A Choir of Crows

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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.

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