A Choir of Crows

by Candace Robb

  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.

  SEVEN

  A Deepening Mystery

  ‘Ronan was calling in pledges for His Grace the archbishop? Or debts?’ Master Thomas turned to gaze out the window of his parlor. A bird pecked at the bright berries on a holly bush. ‘I had heard nothing of this.’ Though the chancellor’s posture hinted otherwise.

  Owen pursued it. ‘If you were to surmise about the manner of such loans or donations, what might they be? What favors might His Grace offer to extend to citizens of York? Or what cause? Building project?’

  Master Thomas glanced at Michaelo, who was making notes of the conversation. ‘Is his scratching necessary?’

  Michaelo knew many of the clerics and their clerks, so his insight might prove useful. To have him taking notes suggested he was merely assisting, not listening closely. ‘I can more fully listen to you when I do not need to worry about remembering everything. We were speaking of the type of pledges Alexander Neville might have received in the city.’

  ‘Do you mean as a prebend? Before his enthronement?’ Thomas shook his head. ‘I cannot think what it might be. He was rarely here. You might ask his secretary. Or the clerk Edwin. Are you certain this Beck is to be trusted?’

  ‘I doubt that he is. But Crispin Poole spoke to Ronan about this collection, so I am not depending solely on Beck’s charge.’

  A sigh. ‘There is the matter of the Italian archdeacons. However, I should think it would be my fellows in the chapter who cared about that, not the lay citizens of York.’

  ‘Not necessarily. I should like to hear what you are thinking, what he might offer.’

  Thomas continued to present his back to Owen. Perhaps he meant to imply that this questioning was beneath him. He might not realize it as a behavior often used by the guilty. In either case, and whether or not he was guilty of more than pride, the chancellor interested Owen more and more. Now he glanced back with a cold look. ‘Except for your friend Dom Jehannes, the current archdeacons under the archbishop of Yor
k are all Italian clerics.’ He returned his gaze to the winter garden. ‘Absentee heads of their jurisdictions, they are leeches draining the resources of the diocese. With his connections in the papal court, Neville was the obvious solution, the man who might argue at the papal court for more appropriate archdeacons. But Neville, too, was seldom here, so I had thought the idea abandoned. Perhaps someone pursued this.’

  ‘That is helpful. Thank you. Can you suggest any reason why laymen might care about the Italian archdeacons?’

  ‘Not the archdeacons. But they might have other concerns. Issues of marriage and inheritance can involve the pope. Perhaps Neville offered to intercede. Or to carry documents. Recommend lawyers.’

  ‘A man might grow wealthy offering such services to those with deep purses,’ said Owen.

  A shrug.

  ‘How well did you know Ronan?’

  ‘Not well.’

  ‘But you had met with him yesterday?’

  A slight shiver. ‘We are, or rather were, all consulting him on the archbishop’s preferences, Captain Archer. You will find few in the close who have not met with him frequently in the past fortnight. So much to be done. We must make a good impression.’

  ‘If you do not?’

  At last the chancellor turned from the window, frowning. ‘I fear His Grace and his ambitious brother will make trouble for the dean and chapter. They count this as a great step up for the family. The second most powerful man in the English church is now a Neville. They expect us to make a great show of welcoming him, giving him the honor they believe he deserves. Or, perhaps, desires. One wonders … Alexander is so young. Were he not the brother of Sir John Neville – Admiral of the North, Steward of the King’s Household – would he have been considered for the post? Has he the maturity and breadth of experience to wield the power of this position with the proper mix of compassion and authority?’ A slight shake of the head, making clear Thomas’s impression.

  Owen stepped into the opening the chancellor had provided. ‘I understand the family took an active role in convincing the chapter to choose Alexander as archbishop.’

  A misstep. Thomas’s smile was anything but friendly. ‘Of course you’d hoped Ravenser would be chosen. A smooth transition for you, a malleable archbishop.’

  ‘An honorable man trusted by King Edward and his late beloved queen. Yes, I prefer him by far as a shepherd of the Church.’ Owen smiled. ‘But I did not serve John Thoresby without learning what is needed in the role.’

  ‘So you see the benefit of a Neville in the position.’

  ‘I do. That was not my question. Is it possible that the new archbishop made loans as promises of support to come?’

  ‘Acting as a money-lender? Captain, you know that is forbidden.’

  ‘And yet such agreements are often made.’

  A shrug. ‘As I have no knowledge of any such loans, I could not presume to speak to that. Nor have I any knowledge of his seeking contributions to the funds for the lady chapel or other building projects. He did not consult me about anything of the sort.’

  A careful man, the chancellor. Owen learned little more, and left before his impatience became obvious. His lack of sleep threatened to impair his tact. He rose so abruptly that Michaelo looked up from his work, startled. He had almost forgotten the monk’s presence, he had been so quiet. He wondered whether it was an art Michaelo had perfected as a child, his ability to disappear in full sight, or come upon one with no warning, or whether it was something he had learned in Thoresby’s service.

  Before continuing on to the shops of the gold- and silversmiths whose work had been included in Ronan’s hoard, Owen told Michaelo he wished to stop at home to make his request to Kate regarding her twin siblings.

  ‘If you do not require my services for this, I will withdraw to Jehannes’s house for an hour of prayer,’ said Michaelo.

  ‘Of course.’

  At the bottom of Stonegate, Owen noticed that a line had formed in front of the apothecary, common at this time of year in the morning and early evening, but not so soon after midday. He avoided notice by using the garden gate off Davygate and hurried to the workroom behind the shop to see whether anything had happened, a fresh outbreak of the pestilence or some other illness rushing through the city.

