‘Thank you all for coming to celebrate my daughter’s birth. And to you, my dear Lucie, and you, Lotta, for standing for her at her christening.’
Both women assured her they were moved and honored. Lucie was to be first godmother, Lotta Hempe second, and Peter Ferriby, a prominent merchant and the husband of Lucie’s friend Emma, was to be godfather. Strong alliances for Muriel’s daughter among the merchant class of York. A clear sign that although she had wrested her betrothed from the archbishop’s grasp, she was well aware that for their businesses to thrive Crispin needed such alliances. Lucie prayed that this child brought a fresh chance to both her parents. She had expressed her gratitude for Crispin’s part in moving Marian to safety and promised that word of his courage and compassion would spread to those merchants who could be trusted to befriend him for it.
‘I do so wish I might be churched in time to attend the enthronement. Crispin says that Dame Marian will sing a hymn to the Blessed Virgin during the processional.’ She looked to Magda, who shook her head. ‘I will pray that she chooses St Clement’s as her home.’
The York Tavern was rowdy this night, Crispin Poole buying drinks for all and sundry to celebrate the birth of Lucia Swann. He and Muriel had pledged their troth.
‘Blessed be that Dame Muriel was safe delivered,’ said Bess as Owen arrived. ‘She deserves much joy.’
‘Here’s the captain!’ Crispin shouted, clearly on his way to a good drunk. He waved Owen over, calling out the news of his role in the baby’s hours-old life.
Folk pounded on Owen’s back, eager to hear about Carl the murderous musician and poor Will the silversmith now imprisoned in the castle. Owen tried to smile over the bitterness of losing that battle as he made his way to the back table where George Hempe sat with Alfred and Stephen, off duty for this special occasion. He wished no gloom for Crispin’s celebration. He had just lifted his overflowing tankard to his mouth when a hush fell over the room and all eyes turned toward the men in the doorway.
With a flourish, Dom Antony bowed to Tom Merchet, his deep voice carrying through the room as he introduced himself and his companion Sir Lewis Clifford. ‘I have long wished to meet you, Master Tom. Your ale is by far the best in the land.’ Antony paused for the cheers. When they died down, he said, ‘And we have brought the finest crwth player in the land to entertain the house tonight in celebration of young Swann.’ Stepping aside, he revealed Ambrose Coates, resplendent in his gorgeous cloak, repaired by Jehannes’s talented Anna. Denis stood beside him, carrying a leather case.
Tom made room near the fire, providing a stool. Lowering himself onto it, for he was still weak, Ambrose took the crwth from Denis’s hands, lifted it to his lap, and began to play.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
A few years ago, as part of a fundraising event for the Medieval Women’s Choir, I raffled off the chance to appear as a character in my next book. To my delight, the woman who won the raffle asked me to use her daughter, our fabulous soloist and assistant choir director Marian ‘Molly’ Seibert, a dream subject as she’s talented, smart, personable, striking in appearance, and a good sport. The wheels in my head began to turn …
I relished sharing insights gleaned from performing medieval music as a member of the choir – nothing teaches like hands-on (or voice-engaged) experience. I had been planning a reappearance of the musician Ambrose Coates, a character from The Lady Chapel (book two in the series), and the singer and the musician seemed the perfect combination. With Molly as catalyst the tale began to take shape.
If you’re reading this before reading the book (I wish you wouldn’t!), I assure you that A Choir of Crows is not a dissertation on performing medieval music, but rather a murder mystery that happens to touch on aspects of the music and how it was learned and performed as that relates to the tale. Now turn back and read the book first, because I can’t promise there aren’t spoilers below!
Early in A Choir of Crows, Ambrose guesses that Matthew, a talented member of the company of musicians and players he’s joined, received his musical training in a religious house because he uses the parts of his hand to memorize a melody. He’s using what is called the Guidonian hand, a mnemonic device in which each portion of the hand represents a specific note within the hexachord system used for chant.1 A youth learning a song by listening to the others in a company of musicians would be unlikely to have the habit of using his hand so.
The youth also toys with melodic embellishments appropriate for the mode in which Ambrose set a song they are rehearsing. The modes of melodies are the sets of pitch intervals similar to a modern musical scale.2 I was once fortunate to participate in a workshop at a medieval studies congress led by a member of Anonymous 4. We learned two modes, singing the pitch over and over until we internalized the mode, then learning pieces of chant in those modes that were familiar to all of us who listened to early music, particularly sacred music. The third step was learning to do just what Ambrose finds Matthew doing, embellishing the melodies yet retaining their harmony by limiting the notes to the mode in which the piece was based. I’m simplifying this, but I hope it suffices to show why Ambrose believed that Matthew received his voice training in a monastic setting.
One more wee bit. At a recent rehearsal our artistic director Eric
