A Choir of Crows

by Candace Robb

  ‘No. Still dark. And snowing.’

  ‘How did you know it wasn’t Gareth?’

  ‘Didn’t move like him. So I gave up. Reached the hovels on the north side when I heard a cry. Ran back.’

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘I heard a shout up above, on the chapter-house roof, I thought. Sounded like a scuffle. Then a sound nearer to hand, where the one had paced. Moved toward it and a body hit the ground. Just missed me. God help him.’ A pause. Cleared his throat. ‘Thought I’d best disappear or I’d be caught up in it.’

  ‘Would you recognize the voice calling from the roof?’

  ‘Shouts are shouts. I could see nothing but shadowy shapes. Even the man who fell, could not really see him. Just the snow darkening.’ He glanced over at the corpse and crossed himself. ‘Is that him?’

  ‘It is. Have you seen him before?’

  A nervous swallow, a shake of the head.

  ‘Take a close look.’

  He did so, lingering on the ruined face. ‘No.’

  Owen sensed a lie. ‘You were to follow the two minstrels and then what?’

  ‘See who they met.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My lord did not say. Only to return to report where they are, who took them in.’

  ‘Not kill them?’

  The man crossed his arms over his chest and averted his eyes.

  ‘They lodged with Tucker for several days,’ said Owen. ‘Yet you stayed.’

  ‘An old friend who would take him in for some coin. But he was not what drew them to York. I reckoned the old one, his clothing so fine, he would have important friends. I waited for him to go to them. Find out who might have sent him spying on my lord.’

  ‘That was why you followed him last night.’

  ‘Lost him at the minster. Did someone else make my mistake? Was the murdered vicar the one wearing the fine cloak? It’s what I thought I saw. A glimmer of the white lining when he turned.’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘Someone meant to kill the old minstrel and killed a vicar?’

  ‘It would seem,’ said Owen, seeing no need to provide more information.

  ‘Poor fool. I hear the old minstrel went to the Riverwoman, so Gareth must have been on the right path when the river took him.’ Cleared his throat again. ‘They say the Riverwoman has power. Did she know Gareth was coming and bade the river stop him?’ He crossed himself.

  Magda would enjoy that tale. ‘And if the old minstrel did meet with someone of importance to your lord, what then?’

  ‘I would tell Sir John.’

  ‘No more.’

  Silence.

  As Owen had thought. ‘Have a moment with Gareth, but he stays in my custody until we know what happened here.’

  ‘My lord will not like that.’

  ‘What would you do with him? Drag him back to Cawood? Pay for his burial?’

  ‘Don’t know. I’d not thought so far.’

  He pretended to be far simpler than he was. Owen stepped away while he considered what to do with Pit. He’d been sent to silence a pair of spies. And he’d failed. Sir John would not take that kindly. Seemed to Owen that Pit had two choices – either go to his lord, confess his failure, and accept whatever insult his lord felt appropriate, or disappear. Yet now that he was in Owen’s hands he confessed his mission – a third option? Submit to Owen, seek his protection? Perhaps, but he was clearly lying about much, or at least holding back information. He either underestimated Owen or – what? He thought to hold onto something with which he might bargain?

  When Pit turned from his orisons Owen kicked the door and called out to Alfred to come within, he had a man to escort to the castle.

  ‘I told you what I know!’ Pit protested as Alfred stepped in, placing a hand on his shoulder and standing in the way of his escape.

  ‘Do you count me such a fool as to set you free to finish your work?’ Owen told Rose and Rob to wait there until someone relieved them.

  ‘Shall I come?’ Michaelo asked.

  ‘I have no time to spend with this liar this evening. If you would send a messenger to Hempe’s home in case he’s there, tell him to meet us at the castle. Then go about your other business.’

  Michaelo bowed and folded up his wax tablet. Rising, he whispered, ‘May God watch over you.’

  EIGHT

  Sandrine

  Lighting a second lamp to brighten the entrance of the apothecary, Lucie asked again whether Jasper would like her to stay. Such a long day. He moved slowly, and his hands were not as steady as usual. ‘Grinding stones,’ he said when she noted it. ‘You need the rest, Ma. I will close the shop during the next lull.’

