A Choir of Crows

13 Two Days

Alfred leaned against the abbey gate as Owen and Ned approached. ‘I have news.’

‘As do I.’ Ned stood watch as Owen took Alfred aside. ‘Tell me.’

Alfred reported that Sir John Neville’s party had arrived betimes, pausing for the midday meal at Holy Trinity Priory, Micklegate, messengers sent on to the staff preparing the archbishop’s palace in the minster yard. God be thanked Owen had taken Gabriel to St Mary’s. Owen gave him a brief account of his day’s gleanings, including a little of Ned’s part.

Alfred laughed. ‘Poor sod. We’ve all been in that painful place.’

‘I have a mission for him at present. Then I would have him report to you. Keep him busy. And set a watch on Master Thomas’s house. I want to know who visits him, who might be watching him. Ronan called on the chancellor the evening before he was murdered in front of that very house. I do not think his return to that house was accidental. Now that we know how Rupert fell and Gareth drowned, our attention is on finding Ronan’s murderer.’

‘We have only Pit’s idea of how Gareth drowned, Captain.’

‘Have you heard anything to contradict it?’

‘No.’

‘Nor I. Ronan. Just him. I will be at the archbishop’s palace. I prefer to deprive Sir John of the pleasure of summoning me when he learns that his man Pit is in the castle. From there I will go to Jehannes while Ned goes to the castle to warn the bailiff on duty to prepare for Sir John sending men to demand Pit’s release.’

‘I will be at the castle arranging the watches. I could meet him there.’

‘Good. He will be tasked to tell you what transpired at the palace. Warn the bailiff on duty to keep a close watch on Pit. Tell him that I’ve said on no account should he be released to Sir John Neville.’

‘It will be done, Captain.’

Memories haunted Owen as he approached the archbishop’s palace in the minster yard. In the past he would have been stewing about why Thoresby had summoned him, or ordering his thoughts to report progress. He had resented his obligation to Thoresby, disliked the man’s priorities, how he favored the powerful. To Owen’s mind Thoresby transgressed his role as a spiritual shepherd guiding souls to God, though he had come to see that the late archbishop struggled with his conflicting responsibilities as a servant of God, of the pope, and of the king, especially the latter. For many years Thoresby had served as King Edward’s lord chancellor and close advisor, and the king had expected him to continue giving more weight to his interests than he did to either the pope or his spiritual duties. When that conflict had grown too much for Thoresby’s conscience, he had given up the lord chancellor’s chain. In retrospect, Owen admired him. And missed him.

He was startled out of his thoughts as the guards on the steps to the great hall ordered him to halt and state his name, status, and mission. Proof that the Neville principals had arrived. Owen wondered whether Alexander would retain such a martial presence when it was only him in residence. A sure way to antagonize the citizens of York, and the minster chapter. When the guards stepped aside to let him pass, Owen told Ned to follow him. Not to speak.

Beyond the heavy oak doors, the great hall was in chaos. Servants rushed about as Neville retainers shouted conflicting orders. A far cry from the serene elegance of Thoresby’s household under the direction of Brother Michaelo. Owen searched the hall for an oasis of calm and found it surrounding a man of imposing stature standing beneath one of the opened casements, his back to the noise. Owen made his way toward him. When he was within hailing distance, his way was blocked by an armed retainer bristling with self-importance.

‘Who are you? What is your business here?’

‘Owen Archer, captain of the city, here to see Sir John Neville.’

‘Wait there.’ Rudely pushing aside a servant as he turned, the man headed straight for the figure at the window.

Neville continued to face out as the man delivered his message. Only when the man had backed away did Neville turn slightly and gesture for Owen to be brought to him.

Without waiting, Owen joined him at the window, standing facing the same direction. Ned followed at a slight distance.

‘My lord Neville,’ said Owen.

‘Captain Archer. You hold two of my men at York Castle. On what charges?’ A low, resonant voice that required no volume to be heard despite the noise in the hall.

‘One is dead, drowned, ready to be claimed. That would be Gareth. Pit is held until his name is cleared of murder.’

