A Choir of Crows

by Candace Robb

  ‘What will Sir John say when he learns you attacked a man escorting his elderly mother to the good sisters?’ Crispin called out as he passed.

  ‘What need has he of a cripple like you?’ growled Porter.

  Stinging words, and Michaelo felt for Crispin, whose limp had become more pronounced the farther they walked. But he made no complaint.

  As they moved back into darkness the women in the cart resumed their prayers, Michaelo accompanying them in silence. He strained to hear anything moving in the darkness, difficult over the clomping of the donkey’s hooves, the creak of the wheels, the flutter of the cart covering, the pounding of his own heart. He peered into the darkness, seeking unnatural movement. Even so, he was startled when Alisoun plucked up a lantern from the cart and opened a shutter, revealing a covey of children preparing to jump on the cart from a porch roof. He had never heard them.

  ‘Jump and the men within will skewer you on their swords, little ones,’ Alisoun warned.

  They crept back into the darkness.

  Well done, thought Michaelo. How she had detected their presence on the roof he could not guess, but he was grateful for her keen senses, far better than his, and her courage.

  They rolled on a little longer, Marian’s murmured prayers now accompanied by Euphemia’s snore. As the ground rose above Michaelo to his right, seeming to press them all the closer to the mist-shrouded river, the cart slowed.

  ‘The Old Baile,’ said Crispin. ‘We must move with care.’

  ‘May God watch over us,’ Michaelo whispered.

  Euphemia ceased snoring and rejoined Marian in prayer.

  At a small gate affording access beyond the walls they came to a complete halt. Drake fetched a second small lantern that had been hanging on the side of the cart, opening the shutters and handing it to Crispin. Alisoun passed hers to Drake.

  ‘I will walk on ahead,’ said Crispin, ‘check that the track beyond the gate is cart-worthy.’

  Michaelo had wondered. Beyond the gate had once been a moat. Debris had been piled up to create a pathway. Planks were kept in a shed by the gateway for use when floods or storms washed it out. When Crispin returned with the good news that it was passable Michaelo said a prayer of thanks. They moved on, slowly, the cart bumping over the uneven ground.

  As they gained the smoother path on the other side Michaelo heard horses approaching, then spied the flickering light of a torch. Two riders.

  ‘Who approaches the priory of St Clement’s at this late hour?’ one of them called.

  Crispin limped forward, identifying himself. The men dismounted. One of them engaged Crispin while the one holding the torch approached the cart. Michaelo narrated for Euphemia as the man studied Alisoun and her companion. He moved past them to shine his light on Michaelo, forcing him to shield his eyes.

  ‘Who is in the cart, Father?’

  ‘Master Crispin’s widowed mother, who seeks the care of the good sisters,’ said Michaelo.

  At that moment the man’s companion called him back. ‘Come. We will escort them on to the priory.’

  God be thanked.

  More retainers flanked the gateway to the modest priory. Beyond, the yard was bright with lanterns and torches. A groom came forth to watch the donkey while Crispin and the young man opened the curtains and lowered the gate on the back, Marian handing Crispin the wooden steps for disembarking. As Euphemia was eased to the ground by her son, two sisters hurried toward them.

  Michaelo greeted the prioress and precentrice, Dames Isabel and Veronica, both of whom had recently employed him as a scribe for confidential matters. He introduced the party, referring to the young woman as Mistress Marian, Dame Euphemia’s companion. It would be the young woman’s choice when to reveal her identity. He ended with an entreaty that at the very least they receive the two women, explaining that the others were her escort and might return to the city. Though in his heart he dreaded the thought of returning in the dark.

  ‘If we might leave the cart here until morning, I would be grateful,’ said Crispin.

  Euphemia began to protest, but her son kissed her hand and assured her that his only concern was for her comfort.

  ‘Where might we place my mother’s chests?’ he asked.

  The prioress was all aflutter. ‘Master Crispin, we expected your mother in a week’s time. It is most unfortunate you have come betimes, and without warning.’ Michaelo was taken aback by her discourtesy. ‘Lady Maud Neville and her women arrived this day. You must understand our priory is small, poor, we are hard pressed—’

  ‘I will double the donation to your building works,’ said Crispin. ‘Will that suffice?’

