A Choir of Crows

by Candace Robb

  ‘How would I?’

  Gabriel looked up as Alisoun knelt to his wounded side. ‘How can she do that? Shoot me, then tend me?’

  ‘Ask her.’ Owen rose. ‘I will return for you in a little while.’

  He went over to talk to Ned, giving him a simple task. Once they had deposited Gabriel in the infirmary, Ned was to find Hempe and tell him what they’d learned about Dame Marian and the Percys, and ask him to speak with Tucker’s wife, Judith, about Gabriel’s claim he gave her money to care for Marian. If true, she was not dependent on Tucker’s work for a while. He might become informative after a night in the castle. When Ned had accomplished the task, he was to return to the infirmary.

  ‘I count on you to return to your senses. I understand how you feel, but I cannot condone it. Consider what you have just heard, all that the young woman suffered at the hands of an unwanted suitor.’

  Ned bowed his head.

  ‘Alisoun is her own woman. Show her your best self. Respect her right to her own choice.’

  ‘I have been a fool.’

  Owen did not argue that. ‘Return to your watch on the house and shop. I will come for you when Gabriel is ready to be moved.’

  Lucie had heard much of their conversation. Now she smiled as Owen approached.

  ‘Might we leave Alisoun with Gabriel and go to Marian?’ he asked.

  She hesitated, searching his face for a sign of what he hoped to accomplish. Her own anger at the presumption of men sounded a warning in her head that Marian had suffered enough of men’s company for a long while. Yet, hearing his talk with Ned she knew that Owen had been much moved by Marian’s story. Still … Lucie drew him out to the hall where they might speak in private, settled on a bench near the window.

  ‘Why now?’ she asked gently. ‘Why you?’

  ‘I understand your hesitance. I mean to recount Gabriel’s story. Whether or not she chooses to correct, add, that is for her to decide. She deserves to hear what he said of her.’

  That seemed fair. Lucie agreed, beginning to rise, but Owen stayed her.

  ‘Ned is not the only one with much to learn from the story of Phillip’s and his brother’s transgressions against Marian. Watching how Ned watches Alisoun reminds me how I watched you, how I yearned to possess you. I was fortunate. Somehow I earned your love. But I see how it poisons love to think of possession. What she suffered. What right had he to pluck her away? To decide for her?’

  Lucie had never loved Owen more than she did at this moment. She studied him as she thought what to say.

  ‘If I—’ he began.

  She pressed a finger to his mouth. Shook her head. ‘If you express this to her, I believe she might be inspired to trust us. To trust you.’ She took his hand. ‘Come. Let us meet with Dame Marian.’

  Setting aside the basket of needlework she had carried from the nursery, their guest sat with hands folded in her lap, head bowed, listening to Owen’s account, occasionally nodding. Lucie had chosen a seat to the side, allowing him to have his say. She was there if Marian wanted her, but she wished the woman to hear how a man might respond to the story.

  Arriving at the end of Gabriel’s account, Owen said, ‘We wanted you to know what he said of you, what he might tell your aunt and uncle. And I wished to say …’ He paused. ‘As a man I recognized myself in Phillip’s and Rupert’s behavior, and I am ashamed for us all. Forgive me for threatening you last night.’

  Marian looked up, startled. ‘No, Captain. You are nothing like them. Nothing. But …’ She caught her breath, tears welling in her eyes. ‘Bless you,’ she whispered.

  Lucie moved to sit beside her, gathering her into her arms, holding her as she wept. ‘Perhaps we should leave now,’ she whispered when the storm passed.

  ‘No. I pray you, stay.’ Marian sat up, wiping her eyes. ‘Gabriel and Rupert did find me in Cawood. They had heard about me at a tavern there, and that the company I was with were to perform at the palace. All the village were talking about it. At the palace they recognized Master Ambrose as well.’

  ‘Did Gabriel tell you this?’ Lucie asked.

  ‘Later, yes. They had been watching Tucker’s house. Gabriel caught me out at the midden one night. He told me that Master Ambrose had long lived at the court of King Charles and was known to be a spy for the French. As he said, he promised to take me to Sir Thomas if I told him whatever I might glean about Master Ambrose’s movements in the city. Anything useful I might overhear.’

  ‘Is it true what Gabriel said about Ambrose and your stolen prayer book?’ asked Lucie.