‘Whose murder?’

‘That of Ronan, former vicar to His Grace the archbishop.’

Now Sir John turned to study Owen. ‘A Neville retainer murdering a Neville servant?’

‘A vicar of York Minster, not a Neville servant, once answering to your brother, but no longer. There might be reasons to find him an embarrassment to your family.’

‘I am intrigued, Captain.’ Cool grey eyes studied Owen for a moment. ‘Have you proof of Pit’s guilt?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Then I question your right to imprison him.’

‘I understand. But as the city fills with the worthies attending your brother’s enthronement you can appreciate that we are taking precautions against violence. Your safety and that of His Grace the archbishop are our first concern.’

‘You claim to protect me from my own man? Amusing.’

Owen did not flinch at the threatening grin. Though he knew his argument sounded weak, better that than admit that he expected Alexander Neville to draw many enemies down on the city.

‘I know you are Prince Edward’s man, Archer.’ Neville slowly shook his head. ‘I wonder that he can stomach you. He cannot have missed what his fair wife sees when she looks at you – her beloved Holland resurrected.’ Princess Joan’s late husband. ‘She forsook her rightful first husband the Duke of Salisbury for one-eyed Holland, and now … I would wonder. You must be good indeed for the prince to overlook the resemblance.’

‘Many lose eyes in battle.’

‘Of course. I give you two days to solve your puzzle, and then you will hand over my man, the French spy, and the young woman disguised as a lad, or I will drag you out of Micklegate Bar and all the way to Windsor to deliver what’s left of you to the Christmas court.’

Owen had known Sir John would be a challenging adversary. There was nothing for the arrogance of the man but to nod and wish him good day, measuring his steps with care so that he did not falter, not for a breath, as he strode out through the chaotic hall, Ned scuttling to keep up. Out in the minster yard Owen continued for a while, letting the rising wind cool him.

‘Will he do that?’ Ned asked, breathing hard as he kept up with Owen.

‘No doubt it would give him pleasure, but no, he would not dare cross the prince. He might be arrogant, but he did not rise to such a height at court by reckless acts. I stood up to him with a reasonable argument. He saw need to strut boldly before his men, making threats dripping with bloodlust, the howl of a savage beast. They will drink to him tonight, and brag of him in the taverns.’ Meanwhile, Owen had two days before the man did all he could to distract him from his work.

And was there something in the way he described Marian suggesting he knew who she was? Lucie had reminded him as he went out the door that Sir John Neville’s wife, Maud Percy, was sister to Sir Thomas and Lady Edwina, the aunt who had commissioned the lost prayer book. If Neville’s men had found that book Sir John would be all the more keen to reclaim his wife’s kinswoman.

Ned pulled him from his thoughts. ‘Where now, Captain?’

‘Alfred awaits you at the castle. Tell him all that you heard, then follow his orders. You will be working under him. No punishment. I need you.’

Ned searched Owen’s face, nodded. ‘Thank you, Captain. I will not disappoint you again.’

‘I count on that.’

They parted ways, Owen heading for the archdeacon’s.

As he passed the west entrance to the minster Owen heard someone calling him, but so softly he had almost missed it. Glancing round, he saw the lad with whom he had talked the previous day standing in the corner where the south transept jutted out from the nave. The lad removed his dusty hat and looked round, as if checking that they were not observed.

‘You are worried about talking to me?’

‘There are eyes.’

‘From the roof?’

‘No. The stone workers. They’ve warned me to stay out of the troubles in the chapter and liberty.’

‘But–?’

‘I thought you might like to know that Sir John Neville’s men followed Dom Jehannes’s cook back to the archdeacon’s house. The fat secretary walks slowly, but they might be there by now.’

‘Do you have reason to think they mean trouble?’

‘Dame Lucie is there. And I think the minstrel’s lad, dressed as a lass.’

God help them. ‘Bless you, lad.’

‘Simon.’

Owen nodded. ‘Simon, beware of His Grace the archbishop, and his kin. This is a dangerous time, as nobles and others seek advancement with a new regime. Do you understand?’

‘I do, Captain.’

