A Choir of Crows

15 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.

Crispin had limped forward, calling out in a loud voice, ‘Let us through!’

Dame Euphemia opened the curtain on Michaelo’s side. ‘Monk! What is happening?’

‘I am unsure. Your son is investigating.’

‘Find out.’

Biting back a retort, Michaelo approached Alisoun, who stood quite still, watching the liveried men speaking to Crispin.

‘Who are they?’ he asked.

‘Neville retainers on horses,’ said Alisoun. ‘The fools. One loud noise or child dashing across their paths and the horses will rear up or bolt. In such a crowd …’

‘They lead their horses.’

‘Now. They were still mounted when they ordered us to clear the way. How is a cart to do so with no room to turn?’

Though the buildings on the bridge complied with the restrictions meant to allow passage for carts, vendors encroached on the roadway and folk loitered around them. Crispin had known the cart to be a risk. He had meant to transport his mother by barge, but with the change of plans there had not been sufficient time to arrange that.

‘Help me down, monk,’ Dame Euphemia called.

Alisoun joined Michaelo, speaking softly to the blind woman as they guided her to stand beside her son.

Euphemia lost no time. ‘My son is a citizen of York, an important merchant as well as an advisor to Archbishop Neville. He is escorting me to the priory of St Clement’s. I am old, blind, and ailing.’ She hardly seemed the latter at present. ‘Who are you to demand us to make way for you?’

‘Advisor to the archbishop?’ said one of the men, looking more closely at Crispin, who gave a little bow. ‘Forgive us, sir. We make haste to his brother Sir John Neville to advise him of the arrival of his lady at that very priory.’

Crispin said nothing, just leaned on his cane and waited for them to make way. When they did, he took his time helping his mother back into the cart, with Michaelo’s assistance, Dame Euphemia moving with unhurried dignity.

Their ensuing halting progress across the bridge did nothing to ease Michaelo’s tension, but he now had more respect for mother and son, and the risk they were taking for Marian’s sake. He was grateful to reach the slope down to the riverbank, where the fishmongers sold their wares. They were long gone for the day, but the stench of rotting fish lingered and Michaelo slowed to pull a lavender-scented cloth from his sleeve. It was then he noticed a crook-backed figure slinking past, circling round the back of the cart, and decided to follow him. As the man began to lift a corner of the covering Michaelo put a hand on his shoulder. Whence came the courage? He would later wonder whether Dame Euphemia inspired him.

‘Fitch the Snoop, they call you in the minster yard.’ Michaelo spoke loud and sharp, startling the wizened man. ‘Have you no respect for a blind widow?’

By now Crispin had heard, ordered Drake to halt, and joined him. ‘Who is paying you, Snoop?’

‘Master Crispin, is it? A flock of nobles perching all about the city are surely curious about their rivals’ minions, sir.’

‘You dare to insult both my reverend mother and me, you crook-backed worm?’ Crispin poked at the man’s scrip with his cane, making the contents jingle. ‘I see you already have takings. You’ve no need of more from me. What I can promise is not to tell the mayor that you piss on his doorstep and spit on his children.’

Michaelo stifled a laugh as Euphemia called out, ‘Shame on you, Fitch. And to think I gave you alms when you begged on the corner.’

‘You are a nasty man, Crispin Poole.’

‘As a raven knows a crow,’ said Crispin with a laugh. ‘Now off with you, and remember. I have more I could tell the Nevilles. And the Graa brothers.’

The crook-back scuttled off. Crispin thanked Michaelo for his keen eye. The cart rumbled off the bridge.

As Owen and Hempe hurried toward Micklegate they met Ned, who told a tale of conflict and victory at the bridgehead involving Crispin and his dam, how they had humbled Neville retainers and continued on their way. Ned was most impressed by Alisoun, who remained quiet and unmoved during the altercation, though anyone knowing her as he did would be aware of how she stood ready to throw back her cloak and draw out her bow should the men not yield.

Glancing at Owen, Hempe made a sympathetic face.

God be thanked she contained herself, thought Owen. He invited Ned to join them, filling him in as they walked.