  ‘Yes. All this trouble is my fault.’ Marian’s voice broke.

  ‘No,’ Owen said. ‘You are not to blame. You have been ill used.’

  ‘I have trusted the wrong people. I believed Gabriel. Master Ambrose had spoken French, told the leader of the company of his fame among the nobles there. Gabriel said he must have guessed who I was and pretended to help me, thinking to use me in some way, spy that he was, and Sir Thomas being trusted by the king and his son Prince Edward.’ As she spoke her voice grew hoarse. ‘Might I have some water?’

  Lucie began to rise but Owen insisted on going.

  ‘I would prefer honey water to wine, with some of Dame Magda’s physick. Alisoun will know,’ said Marian.

  When Owen had left the room Marian said, ‘You are most fortunate in your husband.’

  ‘I am.’ Lucie smiled. ‘While we wait for him, tell me about Wherwell Abbey. Were you happy there?’

  ‘How could I not be? Dedicating my life to God, using my one gift to sing His praises. It is all I ever wanted.’

  Lucie recalled many a girl silenced by the nuns at St Clement’s when she boarded there. ‘You were encouraged to sing?’

  ‘My voice was the reason they welcomed me to Wherwell. The cantrice herself, Dame Eloise, undertook my training. I worked hard, learned all that she set before me, devoted myself to my lessons. She is aged, her health failing. She said she was at peace knowing that I would be there in the abbey to lead the sisters in song when she was gone.’ Again, Marian’s voice broke. ‘It hurts to speak of this when I have had no word about her, whether she survived the fire.’

  ‘I pray some of your kin coming for the archbishop’s enthronement will have news for you.’

  A knock. Owen entered with a tray of cups and flagons of water and wine. Lucie offered to pour.

  ‘How is Gabriel?’ Marian asked.

  ‘Resting,’ said Owen. ‘Alisoun is satisfied that his forehead is cool.’

  ‘I would not have expected her to be skilled with a bow,’ said Marian.

  ‘We were speaking of how Dame Marian came to Wherwell Abbey,’ said Lucie. ‘She studied under the cantrice.’ She handed Marian a cup of honeyed water. ‘Gabriel believed that your former music tutor had set that fire. Tell me how you met him.’

  ‘Would that I never had.’ Marian drank some honeyed water, closed her eyes as she swallowed, thanked Owen. ‘After the death of my father, my mother asked Sir Thomas, my godfather, to be my guardian. I was to live away from home, in one of Sir Thomas’s manor houses, supervised by his sister, Lady Edwina. Her first act was to hire a tutor for me, to teach me all I needed to know so that I might be welcome at one of the great abbeys as an asset with my voice and knowledge of music – Sir Thomas had always encouraged me to sing at the Christmas and harvest feasts on the manor. The tutor, Phillip, was the brother of one of Sir Thomas’s retainers. Lady Edwina and my mother considered him a good choice because his father had once been a musician in the court of the King of Bohemia. And he was studying for the Church. Neither of them knew anything more of him. They had heard him play. One of his own compositions. I was happy. Music was all I cared about. That must be how he came to his grievous misunderstanding.’

  ‘Phillip? Your music-master?’ Lucie asked.

  ‘Yes. I often smile when I sing. Did he think I meant the smiles for him? All I thought about was the music. I looked forward to the day when I would devo
te my life to God.’

  Seeing the pain and doubt in her eyes, hearing it in her voice, Lucie gently asked about that day, when she finally went to the abbey.

  ‘Mistress Edwina and Sir Thomas accompanied me to Wherwell. Everything depended on that meeting. I was so in awe I could not breathe when the abbess commanded me to sing for her. But with Mistress Edwina smiling and encouraging me I found my breath and began to sing Benedicamus Domino.’ Lucie knew that to be part of the daily office, a piece every sister would know. ‘The abbess interrupted to summon Dame Eloise, the cantrice. Once I saw Dame Eloise I found the courage and the breath to sing my best. She had such kind eyes.’

  Marian broke off and rose to sing a Benedicamus Domino unlike any Lucie had ever heard, notes climbing, then curling back. Soul-lifting. When she paused, the silence in the room felt alive, resonant with prayer. Owen looked on in awe.

