A Choir of Crows

5 The Riddle of the Cloak

By now the Bedern was awake, the vicars choral and the canons already at morning prayer in the minster, lay folk moving about their chores, gossiping of the bodies in the minster yard. A tidy walkway had already been cleared throughout the area, allowing Owen, Michaelo, and the clerk leading the way to move quickly through the curious crowd to Ronan’s lodgings near the center, close to the cloister and refectory. The clerk left them to a fellow clerk guarding the lodgings – Beck, who took offence at being introduced as Ronan’s manservant.

‘His clerk,’ he corrected his fellow, who shrugged and departed.

With some reluctance, Beck stepped aside to allow Owen and Michaelo to enter, then followed them in.

‘Spacious,’ said Michaelo as he shone his lantern into the room.

‘Master Ronan was held in high regard,’ said Beck, setting his own lantern on a bench near the window to open the shutters. Facing north, they let in little light on a winter dawn. But the placement of his lantern revealed wet footprints on the floorboards. Snowy boots, Owen thought.

‘I believe this is the cloak he had been wearing in the nave.’ Michaelo held up a garment that had been draped on a stool beyond the bed. ‘But how did it come to be here?’ A chest stood open, clothes shoved to one side. ‘Someone was in a hurry.’

‘Not Ronan,’ Owen noted. ‘Those marks are recent.’ He looked at Beck. ‘Perhaps yours? Were you in here before we came?’

The clerk squirmed, shook his head.

‘Do you know whether the tide has come in?’ Owen asked.

‘It has,’ said Beck. ‘I heard the bells on the river.’ They were set to be jostled by the rising tide, ringing out a warning.

‘Is that relevant?’ Michaelo asked.

Owen did not care to answer in the clerk’s presence. ‘We have seen enough here. Bring the cloak.’ As he strode out he heard Michaelo advising Beck to watch the room.

‘But I have others to serve,’ the man whined.

‘Then be sure to lock the door. Are you able to do that?’

‘Yes. I will.’

When the monk caught up to Owen down on the street, he gave a loud sigh, but said nothing.

‘Are you certain that is the cloak he traded with Coates?’ Owen asked.

‘If not, it is very like.’

Owen walked with him in silence for a time, then asked if he could now direct him to Mary Garrett’s bedside. ‘Though with the tide out, I may well have missed Dame Magda.’

‘My impression is she comes and goes without a thought to whether or not the tide is out,’ said Michaelo. ‘She has the coracle. And the raggedy children who guard it.’

He knew more of Magda’s situation than Owen would have guessed. For Thoresby? ‘If you will tell me how to find her.’

Michaelo described where Mary Garrett’s shack abutted the north end of the minster. ‘I had a thought as I began to write out my account. Edwin, who clerked for Neville – he might provide insight into Ronan. Though why I bother to suggest such a thing …’

‘I have offended you.’

‘Your question about the tide. Why so secretive? Have I not yet proved my usefulness?’ Michaelo cursed as a clump of snow slid from a roof onto his shoulder, slithering down his cloak to land at his feet. He shook off the icy residue.

‘You have proved yourself an excellent hound on the scent, with a memory for detail of value to me. But the clerk stood right there.’

‘Ah.’

‘Did you ever hear Ronan referred to as Neville’s summoner?’

An eyebrow raised, a slight smile. ‘That is it. A thought that kept slipping just out of reach. Yes. They also called him Neville’s spy.’

‘It is the summoner idea that interests me.’ Owen thanked him. ‘Bring the cloak and your notes to me at the end of the day.’ It was clear Michaelo meant to complete them before he went to rest. ‘And should you have the opportunity, a word with Edwin would be appreciated.’

‘You trust me to do it myself?’

‘I do.’

‘I will do so.’ With a satisfied sniff, Michaelo turned toward Archdeacon Jehannes’s house in the minster close.

Owen trudged on. He had missed the prickly Michaelo.

