A Choir of Crows

6 Haunted Souls

The onset of winter brought a crush of folk to the apothecary seeking remedies for coughs, fever, earaches, headaches, stomach upsets, catarrh, as well as injuries from falls and frozen fingers and toes. Lucie and Jasper had no time for those who came for gossip about the deaths, requesting them to step aside so that those with ailing folk at home might come forward. The physicks contained any number of ingredients, and varied depending on the sufferer’s age, a history of certain types of illnesses, weak lungs … Lucie and Jasper did not rush past the details, taking time with each customer. By mid-morning they had whittled down the line so that only one person still waited while another was served, affording Lucie the time to retreat into the workshop and mix more of the physicks most in demand – cough elixirs, headache powders, and aromatic oils to clear stuffy noses. Her hands were covered in oils and sap – bonewort, lichen, sneezewort, bugle, coltsfoot, feltwort, sweet marjoram, garlic, horehound, rosemary – always rosemary. To Lucie it was the mother of winter physicks. It was also a tonic for the voice. Something their guest might appreciate.

All morning Lucie half expected someone to rush into the shop demanding to see their guest. What would they call her? Or would they think her a lad? Who would she be to them? How long had they searched for her? To go about in such a guise, a wandering minstrel … From what or whom had she fled?

Lucie glanced up from her work and her runaway thoughts to find a pair of wise blue eyes observing her.

‘Hast thou time for Magda?’

She had not noticed the healer’s entrance, never felt the draft as she opened the rear door. Yet Magda had already removed her boots, her bare, calloused feet curled round the supporting post at the bottom of the stool on which she perched. How long had she watched?

‘Would you like to wait for me in the kitchen?’ Lucie asked. ‘I just need to tidy up and take these to Jasper in the shop.’

‘A cup of ale and a moment by the kitchen fire would be most welcome.’ The healer was wrapped in a cloak of skins – rabbit, squirrel, weasel, whatever she had found in the forest, or caught for food. Nothing went to waste. Her wrinkled face was rosy with the cold. Yet she had removed her boots. ‘Do not be long. Magda has much to tell thee of her guest, now the guest of Lotta Hempe. Ambrose Coates.’

So it was the Ambrose Lucie knew. ‘He came to you? He is safe? And now with the Hempes?’

Magda’s wrinkles deepened with her teasing grin. ‘Come along soon.’ She slipped off the stool and tucked her feet in the fur-lined boots with a feline litheness. ‘Do not tarry!’ And she was gone.

Lucie made quick work of cleaning up and taking her preparations into the shop.

‘Shut the shop for a while and join me in the kitchen. Magda has news.’

‘The shop needs straightening and a good sweep,’ said Jasper, though it was clear he wanted to hear what Magda had to say.

‘Time enough for all that. Magda will be quick with the news. And you’ve seen to the daylight customers. The next influx will be those heading home from work as the light fades.’

He needed no more coaxing, rushing to tidy up and lock the shop door.

As the three sat by the fire, Magda told them what she knew of the night’s events, then asked about the young woman. But Lucie had little to add but a summary of the woman’s injuries.

‘Who talked George Hempe into taking Ambrose as a lodger?’ asked Jasper. ‘Master George would not think of it. He would suggest one of the city jails. Was it Da’s idea?’

‘I would guess it was yours,’ Lucie said, looking at Magda.

A smile. ‘Magda pointed the way.’

‘George does not appreciate Lotta’s talents,’ said Lucie. ‘He has been reluctant to involve her in his work for the city – she sees to the trade and the household. He is blind to her interest, how keen she is to hear about his day, nor does he give credit to her suggestions. She offered him a list of those who might bear watching after a string of burglaries: this one is wearing fine clothes of a sudden on a paltry income, that one’s wife complains about the state of his clothing and how he’s often home long past curfew, there is rumor of a stranger who walks the streets at night as if testing the night watch. George shook his head as if she’d just said something ridiculous. He might have found his man much sooner had he listened to her.’

‘A man would be wise to respect Lotta’s keen regard,’ said Magda. As Kate brought a jug of ale to replenish the bowls on the table Magda asked her, ‘Hast thou news of the children?’

