Candace Robb
The Owen Archer Series:
Book Twelve
A CHOIR OF CROWS
2020
For the Medieval Women’s Choir of Seattle – to sing with you is a joy surpassing reason, and especially for Marian ‘Molly’ Seibert, my inspiration.
The marvels of God are not brought forth from one’s self. Rather, it is more like a chord, a sound that is played. The tone does not come out of the chord itself, but rather, through the touch of the Musician. I am, of course, the lyre and harp of God’s kindness.
1
Minstrels & Players in a Hall of Power
Cawood Palace, early December 1374
Holding their pikes upright so they no longer threatened the new arrivals, the guards stepped aside to allow the players entrance to the great hall of Cawood Palace. A collective sigh rippled through the company as they exchanged encouraging nods, and, with a flourish of drums and recorders, stepped lightly through the carved doorway making a merry sound. Ambrose strode forward, arms outspread to show off the elegance of his fur-lined cloak and robe as he intoned a song celebrating the harvest.
Late for that, but with little time to prepare he had chosen a tune in both his and the players’ repertoires, and one that lent itself to such a procession – a good tempo and a range in which he could project his voice above the clatter of their instruments. The grandness of the gesture was key, not the theme: a jubilant noise to delight the lords gathered here. Tomorrow, as the nobles feasted in the hall, that would be the time to turn their heads with new lyrics in praise of the rising power of the Nevilles in the North.
For the new lord of Cawood Palace was a Neville, and the occasion was a gathering of Alexander’s kinsmen before his imminent enthronement as Archbishop of York in the great minster. Already consecrated archbishop in Westminster Abbey earlier in the year, he would now take his official seat. When Ambrose had learned of this gathering, the most powerful among the Nevilles here to instruct their ecclesiastical cousin on the temporal significance of his position, he had set about finding a way to witness it, in hopes of overhearing something of use to His Grace Prince Edward. For he had no doubt much would be said – the Nevilles had used their influence, including a not inconsiderable amount of wealth, to win this honor for Alexander, and now they would expect him to make it worthwhile, to prove himself worthy of the high position – second most powerful churchman in the realm. The impression he made on the city of York and the many religious houses therein, especially the chapter of its glorious minster, must be one of strength, but tempered with grace – he must assure the dean and chapter and all the clergy in his care that he meant to be a magnanimous master.
It remained to be seen whether Alexander Neville could play the part. His career so far would argue otherwise. Even across the south sea in the French court Ambrose had heard tales of Neville’s tantrum over a bishopric in Cornwall, an ugly dispute that had begun over a decade earlier and dragged on for years.
And now, as Ambrose strode into the great hall of one of the palaces that came to Alexander as part of the archbishopric, he studied the proud faces, noticed signs of strain. No doubt partly inspired by the setting. Cawood seemed a neglected property. Judging from the stained whitewash on the gatehouse and weedy state of the yard, the previous archbishop, John Thoresby, had paid little attention to its upkeep. Why had this gathering been called here? Why not Bishopthorpe, the palace close to York and much favored by Thoresby? Ambrose guessed that this was meant to be a secret gathering. Which was, of course, why he risked being here. He might win the prince’s ear with news of the Nevilles’ strategy for the North.
At least the hall was brightly lit with torches and a large fire in the center – for it was not yet fitted with a hearth. The light was not kind to the musicians’ colorful garb, emphasizing the faded areas, the worn patches on the velvet, the oft-repaired seams. The contrast with Ambrose’s own costly robes and the elegantly garbed guests was striking, and the nobles gazed on the players with a mixture of amusement and impatience. A few smiled and moved to the music, but most began to turn away, resuming their conversations. At least no one started at Ambrose – he believed himself unknown to the Nevilles, though he had performed before some of them on occasion years earlier. Before France.
Enough of this mundane fanfare. Time to entice the guests with a taste of what they might expect on the morrow. The company’s leader, Carl, awaited the signal to begin. Nodding to him, Ambrose approached a fair youth who stepped forward upon hearing the opening notes. Matthew was the requisite comely player relegated to the female roles, at present valuable for the angelic voice, and the ethereal beauty to match – slender as a willow wand, graceful, with a mass of spun gold curls surrounding pale eyes and features kissed by innocence.
‘Shall we give them a taste?’ Ambrose whispered in French.
With a smile of anticipation so breathlessly sweet Ambrose thought his heart might shatter to look on it, the youth straightened, took a deep breath, and intoned the beginning of the duet, a playful argument about whether it is preferable to spend a delightful night with a mistress and possibly not even make love, or to proceed quickly to the act and move on, picking the flower and leaving the fruit.
The courteous lady (Matthew) seeks to persuade with descriptions of tenderness, but the man (Ambrose) is too keen on his own argument to listen to hers.
As Matthew sang the note before Ambrose’s entrance, their eyes met. Sweet Jesu. Ambrose responded in his soft baritone, playing the part of the lusty, sardonic knight. Their voices shaped a dance of persuasion and arrogance, the lady remaining sweet, the man stubborn and certain of his right to pluck and run, until he insisted on cutting her off and having the last word.
As they began, the room went coldly quiet, but after one lewd comment the rest of the performance was punctuated by bawdy commentary. When a flourish made clear that Ambrose had won the argument, the song was met with shouts, stamps, and whistles, and audible sighs from the ladies. The players took up the tune as they were led out of the hall to their quarters for the night, leaving a promise of more delight on the morrow. Ambrose had gambled on Sir John Neville’s reputation for just the sort of behavior championed by his part in the song, and he had won. God be praised.
He looked round as the company passed through the kitchen, seeking a potentially cooperative member of the household, someone who might know a place from which he might eavesdrop on the hosts of the gathering.
They were housed in the undercroft beneath the huge kitchen, sharing the space with casks of wine against the walls and salted meats hanging above them. It had been made clear that should they think to sample the wares, they could forget the generous purse they had been promised. Carl took charge, warning that pilfering would not be tolerated. He was a large man skilled with a knife, and the others, though loudly letting him know the insult cut deep, withdrew to see to their costumes for the morrow. After all, they might well be content with the barrel of ale provided them. And the cold repast. There was no need for his bullying, they muttered amongst themselves.