A Choir of Crows

1 Minstrels & Players in a Hall of Power

Cawood Palace, early December 1374

Holding their pikes upright so they no longer threatened the new arrivals, the guards stepped aside to allow the players entrance to the great hall of Cawood Palace. A collective sigh rippled through the company as they exchanged encouraging nods, and, with a flourish of drums and recorders, stepped lightly through the carved doorway making a merry sound. Ambrose strode forward, arms outspread to show off the elegance of his fur-lined cloak and robe as he intoned a song celebrating the harvest.

Late for that, but with little time to prepare he had chosen a tune in both his and the players’ repertoires, and one that lent itself to such a procession – a good tempo and a range in which he could project his voice above the clatter of their instruments. The grandness of the gesture was key, not the theme: a jubilant noise to delight the lords gathered here. Tomorrow, as the nobles feasted in the hall, that would be the time to turn their heads with new lyrics in praise of the rising power of the Nevilles in the North.

For the new lord of Cawood Palace was a Neville, and the occasion was a gathering of Alexander’s kinsmen before his imminent enthronement as Archbishop of York in the great minster. Already consecrated archbishop in Westminster Abbey earlier in the year, he would now take his official seat. When Ambrose had learned of this gathering, the most powerful among the Nevilles here to instruct their ecclesiastical cousin on the temporal significance of his position, he had set about finding a way to witness it, in hopes of overhearing something of use to His Grace Prince Edward. For he had no doubt much would be said – the Nevilles had used their influence, including a not inconsiderable amount of wealth, to win this honor for Alexander, and now they would expect him to make it worthwhile, to prove himself worthy of the high position – second most powerful churchman in the realm. The impression he made on the city of York and the many religious houses therein, especially the chapter of its glorious minster, must be one of strength, but tempered with grace – he must assure the dean and chapter and all the clergy in his care that he meant to be a magnanimous master.

It remained to be seen whether Alexander Neville could play the part. His career so far would argue otherwise. Even across the south sea in the French court Ambrose had heard tales of Neville’s tantrum over a bishopric in Cornwall, an ugly dispute that had begun over a decade earlier and dragged on for years.

And now, as Ambrose strode into the great hall of one of the palaces that came to Alexander as part of the archbishopric, he studied the proud faces, noticed signs of strain. No doubt partly inspired by the setting. Cawood seemed a neglected property. Judging from the stained whitewash on the gatehouse and weedy state of the yard, the previous archbishop, John Thoresby, had paid little attention to its upkeep. Why had this gathering been called here? Why not Bishopthorpe, the palace close to York and much favored by Thoresby? Ambrose guessed that this was meant to be a secret gathering. Which was, of course, why he risked being here. He might win the prince’s ear with news of the Nevilles’ strategy for the North.

At least the hall was brightly lit with torches and a large fire in the center – for it was not yet fitted with a hearth. The light was not kind to the musicians’ colorful garb, emphasizing the faded areas, the worn patches on the velvet, the oft-repaired seams. The contrast with Ambrose’s own costly robes and the elegantly garbed guests was striking, and the nobles gazed on the players with a mixture of amusement and impatience. A few smiled and moved to the music, but most began to turn away, resuming their conversations. At least no one started at Ambrose – he believed himself unknown to the Nevilles, though he had performed before some of them on occasion years earlier. Before France.

Enough of this mundane fanfare. Time to entice the guests with a taste of what they might expect on the morrow. The company’s leader, Carl, awaited the signal to begin. Nodding to him, Ambrose approached a fair youth who stepped forward upon hearing the opening notes. Matthew was the requisite comely player relegated to the female roles, at present valuable for the angelic voice, and the ethereal beauty to match – slender as a willow wand, graceful, with a mass of spun gold curls surrounding pale eyes and features kissed by innocence.

‘Shall we give them a taste?’ Ambrose whispered in French.

With a smile of anticipation so breathlessly sweet Ambrose thought his heart might shatter to look on it, the youth straightened, took a deep breath, and intoned the beginning of the duet, a playful argument about whether it is preferable to spend a delightful night with a mistress and possibly not even make love, or to proceed quickly to the act and move on, picking the flower and leaving the fruit.

The courteous lady (Matthew) seeks to persuade with descriptions of tenderness, but the man (Ambrose) is too keen on his own argument to listen to hers.