‘Do you know where I live?’ When the lad nodded, Owen suggested he come to his home next time he had a report. His fellows would be less likely to notice. ‘Come through the garden gate, knock at the kitchen door. If I’m not there, Kate will be sure to feed you while you wait.’

With a grave, ‘Yes, Captain,’ the lad picked up the handle of a sled and trundled off toward the Lady Chapel.

Owen hastened toward Jehannes’s house.

A discreet knock. Brother Michaelo rose, assuring Lucie that he was the appropriate one to welcome his cousin. She settled back, sipping the wine, willing herself to calm. They had chosen the purpose of her visit as her concern for the clerk Beck, still recovering in the kitchen from his beating. At present he was asleep, and Marian, her hair wrapped in a clean white cloth, her sleeves protected by white cuffs, was scrubbing the table on which goodwife Anna would be kneading the dough rising on a counter by the garden window. Outside, Ambrose, wearing work gloves and a hat encrusted with stone dust, shoveled and tidied the path through the melting snow to the movable hut over the household midden.

‘Cousin. Are you come to invite me to dine at the archbishop’s palace?’

‘No, cousin.’ Dom Leufrid’s voice was hoarse, as if he were short of breath. ‘I would speak with Dom Jehannes, the archdeacon.’

Still standing in the doorway, Michaelo explained that Jehannes was at the deanery. ‘I will tell him you called.’

Too curious to sit back, Lucie rose. Dom Leufrid’s wide body almost filled the doorway. Over his shoulders she could just make out two men with grim countenances. One of them appeared to nudge the cleric, who jerked, then chided Michaelo for his discourtesy.

‘I propose to sit by the fire and await his return,’ Leufrid wheezed.

Congested lungs, weak heart, Lucie thought as Michaelo stepped aside to let Leufrid pass. A limp added gout to her list of his ailments.

Three armed men followed, taking a stance just inside the door, as if guarding the inhabitants from departing. She recognized the one who had nudged Leufrid forward as one of the men Crispin Poole had brought with him when he’d arrived in York in summer. She knew him by a scar that twisted his mouth to one side. Had he been Neville’s man all the time? Curious. The archbishop’s household was doing little to earn him a welcome in York.

Leufrid looked inquiringly at Lucie.

‘Dame Lucie, this is my cousin Dom Leufrid, personal secretary to His Grace, Archbishop Neville.’ Michaelo’s blank face gave no hint of his clear insult, giving her the higher rank in the order of introduction.

Leufrid sniffed and raised a thin brow in response to his cousin, turning to Lucie with a chilly smile. ‘Should I know your name, Dame Lucie?’

Before Lucie could answer, Michaelo said, ‘If you have need of an apothecary while in York, I would advise remembering the name of Dame Lucie Wilton.’

‘I enjoy good health,’ said Leufrid, glaring at his cousin as if to challenge his thinking otherwise. ‘Is there illness in this household?’

‘An injured clerk,’ said Lucie. ‘I came to consult with Brother Michaelo on his care.’ As she spoke, a voice wafted out from the kitchen, a woman singing a few lines of a rhythmic song.

Quickly hushed.

Both thin brows raised. ‘A beautiful voice.’ Dom Leufrid’s three chins jiggled as he spoke, a comic accent on a tense moment.

‘A gift to one in pain,’ said Michaelo.

‘You are fortunate in your servants.’

‘Dom Jehannes inspires harmony in his household.’

‘I shall say a prayer over the injured clerk.’ Leufrid moved toward the kitchen, accompanied by twisted mouth.

‘We pray with him throughout the day, cousin,’ said Michaelo, following close behind.

As they reached the kitchen doorway, Owen stepped through. ‘Ah, Brother Michaelo, forgive me. I did not see that you had company.’ He glanced from Leufrid to the retainers and rested a hand on his dagger. ‘What is the trouble, Dom Leufrid?’

‘Of course, you have met.’ Michaelo’s voice was tight.

Lucie watched with interest as Owen waited for the cleric to explain.

‘Hearing that two men have been murdered in the minster yard, His Grace thought it best we move about with protection at all times.’