Several others had joined them by the time they climbed Micklegate hill, and Owen divided them, Ned and one other coming with him to the Cross Keys, the others assisting Hempe in searching the alleys along the way. The three broke off and continued up Micklegate, pushing through the crowds of folk hurrying to their lodgings as evening took hold, a good many of them strangers, here for the enthronement.

Reaching the well-lit tavern tucked back in an alley, Owen ordered Ned to watch the rear, the other to hang about outside the entrance. ‘Both of you come in only if you see Neville’s men arriving. You are to take a seat away from me. I will notice you.’

Once inside, Owen greeted the taverner, quietly inquiring whether the players lodging there were at the tables this evening. The taverner, an old friend of Tom Merchet’s, described the table where he might find them.

‘Is their leader, Carl, with them? Possibly bandaged hands?’

‘Not here. Might be up in the long room they share.’ He told Owen how to find it. ‘Will there be trouble?’

‘My aim is to keep the peace. But I want Carl.’

The taverner sighed, but poured Owen a tankard and refused his coin. ‘You’re the captain.’

Taking a sip, Owen turned to gaze round the room, passing over the table of players as if they did not interest him. He noted that one was drunkenly cradling a damaged lute, two pegs dangling. In a while he moved toward a small table just beyond the players that had no room, then turned round as if just noticing that and perched at the edge of the players’ long table as if still considering his options.

The one with the broken lute looked over, middling age, bald, bleary-eyed. ‘Soldier, are you?’ He waved his hand toward Owen’s eye.

‘And what if I am?’ Owen growled.

‘Roland means naught by the question,’ said one with a wild thicket of fair hair. ‘Considers himself a deep thinker because he notices folk. Begging your pardon, sir.’

‘Did the snow blow you into town?’ Owen said with a mirthless chuckle.

‘We come to entertain the nobles descending on this fair city for the crowning of the archbishop,’ said another, youthful, with a carefully cut beard, cleaner than the others.

The bald one cuffed the youth’s ear. ‘Crowning? Ye’re daft, boy.’

‘Musicians?’ Owen asked.

‘And players.’ The youth put hand to heart and bowed, earning himself another cuff which he tried to return but was met with a volley of strikes.

‘He would please the ladies,’ said Owen.

‘He is our lady. Only one now,’ said a muscular man with a dour expression who had been drumming his fingers on the table. Owen wondered whether this was Paul, the one who had attacked Marian and was in the minster when Ambrose met with Ronan.

‘Where will you be performing?’ Owen lifted his tankard to the taverner who was serving the next table. ‘A round for these fine musicians.’

‘Fine musicians?’ asked the taverner as he filled the proffered tankards. ‘I would welcome a good fiddler late in the day.’

‘We had the finest fiddler in the land, we did,’ said one who had been staring into his lap the while Owen had been seated there. He’d thought him asleep.

‘Carl?’ The bald one snorted up ale, wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘Not the finest. Not him.’

‘Died, did he? This Carl?’ Owen asked in an offhand way, as if tolerating the men who had turned their stools to include him.

‘Carl? Hardly dead, is he, soaring to the heights of bliss a few nights past. But the archbishop’s mighty brother broke his fingers, he did,’ said the youth.

The mop top took his turn cuffing the youth’s ears. ‘You talk too much.’

‘So you’ve no place to perform?’ asked Owen.

Shrugs all round. ‘Carl’s seeing to it,’ said the bald one.

‘We thought to set up in the field near Micklegate Bar, lure folk in as they come to town. They chased us off. It’s for pavilions for the lords’ armies,’ said the mop top.

‘You’re not one of them, are you?’ asked the one Owen thought to be Paul.

Owen laughed. ‘I kiss no lord’s arse.’ That won hoots and laughter. ‘But I know some as do. And any soldier will welcome a bit of music after a long march, some bawdy tales. Where would they find your man with the broken fingers?’

‘Here, when his woman kicks him out for being greedy,’ said the bald one.

‘Out all night, is he?’

‘Dusk till dawn,’ said the youth with a wink.

‘Most fortunate of men, eh?’ Owen said as he rose, flipping the taverner a coin as he left, walking out into the street, shaking his head at his man so he did not follow. He walked on toward Micklegate Bar.