As Matthew sang the note before Ambrose’s entrance, their eyes met. Sweet Jesu. Ambrose responded in his soft baritone, playing the part of the lusty, sardonic knight. Their voices shaped a dance of persuasion and arrogance, the lady remaining sweet, the man stubborn and certain of his right to pluck and run, until he insisted on cutting her off and having the last word.

As they began, the room went coldly quiet, but after one lewd comment the rest of the performance was punctuated by bawdy commentary. When a flourish made clear that Ambrose had won the argument, the song was met with shouts, stamps, and whistles, and audible sighs from the ladies. The players took up the tune as they were led out of the hall to their quarters for the night, leaving a promise of more delight on the morrow. Ambrose had gambled on Sir John Neville’s reputation for just the sort of behavior championed by his part in the song, and he had won. God be praised.

He looked round as the company passed through the kitchen, seeking a potentially cooperative member of the household, someone who might know a place from which he might eavesdrop on the hosts of the gathering.

They were housed in the undercroft beneath the huge kitchen, sharing the space with casks of wine against the walls and salted meats hanging above them. It had been made clear that should they think to sample the wares, they could forget the generous purse they had been promised. Carl took charge, warning that pilfering would not be tolerated. He was a large man skilled with a knife, and the others, though loudly letting him know the insult cut deep, withdrew to see to their costumes for the morrow. After all, they might well be content with the barrel of ale provided them. And the cold repast. There was no need for his bullying, they muttered amongst themselves.

Ambrose wondered at how little they knew themselves. After a few tankards of ale they would find the stores irresistible. Anyone would.

He chose a corner away from the others, removed the velvet hat, and set it aside with his elegant cloak, letting his long white hair flow free. Placing his crwth on his blankets, he dusted it, then drew out the wax tablet on which he had written the lyrics composed for the occasion. Just the words – the tune was in his head and his fingers. He read it through, then set it aside to tune his instrument.

‘Might we rehearse?’

Ambrose thoughtlessly touched the youth’s chin, an affectionate gesture that he immediately regretted as Matthew pulled away.

‘Forgive me. I was startled …’

Matthew shook his head. ‘I should have announced my presence.’ Placing a small bench near the blanket, the youth sat down, signaling that no more need be said. Ambrose was trusted.

Blessed be. Sitting cross-legged on the blanket, Ambrose plucked out the primary tune on the crwth. Matthew attended, leaning in toward the sound, nodding, pale face radiant with excitement. Softly vocalizing the notes, then adding more, exploring elaborations, playing with the tune. This was not random play. Every note suited the mode in which Ambrose had composed the piece. Where had the youth learned modes? A religious house? Curious, he tried another tune, in another mode. Frowning, fair hair falling over the pale eyes, and then a smile, and an exploration of notes rising, falling, turning back on themselves – one note out of the new mode quickly corrected with a shake of the head. Ambrose had come to realize the youth’s secret, but was there more, this knowledge, the familiarity with French lyrics? He yearned to ask, but he must say nothing. A conversation might be overheard. Quietly he instructed Matthew in using elaborations only when they enhanced the lyrics. Ah, I see. A lift of the chin, a gesture. That gesture – how was anyone fooled? Yes, Matthew was meant to emphasize the feminine, yet what lad could do it so effortlessly when not performing?

Ambrose had noted an undercurrent amongst the players, a tension. Carl kept a sharp eye out for Matthew. Yes, the man knew. How long could he hold the illusion cast over his players? It was a wonder he’d managed thus far – for Matthew had clearly sung with them a while.

Out of the corner of his eye Ambrose noticed two of their fellows rising, ambling over toward them.

‘Once through the song, Matthew,’ he said. The lyrics were not as polished as Ambrose would like, but they would do. He counted on the wine flowing at tomorrow’s feast – perfection would be wasted on the mighty. All they wished for were celebrations of the family’s victories, their increasing power.

Matthew sang the tune with a few flourishes enhancing the piece. Perfect recall of the lyrics. Excellent.

‘Well done.’ Ambrose nodded to Matthew. ‘Enough for tonight. Now to sleep, and rest your voice.’ He nodded to the pair who had come forward. ‘All our voices.’

‘It is a pleasure to sing with you, Master,’ said the youth.

‘And with you.’