  Lucie doubted he would turn anyone away who caught him shutting the door, but she thanked him, kissed his cheek, and withdrew to the workroom. Though she was eager to cross the garden and check that all was well with the children, she took the time to tidy the workspace. Her legs ached from hours of standing, and her arms complained as she lifted a heavy jar to a shelf above her head. But it was the satisfying weariness at the end of a busy day, not the strained, frightened, agonized weariness of the fortnight past, as she sat vigil with her feverish babies. She bowed her head at the memory, feeling again the terror, seeing the haunted look in Owen’s eye as she relieved him, having tossed and turned and pretended to believe she might sleep. She depended on her husband’s quiet strength. It anchored her. But even that eluded her when their children were threatened by disease, the invisible enemy he could not vanquish.

  Lucie removed her apron and blew out all but one lamp. Stepping out into the garden she braced herself against a damp wind that shook the remaining snow from the branches above and created a second snowfall, brightening the twilight, stinging her skin. Glancing up at the heavens she watched tendrils of cloud and mist dance beneath the early evening star field. The moment of peace seemed a benediction. She glanced up as someone entered the garden through the gate from the York Tavern yard.

  ‘Dame Lucie.’

  ‘Alisoun?’ Lucie caught herself before asking who was with the children. Alisoun was sensitive to any suggestion of irresponsibility.

  ‘I went to the Swann home. I thought I should be the one to ask Dame Muriel whether Magda might take my place at her lying-in.’ The crackle in Alisoun’s voice suggested the conversation had been challenging.

  ‘She protested?’

  ‘At first. But when I spoke of your guest, the fever …’

  Lucie’s heart sank. Had Alisoun revealed their guest’s sex? ‘Did you mention that the he is a she?’

  ‘No. I thought that unwise, with Crispin Poole always about. Neville’s man.’ Alisoun spoke with quiet assurance, no bristling at a perceived slight. Maturing by leaps and bounds of late, which gladdened Lucie’s heart. She had believed in the young woman, but at times she had worried about her reactive nature.

  Which deepened Lucie’s remorse for doubting Alisoun’s discretion. ‘Crispin is there often?’ she asked.

  ‘According to the cook he dines there daily, and often returns in the evening.’

  ‘A complaint?’

  ‘No. He boasted of it. A household needs a man, especially a household with an infant. And all say Crispin makes no secret of hoping to wed Dame Muriel as soon as she agrees to put aside her mourning.’

  ‘Does she seem ready for Magda?’

  ‘No. The child is strong, punching and kicking, but not ready to greet the world.’ A soft laugh. ‘Dame Muriel believes it is a girl, for what boy would put such effort in movement that will not be seen and praised.’

  Lucie laughed. ‘What a miracle that she has such joy.’ Muriel had suffered the triple loss of her husband, his father, and her own brother less than two months earlier. Violent deaths. At the time, all had feared Muriel, who had waited years to conceive, would lose the child. ‘Truly a miracle.’

  ‘She says some find offense in her joy.’

  ‘Her family?’

  ‘Her brother’s
widow.’

  ‘One can forgive her.’ Lucie shivered. ‘Shall we go in? I enjoyed the first moments out here, but now I am chilled to the bone.’

  Alisoun looped her hand through Lucie’s arm as they hurried to the house. ‘I spoke to our guest,’ she said. ‘Gave her water. She asked for cloth, thread, needle to add some length to the gown you left for her. She sewed for a while, but when Magda went in to speak with her she had fallen asleep.’

  ‘Did she tell you anything about herself? Her name?’

  ‘She calls herself Sandrine, but when I called out to her she did not respond at once. And something about the way she gave it up – it is not her name. She asked after Ambrose, said he has been good to her. Oh, and she is fasting for her sins.’

  ‘Do you think she has run away from a nunnery?’

  ‘I would not know how to tell.’ Alisoun reached out and opened the kitchen door.

  Five pairs of eyes watched them enter. Magda, holding Emma on her lap, was telling a tale of a hawk riding the wind over the moors to Gwen and Hugh, who sat bundled in blankets on the settle by the fire. Kate left the pot she had been tending to offer help with their cloaks and boots.

  ‘What is this?’ Lucie asked.

