Hodge, trapped in the encircling guard, made a frantic noise. “This is wrong,” he shouted. “This Crowner must name the man who killed Bernart. If he will not, then we should call for Sir Alain. Our sheriff knows how this must be done.”
“Call for him as you may,” Faucon replied, not addressing Hodge directly as he scanned the watching men. “But if you do, make no mistake. Sir Alain will only say the same to you, that I, who am the Servant of the Crown for this shire, have the right to hold your inquests, doing so in the manner that the law and our king requires.”
Only then, did Faucon look directly at Hodge. His stomach soured. What he next said would likely cheat him of the opportunity to speak with the pleykster in any way save hostile confrontation. This, when Faucon was certain he needed the merchant disarmed and open to his questions. But, right now, it was vital to establish his rights and privileges as Crowner.
“Master Pleykster, I am told that Stanrudde pays the king so that inquest juries are drawn only from the parish in which an assault occurred. If you are not of this parish, then you are not required to attend this inquest. Stay as you will, but if you stay you may only confirm the verdict as I command.”
Giving the man no chance to respond, Faucon repeated, “Men of Stanrudde, do you swear to confirm the verdict of murder in the death of Bernart the Linsman and that of natural death for the weaver Elsa? Do you swear to speak the truth if asked for any information or assessments in either matter?”
“I so swear!” Each man’s individual oath tangled with the next to become a roar of sound that reverberated as high as Heaven itself.
Hodge threw back his head, his eyes shut. When he pivoted, the town guard turned with him. Maintaining their circle around him, they escorted him out of the crowd and back the way he’d come.
“Then enter and view the bodies as you must,” Faucon shouted to all who remained, watching Hodge leave, knowing the man took with him precious bits of information that he might never discover.
Bernart’s servants opened the gate. Still fretting over the opportunity he was sure he’d lost, Faucon looked at the soldier who had led the town guard. The dark-haired man had pressed forward to the head of the crowd until he stood to one side of Bernart’s gate, watching the other jurors enter past him.
Faucon blinked, and looked again, certain he was mistaken. This soldier was bearded, brown of eye and hair, and older than Faucon by more than a decade. He was built much like Faucon, being broad of shoulder, thick of arm and narrow of hip. A new scar drew a fine line down one side of his rawboned face, and his strong nose bore a slight crook, the result of a long ago break. Indeed, a ten-year-old break. It had happened when this man and one of his younger half-brothers had fought over a family matter.
“Temric of Graistan?” Faucon asked in astonishment, clambering down off the wall.
At Faucon’s call, the man joined the crowd long enough to step inside Bernart’s courtyard, then exited the flow to stand with his Crowner. He bowed, offering the greeting of commoner to noble, rather than meeting Faucon as knights did, by clasping hands. Then again, Temric, Bastard of Graistan, was a knight who had refused his title and chose instead to serve his younger brother, Lord Graistan, as a simple master-at-arms, a commoner’s position.
“Aye, that is who I am, Sir Faucon,” Temric replied, not sounding particularly pleased at their unexpected meeting. Then again, Faucon had never heard this strange man sound pleased about anything.
“Why are you leading the town guard?” Faucon asked, still reeling over the coincidence of their meeting.
“I don’t lead the guard,” Temric replied, unconsciously settling into a warrior’s stance, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “But I have been helping their master train the younger journeymen. It just so happened I was on the practice yard when the lad arrived, saying that this inquest was afoot and that the pleykster meant to interfere.” Here he stopped, when Faucon craved more.
“But why are you in Stanrudde at all?” he persisted in confusion.
“My mother lives here. She’s recently widowed and begged my presence and assistance so she may grieve as she must. As her house is in this parish, I am one of your jurors. So here I am,” replied the man who was both English and Norman at once. His lips twisted into a tight and crooked smile. “I might ask the same of you, Sir Faucon. How come you to be in Stanrudde, acting as this Crowner?”
