Season of the Raven (A Servant of the Crown Mystery Book 1)

by Denise Domning

  The monk's eyes flew wide. Bright color flooded up his neck to stain his cheeks. His mouth moved as if in speech. No sound came forth.

  Faucon gave a slow nod. "You are right. Such a tale will wait until we know each other better. I shall give you your first lesson of me and mine, so you will have insight into who I am. Lord Rannulf is my cousin by marriage, and I am fond of him." Aye, so Faucon remained, even after this strange gift of his. "If we're to have peace between us, I suggest you keep your opinions of him to yourself."

  Brother Edmund's jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. "You have my apology, Sir Faucon." He spat out the words. "If we are finished here, I will depart for St. Radegund's to bear company with my brothers for the night." Not waiting for Faucon to give him leave to depart, the monk pivoted and crossed the room, a most unservile servant.

  As the hall door slammed after him, Faucon turned his gaze to the toes of his muddy boots. Did he really wish to trade the comfort of his family home, even burdened as it was with his raging damaged brother, for twenty pounds a year and the burden of a churchman just as angry? There was still time. If he rode out now, he could yet catch Lord Graistan and his uncle and refuse their honor.

  Across the room, the door creaked again. He looked up. Much to his surprise the shepherdess entered. With a cheeky grin, she offered him a quick curtsy.

  "Well come to Blacklea, Sir Faucon," she bid him. "I am Marian, wife to Sir John, Blacklea's steward. My husband apologizes for not greeting you personally, but he ails of late."

  That brought Faucon abruptly to his feet. "My pardon, Lady Marian," he said, offering her the honor due her rank. "I didn't realize," he started, only to catch himself before he admitted he'd assumed she was a commoner.

  She laughed, and in that instant she looked younger than he'd first judged her, even younger than his own four-and-twenty years. "I know what you thought. Admittedly, I don't look as I usually do." She held out her rough skirts, then patted at her wayward hair. "We were culling the flock today, and in all the running and dodging I lost my head scarf. Should I assume you will be staying on at Blacklea?"

  Was he staying? Faucon eyed her for a long moment. In the end, it wasn't the wealth or the possibility of winning his uncle's favor that spurred him to speak. It was this woman's certainty that he was no match for the sheriff in this shire. For no reason he could name, he needed to prove her wrong.

  "I will be," he said.

  "I thought as much when I saw you," she said, pleasure and the offer of friendship filling her voice.

  "So, in case you have not already confirmed it, your chamber is there," she pointed to the door at the back of the hall. "The bed within it is among Blacklea's assets, so it is yours to use as long as you are master here. We don't have a bathing tub, but I've already warned the laundresses of your need since the laundry serves as our bathhouse."

  She waved for him to join her as she turned and walked to the narrow window above the prie-dieu Edmund had used. When they stood there together, she pointed through the opening at the long thatched building at the back of the house. "The laundry is at the right end of our kitchen."

  "My thanks for arranging all this on my behalf," he said, and meant it. Then he offered her a rueful grin. "This is especially so since I wager my coming has expelled you and your family from your home."

  Twenty pounds a year, an angry mentor, no recompense for what sounded like a great deal of work, and now he'd cheated a man and his wife of their comfort. Somehow, this wondrous event was feeling a little less wondrous with each passing moment.

  "You have not," Marian retorted stoutly. "As I said, my husband ails. It has left him incapable of mounting the outside steps. Last month we left the house for a cottage that does not challenge his legs. In all truth, I'm grateful for the change. Lord Graistan has been good to us, but he knows well indeed that my husband can no longer protect Blacklea as is his duty. Dare I say I hope your presence here might delay our eventual departure for a little while? Blacklea has become home to us and I know not where we might go after this," she added wistfully.

  And with that, Faucon knew what his uncle had missed when he'd allowed Lord Graistan to name another Keeper in his stead. It was incumbent upon all noblemen to support their loyal servants until the end of their days, but given Blacklea's small size, Faucon was certain this place didn't have income enough to pay two stipends, one for the new steward and one to maintain Sir John and his family. Now, instead of losing money on this insignificant piece of his holdings, Lord Rannulf made the steward's stipend Faucon's duty along with the upkeep of Blacklea, whatever that amount might be. Aye, and if Faucon stayed another year, he'd add a rent payment to his costs. On top of that, Lord Rannulf got the wife of his choice for his brother without incurring the king's usual fee for approving a marriage contract, which was substantial.