A tattered blanket covered the elderly woman, including her face. ‘When did Dame Magda depart?’ Owen asked the man who had shown him into the draughty space.

‘The Riverwoman’s not long gone, Captain. With your long legs you might catch her at Bootham Bar. Have you heard there’s a third body? Fished him up this morning.’

A third. God help them. ‘Where?’

‘Near Lendal Tower. Caught on a hook on the wall, bobbing in the tide.’

Ambrose? ‘Anyone you know?’ Folk who squatted round the minster were often the most knowledgeable inhabitants of the city when it came to misadventure, looking after their own, those the authorities preferred to ignore.

‘A stranger. I’ve heard naught but he was a barrel of a man. And tall.’

No one would say that of Ambrose Coates. Relief washed over Owen, silencing him for a moment. He must still count Ambrose a friend.

But who was this third body? A coincidence? ‘Who found him?’

‘It was bailiff’s men carried him to the deanery. To set beside one fell from the roof. A pair of them now, strong men, with soldiers’ scars, though one tall, the other short, both broad in the chest.’

Owen gave the man a penny for his help and retraced his steps to the shed behind the deanery. One of Hempe’s men stood guard outside.

‘I heard there is a second body.’

‘Another fighting man. Seen more fighting than the first by the look of him.’

‘Has the coroner seen him?’

‘He has, and not too happy about being called back. Says the city owes him a new pair of boots. Ruined his in the snow. Next he’ll want a manservant sweeping the way for him.’

Owen stepped inside, opened a shutter on the lantern hanging on a hook within, and studied the newcomer. Poor sod. Boots heavy with river water, mouth agape. He had an oft-broken nose and a scar that pulled the left side of his mouth awry. Clothed well, his dagger missing. Someone in the city had a new weapon. Hempe would find it, unless it had sunk to the bottom of the Ouse. Even so, at low tide a shiny blade would not lie unclaimed for long. The clothing of both bodies suggested they were the unliveried retainers of powerful men, the sort one did not claim with badges, for they would see to the shadowy tasks – murder a rival, set fire to an enemy’s barn, steal the cattle.

With less than a month before Alexander Neville’s enthronement, at which time York would be crowded with representatives of all the powerful noble families in the North, such men were to be expected, ostensibly ensuring the safety of their masters. That several of them had converged on the minster in the early hours troubled him. Was Ambrose Coates the unwitting lure? It might explain this man’s death, if he had been following Ambrose to the mudflats. But then he could not have been the one Theo scared off.

The river rushed over the makeshift causeway that afforded access to the stone island on which sat the home of Magda Digby, the Riverwoman. At low tide. Not at present.

‘Penny to row you over, Captain.’ The gangly lad was already dragging the coracle toward the dark waters of the Ouse.

‘Penny to row me over and back?’

‘Seeing as it’s you …’

‘Is the Riverwoman at home?’

‘She is.’ A grin revealed dark spaces between rotten teeth. He held out his gloved hand for his pay, bit the coin with what teeth he had, then motioned for Owen to climb aboard. ‘Fine day for a crossing, Captain. A blessing the river ain’t frozen over.’

Owen laughed. It was hardly a crossing. Had it been warmer, he would not have bothered with the coracle. Where had the lad learned of rivers freezing over? Tidal rivers rarely did so, and Owen could not recall it happening in his time in York. The lad was too young to have been alive before Owen arrived in the city. He hardly had time to entertain these thoughts before they arrived. As the coracle nudged the rock Owen felt the familiar shower of needle pricks over his blind eye. A warning. On Magda’s island? He shook off the thought and stepped out, offered to help lift the boat out of the water.

But the lad declined, already pushing away as he glanced up at the dragon that hung upside down from the remnant of a Viking longboat that constituted the roof of Magda’s weather-tight home. ‘I will wait for you from the bank.’

Likely he did not care to sit beneath the dragon. Preferring the lad not overhear his conversation with Magda, Owen did not argue. ‘Another penny to refuse transport to anyone else, and give me a full description of them when I am ready to return?’

