Sir Adam's smile warmed. "Young Robert is but eight, and is squired with Lord Hervey of Stafford, Robert's liege. Thus far there isn't a skill my son can't master."
Having played the role of proud father, Sir Adam launched back into his tale. "But not even such talk soothed Robert last night. When the meal was done and the servants were clearing away the tables, Martha tried to cozen her grandsire into playing Hoodman Blind with us. It surprised us all when she failed at it. She can usually get Robert to do anything she asks."
Again Sir Adam paused, this time to sigh. "If only I had known," he said, regret filling his voice. "But what good would that have done?" he asked, glancing between Faucon and Will.
"What do you mean?" Will asked.
"Robert didn't refuse to join Martha's game," Adam answered. "Instead, he said he couldn't play because he couldn't feel his feet. I put that up to drink, and said as much. He laughed and agreed, but now I think it wasn't the drink at all.
"So while the rest of us played the game, he watched from his chair. When we had all taken a turn with the hood, Joia returned to sit with her father. This time Robert told her that his legs felt numb as far as his knees and his thighs ached. My lady felt for a fever but there was none. When she pressed him to retire, he refused, insisting that whatever this strange malady was, it would surely pass. He doesn't like"— the knight caught himself— "didn't like his daughter to make much ado over him.
"After that, the servants brought their instruments and we all started to sing. Robert joined us in that. But an hour later he yielded, admitting that the pain had grown beyond bearing. He said he wished to retire, but he couldn't lift himself out of the chair."
Sir Adam gave a shake of his head. "I could hardly believe it, but it was true. Offord's bailiff and I each took an arm. Robert couldn't so much as move his feet to help us. His legs were useless.
"That put an end to our gaiety. My lady wife went with him to his chamber. She sat by his side, trying to soothe him as he shifted between fearful prayers and raging over how his new wife's family had misused him. By the time my girls were abed on their pallets in our private corner of the hall and I joined my lady wife, Robert could no longer lift his arms. That's when he asked me to send to Wootton Wawen for the prior. As if Prior Thierry has ever truly heard Robert's confessions!" the knight added with a scornful snort.
"But there was no reasoning with Robert last night, even when I told him that Father Otto was sure to come from Haselor. Robert wanted the prior. In the end I sent men both ways, and a good thing that was. Father Otto arrived swiftly and Robert still had breath enough to respond as he received his last rites. By the time Prior Thierry reached Offord, Robert could no longer speak."
Scorn again twisted Sir Adam's features. "Not that being mute or the fact that Robert had already received his last rites stopped the prior from sending us all away! The Churchman claimed he needed privacy in which to hear Robert's last confession. I argued, but in the end, Robert managed to blink to show his agreement when Prior Thierry asked him if he wanted us to leave. My lady and I weren't allowed back into his chamber until Robert was breathing his last."
Sir Adam's tale was strange for certain. Faucon had never heard of such an illness, but then he didn't know much about ailments. It was fortunate for him that he knew a man who did.
Just then the hall door opened. Alf stepped inside, bearing a large tray. "Sirs," the soldier said, acknowledging the knights as he shifted to one side, allowing the lad responsible for cleaning the cooking pots to enter around him.
The boy carried two pitchers, one in each hand, and a cup under each arm. After he'd set these onto the table, he emptied Alf's tray. Each knight got a spoon and a wooden plate upon which the boy placed a half-loaf of stale bread. Then, taking up the good-sized iron pot and making sounds that suggested his fingers burned, the lad placed it at the center of the table.
Faucon wasn't surprised to smell mutton. Marion had culled the old ewes from Blacklea's flock last week. Since then they'd eaten nothing but mutton stewed with turnips and parsley. She'd promised fish on the morrow, now that Advent had begun.
Rather than serve his betters, the lad set the ladle beside the pot and made a swift escape from the hall. As it wasn't Alf's duty to serve, the soldier turned to follow.
"Hold a moment, Alf," Faucon said, rising swiftly to his feet as he looked at Will. "Let me pass, Will."
His brother grinned, once again giving Faucon a glimpse of the sibling he missed. "Leave, and your place is mine, Pery," he threatened, as he rose to let Faucon exit.