  And, the nobleman avoided the work required of the Keeper's position without ever threatening the love Bishop William held for him.

  Faucon's eyes narrowed, even as he once again fought the urge to laugh. Until this moment he'd had no idea his cousin's elder brother was such a cutpurse. Apparently there was more than one man among the FitzHenry brothers who owned the urge to pull pranks.

  "Oh look," Lady Marian said, once more pointing out the window to indicate a pair of racing children. She sent that amazing smile of hers in his direction. "Best prepare yourself. You are about to meet my sweetlings."

  Together they turned to face the door. A moment later, footsteps pounded up the stairs, then a lad of no more than six and a lass a few years older hurtled into the chamber. Pushing and shoving at each other, they raced across the room, each trying to reach their mother first.

  The boy, a handsome child with fair hair and his mother's blue eyes, won the race. "Maman, it's not fair that you said Mimi gets to sleep in the loft with me."

  "Why should I have to sleep on the floor just because I am a girl?" his sister complained as she stopped just out of her brother's reach, her skirts still swinging about her legs.

  Faucon caught his breath in admiration. Unlike her plainer mother, Marian's daughter was beautiful. Thick dark hair spilled out of a loose braid to frame her fine-featured oval face, set with bright blue eyes she'd inherited from her dam.

  "For shame," their mother scolded both of them, taking each by the shoulder to give them a shake. "You have embarrassed yourselves before our new master, Sir Faucon. What sort of hellions must he now think you?"

  "I think they are children," said Faucon, extending his hand to the lad. "I am Sir Faucon de Ramis, knight of the realm and son of Thomas de Ramis. Who might you be?"

  The boy glanced nervously at his mother, who nodded and released him. He took Faucon's hand, his tiny fingers surprisingly firm as they gripped Faucon's larger ones. "I am Robert, son of Sir John, steward of Blacklea, sir. Well met and well come to Blacklea."

  "A fine name, Robert," Faucon said. "And you are?" he asked of the lass.

  She shot him her mother's dazzling smile, but there was a sweetness to the way her mouth curved that tugged at Faucon's heart. "I am Marianne, daughter of Sir John of Blacklea," she replied, offering a quick bob, "but everyone calls me Mimi because my name is too like my mother's. Well come to Blacklea. I know you will like the bedchamber here because," she slanted a look at her brother, "it doesn't have a dirt floor."

  Marian shot a look heavenward. "I pray you, blessed Virgin, have pity on my hopeless daughter, who will never marry because she cannot learn to control her tongue. Come," she took her progeny by the shoulders once again. "We will leave Sir Faucon to the peace of his own thoughts."

  She looked at Faucon. "I've already seen to it that your steed be taken to the stable and cared for. Our cook knows you will require a meal, although I fear it can be just soup, bread and cheese. With two noblemen and all those huntsmen here for the past two days, and it being the harvest season, we've no meats left in store at the moment, although there will be fresh mutton on the morrow," she added w
ith a quick lift of her brows. "I'll also send a man to help you disarm. Should he bring up your saddle pack? Have you any other belongings?"

  With her final question everything in Faucon shifted. He looked at Marian feeling stunned and off-balance. "This is real. I'm not dreaming. I truly am the new master of Blacklea?"

  She nodded. "Indeed you are, good sir. May God have mercy on your soul." Offering him yet another impertinent wink, she marched her children from the hall.

  "Sir Faucon? Hsst. Sir?"

  Faucon blinked awake and squinted. By that reaction alone could he tell he'd slept longer than he'd intended.

  The bedchamber had three arrow slits in the east wall that served as windows. Even though the shutters were closed over them, bright fingers of light, evidence that the rain had not returned, streamed between the slats and cracks to reach the center of the bed.