  ‘Mistress Sandrine cried out in her sleep, frightening the little ones,’ said Kate. ‘So Dame Magda brought them down here. A warm, welcoming kitchen with hot drinks and a few tales soon calmed them.’

  ‘Did you hear her cry out?’

  ‘No. Too far away, I think. But Gwen asked me if her Da knew that woman killed a man.’

  Killed a man. Poor Gwen. A house of healing was no place for such fears to arise. Lucie closed her eyes and whispered a Hail Mary, then joined Magda and the children.

  ‘Dame Magda nursed a fox cub,’ Hugh lisped through the space where a baby tooth had recently fallen out.

  ‘And a wounded eagle,’ said Gwen. ‘Come. Sit and hear her stories.’

  ‘I cannot at the moment, my love,’ said Lucie. She kissed each child in turn, then signaled to Alisoun to take over while she talked to Magda.

  Lifting Emma from Magda’s arms, Alisoun began to sing a silly tune the children loved. As Lucie led Magda out into the hall Gwen and Hugh joined in.

  ‘So our guest is disruptive despite the medicine?’

  ‘She refuses all food and drink,’ said Magda. ‘To appease her god, or so she says. Penance.’

  ‘Penance for what?’

  ‘She cried to her god for forgiveness, she had not meant to kill him.’ Magda held Lucie in her keen gaze. ‘A confession? Or an overwrought sense of remorse for an injury to the heart? That is for thee to discover.’

  ‘I will go to her. If she wishes to stay, she must accept our healing drafts.’

  Magda pressed Lucie’s shoulder. ‘Thou canst see that thy children are out of danger. Since morning Hugh has gained strength.’

  He did look and sound so much more himself. ‘I do see it. Yet too much excitement …’

  ‘Magda agrees. Whether or not she has taken a life, thy family needs rest. Peace. If she will not abide by thy rules, she cannot stay.’

  But where to send her? In a city soon to be crowded with visitors, and Owen doubtless wanting to keep watch on her, where might Sandrine go? Perhaps she might trade places with Ambrose. Or – as Lucie reached the landing she thought of the appropriate lodging for Sandrine. Though she would need to convince the prioress to allow guards access.

  Knocking on the door of the guest chamber, Lucie waited for a moment, then went in. Sandrine sat on the edge of the bed, hugging herself, pulling the covers round her when Lucie stepped in as if embarrassed to be seen in but a shift.

  ‘Benedicite, Dame Lucie,’ she whispered. ‘Mistress Alisoun said that is what I should call you.’

  Lucie touched her forehead. Cool now. ‘You frightened my children when you cried out in your sleep. Dame Magda took them down to the kitchen to calm them.’ She lifted the young woman’s chin so that she might meet Lucie’s gaze.

  ‘I regret frightening them. I will endeavor—’

  ‘You will agree to consume all that Dame Magda and I prepare so that you stay calm and recover your health. If you refuse, you cannot remain in my home. My children are recovering from illness and must not be excited.’

  The jaw tightened. ‘I cannot. I must do penance.’

  ‘I am convent-raised,’ said Lucie. ‘I know the power, and the challenge, of obedience. To humble yourself before God, surrendering to the path on which He has set you – that can be a powerful penance.’

  Silence.

  ‘But if you refuse, I will find another place for you. I—’

  Sandrine suddenly straightened, staring past Lucie toward the door. ‘Oh!’

  Lucie turned to discover Owen in the doorway. ‘This is my husband, Owen. Captain Archer, as he is known.’

  A deep blush as Sandrine clutched the covers higher. ‘Benedicite, Captain Archer.’

  ‘Owen, this is Sandrine.’

  He nodded, but said nothing as Lucie joined him at the door. He carried the scent of snow and cold though he’d removed his cloak, boots, hat. His curly hair was wild as if he’d run his hands through it.

  ‘I must speak with our guest.’ His tone was sharp. ‘If you would stay with us?’ Leaning close so that only Lucie could hear, Owen warned her that he must be harsh with the young woman. He must know what she knew, whether she was a danger to the household. ‘I will tell you everything when we leave her.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He plucked up the stool that Lucie had used and moved it closer to Sandrine.