‘Mistress Alisoun says Hugh complains that Gwen is torturing him,’ Kate laughed. ‘She is pretending to teach Emma to sing, but the baby just squeals and shrieks with laughter and claps her hands. I offered to bring Gwen to the kitchen and give her some tasks.’

‘That is just what my sly daughter hopes for,’ said Lucie. ‘She wearies of the nursery.’ But she was glad Hugh was well enough to make moan about his sisters’ noise.

Magda patted Lucie’s hand. ‘Thy daughter hast a strong will. Why resist it?’

‘As you do with your apprentice?’ Before Magda agreed to accept Alisoun as her apprentice the young woman served for a while as nursemaid to Gwen and Hugh. Quick to take offense, she had challenged every task Lucie set her. Time and again Magda had counseled Lucie to be firm, not give in.

‘Not so often as before.’ Magda smiled.

‘It might be best to give in to Gwen’s ploy else all will pay for it, Kate,’ said Lucie. ‘What news of our guest?’

‘Mistress Alisoun says she has not stirred.’

Nothing unusual in that, but Lucie wanted to look in. Magda offered to accompany her.

The room had been created by walling off the long, narrow end of the children’s bedchamber for Lucie’s aunt, Philippa, who had come to live with them after suffering a palsy. A barred window allowed for some light and air, and the warmth from the nursery brazier was sufficient to heat it. But not to the point of causing the sheen of sweat on the sleeping woman. Her forehead was hot.

‘She was not feverish when she arrived, but she is now.’ Lucie lifted the woman’s shift to examine her groin and armpits for boils. Nothing. God be thanked.

Settling across from Lucie, Magda bent to sniff the young woman’s breath, pressed an ear to her chest, wiped the sweat from her neck and tasted it. ‘Not all fevers point to illness. Long has she lived in the guise of a young man, unable to take her ease, alert to discovery, ready to take flight,’ said Magda. ‘Minstrel says she has been fasting and depriving herself of sleep as penances for he knows not what. Now that she is in a safe place, her body is taking her deep into a healing sleep. When thy mother first came to Freythorpe she had witnessed the slaughter of friends and kin, forced to hide, starving, cold.’

Lucie’s late mother was Norman, from a noble family. A war prize bestowed on her father for his valor in the king’s war for the crown of France.

‘She had such a fever?’

Magda touched Lucie’s hand, as if to comfort her. ‘Amelie burned fierce while she slept such a deep sleep thine aunt worried she was dying. But Magda knew it to be a healing fire. When she woke, the memories were dimmed. A mercy. Come. Thou hast abundant stores in thine apothecary to assist her body in healing. Magda will guide thee.’

‘Should someone stay with her?’ Lucie asked, though she did not have anyone to spare.

‘Nay. Though she may wake at any moment, she will be too weak to harm herself. Alisoun can see to her. Thy children will not need all her attention.’

‘But Muriel Swann hopes to have Alisoun at her lying in.’

‘Magda will see to that.’

‘Alisoun might not wish to stay.’

‘Magda will speak with her.’

‘You have confidence Alisoun can care for this woman?’

A smile. ‘The two young women will find much to share. Both have been tested, proved strong.’

‘We know nothing of this woman. My children sleep in the next room.’

‘Magda does sense an anger in her that she fights to drown with remorse. But she has no cause to point that anger at thee or thy family.’

‘Remorse. Do you sense she harmed someone?’

‘Who has not?’

If Magda had meant to reassure Lucie, she had failed.

As Owen had hoped, Lotta Hempe accepted the situation without argument, sitting Ambrose down by the kitchen fire while she set her maidservant to work airing out the bedchamber and lighting a fire in the brazier.

‘Walking from Magda’s rock to our home in such weather,’ Lotta tsked. ‘We must stoke the fire in your belly, Master Ambrose. Cook will see that you have something to eat and drink. Bring the strong claret,’ she said to the woman standing over a cauldron of something aromatic, spicy.

