Neville would have done the deed while questioning Carl about Ambrose and Marian. The musician had good reason to hate Neville, but his anger, his hunger for vengeance, was more easily satisfied by attacking the musician and the singer whose escape had brought Carl to the attention of Sir John. Had Paul meant to help in some way?
When sure he had not been followed, Owen doubled back, whispered to his man out front to stay put, and moved down the alley to the rear, to the steps leading up to the lodgings above the tavern. For a moment he wondered whether Ned had wandered off.
‘Here, Captain.’ Ned seemed to materialize out of the shadows.
‘Anyone pass by? Hear anything?’
‘Maidservant cleaning a pot, a drunk puking. Heard what sounded like a pair mating, then two men came past adjusting their cocks and heading back in for more drink.’
‘I am going up to the bedchambers. If someone comes running down, stop them. If anyone approaches, make noise.’
With a nod, Ned slipped back into the shadows.
Pricking up his ears, Owen listened for signs of life as he crept up the steps. Quiet. Too quiet? He caught the murmur of voices as he reached the landing, but afar off, not the chamber the taverner had indicated, which was the first on his left. Pausing to listen at the door, he eased it open, stepped in. Someone had left an oil lamp burning. Intending to return? Owen moved quickly, searching packs, bedclothes, instruments. He found a stash of jewels beneath the mattress. Interesting, but not his business. And then a slit in the mattress with something small, stiff within. A small book with a supple leather cover. Costly, not something one of them would likely own. He was stuffing it into his scrip when Ned shouted a drunken curse down below.
A step creaked, then a board on the landing. Drawing his dagger, Owen waited behind the door, watched the man step into the room. Paul. Catching him from behind, Owen silenced him with a knife to his throat.
‘What were you doing in the minster the night before the vicar’s murder?’ Owen asked softly, drawing Paul back into the shadows, turning him around and pushing him against the wall.
‘You. I knew you were spying on us.’ Paul reached for a knife.
Owen kicked it out of his hand, yanked the man toward him, and slammed him back into the wall. A blow for Marian. ‘Now talk.’
‘I never touched the dead man.’
‘What of the girl? You touched her. She ran off because of you. Is that how Carl forced you to do his bidding? To repay him?’
‘How do you know so much, one-eye?’ Owen began to pull him up, ready to beat him senseless for assaulting a woman. But before he could slam him against the wall the man cried out, begging for mercy. ‘I will tell you! Carl wanted to know about the minstrel. I stayed just long enough to be sure it was him. Saw the girl run away. I didn’t follow her!’
From below, Ned sent up a string of curses.
Someone stumbled up the stairs, breathing hard.
‘If you say a word you will be as crippled as Carl,’ Owen warned.
A man came rushing into the room, throwing himself on the mattress. Owen smelled blood, saw it smeared on the man’s gloves as he fumbled with them.
‘Not Carl! Not Carl!’ he shouted as two young men stormed into the room, one of them roughly grabbing him just as the second glove fell.
No bandages.
‘You fools,’ Owen growled, dragging Paul out and tossing him on the bed. ‘Remove the gloves next time.’ He turned to Paul, who was eyeing his comrade’s bloody hands. ‘Where is Carl?’
‘I don’t know. I swear.’
Owen ordered the two fools to come with him, leading them out and down, nodding to Ned as he passed. ‘Keep watch.’
‘Captain, we thought—’ one of the young men began.
‘Thinking had nothing to do with it,’ Owen growled. But he was glad. He knew now that Carl had been waiting for Ambrose at the minster. He thought it likely the exchange of cloaks led Carl to murder the wrong man.
Down Skeldergate the cart rumbled unchecked, but the two incidents on the bridge had clearly added to the tensions of the party. As the afternoon light faded away Alisoun and Drake looked round at every step and the conversation in the cart grew hesitant, more anxious. Crispin walked along in silence, no longer obliged to greet his peers. At this hour in winter the waterfront warehouses were deserted, the merchants back in their well-lit homes or shops. Now the streets along the south bank of the river were the domain of the poor and the criminal. Crispin’s only comment to Michaelo was a request to continue to be on alert for anyone who seemed too curious, apologizing that the need for a humble procession had meant no guards. Michaelo had reminded him of Alisoun’s prowess with the bow. Though as dusk fell and the river mist rose an attacker would appear at too close range for a bow to be effective.
In the cart, Euphemia expressed her unease with questions about Marian’s aunt, Maud Neville. The simple answer that she knew her far less well than she did Lady Edwina or Sir Thomas did not satisfy.
‘Will she