A gappy grin. ‘Agreed.’

Owen tossed him the coin, then turned to rap on the door. But it was already swinging open. Across the threshold stood the old healer, her strange garb of many colors making her seem to flutter in place.

‘Has Hugh’s fever broken?’ she asked.

‘In the night,’ said Owen. ‘Now they all rest.’

A brief smile. ‘But there is no rest for thee, Bird-eye. Thy clear-seeing hast brought thee to roost precisely where Magda would have thee. An old friend awaits.’ She beckoned him inside.

Bowing to clear the lintel, Owen breathed deep as he stepped into the warm, aromatic space. He had come to appreciate the bouquet of herbs and roots and the curious scent of Magda’s hearth fire. She never divulged what woods fueled it, but he had never smelled a fire so subtle and rich.

A man rose from a low stool and took a step backward, as if uncertain of his welcome, his delicate hands crossed over his heart. Though the hair was no longer than Owen’s, and dark, the cheeks less round than in memory, the eyes sunken, the hands gave him away. ‘Ambrose.’

A slight nod. ‘Owen.’ More a worried whisper than a greeting.

‘What is this?’ Owen spread wide his arms. ‘I rush here to see you, old friend, and you back away? You know me better than that.’ He embraced Ambrose, who was taut with fear. Stepping back, Owen assured him that he came with no purpose but to hear his story.

‘Forgive me. I should know from old that you seek ever to balance justice with mercy.’

‘Have you need for mercy?’

‘Dame Magda tells me I have left a trail of trouble, though how that has come to pass …’ Ambrose spread his arms as if to show he carried no weapon.

Magda touched Owen’s elbow. ‘Thou hast not slept this night, Bird-eye. Wouldst thou accept a tonic in a cup of brandywine?’

‘To help me think? I would, with thanks.’

He settled on a low bench by the fire, leaning forward to rub his hands, waiting for Ambrose to begin. But he merely stared back.

Magda handed Owen the cup. ‘Thou art wasting time, Minstrel. Thou hast come a long way to save thy prince and thyself. Sit down and confide in thy friend.’

‘Your prince?’ Owen asked as Ambrose resumed his seat. ‘French or English?’

‘A fair question. Prince Edward, heir to the English throne and Duke of Aquitaine. I have spent years at the French court, it is true. Waiting for a lover who never returned. And while I waited I thought I might see for myself what so enticed Martin, why he could not set aside the life of a spy.’

‘Did you discover its appeal?’ Owen tasted the brandywine. He could not tell what Magda had added, but after a few more sips he felt warm and far more alert.

‘I found it foul. I can describe for you the bedchambers of the most powerful members of the French court, as well as their enemies. I have been feted, showered with luxuries, spit at, beaten, wooed back. It is more the life of a dog than a human with a soul.’

A grunt from where Magda bent over her worktable.

‘And all the while I listened. A musician with no ambition to be more, no taste for the tournament lists – they considered me too unimportant and powerless to send me away while they drank wine and concocted their plots against all in their way. Especially “tiresome Aquitaine” – that is what they call Edward of Woodstock, and “Prince of Darkness”. I know much that His Grace might use against them – desires, fears, appetites, weaknesses.’

A treasure. ‘Then why come north to York?’ Owen asked. ‘You did not think Prince Edward would attend Neville’s enthronement?’

‘No. My plan was to retrieve the instruments I entrusted to Dame Magda, which I now understand to be in the workshop of your apothecary, so that I might ingratiate myself with someone in His Grace’s circle and so find a sponsor to make my introduction. I have summarily failed in that so far. However, at Cawood Palace–’

‘The archbishop’s palace?’

‘Yes. I … joined a company of players invited to provide entertainment for a gathering of Nevilles. Hoping to hear something that might be of help. That was where – have you any news of the lad with whom I was traveling?’

‘The pale beauty? With the beautiful voice, according to Brother Michaelo. She sleeps in our solar at present.’

‘Ah. So you know.’

‘I know little else.’