‘A good choice, mistress,’ she said, wiping her hands on her apron and bustling to a locked cabinet in the corner.

Hempe paced in the hall, seeming eager to get back out into the city. Owen understood. They had stopped to show Ambrose the two corpses. He believed the fallen one to be the young woman’s watcher at Cawood. He might have seen the drowned one there as well. All helpful. Taking him past had been worth the risk, but it had heightened Hempe’s alarm. ‘I would see what my men learned from the guards at the gates. Meet me at the York in early evening?’

Owen agreed.

Upon Hempe’s departure Owen went in search of Lotta to thank her for taking on this task.

Standing in what would be Ambrose’s bedchamber, a spacious room with good light and a door to the back garden, she responded to his thanks with a warm smile, her eyes alight. ‘I am honored to have Dame Magda recommend me, and for your confidence. George is a fool about women. He wants to coddle and protect me. His trade has benefited from my partnership, but he does not think of me as a partner. I ignore him and go about my work.’ A widow, she had put much of her wealth in George’s shipping interests when they wed.

‘Marriage changes a man, but slowly,’ said Owen. ‘Lucie was patient with me.’

She touched Owen’s scar, a surprising gesture of affection. Seeming to remember herself, she withdrew it, asking in a brusque tone, ‘Should I expect trouble? Have our manservant accompany me on my rounds?’

He was glad she understood they did not yet know the danger. ‘That would be wise. Would you note anything in Ambrose’s conversation, or his requests, that might provide me with additional information? I am particularly keen to learn of anything he has to say about the dead man, Ronan.’

‘I will stay alert and report anything I might learn, Captain.’ She bobbed her head, all business. ‘Is he a good musician?’

‘Ask him to play and sing for you.’ It reminded him of Lucie’s request to return Ambrose’s instruments to his care. ‘We have kept his most treasured instruments for him all these years. Might I bring them? It would provide him occupation – tuning, polishing.’

She made a face. ‘I pray he is not one of those who takes hours to find the pitch.’ But she agreed. ‘Bring them when you can. Now go, be about your work. Let him settle in.’

By now the streets were crowded despite the slush and the dripping eaves. With his height and his scarred face, the patch over his useless left eye, Owen was not a man who could disappear among those going about their day. Yet although folk stepped aside they did not fall silent at his passing, but rather plied him with questions, prayed for his speedy delivery of the murderer, named possible suspects – most likely unpleasant neighbors. As ever, the less they knew the more confident in their advice. A pity. Such eager assistants, but of no use to Owen at present. He kept his good eye focused on where to walk in the slush, doing his best to slough off the noise and arrive with some modicum of calm so that he did not frighten into silence the weasel who haunted his late employer’s lodgings in the hope of gain.

With the crowd and all the curiosity it did Owen no good to watch the alleyways and shadows beneath the overhangs for someone too curious about him. Everyone was. But it gave him an idea. When he returned home he would ask Kate whether her siblings Rose and Rob might be willing to trail him about the city and make note of who watched him with too much interest. He knew he could rely on the twins’ creative cunning and discretion – they had helped him before. Fifteen and unremarkable in their dress and demeanor, they would be ignored by the likes of those tracking Ambrose or his companion. The perfect spies.

His thoughts returned to the problem of Ronan’s hiding place for the missing casket of valuables. The chest would be the obvious place to look. Had the vicar so trusted his fellows? Unlikely. Despite what Beck the weasel had said, Owen guessed that the missing casket held little of value, its purpose to foil a lazy thief. There had been no sign that someone had carried out a thorough search of the chamber. Had Beck been paid to make much of something of little value? Provide a diversion? For whom? It seemed to Owen the key to it all.

Climbing the outdoor stairs to Ronan’s rooms he felt an energy that defied his sleepless state. He found the door ajar despite the biting cold, Beck huddled on a stool just inside watching with sullen countenance as a one-armed man searched the chamber. Owen had forgotten about Crispin Poole, who now served Archbishop Neville as Owen had Archbishop Thoresby – or at least in his former capacity of spy for the archbishop.

‘Crispin.’

The searcher turned round. ‘Owen. I have been expecting you. Any news?’