‘Did you leave any ale for me?’ Matthew asked the two idling nearby.

‘Oh aye, and you’ve earned it, pretty lad,’ said one. He nodded at Ambrose. ‘The minstrel’s taken a liking to you. Watch yourself, lad.’ Though they were the danger, not Ambrose.

He shook his head as if he could not be bothered with such talk and fussed with his crwth, placing it in a soft case and setting it on his pack, then made as if to go out to relieve himself.

Once outside, seeing no one following, Ambrose doubled back, slipping into a doorway indicated by the kitchen wench who had a weakness for singers. Down the corridor to the curtained alcove, she had said. And there it was. He slipped within and pressed his ear to the boarded-up aperture.

‘Ravenser? I do not think you will make much headway with him, Alexander. Thoresby’s nephew – he thought to succeed his uncle. He is not likely to befriend you.’

Ambrose did not recognize the voice. He bent down to a chink in the boards, but the speaker had his back to him. A dark, well-padded jacket embroidered in bright colors, the seams picked out with silver thread.

‘Yes, I had heard. My secretary tells me that Ravenser is well thought of amongst the clergy in the city …’ Such a nasal quality to the archbishop’s voice. No wonder he railed against his destiny. Was it not enough that his appearance lacked pleasing proportions and grace? He was cursed with beady eyes, a wide nose, and a tiny mouth in a broad, jowly face, his body thick and graceless. He moved with a ponderous, flat-footed gait. An impressive voice might have done much to mitigate such misfortune, especially paired with a composed delivery, as if all the world were his to rule. A good actor might create a powerful illusion. But Alexander Neville had no such talents.

‘A word in the right ear …’ The mystery man spoke in a soothing tone. Here was one who knew how to shape the air round him. ‘You know how it is done. Be at ease. We have not brought you so far only to abandon you.’

‘Brought me?’ A bleat that hurt Ambrose’s ears. What horror to have that amplified in the soaring spaces of York Minster. Pray God the man did not speak above a whisper in that sacred place. And might he never attempt to sing … ‘Do you insult me?’

A dramatic sigh. ‘I remind you that you are nothing without the support of the family, Alexander. Nothing.’ The voice was cold. ‘Do not trip over your pride. Our purpose is to unite the North in protecting the realm against all that threatens.’

‘You have made yourself plain. But do not forget, I have the ear of the Holy Father.’

‘Mark me, he will soon test you, tug on your strings to see whether you dance to his measure. Remember to whom you owe your allegiance – your kin. And King Edward.’

‘He is the Holy Father.’

‘And he favors the French. Never forget that. Now. What has your secretary learned of the dean of York Minster?’

‘Cardinal Grimaud regrets that he is unable to make the journey north in winter. But we met at Westminster. He seems indifferent. A proud, stubborn man …’ A petulant sigh. ‘God save me from these overbearing clerics.’

A startled laugh that the man hardly bothered to mask with a cough. ‘And the sub-dean acting as dean in his absences? John of York, I believe.’

‘Absences? I am not certain the cardinal has ever set foot in the city.’

‘You grow tedious. The sub-dean? Dean John?’

A petulant scowl. ‘A simple mind, easily dominated. You grow tedious as well. I am more concerned about Jehannes, Archdeacon of York. He presents himself as a gentle, unworldly man. But I am warned that one does well not to underestimate him. He sounds a pious bore.’

‘And the lay men of influence? This John Gisburne might be of use. Yet having met him – I would prefer a more palatable man in our confidence. He is the sort to make an enemy with each breath. And it appears he considers himself above the law. Someone needs to teach him his place. What did Prince Edward’s man Antony of Egypt think of him?’

‘My secretary Leufrid found Antony inscrutable. He was courteous to Gisburne, no more, no less.’

‘What of the late John Thoresby’s spy, the one-eyed Welshman?’

‘Archer? He’s now captain of bailiffs for the city. And Prince Edward’s man in the city, his eyes and ears in the North, they say. He entertained Antony in his home. Geoffrey Chaucer as well.’

Owen Archer’s position with the prince was precisely why Ambrose had come north.

‘I am aware Archer has the favor of the prince’s household. What do we know about him?’