‘God be thanked she is safe,’ Ambrose breathed.

Owen had forgotten how his entire face registered emotion, a gift for a performer, but a spy?

‘How did you find her?’ Ambrose asked. ‘Dame Magda spoke of trouble. Is she safe?’

‘She is safe for now. I would like a more detailed explanation of why you are here. And why you were at Cawood.’

‘Will you not tell me what happened after I left the minster?’

‘Last night you had long white hair.’

‘You spoke to Ronan.’

He did not know? ‘No. You were seen. We will speak of that. First I will hear your story.’

Ambrose glanced at Magda, who had busied herself with mortar and pestle. He returned his attention to Owen. ‘You are more officious than I remember.’

‘I was a long while in Thoresby’s service.’

Ambrose drank down whatever Magda had put in his cup. A truth serum? Perhaps. For now he began to talk. ‘To save which prince, you asked, England or France. And well you might. I arrived in Dover without a letter of safe passage. Who would have written such a thing for me? I prayed that God might show me the way – a repentant sinner, come to make amends, reparations. I heard in the taverns that Thoresby was dead, and you now in the prince’s service. Even in the South they speak of you.’

‘More likely they speak of Alexander Neville.’

‘The prince’s interest in York is the subject of much conjecture.’

‘I see. Continue.’

‘When I heard you now served Prince Edward I took it as the sign I had looked for and knew I was right to head north. I need you to speak in my favor, Owen, to assure His Grace that I am neither a spy nor an assassin. I want only to save his life.’

Not what Owen had expected. ‘Why should you care so much as to risk everything?’

‘Perhaps it is my penance for these wasted years. I might have– A conversation for another time.’

‘The French plot to murder him? Or do you know of a cure for his lingering illness?’

‘Both, in a fashion. I would warn him against his French physician, for his purpose is to sustain the illness that torments His Grace, that weakens him, and will in time kill him.’

‘What is this?’ Magda whispered, looking up from her work.

‘The physicians who presented themselves to him in Bordeaux, including the one who returned in his household, they have betrayed him. Pierre de Manhi of Bordeaux brought four of them together in an effort to rid the realm of Aquitaine of the prince in a most humiliating manner. A pity, folk would say, this once feared warlord diminished by a flux that will not stop, a weakness that incapacitates him. When Edward was carried to Limoges on a litter they were amused. An image most gratifying.’

‘Snakes,’ Magda hissed.

‘How did they do this?’ asked Owen.

‘Experiments with poisons – small amounts, imperceptible in otherwise ordinary physicks, taken over a long while. They were curious to learn whether the poisons would kill him or merely weaken him, whether they would prevent other physicks from working. The deadliest of them, mercury, is the particular curiosity of the viper who now resides in the prince’s household, Monsieur Ricard.’

Magda left her worktable to join them by the fire.

She had spoken at length with Princess Joan about her husband’s illness. ‘Would the symptoms the princess described support these claims?’ Owen asked.

‘Quicksilver is an inconstant healer,’ said Magda. ‘It is possible Minstrel is right.’ She held Owen’s eye, looking deep. ‘Trust him, Bird-eye. He has no cause to lie to thee. Nor would he come such a way to speak nonsense.’

‘If this is true …’ But what to do with Ambrose for now. With the children convalescing, and one stranger already installed in his home? ‘Tell me about the young woman.’

Ambrose looked at him askance. ‘Will you not say whether or not I might count on your help?’

‘I need to think what I can do. But to the point, I need to know what danger sleeps near my children.’

‘Of course. I had not considered …’ Ambrose looked down at his hands, white, unlined, uncalloused but for the tips of his fingers. He spoke of noticing her amongst the players.

So she was not a Neville. ‘How did you come upon them?’ Owen asked.

‘I overheard the leader at the tavern bragging that they were to perform at Cawood Palace. I knew it to be one of the properties of the Archbishop of York. An opportunity to learn something of use to you. A lure.’

‘Found you a lure?’

