A Choir of Crows

by Candace Robb

  ‘I know not. What did you do with Ronan’s cloak?’

  Ambrose gestured to a hook on the wall beside the door. ‘It hangs there.’

  From his seat, it looked to Owen very much like the one he had taken from Ronan’s lodgings. He rose to examine it. The lining was not the same, but from a distance it would seem a match. ‘Where did you go from the minster?’

  ‘I came here. I wanted Dame Magda’s advice about coming to you. And my meeting with Ronan troubled me. I’d sought his help, calling on our old acquaintance, favors I’d done for him. I asked him if he knew whether any Nevilles had arrived. I feared they’d followed me from Cawood. He said he would find out, and, if so, vouch for me – in exchange for my costly cloak.’

  ‘I question the wisdom of offering yourself to the Nevilles.’ Nor did he sense that Ambrose was telling him the full truth about the exchange. Something in his eyes, the smooth explication.

  ‘How would you advise me?’ asked Ambrose.

  ‘I will think on it after you have told me all. It was not you who suggested the exchange?’

  Ambrose looked surprised. ‘To what purpose?’

  ‘Disguise?’

  A mirthless laugh. ‘If they are Neville’s trackers, they will not be so easily fooled.’

  ‘You did not first go to Ronan’s lodgings, switch to a different cloak?’

  ‘Why would I? And how? It has been a long while. I’ve no idea where Ronan lives now. In any case, you see the cloak right there. Why are you asking this? Did Ronan come to you?’ His voice broke on the last question. He was lying. Or holding something back.

  But it seemed someone else had been in Ronan’s room, and in the chest. Owen resumed his seat, more and more unsettled about what he might have missed. ‘Ronan is dead. Murdered.’

  ‘Dead? Deus juva me. But— How? When?’

  Owen looked at Magda. ‘You told him nothing about the deaths?’

  ‘Magda spoke only of trouble,’ she said. ‘Better he heard of it from thee.’

  ‘Deaths?’ Ambrose whispered. ‘More than Ronan?’

  Owen told him of the other two.

  Ambrose, already pale, turned ashen. ‘Mon Dieu, what did I do?’ He looked away, breathing shallowly. ‘Ronan. May God grant him peace.’ He crossed himself with trembling hands. ‘And the other two? Who were they? Oh God help me.’

  Magda rose and went to him, gently guiding his head between his legs. ‘Breathe slowly, three heartbeats in, three out.’

  Hearing a shout from the riverbank, Owen went to the door, opening it just enough to see Hempe arguing with the river boy.

  ‘Bailiff Hempe, is it? Wast thou followed?’

  ‘I am as certain as I can be that I was not. Someone must have told George I’d asked about the tide, damn them.’

  ‘Bailiff?’ Ambrose stumbled up from his seat and caught Owen’s arm. ‘I’ve done nothing.’

  ‘Three deaths in a matter of hours, Ambrose, and your exchange of cloaks with Ronan could be seen as connecting at least his murder to you. I need to talk to Hempe, hear why he has come.’ Owen sensed Magda’s eyes on him. ‘I will do what I can.’

  She nodded and gestured for him to go.

  Once outside, Owen was relieved to see that Hempe appeared to have come alone. He considered whether it was better to have the lad bring him over, or to cross himself. He chose the latter, shouting for the lad, gesturing to him to come alone. Hempe made clear his frustration with a shouted curse, carried away by the rushing river. All but the tone, which was clear.

  ‘I owe you an extra penny for this,’ Owen told the lad as he stepped into the vessel. ‘You have my gratitude for standing up to the bailiff.’

  The gappy grin again. ‘Tuppence extra.’

  ‘Let us see just how many trips we will be making,’ said Owen.

  ‘I trust you, Captain.’

  Owen hoped Hempe did as well. But when he heard what had sent his friend here, he was not at all sure how far the bailiff could go in protecting Ambrose.

  ‘Whoever left the cloak stole a chest of coins and other valuable items the vicar had collected for the archbishop, calling in debts,’ said Hempe.

  Debts, or the takings of a summoner? ‘Who told you this? Master Adam’s clerk?’

  ‘Ronan’s clerk. Beck. He was determined I should know. To his mind you were not sufficiently concerned.’

  ‘He mentioned nothing of valuables when I was there.’

