A Choir of Crows

18 A Prayer for Harmony

Brother Henry welcomed Owen into the abbey infirmary with a serene smile. ‘The fiery-haired Gabriel has been claimed by his lord, a not entirely cordial reunion. But you will find the musician deep in conversation with your friend Dom Antony. A most learned man, your friend. Sir Lewis Clifford and Sir Thomas Percy were here as well, much moved and angered by the lengths to which the French have gone to protect themselves from the prince’s military prowess and the love he inspired in the Aquitaine.’ All serenity had vanished as the infirmarian led Owen to Ambrose’s bedside, where Dom Antony sat on a stool beside the sleeping man making notes on a wax tablet, unaware he had company.

‘Well met, old friend,’ said Owen.

Antony glanced up. His eyes warmed and a smile softened his chiseled features as he rose to embrace Owen. ‘All in the realm are indebted to you, my friend,’ he said. ‘The information Ambrose brings us is inestimable. Though perhaps too late to benefit the prince’s health.’

‘Too late?’

‘Ambrose tells me Dame Magda is uncertain that the effects of such a poisoning with mercury can be reversed after so long a time. I believe she is right.’

Difficult to hear. ‘When would have been soon enough?’

‘When the prince began to weaken. Long before he returned to this country.’

Ambrose had opened his eyes. ‘All my hopes come to naught,’ he whispered.

‘Ah. You waken again.’ Antony resumed his seat beside the pallet. ‘No, my good man, no. His Grace will see that God is not punishing him for his work, but that it was men who cursed him. That will be a comfort to him, his family, and all whom he has served, and who serve him.’

Owen watched as Antony worked his magic, easing Ambrose’s concerns, assuring him that the king and all the realm would thank him for his selfless act in bringing this information from the French court.

In a little while, Brother Henry insisted that Ambrose be permitted to sleep, he was still weak.

‘Bless you, Owen,’ said Ambrose.

‘Be well, my friend.’

Antony pressed Ambrose’s hand. ‘I will return.’

Brother Henry hastened the two away, promising them they could return on the morrow.

As they stepped outside, Antony mentioned that Ambrose had confided in him about his lover. ‘Denis has joined our party. A steadfast love such as his is to be admired and respected.’

Owen smiled. ‘I am glad. He will need your protection if His Grace is indiscreet.’

‘His temper, yes. I had thought of that. France will wish to silence both men.’ Antony cleared his throat. ‘Ambrose asked whether I knew anything of Martin Wirthir.’

‘Do you?’

‘The king’s men hunt him in Wales. He proves elusive.’

Not surprising. ‘Did you tell Ambrose?’

Antony nodded. ‘He grinned, as you just did.’

‘Did I?’

Antony grunted. ‘Sir Thomas wishes to thank you for protecting his ward. Are you in a hurry to be elsewhere?’

‘No. I would like to meet him.’

Owen and Antony were shown into the abbot’s hall. Sir Thomas Percy turned from a window and cleared a scowl from his face to greet Owen with warmth, expressing his eternal gratitude for protecting his ward.

‘Marian has been through a terrible ordeal,’ said Sir Thomas. ‘Though I seem to recall she once dreamt of traveling about with a company of minstrels.’ An impish smile that surprised in the scarred, square-jawed face, and then faded as he condemned the brothers Phillip and Rupert for all they had put her through. ‘I cannot thank you enough for shielding her from those who would use her as a pawn. Lewis Clifford regrets your offending John Neville, but I applaud you. The man thinks far too much of himself.’ He motioned for them to sit with him, calling to a servant to bring wine. ‘And I apologize for the oafish Gabriel. The young man needs humbling. A battlefield, I think.’ He nodded as if to himself.

And so it continued, Sir Thomas managing to carry on a conversation of one, until Owen excused himself. Antony walked out with him.

‘As you can see, the Percys are grateful to you. However, the Nevilles might prove less cordial, though Sir John values all you discovered about the murdered vicar. He knows to keep an even tighter grip on his brother the archbishop.’

‘What I know of Alexander Neville suggests his elder brother has failed to control him in the past.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Am I to be chastened for annoying Sir John?’

