A Choir of Crows

by Candace Robb

  ‘Shall I spy on her?’

  ‘No, my love. She is a guest in our home and deserves our respect.’

  Gwen rose on her toes and spun around. ‘I could dance for her and she might talk to me to keep me with her.’

  Fighting a smile, Owen pretended to frown as he considered. ‘You might ask Alisoun whether in her opinion such a dance would be soothing for our guest when she wakes.’ He believed he knew what Alisoun would say to that. He kissed her. ‘And now I must be away.’ He thanked Kate for the food, and for giving Gwen a task.

  Kate glanced up from her work. ‘She lifts my— Brother Michaelo! I did not see you step in.’

  The monk stood in the doorway with a thoughtful expression. ‘I believe she was singing the beginning of the hours, Captain.’ He chanted the entire phrase. ‘I know how difficult it is to complete one’s daily prayers when not in community.’

  ‘And while deep in a fever sleep,’ said Owen, plucking his cloak from the hook.

  Michaelo touched his arm. ‘Fever? Not—’

  ‘No. Not pestilence.’

  Michaelo crossed himself.

  In the garden, Owen turned toward the gate that led into the York Tavern yard. ‘Before Stonegate, Tucker’s home. I will explain why as we walk.’

  ‘I was correct about the woman,’ Michaelo said softly.

  ‘It would appear so.’

  ‘I become indispensable.’

  ‘Insufferable.’

  Michaelo sniffed.

  After Gwen danced down the steps, Alisoun stood in the doorway of the nursery listening to the stranger’s singing. The child was right, this was music one heard in church, not out on the streets or in taverns. A voice so strong, so clear … Peering back into the nursery to make sure both Hugh and Emma slept, she filled a cup from a jug of water and knocked on the shut door.

  ‘Mistress, are you awake? Would you care for some water?’

  The singing paused. A whispered exclamation Alisoun could not make out. Then silence.

  Alisoun knocked once more. ‘Do not be afraid. You are in a safe place.’

  ‘There are bars on the window.’

  ‘Protection for a beloved elder who grew confused before her death.’

  Movement, then a rustling at the door. ‘I am locked in?’

  Alisoun moved the wood stop installed for Dame Philippa. ‘Try again.’ She stepped aside as the door swung outward.

  ‘Oh.’ Pale eyes peered out from a damp tumble of curls fairer than Jasper’s. The only color on the woman’s ivory skin was two spots of red on her cheeks. Her borrowed smock hung limp with sweat over a skinny frame, stopping above knobby ankles. ‘I am thirsty.’

  The fiddler lived in a small cottage behind a more substantial home, across a garden that received so little light it was still blanketed in snow except for the pathway to the door, which was melting around icy footprints that would take more time to soften. Footprints circled the cottage as well. Owen took a moment to study the multiple tracks ringing the building, one set going out to a woodpile behind the house, the others staying close. A widening in the track suggested that someone had stood for a while at the shuttered window beside the door. He was able to make out the prints of at last two different pairs of boots, one longer and wider than the other. Fewer prints than the smaller man. The front door hung on one hinge. When Owen knocked, Magda called out that he should lift the right corner of the door in order to enter.

  He stepped into a warm room with fresh rushes on the floor, well-scrubbed stones surrounding the central fire, a pair of box beds in opposite corners, a ladder rising up into the rafters. Spare but inviting. After Brother Michaelo had passed through, Owen closed the door.

  Tucker lay face down on a trestle table near the fire. Owen thought of his daughter’s kneading as Judith, a woman of some strength, pressed and pummeled her husband’s back under Magda’s watchful eyes.

  ‘Might I interrupt?’

  ‘Help him turn and sit up,’ said Magda, nodding with satisfaction as the man was able to walk to a chair with Owen’s assistance.

  Out of breath, but grateful, Tucker thanked Magda. ‘Bless you.’

  Judith wiped her eyes with her apron and greeted Owen and Michaelo. ‘There was no need to bring a priest, Captain. Tucker is not in danger of death.’

  ‘I am the captain’s secretary, not a priest,’ said Brother Michaelo, taking a seat.

  With a curt nod, she turned her attention to the pot over the fire.