‘Sir John has placed Alexander on the archbishop’s throne to dominate the Northern lords, keep them in place.’

‘Anyone with half a wit guessed that.’

‘But I can attest to it. He sees Ravenser as a difficulty. And you.’

Also not surprising. ‘What does he propose to do about us?’

‘That I cannot say.’

‘Pity.’

‘He wanted to know which merchants might be supportive.’

‘Supportive of what?’

‘My impression was that the prince’s health emboldens them to hope for the crown to go to Lancaster, the king’s brother, rather than Edward’s son, Richard of Bordeaux. They spoke of this in France, the powerful Lancaster ready to steal the throne from the boy, who is much favored by the French. Malleable. His mother fond of France.’

‘This might be of use to the prince.’ This and a warning against the treacherous physician. ‘Is there more?’

‘Will you help me?’

Owen needed to know just how much trouble he was taking on. ‘First, the young woman. You heard this man boasting …’

‘Sacré Dieu,’ Ambrose muttered, but he nodded. ‘I took up my crwth and performed right there in the tavern, singing a mournful ballad. They were impressed and invited me to join them. I noticed the lad – as I thought him them – using his fingers to mark out the notes of the song, as many are trained in abbeys. He interested me. The leader noticed and warned me away. But the lad, Matthew as he – as she called herself, had a voice to complement mine, so I worked with her. Noticed how she knew the modes – a way of learning what notes belong together in sacred music.’ He hummed a tune that sounded vaguely familiar. ‘You recognize it, yet it could be many hymns you have heard. Because it is. My point being she is well trained. Convent-trained, I would guess.’

Michaelo had been right. Again. ‘She has not confided in you?’

‘No. How did Brother Michaelo hear her? God help me, is she at the abbey? They will discover her.’

‘No. Michaelo bides in the minster close. He was passing the minster before dawn and heard her singing in the chapter house.’

‘Singing where?’ Ambrose looked stunned. ‘How did she come to be there?’

‘I would guess she followed you to the minster last night. Perhaps witnessed your exchange of cloaks.’

‘My– You know of that.’ A muttered curse. ‘I have not been so careful as I thought. No. I left her with the fiddler, Tucker. Why would she follow me there?’

‘I know not. What did you do with Ronan’s cloak?’

Ambrose gestured to a hook on the wall beside the door. ‘It hangs there.’

From his seat, it looked to Owen very much like the one he had taken from Ronan’s lodgings. He rose to examine it. The lining was not the same, but from a distance it would seem a match. ‘Where did you go from the minster?’

‘I came here. I wanted Dame Magda’s advice about coming to you. And my meeting with Ronan troubled me. I’d sought his help, calling on our old acquaintance, favors I’d done for him. I asked him if he knew whether any Nevilles had arrived. I feared they’d followed me from Cawood. He said he would find out, and, if so, vouch for me – in exchange for my costly cloak.’

‘I question the wisdom of offering yourself to the Nevilles.’ Nor did he sense that Ambrose was telling him the full truth about the exchange. Something in his eyes, the smooth explication.

‘How would you advise me?’ asked Ambrose.

‘I will think on it after you have told me all. It was not you who suggested the exchange?’

Ambrose looked surprised. ‘To what purpose?’

‘Disguise?’

A mirthless laugh. ‘If they are Neville’s trackers, they will not be so easily fooled.’

‘You did not first go to Ronan’s lodgings, switch to a different cloak?’

‘Why would I? And how? It has been a long while. I’ve no idea where Ronan lives now. In any case, you see the cloak right there. Why are you asking this? Did Ronan come to you?’ His voice broke on the last question. He was lying. Or holding something back.

But it seemed someone else had been in Ronan’s room, and in the chest. Owen resumed his seat, more and more unsettled about what he might have missed. ‘Ronan is dead. Murdered.’

‘Dead? Deus juva me. But– How? When?’

Owen looked at Magda. ‘You told him nothing about the deaths?’

‘Magda spoke only of trouble,’ she said. ‘Better he heard of it from thee.’

