A Choir of Crows

2 A Fell Night, an Angel’s Voice

York

At the dying of the year the minster stonemasons worked a short day, heading for home as clerics gathered in the choir to chant the prayers of nones. As soon as the yard no longer rang with the hammering of chisels on stone and the dust settled, the poor crept out of their makeshift hovels on the north side of the great minster to light their fires against the deepening dark.

Brother Michaelo stepped out of Archdeacon Jehannes’s house. In honor of the first snow of the season he wore an old cloak over the tattered habit he donned to perform his penitential service, his feet clad in boots rather than his customary sandals. He need not add frostbite to his penance. In one hand he carried a horn lantern, in the other a basket of food for the poor. Already the minster’s immense bulk obliterated any last glimpses of the fading sun, but as Michaelo moved along the great windows the sanctuary lights over the altars in the chapels and in the choir lit his way, those with stained glass casting odd colors on the muddy snow. His exhaled breath swirled round him, a fragile cloud, and by the time he hurried up to the west door he was shivering. He jerked his head in a cursory nod to a man standing without as he swept past him into the relative warmth of the nave. At least here he was not battered by the rising wind. He stood still, closing his eyes, listening to the last notes of the psalms. A momentary silence ensued, then the rustling and shuffling of the men departing through the door of the Lady Chapel.

As he turned toward the Lady altar, Michaelo noticed two men standing in the south aisle, heads bent close as they talked. One of them struck an arresting figure with flowing white hair and clothes cut with attention to the drape of the fabric in the French fashion. He had graceful hands with long fingers; in one hand he clutched pale leather gloves, lightly resting the other on his companion’s shoulder. The other man was so enveloped in a heavy cloak, with a hat covering his head beneath his hood, that Michaelo did not recognize him until he shook off the hood to scratch his ear. Ronan, who had been Alexander Neville’s vicar. As with a vicar whose canon passed away, he was secure in his position for life, and sought after by clerics from the powerful to the humble desiring his knowledge of their new archbishop. He could afford such a warm cloak, though it was far more modest than his companion’s.

No doubt they were discussing preparations for the enthronement. All the minster close was obsessed with plans for the event. The elegant one seemed to be reassuring Ronan, now and then looking round, as if expecting someone. Or did he not wish to be overheard? He need not worry. Michaelo saw no one about at the moment, too far from the crowd in the transept and the clerics in the choir, and he himself could hear nothing. Ronan’s companion was not familiar – Michaelo would not forget such a man, and yet whenever he turned a certain way a memory stirred. Long ago. Perhaps … Michaelo closed his eyes, attempting to catch the memory, but already it was gone, and the elegant one was rising with a grace that bespoke a much younger man. It was then that the two men did something most peculiar. Each removed his cloak and held it out to the other, their expressions solemn, though it seemed Ronan’s mouth turned up a little as he handled the costly cloak. He certainly had the better part of the exchange. Now the elegant one bowed and strode away, Ronan’s dark sheepskin-lined cloak billowing round him as if he might take flight.

The vicar fussed with his acquisition, burying his face in the fur, then looking up with such pleasure Michaelo guessed it was perfumed. As he moved to leave, the vicar glanced down at the floor, bent to pick something up, and turned as if to call to his companion. But the stranger was gone. With a shrug, the vicar turned the object round in his hands – soft, yielding, a scarf or a hat, then shrugged and removed his plain felt hat and replaced it with what he’d rescued from the floor. He took care with the placement of the dark velvet hat, winding its trailing piece of velvet round to secure it in place. Smiling to himself, the clerk tucked his discarded hat under his arm and shuffled away. Was there a flicker of movement toward the transept? No, Michaelo must have been mistaken. The clerks and others who worked in the north transept were gone for the day.

Shrugging at the odd encounter, Brother Michaelo continued to the Lady altar, where he knelt with a sigh of contentment, bowing to his devotions.

Michaelo sat with the dying Mary Garrett through the night until a lad returned with the healer Magda Digby. A light shone in Mary’s eyes at the sight of Dame Magda, and she cried out her relief, humbling Michaelo. For all his prayers, he had not the gift to comfort the dying. As he stepped out into the snowy yard he heard shouts off to his right, toward the chapter house. Pulling up his hood, he turned away from the sound, bowing his head to the blowing snow as he hastened round the west front of the minster. The wind reached icy fingers into his hood, stinging his ears and freezing the lashes over his watering eyes. He tried to warm himself by imagining how he would soon sit before the fire – Anna the cook would already be up – with a cup of hot spiced wine, perhaps some fresh bread and cheese. He should fast and take communion, but as he had not slept he would compensate with a brief prayer in the minster on his way. As he changed direction he stumbled into a drift of snow beneath which something hard bruised his shins. Muttering a curse he brushed the snow away from a long wooden sledge. Left by the stonemasons, he guessed, in their haste to find shelter and warmth. Who could blame them?