  ‘And the thief and murderer, so he calls him, had switched cloaks there.’

  Owen detected a false tale spun from his interest in the cloak. A reminder to say nothing in the hearing of onlookers. Time to confide in Hempe. He needed his help. ‘If you mean the man with whom Ronan exchanged cloaks in the minster last night, no. He came straight here.’

  ‘In the night? The guards let him out Bootham Bar?’

  ‘The other way, the river way.’

  ‘So he’s a river rat? And you have caught the culprit?’

  ‘I will tell you all about him later. For now, I need you to trust me.’

  ‘Words to chill the heart. What are you about, Owen?’

  Glancing round to make sure the lad was too far away and close to the flood to overhear them, and no one else was about, Owen told Hempe of Ambrose’s mission.

  ‘God’s blood, Owen. Does he – are they Neville’s men we have behind the deanery?’

  ‘The dead reveal little. But if someone was after the treasure Ronan had tucked in that chest in his lodgings, his death might have nothing to do with Ambrose.’

  Hempe grunted. ‘You might be right. But that cursed servant will have told all in the Bedern that Ambrose Coates is a thief and a murderer.’

  ‘I know. I am curious why Beck told me nothing of this.’

  ‘Had he just heard from you of Ronan’s death?’

  ‘No. The news had spread through the Bedern before we arrived. You say the valuables in Ronan’s possession were payments for debts? Alexander Neville was in the business of loaning money?’

  ‘Odd, isn’t it? When he was a prebend, and never in the city himself. He spent most of his time at the papal court, at least that is what I recall.’

  ‘He did.’ Owen thought this tale very odd indeed. ‘Was it Neville’s practice, or had his vicar found a cunning scheme for profit?’

  ‘I doubt you will find anyone willing to answer that.’ Facing the river, Hempe nodded in that direction. ‘Dame Magda is beckoning us to cross over.’

  ‘Before we join her, I need to know how you will fall on this, George.’

  ‘With the minster chapter, the mayor, council, and all the citizens desperate to keep the peace for the spectacle of Neville’s enthronement, I must consider …’ Hempe studied his muddy boots, muttering an oath. ‘I had hoped we might be snowbound, delaying all the travelers, but with this melt …’ He met Owen’s gaze with a frustrated grimace. ‘Am I bound to keep secret Ambrose’s mission?’

  ‘You know the answer to that, George. His Grace has set me to watch the powerful families here in the North. Were they to know what Ambrose knows …’

  ‘We would have chaos as they all tried to catch the man so they might use him to gain influence with the prince.’ Hempe cursed.

  Feeling the weight of his new responsibilities, Owen realized what he must do. ‘That is half of it. I am the prince’s spy, but I am also captain of York with a duty to protect the city. To that end I must shield Ambrose from those who would condemn him so they might say all is well. Despite Magda’s testimony that he was here. The murderer – or murderers – would still be free to kill again.’

  ‘You order me to protect him?’

  ‘I would prefer you agreed that we must protect him against those who would use him for their own ends. We might send him to safety on a barge, or look the other way while he crosses to the south bank, but with an escort, for the prince needs him. But who would escort him? And where?’

  Hempe was shaking his head. ‘I will not agree to
send him away, not without knowing for certain he is innocent. You must keep him here in the city. Lock him away somewhere so that he is out of reach, but accessible to us should we discover he is guilty. If that is what you meant, I agree.’

  Owen put his hand on his shoulder. ‘Thank you.’ He called to the lad to ferry them over to Magda.

  Averting his eyes from the upside-down dragon – ‘by the rood, I’d swear it’s about to swoop down and toss me in the flood’ – George Hempe tucked himself through Magda’s doorway, greeting her with his thanks for the honor. Owen could not help but wonder whether the profuse thanks were for the benefit of the dragon more so than for Magda. But George was welcomed with warmth. Magda knew his worth.

  He seemed confused by the slight, dark-haired man who softly greeted him. ‘I was expecting Ambrose Coates.’

  ‘I am he.’

  ‘Your long white hair …’

  ‘Who was it who saw me?’ Ambrose asked.

  ‘Brother Michaelo and the chancellor, Master Thomas,’ said Owen.

  ‘And the hair?’ asked Hempe.

  ‘Dame Magda thought it best to change his appearance.’

