A Choir of Crows

by Candace Robb

  Owen had not guessed Muriel Swann to be someone so attuned to the temper of her late husband’s colleagues. ‘May God watch over her and the child in her womb,’ he said.

  Returning to Jehannes’s house Owen explained Crispin’s plan. After some initial hesitation, Hempe, Jehannes, Michaelo, Lucie, and Marian admitted they could think of no timely alternative.

  Michaelo offered to accompany the party, lending Marian the robe of a Benedictine monk for the walk to Crispin’s home.

  ‘A monk would not serve as an attendant for a widow,’ said Marian.

  ‘Carry your clothes with you,’ said Lucie. ‘Once you reach Crispin’s home you will shed the disguise. I will help you dress before I leave. You must look believable as a monk. We must hasten, for I must also prepare Alisoun and send her on her way.’

  Michaelo went to fetch one of his habits and a hooded cape. Lucie asked Anna the cook for a comb and something to tie back Marian’s hair. When all was assembled, including a plain cloth sack for the change of clothing, Lucie led Marian into Jehannes’s parlor.

  ‘I cannot believe I will be back among sisters of my order so soon,’ Marian said, her eyes alight. She burst into the Benedicamus Domino she had sung earlier, lowered her voice and sang more, cutting herself off with laughter. In that same low voice she asked, ‘Will I do as a monk?’

  Lucie smiled to see her come alive. ‘You will.’ But as she lifted Marian’s gown over her head, she groaned. ‘Your shift. You are bleeding.’

  ‘My courses?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  Marian spun round and caught Lucie up in a hug. ‘That is good! Bless Dame Magda.’ She released Lucie and twisted the shift round to see. ‘But we have no time to wash out my shift.’

  Lucie began to undress.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘You will wear my shift beneath the monk’s robes.’ Lucie held it up for Marian. ‘Too short, but it matters not. Dame Euphemia’s maidservant is tall and slender. Borrow something from her. I will be back with cloths. You must inform the sisters of your needs tonight.’

  ‘Yes!’

  Lucie silently echoed Marian, Bless Dame Magda.

  When at last Marian stepped into the hall in Michaelo’s robes her stride was longer, her expression pinched, her voice, when she spoke, huskier than her normal tone but not as exaggerated as the voice that had set her laughing. A hood covered her hair.

  ‘You are transformed,’ said Michaelo, his smile expressing approval. ‘Shall we depart?’

  Owen took Lucie aside. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Excited. Happy. I pray this works.’

  A curt nod, signaling his concern. ‘I have checked round the house. It looks safe for them to depart. We have done all we can.’

  ‘I need to prepare Alisoun. Then we will have done all we can.’

  Once the monks and Lucie had taken their leave, Owen turned his attention to Beck. Clearly the man knew far more than he had admitted.

  Jehannes suggested the blinded man be questioned in his parlor, and that he attend. ‘I would know what I am sheltering in my home.’

  Owen could hardly object, and Beck was sufficiently improved that he could walk with support. As Jehannes guided Beck into the parlor, describing where he was, adding cushions to the chair in which he was seated, asking whether he might need a lap rug, Anna followed with a bowl of ale to calm him, for the man behaved as if he were being summoned to his execution despite Owen’s assurance that he had nothing to fear as long as he told the truth. When Jehannes withdrew to his seat, and Beck appeared able to reach for the bowl beside him, Owen settled across from him, reaching out to touch his hand, let him know where he was.

  He began by talking a little of his own experience in losing sight, some of the things he had found helpful, such as all that they had been doing to make him comfortable. With a shaky voice, Beck thanked him and the archdeacon.

  ‘But why am I here?’ he asked.

  ‘You have not told us all you know,’ said Owen. ‘So we are giving you the opportunity to do so.’

  ‘You call me a liar?’

  ‘I have learned from a trusted and well-respected citizen of York that you accompanied the vicar Ronan on his visits to merchants, that you witnessed him consulting his account book, which he called his psalter, and know much about his threats to merchants and how often they rebuked him for exaggerating and making false claims. Tell me about this account book of his. Where did he keep it? Where else did he hide the items and money he collected, besides what you say was stolen from the chest? He was a careful man, Beck, he would not have hidden everything in plain sight.’

