Owen plucked up Paul’s pursuer. She cursed and pummeled him as he carried her away from the mouth of the fire, dropping her near Alfred.
‘God help him,’ Alfred groaned, staring back at the kennels.
It was Paul, stumbling out of the mouth of the building, his clothes and hair alight. Seeing Alan and Pete rounding the side of the building each holding a sloshing bucket in his free hand, Owen shouted, ‘Braithwaite!’
After a moment of confusion, both of them emptied their buckets of water onto the man, who’d dropped down and was rolling along the ground, just missing the woman, who had made it to her knees. Cilla, the wolf, he guessed, her painted face showing beneath the wolfskin hood.
‘I’ll bring more water,’ Alan called, riding off.
Pete jumped from his horse, rushing to Braithwaite as Owen and a man with a blanket reached them. The man opened the blanket and threw himself on Paul, attempting to smother the flames. Out of nowhere, Cilla jumped on him, pulling him away from Paul. Beyond them, another large beam fell in the entry to the kennels, sending out flaming splinters. One fell on Cilla.
Owen grabbed her up, pulling her away. ‘You’re burning!’
He struggled to contain her thrashing arms and legs, gave up and pushed her down to roll her along the muddy ground, but the arrow in her leg prevented that. With a knife, he tore at the skins, splitting the seams and tearing them away. Beneath, her shirt and leggings were filthy, but not on fire.
‘Step away, Captain!’
As Owen did so, Alan tossed a bucket of water on the skins. Cilla tried to crawl away, but collapsed on her wounded leg, snarling and cursing, thrashing about, trying to remove the arrow. The way she moved was more animal than human.
Owen blinked away the smoke, looking at Alan. ‘Thank you.’
‘Everyone on the land, servants and tenants, has formed a line from the fishpond, passing buckets and pots of water. The building’s gone, but they hope to contain it.’ He shook his head at the woman writhing on the ground. ‘Who is she?’
‘Cilla.’ Owen went to Paul, sinking down on his knees. Blackened, bleeding, the man’s breath came in rasps. A woman from the manor came with a wineskin, crouched down and poured wine into Paul’s open mouth before Owen could stop her – he was breathing through his mouth, he would choke. Paul coughed, convulsed, and the rasping ceased. Owen crossed himself, then closed the dead man’s eyelids.
The woman began to sob. Owen handed the skin to her, told her to take it to her mistress out on the cart.
Rising, Owen tossed Alan the blanket. ‘Cover Cilla. Take her aside. We’ll move them in the wagon.’
Alfred joined him. ‘All secured.’
‘Fetch Galbot.’
‘He’s not going anywhere, thanks to you.’
‘Oh yes he is.’ He’d worked here long enough to know the terrain, and he’d worked with the dogs.
Alfred dragged the man to Owen.
‘You heard them barking. You’ll have an idea where they are.’ Owen yanked him up, pulled down his shirt to pin his arms to his sides and tied the sleeves behind him. ‘Lead us there,’ he commanded.
‘I can’t walk,’ Galbot protested.
‘We’ll assist you,’ Alfred growled.
Owen told Stephen to guard the rest. Passing Pete beside the burning building, Owen ordered him to help Stephen. ‘The kennels are lost. Let the household do what they wish with the fire. You see to the men.’
Some folk on the line passing buckets and pots of water called out to them, asking what had happened. Others cursed Galbot for betraying the family. But Owen and Alfred kept their attention on their prisoner, who hobbled along between them, coughing and cursing. He led them through a copse of trees and out into a clearing at the end of the dale. A wattle fence huddled against the rising hill. The dogs were within. As Galbot approached they began barking excitedly, a welcome. Of course they would know their trainer. Three men stood guard with pitchforks, lowering them and pointing them toward Owen, Alfred, and Galbot.
‘Master John Braithwaite sent us here,’ Owen called out.
One of the three stepped forward, shouting, ‘Galbot, you traitor!’ He was younger than Owen had at first realized, and from his clothing it was clear he was not a laborer.
Owen jerked on Galbot’s arms. ‘Who is he?’
‘Adam Braithwaite, Paul’s son and heir. Good with the dogs. And those are the men who care for the kennels. You’re tearing my arms from my shoulders.’
‘Are you Captain Archer?’ Adam demanded.
‘I am.’ One of the rare moments when Owen’s scarred face and patch could be counted a blessing.
‘Where is my father?’
‘We will speak of him.’ Owen gestured toward where Alfred crouched over a man lying outside the enclosure, a torch jammed down into the mud still smoldering beside him. ‘Who is he?’
‘One of this traitor’s men. He meant to set fire to the fence, kill the dogs. I thought you cared for them, Galbot.’
Owen tugged on Galbot’s arms. ‘Who is he?’
‘Bastard,’ Galbot growled as he averted his eyes from young Adam’s glare. ‘No wonder the others had me bring the Braithwaites. I didn’t know they meant to torch the dogs.’
‘No love for them?’
‘I’m the only one cares for them.’ Not Tempest, Owen thought. ‘Cilla and Joss would have killed them first. Only Paul Braithwaite was to die here, the final tally, the most important. He murdered Gerta to avenge the blinding of his hound.’
‘How dare you accuse my father of murder!’ Adam cried, stepping forward.
‘Because he was a murderer,’ growled the man on the ground.
Alfred grasped the man’s shoulder and shook him.
15
A Conspiracy of Wolves
Elaine Braithwaite stood at the door of the manor house, her arms wrapped round her as if to keep her still. Stepping back to allow them entrance, she stood transfixed as Owen and Alan carried Paul Braithwaite’s litter past her, into the hall, as if she could not believe the horror of her husband’s body. Her son Adam walked behind them, shoulders back, eyes trained ahead as tears rolled down his cheeks.
Hempe had returned with the horses, and he and one of his men had helped Elaine and her maidservant from the cart, bringing them up on their mounts to return to the manor house.
‘Brother.’ Alice, who stood holding a baby, bobbed her head at Adam, then motioned to the two girls beside her. Paul’s children solemnly led the litter-bearers through the hall and down a corridor to a small chapel, comporting themselves with dignity despite their muddied clothes and damp hair.
‘Set him down before the altar, awaiting the priest and the coroner,’ Elaine said from the doorway.
When the litter was placed on the stone floor, Owen asked the widow what else they might do to help.
Her composure crumbled, and she bowed her head, sobbing. Owen put his arms round her, holding her until she quieted. The children looked on with grief-stricken expressions.
Wet, weary, Owen felt the chill settling into his bones. He was grateful when at last Elaine took a deep, shaky breath and backed away.
‘What must you think of me?’ She dabbed at her face with a linen, then shook out her skirts. ‘You will forgive me. It has been such a day.’
‘Of course.’
‘We are all in your debt.’
‘I failed to prevent your husband’s death.’
‘I watched from the wagon, Captain, I saw him walk into that burning building.’
‘The hounds–’
‘He walked into the flames for his sins, Captain. I was beside him in the wagon when we saw the flames, then heard the baying. When I cried out – no matter what I thought of his passion for them, they were God’s creatures and I quaked at their danger – he patted my hand, assured me that they must have been rescued from the fire.’ She kissed Owen’s cheek, then went to kneel beside her husband’s body.