‘I see.’ Owen stepped forward, forcing Dom Leufrid to either step aside or retreat.

The secretary chose the latter, backing toward Lucie, lowering himself down with effort into the chair farthest from her.

Owen came to stand by Lucie, a hand on her shoulder. ‘I see my wife has already met you. Seeing to Beck?’ he asked her.

‘Judging whether it is time for a milder plaster for his head.’

‘I noticed as I came through the kitchen that he improves.’

‘We were interrupted before I could examine Beck,’ said Lucie. ‘Brother Michaelo tells me he has not yet regained his sight.’

‘The clerk was blinded?’ asked Leufrid. ‘Both eyes?’

‘Yes,’ said Owen. ‘Not a direct wounding, like mine, but caused by a hard blow to the head. He surprised someone ransacking the chamber of the murdered vicar.’

‘I pray you caught them,’ said Leufrid.

‘Not yet,’ said Owen. Lucie noticed him watching the one with the twisted mouth, who averted his eyes.

‘A pity, the one witness blinded,’ said Leufrid.

‘Would you care for some wine?’ Michaelo was rising to play host when Jehannes opened the door, starting at the sight of the armed guards in his hall.

‘Am I to be arrested?’

Dom Leufrid rose, with some difficulty. ‘Dom Jehannes, I am Dom Leufrid, personal secretary to His Grace, Archbishop Neville.’

‘Do you always move about with armed companions?’ asked Jehannes. ‘Is that what we should come to expect from the archbishop’s household?’

Leufrid opened his mouth to respond.

Owen preempted him. ‘Might I remind you, Dom Leufrid, that Prince Edward is keen to hear how the Nevilles treat the city. Hostile behavior toward members of the clergy will concern him. Nor will such tactics win His Grace support here.’

‘Indeed,’ said Jehannes, settling beside Lucie.

Leufrid repeated his explanation about the recent murders, his voice querulous.

During the ensuing discussion Lucie slipped away to the kitchen to silence Marian before another outburst of song.

Goodwife Anna now stood at the table Marian had been washing, kneading dough and shaking her head at the young woman now sitting beside Beck and holding his hand as she softly sang a hymn to the Virgin Mary.

‘You would be wise to remember not to sing when in disguise,’ Lucie said. ‘And that you are a kitchen maid, not a healer.’

‘He was moaning,’ said Marian. ‘What would you have me do?’

‘Send goodwife Anna out to fetch me.’

Marian rose. Picking up the pail and rag she had been using she turned toward the table.

Anna shooed her off. ‘I am using it now. You are welcome to scrub the floor.’

‘Will they soon be gone?’ Marian asked.

‘I cannot tell,’ said Lucie. ‘My husband prevented the archbishop’s secretary from coming into the kitchen, but if he insists we dare not refuse him. It would only convince him we have something to hide. Where is the one who arrived with me?’ She preferred not to speak Ambrose’s name aloud.

‘Still without, knocking snow off the bushes and the roof over the midden,’ said the cook. ‘He is a hard worker. As is this young woman.’

With a glum sigh, Marian moved to the far corner of the room and dropped to her knees.

She had just begun to scrub when the kitchen door opened, and Jehannes led Leufrid and the guard with twisted mouth to Beck’s bedside. Lucie wondered whether the large cleric would attempt to kneel beside the pallet, which sat on the stone floor. Even the stool was low and possibly too fragile to hold his weight. Goodwife Anna rushed to fetch a sturdy bench by the door. But Leufrid ignored her, choosing merely to stand over the injured man.

Beck turned his head toward him and reached out a hand. ‘I cannot see. Who are you?’

‘Best not touch him, Dom Leufrid,’ said the guard.

Lucie noted how Beck drew into himself at the sound of the man’s odd speech.

It was Jehannes who perched on the bench and took Beck’s hand. ‘This is Dom Leufrid, the archbishop’s secretary,’ he said in his most soothing voice. ‘He wishes to say a prayer over you.’