A fiddler with broken fingers might never regain mastery of his instrument. Owen knew about that with his blinding. He still bested most at the butts, but he would never be as confident as he had been before his injury. Since his youth he had depended on his left eye for judging the trajectory. Losing the sight in that eye led him to doubt that he knew precisely where the target stood or moved, and how far away, and thinking it through only slowed him down. Hesitation was the enemy of rhythm. As with music. Owen knew from his experience playing the lute that a musician depended on knowing that his fingers would perform without effort, without thought. Carl’s injury was as devastating to a fiddler as Owen’s was to an archer. He remembered his own fury. Fury came before despair.

Neville would have done the deed while questioning Carl about Ambrose and Marian. The musician had good reason to hate Neville, but his anger, his hunger for vengeance, was more easily satisfied by attacking the musician and the singer whose escape had brought Carl to the attention of Sir John. Had Paul meant to help in some way?

When sure he had not been followed, Owen doubled back, whispered to his man out front to stay put, and moved down the alley to the rear, to the steps leading up to the lodgings above the tavern. For a moment he wondered whether Ned had wandered off.

‘Here, Captain.’ Ned seemed to materialize out of the shadows.

‘Anyone pass by? Hear anything?’

‘Maidservant cleaning a pot, a drunk puking. Heard what sounded like a pair mating, then two men came past adjusting their cocks and heading back in for more drink.’

‘I am going up to the bedchambers. If someone comes running down, stop them. If anyone approaches, make noise.’

With a nod, Ned slipped back into the shadows.

Pricking up his ears, Owen listened for signs of life as he crept up the steps. Quiet. Too quiet? He caught the murmur of voices as he reached the landing, but afar off, not the chamber the taverner had indicated, which was the first on his left. Pausing to listen at the door, he eased it open, stepped in. Someone had left an oil lamp burning. Intending to return? Owen moved quickly, searching packs, bedclothes, instruments. He found a stash of jewels beneath the mattress. Interesting, but not his business. And then a slit in the mattress with something small, stiff within. A small book with a supple leather cover. Costly, not something one of them would likely own. He was stuffing it into his scrip when Ned shouted a drunken curse down below.

A step creaked, then a board on the landing. Drawing his dagger, Owen waited behind the door, watched the man step into the room. Paul. Catching him from behind, Owen silenced him with a knife to his throat.

‘What were you doing in the minster the night before the vicar’s murder?’ Owen asked softly, drawing Paul back into the shadows, turning him around and pushing him against the wall.

‘You. I knew you were spying on us.’ Paul reached for a knife.

Owen kicked it out of his hand, yanked the man toward him, and slammed him back into the wall. A blow for Marian. ‘Now talk.’

‘I never touched the dead man.’

‘What of the girl? You touched her. She ran off because of you. Is that how Carl forced you to do his bidding? To repay him?’

‘How do you know so much, one-eye?’ Owen began to pull him up, ready to beat him senseless for assaulting a woman. But before he could slam him against the wall the man cried out, begging for mercy. ‘I will tell you! Carl wanted to know about the minstrel. I stayed just long enough to be sure it was him. Saw the girl run away. I didn’t follow her!’

From below, Ned sent up a string of curses.

Someone stumbled up the stairs, breathing hard.

‘If you say a word you will be as crippled as Carl,’ Owen warned.

A man came rushing into the room, throwing himself on the mattress. Owen smelled blood, saw it smeared on the man’s gloves as he fumbled with them.

‘Not Carl! Not Carl!’ he shouted as two young men stormed into the room, one of them roughly grabbing him just as the second glove fell.

No bandages.

‘You fools,’ Owen growled, dragging Paul out and tossing him on the bed. ‘Remove the gloves next time.’ He turned to Paul, who was eyeing his comrade’s bloody hands. ‘Where is Carl?’

‘I don’t know. I swear.’

Owen ordered the two fools to come with him, leading them out and down, nodding to Ned as he passed. ‘Keep watch.’

‘Captain, we thought–’ one of the young men began.