  It was Dame Veronica who took Euphemia’s hands and welcomed her warmly, and then Marian. ‘I pray you, do not take offense. Mother Isabel frets about the great lady’s expectations. But a house of women is what Lady Maud chose over the palace, and that we are without a doubt. Mother Isabel will soon see her worries were unfounded. Lady Maud seems most gracious.’ She touched the prioress’s arm. ‘Where shall they set the chests?’

  With a sigh, the prioress directed the party to follow her into a screens passage in the hall of the guest house, where she indicated they might deposit Euphemia’s belongings.

  From beyond the screen came a low hum of women’s voices, punctuated by laughter, shouted questions, bursts of singing that dissolved into giggles or whispers. Michaelo noticed Marian’s eyes aglow, and he prayed she might be truly welcomed back into the order, restored to the life among pious women that she had chosen.

  While the two sisters stepped aside, no doubt arguing about where to put the two women, Marian turned to gaze at a wall hanging. Though it was tattered and darkened by smoke or mold from the river damp it was a radiant depiction of the Virgin and Child. Michaelo, too, found it a soothing point of focus after the tense journey.

  ‘Have we company?’ A richly garbed woman came round the screens, followed by two much younger women in only slightly less elegant travel attire.

  Marian turned, and with a slight inhale of breath took a step backward.

  ‘Marian, is it you? Can it be you?’ the woman whispered.

  ‘Lady Maud,’ Marian said, hand to heart, bowing.

  ‘God is merciful!’ Maud cried as she rushed forward and gathered Marian in her arms. ‘You are found in a nunnery! Oh, my dear, dear girl, we have been so frightened for you.’ She stepped back, holding Marian at arm’s length. ‘But why did you not send word? And why are you in such clothing?’

  The prioress, witnessing the happy reunion, approached with a furrowed brow. ‘My lady, you know this woman?’

  ‘May I present my niece, Dame Marian, sub-cantrice of Wherwell Abbey.’

  ‘Is this so?’ Dame Isabel looked to Marian.

  ‘I was—’

  Lady Maud cut in, ‘She was seven years at Wherwell when a godless madman set fire to the abbey so that he might take her away. My brother Sir Thomas has been searching for her since Pentecost. All this time I have prayed …’ She took Marian’s hand in both her own. ‘Pray assure me, Mother Prioress, that you were notified to provide her shelter should she seek it here?’

  ‘I did not know she was anywhere near, my lady. She has just this moment arrived. Brother Michaelo introduced her as Dame Euphemia’s companion.’ Isabel gestured toward Michaelo.

  A burst of rose scent as Lady Maud turned to him. ‘Brother Michaelo. You are the monk who discovered my niece in the minster and carried her to safety, are you not?’

  He was confused. She had just implied she’d not known where Marian might be, yet she knew of her night in the chapter house? ‘My lady, it was my honor,’ said Michaelo with a bow. ‘Her heavenly voice led me to her. But how did you hear of this?’

  ‘Is this true?’ asked the prioress, glancing at Dame Euphemia, who had pushed forward to stand beside Marian, placing a hand on her arm.

  ‘Perhaps we should continue this discussion where we might provide Dame Euphemia with a place to
sit,’ said Alisoun, who had been watching over the blind widow.

  The prioress nodded. ‘Lady Maud, Dame Marian, shall we—’

  ‘We must include Brother Michaelo in any discussion,’ said Marian. ‘I have him to thank for guiding me to Captain Archer and Dame Lucie Wilton, who have healed, sheltered, and defended me. They deserve a full report of my reception here, and my reconciliation with my family.’

  The smile she bestowed on Michaelo, the warmth in her pale eyes – he found himself bowing his head in humble gratitude. Rarely did others judge him for his present actions with no thought for his past. Perhaps she had not heard of his sins.

  ‘We are well aware of the virtues of Brother Michaelo,’ said Dame Veronica. ‘He has come to our aid of late. A man of many talents. He was long the personal secretary of our late archbishop, John Thoresby.’

  Lady Maud gestured toward the prioress. ‘Might I suggest your parlor, Mother Prioress, where the fire has warmed the stones and you have a suitable chair for Dame Euphemia?’ Whom she studied with interest.