‘It is true that the prince wishes you to walk softly round the Nevilles, else you will hear nothing of their movements. But the circumstances warranted your actions. There is time. I have arranged for a dinner after the enthronement, before Sir John and Lady Maud depart. I pray you and Lucie attend.’ Antony paused. ‘Let me correct that. I insist that the two of you attend.’

‘How can we refuse?’ For his part, Owen looked forward to watching Antony handle Sir John Neville. And he welcomed the chance to introduce Lucie to Lady Maud.

Four women gazed down at the wonder of Muriel’s long-prayed-for baby, a sweet, chubby girl with a tuft of fair hair and long, dark lashes.

‘Lucia Swann,’ Muriel murmured, ‘you are the image of your handsome papa. God blessed me with such a remembrance in you.’ She looked up at Lucie, Alisoun, Lotta, and Magda. ‘Is she not the image of my beloved Hoban?’ Her husband, viciously murdered less than two months earlier.

‘She is very like,’ said Alisoun, offering the baby a finger to tug on. ‘You have indeed been blessed.’

‘I confess I find it difficult to see a man’s visage in this delicate child,’ said Lotta with a laugh. ‘Though she be almost as bald as my George.’

‘Dame Magda? What do you say?’ Muriel asked.

‘Magda sees a child who will bring great joy to thee and thy betrothed, and bring new life to thy grieving kin.’ The Riverwoman’s eyes were kind, her hands gentle as she retrieved the infant and coaxed the new mother to lie down and rest. ‘Thou hast endured a long, difficult labor and now, if thy milk is to continue to flow, thou must eat well and rest often.’ She handed the baby to the maidservant. No wet-nurse for Muriel. Having waited years for this experience she wished to savor it fully.

‘Thank you all for coming to celebrate my daughter’s birth. And to you, my dear Lucie, and you, Lotta, for standing for her at her christening.’

Both women assured her they were moved and honored. Lucie was to be first godmother, Lotta Hempe second, and Peter Ferriby, a prominent merchant and the husband of Lucie’s friend Emma, was to be godfather. Strong alliances for Muriel’s daughter among the merchant class of York. A clear sign that although she had wrested her betrothed from the archbishop’s grasp, she was well aware that for their businesses to thrive Crispin needed such alliances. Lucie prayed that this child brought a fresh chance to both her parents. She had expressed her gratitude for Crispin’s part in moving Marian to safety and promised that word of his courage and compassion would spread to those merchants who could be trusted to befriend him for it.

‘I do so wish I might be churched in time to attend the enthronement. Crispin says that Dame Marian will sing a hymn to the Blessed Virgin during the processional.’ She looked to Magda, who shook her head. ‘I will pray that she chooses St Clement’s as her home.’

The York Tavern was rowdy this night, Crispin Poole buying drinks for all and sundry to celebrate the birth of Lucia Swann. He and Muriel had pledged their troth.

‘Blessed be that Dame Muriel was safe delivered,’ said Bess as Owen arrived. ‘She deserves much joy.’

‘Here’s the captain!’ Crispin shouted, clearly on his way to a good drunk. He waved Owen over, calling out the news of his role in the baby’s hours-old life.

Folk pounded on Owen’s back, eager to hear about Carl the murderous musician and poor Will the silversmith now imprisoned in the castle. Owen tried to smile over the bitterness of losing that battle as he made his way to the back table where George Hempe sat with Alfred and Stephen, off duty for this special occasion. He wished no gloom for Crispin’s celebration. He had just lifted his overflowing tankard to his mouth when a hush fell over the room and all eyes turned toward the men in the doorway.

With a flourish, Dom Antony bowed to Tom Merchet, his deep voice carrying through the room as he introduced himself and his companion Sir Lewis Clifford. ‘I have long wished to meet you, Master Tom. Your ale is by far the best in the land.’ Antony paused for the cheers. When they died down, he said, ‘And we have brought the finest crwth player in the land to entertain the house tonight in celebration of young Swann.’ Stepping aside, he revealed Ambrose Coates, resplendent in his gorgeous cloak, repaired by Jehannes’s talented Anna. Denis stood beside him, carrying a leather case.

Tom made room near the fire, providing a stool. Lowering himself onto it, for he was still weak, Ambrose took the crwth from Denis’s hands, lifted it to his lap, and began to play.