‘Deaths?’ Ambrose whispered. ‘More than Ronan?’

Owen told him of the other two.

Ambrose, already pale, turned ashen. ‘Mon Dieu, what did I do?’ He looked away, breathing shallowly. ‘Ronan. May God grant him peace.’ He crossed himself with trembling hands. ‘And the other two? Who were they? Oh God help me.’

Magda rose and went to him, gently guiding his head between his legs. ‘Breathe slowly, three heartbeats in, three out.’

Hearing a shout from the riverbank, Owen went to the door, opening it just enough to see Hempe arguing with the river boy.

‘Bailiff Hempe, is it? Wast thou followed?’

‘I am as certain as I can be that I was not. Someone must have told George I’d asked about the tide, damn them.’

‘Bailiff?’ Ambrose stumbled up from his seat and caught Owen’s arm. ‘I’ve done nothing.’

‘Three deaths in a matter of hours, Ambrose, and your exchange of cloaks with Ronan could be seen as connecting at least his murder to you. I need to talk to Hempe, hear why he has come.’ Owen sensed Magda’s eyes on him. ‘I will do what I can.’

She nodded and gestured for him to go.

Once outside, Owen was relieved to see that Hempe appeared to have come alone. He considered whether it was better to have the lad bring him over, or to cross himself. He chose the latter, shouting for the lad, gesturing to him to come alone. Hempe made clear his frustration with a shouted curse, carried away by the rushing river. All but the tone, which was clear.

‘I owe you an extra penny for this,’ Owen told the lad as he stepped into the vessel. ‘You have my gratitude for standing up to the bailiff.’

The gappy grin again. ‘Tuppence extra.’

‘Let us see just how many trips we will be making,’ said Owen.

‘I trust you, Captain.’

Owen hoped Hempe did as well. But when he heard what had sent his friend here, he was not at all sure how far the bailiff could go in protecting Ambrose.

‘Whoever left the cloak stole a chest of coins and other valuable items the vicar had collected for the archbishop, calling in debts,’ said Hempe.

Debts, or the takings of a summoner? ‘Who told you this? Master Adam’s clerk?’

‘Ronan’s clerk. Beck. He was determined I should know. To his mind you were not sufficiently concerned.’

‘He mentioned nothing of valuables when I was there.’

‘And the thief and murderer, so he calls him, had switched cloaks there.’

Owen detected a false tale spun from his interest in the cloak. A reminder to say nothing in the hearing of onlookers. Time to confide in Hempe. He needed his help. ‘If you mean the man with whom Ronan exchanged cloaks in the minster last night, no. He came straight here.’

‘In the night? The guards let him out Bootham Bar?’

‘The other way, the river way.’

‘So he’s a river rat? And you have caught the culprit?’

‘I will tell you all about him later. For now, I need you to trust me.’

‘Words to chill the heart. What are you about, Owen?’

Glancing round to make sure the lad was too far away and close to the flood to overhear them, and no one else was about, Owen told Hempe of Ambrose’s mission.

‘God’s blood, Owen. Does he – are they Neville’s men we have behind the deanery?’

‘The dead reveal little. But if someone was after the treasure Ronan had tucked in that chest in his lodgings, his death might have nothing to do with Ambrose.’

Hempe grunted. ‘You might be right. But that cursed servant will have told all in the Bedern that Ambrose Coates is a thief and a murderer.’

‘I know. I am curious why Beck told me nothing of this.’

‘Had he just heard from you of Ronan’s death?’

‘No. The news had spread through the Bedern before we arrived. You say the valuables in Ronan’s possession were payments for debts? Alexander Neville was in the business of loaning money?’

‘Odd, isn’t it? When he was a prebend, and never in the city himself. He spent most of his time at the papal court, at least that is what I recall.’

‘He did.’ Owen thought this tale very odd indeed. ‘Was it Neville’s practice, or had his vicar found a cunning scheme for profit?’