  Magda drew a blanket round Tucker’s bare torso. ‘Not too long,’ she warned Owen. She held his eye for a moment and whispered, ‘Much not said.’

  He gave a little nod. ‘I am grateful you were able to come to him so soon, so that he is able to answer my questions while the ordeal is fresh to him.’ He turned to Tucker. ‘Who attacked you?’

  ‘I don’t know him, Captain, but I have seen him before, watching the house. One of several who’ve been sniffing around. But they have never trespassed farther than the garden.’

  ‘None tried to talk to Ambrose?’

  ‘Not that I saw.’

  ‘Your old friend brought this trouble,’ Judith muttered.

  ‘He did,’ said Tucker. ‘But he warned me there might be someone following him.’

  Judith hit the pot with her spoon. ‘That is the first I have heard of it, husband.’

  ‘How could I refuse him shelter? A friend is a friend in all ways for all days.’

  ‘That is a child’s song, you dunderhead.’ Judith wiped her eyes and stabbed at the stew.

  Magda crossed the room and put an arm round Judith, spoke in her ear. The woman seemed to calm.

  ‘She will not soon forgive me,’ said Tucker.

  Owen thought it likely Judith’s anger masked her fear for her husband, but he said nothing of that, pulling up a stool so he and the injured man might talk quietly. ‘Tell me all you can about your intruder.’

  ‘I found him tossing stuff about and challenged him. He turned on me and cursed me as he struck.’

  ‘You had gone out?’

  A nod that caused him to wince and touch his back. ‘Carrying in wood for the fire. So quick he’d come in, gone straight to the bed over there.’ He began to nod, then said, ‘One to my right, where Ambrose slept. He stank of horses and sweat, but his clothes were well made. Wore a hat covering his hair, if he had aught.’

  ‘Was your attacker alone?’

  ‘Yes, God be thanked.’ He began to move his hand, perhaps to cross himself, but stopped. Noticing how Tucker trembled, Owen hurried on with his questions.

  ‘Could you tell anything of him by his speech?’

  ‘From across the sea. I know a Frenchman when I hear one.’

  Impossible to know whether either of the corpses were French. Owen thought he might take a closer look at their clothing. ‘He was searching through Ambrose’s things?’

  ‘That I could not say, for Judith had put what Ambrose and the lad had left in that bed, so we might use the other again.’

  ‘Do you know what was in those packs? Have you looked?’

  ‘Ambrose promised to pay us, but left without doing so, and once the rumor spread that he’d murdered the cleric and stolen his treasure, well—’

  ‘What did you find?’

  ‘Naught but their traveling kits – wooden spoons and cups, combs, bits of clothing, nothing worth stealing. Broken paternoster beads, coral and jet. A few pence in coin, no more.’ Tucker’s voice trembled – the pain? Or a lie?

  ‘No letters of passage?’

  ‘Nothing like that.’

  ‘They both left their packs?’ A nod. ‘Did you expect them to return?’

  ‘Ambrose said he might be called away with little warning and asked if I would send his pack on to Dame Magda if he did not return in a day. But he meant for the youth to stay. He’d send the money, he said, and word of where to take the youth.’

  Owen glanced over at Magda, who raised a brow at that. So Tucker had known
Ambrose meant to go to Magda, or at least entrusted his things to her. Had he informed the one who’d drowned?

  ‘Yet his companion left as well,’ said Owen.

  ‘Matthew went out to the midden after Ambrose left and didn’t return. I hear he spent the night in the chapter house. And now he’s with you?’ He glanced over at his wife. ‘Or she. Judith said—’

  ‘Hush, husband!’

  ‘Yes. Our guest now. Have either of you told anyone about Matthew and your suspicion?’ Owen asked.

  Bowing his head, Tucker shook it. ‘No.’

  ‘Nor I,’ said Judith. ‘The youth had a reason for so hiding.’

  ‘Good. Say nothing to anyone for now,’ he said, looking first at Tucker, then Judith. They both swore they would keep the secret. The truth would be out in time, but it might help to keep people guessing for now. ‘Nothing in the pack to suggest this? That the intruder might have seen? Or taken? Did he take anything?’