‘The city sought his protection. He’s said to be a clever bloodhound, still a fine archer – he was captain of archers for Henry Grosmont before the loss of an eye, then his spy. Grosmont educated him to the latter position before he died. By all accounts he’s Gisburne’s nemesis. At some point the merchant crossed Archer and all the city awaits the day Gisburne is made to pay, and pay dearly.’

‘So Archer has enemies.’

‘Other than Gisburne?’ Ambrose wished he could see black jacket’s face, read the expression that lit up Alexander’s face. ‘Oh. Yes, I see.’

Ambrose settled himself to hear more. His distasteful interlude with the kitchen wench had been worth it.

As the company proceeded into the hall Ambrose cringed at the fog of greasy smoke in the great space, the rising odor of sweet wine, roasted meats, and sweat. And the noise! It was not the worst he had experienced, but that did not make the prospect any less daunting. To sing with his lungs filling with smoke – he would suffer tomorrow. At least he need not fret about the rough lyrics – few would hear them.

His heart lightened when Carl directed them to ascend to a gallery overlooking the feast. Closer to fresh air, at a slight distance from the fire and the noise. Better. The steep wooden steps were a challenge with the instruments, the man before him stumbling, almost knocking the crwth from his grasp. Ambrose’s quick reflex saved it.

‘How will they hear us?’ Matthew whispered as Ambrose joined the youth.

‘Those who wish to will find a way.’

And, lo, as soon as the musicians struck up a jig, faces lifted to see whence came the sound.

‘Ah,’ breathed Matthew.

‘Just so,’ said Ambrose, staring directly into the eyes of Sir John Neville, Knight of the Garter, Admiral of the North, Steward of the King’s Household, he of the gorgeous silver-seamed jacket. So the archbishopric of York was that important to the family that Alexander’s eldest brother took time away from his military activities and duties at court to attend this meeting. Suddenly what Ambrose had conceived as a fortuitous opportunity to gather a tidbit of gossip that might be of use had become a far more dangerous ploy than he had intended. John Neville’s cool gaze chilled him. Ambrose did not recall having been introduced. But he was glad the velvet hat covered his long, lustrous white hair, just in case Neville had seen him at the French court. He had certainly heard much about Neville there. He, in turn, might have heard of Ambrose, who was known as the silver-haired troubadour. God help him. He was glad he had decided to play an instrument that had been of no interest in France, the Welsh crwth.

The song ended, and the players fanned out to make room for Ambrose and Matthew in the center. Lifting his crwth, Ambrose teased out the melody, giving Matthew the pitch.

The pure voice rose up in praise of the Nevilles, Ambrose answered. John Neville’s eyes crinkled in delight.

God be praised. Perhaps that was all his concern, that the entertainment be suitable and pleasing to the ear.

While his companions busied themselves preparing for the performance, Ambrose had gathered the belongings he would not be needing and taken them to a spot he had found beside the gatehouse. A break in the wall, narrow, but he was still slender and agile, God be thanked. An overturned barrow covered his pack. Now, as the players were settling for the night, having drunk deeply and eaten their fill, Ambrose lay awake fully dressed, even to his boots, listening to the rustling, the stumbles and slurred apologies. He might simply slip out as if heading out to relieve himself but for his instrument and the blankets. So he waited.

The danger lay in waiting too long, and he must have fallen asleep, for he came alert of a sudden, heart pounding, with a vague sense of someone thrashing about. Was that a cry? He lay still, holding his breath. There. A muffled cry, a grunt of warning. He sat up and blinked to adjust to the unhelpful light from a torch by the door, flame dancing in a strong draft. Someone hunched over Matthew’s pallet. Real? He quietly collected his things, donned his hat, and rose, gathering his cloak about him. His instrument case securely hanging from his shoulder, he crept toward the sound, and, seeing that he was right, reached out and yanked the naked man away from Matthew, tossing him aside. Ambrose would never be considered strong, but he knew how to make use of surprise, and the awkwardness of a swollen cock. A loud thud, a curse, then silence.

‘Get your things and come with me,’ Ambrose whispered, offering Matthew a hand.

‘I can manage,’ the youth muttered, scrambling up, gathering blankets, clothes, a pack, turning back with a curse for the boots that had been kicked away.

‘I have your boots. Hurry!’

They picked their way among the players, some cursing, others merely turning over and resuming their snores. No one seemed to be chasing them. Near the door, Ambrose noted Carl was not on his pallet. It had not been him attacking Matthew, so where was he?

