Gerta’s death, and what your family and those men have done to avenge her and your grandfather?’
‘Would you like more ale?’ Honoria asked as she lifted the jug.
‘I would.’ After Honoria poured, Wren took a long drink.
Her tale was much like Crispin Poole’s, though the lads and Olyf were painted in a much less complimentary light, and the lechery of Bartolf and Goldbarn, the sergeant of the forest, was held up as proof the three lads and the girl were up to no good. As the ale dulled Wren’s guardedness and she spun the tale of the two families united in their grief and despair, Owen was glad of Michaelo’s pen scratching away, Lucie helping him open more of the parchment as sections filled, for it was a tale the coroner should hear in full.
‘But what of Gerta’s murder?’ Owen asked. ‘You’ve not told us the real story.’
Wren glanced out the window. ‘As my ma tells it, the one with the hounds, Paul, he came alone to the wood that day, ’cept for the animals. Beasts, they were, taller, more frightening than those he’d brought before, and he hunted Gerta.’
Dawn now. As Owen looked out at the garden he realized he wasted precious time. He knew now who had murdered Gerta. He rose. ‘I must go to the Braithwaite home. I am grateful, Mistress Wren. You are brave to tell me all this. I pray you, tell the remainder to my wife and Brother Michaelo. Then rest here. You will be safe.’
Lucie and Honoria bent to each other, whispering. Owen watched them out of the corner of his eye as he tugged on his boots, slung the quiver over his shoulder, tucked his unstrung bow in his belt. So at ease with each other. He’d not expected that.
‘Rain is coming,’ said Honoria. ‘I smell it in the air.’
‘All the better,’ said Lucie, rising from the table. ‘I’ve no time for the garden today. Let it drink its fill. Take a cloak, my love.’ She plucked a short cloak from the hook by the door and draped it over Owen’s arm, then handed him a small pack. ‘In case you use the arrow and want your captive to live. You know how to use these.’
Owen looked into his wife’s steady gray-blue eyes. Her medicine pack was sacred to her, a thing all in the household knew not to touch. ‘Thank you for entrusting me with this. I will use it wisely,’ he said.
She searched his eyes, touched his cheek. ‘I know you will, my love. Come home to me whole and well. May God watch over you and all your company.’
‘Amen.’ He kissed Lucie, held her tight for a moment.
‘Shall I escort Old Bede home?’ Lucie asked as they moved apart.
‘Let Crispin host him until I return. But you might tell Winifrith where he is. And have Michaelo take Alisoun’s account as long as he is here. Bless you for thinking of that. I know the coroner examined Roger, but I will feel better that he knows as much as possible before he assembles a jury.’ He whispered a blessing, then slipped out the garden door with Corm.