‘I doubt you will find anyone willing to answer that.’ Facing the river, Hempe nodded in that direction. ‘Dame Magda is beckoning us to cross over.’

‘Before we join her, I need to know how you will fall on this, George.’

‘With the minster chapter, the mayor, council, and all the citizens desperate to keep the peace for the spectacle of Neville’s enthronement, I must consider …’ Hempe studied his muddy boots, muttering an oath. ‘I had hoped we might be snowbound, delaying all the travelers, but with this melt …’ He met Owen’s gaze with a frustrated grimace. ‘Am I bound to keep secret Ambrose’s mission?’

‘You know the answer to that, George. His Grace has set me to watch the powerful families here in the North. Were they to know what Ambrose knows …’

‘We would have chaos as they all tried to catch the man so they might use him to gain influence with the prince.’ Hempe cursed.

Feeling the weight of his new responsibilities, Owen realized what he must do. ‘That is half of it. I am the prince’s spy, but I am also captain of York with a duty to protect the city. To that end I must shield Ambrose from those who would condemn him so they might say all is well. Despite Magda’s testimony that he was here. The murderer – or murderers – would still be free to kill again.’

‘You order me to protect him?’

‘I would prefer you agreed that we must protect him against those who would use him for their own ends. We might send him to safety on a barge, or look the other way while he crosses to the south bank, but with an escort, for the prince needs him. But who would escort him? And where?’

Hempe was shaking his head. ‘I will not agree to send him away, not without knowing for certain he is innocent. You must keep him here in the city. Lock him away somewhere so that he is out of reach, but accessible to us should we discover he is guilty. If that is what you meant, I agree.’

Owen put his hand on his shoulder. ‘Thank you.’ He called to the lad to ferry them over to Magda.

Averting his eyes from the upside-down dragon – ‘by the rood, I’d swear it’s about to swoop down and toss me in the flood’ – George Hempe tucked himself through Magda’s doorway, greeting her with his thanks for the honor. Owen could not help but wonder whether the profuse thanks were for the benefit of the dragon more so than for Magda. But George was welcomed with warmth. Magda knew his worth.

He seemed confused by the slight, dark-haired man who softly greeted him. ‘I was expecting Ambrose Coates.’

‘I am he.’

‘Your long white hair …’

‘Who was it who saw me?’ Ambrose asked.

‘Brother Michaelo and the chancellor, Master Thomas,’ said Owen.

‘And the hair?’ asked Hempe.

‘Dame Magda thought it best to change his appearance.’

‘Fooled me.’ Hempe grinned. ‘We have not met, Ambrose, though I remember your voice, and your playing.’ He bobbed his head and took the seat Magda indicated. ‘The captain has told me of your reasons for coming to York, and the tale you tell of your movements since meeting the vicar in the minster. Ronan’s clerk tells a different story. He claims you returned to Ronan’s room, switched cloaks, and stole money and jewels hidden in the same chest in which you found the replacement cloak.’

‘He is wrong. The cloak you see there on the hook is the one Ronan traded with me. May he rest in God’s grace.’ Ambrose crossed himself, cleared his throat. ‘This clerk – does he claim to have witnessed me entering the lodging?’

‘No,’ said Hempe. ‘He concluded it from the cloak on the bed, the missing items.’

‘So it might have been anyone,’ said Owen. ‘And it’s possible that it was for the treasure that Ronan was murdered, rather than a mistaken attack on a man wearing Ambrose’s magnificent cloak. You said earlier that you and Ronan were friends when you lived here?’

‘Acquaintances. He knew someone who sold pieces of instruments I used to repair my own.’

‘An honest source?’ Hempe asked.

‘For my sins, I did not care to ask,’ said Ambrose. ‘In exchange, I arranged his attendance at a few private performances. As my aide.’

‘He enjoyed music?’ asked Hempe.

‘As I said, I did not ask.’

Owen and Hempe exchanged a look. Another curious detail about the dead man.