At the door to the kitchen garden, Ambrose gestured for Matthew to stay back while he checked for a guard – or Carl, then took Matthew’s things and proffered the boots. ‘Best to start out well shod. It will be a long walk.’

Bending over the boots, the youth glanced up. ‘You mean to go with me?’

‘I planned to leave tonight. You are merely an unexpected encumbrance.’

‘I can manage.’

‘We waste time. Come.’

As they began to move across the courtyard two figures approached from the fields, a bare-assed man tottering after a woman who yanked him along by his member. Carl and the assistant cook. Ambrose felt a laugh rising and covered his mouth as he backed farther into the shadows. As the two passed nearby, Ambrose felt the heat of the woman’s fury. Near the door to the kitchen she let go of Carl. He stumbled forward. She kicked him aside and disappeared within. Carl groaned. Grabbing Matthew’s hand, Ambrose hurried on. Clouds hid the moon, forcing them to move with care down the paths. But Ambrose had planned for it, walking the route several times, learning the contours, the obstacles – like the thorn hedge.

Near the gatehouse he froze in mid-step as a guard called out a challenge. But it proved to be directed at a rider who approached the gate from the road. God watched over them. The distraction would give them the cover they needed.

A forceful knock on the door. ‘My lord!’

Sir John kissed the wench tenderly – a woman bedded is a dangerous creature should she feel used and discarded. ‘Forgive me, my beauty.’

With a sigh, she slipped from beneath the sheets. John groaned at the vision, her curves caressed by the candlelight, in full view as she wrestled her simple gown over her head, dropping over that lushness. She blew him a kiss and scampered out, trading places with Pit, the man he had set to watch the players, especially the minstrel in the squirrel-lined cloak and robe. The elegance of the clothing had been his mistake, and his choice of instrument. Few played the crwth. Fewer yet with such a voice, and clothes unmistakably the work of tailors for the French court. And the intensity with which he had regarded those gathered in the hall – Sir John included. He’d not needed the curvaceous kitchen wench to tell him of the man’s interest in hearing ‘what the nobles said amongst themselves’ to know he was a spy. But who had hired him? At one time or another Ambrose Coates had been rumored to be the lover of every man in the French court – and a few women. Or was he now spying for someone in the English court? Of late John had been on the Scottish border, too far afield to stay current with court gossip.

Pit slouched to the bedside, keeping his eyes averted as if fearing he might see his lord’s nakedness.

‘You had best have news after so rudely interrupting my pleasure,’ John growled, more for the sport of seeing the man even more discomfited. Whence came these fine sensibilities in hired brutes? It was ever the same, a taste for all but a certain vice. Pit feared naked flesh, and pleasure. Pain, blood, splintered bones, guts spilling from sliced velvet, gouged-out eyes – nary a flicker of unease. But show him a woman’s bare breast or a cock wet with sex and the man blanched and bowed his head.

‘The minstrel and the fair-haired lad, milord. They have gone. Left all the rest asleep.’

‘Have they?’ John smiled to himself. ‘You know what to do.’

‘Alive?’

‘Alive if you catch him on the road. I should like to know who sent him. But if you follow him into a town or guarded manor …’ John paused, considering how likely it was that Pit and his fellows could be discreet. ‘If you might be seen dragging him away, dispatch him in the shadows, leave him to die.’

‘And the lad?’

The beautiful youth with the voice of an angel. Were the pair lovers? If so, the youth might know much, might be able to carry out the minstrel’s mission.

‘The lad likewise.’

Pit managed to bow even lower as he backed from the room.

‘Take as many men as you see fit. And some horses – they took no horses, I presume?’

‘No, my lord,’ Pit mumbled at the door. ‘They were on foot.’

‘Do not disappoint me.’

‘May God bless this mission.’

John almost laughed out loud. ‘God has little to do with such work. Get on with it!’

When the door closed he lay back, contemplating the bed curtains. The kitchen wench was a delicious piece of flesh, but now, should the minstrel be found dead and she hear of it … He would order her death on the morrow. Tempting to send for her and enjoy her once more before his man took her away. Or he had that slow-acting poison … Rising, he knocked on the door, and when his manservant answered he told him to send for the wench. ‘And bring more wine.’ She would find her death in a fine claret. A kindness.