That made Faucon laugh. "I yield it to you," he replied, as he eased his way to the door.
Before following Alf out onto the landing, Faucon nodded to Sir Adam. "Please begin without me. I must direct my man." Then pulling the door nearly closed behind him, he followed Alf to the base of the stairs, stopping on the final step, which brought him eye-to-eye with the taller soldier.
"Do you recall Brother Colin, that monk from the mill, the one who showed me how Halbert died?"
Interest flared in Alf's pale eyes. "I do indeed, sir."
"It seems I again have need of him. Ride to Stanrudde and the Abbey of Saint Peter. If he's there, beg him to join me at Offord Manor."
"If the brother is not at Stanrudde, what then?" Alf asked.
"Then ask where he is and join me at Offord, so I may ride with you to find him." Faucon replied.
"And if the brother is in his abbey but isn't permitted to join you?" Alf countered.
"Then you must tell him that a man who was but two score and five has died unexpectedly, death creeping upon him over the course of less than a half day. Whatever took his life stole all the sensation and mobility from his limbs, the numbness rising steadily from his toes. Ask if the brother knows of any illnesses that might have caused this. If he can think of none, then he must speculate as to what could cause this manner of death."
Nodding to show he had committed his employer's words to memory, Alf threw a glance heavenward. "I doubt I'll make Stanrudde before the monks are at their rest for the night. At best I won't make Offord before midday on the morrow."
"As I expected," Faucon replied. "Will you need coin to secure shelter for the night?"
The soldier offered his snaggle-toothed grin at that. "The abbey stables will do for me, sir. The only thing that costs is my prayers at Prime mass in the morning. Name me fortunate!"
That made Faucon laugh aloud. Although Alf never missed a holy day, not wishing to incur the fine for being absent, he wasn't a particularly religious man. "As it suits you," Faucon said. "I'll need Brother Edmund as well. Stop at Saint Radegund's on your way and warn him that I ride for Offord within the next hour or so. Or, if it's more convenient, seek him out on the morrow on your return from Stanrudde and escort him to Offord."
"I'll stop on the way to Stanrudde," Alf replied. "I don't think the brother will ride with me."
Faucon offered a shake of his head at that. "He is a creature of strict habit," he offered in apology. "In that case, warn Brother Edmund to make all haste for Blacklea. Sir Adam is over-anxious to have me at his wife's home. Travel with God, Alf." Turning, Faucon started back up the stairs.
"You as well, sir, and watch your back," the soldier called after him.
Faucon threw a quick smile over his shoulder. "I always do."
When he reentered his hall, he saw that Will had again played the role of servant. All three bread trenchers had been filled with stew. Sir Adam, his spoon already in hand, shifted to watch his host enter.
"Well, are you coming to view Robert's body this day?" the knight more demanded than asked.
Faucon wondered at the man's urgency. "I think I must," he replied as he took Will's place on their bench and picked up his spoon. "There is something strange about how your father-by-marriage died. However, I cannot leave Blacklea before my clerk, who dwells in Priors Holston, arrives to join us."
"Priors Holston is not so far. He'll be her
e soon," the knight replied, grinning in triumph. Then he began to eat with unseemly haste.
"Is that your man at last?" Sir Adam asked, once again giving way to impatience as they watched the little donkey and its black-clad rider on the Stanrudde Road.
From the moment Faucon had agreed to view Sir Robert's body, Adam had become the perfect guest. Their conversation over the meal had ranged from the battles they'd fought, who they knew, and which of their ancestors had rowed for Rollo the Viking. But the moment the last crumb of the meal had been consumed there'd been no holding the knight inside Faucon's hall. He'd insisted on mounting up and meeting Brother Edmund on the road.
"It is," Faucon replied.
Even with the wind at his back, Edmund's mount moved at his usual snail's pace. His rider had his head bowed, his habit tucked around him, and his black cowl pulled as low as possible. Thrusting up above his shoulder was the top of a tubular basket. That suggested Edmund had finally found a replacement for the traveling basket that had been crushed in Wike. This one was taller and wider than the original. Although its size made it unwieldy for riding, it was a better fit for Edmund's precious writing implements and the leaves of parchment upon which he scribbled.