‘Nothing yet. And you? Are you here on orders from Cawood Palace?’

A raised brow, in a face more suitable for a soldier than the merchant he had returned to York to become. No noticeable scars, but the life of a soldier was spent out in the elements, weathering a man’s skin. Crispin sank down onto the edge of the bed. ‘Is that where the Nevilles are?’ A large man beginning to take on weight, he was sweating despite the chill draft from the open door. ‘I’ve received no orders.’

‘Why are you here?’ Owen asked.

‘I might ask the same of you.’

‘The precentor went to the mayor requesting my services. I am charged with finding the men who broke the peace in the close last night, killing a vicar and a stranger.’

‘And drowning a third.’

‘That could be an accident. The fall might also have been unintended.’

‘Do you think that?’

‘That Ronan was murdered is not in question. And two others are dead.’ Crispin was Neville’s man. Owen must have a care.

Crispin pulled a cloth from his sleeve and mopped his brow. ‘Too many guild dinners of late. I need activity. This cursed snow.’

‘You have not answered my question. Why are you here, Crispin?’

‘Ronan worked for His Grace the Archbishop of York, as do I. His Grace will expect a full report of the incident.’

‘I will have Brother Michaelo prepare one for you.’

‘A generous offer. But His Grace will want my opinion.’

As would the archbishop’s brother Sir John. ‘So what have you found?’

‘Nothing. This one – Beck he calls himself – says a casket of valuables has been removed from the chest.’ Crispin glanced at the man huddled by the door as he nudged said chest with a walking stick. Owen had not seen him using that before.

Deciding it was time to acknowledge the weasel’s presence, Owen turned to him. ‘I hear you witnessed this theft.’

Beck looked up, startled. ‘Me?’

‘Why did you not stop him? Prevent his escape?’

‘I never said I witnessed it.’

‘You spoke with authority. We have taken a man into custody on your accusation. Are you now saying you saw nothing?’

‘I–’ A cringe, as if expecting a blow. ‘Not as such.’

Owen gave the man his fiercest one-eyed glare. ‘If I’ve allowed the murderer to escape while I rounded up an innocent man on your word, you will pay.’

‘You– But he was wearing that cloak, was he not?’ Beck gestured toward the bed, where it had lain. ‘The cloak Master Ronan wore yesterday. You have it. And he left a trail of melted snow on the floor – you saw it.’

‘The trail might have been made by anyone. Even you.’

‘Me? No!’

‘Why are you so certain Ronan wore that particular cloak last night? Did you watch him dress?’

‘No.’

‘I have seen one very like it elsewhere, also Ronan’s cloak. Can you tell me how you tell the difference?’

‘Two? But …’

‘Are you lying about serving as his clerk?’

‘No! I came to him midsummer.’

‘Yet you did not know of his second cloak?’

‘I did not dress him. I serve several in the Bedern.’

‘Tell me. What were your duties here?’

‘Errands, tidied the place – it needed little of that, fetched meals for him, received deliveries when he could not be here …’ His voice grew softer and softer.

‘What sort of deliveries?’

‘All sorts.’

‘The sorts of things you say were stolen?’

‘It was not my place to pry.’

‘Last night. Did you see someone come into the lodgings?’

‘I– I wasn’t here as such.’

So Ronan himself might have removed the casket. Owen walked toward the weasel, slowly. ‘Where were you last evening?’

‘I–’ Eyes locked on Owen’s good one, Beck rose and stumbled backwards, flattening himself against the wall.

‘You have wasted our time spewing false accusations.’ Owen continued to advance. ‘Why else but to permit the true murderer to escape? Unless you murdered Ronan.’ He caught the man by the shoulder and shook him once.

‘Is that necessary?’ Crispin asked.

Owen turned to him. ‘Can you explain why he would make up such a lie?’

‘The casket is missing,’ Beck whispered.

Crispin nodded. ‘It is curious you know that, but not that Ronan had two cloaks so alike.’

Owen turned back to the weasel. ‘Well?’

‘I forgot about the other cloak,’ he whispered.