Faucon laughed at that. “At your lord brother’s command,” he replied. “Bishop William was determined to force Lord Graistan to take on these new duties, while Lord Rannulf was just as determined not to be forced where he didn’t wish to go. To save himself, he raised my name and threw me to the wolves.”
Grinning, Faucon added, “Not that I am complaining, mind you. To hold this position a knight must have an income of twenty pounds a year, which bishop and baron together have made mine. That and Blacklea Village,” he added.
“Blacklea Village?” Brother Colin murmured from beside Faucon, having descended from the wall to join them. “I once knew a man from that place.” There was a note of sadness in his comment.
Faucon opened his mouth to introduce the monk to the soldier, but before he could speak, Temric nodded to Colin.
“Brother, it is good to see you again. You look well.”
“As do you, Richard Alwynason,” Colin replied, smiling at the soldier.
Faucon almost gaped. In all the time he’d known Temric, the man had never allowed anyone to use his proper name, not even his brothers. Especially not his brothers.
“How does Master Jehan these days?” Colin was asking. “He’s refused to see me since I dared tell him he’d not regain his legs after that fall of his.”
All the life left Temric’s face, his mouth settling into a grim line, suggesting there was little love lost between this master and the soldier. “He does well enough. Although he doesn’t yet walk, he does ride now. He and my mother went together to collect the last of the fleece due them, sparing me the travel. If you will excuse me?” He took a backward step. “I’ll do my duty to our king and be on with my day as I must.”
“Wait, Temric,” Faucon said, calling him back. “I’ve not seen my cousins in a good while. Might I beg an hour of your time this evening after all is complete here? Will you join me and share what news you have of them?”
Emotions flashed across the soldier’s face, not the least of which was reluctance. But a lifetime of service to those he’d placed above him won out. Temric nodded. “As you will, Sir Faucon. There’s an alewife’s shop near the city center, if that suits.”
Faucon grinned at that. “Aye, I think I know the place. I caught a wondrous smell as I came in this direction.”
That made Colin laugh while Temric managed a small smile. “Aye, he found the place,” the monk said. “I’ll come with him, Richard, to show him the way. Shall we call at Mistress Alwyna’s house to collect you, once Sir Crowner is free?”
Temric gave a quick shake of his head at that. “There’s no need. Come to the alewife’s house when you are ready and you’ll find me there awaiting you. I’ll see that she saves aside both stew and brew for you.”
As Temric moved past Faucon to do his duty as a juror, Roger the Webber started inside the gate, his household at his back. Although an alderman’s gold chain crossed his breast, Peter’s father seemed more a laborer–like a man who worked with his hands and enjoyed doing so–than the other rich merchants in the crowd, who looked more barons than townsmen. His face was time-seamed and summer-browned, his light brown hair streaked with gold from exposure to the sun. Clean-shaven, his cheekbones were high and sharp, and his nose bony. His blue eyes seemed all the brighter against his sun-darkened skin.
The webber radiated anger, his jaw tight and his eyes narrowed. His men followed inside Bernart’s gate at a strut, their fists yet clenched in the promise of violence, as if daring any and all to once again suggest Peter’s guilt. Stopping in front of Faucon, the master bowed, his move
ment so stiff it seemed as if he might shatter in twain as he made it.
Faucon glanced at the webber’s shoes. His feet were wider and longer–longer than Faucon would have expected for a man of his height–than the mark on the floor. Although Roger wore footwear of a better quality than that Rob and Tom owned, the man’s shoes were coated with the same mud and manure as theirs. There was no sign of blood.
“Sir Crowner,” Peter’s father said, his words clipped and tight. “I am here to avow that my son is innocent of Bernart’s death. When the day comes that he is called to stand before the justices I will bring forty men–nay! I will bring a hundred men to swear to his innocence. No other man will be able to bring as many, and you and your justices will be forced to clear my son’s name of this wrongful charge. You will not take him from me!” His voice rose with every word as he threw his challenge like a glove. It was a father’s promise to fight to the death to save his son’s life.