Stepping through the flimsy door over the entrance to the unfinished Lady Chapel he faltered, caught by an unexpected sound curling within the howling wind. A voice. An angelic voice singing Missus est Angelus Gabriel a Deo in civitatem Galilææ, cui nomen Nazareth. An Advent hymn – appropriate, but at such an hour, and alone? He thrust back his hood so that he might gauge whence came the sound. The transept? No, that would echo and cut the immense silence of the overarching stones. This came from behind a door. The chapter house? He was hurrying in that direction when something did cut the silence – the jangle of keys on a ring approaching from the south transept. Shining his lantern to his left, he saw Theo, the precentor’s man, lit by his own lantern as he hurried across toward the chapter house.

‘God in heaven, what madness has descended upon us this night, a man fallen, someone singing in the chapter house. What? Who dares intrude–’ Theo halted, peering at Michaelo. ‘Out of my way, brother,’ he called, hurrying on, the keys and the rude command sacrileges in this holy place.

Michaelo followed on his heels. Reaching the door of the chapter house Theo paused, breathing heavily while he bent his head to fumble with the keys.

‘You said a man had fallen,’ said Michaelo. ‘Who? Where?’

‘From the chapter house roof. Or so it would seem. The snow did nothing to cushion his fall. Now hush. Between that bleating and your questions I cannot think.’

It seemed to Michaelo that unlocking a door that Theo locked and unlocked daily should require little thought.

‘Dead?’ he asked.

‘Indeed.’

‘Are you such a dolt you cannot appreciate such a voice? Bleating indeed.’ Michaelo huffed.

‘On such a night, it can only be the voice of the devil,’ Theo growled as at last he managed to turn the key and push wide the door. While he crouched to retrieve his lantern, Michaelo lifted his own and stepped past him into the echoing space. Theo shouted for him to halt, but Michaelo paid no heed, continuing until his light illuminated the singer.

Now he stopped as he beheld a vision. A tall, ethereally pale youth with flaxen hair stood in the middle of the space with arms outstretched, slowly turning round and round as he sang

In his right hand he held a dagger, as if warding off an attacker. Only when he faced the light did he discover his audience, going silent and still, and dropping his arms. Michaelo stepped closer, wrinkling his nose at the state of the youth’s clothing – stained and torn, his face smudged, his hair wild. He stank of sweat and fear. Another step and Michaelo noticed how the hand holding the knife shook, and what might commonly repel him made him wish to protect this soiled angel. It occurred to him that if Theo believed this youth to be in Michaelo’s charge he might release him without fuss. Though what he would then do with the lad, well, no time to think of that now.

‘So that is where you were hiding. You have been missed.’ Michaelo hoped his tone and words expressed just enough affectionate irritation. ‘I pray you, if you would permit me to deal with him …’

Theo regarded him with distrust, then recognition. ‘Brother Michaelo. I am relieved to hear you know the intruder.’

Michaelo nodded. ‘You see why he forbids you to go forth after twilight without escort? And the chapter house – the dean and chapter will not tolerate such an intrusion. Come now. Your uncle awaits us.’

‘But the man fallen from this very building–’ Theo began.

‘I assure you, this lad is no murderer,’ said Michaelo. An assumption, for of course he did not know, but he sensed – perhaps it was the smell of the lad. And how would a man sing so beautifully after committing such a sin?

At first, the youth stared with mute puzzlement, then asked, ‘My uncle?’ Another pause. Michaelo searched for something to save the ruse, but at last the youth gave a wan smile. ‘Did Master Ambrose send you? God be thanked!’ As quickly as the smile appeared, it dissolved into a grimace. ‘I beg your forgiveness. I was locked in. I managed to sleep a while, but I was so cold. And frightened. I remembered that Master Ambrose said a mere whisper can be heard across this space, so I hoped a song might be heard without. I thought a shout might bring armed guards, whereas a song …’ He lifted a slender hand to his heart and bowed to them. ‘I pray you, forgive my trespass.’

Spent the night here? Slept? His clothes suggested a different tale, damp, as if recently outside. On the roof? The lies gave Michaelo pause, but his instinct to protect held. He looked at Theo. ‘Is it not customary to ensure this room is empty before securing it for the night?’

‘I have never before found anyone within. Who is Master Ambrose?’

Michaelo held out his hand to the youth. ‘A dagger offers poor protection against the dark. I will take that.’

The youth hesitated.

Michaelo stepped closer.

With a mumbled, ‘I thought to protect myself,’ the youth surrendered the weapon, but shaking with such violence that Michaelo caught the dagger as it fell from the slender hand.

‘Protect yourself?’ Theo lifted his lantern, looked round. ‘I see no one else. And I don’t understand. You sang for help, then meant to resist?’

‘You might check up above,’ Michaelo suggested to Theo.

Theo took a step back. ‘I am not armed.’

‘I am so cold!’ The youth hugged himself.

No wonder, in wet clothing. ‘Find help,’ said Michaelo. ‘I will see to the lad.’