  The man was sweating as he shakily reached for the bowl of ale. Owen leaned forward and assisted him.

  ‘I do not know his hiding places. He trusted no one with that, I think.’

  ‘And the account book, his so-called psalter. Why did you pretend you did not know what the men were searching for in his lodgings?’

  ‘He made me swear I would never speak of it. Never. He said he would curse me.’

  ‘And you believe he is capable of that?’

  ‘He is not yet buried, is he?’

  That made a difference? Owen glanced up at Jehannes.

  ‘It is not uncommon to fear that a soul does not rest until the body be buried in blessed ground,’ said Jehannes. ‘But the vicar has been placed in a temporary sarcophagus in the Bedern chapel, Beck. A sacred space equal to burial in blessed ground. He can no longer carry out such a threat, if he ever could. Churchmen are not trained to curse their fellow man.’

  Beck frowned, as if taking this in.

  ‘If you refuse to speak truth to Captain Archer, you must leave my house,’ said Jehannes.

  ‘You would throw me out?’

  ‘I would hand you over to Master Adam, the precentor.’

  ‘Does Diggs frighten you?’ asked Owen. ‘Crispin Poole’s man?’

  Beck squirmed in his chair.

  ‘If you tell me the tale, from the beginning, I will protect you from him,’ said Owen.

  ‘You can do that?’

  ‘He can,’ said Jehannes. ‘Tell him what he needs to know.’

  ‘Were you with Ronan when he left for the minster that evening?’ Owen asked.

  Once again, Beck reached for the ale and Owen assisted him, giving him a moment, then took possession of the now empty bowl.

  ‘I grow impatient,’ said Jehannes.

  Beck nodded as best he could. ‘I was there. I came after my pay. He had not paid me for a long while. He said he must meet someone, must not keep them waiting. I said but my pay and he said he would pay me the next day, ordered me to lock the door when I left, and hurried out. He knew I knew of the box of coins and jewels in the chest. Why would he trust me—?’ He bowed his head.

  ‘You stole it,’ said Owen.

  ‘God forgive me, I did,’ Beck said.

  ‘Did you return to his lodging that night?’

  ‘Passed it. Much later. Saw a light in his window and him watching the street. I thought he watched for me.’

  ‘Was anyone else on the street?’

  ‘One man. He stood beneath the eaves of the house across the way and growled at me when I passed, like an animal.’

  ‘Did you stay?’ asked Owen.

  ‘Would you? I went home and all night I feared every noise. When I heard of the vicar’s murder— Someone had been after his treasure, I guessed, and now I had it. Would they come for me? I could not rest until I put it back. I went to check if his door was locked or guarded. But you came, with the monk.’

  ‘Were you putting it back when Porter and Diggs found you?’

  ‘I was. I told them they could have it. But they beat me anyway. They wanted the account book. I did not know where it was.’

  Is that what they later took from the chancellor’s hall? Or was it Marian’s prayer book? Or neither?

  ‘Did the vicar take anything with him when he left for the minster that aftern
oon? His account book?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Did he say who he was meeting?’

  ‘No.’

  A knock on the door. ‘Yes, Anna, come in,’ said Jehannes.

  ‘The chancellor is here to speak with you and Captain Archer,’ the cook announced. ‘Shall I show him in?’

  Owen rose. ‘No, Anna. We will speak with him out in the hall after we help Beck back to his bed in the kitchen.’

  Jehannes signaled his agreement. ‘More ale for the fellow, Anna.’

  ‘May I stay in your home?’ Beck asked.

  ‘For now,’ said Jehannes, as he and Owen led the man by the arm.

  ‘Bless you, Father.’

  Meaning to ask Ambrose if he had noticed whether Ronan had worn a scrip beneath his cloak, Owen looked for him in the kitchen. ‘Where is he, Anna?’

  ‘He stood in the doorway a long while, watching evening fall, and then he was gone.’

  Damn the man. Bloody fool. ‘Did you see anyone else with him? Was he following someone?’

  ‘I did not know to look,’ she said with a sniff.