Faucon opened his mouth to reply, but Colin was there before him. “As you should do, Roger. As would any loving father do for his only son,” the monk told him, stepping forward to put his hand on the webber’s arm. “Hear me, Roger. Sir Crowner is not our sheriff. Do not wait to sway the justices with your witnesses on some day long hence when they arrive at last. Help our crowner today. You say Peter is innocent. Then here is the man to prove this to everyone within our town walls,” he said, lifting a hand to indicate Faucon. “The truth is all our Crowner seeks. Know that if he can assure himself Peter was not the one to kill Bernart, he will do more than clear Peter’s name. He will find the man who did this deed and see him arrested in Peter’s place.”
The webber drew a sharp breath at this. He glanced from Colin to his Crowner. An instant later, his shoulders relaxed and his brow cleared.
As Colin saw bravado drain from the webber, he patted the man’s arm, then shifted to the side, once again reclaiming his role as an observer. The monk shot Faucon a swift glance as he did so, offering a shrug of apology for intruding. It was a wholly unnecessary gesture.
“Master Webber,” Faucon said, offering Roger a nod as if nothing had gone between them in the prior moment. “I am grateful I was in Stanrudde on this day to attend to your son in his distress. I hope that you can take some comfort in knowing Peter is safe and well-guarded for the moment.”
Roger’s eyes closed. He dragged his fingers through his hair. “God save my son,” he muttered in private prayer.
When he opened his eyes again, he looked at the men of his household. “Go you. View yon bitch’s son and pronounce him murdered, a fate he well deserved. Then get you back to our house and your tasks. We’ve wasted time enough today. You’ve all got flax to break so we can make our deliveries on the morrow as we always do.”
Although yet grumbling and muttering in defense of their master’s son, the men of Roger’s household did as they were commanded, moving on to fulfill their duty to court and king.
Faucon offered Peter’s father a quick smile. “As Colin has said, I’m committed to discovering who killed Bernart. If I’m to do that, then you must answer my questions and do so honestly. Will you speak to me of the planned union between your son and Bernart’s daughter?”
“What union?” the merchant retorted, his words bitter and his eyes narrowed. “Three months ago, what I thought settled between my house and this one, yon dead oath-breaker made disappear with a snap of his fingers.”
Faucon nodded. “So Mistress Alina tells me. She also says there was never a contract between your houses. How is it possible that you might have arranged such a union without one?” he asked in true confusion.
Roger once more dragged his fingers through his hair, this time pausing to scrub at the back of his neck as if to ease an ache. “‘What need have we for scribing,’ Bernart says to me,” the webber mocked, his scorn aimed at himself, “‘what with us having been friends for all our lives?’ More fool me, because I have known Bernart all my life. Oh aye, I’d seen him use others in this same way, but I never believed he would do me so.” He paused to sigh. “Not me. We were like brothers, or so I thought.”
“So there truly is no contract?” Faucon persisted.
“Do you think me an idiot?” Roger retorted, with far more heat than was warranted. “Nay, nothing was scribed, but we had an agreement, spoken before witnesses.” The merchant gave a harsh laugh at that. “Didn’t both his household and mine come together on that auspicious day? Indeed, Bernart and his own sat at my tables and drank my wine as we celebrated the future nuptials of our children.”
That made Faucon frown. It was one thing for a seducer to promise marriage to a woman beneath the sky with none but the stars to witness. Such an agreement was as empty as the air that heard the words, and a woman foolish to believe her lover’s vows. It was quite another to make that same promise when a crowd marked what was spoken between the agreeing parties. Aye, there were some men in this world who understood the mystery of the written word, but they were mostly monks. Faucon had once grasped some of that skill, but after his brother’s accident he’d happily forgotten all, consumed by the joy of learning a warrior’s trade. But because so many men in this world had no knowledge of that mystery, an oath or spoken agreement was as precious and as valid to them as anything Edmund scratched onto his parchment.