  ‘Fooled me.’ Hempe grinned. ‘We have not met, Ambrose, though I remember your voice, and your playing.’ He bobbed his head and took the seat Magda indicated. ‘The captain has told me of your reasons for coming to York, and the tale you tell of your movements since meeting the vicar in the minster. Ronan’s clerk tells a different story. He claims you returned to Ronan’s room, switched cloaks, and stole money and jewels hidden in the same chest in which you found the replacement cloak.’

  ‘He is wrong. The cloak you see there on the hook is the one Ronan traded with me. May he rest in God’s grace.’ Ambrose crossed himself, cleared his throat. ‘This clerk – does he claim to have witnessed me entering the lodging?’

  ‘No,’ said Hempe. ‘He concluded it from the cloak on the bed, the missing items.’

  ‘So it might have been anyone,’ said Owen. ‘And it’s possible that it was for the treasure that Ronan was murdered, rather than a mistaken attack on a man wearing Ambrose’s magnificent cloak. You said earlier that you and Ronan were friends when you lived here?’

  ‘Acquaintances. He knew someone who sold pieces of instruments I used to repair my own.’

  ‘An honest source?’ Hempe asked.

  ‘For my sins, I did not care to ask,’ said Ambrose. ‘In exchange, I arranged his attendance at a few private performances. As my aide.’

  ‘He enjoyed music?’ asked Hempe.

  ‘As I said, I did not ask.’

  Owen and Hempe exchanged a look. Another curious detail about the dead man.

  ‘You should know that I have been followed all along, at least since Calais,’ said Ambrose. ‘But until now, nothing happened. Whoever it was never took the opportunity to toss me into the sea or over a cliff. Yet so persistent. I could not lose him. Or perhaps them. And now, since Cawood – I am sure another man, or group of men, followed us from there. My companion was aware of them as well, asking me what sort of trouble I was in.’

  ‘And this woman,’ said Hempe, ‘what do you know of her?’

  ‘Very little.’

  ‘Who are these men we found?’ asked Hempe.

  Ambrose lifted his arms as if to say, Who, indeed? But there was concern in his expression. ‘Neville’s perhaps? Or he who has followed me since France. It might be anyone, for anything. I do not know. I swear to you I do not.’

  ‘But you sought Ronan’s help with Neville’s men,’ said Owen.

  Did he hesitate before saying yes? ‘I thought I might have been caught spying at Cawood. And the family might think it best to silence me elsewhere. Ronan agreed it was likely, and, as I told you, Owen, he chose my cloak as a reasonable payment for his help. He would talk to them.’

  ‘So they are in York?’ Owen asked.

  ‘He did not say, and I was in no position to question his intentions.’ A deep breath. Ambrose wiped his eyes. ‘God forgive me.’

  ‘You know nothing of the woman’s background? No one had shown interest?’ asked Hempe.

  ‘There was a man. At Cawood. He stared at her and no one else as we performed. Someone’s retainer, far back in the shadows, but the eyes so keen I felt them as we stood together singing. I searched the crowd and found him. It was so at both performances.’

  ‘Was she ever out of your sight?’

  ‘While I arranged for a spy hole, and while I sat there listening, yes, of course. Are you thinking she might have met this man? That he— Perhaps I should see the bodies.’

  ‘Why was this runaway in your company?’ Hempe asked Ambrose.

  ‘Someone had discovered the truth of her, and meant to take his pleasure,’ said Ambrose.

  ‘Vile,’ Hempe growled.

  ‘The question before us is how to protect you while we search for the murderer. Or murderers,’ said Owen.

  ‘More than one?’ asked Ambrose.

  ‘Possibly,’ said Owen, not caring to elaborate.

  ‘I could leave the city,’ said Ambrose.

  ‘No, that I cannot permit,’ said Hempe. ‘I propose the jail of the archbishop’s palace. It is not in use at present.’

  Owen began to point out that it was a Neville property, but Magda interrupted. ‘Who will cook for him? Keep him in fuel for a fire?’ It was the first time she had spoken.

  ‘Do you have a better idea?’ Hempe snapped, reddening as he remembered himself. A man so in awe of the Riverwoman treating her so … He made a conciliatory gesture.