  As if unaware of the effect she had Marian resumed her seat and continued. ‘After I sang Dame Eloise clapped her hands, tears streaming from her eyes. She enfolded me in her arms. She said that God had answered her prayers. She would train me to be her sub-cantrice. I felt so welcome.’

  ‘God answered your prayers as well,’ said Lucie. ‘Tell me more about Dame Eloise.’

  ‘I loved her the moment I met her, such a gentle, sweet face, her pale eyes a little clouded with age yet somehow still keen. And so kind. Her hands were soft, cushioned as if she had no sharp bones.’ Marian gave a little laugh. A lovely, throaty laugh.

  ‘How long were you there?’ Lucie asked.

  ‘Seven years. I thought I would live there until God claimed me.’ Marian pressed her hand to her forehead, her sleeve falling away from the slender wrist that seemed far too frail to support her long-fingered hands. ‘But everything fell apart in the spring. I have prayed and prayed and I cannot think what the sin might be for which I am so punished. Pride?’ She glanced up at Lucie, tears shimmering in her eyes, spots of color on her cheeks. ‘Was I too proud of my voice? I thought it God’s gift.’ There was an edge to her voice. ‘I thought I was meant to use it to praise Him. Dame Eloise said it was so. I cannot think why God so punished me.’

  Reaching out to take Marian’s hand, Lucie held it firmly as she asked whether she needed some wine.

  Marian shook her head. ‘To be among women again. You cannot know how good it has been to be with you, Dame Lucie. And Alisoun and Dame Magda, Dame Bess. You as well, Captain Archer. What you said – I have not felt so safe since that terrible night. And now I would – Gabriel promised to find out whether Dame Eloise survived the fire. But I cannot expect him to do so now. Rupert was his friend. I am sure he blames me for the deaths of both him and his brother.’ Her voice rose, her eyes flashing, but as suddenly as the anger flashed, she quelled it, paused to drink water, wipe her eyes. ‘I pray that the prioress of St Clement’s might find out for me. Or, as you said, Dame Lucie, perhaps someone coming for the enthronement will have news.’

  ‘Did Ambrose tell you who he was meeting at the minster?’ Owen asked.

  ‘No. He had mentioned only a few people in my hearing – the Riverwoman, you, Dame Lucie. I could not think it would be either Dame Lucie or Dame Magda, but I did mention you. I have betrayed you. And Master Ambrose. I do not deny it. I have been such a fool.’

  ‘You survived. That is no small accomplishment,’ said Owen.

  Marian dismissed it with a shake of her head.

  ‘What else did you tell them about Ambrose?’ asked Owen.

  ‘I knew little else. He sometimes mutters to himself over his instrument, thinking perhaps that no one will be able to understand him. That is how I learned of the Riverwoman.’ A pause. ‘There was a time when I would have shunned a woman like Dame Magda. But I would have been wrong. God clearly works through her.’

  ‘She would smile to hear that,’ said Lucie.

  ‘That is what Alisoun said.’ Another pause, suddenly not meeting Lucie’s gaze. ‘Alisoun told me she lost her family to pestilence. It returned to the south in summer.’

  ‘Here as well,’ said Lucie. ‘Our nursemaid left us to nurse her mother, but lost her, and when she returned and our children fell ill … I could not convince her it was not pestilence. She fled. That is when Magda sent Alisoun to help us.’

  Marian crossed herself, but did not speak, her pale eyes watching something far beyond the room. A sob escaped her and she turned away, wiping her eyes.

  ‘I let him die. I refused to help him.’

  ‘Phillip? But he took you from the abbey,’ said Lucie. The young woman was trembling so hard. Lucie took her hand.

  ‘I wanted him to pay for what he did. He took me away from all that I loved.’

  ‘Yes. He hurt you,’ said Lucie.

  ‘I did nothing for him. Nothing,’ Marian sobbed.

  Lucie touched her hot cheeks, shushing her as she would one of the children. ‘Sip your water. Rest a moment.’

  ‘I will never rest. I am damned.’

  ‘No one is beyond redemption.’

  ‘And now I’ve brought trouble on your house. And the city.’

  ‘You are helping by telling your story so that we might know whether there are others besides Gabriel who might be a threat to us,’ said Owen.

  ‘How can I know whether or not there are more?’

  ‘How did you come to leave Wherwell?’ Lucie asked. ‘Did Phillip take you away? How did he gain access?’ She was guessing, connecting bits and pieces of information and intuited pain. ‘Did he tell you?’