Sir Adam cupped his hands around his mouth. "Brother," he shouted, "put your heels to that little beast of yours! These days are short and the sun will soon seek his rest. Hie or you'll be sleeping out-of-doors this night."
As he dropped his hands, Sir Adam shot Faucon a wink and a grin. The man was in fine fettle now that he believed himself well on the way to removing the threat to his son's inheritance.
In the distance the skirt of Edmund's habit flew as the monk beat his heels into his donkey's sides. This was usually wasted effort for the stubborn beast kept to his own pace, no matter the goad. Not so today. The donkey immediately jerked into a trot, nearly unseating his rider. Both man and basket bounced as the small creature trotted toward the waiting knights.
Assured the monk would follow, Sir Adam turned his mount southward at a fast walk. Will immediately brought his horse— Legate's brother— abreast of Sir Adam. Legate would have joined them but Faucon held his courser in place, unwilling to abandon Brother Edmund to the vagaries of his unpredictable ride.
Still yards away, the monk threw up a hand. "Move on or he'll slow once again."
"As you will," Faucon called back, turning Legate.
Recognizing a now-familiar traveling companion, the little ass matched the bigger horse's gait as he came abreast. That encouraged Faucon to urge Legate to slightly more speed. Much to his surprise, the donkey followed this time.
Panting, Edmund looked up at his employer, his well-made face framed by his black cowl. As most churchmen did, Faucon's clerk shaved not only his pate but his jaw. The tip of the monk's jutting nose was chill-reddened. His brows were drawn down over his dark eyes as he aimed his gaze at the two knights ahead of them.
"Sir Faucon, are we truly traveling so far that we must sleep out-of-doors this night? The message I received from Prior Lambertus was that I was needed at Blacklea."
"We are for Offord, which I'm told is but a few miles from here, and I doubt we'll sleep outside. That said, know that we will likely be staying at Offord Manor for the night, what with the hour so late."
Edmund's mouth twisted at that. He disliked sleeping in close proximity to anyone, male or female, who wasn't avowed to the Church. In those instances when they were too far to ride for home, he always sought out some holy house, be it even a Cistercian farmstead, in which to lay his head. Those few times he'd failed at that, he'd retreated to a shed or barn, where he could be alone and his prayers undisturbed. However, with winter almost upon them and the weather turning steadily colder, such accommodations would soon be untenable.
"And why are we for Offord?" Faucon's clerk asked.
"Sir Adam, the knight who called to you, claims his father-by-marriage was murdered last night," Faucon replied.
Edmund looked askance at him. "Claims?" Frowning, the monk considered the back of the bigger man riding ahead of them. "Either a man is murdered or he isn't."
"Just so," Faucon nodded. "All I know thus far is that no weapon was used to end Sir Robert's life. Nor, according to Sir Adam, is there any sign of violence upon the dead man's body. Something else happened, something strange enough that I decided I must work out for myself how the knight died."
The crease on Brother Edmund's brow deepened, this time in confusion. "No wounds? I suppose there was no hue and cry then? Does the knight know who did this deed, if there was actually a deed done?"
Faucon gave a quirk of his brows. "No hue and cry, but Sir Adam claims Sir Robert's wife caused her husband's death."
The monk gave a confused shake of his head. "But if he witnessed the woman do murder to her husband, why is there no wound and no hue and cry? This is all very wrong. If the knight saw her commit the act, how can he not know how the man died?"
"You mistake me," Faucon replied with a smile. "The only thing Sir Adam witnessed was Sir Robert's steady progress into death. Lady Offord left her hall before her husband began his journey to our Lord's holy house and did not return until just before Sir Robert took his final breath." As Faucon spoke these words, the huntsman within him stirred, pleased at the prospect of a second chance at sport after the day's earlier and wholly unsatisfactory chase.
"But the knight cannot accuse the lady if he saw nothing," Edmund complained, his voice rising.
Again, Faucon grinned. "Oh but he can, especially if his accusation results in securing Offord Manor for his son instead of the widow's child."
Edmund blinked rapidly at that. "I beg your pardon?"