‘You should know that I have been followed all along, at least since Calais,’ said Ambrose. ‘But until now, nothing happened. Whoever it was never took the opportunity to toss me into the sea or over a cliff. Yet so persistent. I could not lose him. Or perhaps them. And now, since Cawood – I am sure another man, or group of men, followed us from there. My companion was aware of them as well, asking me what sort of trouble I was in.’

‘And this woman,’ said Hempe, ‘what do you know of her?’

‘Very little.’

‘Who are these men we found?’ asked Hempe.

Ambrose lifted his arms as if to say, Who, indeed? But there was concern in his expression. ‘Neville’s perhaps? Or he who has followed me since France. It might be anyone, for anything. I do not know. I swear to you I do not.’

‘But you sought Ronan’s help with Neville’s men,’ said Owen.

Did he hesitate before saying yes? ‘I thought I might have been caught spying at Cawood. And the family might think it best to silence me elsewhere. Ronan agreed it was likely, and, as I told you, Owen, he chose my cloak as a reasonable payment for his help. He would talk to them.’

‘So they are in York?’ Owen asked.

‘He did not say, and I was in no position to question his intentions.’ A deep breath. Ambrose wiped his eyes. ‘God forgive me.’

‘You know nothing of the woman’s background? No one had shown interest?’ asked Hempe.

‘There was a man. At Cawood. He stared at her and no one else as we performed. Someone’s retainer, far back in the shadows, but the eyes so keen I felt them as we stood together singing. I searched the crowd and found him. It was so at both performances.’

‘Was she ever out of your sight?’

‘While I arranged for a spy hole, and while I sat there listening, yes, of course. Are you thinking she might have met this man? That he– Perhaps I should see the bodies.’

‘Why was this runaway in your company?’ Hempe asked Ambrose.

‘Someone had discovered the truth of her, and meant to take his pleasure,’ said Ambrose.

‘Vile,’ Hempe growled.

‘The question before us is how to protect you while we search for the murderer. Or murderers,’ said Owen.

‘More than one?’ asked Ambrose.

‘Possibly,’ said Owen, not caring to elaborate.

‘I could leave the city,’ said Ambrose.

‘No, that I cannot permit,’ said Hempe. ‘I propose the jail of the archbishop’s palace. It is not in use at present.’

Owen began to point out that it was a Neville property, but Magda interrupted. ‘Who will cook for him? Keep him in fuel for a fire?’ It was the first time she had spoken.

‘Do you have a better idea?’ Hempe snapped, reddening as he remembered himself. A man so in awe of the Riverwoman treating her so … He made a conciliatory gesture.

Magda ignored it. ‘Thou hast a room in thy house for a boarder. Empty since Old Nat died.’

‘How do you know that?’ Hempe frowned. ‘Of course, Lotta told me that you had brought Old Nat a soothing tisane and a rub for his joints. But I am not a jailer.’

‘Nor is Minstrel a murderer. He was with Magda when the men died. Wouldst thou mistreat an innocent man?’

‘Dame Magda–’ Hempe implored.

‘Can you pay your way, Ambrose?’ Owen asked.

‘I would pay you well for the trouble, bailiff,’ said Ambrose.

Hempe’s expression softened. ‘Pay. I had not thought– So we would consider you a boarder?’

‘A boarder who does not venture forth except in the company of a few of our men, armed,’ said Owen. ‘It means he cannot buy his meals at the market stalls, nor take his wash to a laundress.’

‘Lotta enjoys cooking for an appreciative eater,’ said Hempe, considering. ‘And she could arrange for the laundering. You must work out with my wife when you might make music so as not to disturb her.’

Ambrose gave a little bow. ‘Of course.’

‘My men Alfred and Stephen can take shifts watching the house,’ said Owen.

Hempe looked from him to Magda. ‘Had the two of you planned this?’

Owen assured him they had not.

‘Bird-eye does not know Lotta as Magda does. She will welcome the challenge.’

‘I believe you are right about my Lotta.’ Slapping his thighs, Hempe suggested they depart at once.