  ‘Lady Edwina had visited me earlier in the year. I wanted to show her one of the manuscripts. The illustrations reminded me of those in a book she had shown me when I first came to stay with her. Dame Eloise permitted me to bring her to my cell off the room where the musical manuscripts were stored. Phillip said she told him about it, answering all his questions, so helpful, he said. From her he learned where I slept, where the music library was. How could she be so—’ Marian stopped herself.

  In that moment, watching her fight the anger, push it down – again smoothing the brow, relaxing the mouth, softening the eyes, taking a deep breath, Lucie understood the enigma the young woman presented. She, too, had been shaped by the sisters. Anger is a grievous sin, Lucia. A girl must follow the Blessed Mother’s model – humble, obedient, ever cheerful.

  ‘How did he use what she had told him?’ Lucie asked.

  ‘On the Feast of Pentecost he attended a service at the abbey, and afterward hid himself in a garden shed. He bragged of his cleverness to me. At nightfall, he crept out and set a fire beneath the window of the music library. I slept beneath that window. I woke coughing. At first I did not understand, and then I smelled it, felt the smoke in my eyes. A fire! I called out to warn everyone as I ran to assist Dame Eloise, but another sister was already leading her out. And then all was confusion. So many rushing about. I was trying to move the most precious manuscripts out of harm’s way. The smoke made me dizzy. I fell against a burning timber. Someone carried me to a window and tossed me out, shouting at me to roll myself through the dew in the grass. He was waiting there. He picked me up, saying he would take me to a safe place. I thought at first he was the gardener, but the voice. I recognized the voice.’ She stopped, staring down at her hands. ‘I was fighting him, kicking and screaming and I managed to get free. I remember running and seeing that the gates were open so that carts could come with water … I doubled back, ashamed to be running instead of helping. And then – what happened then I know not. I woke up in a barn, dressed in clothes that were not mine, my hair uncovered …’ Her voice broke.

  ‘You must have been so frightened. And angry.’

  Marian met Lucie’s gaze. ‘Angry,’ she whispered. ‘Yes. I have done penance for my anger. And for Dame Eloise and all the sisters, and the manuscripts. I have ached to know how much damage I caused.’

  ‘You caused?’ Lucie found it difficult to control her own outrage. ‘He started the fire. You rushed to help.’

&
nbsp; ‘I do not know how, but I inspired in Phillip a belief that God meant us to be together, that I had taken vows in ignorance— He called my vows a mistake.’

  ‘Arrogant cur,’ Owen muttered. He clenched his hands, holding himself still to listen.

  ‘You were seven years in the convent,’ said Lucie. ‘I presume he had no contact with you in all that time. He spun a tale that he began to believe. It had nothing to do with you. Did he ask you how you felt? What you wanted?’

  ‘He believed—’

  ‘He believed what he wanted to believe,’ Lucie snapped.

  ‘I want to believe that.’ Marian reached for Lucie’s hand, held it for a moment, whispering her thanks. ‘Shall I go on?’

  ‘Yes, I pray you, what happened then? Where were you when the pestilence struck him down?’

  ‘A shed at the edge of a marsh. With a hole for a window, another for a door. He called it a house. A fog of foul vapors surrounded it morning and night. At first I blamed them on his labored breathing, but when the first pustule burst, I knew. Down a track I’d found a village. I had managed to barter for a young woman to come out and cook for us. But when he sickened she disappeared. I searched his bags, hoping to find money for food, and I found my prayer book, the one Dame Edwina had copied for me, and my paternoster beads. He had stolen my prayer book and beads. He had taken me from all that I loved, starved me, dragged me to such a cursed place – was that not enough? He would rob me of these as well?’ She paused. ‘Yes, I admit to my anger, I do. I finally saw what he was and I knew then that if he recovered he would take my virginity, my last blessing. I had begged him not to touch me, and he had agreed, for the nonce, he said, he would be patient. Patient.’ She spit the word. ‘I saw what a child I was to believe anything he said. No wonder God so punished him. I felt it a sign that I was right not to nurse him. God had condemned him with the pestilence. And I was untouched. I must flee while that was still true. I took his clothes, washed them well, and turned myself into Matthew. I collected anything that might be of value, and I left.’

  ‘He was still alive?’ Lucie asked.