  SIXTEEN

  Ruined

  The children abed, Kate, Lucie, and Jasper sat by the kitchen fire taking turns keeping Ariel the kitten engaged and away from the flame with string play and cuddles and the remnants of a meat pie. Their talk was aimless for they were all anxious to hear that Marian had safely arrived at St Clement’s and that Owen had found Ambrose before the Nevilles did.

  Still apprehensive about the children’s recoveries, Lucie went to the nursery, listening to their breathing. Quiet, deep. God be thanked. Here was her heart, here in this home, her family. As with Owen, all she did in the larger world was to protect her loved ones, to do what she could to create a safe community that would embrace and support them. Amidst the drama of Marian and Ambrose, it felt important to remember this.

  Making her way down to the hall she discovered Owen, his face twisted in frustration as he paced back and forth by the garden window. She waited until he turned toward her and then opened her arms to him.

  ‘Oh, my love,’ he sighed as he embraced her, clutching her to him as if she were his lifeline.

  The sound of his strong, steady heartbeat reassured her, eased the worry that had become habit whenever he chased a criminal. She smiled at the contrary evidence of that heartbeat – frustrated he might be, but deep down he was confident. Kissing him on the cheek she wriggled out of his arms. ‘What is it?’

  ‘An evening wasted on a false report. We scoured the city south of the river all the way to Micklegate Bar and found no sign of Carl. But I know now what he’s suffered, why he might be out for revenge. And that he waited for Ambrose outside the minster.’ He described Paul’s confession, the conversation in the tavern, Neville’s cruelty. Despite Owen’s sense of Carl’s violent potential, Lucie understood the musician’s anger. As would Ambrose. ‘We will have no joy of the Nevilles,’ she said.

  A bitter chuckle. ‘And I’ve had no word of Ambrose. None of our men have seen him.’

  ‘He knows the danger,’ said Lucie. ‘Perhaps he has found his protector.’

  She saw the idea was no comfort to Owen. And understood. His heart’s desire was to help Ambrose fulfill his mission to save Prince Edward’s life, or at the very least reveal to the prince the source of his long, increasingly debilitating illness. She kissed Owen’s hand, touched his cheek. ‘Food and drink?’

  He drew her back into his arms, kissed her hard, and, with a growl, scooped her up. Threading her arms round him she laughed softly as he carried her up the steps. In their chamber he eased her down onto the bed and flopped down, pulling her atop him.

  ‘I have wanted to do this for so long,’ he whispered, kissing her. ‘I mean to wait no longer.’

  Jasper and Kate glanced up with concern that softened to curiosity when Lucie and Owen appeared in the kitchen smiling and arm in arm.

  ‘Now I am ready for your wonderful stew, Kate,’ said Owen, easing down onto a chair by the fire.

  Lucie poured ale for both of them and settled near him. She had teased Owen about his lust, that his rough treatment of Paul had heated his blood, but he insisted it was the building frustration of the weeks sleeping in shifts, so that one of them could always be with the children, never together in bed. Afterward he’d conceded that the release in finally catching a suspect had stirred his blood, woken his appetites. She said a silent mea culpa for her gratitude. Such wantonness.

  ‘What of this treasure?’ she asked, impatient for the unveiling of something precious he had promised to show them all.

  Jasper had been drowsing by the fire, but perked up at the question, keeping an eye on Owen while he finished the meal Kate had put out for him. When at last Owen sat back with a satisfied sigh Jasper cried, ‘Da! What did you find?’

  ‘Fetch me my scrip. On the peg beneath my cloak.’

  Quick on his feet, Jasper delivered it with a bow, then hovered near.

  Owen drew a small book out of his scrip. ‘Dame Marian’s prayer book.’

  ‘A Choir of Crows,’ Lucie murmured, receiving it into her hands, turning it round to admire the cover, the intricate design etched into the supple leather. Opening it, she was impressed by the elegant, most regular hand in which the prayers were written, and delighted by the illustrations, some inspiring, many comical.

  Kate peered over her shoulder. ‘Fat crows,’ she remarked. ‘They feed well.’

  Jasper joined her. ‘They look more like brothers than sisters,’ he said. ‘All the canons and vicars crowding in the minster choir cawing their praise of Archbishop Neville.’

  ‘Notice me! Notice me!’ Kate sang.