‘Thinking had nothing to do with it,’ Owen growled. But he was glad. He knew now that Carl had been waiting for Ambrose at the minster. He thought it likely the exchange of cloaks led Carl to murder the wrong man.

Down Skeldergate the cart rumbled unchecked, but the two incidents on the bridge had clearly added to the tensions of the party. As the afternoon light faded away Alisoun and Drake looked round at every step and the conversation in the cart grew hesitant, more anxious. Crispin walked along in silence, no longer obliged to greet his peers. At this hour in winter the waterfront warehouses were deserted, the merchants back in their well-lit homes or shops. Now the streets along the south bank of the river were the domain of the poor and the criminal. Crispin’s only comment to Michaelo was a request to continue to be on alert for anyone who seemed too curious, apologizing that the need for a humble procession had meant no guards. Michaelo had reminded him of Alisoun’s prowess with the bow. Though as dusk fell and the river mist rose an attacker would appear at too close range for a bow to be effective.

In the cart, Euphemia expressed her unease with questions about Marian’s aunt, Maud Neville. The simple answer that she knew her far less well than she did Lady Edwina or Sir Thomas did not satisfy.

‘Will she support you, that is my question.’

‘I cannot say how she will see my disappearance. A woman is oft blamed for luring a man no matter how hard she fought him, how fiercely she defended her purity. The one man who could attest to never having touched me is dead.’

‘What of the musicians?’

‘Until that night at Cawood, none of them had dared approach me in that way. I had thought it because my disguise convinced them. But I have come to think that Carl, their leader, had forbidden them to touch me, and they dared not disobey.’

‘God be thanked,’ said Euphemia.

Michaelo had been unable to make out Marian’s quiet response.

‘Have you any hope your Percy kin will believe you?’ asked Euphemia.

The woman lacked all courtesy and compassion.

‘I believe my guardian and Lady Edwina will if I am able to speak to them myself. They know me well. I cannot say whether Lady Maud will.’

‘What of your mother? Surely she will believe you.’

‘My mother defers to her betters in all things regarding me.’ Sadness tinged the words. Michaelo crossed himself and said a prayer for the young nun.

Conversation died with that. Michaelo was relieved for Dame Marian’s sake, but he regretted the loss of a diversion. Now he was too aware of Crispin’s unease, and the enveloping darkness. It was with relief that he spied up ahead a pool of light spilling out from a building, and noticed the sound of a hammer on steel.

‘Two men ahead,’ Alisoun called out as she flipped back her cloak and shrugged the bow from her shoulder, testing the string, plucking an arrow from her quiver.

Following the line of her arrow, Michaelo caught the movements just beyond the pool of light. They were drawing weapons.

Crispin limped forward. ‘Do not shoot until we see who they are.’

Dame Euphemia peered out. ‘What is happening?’

‘Someone standing in our path,’ said Michaelo. ‘Weapons drawn. Mistress Alisoun has readied an arrow.’

‘God help us.’

‘Come, let us pray, Dame Euphemia,’ Marian said. She began to recite a hail Mary.

Euphemia withdrew and joined in the prayer.

Michaelo’s heart pounded.

As the cart moved into the light Crispin put a hand on Drake’s arm and quietly ordered him to halt. He stepped forward, leaning on his cane.

‘Porter and Diggs. Have you come to assist us?’

One of the men wagged his dagger at Crispin. ‘Who do you serve, Poole?’

‘At present, my blind, elderly dam.’

‘You expect us to believe she is in there?’

Euphemia poked her head out. ‘Who are you to question my son?’

‘Now step aside, Diggs.’ Crispin shifted the cane to the other hand and began to turn back.

But Diggs, dagger poised, came forward.

Alisoun let her arrow fly, catching Diggs above the elbow on his dagger arm. With a shout of pain he dropped the weapon and stumbled to the side of the track as the other moved toward Alisoun. Michaelo stepped forward, but there was no need. Before he could draw his weapon Drake stuck out a leg and the man tripped and fell.

‘Bastard!’ Porter shouted.

Drake kicked him hard, then rolled him over to the side of the track and, with a nod from Crispin, resumed his hold on the donkey, guiding the cart past the trouble-makers.