"Sir Robert's widow— his third wife— is pregnant," Faucon told his clerk, restating his comment for the literal monk.
That cleared the confusion from Edmund's dark eyes. "Ah, so this is a matter of contested inheritance, and not murder." This time the monk shook his head with enough vigor that his donkey sidled. "Sir, this is not our purview. By the knight's own admission, there are no wounds, no witnesses to a murder, no hue and cry. We should leave this death and the lady to the sheriff."
Faucon glanced at his clerk in surprise. "We cannot know what happened to the dead man until we've examined him. I must convince myself that murder was not done before I can state that this death does not concern the Coronarius."
"Well and good, sir, but what if you prove murder— what then?" Edmund asked, his voice tight with worry. "Are you certain the Coronarius has the right to call the common men bound to Offord to confirm that the one who ruled them has been murdered by his lady wife? Did you ask Sir Adam if Sir Robert held the franchise for delivering justice to his folk? If not Sir Robert, then does his overlord hold that right? Perhaps Sir Adam should have ridden to that baron's keep to inform him of his vassal's death, and let that nobleman come to you in his stead. Do we even know what responsibility the Coronarii have when it comes to the better-born?"
Faucon bent a sharp look on the monk. Although Edmund's questions were appropriate given the yet undefined duties of his new position, the monk was missing the obvious. That wasn't like Edmund at all. Understanding came with his next breath. Like Faucon, Edmund was also a stranger here. Where Faucon saw this death as an opportunity to introduce himself to the local gentry, his clerk's frustrated ambitions made him fret over misstepping with his betters.
"Brother, you know as well as I that even if a nobleman has a royal patent to judge his own, our king collects the fines for murder. Baron or beggar, it remains my duty to discover the identity of the murderer and appraise his estate, and yours to note what fee the king can expect to collect. If our monarch chooses not to deliver justice or collect that fee from his knight or baron, well then, that is between them and no concern of ours.
"More importantly, you're putting the horse before the lance in this matter. Wait until we've seen the dead man before you begin exploring whose right it is to call the jury," he finished, glancing at
his clerk.
Brother Edmund's face tightened in effort as he resisted his urge to argue. "If you say so, sir," he agreed however reluctantly, the words barely escaping through his gritted teeth.
In the next instant the monk's shoulders relaxed. "I believe you are correct, sir, in saying I'm ahead of myself. After all, if the widow is with child, Sir Alain must come claim her. When our sheriff arrives to take her into his custody, we can ask him whose traditional right it is to call the jury at this manor," he finished, neatly shifting a potential error elsewhere.
That reminded Faucon of Sir Adam's threat against Lady Offord's babe. He wondered if the lady had already sent for the sheriff, seeking his protection for herself and her child. In that case, Sir Alain might already be at Offord. Perhaps there would be a way to use this knight's strange death to strike another blow at the man who hunted him.
When they reached the Alne, Sir Adam turned his horse to follow the river. Faucon scanned the gentle roll of the landscape around him. Everywhere he looked the earth wore the familiar furrowed scars that spoke of crops. Yet it was clear these fields were no longer being worked. Instead, they'd been given over to pasture, and sheep now grazed where wheat and barley had once grown. Huddling hip-to-hip as they were wont to do, the fleecy creatures sought out what little green grass remained beneath the blanket of fallen leaves, then dined on the crisp leaves after.
With the next gust of wind Faucon caught a regular clanking and marked a water mill in the distance. Before they reached it, they splashed across the river, the water barely reaching to their horses' knees. Sir Adam then turned his horse onto a narrow track.
Before long they were riding through a clutch of some forty or so well-kept homes. The whitewashed cottages with their reed roofs were sprinkled around a sharp lift of land. Like Blacklea's mound, this one was clearly man-made but rose no more than four perches above the river. Although a wooden palisade concealed the top of the mound, there was no doubt the manor had its own dove-cote. The birds, kept for their meat and eggs, circled in the sky above the mound. There was a smithy as well or so said the clang of hammer against iron. A small gateway offered passage through the wall. Although the doors that guarded Offord at night both stood wide, no man waited to challenge their entry.
The Final Toll Page 3