  ‘No,’ said Judith. ‘I checked. The prayer beads might be more a woman’s style, but many men like a jeweled trinket.’

  ‘Did your intruder ask after either of them?’

  Tucker snorted. ‘He was not so polite as that.’

  ‘You could understand him sufficiently to be certain?’

  ‘A curse is clear in any tongue, Captain. He said no more.’

  ‘Might he have been a Fleming?’ Michaelo asked.

  ‘Nay, I know the weavers. They don’t speak as he did.’

  Michaelo was thinking of Ambrose’s former lover, Martin Wirthir, spy, assassin, pirate. ‘Did you injure him?’ Owen asked.

  ‘Never had the chance.’

  ‘Did he seem hampered in his movement in any way? A previous injury?’ Owen asked. ‘Did he use both arms?’ Martin was missing a hand.

  ‘He came on me so fast I couldn’t say, Captain.’

  Owen thanked Tucker and wished him swift healing. ‘I will take their packs,’ he said as he rose. Magda went to fetch them while Owen helped Tucker move back to the table.

  ‘Good riddance to the both of them,’ Judith muttered as she wiped her sweaty forehead with her apron and returned to the table, assisting Owen in easing her husband down and rolling him back onto his stomach.

  Magda resumed her instructions as Owen lifted the door to swing it open.

  The twins stood just outside, stamping their feet and hugging themselves to keep warm.

  ‘How might we serve you, Captain?’ asked Rose.

  He gave them the packs to leave at his home. ‘I will be on Stonegate, in and out of the shops. Catch me there, stay without, observe who is too curious.’

  ‘Our pleasure!’ said Rob as he snatched the packs and headed off.

  ‘Can he still fiddle?’ Rose asked, nodding back toward Tucker’s house.

  ‘Dame Magda will see that he is able.’

  ‘Good,’ said the girl. ‘Dame Judith counts on that money to keep them in food.’

  ‘He makes so little at the stable?’

  ‘He’s working off a debt there.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘I listen.’

  So Tucker needed money. ‘Glad to have you and Rob on my side.’

  Rose grinned and ran off after her twin, stopping once as her right foot stepped out of its boot, jamming it back on, hurrying on. Owen would see that the city paid them well so they might have boots to fit.

  Owen stepped out of the goldsmith’s shop on the corner of Stonegate and Petergate. It was late afternoon, growing colder as the light faded, but it would be a still night, no icy wind. Melting snow puddled on the street and dripped from the eaves. Time to let the tradespeople go home for the evening. He pulled his cloak round him and glanced back toward his own home. No, not yet.

  ‘I want a closer look at the dead men’s clothing,’ he told Michaelo. ‘You are free to go about your evening work in the minster yard.’

  ‘I will complete the day with you, Captain.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  They made their way to the shed behind the deanery. In the fading light Owen could just pick out a well-worn path circling the small building, the snow long gone. It was impossible to know how many had been lurking.

  ‘Who goes there?’ Alfred called from within in his most threatening voice.

  ‘Archer, with Brother Michaelo.’

  The door opened, and Alfred bowed them in. ‘Bloody cold in here.’ Of course a brazier was out of the question. The corpses were best kept cold.

  ‘All the tracks outside – have you met any of the visitors?’

  ‘A few vicars and their clerks who thought Ronan was here. Others are gone before I can identify them. The clerk Edwin thought he might have seen this one before.’ He nodded to the one who’d drowned. ‘He didn’t want to say, but I caught his look.’

  ‘That is helpful. Did he say more?’

  ‘No. Could not think where or when, or name companions.’

  Edwin having worked for Alexander Neville, it might be significant.

  ‘And you? What have you learned, Captain?’

  Owen told him of Tucker’s intruder, and his visits to the gold- and silversmiths, as well as the pewterers along Stonegate. Only one had made himself unavailable, Will Farfield. He heard from the others that Will had sent his family away to avoid the pestilence in the city. Foolish man, sending them south to his wife’s parents where the sickness took one of his daughters. None had any dealing with Ronan, a few had with Neville, but they all expressed disgust at the thought of paying him to move anything along in the papal court. Difficult to judge how many were lying, but most seemed eager to prove to Owen they had nothing to hide, keen to see the items and identify the owners. None had noticed a Frenchman being a particular nuisance, though there were many strangers about, organizing lodgings for the enthronement celebration. From all the great Northern houses, and a few farther afield.

