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

by Denise Domning

  Across the race, the crouching soldier eased back on his haunches to better see the newcomer; the other man paused in his efforts to look over his shoulder. The sheriff's gaze shifted to Faucon. Nothing changed in his flat expression.

  "Sir Faucon," Brother Edmund said, offering his better a nod of greeting without giving up his precarious position on the wheel, "this is Sir Alain, lord sheriff of this shire. Sir Alain, I say again. From the moment of Sir Faucon's election yesterday, he was charged with the examination of all unnatural deaths in your shire. It is now his exclusive right."

  Sir Alain's arms opened, his right hand coming to rest upon his sword hilt. "I do not know you," he said to Faucon. "You would not," Faucon replied evenly. "I have spent little time in this shire."

  "Then how came you to be coronarius?" the sheriff asked. "I was yet at court when the announcement was read. Keepers of the Pleas are to be of their shire."

  "The lands that are my inheritance through my lady mother lie at the edge of the Forest of Arden," Faucon replied. "As of last night, I also took possession of Blacklea Village, along with all its rights and rents, and was elected as Keeper. If you wish to know of my election, it might be best if you ask after it of Lord Graistan and my lord uncle, Bishop William of Hereford."

  That information set a muscle to twitching along Sir Alain's jaw line. Otherwise, he stood as a statue, his hand yet resting on his sword hilt. The quiet stretched.

  From the reeds along the brook bank below the mill a small bird warbled. The water danced and played in the day's bright sun, tumbling merrily over the back of the dead man. The dark-haired miller seemed to be sleeping chest-down in the race, one cheek pillowed on the stony bottom. His right arm was caught beneath the right rim of the wheel while his shoulder was pressed to the floor of the channel, held down by one of the paddles. He wore only his shirt and a dark blue tunic with no chausses to cover his legs or shoes upon his feet. It was the manner in which about half the men in the yard were dressed.

  At last the sheriff gave a single brusque nod, then pivoted. "Leave it," he told the soldier who was working at the screws that closed the brake. "We have other matters to attend."

  With that, the three men made their way along the far edge of the race channel to where it ended in front of a fuller's property, or so Faucon assumed. Nowhere else would lengths of cloth be held taut on tenterhooks in large stretching frames. The men and boys gathered among the drying fabric swiftly parted to allow their lord sheriff and his soldiers to pass.

  The instant the three could be seen no more, a collective sigh left the gathering. Men began to shuffle and shift. Low conversations broke out among the crowd. So many muttering men had a sound like distant thunder.

  At the wheel, Edmund freed his own long slow breath and released his grip. He stepped carefully onto the edge of the race, his back against the wall of the mill behind him.

  "Sir Faucon, that is Halbert the Miller," he pointed to the man caught beneath the wheel. "According to the fuller, who was the first finder and who most properly raised the hue and cry with his neighbors, it seems Halbert fell into the race last night and drowned when he was drawn beneath the wheel and could not win free."

  Edmund curled a proprietary hand around the wheel. "You must claim this wheel as deodand. It must be dedicated to the Church to cleanse it of the sin of murder."

  "Nay, you cannot take my wheel!" came a man's pained cry.

  Faucon looked over his shoulder. The one who spoke was tall and auburn-haired, a young man no older than he.

  "I am Stephen, only son of Halbert. Now that my father is dead the mill belongs to me, and it is my family's livelihood," this Stephen said, not the slightest sign of grief for his deceased sire in his hazel eyes. "Without the wheel, we will starve."

  His protest teased a muted rumble of laughter out of the ranks of waiting men. The sound seemed to echo Faucon's thought that the miller's son didn't look like a man in danger of starving soon. If Stephen's powerful form was a testimony to the physical requirements of turning grain into flour, his attire was hardly that of a working man. His ankle-length tunic was made of fine wool, trimmed with braid shot with glinting, golden threads, although smut dulled the gleam of the expensive trim at its hem. Then again, millers were famous for their wealth, which some said was ill-gotten, stolen koren by koren from the bags of wheat, rye, barley and oats entrusted to them to grind.

  Faucon shook his head. "Livelihood or not, if the wheel killed your sire, I must take it into custody. You know as well as I that it must be given to the Church so the sin of murder can be rinsed from it. That is the law."

  "My wheel didn't kill him. I'll show you the one who did," the son snapped.