  ‘Tell me what happened in the chapter house last night.’

  Pressing her lips together, the young woman shook her head. ‘I know nothing. I was so frightened I – I prayed for sleep and God granted it. When I woke, I was so cold. I thought if I sang, someone would hear. Help would come. And it did.’

  ‘You were up in the masons’ chambers.’

  She glanced at Lucie, back to Owen, shaking her head. ‘Where?’

  ‘The masons’ chambers are up above the ceiling of the main chamber in the chapter house,’ said Owen.

  Lucie watched the woman’s eyes as she devised a response.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  From his scrip Owen drew out two strands of beads – a short strand of coral beads and a much longer strand of coral and jet, the jets at ten-bead intervals, suggesting a broken set of paternoster beads. Lucie noticed that the smaller strand had ten beads and extra knots at one end as if it had become a bracelet, albeit for the slender wrist of a child. Or their guest’s, she realized, noticing her unusually narrow wrists. It was the same coral as the longer strand.

  Sandrine recoiled, her pale skin flushed, eyes filling with tears.

  ‘I have spoken to a man who witnessed the man’s fall from the chapter-house roof,’ said Owen. ‘He says there was at least one shout from the roof, and a scuffle. You must have heard something. If it was a chase, they would have passed through the upper floor, where I found your beads.’

  ‘How do you know they are my beads?’

  ‘The larger strand was in the pack you left in Tucker’s home.’

  ‘You have my pack?’

  Owen nodded. ‘Someone must have carried a lantern. You would have seen a light.’

  ‘I told you, I fell asleep.’

  ‘I do not believe you slept through that. Especially as you lost your beads up above. Brother Michaelo tells me your clothing was wet when he found you. I noted your stockings were wet, inside your boots. And here is the knife Brother Michaelo took from your hand.’ He drew it out of the scrip.

  She stared at it.

  ‘See how the handle is chipped? Here is the missing piece, which I found at the foot of the ladder to the roof.’

  Eyes flickering here, there, anywhere but Owen’s face.

  ‘You waste my time.’ Owen rose with an impatient sigh. ‘We cannot shelter a possible murderer. I will take you to the
castle at first light.’

  Taking up her part, Lucie expressed alarm. ‘You cannot mean it.’

  Owen turned aside to her, still perched at the threshold. ‘No doubt you have a gentle alternative, perhaps the poor sisters on Castlegate.’

  ‘Or St Clement’s. I might coax Prioress Isabel into accepting her as a charity case. You think me too compassionate?’

  ‘For all we know she murdered the man. Gwen heard her cry out that she did. I cannot risk her harming anyone else.’

  ‘What is the castle?’ Sandrine asked in small voice.

  Owen turned back to her. ‘York Castle. For you, it will be a prison.’

  ‘Master Ambrose said I might trust you.’

  ‘When did he say this?’ Lucie asked.

  ‘Yesterday, before he left for the minster. He told me if anything were to happen to him I should seek Lucie Wilton, the apothecary, and her husband Captain Archer. That you would protect me.’

  ‘How did you come to be traveling with him?’ Owen asked.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Sandrine gave an account of an elegant minstrel who joined the company of musicians and players, how he taught her a song he had composed. Then rescued her. Her story matched what Ambrose had told Owen.

  ‘I am most grateful to him,’ said Sandrine. ‘But when he said we were being followed, and it was not likely to be the players, I feared I had been mistaken to trust him. Yet I could not stay with them, not after what happened.’ Tears started again, her face flushing crimson. Genuine emotion.

  ‘Your attacker was one of your fellow players?’

  She crossed herself and murmured a yes.

  ‘What did you know of the players when you joined them?’ Owen asked.

  ‘Simple folk. Not so grand as Master Ambrose, with his trained voice, his beautiful crwth, his Parisian speech, his costly cloak.’

  ‘The cloak,’ said Lucie. ‘Did you witness the exchange in the minster?’

  A slight nod.

  ‘Why did you go into the chapter house?’ asked Lucie.

  ‘I was afraid,’ Sandrine whispered, still looking away. ‘I am guilty. I did not push him, but I could not stand. He tripped over me and … I am guilty.’ She covered her face and wept.