  The chill already penetrated Owen’s cloak. Alfred blew on his gloved hands and wiggled one foot at a time, as if testing for feeling. His usually pale face was red and chapped with the cold.

  ‘Go home,’ said Owen. ‘Rest. Another guard should be here soon. For the nonce, I have much to think about and the quiet will serve me.’

  ‘No, Captain, I am fine. It was just last night you watched over your son Hugh. You need the rest.’

  But when Owen insisted, Alfred shrugged and moved toward the door. Where he stopped, listening.

  Owen heard it as well. A shout and a curse, the latter a young woman’s voice.

  Throwing open the door, Alfred stood back in amazement as young Rob and Rose escorted a man into the shed.

  ‘He’s been too curious for my taste,’ said Rose.

  ‘We thought it best to introduce you, Captain,’ said Rob.

  Bald and barrel-chested, the man was dressed much like the unknown corpses lying on the slab, especially the drowned one. ‘Cursed street rats. Who do they think they are?’

  ‘My watchers,’ said Owen. He nodded to the twins. ‘Well done. You can release him now.’

  The man staggered a moment as the two let go, but caught his balance and made a show of brushing off his cloak and straightening the padded jacket beneath.

  ‘You must be Captain Owen Archer,’ he said, struggling to regain his dignity. ‘I have heard much about you.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘I’m called Pit.’

  ‘Not a Christian name.’

  ‘It’s what I’m called.’

  ‘A stranger in York?’

  ‘I am. I came here—’ He glanced at Alfred, Michaelo, and the twins.

  ‘Wait outside,’ Owen told Alfred and the twins. ‘We will not be long. Brother Michaelo stays.’

  Alfred bobbed his head and exited with Rob and Rose.

  ‘You carry yourself like a lordling,’ said Pit. ‘Or a commander.’

  Owen ignored him. ‘You were explaining what brought you to the city.’

  ‘I was ordered to follow t
wo minstrels who performed for my master and then slipped away.’

  A surprising admission. But then Pit did not know how much Owen knew. ‘I see. Is your master Sir John Neville or His Grace Alexander Neville, Archbishop of York?’

  He liked the man’s discomfited surprise, how he hesitated before responding. ‘I prefer not to say.’

  ‘Perhaps after a night in the castle jail you will feel otherwise.’

  Pit glanced round as if sizing up his chance of escape. Owen grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back.

  ‘God’s blood!’ Pit cried. ‘I’ve done nothing to warrant this. Or your threat.’

  ‘You would not tell me if you had,’ said Owen. ‘Whom do you serve?’ A yank.

  Pit cursed. ‘Sir John Neville.’

  ‘Why is he interested in the minstrels?’

  ‘He thinks them spies.’

  ‘And your orders?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  Yet he was confessing to Owen. ‘Why are you here now? Did you suspect the men lying on those slabs were the minstrels?’

  ‘No. I come to claim my friend.’

  ‘Which one might he be?’ Owen released him.

  Nursing his arm, Pit moved to the drowned man, the one Edwin might have recognized. One of Neville’s men. That made sense.

  ‘Gareth was following one of the minstrels, the older man. We were fools to move about without lanterns in the winter dark.’

  ‘You say he was following one of the minstrels. Where were you?’

  ‘We’d argued about which one to follow. I tracked one to the chancellor’s house. As he entered and took off his hat I saw he might be wearing the cloak, but he was balding.’ A deepening frown. ‘Gareth chose the other for the way he walked.’ His voice had gone gruff.

  ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘Went looking for the other minstrel, the younger one. He’d gone into the minster, but I thought by then he might have returned to his lodgings. No sign of him. Downed a few tankards at an alehouse and stumbled to my bed. Gareth still wasn’t back when I woke. Thought he might be waiting for me in the minster yard. Didn’t really think he’d be so daft but I had to do something. Someone was pacing back and forth in front of the chancellor’s house.’

  ‘Could you identify him?’