‘Archer? He’s now captain of bailiffs for the city. And Prince Edward’s man in the city, his eyes and ears in the North, they say. He entertained Antony in his home. Geoffrey Chaucer as well.’
Owen Archer’s position with the prince was precisely why Ambrose had come north.
‘I am aware Archer has the favor of the prince’s household. What do we know about him?’
‘The city sought his protection. He’s said to be a clever bloodhound, still a fine archer – he was captain of archers for Henry Grosmont before the loss of an eye, then his spy. Grosmont educated him to the latter position before he died. By all accounts he’s Gisburne’s nemesis. At some point the merchant crossed Archer and all the city awaits the day Gisburne is made to pay, and pay dearly.’
‘So Archer has enemies.’
‘Other than Gisburne?’ Ambrose wished he could see black jacket’s face, read the expression that lit up Alexander’s face. ‘Oh. Yes, I see.’
Ambrose settled himself to hear more. His distasteful interlude with the kitchen wench had been worth it.
As the company proceeded into the hall Ambrose cringed at the fog of greasy smoke in the great space, the rising odor of sweet wine, roasted meats, and sweat. And the noise! It was not the worst he had experienced, but that did not make the prospect any less daunting. To sing with his lungs filling with smoke – he would suffer tomorrow. At least he need not fret about the rough lyrics – few would hear them.
His heart lightened when Carl directed them to ascend to a gallery overlooking the feast. Closer to fresh air, at a slight distance from the fire and the noise. Better. The steep wooden steps were a challenge with the instruments, the man before him stumbling, almost knocking the crwth from his grasp. Ambrose’s quick reflex saved it.
‘How will they hear us?’ Matthew whispered as Ambrose joined the youth.
‘Those who wish to will find a way.’
And, lo, as soon as the musicians struck up a jig, faces lifted to see whence came the sound.
‘Ah,’ breathed Matthew.
‘Just so,’ said Ambrose, staring directly into the eyes of Sir John Neville, Knight of the Garter, Admiral of the North, Steward of the King’s Household, he of the gorgeous silver-seamed jacket. So the archbishopric of York was that important to the family that Alexander’s eldest brother took time away from his military activities and duties at court to attend this meeting. Suddenly what Ambrose had conceived as a fortuitous opportunity to gather a tidbit of gossip that might be of use had become a far more dangerous ploy than he had intended. John Neville’s cool gaze chilled him. Ambrose did not recall having been introduced. But he was glad the velvet hat covered his long, lustrous white hair, just in case Neville had seen him at the French court. He had certainly heard much about Neville there. He, in turn, might have heard of Ambrose, who was known as the silver-haired troubadour. God help him. He was glad he had decided to play an instrument that had been of no interest in France, the Welsh crwth.
The song ended, and the players fanned out to make room for Ambrose and Matthew in the center. Lifting his crwth, Ambrose teased out the melody, giving Matthew the pitch.
The pure voice rose up in praise of the Nevilles, Ambrose answered. John Neville’s eyes crinkled in delight.
God be praised. Perhaps that was all his concern, that the entertainment be suitable and pleasing to the ear.
While his companions busied themselves preparing for the performance, Ambrose had gathered the belongings he would not be needing and taken them to a spot he had found beside the gatehouse. A break in the wall, narrow, but he was still slender and agile, God be thanked. An overturned barrow covered his pack. Now, as the players were settling for the night, having drunk deeply and eaten their fill, Ambrose lay awake fully dressed, even to his boots, listening to the rustling, the stumbles and slurred apologies. He might simply slip out as if heading out to relieve himself but for his instrument and the blankets. So he waited.
The danger lay in waiting too long, and he must have fallen asleep, for he came alert of a sudden, heart pounding, with a vague sense of someone thrashing about. Was that a cry? He lay still, holding his breath. There. A muffled cry, a grunt of warning. He sat up and blinked to adjust to the unhelpful light from a torch by the door, flame dancing in a strong draft. Someone hunched over Matthew’s pallet. Real? He quietly collected his things, donned his hat, and rose, gathering his cloak about him. His instrument case securely hanging from his shoulder, he crept toward the sound, and, seeing that he was right, reached out and yanked the naked man away from Matthew, tossing him aside. Ambrose would never be considered strong, but he knew how to make use of surprise, and the awkwardness of a swollen cock. A loud thud, a curse, then silence.
‘Get your things and come with me,’ Ambrose whispered, offering Matthew a hand.
‘I can manage,’ the youth muttered, scrambling up, gathering blankets, clothes, a pack, turning back with a curse for the boots that had been kicked away.
‘I have your boots. Hurry!’
They picked their way among the players, some cursing, others merely turning over and resuming their snores. No one seemed to be chasing them. Near the door, Ambrose noted Carl was not on his pallet. It had not been him attacking Matthew, so where was he?
At the door to the kitchen garden, Ambrose gestured for Matthew to stay back while he checked for a guard – or Carl, then took Matthew’s things and proffered the boots. ‘Best to start out well shod. It will be a long walk.’
Bending over the boots, the youth glanced up. ‘You mean to go with me?’
‘I planned to leave tonight. You are merely an unexpected encumbrance.’
‘I can manage.’
‘We waste time. Come.’
As they began to move across the courtyard two figures approached from the fields, a bare-assed man tottering after a woman who yanked him along by his member. Carl and the assistant cook. Ambrose felt a laugh rising and covered his mouth as he backed farther into the shadows. As the two passed nearby, Ambrose felt the heat of the woman’s fury. Near the door to the kitchen she let go of Carl. He stumbled forward. She kicked him aside and disappeared within. Carl groaned. Grabbing Matthew’s hand, Ambrose hurried on. Clouds hid the moon, forcing them to move with care down the paths. But Ambrose had planned for it, walking the route several times, learning the contours, the obstacles – like the thorn hedge.
Near the gatehouse he froze in mid-step as a guard called out a challenge. But it proved to be directed at a rider who approached the gate from the road. God watched over them. The distraction would give them the cover they needed.
A forceful knock on the door. ‘My lord!’
Sir John kissed the wench tenderly – a woman bedded is a dangerous creature should she feel used and discarded. ‘Forgive me, my beauty.’
With a sigh, she slipped from beneath the sheets. John groaned at the vision, her curves caressed by the candlelight, in full view as she wrestled her simple gown over her head, dropping over that lushness. She blew him a kiss and scampered out, trading places with Pit, the man he had set to watch the players, especially the minstrel in the squirrel-lined cloak and robe. The elegance of the clothing had been his mistake, and his choice of instrument. Few played the crwth. Fewer yet with such a voice, and clothes unmistakably the work of tailors for the French court. And the intensity with which he had regarded those gathered in the hall – Sir John included. He’d not needed the curvaceous kitchen wench to tell him of the man’s interest in hearing ‘what the nobles said amongst themselves’ to know he was a spy. But who had hired him? At one time or another Ambrose Coates had been rumored to be the lover of every man in the French court – and a few women. Or was he now spying for someone in the English court? Of late John had been on the Scottish border, too far afield to stay current with court gossip.