Owen thought Lucie might enjoy such an honor. And he would take pleasure in making it possible, even more in escorting her. He disappointed himself in finding the proposal tantalizing. Against all reason he missed the status he’d held as Thoresby’s spy and captain of guards.
‘Captain of bailiffs,’ Michaelo sniffed. ‘You would choose that over the prince’s household?’
‘I take it you would not.’
‘I envy you the luxury of choice.’
The Swann home stood on a double messuage in Coney Street. A fine wooden archway opened into a modest yard leading to a fine hall with a grand iron-bound oak door.
‘A well-designed entry that shields the hall from the busy street,’ Michaelo noted. ‘Much more suited to the status of the family than the house in Galtres.’
At Owen’s knock, the door was flung open by a young manservant, his red eyes attesting to his affection for his late master.
‘Captain Archer. They await you in the buttery,’ he said, bobbing his head to both of them as he stepped aside to allow them passage.
The hall was lofty, with a tiled floor. Near the fire circle at its heart a woman paced, her silk and velvet gown shifting colors in the firelight. A rosary swung from her hands and her lips moved in prayer. Janet Braithwaite, Muriel Swann’s mother. She was a large, imposing woman.
‘God help us,’ Michaelo murmured. ‘She has a taste for going to law, ever vigilant regarding her “due”. She took His Grace to law over a perceived slight.’
‘Did she win?’
‘Against John Thoresby?’ Michaelo sniffed.
Apparently there was much Owen did not know about the late archbishop’s standing in the community.
As soon as the servant informed her of the visitors, Dame Janet turned toward them. As she approached she wrapped the rosary round her left wrist as if a bracelet and shook out her skirts as if prayer were a dusty business. Her eyes bore no signs of grief, though her face was pinched in worry. ‘You have brought a monk, Captain Archer? But I summoned our parish priest.’
‘Brother Michaelo is not a priest,’ said Owen. ‘He is kindly assisting me, recording everything for Bartolf, as he would if the victim were not his son.’
‘I see.’ Janet nodded to Michaelo. ‘I will have the boy summon Bartolf. He is just out in the kitchen. I did not want him plucking at Hoban’s shroud.’
‘He is coroner,’ said Owen. ‘He knows not to do that.’
‘When not in his cups,’ said Janet. ‘Which is rare these days. The men said you had them wrap Hoban with care, that it was important not to disturb him until you arrived, and I saw to it that no one did so.’ She began to turn toward the servant.
‘No need to summon him, not yet,’ said Owen.
‘The old bear will not like it that he was not told of your presence.’
‘First I would speak with Bartolf’s manservant, Joss. Where might I find him?’ Owen preferred to speak to the servant away from his master, and then examine the body without the father’s witness.
‘The one who precipitated all this? The old bear cursed him and turned him out. I went after him, ordered him back to the house in Galtres where he might be of some use. It is possible the dogs might return to the house. Not the horse. Alas, the horse was a hire, according to my daughter. Hoban was in a hurry to ride out before nightfall, no time to have his readied – it’s stabled across the river. He meant to hire one from a stable outside Bootham Bar. More expense for them.’ She frowned. ‘So you did not stop at the house?’
‘I did. Joss had not returned.’
‘The lout. He should have been there hours ago.’
‘Would you know of a reason Hoban might have carried a salve for a wound? Or had he broken a bone of late?’
‘Not that I recall, but my daughter would know. After you have examined the body, I will take you up to her.’ Without further comment Janet escorted the two of them to the buttery at the end of the hall.
Hoban had been placed on a stone counter. Oil lamps and a lantern provided light, the two guards standing over him. Two servants carrying bowls of oil and water stood by, awaiting instructions. Bartolf sat in a corner, head bowed.
‘What are you doing in here?’ Janet demanded.
‘Praying for my son.’ Bartolf’s voice was hoarse with grief. His eyes silenced his challenger. ‘The servants are ready to assist you in cleaning the body so that you might better see the wounds, Captain,’ he said.
So much for sparing the old man. ‘Do you have a pair of scissors to cut the cloth?’ Owen asked.
One of the servants lifted a pair, offering to do it himself.
‘I prefer to begin,’ said Owen. He instructed the guards in freeing enough of the cloak that he might gain purchase in cutting through the wool. It was hard work, the wool stiffened by the dried blood. His hands would ache tonight.
Janet Braithwaite’s silks rustled as she joined Owen at the table. She groaned when Hoban’s head was uncovered. ‘My poor Muriel must not see this.’ She placed a beringed hand on the scissors. ‘Permit me to do this, Captain. A woman of his family should prepare his body.’
Owen saw no reason to object. ‘Of course.’ He nodded to the guards. ‘Steady his head and shoulders as best you can.’
Bartolf stood near his son’s head, his face a mask of anger. ‘I will gut Joss, the bastard. He’s guilty. He’s the one. Why else run away? I curse the day I hired him.’
So he’d overheard Owen’s conversation with Dame Janet. Quietly advising Brother Michaelo to ignore any such outbursts, Owen was answered by an indignant sniff.
When the clothing was cut away, Owen motioned the servants to lift the body so that Dame Janet might remove the blood-stiffened fabric from beneath Hoban, the guards still steadying the head and shoulders.
‘Now work some of the oil into the crusted blood on his face, then his torso, using wet cloths to wash it away once it has softened. Gently,’ Janet said as the young man jostled the head.
While Janet oversaw the servants, Owen motioned for Michaelo to record that only the one leg and foot were injured, the fingernails broken and possibly one finger, and one palm was crossed by what looked like a wide, ragged wound, the sort caused when gripping the reins with bare hands as one falls from the horse. ‘When you are finished with the head and torso, clean the hands,’ he said to the servants. Someone approached him from behind.
‘This is Father Paul,’ said Dame Janet.
‘We will not be long,’ Owen told him, keeping his eyes on the servant who cleaned the torso. As he worked, several stab wounds were revealed on the stomach just below the ribs. The other worked the hands. Owen saw that he was right about the reins. So Hoban was not wearing gloves. Perhaps in his haste he had forgotten them.
Now for the most difficult part – the men supported the head while Owen and Bartolf – he insisted, a father’s right – turned Hoban onto his side to examine the back. Scratches, no more. They had just resettled him on his back and adjusted the head when Michaelo touched Owen’s arm and looked toward the door.
Muriel Swann stood in the doorway, head bowed, hand to heart. All those present followed suit. She took a step forward, then hesitated at the buttery threshold, a mere whisper of a woman, her silk gown loosely hanging from a thin frame that accentuated her swelling stomach. She looked toward her husband’s body with fevered eyes. The servants bowed and withdrew, but when Owen asked if she wished to be alone with Hoban, Muriel shook her head. Her gown released the scent of lavender as she moved to where her husband lay. As she beheld him a sob shook her, and Alisoun, invisible until that moment, hurried into the room, whispering something to her charge. Muriel held up a hand. ‘A moment.’