‘They say you now work with Captain Archer,’ said Theo. ‘Fetch him.’

Michaelo bristled that the man would presume to order him about. ‘It is you who failed to search the chapter house before securing it for the night. See to yourself.’

‘I pray you.’ Beginning to slump, the youth clutched Michaelo’s arm.

As he put his free arm round the youth’s torso to support him, Michaelo’s hand encountered the rounded breast of a young woman. God help him. He bit off an apology. The young woman continued to crumple.

‘Take this.’ He thrust his lantern at Theo, who took it without argument.

‘Is he ill?’

‘God knows,’ Michaelo muttered. Remembering the sledge he had uncovered near the outer door, he thought he might assist her that far. Putting both arms round his charge, he whispered to her, ‘Help me. If I ask this bumbling fool for help he, too, will discover your sex. It would go better for you if you summoned up all your remaining strength and helped me get you to safety.’

He felt her try to recover, but the effort increased her now almost continual tremors and her flailing attempts to gain a footing worked against his efforts.

‘I pray you, do not fight me. If you can help me get you to the outer door, there is a sledge. I can pull you to safety.’

Apparently she understood and eased her struggle, leaning into him. With her feeble assistance he managed to get her across the transept. How was it she’d sung with such strength when now she could barely keep her eyes open? Had he imagined it? Was Theo right, this was the devil’s work? In his heart, Michaelo did not believe it. He must believe God was working through him. Or her.

They were heading down the aisle along the choir when Theo caught up, panting, his keys clanging. ‘I heard something within. The sound of someone on the steps.’

The woman gripped Michaelo’s hand.

‘Did you have the sense to lock them in?’ Michaelo asked.

Theo said nothing.

‘Fool.’

‘More the fool to walk into danger unarmed.’

‘How is locking the door walking into danger?’

With a sniff, Theo demanded to know where Michaelo intended to take the youth.

‘To his lodgings,’ said Michaelo.

‘Not to his uncle?’

Michaelo cringed at his own confusion. ‘Precisely.’

‘This Master Ambrose?’

Michaelo was saved by the sound of the outer door opening. Two clerks bustled in, each carrying a lantern. Behind them was Master Adam, the precentor.

Theo held up the two lanterns. ‘Master Adam.’

‘What are you doing here?’ the precentor demanded. ‘Who is this?’

Michaelo and Theo interrupted each other trying to explain.

Adam waved them to stop. ‘One of our vicars has been murdered and a stranger lies dead, all in the minster yard. The stranger is believed to have fallen from the roof.’ He gestured up above them, then leaned close to the woman in Michaelo’s arms. ‘What do you know of this?’

‘Nothing, God help me.’ Her voice little more than a croak.

‘What is wrong with you?’

‘He is quite weak,’ said Michaelo. ‘I have all I can do to hold him upright.’

‘Injured?’

‘I do not know.’

‘Take him to Captain Archer. Tell him to hold him under suspicion of murder.’

‘Murder?’ Michaelo said. ‘Look how he shivers, how he can barely stand.’

Adam brushed the hair from the woman’s eyes. ‘So fair. Were you defending your honor, son?’

The woman hid her face in Michaelo’s shoulder.

‘Two men attacked him? Is that what you think?’ asked Theo.

Adam stepped back, shaking his head. ‘I cannot believe it of Ronan.’

Ronan. Michaelo inwardly crossed himself, remembering the exchange of cloaks. He yearned to ask if he meant that the murdered vicar was Ronan, but he dared not cause more delay. His strength was giving out. ‘Theo heard someone up above,’ he said. ‘You would do well to investigate while I escort this lad to the archdeacon’s lodgings.’ Jehannes, Archdeacon of York, surely the precentor would accept his authority.

‘Not there. Captain Archer’s house.’

Michaelo opened his mouth to protest that Owen’s children were ill, it was no time to impose on him, nor was he responsible for crimes in the minster liberty. But what was the alternative?

‘Help him,’ Adam ordered one of the clerks. ‘Theo, check the chapter house. Now!’

With much muttering Theo handed Michaelo’s lantern to one of the clerks and turned back to the chapter house.

‘There is a sledge just outside the door,’ said Michaelo to the clerk. ‘I will pull the lad on it while you light the way.’

A nod. God be thanked he did not insist on helping carry Michaelo’s charge.

Outside, he directed the clerk to the sledge and had him brush off the accumulated snow, then settled the young woman on it. Blinking against the blowing snow, Michaelo pulled up his hood, then bent to the young woman, advising her to hold onto the sides of the sledge.

The clerk warned him to step back as a group of men rushed past, lanterns swinging in their haste to follow others disappearing round the east end of the minster. Shouts echoed from somewhere in the minster yard.

Two men dead, one possibly Ronan. Had he been mistaken for the white-haired man? Michaelo crossed himself and prayed that he was not delivering a murderer to Owen and Lucie.