  He turned and stepped around the corner. There was a female shriek. When Stephen reappeared, he held the arm of the petite woman Faucon had noticed in the courtyard. She wore a worn red undergown beneath an undyed linen over-gown. A clean white head cloth covered her brown hair. Although middle-aged, he didn't gauge her old enough to be Stephen's dam. Her left eye was blackened and her expression was twisted with tears.

  "This is the one who murdered my sire. If my father is in the race, it's because she pushed him, as sure as I live and breathe, doing so because he had finally proved that she made a cuckold of him." His accusation set the crowd to muttering louder this time.

  The woman hardly looked the part of either murderess or harlot. If she'd ever been pretty, her beauty had faded long before someone had taken his fists to her.

  "I didn't kill my husband, and it's not true that I betrayed my marriage vows," she protested softly, speaking the tongue of the commoners as she scrubbed the tears from her face with the backs of her hands. "If only I had known Halbert was so jealous before we wed. He saw my betrayal in every man's innocent glance, and no word I spoke could change his mind.

  "As for last night, after he gave me this," she gently touched her fingertips to the bruise on her eye, "I ran from him, going to Susanna the Alewife's house, as I have done all too often of late. When I left Halbert he was standing right there," she pointed to the spot on the edge of the race. "So Simon Fuller can attest."

  "Indeed I can," called a man from those gathered in the fulling grounds across the race.

  The fuller came forward to stand in the same space the sheriff had occupied, just below the wheel. Short and stout, he wore a thick fabric apron over a sturdy brown tunic, its sleeves rolled up above his elbows. Like Halbert Miller, the fuller's feet and legs were bare. The day's warm sun gleamed on the pale hair covering his shins and made his balding pate glow.

  He offered Faucon a bow. "I am Simon, Fuller of Priors Holston, the first finder," he said, shifting into Faucon's native French, then returned to his own tongue to continue. "I was outside yesterevening when the shouting began between Halbert and Agnes. It was the same argument they ever had, Halbert accusing his wife of making him a cuckold. And I did last night as I have done far too often since they wed two months past. I crossed the race to separate them."

  Simon turned to cast a stern glance at the miller's son. "But your father wouldn't be calmed last night, Stephen," he said, "not even after Agnes left. With you and 'Wina away for the night, he'd dived both sooner and deeper into his cups than usual. God be praised that he had, else he might have landed a few of the blows he aimed at me and done to me what he did to Agnes." He pointed from Agnes' bruised eye to his own, then continued.

  "When I left him, he was standing right there," he pointed to the same spot Agnes had indicated at the edge of the channel. Then the fuller lowered his hand to the miller in the race. "And when I arose this morn, he was where he is now."

  "Does that make it any less this outsider's fault for my father's death, Simon Fuller?" Stephen demanded. "You know he's been a changed man since he married again. Because of his new wife, he's taken to drink, and because of drink, he's been destroying our trade, and because of drink, he went into the race."

  The fuller made a scornful sound. "You can
blame Agnes if you want, but we all know your father was losing his mind to drink before they wed. All their marriage did was make sure my children and I lost our peace at night."

  Stephen's mouth narrowed to a thin line. He looked at Faucon. "What say you to that, sir? You heard Simon Fuller. It wasn't the wheel that killed my sire, but his cup. You," he gave Agnes a shove that propelled her back toward the corner of the building, "go collect all the cups from the house and bring them to these men so they can be made deodand and dedicated to the Church. After that, pack your belongings. I won't tolerate you in my home any longer."

  Burying her face in her hands, the woman turned and made her way toward the corner of the mill, her shoulders shaking in quiet sobs. The men in her path shifted aside to let her pass, a few offering quiet words of sympathy.

  "No cups!" Brother Edmund shouted after her, once more speaking when he had no right. "If the wheel held Halbert under the water until he breathed no more, then it and only it must be removed and cleansed."

  At the opposite side of the race, Simon Fuller crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Stephen. "Mayhap the wheel did kill him. After I left him, he started shouting. He went on for some time. I didn't need to hear what he was saying to know he was once again cursing your precious wheel."

  Here the fuller paused to scan the watching men, gathering their attention before he continued his tale. "It's what he always did every time he got that besotted. He'd stand out here and shout his curses, then he'd start blaming the profits he'd earned from milling for attracting Agnes and saddling him with one he deemed a whore. When he was done, he'd fall into drunken slumber right on the edge of the race," he told them, then looked back at Stephen.