‘What will Sir John say when he learns you attacked a man escorting his elderly mother to the good sisters?’ Crispin called out as he passed.

‘What need has he of a cripple like you?’ growled Porter.

Stinging words, and Michaelo felt for Crispin, whose limp had become more pronounced the farther they walked. But he made no complaint.

As they moved back into darkness the women in the cart resumed their prayers, Michaelo accompanying them in silence. He strained to hear anything moving in the darkness, difficult over the clomping of the donkey’s hooves, the creak of the wheels, the flutter of the cart covering, the pounding of his own heart. He peered into the darkness, seeking unnatural movement. Even so, he was startled when Alisoun plucked up a lantern from the cart and opened a shutter, revealing a covey of children preparing to jump on the cart from a porch roof. He had never heard them.

‘Jump and the men within will skewer you on their swords, little ones,’ Alisoun warned.

They crept back into the darkness.

Well done, thought Michaelo. How she had detected their presence on the roof he could not guess, but he was grateful for her keen senses, far better than his, and her courage.

They rolled on a little longer, Marian’s murmured prayers now accompanied by Euphemia’s snore. As the ground rose above Michaelo to his right, seeming to press them all the closer to the mist-shrouded river, the cart slowed.

‘The Old Baile,’ said Crispin. ‘We must move with care.’

‘May God watch over us,’ Michaelo whispered.

Euphemia ceased snoring and rejoined Marian in prayer.

At a small gate affording access beyond the walls they came to a complete halt. Drake fetched a second small lantern that had been hanging on the side of the cart, opening the shutters and handing it to Crispin. Alisoun passed hers to Drake.

‘I will walk on ahead,’ said Crispin, ‘check that the track beyond the gate is cart-worthy.’

Michaelo had wondered. Beyond the gate had once been a moat. Debris had been piled up to create a pathway. Planks were kept in a shed by the gateway for use when floods or storms washed it out. When Crispin returned with the good news that it was passable Michaelo said a prayer of thanks. They moved on, slowly, the cart bumping over the uneven ground.

As they gained the smoother path on the other side Michaelo heard horses approaching, then spied the flickering light of a torch. Two riders.

‘Who approaches the priory of St Clement’s at this late hour?’ one of them called.

Crispin limped forward, identifying himself. The men dismounted. One of them engaged Crispin while the one holding the torch approached the cart. Michaelo narrated for Euphemia as the man studied Alisoun and her companion. He moved past them to shine his light on Michaelo, forcing him to shield his eyes.

‘Who is in the cart, Father?’

‘Master Crispin’s widowed mother, who seeks the care of the good sisters,’ said Michaelo.

At that moment the man’s companion called him back. ‘Come. We will escort them on to the priory.’

God be thanked.

More retainers flanked the gateway to the modest priory. Beyond, the yard was bright with lanterns and torches. A groom came forth to watch the donkey while Crispin and the young man opened the curtains and lowered the gate on the back, Marian handing Crispin the wooden steps for disembarking. As Euphemia was eased to the ground by her son, two sisters hurried toward them.

Michaelo greeted the prioress and precentrice, Dames Isabel and Veronica, both of whom had recently employed him as a scribe for confidential matters. He introduced the party, referring to the young woman as Mistress Marian, Dame Euphemia’s companion. It would be the young woman’s choice when to reveal her identity. He ended with an entreaty that at the very least they receive the two women, explaining that the others were her escort and might return to the city. Though in his heart he dreaded the thought of returning in the dark.

‘If we might leave the cart here until morning, I would be grateful,’ said Crispin.

Euphemia began to protest, but her son kissed her hand and assured her that his only concern was for her comfort.

‘Where might we place my mother’s chests?’ he asked.

The prioress was all aflutter. ‘Master Crispin, we expected your mother in a week’s time. It is most unfortunate you have come betimes, and without warning.’ Michaelo was taken aback by her discourtesy. ‘Lady Maud Neville and her women arrived this day. You must understand our priory is small, poor, we are hard pressed–’

‘I will double the donation to your building works,’ said Crispin. ‘Will that suffice?’