‘I pray that my sight might be restored,’ Beck whimpered. ‘Even a warm kitchen is a fearful place in this darkness.’

Making the sign of the cross over Beck, Leufrid whispered a prayer of no particular pertinence, then stepped away, gazing for a moment at Marian, who dutifully scrubbed the flagstones.

‘So many servants,’ he said, shaking his head as he turned and made his way in a slow shuffle back out to the hall, the guard following.

Jehannes nodded to Lucie as he followed, gesturing that he would see the intruders out.

Taking Jehannes’s place on the bench, Lucie identified herself to Beck and assured him that the secretary and his armed escort were back in the hall where they could not hear. ‘Did you recognize the voice of the guard?’

‘It was him and another I came upon in Master Ronan’s lodging. The ones who blinded me.’

‘I will tell my husband. He will know what to do.’

‘You will not send me away?’

Lucie squeezed his hand and assured him that he would be cared for.

Moments after Leufrid and his guards departed, Hempe arrived, curious about armed guards escorting the archbishop’s secretary from Jehannes’s home. He laughed when he realized his mistake, a brief moment of jollity dampened by Owen’s account of his meeting with Sir John Neville.

‘Two days,’ Hempe growled. ‘Who does he think he is, arriving in the city and ordering us about?’ He slumped down in a chair, joining Jehannes, Owen, Lucie, Michaelo, and Ambrose, a dour group.

‘We’ve no time to waste on complaints.’ Owen removed his hat and raked a hand through his hair. ‘We can only hope that they believed Ambrose and Marian to be household servants, but we cannot depend on that. Leufrid and the guards may have decided to withdraw and consider how to proceed. We need to move her to St Clement’s tonight.’

‘What of Ambrose?’ asked Jehannes.

‘They may not have seen him,’ said Owen. ‘Were you able to speak with Tucker’s wife?’

‘I was. Dame Judith says Percy’s men did pay her to care for the young woman. She seemed not as worried about Tucker as she was about losing the money. I permitted her to keep it, as Tucker will be bringing nothing home for a while. The fiddler complained loudly all the way to the castle, but being closed in a damp room silenced him. After a night in there I believe he will talk.’

‘Pray God he does,’ said Owen. ‘And that he knows something of use. We have another concern.’ He told them how Carl, the leader of the company with whom Marian had traveled, had been watching Ambrose out near the midden, but ran off when he noticed Owen observing him with interest. Hempe would tell his men to watch out for Carl, follow him, find out whether the company was in the city to perform, or the man had followed alone. And then they fell to planning how they would escort Marian to the priory outside the city walls.

A knock on the door interrupted their tense debate.

Lucie touched Owen arm as he rose to answer, his hand on the dagger beneath his jacket. ‘Should I withdraw to Jehannes’s parlor with Ambrose and Marian?’

Jehannes rose to help but Owen motioned him down. ‘Only Ambrose and Marian in the parlor. Then return to us.’

With a nod, Lucie went to fetch them.

Owen crossed to the door. A lad bowed to him, the movement releasing a puff of sparkling powder. Dust from a goldsmith’s workshop.

‘You’ve been sent by Robert Dale?’ Owen guessed.

Startled, the lad stuttered, ‘Y-yes, Captain. I am glad to find you here. My master begs to speak with you. At his shop, sir. As soon as you might, sir.’

‘Is he in danger?’

‘I am to say no more, but to implore you to come quickly.’

‘I will come.’

Closing the door Owen was barraged with questions he could not answer.

‘Robert Dale is not one to waste my time. I will return as soon as I may. Ambrose will accompany me. If there are other members of Carl’s company about, he can point them out.’

Lucie rose to follow him to the parlor, asking why the musicians were important to him.

‘I am not sure. Marian thought she saw the drummer Paul in the minster that night. Carl is watching Ambrose. I want to know why.’

‘Your eye warns you of them?’

She knew him well. ‘It does.’

‘Will we take her to St Clement’s tonight?’ she asked.

‘I think it best. I hope you need not come.’ He kissed her and called to Ambrose.

Outside, the shadows were already lengthening, a chill dampness rising. They must hurry.