  Inspired by Owen’s concern for his serving man, how he had tended to his shoulder after the burglars injured him, the chancellor wished at last to speak of his conversation with Ronan in the early evening before the vicar’s murder. Master Thomas had summoned Ronan to learn more of Sir John Neville’s tastes, what he might enjoy when he came to dine.

  ‘He had boasted of his connection to the family, so you can imagine my surprise – indeed my disappointment – when he confessed he had never met either Sir John or his wife. His only advice was that as Lady Maud was a Percy she might appreciate some of her kinsmen being included in a dinner.’

  ‘Lady Maud will be in attendance?’ This was news to Owen.

  ‘Unless he was still pretending knowledge he did not have. But he seemed certain of that.’

  Good news? Sister to Sir Thomas Percy, Maud might be willing to vouch for Marian at St Clement’s, which would be helpful if the prioress was hesitant to accept the young woman back in the fold. It was also possible that the family considered Marian wayward, partly to blame. ‘Will Lady Maud lodge with her husband at the palace?’

  Thomas presumed so. But he seemed far more interested in complaining about Ronan’s deception, enumerating the many people who had sought his advice – all the resident canons, the heads of the religious houses, prominent merchants and officers of the city. ‘Many of those noted in the account book he carried.’

  God’s blood, the imbecile. Owen checked his temper. ‘He showed it to you?’

  ‘Pushed it at me. I refused it, but he stuffed it into a pile of books and fled. He said someone was following him. He feared for his safety. No one would know—’

  Fighting a desire to grab the man and shake him, Owen quietly asked where the book was now.

  ‘I am sorry to say it is gone. Stolen by the intruders who injured my serving man.’ Apparently sensing Owen’s growing anger, Thomas held up a hand as if to ward him off. ‘I know I should have told you of this when you first asked. I know. But I thought— To my shame I thought I might make a good impression with Sir John were I to deliver it up to him.’

  ‘Sir John? Not His Grace?’

  A frown. ‘You do not for a moment believe Alexander is suddenly the power in the family? Everything he has he owes to his eldest brother. No, I meant to give it to Sir John.’

  By now Owen was only half listening to the chancellor. He had learned what he needed, that the account book was now in Sir John’s possession – unless Porter and Diggs were fools. Now it was Ambrose’s disappearance that distracted him. It weighed on his conscience. His duty to the prince was clear. He must protect Ambrose, which meant finding him. When it was plain he would learn no more of immediate use from Thomas, he excused himself.

  ‘Call on me at any hour, Captain. I wish to help in any way I can. I pray you forgive me—’

  But Owen was at the door, off in search of Hempe, hoping one of his men might have seen or heard something of Ambrose.

  FIFTEEN

  Ouse Bridge, the Cross Keys

  In the course of his long service to the late Archbishop Thoresby, Brother Michaelo had become far more than a personal secretary, eventually running the household. He’d prided himself on his efficiency, and organized many a journey for His Grace. He was no stranger to all that such preparations entailed, and he had doubted that Crispin Poole would fulfill his promise to move his elderly mother and her belongings in a matter of a few hours. Yet by the early December dusk Michaelo found himself walking down Petergate behind a cart carrying Dame Euphemia and her belongings, as well as her companion Dame Marian. Crispin had recruited a strong young man, Drake, who worked in his warehouse near the staithes, to guide the donkey that pulled the covered cart. Alisoun Ffulford had chosen to walk with Drake, keeping an eye out for trouble as they made idle conversation. Crispin, walking alongside Michaelo, spoke only when passers-by curious about the procession called out to him. My mother’s health is failing and she has chosen to retire to St Clement’s Priory. When asked the purpose of a covered wagon Crispin gestured upward, indicating the soft drizzle.

  Michaelo stayed close to the cart so that he might listen to the conversation between the blind widow and the nun, for Euphemia seemed fascinated by her companion.

  As soon as Marian had stepped into the elderly woman’s room she had been ordered to approach so that Euphemia might stroke her face and feel her hands, which she pronounced too rough to be those of a Percy. Marian had explained that all the sisters in the abbey worked with their hands, and as she had been traveling through the summer … Euphemia had interrupted her to ask whether it was true she was an obedientiary at the esteemed Wherwell Abbey. Marian said that she had been training as sub-cantrice. And what is that, precisely?