It was Dame Veronica who took Euphemia’s hands and welcomed her warmly, and then Marian. ‘I pray you, do not take offense. Mother Isabel frets about the great lady’s expectations. But a house of women is what Lady Maud chose over the palace, and that we are without a doubt. Mother Isabel will soon see her worries were unfounded. Lady Maud seems most gracious.’ She touched the prioress’s arm. ‘Where shall they set the chests?’

With a sigh, the prioress directed the party to follow her into a screens passage in the hall of the guest house, where she indicated they might deposit Euphemia’s belongings.

From beyond the screen came a low hum of women’s voices, punctuated by laughter, shouted questions, bursts of singing that dissolved into giggles or whispers. Michaelo noticed Marian’s eyes aglow, and he prayed she might be truly welcomed back into the order, restored to the life among pious women that she had chosen.

While the two sisters stepped aside, no doubt arguing about where to put the two women, Marian turned to gaze at a wall hanging. Though it was tattered and darkened by smoke or mold from the river damp it was a radiant depiction of the Virgin and Child. Michaelo, too, found it a soothing point of focus after the tense journey.

‘Have we company?’ A richly garbed woman came round the screens, followed by two much younger women in only slightly less elegant travel attire.

Marian turned, and with a slight inhale of breath took a step backward.

‘Marian, is it you? Can it be you?’ the woman whispered.

‘Lady Maud,’ Marian said, hand to heart, bowing.

‘God is merciful!’ Maud cried as she rushed forward and gathered Marian in her arms. ‘You are found in a nunnery! Oh, my dear, dear girl, we have been so frightened for you.’ She stepped back, holding Marian at arm’s length. ‘But why did you not send word? And why are you in such clothing?’

The prioress, witnessing the happy reunion, approached with a furrowed brow. ‘My lady, you know this woman?’

‘May I present my niece, Dame Marian, sub-cantrice of Wherwell Abbey.’

‘Is this so?’ Dame Isabel looked to Marian.

‘I was–’

Lady Maud cut in, ‘She was seven years at Wherwell when a godless madman set fire to the abbey so that he might take her away. My brother Sir Thomas has been searching for her since Pentecost. All this time I have prayed …’ She took Marian’s hand in both her own. ‘Pray assure me, Mother Prioress, that you were notified to provide her shelter should she seek it here?’

‘I did not know she was anywhere near, my lady. She has just this moment arrived. Brother Michaelo introduced her as Dame Euphemia’s companion.’ Isabel gestured toward Michaelo.

A burst of rose scent as Lady Maud turned to him. ‘Brother Michaelo. You are the monk who discovered my niece in the minster and carried her to safety, are you not?’

He was confused. She had just implied she’d not known where Marian might be, yet she knew of her night in the chapter house? ‘My lady, it was my honor,’ said Michaelo with a bow. ‘Her heavenly voice led me to her. But how did you hear of this?’

‘Is this true?’ asked the prioress, glancing at Dame Euphemia, who had pushed forward to stand beside Marian, placing a hand on her arm.

‘Perhaps we should continue this discussion where we might provide Dame Euphemia with a place to sit,’ said Alisoun, who had been watching over the blind widow.

The prioress nodded. ‘Lady Maud, Dame Marian, shall we–’

‘We must include Brother Michaelo in any discussion,’ said Marian. ‘I have him to thank for guiding me to Captain Archer and Dame Lucie Wilton, who have healed, sheltered, and defended me. They deserve a full report of my reception here, and my reconciliation with my family.’

The smile she bestowed on Michaelo, the warmth in her pale eyes – he found himself bowing his head in humble gratitude. Rarely did others judge him for his present actions with no thought for his past. Perhaps she had not heard of his sins.

‘We are well aware of the virtues of Brother Michaelo,’ said Dame Veronica. ‘He has come to our aid of late. A man of many talents. He was long the personal secretary of our late archbishop, John Thoresby.’

Lady Maud gestured toward the prioress. ‘Might I suggest your parlor, Mother Prioress, where the fire has warmed the stones and you have a suitable chair for Dame Euphemia?’ Whom she studied with interest.