‘You forgot? You realize that the bailiff might have injured the accused had he tried to run, and all on your false witness?’ Owen tightened his grip on the man’s shoulder. ‘What else is hidden in this room?’

‘Naught that I know of. I swear!’

Owen shook him again and released him, turning back to Crispin as the weasel slumped to the floor. ‘Tell me about the casket.’

‘I know little more than that Ronan had been assigned the task of calling in promised tributes for the archbishop,’ said Crispin. ‘Merchants and churchmen who had pledged support.’

Not debts? ‘Such as Thoresby did with donations for his Lady Chapel?’

‘Yes, though he was vague as to what project.’

‘You would be a more likely one to receive such items.’

‘I agree. But Ronan argued that it was not seemly, the merchants might resent me.’

It was true that Crispin’s acceptance into the society of York merchants was crucial to his effectiveness as the new archbishop’s spy. ‘I heard they were perhaps not so much support as payments for debts.’

Crispin cleared his throat. ‘I have heard such rumors as well.’

‘Who gave Ronan the role of debt collector?’

‘His Grace, I presume.’

‘But you don’t know?’

Still sitting on the bed, Crispin looked down at his booted feet, thinking. A slow shake of the head. ‘As I said, I heard a rumor. I asked Ronan about it.’ A moment of thought, and then looked up with a nod. ‘I see. You are thinking Ronan wished to keep the task to himself. For profit?’

Or he had taken it upon himself to devise a way to rob his former master. Not something Owen cared to share with Crispin at present. ‘I know too little to judge whether he has kept anything for himself.’ He sensed the weasel slinking out the door behind him. Good. ‘Are you finished here?’ he asked Crispin.

‘I have a duty to the archbishop.’

‘I will wait.’ Owen leaned against the wall, crossed his arms.

Crispin narrowed his eyes. ‘Do you count me a suspect?’

The thought had not occurred to Owen until he found Crispin in the room. He considered it unlikely. Crispin was desperate to wed the widow Muriel Swann and help raise the child that might be born any day now. A man might commit such a crime in his circumstances, but not for the benefit of a master he distrusted, which was the case with Crispin and the archbishop. ‘I prefer to be alone when I search,’ said Owen. ‘I will tell you all you need to know in good time.’

‘In good time. I expect His Grace to arrive within the week. And you did not answer my question.’

‘A week? Then I must get to work.’

Crispin plucked his hat from the bed, picked up his walking stick.

‘An injury?’ Owen asked.

‘Reached out with the hand no longer attached to my arm. Though it pains me as if still there, it proved useless in preventing a fall on snowy cobbles.’

‘Has Magda looked at it?’

‘Not yet.’

‘With her skill you might soon discard the cane.’

Crispin lifted it and swung it round, stabbing out. He grinned. ‘I might just keep it with me. Not a bad thing, to pretend I cannot protect myself, and then strike.’

Owen chuckled despite himself.

‘How are the children?’ Crispin asked.

‘They have come through the worst of it. Lucie says they are out of danger.’

‘God be praised.’ Crispin pressed Owen’s shoulder as he limped past him and out the door. He moved with the weariness of a man with a burdened soul, reminding Owen of Crispin’s distaste for his lord, Alexander Neville.

‘It is too early to say you are above suspicion,’ Owen called out, ‘but I do not think you would be so inept.’

‘A compliment?’ Crispin grinned. ‘I will expect that report.’

‘You will have it.’

Once alone, Owen studied the room, then began testing the floorboards, knocking on the paneled walls. On the last wall the sound changed. He’d left it to last because to access it would require moving the bed, which appeared to be built into the wall. But he found he could move it. With his dagger he tested the edges of the wall panels until one gave way, revealing a square opening in which he found a pouch filled with jewels, small gold and silver objects, and silver coins, all representing a considerable fortune.

Two treasures in the vicar’s lodgings, one undiscovered, the other either stolen after his murder or removed by Ronan. And stolen by his murderer? Beck had known of the casket in the chest, of course, but Owen did not think him the murderer. He was a noisemaker, a complainer, not a man who took action. But someone may have come for the casket expecting far more, then confronted Ronan, demanding the rest. Or perhaps they killed Ronan first, then came to the room. If so, the murderer might return to search once he found the takings so disappointing. Owen would set a watch on the lodgings.