  And so it had gone, and continued for a time until Crispin had announced their departure.

  ‘At last. Difficult to arrange for a covered cart with such little notice, but one of my guild members came to my aid, bless him.’ Crispin had not wished Marian to be visible as they moved through the city. Although Euphemia’s maidservant provided an appropriate gown and a hat that covered the young woman’s hair, Marian’s pale brows were distinctive. ‘Few people have seen her, yet the ones most keen to find her will know of her pallor.’

  Indeed, Michaelo had felt his heart in his stomach as he and Marian, dressed as a humble monk, had walked through the Bedern, choosing the less-traveled alleyways, taking advantage of a loud argument over a spilled cart to rush across St Andrewgate and into the rear garden of Crispin Poole’s home. Whisked inside by Crispin himself, Michaelo had crumpled onto a bench as the maidservant led Marian away to change clothing.

  ‘Were you followed?’ Crispin had asked, no doubt alarmed by Michaelo’s behavior.

  ‘I pray God we were not. No one seemed unduly interested in our passage. But one skilled in stealth would not permit himself to be seen.’

  Crispin seemed satisfied.

  As her belongings were carried out to the cart, Dame Euphemia had taken Marian’s hand and declared, ‘We travel under the protection of my son, a citizen of York and a member of the archbishop’s household. Be assured that you are safe in our care.’

  And Alisoun’s, Michaelo thought, her strung bow and quiver of arrows concealed beneath her cloak.

  Now, as they approached the ever-crowded bridge over the Ouse, Michaelo sensed Crispin tensed for trouble. He said a silent prayer for protection.

  When Owen found Hempe at the castle, the bailiff’s face was creased with worry. ‘I hoped to warn them. Lady Neville is expected at St Clement’s, to stay at the priory until the ceremonies begin, when she will move to the palace. But by the time my messenger arrived at Crispin’s house they were gone, and I thought it dangerous to call attention by chasing after them, make public your reconciliation.’

  ‘I agree that would not serve. All may be well.’ Owen shared
his hope about Lady Maud’s support for Marian.

  ‘It is in God’s hands.’ Hempe gestured to a man passing by, told him to find a partner and follow Crispin Poole and the cart at a discreet distance, assist them if necessary. The man looked to Owen for his agreement before hurrying off. Hempe grunted. ‘Already they see you as their captain. If they behave so with my fellow bailiff it will chafe. Compton sees the change as a sign the mayor has no confidence in us.’

  ‘No time to appease him now, but I should invite him to the York Tavern once the city is quiet again.’

  ‘Might help, might not. When will you talk to Beck?’

  ‘I already did.’ Owen related the man’s confession. And the chancellor’s.

  ‘God help us. The weasel is also a thief. And now that part of the treasure is in Neville’s hands.’

  ‘If Porter and Diggs are honest.’

  Hempe grunted. ‘If so, will that satisfy Neville, that is the question.’

  ‘Might provide evidence that there should be more than what Beck stole.’

  ‘If the two did not keep the goods.’

  A lad came to a sliding halt before them.

  ‘What news?’ Owen asked.

  ‘I heard about a company of musicians lodging at the Cross Keys atop Micklegate hill. And the one you set us to watch for, Captain, I might have seen him on Micklegate. Ran as fast as I could to tell you.’

  Owen looked to Hempe. ‘Shall we chase?’

  ‘I am aching for a good fight. Are you armed?’

  ‘I am. You?’

  ‘Always.’

  As Dame Marian enumerated the responsibilities of the cantrice – she must know the Church calendar and the appropriate liturgy for each day, choose the music from the library over which she presided, adding music where necessary, devising original music, always keeping in mind the abilities of the sisters in residence, share the training with the novice-mistress – Dame Euphemia grew increasingly loud in her assurances that all would be well, Prioress Isabel would be made aware of Dame Marian’s importance, how her presence would benefit the priory. Michaelo was shaking his head over the widow’s blatant worship of noble blood and prestige when the cart came to an abrupt halt.