A Choir of Crows

by Candace Robb

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Also by Candace Robb

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One: Minstrels & Players in a Hall of Power

  Chapter Two: A Fell Night, an Angel’s Voice

  Chapter Three: Sanctuary

  Chapter Four: Deaths on a Snowy Morn

  Chapter Five: The Riddle of the Cloak

  Chapter Six: Haunted Souls

  Chapter Seven: A Deepening Mystery

  Chapter Eight: Sandrine

  Chapter Nine: A Night Watch

  Chapter Ten: Visitors and Intruders

  Chapter Eleven: A Maid’s Tale

  Chapter Twelve: Complications

  Chapter Thirteen: Two Days

  Chapter Fourteen: An Unlikely Ally

  Chapter Fifteen: Ouse Bridge, the Cross Keys

  Chapter Sixteen: Ruined

  Chapter Seventeen: The Archbishop’s Choice

  Chapter Eighteen: A Prayer for Harmony

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Candace Robb

  The Owen Archer mysteries

  THE APOTHECARY ROSE

  THE LADY CHAPEL

  THE NUN’S TALE

  THE KING’S BISHOP

  THE RIDDLE OF ST LEONARD’S

  A GIFT OF SANCTUARY

  A SPY FOR THE REDEEMER

  THE CROSS-LEGGED KNIGHT

  THE GUILT OF INNOCENTS

  A VIGIL OF SPIES

  A CONSPIRACY OF WOLVES *

  The Margaret Kerr series

  A TRUST BETRAYED

  THE FIRE IN THE FLINT

  A CRUEL COURTSHIP

  The Kate Clifford series

  THE SERVICE OF THE DEAD

  A TWISTED VENGEANCE

  A MURDERED PEACE

  * available from Severn House

  A CHOIR OF CROWS

  Candace Robb

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First world edition published 2020

  by Crème de la Crime an imprint of

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2021 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2020 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2020 by Candace Robb.

  The right of Candace Robb to be identified

  as the author of this work has been asserted

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs &

  Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-126-0 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-724-8 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0445-5 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

  are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described

  for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are

  fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  For the Medieval Women’s Choir of Seattle – to sing with you is a joy surpassing reason, and especially for Marian ‘Molly’ Seibert, my inspiration.

  The marvels of God are not brought forth from one’s self. Rather, it is more like a chord, a sound that is played. The tone does not come out of the chord itself, but rather, through the touch of the Musician. I am, of course, the lyre and harp of God’s kindness. Hildegard of Bingen

  ONE

  Minstrels & Players in a Hall of Power

  Cawood Palace, early December 1374

  Holding their pikes upright so they no longer threatened the new arrivals, the guards stepped aside to allow the players entrance to the great hall of Cawood Palace. A collective sigh rippled through the company as they exchanged encouraging nods, and, with a flourish of drums and recorders, stepped lightly through the carved doorway making a merry sound. Ambrose strode forward, arms outspread to show off the elegance of his fur-lined cloak and robe as he intoned a song celebrating the harvest.

  Late for that, but with little time to prepare he had chosen a tune in both his and the players’ repertoires, and one that lent itself to such a procession – a good tempo and a range in which he could project his voice above the clatter of their instruments. The grandness of the gesture was key, not the theme: a jubilant noise to delight the lords gathered here. Tomorrow, as the nobles feasted in the hall, that would be the time to turn their heads with new lyrics in praise of the rising power of the Nevilles in the North.

  For the new lord of Cawood Palace was a Neville, and the occasion was a gathering of Alexander’s kinsmen before his imminent enthronement as Archbishop of York in the great minster. Already consecrated archbishop in Westminster Abbey earlier in the year, he would now take his official seat. When Ambrose had learned of this gathering, the most powerful among the Nevilles here to instruct their ecclesiastical cousin on the temporal significance of his position, he had set about finding a way to witness it, in hopes of overhearing something of use to His Grace Prince Edward. For he had no doubt much would be said – the Nevilles had used their influence, including a not inconsiderable amount of wealth, to win this honor for Alexander, and now they would expect him to make it worthwhile, to prove himself worthy of the high position – second most powerful churchman in the realm. The impression he made on the city of York and the many religious houses therein, especially the chapter of its glorious minster, must be one of strength, but tempered with grace – he must assure the dean and chapter and all the clergy in his care that he meant to be a magnanimous master.

  It remained to be seen whether Alexander Neville could play the part. His career so far would argue otherwise. Even across the south sea in the French court Ambrose had heard tales of Neville’s tantrum over a bishopric in Cornwall, an ugly dispute that had begun over a decade earlier and dragged on for years.

