by Candace Robb
‘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?’