  The humorous images – crows in the habits of Benedictine nuns standing in a choir, heads lifted up, beaks open in song, perched at refectory tables nibbling as one stood at a lectern, flapping down corridors, sitting in a circle pecking at embroideries – were interspersed with drawings of the Madonna and Child, Christ on the cross with the Marys weeping below, angels, and several of a human sister going about her chores, singing, kneeling in prayer, her pale face aglow. A compilation planned with humor, piety, and deep affection for a niece.

  They were poring over the little book when the door opened, letting in a chilly breeze.

  ‘All will be well, I think,’ Alisoun said in greeting. And though she settled on the bench by the door with a weary sigh, she smiled at some thought while removing her boots, laughing as Ariel pawed at her skirt, scooping the kitten up to carry her to a seat beside Jasper, settling her on her lap. ‘What’s the fun?’

  ‘Dame Marian’s prayer book,’ said Lucie, passing it to her.

  Jasper showed Alisoun what he thought the funniest illustrations, repeated his description of the minster chapter’s behavior. They laughed together.

  Poor Ned. He did not have a chance with Alisoun, not with the mutual affection she saw as their eyes met.

  She gave them a moment before asking Alisoun to tell them about her journey, and Marian’s reception.

  Rarely did Alisoun have such a rapt audience, and she drank up the attention, giving a dramatic account of the altercation at the bridge, Fitch the Snoop’s humbling, the deepening darkness as they moved along the far bank, the encounter with Porter and Diggs, the children on the roof, the unease when the Neville retainers surrounded them out beyond the Old Baile.

  ‘Porter and Diggs again.’ Lucie looked at Owen. ‘Will they do more?’

  ‘I am certain they will try.’

  ‘They will not appreciate being humbled by a woman,’ said Alisoun. ‘Or Drake, a warehouse worker.’

  ‘Who’s Drake?’ Jasper asked. Alisoun had mentioned him by name several times.

  ‘I set his arm once when he broke it in a brawl. He works in Crispin’s warehouse, came along to guide the donkey. I walked with him.’

  Jasper frowned. ‘Young and handsome, I’d wager.’

  ‘And strong!’ Alisoun said with a teasing grin, elbowing Jasper and touching his hand. She continued her ac
count with their reception at St Clement’s, the prioress’s clear reluctance to receive them. ‘All that changed when Lady Maud came forward to embrace Marian and questioned why she was not garbed in the habit of the order. The prioress whined, Brother Michaelo smoothed feathers, they all retired to Prioress Isabel’s parlor, and Crispin, Drake, and I headed home.’

  ‘Any trouble on your return?’ Owen asked.

  ‘We were ready for real trouble, but found no sign of Porter and Diggs. Now and then some fool began to follow, but we frightened them off. Nothing more.’

  ‘Brother Michaelo will spend the night?’ asked Jasper.

  ‘Yes. Sharing the priest’s chamber. Marian insisted. The precentrice Dame Veronica was very welcoming. I think with Lady Maud’s support Marian will soon take her place among her sisters at Wherwell.’

  ‘That is for the archbishop to decide.’ Lucie saw how that news erased all the smiles. ‘You remember with Dame Joanna …’ A nun who had run away from St Clement’s some time ago.

  ‘But she was nothing like Dame Marian,’ Jasper protested. ‘She had brought on her troubles with crime and sin.’

  ‘She was mad, as her mother before her,’ said Owen. ‘I, for one, could not bring myself to judge her in the end.’

  Jasper flushed at the implied criticism, ducking his head.

  ‘But all you heard were my curses and complaints,’ Owen admitted, winning a cautious grin.

  He was a good father. When the prayer book had been put away, Owen spoke of the confessions of Beck and the chancellor. A pair of greedy cowards, Lucie declared them. But she was relieved. Marian was safe, and Owen was surely closer to solving Ronan’s murder. Soon they might all sleep more peacefully.

  ‘Tell me more about this Drake,’ said Jasper, poking his face close to Alisoun’s.

  Lucie leaned to Owen, whispered a request to return to their earlier discussion up in their bedchamber. He needed no further prompting. She asked Alisoun to damp the fire in the hall. ‘Jasper can help you. Let Kate get a good night’s sleep.’