  And now, as Ambrose strode into the great hall of one of the palaces that came to Alexander as part of the archbishopric, he studied the proud faces, noticed signs of strain. No doubt partly inspired by the setting. Cawood seemed a neglected property. Judging from the stained whitewash on the gatehouse and weedy state of the yard, the previous archbishop, John Thoresby, had paid little attention to its upkeep. Why had this gathering been called here? Why not Bishopthorpe, the palace close to York and much favored by Thoresby? Ambrose guessed that this was meant to be a secret gathering. Which was, of course, why he risked being here. He might win the prince’s ear with news of the Nevilles’ strategy for the North.

  At least the hall was brightly lit with torches and a large fire in the center – for it was not yet fitted with a hearth. The light was not kind to
the musicians’ colorful garb, emphasizing the faded areas, the worn patches on the velvet, the oft-repaired seams. The contrast with Ambrose’s own costly robes and the elegantly garbed guests was striking, and the nobles gazed on the players with a mixture of amusement and impatience. A few smiled and moved to the music, but most began to turn away, resuming their conversations. At least no one started at Ambrose – he believed himself unknown to the Nevilles, though he had performed before some of them on occasion years earlier. Before France.

  Enough of this mundane fanfare. Time to entice the guests with a taste of what they might expect on the morrow. The company’s leader, Carl, awaited the signal to begin. Nodding to him, Ambrose approached a fair youth who stepped forward upon hearing the opening notes. Matthew was the requisite comely player relegated to the female roles, at present valuable for the angelic voice, and the ethereal beauty to match – slender as a willow wand, graceful, with a mass of spun gold curls surrounding pale eyes and features kissed by innocence.

  ‘Shall we give them a taste?’ Ambrose whispered in French.

  With a smile of anticipation so breathlessly sweet Ambrose thought his heart might shatter to look on it, the youth straightened, took a deep breath, and intoned the beginning of the duet, a playful argument about whether it is preferable to spend a delightful night with a mistress and possibly not even make love, or to proceed quickly to the act and move on, picking the flower and leaving the fruit. Amis, ki est li meulz vaillans: / Ou cil ki gist toute la nuit / Aveuc s’amie a grant desduit / Et sans faire tot son talent, / Ou cil ki tost vient et tost prent / Et quant il ait fait, si s’en fuit, / Ne jue pais a remenant, / Ains keut la flor et lait le fruit? The courteous lady (Matthew) seeks to persuade with descriptions of tenderness, but the man (Ambrose) is too keen on his own argument to listen to hers.

  As Matthew sang the note before Ambrose’s entrance, their eyes met. Sweet Jesu. Ambrose responded in his soft baritone, playing the part of the lusty, sardonic knight. Their voices shaped a dance of persuasion and arrogance, the lady remaining sweet, the man stubborn and certain of his right to pluck and run, until he insisted on cutting her off and having the last word.

  As they began, the room went coldly quiet, but after one lewd comment the rest of the performance was punctuated by bawdy commentary. When a flourish made clear that Ambrose had won the argument, the song was met with shouts, stamps, and whistles, and audible sighs from the ladies. The players took up the tune as they were led out of the hall to their quarters for the night, leaving a promise of more delight on the morrow. Ambrose had gambled on Sir John Neville’s reputation for just the sort of behavior championed by his part in the song, and he had won. God be praised.

  He looked round as the company passed through the kitchen, seeking a potentially cooperative member of the household, someone who might know a place from which he might eavesdrop on the hosts of the gathering.

  They were housed in the undercroft beneath the huge kitchen, sharing the space with casks of wine against the walls and salted meats hanging above them. It had been made clear that should they think to sample the wares, they could forget the generous purse they had been promised. Carl took charge, warning that pilfering would not be tolerated. He was a large man skilled with a knife, and the others, though loudly letting him know the insult cut deep, withdrew to see to their costumes for the morrow. After all, they might well be content with the barrel of ale provided them. And the cold repast. There was no need for his bullying, they muttered amongst themselves.

  Ambrose wondered at how little they knew themselves. After a few tankards of ale they would find the stores irresistible. Anyone would.

  He chose a corner away from the others, removed the velvet hat, and set it aside with his elegant cloak, letting his long white hair flow free. Placing his crwth on his blankets, he dusted it, then drew out the wax tablet on which he had written the lyrics composed for the occasion. Just the words – the tune was in his head and his fingers. He read it through, then set it aside to tune his instrument.

  ‘Might we rehearse?’

  Ambrose thoughtlessly touched the youth’s chin, an affection-ate gesture that he immediately regretted as Matthew pulled away.

  ‘Forgive me. I was startled …’

  Matthew shook his head. ‘I should have announced my presence.’ Placing a small bench near the blanket, the youth sat down, signaling that no more need be said. Ambrose was trusted.