“I’m told there was no betrothal ceremony either,” Faucon said. “I can’t understand why Mistress Gisla and your son didn’t trade vows after you and Bernart came to your agreement.” That was the usual way of such unions, the two households settling on dower and dowry, then the young couple sharing the vows of betrothal to confirm that the marriage would occur at some point in the future. “That would have affirmed your promises and made the union between your children almost unbreakable.”
Something akin to shame washed over Roger’s face. “When this all began, we had planned for our babes to wed within a month or two after we came to terms. Peter was to have come live here as Bernart’s journeyman, learning what Bernart could teach him. Hence, there was no reason for the trading of such vows, or so Bernart assured me. But almost immediately the delays began, this month Bernart saying that Gisla was too young for marriage, the next saying that Alina wasn’t ready to share her house with a strange lad or another married woman.”
Here, the merchant stopped to bow his head, no longer able to meet Faucon’s gaze. “God help me, perhaps I am an idiot,” he said quietly, “blinded by my own greed for what Bernart offered. Today, I know that it wasn’t Alina delaying the wedding, it was that bitch’s son stalling, waiting for a better offer and hiding behind his wife and daughter as he did.”
“Still, the promises you had between the two of you should have served even without the betrothal,” Faucon said. “Why not bring a complaint against Bernart for breaking his end of your agreement?”
The webber straightened with a start to glare at his Crowner. “What good would that do?” he snapped. “Gisla would have been wedded and bedded, and most likely have brought forth her first child, before your royal justices ever saw my complaint, much less ruled on it. Damn Bernart! He added insult to injury when he came offering me coins to convince me to let him break his oath. As if his coins could heal the wrong he’d done to me and my house! I threw his purse back at him.”
He sighed, then continued in a softer voice. “What else could I do? My son has fixed his heart on Gisla and will not be moved.”
“Ah,” Faucon said, then hesitated, for what followed was a delicate subject to explore, especially with Peter’s father. “I’m told that your son and Gisla have taken the matter of their union into their own hands and are trysting. Is this true?”
Shock started through Roger’s blue eyes. He gaped at Faucon, his face the image of astonishment. Then surprise ebbed and wicked amusement took its place.
“By God, is that so? Well, Peter hoodwinked me for certain. I had no idea.” He laughed, his face creasing even further with the depth of his pleasure. “Now, wouldn
’t that have tweaked Bernart right smartly if his proud London merchant had thrown back his daughter as damaged goods?”
Still nodding in satisfaction at the vengeance his son had dealt his former friend, Roger continued, “Well now, I begin to think Bernart’s passing is all to my good. Once Peter has been adjudged innocent, I’ll see Alina fulfills our contract and we’ll get the two wed before any little bastard sees the light of day.”
Faucon wasn’t as certain of that outcome as Roger. “So, tell me of Peter’s doings this day. When did he leave your house? Where did he tell you was he going?”
“He left this morning and told me nothing of where he went, because, as far as I knew, he was going where he always did,” Roger replied. “My son is a journeyman like all the others in my house. Every day Peter takes broken flax to those spinners he manages, so they might turn it into thread, collecting from them what they’ve finished. Depending on Mistress Alina’s needs, he then takes the new thread to the dyers for coloring or takes raw thread to the weavers with whom we work. It’s the job of my journeymen to string the weavers’ looms for each piece, instructing them on what pattern, if any, is to be produced. When a weaver finishes a piece, it’s on my journeymen to remove the completed project, so the weaver bears no fault should something go amiss in that process.”
Here the webber paused. The jerk of his chin indicated Garret, who squatted next to his mother’s body as the men of the jury made their steady passage around the table. “He’s one of ours,” Roger said. “Upon Bernart’s return from his last trip to London, he was eager to begin creating the wimples that the high-born ladies are all wanting to wear these days. Both Garret and his mother proved adept at weaving the delicate cloth needed for such pieces. More’s the pity that she’s gone. She was a good weaver and faster than he. Now I’ll not only be short what she made, but be getting half as much from him. Elsa kept him working and away from his ale.”
Season of the Fox (A Servant of the Crown Mystery Book 2) Page 9