He considered Ronan’s remarkable cache. With such treasure, Owen could not be certain that Ambrose’s cloak had anything to do with the vicar choral’s murder. Though the confluence of events– If it had nothing to do with whoever had chased Ambrose, and drowned– No, somehow they were connected.

The sack of jewels and coins must be stored in a safer place. To whom might he entrust it? Neither the precentor nor the acting dean had much power. Nor did they seem men of great courage. The chancellor of the chapter – no, Master Thomas must remain under suspicion. And, in truth, Owen should not entrust it to any in the chapter or Ronan’s fellows in the Bedern until he knew more. Those with any authority were all scrambling for donations to the minster fabric so that they might make a good impression on the Nevilles. Such a windfall might prove irresistible to any of them.

He decided to take it to his friend Dom Jehannes, Archdeacon of York. There were few men Owen trusted so completely. Closing up the hole, he moved the bed back into place, then tucked the heavy bag into his padded jacket. His cloak would disguise the extra bulk.

‘You are clanking,’ Brother Michaelo noted as Owen stomped his boots on the stone outside Jehannes’s door.

‘So I am. I thought you would be resting.’

‘I have.’

‘Hardly enough to make up for missing a night’s sleep.’ Owen settled on the bench inside the door to remove his boots.

‘Sufficient for the moment. I wished to write up all that I heard this morning before I confuse details with what I hear out in the city. Three deaths in one night. The story will be unrecognizable to us by evening.’

Jehannes hurried out of his parlor to greet Owen, calling to his cook for wine. ‘Or will you break bread with me? I’ve not yet broken my fast.’

‘Some bread and cheese would be welcome,’ said Owen. ‘But first …’ He opened his jacket and pulled out the treasure, taking it to a small table near the fire where he opened it, revealing the marvels within.

‘By the rood, what is this?’ asked Jehannes.

‘Ronan’s hoard,’ said Owen.

Jehannes looked up at Owen. ‘A vicar choral?’

‘Might I trouble you to safeguard this until Archbishop Neville arrives?’

‘He stole this from the archbishop?’

‘Perhaps.’

Michaelo coughed. Both men turned to him. ‘If I might suggest the hiding place beneath the buttery. Access is through a loose stone in the floor that I did not notice until I encountered Cook opening it.’

Jehannes’s moon-shaped face lit up with gratitude. ‘The very place. Yes, yes, of course you might entrust it to us.’ A nod. ‘Is it not a blessing Brother Michaelo did not choose to return to Normandy?’

‘Unexpected talents,’ Owen murmured.

The archdeacon was moving toward the kitchen when he halted, turning back with a pained expression. ‘You are certain this hoard belongs to Alexander Neville?’

‘At present I believe so. When I unravel the knot of last night’s murders I might revise that theory. And I will take full responsibility for it. You need not engage with him on the matter.’

‘Good.’ With a nod, Jehannes continued on to the kitchen to order breakfast.

Michaelo had been fingering the items in the hoard. Straightening, he brushed off his hands as if to rid himself of temptation. ‘He dreads the arrival of the new archbishop.’

‘As do we all.’

‘We might have had a man of noble character.’

‘Ravenser?’ Thoresby’s nephew had promised to keep Michaelo as his secretary should he win the seat. But the Nevilles had prevailed.

‘He above all, but there were others who would have been far more appropriate to the second highest ecclesiastical seat in England.’

Easing himself down onto a settle near the fire, Owen rested his head against the back and closed his eye. ‘What might have been is not a game I care to play. I am far too busy with what was, and is.’

‘To that end, I will leave you and complete my account of your investigations.’

‘Our investigations, Michaelo. Did you speak with Edwin?’

‘Not yet.’

‘I count on it.’

‘You are determined to dominate my hours,’ Michaelo said, his words a complaint but his tone more of someone deeply satisfied.