  Blessed be. Sitting cross-legged on the blanket, Ambrose plucked out the primary tune on the crwth. Matthew attended, leaning in toward the sound, nodding, pale face radiant with excitement. Softly vocalizing the notes, then adding more, exploring elaborations, playing with the tune. This was not random play. Every note suited the mode in which Ambrose had composed the piece. Where had the youth learned modes? A religious house? Curious, he tried another tune, in another mode. Frowning, fair hair falling over the pale eyes, and then a smile, and an exploration of notes rising, falling, turning back on themselves – one note out of the new mode quickly corrected with a shake of the head. Ambrose had come to realize the youth’s secret, but was there more, this knowledge, the familiarity with French lyrics? He yearned to ask, but he must say nothing. A conversation might be overheard. Quietly he instructed Matthew in using elaborations only when they enhanced the lyrics. Ah, I see. A lift of the chin, a gesture. That gesture – how was anyone fooled? Yes, Matthew was meant to emphasize the feminine, yet what lad could do it so effortlessly when not performing?

  Ambrose had noted an undercurrent amongst the players, a tension. Carl kept a sharp eye out for Matthew. Yes, the man knew. How long could he hold the illusion cast over his players? It was a wonder he’d managed thus far – for Matthew had clearly sung with them a while.

  Out of the corner of his eye Ambrose noticed two of their fellows rising, ambling over toward them.

  ‘Once through the song, Matthew,’ he said. The lyrics were not as polished as Ambrose would like, but they would do. He counted on the wine flowing at tomorrow’s feast – perfection would be wasted on the mighty. All they wished for were celebrations of the family’s victories, their increasing power.

  Matthew sang the tune with a few flourishes enhancing the piece. Perfect recall of the lyrics. Excellent.

  ‘Well done.’ Ambrose nodded to Matthew. ‘Enough for tonight. Now to sleep, and rest your voice.’ He nodded to the pair who had come forward. ‘All our voices.’

  ‘It is a pleasure to sing with you, Master,’ said the youth.

  ‘And with you.’

  ‘Did you leave any ale for me?’ Matthew asked the two idling nearby.

  ‘Oh aye, and you’ve earned it, pretty lad,’ said one. He nodded at Ambrose. ‘The minstrel’s taken a liking to you. Watch yourself, lad.’ Though they were the danger, not Ambrose.

  He shook his head as if he could not be bothered with such talk and fussed with his crwth, placing it in a soft case and setting it on his pack, then made as if to go out to relieve himself.

  Once outside, seeing no one following, Ambrose doubled back, slipping into a doorway indicated by the kitchen wench who had a weakness for singers. Down the corridor to the curtained alcove, she had said. And there it was. He slipped within and pressed his ear to the boarded-up aperture.

  ‘Ravenser? I do not think you will make much headway with him, Alexander. Thoresby’s nephew – he thought to succeed his uncle. He is not likely to befriend you.’

  Ambrose did not recognize the voice. He bent down to a chink in the boards, but the speaker had his back to him. A dark, well-padded jacket embroidered in bright colors, the seams picked out with silver thread.

  ‘Yes, I had heard. My secretary tells me that Ravenser is well thought of amongst the clergy in the city …’ Such a nasal quality to the archbishop’s voice. No wonder he railed against his destiny. Was it not enough that his appearance lacked pleasing proportions and grace? He was cursed with beady eyes, a wide nose, and a tiny mouth in a broad, jowly face, h
is body thick and graceless. He moved with a ponderous, flat-footed gait. An impressive voice might have done much to mitigate such misfortune, especially paired with a composed delivery, as if all the world were his to rule. A good actor might create a powerful illusion. But Alexander Neville had no such talents.

  ‘A word in the right ear …’ The mystery man spoke in a soothing tone. Here was one who knew how to shape the air round him. ‘You know how it is done. Be at ease. We have not brought you so far only to abandon you.’

  ‘Brought me?’ A bleat that hurt Ambrose’s ears. What horror to have that amplified in the soaring spaces of York Minster. Pray God the man did not speak above a whisper in that sacred place. And might he never attempt to sing … ‘Do you insult me?’

  A dramatic sigh. ‘I remind you that you are nothing without the support of the family, Alexander. Nothing.’ The voice was cold. ‘Do not trip over your pride. Our purpose is to unite the North in protecting the realm against all that threatens.’

  ‘You have made yourself plain. But do not forget, I have the ear of the Holy Father.’

  ‘Mark me, he will soon test you, tug on your strings to see whether you dance to his measure. Remember to whom you owe your allegiance – your kin. And King Edward.’

  ‘He is the Holy Father.’

  ‘And he favors the French. Never forget that. Now. What has your secretary learned of the dean of York Minster?’

  ‘Cardinal Grimaud regrets that he is unable to make the journey north in winter. But we met at Westminster. He seems indifferent. A proud, stubborn man …’ A petulant sigh. ‘God save me from these overbearing clerics.’

  A startled laugh that the man hardly bothered to mask with a cough. ‘And the sub-dean acting as dean in his absences? John of York, I believe.’