Ambrose had noted an undercurrent amongst the players, a tension. Carl kept a sharp eye out for Matthew. Yes, the man knew. How long could he hold the illusion cast over his players? It was a wonder he’d managed thus far – for Matthew had clearly sung with them a while.
Out of the corner of his eye Ambrose noticed two of their fellows rising, ambling over toward them.
‘Once through the song, Matthew,’ he said. The lyrics were not as polished as Ambrose would like, but they would do. He counted on the wine flowing at tomorrow’s feast – perfection would be wasted on the mighty. All they wished for were celebrations of the family’s victories, their increasing power.
Matthew sang the tune with a few flourishes enhancing the piece. Perfect recall of the lyrics. Excellent.
‘Well done.’ Ambrose nodded to Matthew. ‘Enough for tonight. Now to sleep, and rest your voice.’ He nodded to the pair who had come forward. ‘All our voices.’
‘It is a pleasure to sing with you, Master,’ said the youth.
‘And with you.’
‘Did you leave any ale for me?’ Matthew asked the two idling nearby.
‘Oh aye, and you’ve earned it, pretty lad,’ said one. He nodded at Ambrose. ‘The minstrel’s taken a liking to you. Watch yourself, lad.’ Though they were the danger, not Ambrose.
He shook his head as if he could not be bothered with such talk and fussed with his crwth, placing it in a soft case and setting it on his pack, then made as if to go out to relieve himself.
Once outside, seeing no one following, Ambrose doubled back, slipping into a doorway indicated by the kitchen wench who had a weakness for singers. Down the corridor to the curtained alcove, she had said. And there it was. He slipped within and pressed his ear to the boarded-up aperture.
‘Ravenser? I do not think you will make much headway with him, Alexander. Thoresby’s nephew – he thought to succeed his uncle. He is not likely to befriend you.’
Ambrose did not recognize the voice. He bent down to a chink in the boards, but the speaker had his back to him. A dark, well-padded jacket embroidered in bright colors, the seams picked out with silver thread.
‘Yes, I had heard. My secretary tells me that Ravenser is well thought of amongst the clergy in the city …’ Such a nasal quality to the archbishop’s voice. No wonder he railed against his destiny. Was it not enough that his appearance lacked pleasing proportions and grace? He was cursed with beady eyes, a wide nose, and a tiny mouth in a broad, jowly face, his body thick and graceless. He moved with a ponderous, flat-footed gait. An impressive voice might have done much to mitigate such misfortune, especially paired with a composed delivery, as if all the world were his to rule. A good actor might create a powerful illusion. But Alexander Neville had no such talents.
‘A word in the right ear …’ The mystery man spoke in a soothing tone. Here was one who knew how to shape the air round him. ‘You know how it is done. Be at ease. We have not brought you so far only to abandon you.’
‘Brought me?’ A bleat that hurt Ambrose’s ears. What horror to have that amplified in the soaring spaces of York Minster. Pray God the man did not speak above a whisper in that sacred place. And might he never attempt to sing … ‘Do you insult me?’
A dramatic sigh. ‘I remind you that you are nothing without the support of the family, Alexander. Nothing.’ The voice was cold. ‘Do not trip over your pride. Our purpose is to unite the North in protecting the realm against all that threatens.’
‘You have made yourself plain. But do not forget, I have the ear of the Holy Father.’
‘Mark me, he will soon test you, tug on your strings to see whether you dance to his measure. Remember to whom you owe your allegiance – your kin. And King Edward.’
‘He is the Holy Father.’
‘And he favors the French. Never forget that. Now. What has your secretary learned of the dean of York Minster?’
‘Cardinal Grimaud regrets that he is unable to make the journey north in winter. But we met at Westminster. He seems indifferent. A proud, stubborn man …’ A petulant sigh. ‘God save me from these overbearing clerics.’
A startled laugh that the man hardly bothered to mask with a cough. ‘And the sub-dean acting as dean in his absences? John of York, I believe.’
‘Absences? I am not certain the cardinal has ever set foot in the city.’
‘You grow tedious. The sub-dean? Dean John?’
A petulant scowl. ‘A simple mind, easily dominated. You grow tedious as well. I am more concerned about Jehannes, Archdeacon of York. He presents himself as a gentle, unworldly man. But I am warned that one does well not to underestimate him. He sounds a pious bore.’
‘And the lay men