  Magda ignored it. ‘Thou hast a room in thy house for a boarder. Empty since Old Nat died.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Hempe frowned. ‘Of course, Lotta told me that you had brought Old Nat a soothing tisane and a rub for his joints. But I am not a jailer.’

  ‘Nor is Minstrel a murderer. He was with Magda when the men died. Wouldst thou mistreat an innocent man?’

  ‘Dame Magda—’ Hempe implored.

  ‘Can you pay your way, Ambrose?’ Owen asked.

  ‘I would pay you well for the trouble, bailiff,’ said Ambrose.

  Hempe’s expression softened. ‘Pay. I had not thought— So we would consider you a boarder?’

  ‘A boarder who does not venture forth except in the company of a few of our men, armed,’ said Owen. ‘It means he cannot buy his meals at the market stalls, nor take his wash to a laundress.’

  ‘Lotta enjoys cooking for an appreciative eater,’ said Hempe, considering. ‘And she could arrange for the laundering. You must work out with my wife when you might make music so as not to disturb her.’

  Ambrose gave a little bow. ‘Of course.’

  ‘My men Alfred and Stephen can take shifts watching the house,’ said Owen.

  Hempe looked from him to Magda. ‘Had the two of you planned this?’

  Owen assured him they had not.

  ‘Bird-eye does not know Lotta as Magda does. She will welcome the challenge.’

  ‘I believe you are right about my Lotta.’ Slapping his thighs, Hempe suggested they depart at once.

  SIX

  Haunted Souls

  The onset of winter brought a crush of folk to the apothecary seeking remedies for coughs, fever, earaches, headaches, stomach upsets, catarrh, as well as injuries from falls and frozen fingers and toes. Lucie and Jasper had no time for those who came for gossip about the deaths, requesting them to step aside so that those with ailing folk at home might come forward. The physicks contained any number of ingredients, and varied depending on the sufferer’s age, a history of certain types of illnesses, weak lungs … Lucie and Jasper did not rush past the details, taking time with each customer. By mid-morning they had whittled down the line so that only one person still waited while another was served, affording Lucie the time to retreat into the workshop and mix more of the physicks most in demand – cough elixirs, headache powders, and aromatic oils to clear stuffy noses. Her hands were covered in oils and sap – b
onewort, lichen, sneezewort, bugle, coltsfoot, feltwort, sweet marjoram, garlic, horehound, rosemary – always rosemary. To Lucie it was the mother of winter physicks. It was also a tonic for the voice. Something their guest might appreciate.

  All morning Lucie half expected someone to rush into the shop demanding to see their guest. What would they call her? Or would they think her a lad? Who would she be to them? How long had they searched for her? To go about in such a guise, a wandering minstrel … From what or whom had she fled?

  Lucie glanced up from her work and her runaway thoughts to find a pair of wise blue eyes observing her.

  ‘Hast thou time for Magda?’

  She had not noticed the healer’s entrance, never felt the draft as she opened the rear door. Yet Magda had already removed her boots, her bare, calloused feet curled round the supporting post at the bottom of the stool on which she perched. How long had she watched?

  ‘Would you like to wait for me in the kitchen?’ Lucie asked. ‘I just need to tidy up and take these to Jasper in the shop.’

  ‘A cup of ale and a moment by the kitchen fire would be most welcome.’ The healer was wrapped in a cloak of skins – rabbit, squirrel, weasel, whatever she had found in the forest, or caught for food. Nothing went to waste. Her wrinkled face was rosy with the cold. Yet she had removed her boots. ‘Do not be long. Magda has much to tell thee of her guest, now the guest of Lotta Hempe. Ambrose Coates.’

  So it was the Ambrose Lucie knew. ‘He came to you? He is safe? And now with the Hempes?’

  Magda’s wrinkles deepened with her teasing grin. ‘Come along soon.’ She slipped off the stool and tucked her feet in the fur-lined boots with a feline litheness. ‘Do not tarry!’ And she was gone.

  Lucie made quick work of cleaning up and taking her preparations into the shop.

  ‘Shut the shop for a while and join me in the kitchen. Magda has news.’

  ‘The shop needs straightening and a good sweep,’ said Jasper, though it was clear he wanted to hear what Magda had to say.

  ‘Time enough for all that. Magda will be quick with the news. And you’ve seen to the daylight customers. The next influx will be those heading home from work as the light fades.’