  With a sigh, he rolled onto his back then smiled. His bed. Not the cot in the corner of the hall he slept on at home, but his own bed in his own private room. It was more luxury than he'd ever expected to possess, and it would remain his rent-free for a whole year.

  A nice bed it was, too. It had a feather mattress and posts at each corner of the frame that held aloft a wooden ceiling. Thick blue drapes trimmed in red hung on three of its sides. When closed, they trapped heat within the confines of the interior. And, if he hadn't grown too warm last night and pushed them back against their posts, they would also have kept out the light.

  Stretching, his muscles popping, he sat up and looked toward the door. It was barely ajar and he could see no figure in the opening.

  "Who is it?" he called, rubbing his eyes.

  "It's me, Robert." Marian's son pushed his head between door and frame to look into the chamber. "Maman sends me to tell you that a man has come from the priory to lead you to Priors Holston. The brother who was here yesterday sends word that you must go there as soon as you can, because a man in that village has been killed."

  The messenger from St. Radegund's was a scrawny young man with a thatch of red hair and a badly mended tunic worn over bright blue chausses. Faucon let him ride on Legate's rump for their four-mile journey to Priors Holston.

  They looked a pair, the two of them, both ragamuffins. Because Faucon hadn't wanted to either don his armor or ruin his most expensive clothing with horse sweat, he wore only his under-armor. The thick woolen chausses that protected his skin from his chain mail leggings served as stockings, while atop his shirt he wore his knee-length padded gambeson as a tunic. His sword belt, to which he'd tied his purse, held the gambeson closed around his waist.

  Priors Holston proved to be almost three times the size of Blacklea, but it looked much the same. There was a similar patchwork of fields and orchards and the usual whitewashed cottages topped with thatch. Woven withe fences enclosed each home's toft, the area around the house itself, and croft, the back garden that every peasant family counted on to supply provender. The only difference was that Priors Holston was empty of men.

  In the smithy, the bellows were silent, the coals slowly cooling. Two women, their sleeves rolled up above their elbows, used large wooden paddles to shift baking bread in the village's domed-shaped ovens. In front of another cottage, a woman sat on a stool using a wicked-looking awl to lace sole to upper as she assembled a boot. As they passed a carpenter's work shed, its door standing wide, Faucon saw a rasp laid across the top of a half-built chest. It was as if the man had ceased his labors mid-stroke.

  "This is so strange," his guide said from behind Faucon, his voice alive with surprise. "Do you suppose the villagers and hundred have already been called for the inquest jury?"

  That was exactly Faucon's thought. Was Brother Edmund's arrogance great enough that he'd dare convene the jury before his employer's arrival? The possibility was enough to make Faucon's breakfast—a tasteless dry oatcake and a cup of hastily gulped sheep's milk—burn in his gullet.

  "We'll soon know," he replied.

  "Soon indeed, as we're close now," the messenger agreed from behind him. As Faucon urged Legate back into a trot, the man pointed to a turn in the grassy, rutted track that led through more cottages. "Follow this, then ride straight on to reach the mill." It was Priors Holston's miller who had died.

  A few moments later, his horse splashed through a small stream. It wasn't much of a brook, not even knee-deep to Legate. On the opposite bank they skirted a line of coppiced alder trees and ended up on a narrow lane, where they stopped abruptly. They had no choice.

  The inquest jury had indeed been called. From boys of twelve to tottering ancients, there were more men here than Faucon had seen in one place since King Richard's army. They filled the lane and packed into the front garden of a nearby cottage, then spilled through the passage between cottage and fence to cram its expansive back garden.

  So many rural commoners in one place made for a colorful crowd, what with their homespun tunics and stockings dyed every hue that could be wrung from woodland or field: the brown of walnut shells, the blue of woad, elderberry red, and the green of wood sorrel.

  It was a quiet gathering in spite of its size. Most of the men stared at the mill, the two-storey wooden building next to the cottage. From atop Legate, Faucon could see the front half of the tall waterwheel pinned to its side.

  "Let us pass," he called to those in the lane as he urged Legate forward.