  Jasper bent over the long worktable in the middle, crushing precious stones.

  ‘Your favorite task,’ Owen noted.

  A dramatic groan. Jasper displayed reddened hands. ‘I do it only to spare Mother’s hands and arms.’

  Owen flicked at a gray powder on the hank of fair hair falling over Jasper’s eyes. ‘Why such a long line at this time of day?’

  ‘I closed for a while, to hear what Dame Magda had to say. When I opened up to sweep the entrance, folk poured in. They come for the gossip.’

  ‘And the stones?’ Owen had never known them to be in such immediate demand to warrant attention at a busy time.

  ‘Red Timothy asked me whether it was true that precious stones were good protection from fever. I should have said nothing, but it was something I know about and I started talking about the protective properties of some jewels, pearls, other stones …’ Jasper screwed up his face. ‘And then everyone wanted stone powder in their physicks. Now I pay for it.’

  ‘As do they. Raises the price.’

  Jasper grinned. ‘That it does.’

  ‘Have you overheard any helpful rumors?’

  ‘No. Except that Tucker’s been injured. That’s a fact, not a rumor. We made up a salve for him, and Dame Magda went to see to him.’

  ‘Tucker the fiddler?’

  Jasper nodded. ‘He lodged Ambrose, didn’t he? And the woman.’

  ‘He did,’ said Owen. ‘Who came to the shop for the salve? What sort of injury?’

  ‘His wife, Dame Judith. Says when she returned from market the door was swinging open and Tucker lying on the floor groaning, pressing a cut on his forehead to stop the bleeding. But it’s his back that’s bad. He fell backward over a bench. Now he cannot straighten to walk.’

  ‘Can he talk?’

  ‘Sounds like it.’

  ‘And Magda is with him now?’

  Jasper nodded. ‘It seems a lot of trouble for two minstrels.’

  ‘Ah. Magda told you how Ambrose came to be here.’

  ‘She did. But – how much trouble could he cause the king of France with his story?’

  ‘Quite a lot if the prince’s brothers decide to blame King Charles’s men for his long illness and the loss of so much of the Aquitaine.’

  ‘But without Prince Edward to lead them in battle …’

  ‘Even so, son. I will talk to Tucker.’ Owen began to head into the shop to see how Lucie fared.

  ‘I would not go out there if I were you,’ said Jasper. ‘They will fall upon you with their questions.’

  Which would do nothing to help Lucie and Jasper manage the crowd. ‘What do you hear of our guest?’

  ‘Deep in a fever sleep. Not pestilence.’ A shrug. ‘I’ve yet to meet her.’

  ‘Do not let Alisoun know you are so eager,’ Owen teased.

  Jasper rolled his eyes.

  Owen thanked his son and left. Out in the garden he paused. This morning’s serene blanket of snow now dripped and puddled, revealing leafless stalks and muddy paths. As he stood there the kitchen door opened.

  ‘Da! I’m baking!’ Gwen’s dark curls were dusted with flour.

  ‘That you are, my beauty,’ said Owen, picking her up and twirling her around. She might be eight years old, but she was still his baby and his darling, and he felt his heart might burst with the joy of seeing her well. She giggled and screeched until he reminded her of her brother and sister in the nursery, and their guest. As he lowered her to the threshold he put a finger to her lips, and was rewarded with a peck on his cheek and a throaty giggle.

  Kate took his cloak and hung it near the fire. ‘Have you taken time for dinner, Captain? Most everyone’s already eaten, but there is plenty.’<
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  ‘I am hungry.’ Despite the bread and cheese with Jehannes. ‘Would you join me? I would have a word with you about the twins.’ He glanced at Gwen, considering how she might react to what he had to say, but she had returned to work, standing on a stool to reach the bowl of dough she appeared to be kneading to death, and humming as she did so.

  Over a savory pie washed down with Tom Merchet’s ale, Owen explained what he needed of Kate’s siblings, Rose and Rob.

  ‘Of course they will agree,’ Kate said. ‘They itch to work for you again.’

  ‘Will your mother permit it?’

  ‘She will be glad to have them out of the house. Too wild to be of much use to her, except when she needs strong arms and backs.’

  ‘Should I speak with your mother, or would a message from you suffice?’

  ‘You have work to do. I will pass the word, and they will find you, never worry.’

  As Owen rose to leave, Kate mentioned that Magda had arranged for Alisoun to continue to bide with them to look after the children and their guest.

  ‘She is not to attend Muriel Swann’s lying in?’ Owen knew Alisoun to be proud of the widow’s confidence in her skills.

  ‘Dame Muriel will not be neglected. Dame Magda will be there in Alisoun’s stead.’

  That was not the issue. Alisoun could make the family’s life a penance if she resented the arrangement. Owen prayed she had chosen to stay of her own free will.

  Gwen ran over to him as he sat to pull on his boots. ‘The angel sings like the sisters at St Clement’s,’ she said. ‘Is she a nun?’

  ‘She is awake?’

  ‘Mistress Alisoun said not to peek, but I heard her singing.’

  ‘What do you mean she sings like the sisters?’ Owen asked. Lucie had been educated at St Clement’s, and occasionally provided physics their infirmarian needed. She had on occasion taken Gwen with her to see the gardens.

  ‘Deus in something intende,’ she chanted. ‘Then Domine …’ She gave a solemn bow.

  ‘Well done, Gwen. Sing that for your mother. She might know what it is,’ he said. Convent-trained indeed.