  Although men shifted and stepped this way and that, trying to move out of his way, they couldn't make enough space for the comfort of his horse. Legate began to sidle nervously. Calm for his breed he was, but he was still battle-trained and that made him more than capable of killing with his hooves. Faucon turned his horse back to the copse of alder trees at the head of the lane.

  "Stay here with him," he told the priory's messenger after they dismounted. "Let him graze as he will, but keep him well away from the crowd. Whatever you do, do not leave him."

  This time when Faucon reached the back of the crowd, he caught the attention of the closest man, a doddering ancient with sparse white hair. "Where is the dead miller?"

  The man grinned at him. Not a tooth remained in his mouth. "Halbert's been et by his wheel."

  "Aye, drowned, he was. And no better fate could have befallen him," added another man at least a score of years younger than the first. This one's lips curled in satisfaction. "A vicious and uncivil man, Halbert Miller was," he said, "though no one dared say such things to his face, him having been a soldier in his youth and as good with his fists as he was."

  As more than a few of those around the speaker nodded their agreement, Faucon began threading his way through the crowd. There was an advantage to being both armed and unknown. Every man he touched either stepped back in instinctive reaction to Faucon's sword or to get a better look at the newcomer. He made his way past the surprisingly large cottage and through the opening in the low wall that surrounded the mill.

  More men filled the mill courtyard. Faucon started through their midst only to catch sight of a single small woman standing beside the stone steps that led to the mill's raised doorway. At that same instant, Brother Edmund's voice rang out from around the corner and the millwheel.

  "Once again I protest, my lord sheriff! By the order of the Archbishop of Canterbury, only this shire's new coronarius has the right to move this body. You must desist. As God is my witness, you are no longer authorized to examine the bodies of the dead." The monk's cry was fraught with indignation.

  "I know nothing of any new royal servant being named in my shire," another man replied. Although his words were measured and calm, tones of threat filled his gruff voice. "Therefore, I cede nothing of my right to uphold the law, certainly not to you. What sort of monk are you that you dare say me 'nay?' If you think your Church can protect you from me when you so usurp your position, you are wrong."

  Faucon put his shoulder to all who yet stood between him and his new clerk. As he rounded the building, he came up short at the edge of the mill channel. Here, the stream Le
gate had crossed only moments ago was no burbling brook. Instead, the miller had dammed it behind his mill, creating a pond, then funneled it into a stone channel. The mill race was deep enough that the water became a rushing cataract beneath the wheel.

  The wheel wasn't turning at the moment, not with the miller's body trapped beneath it. But if it had been moving, Edmund would have been riding it. The monk had his arms wrapped around the rim closest to him and a foot hooked around one of the slick, moss-dabbled paddles—the short lengths of wood placed between the rims to catch the water and turn the wheel.

  Edmund's attention was focused on the three men across the race from him, where a sturdy wall supported the end of the great timber axle on which the wheel rotated. All three wore hardened leather hauberks over their tunics, and swords belted to their sides. One squatted at the edge of the race, his wet sleeves clinging to his arms. Another sought to use his dagger as a tool to loosen the brake, the massive wooden clamp that kept both axle and wheel from turning.

  The third man stood with his arms crossed over his chest and his back to the support wall. Although his clothing beneath his hauberk appeared travel-stained and worn, this one's sword belt was chased with silver. Of medium height, he was barrel-chested, with sandy hair shot with gray; his face, all sharp lines and weathered creases, was framed by a grizzled reddish beard, worn heavier than was the fashion.

  But it was the flatness of his expression that held Faucon's eye. He'd seen that same look on the faces of old warriors, soldiers who'd dealt out so much hurt in their lives that their hearts had turned to stone. By his expression alone would Faucon have known this was the sheriff, the man Marian thought could suck the marrow from a younger man's bones.

  "I am here, Brother Edmund," Faucon announced, then offered the sheriff a brief bow. "I am Sir Faucon de Ramis, the newly-elected Keeper of the Pleas in this shire."

  Although he spoke in his native French, his announcement stirred life in the watching commoners. Those who understood him passed his name among the others. It moved from man to boy, lip to lip, until the echoing syllables took on the sound of a surprised question.