  "Last night, after he finally fell silent, I thought I'd have some peace. I found the comfort of my bed, then of a sudden the wheel began again to turn, making all its usual racket. I was about to come out and confront your father, thinking he'd released the brake to spite me, when it stopped All remained blessedly quiet after that. That must have been when it happened. I suspect your father misjudged how besotted he was, having been almost knee-walking when I'd last seen him. In that state, opening the brake would have been too much for him. I'm guessing that when he yanked on the handle of his tool, it overbalanced him. As he fell into the race, his tool went flying to where we found it this morning."

  He pointed to a spot a little way from the axle, then sneered at Stephen as he moved his hand to indicate the millwheel. "Or mayhap yon wheel reached out and grabbed him. Mayhap it dragged him into the water so it could eat him. Mayhap your wheel was as tired as Agnes at being held responsible for all the wrong your father found in what seems to me a blessed life. After all, Halbert didn't come by his trade through the sweat of his brow like some of us do. He got his wealth and comfort by marrying your mother and letting her teach him how to turn grain into flour." The fuller ladled scorn into his words. All who heard him called out their agreement.

  "Mayhap you all should keep your opinions to yourselves." Stephen mocked, sending a scathing glance across the men nearest to him.

  When the miller's son once more looked at Faucon, it was to plead again. "You cannot take my wheel. Without it, the village and the priory cannot grind their grain."

  Faucon held up his hands. "Why don't we leave the matter of deodand until after we've extracted your sire and viewed his injuries as you know we must." He raised his voice so his words could be heard by as many as possible. "I'm sure you all would like to be back at your daily doings. The sooner the miller is viewed and the cause of his death is confirmed, the sooner you all may leave."

  "But, Sir Faucon," Edmund started.

  Faucon shook his head in warning, lowering his voice and shifting back to French to keep his words private between him and the monk. "Not now, Brother. No matter what protocol is expected, I'm not leaving that man under the wheel a moment longer. It is not meet."

  Edmund's eyes widened. The look on his face said he did not approve, but he held his tongue.

  "So how do we retrieve your father from the race?" Faucon asked of Stephen.

  Rather than answer the question, Stephen turned toward the front of the mill. "Alf, the sheriff has gone," he shouted in the tongue of the commoners. "Come out and help me free your master from the wheel."

  Faucon blinked in surprise. How had Stephen refused to aid to his lord sheriff when Sir Alain had wanted to extract the miller, and why? Somehow, Faucon doubted Edmund's protests—that the sheriff had no right to move Halbert—could have been that persuasive.

  A moment later, a tall fair-haired man appeared. This man's worn leather apron covered a dusty green tunic, while the fabric of his shoes was so completely permeated with flour that there was no telling their original color. Tucked into the cord that tied his apron around his waist was a long-handled tool Faucon didn't recognize. As powerfully built as the new miller and no more than a dozen years Faucon's senior, there was something about the way this man moved that reminded Faucon of Stephen. Then this Alf nodded to the new miller; the movement of his head identified him as a servant rather than kin.

  After Alf offered a show of respect to Brother Edmund and Faucon, he looked at his employer. "Master, we cannot divert the water," he told his better in the commoner's tongue. "Remember, your sire took apart the sluice gate the other day. He never got to rebuilding it."

  Stephen gave an irritable groan at that news. "Well then, we'll have to bring him out with the water still flowing, won't we?"

  "So we shall," Alf replied with a grunt of amusement.

  He stepped across the race and went to the brake on the axle. Faucon watched as the servant placed the tool from his apron over one of the two great screws that made a clamp of the twin blocks of wood. Alf yanked once, twice then a third time. The screw released. The wheel groaned as if alive, the axle straining to turn.

  Ducking under the shaft, the workman put his tool to the second screw in the brake, then looked over his shoulder at Stephen. "Master, I'll need someone in the water to hold onto the old master when I free the wheel, else he'll just be drawn deeper."

  "I cannot, not in this," Stephen said, the sweep of a hand indicating his fine attire.

  "Not I," the fuller said, almost speaking over Stephen in his hurry to refuse. "I'll not risk Halbert's fate." There were many men within hearing who agreed with him.

  Faucon shook his head in his own refusal. He'd never been comfortable in the water, and he certainly wasn't going in while wearing his heavy gambeson. He'd once seen a knight nearly drown in waist-deep water because the weight of his armor held him pinned to the bottom after he'd fallen.

  "I can do it," a man called from the pond bank at the head of the race.

  It was a monk wearing the same black habit as Edmund, although this brother's attire was already well wetted. On his head was a broad-brimmed hat that concealed most of his face, while on his back was a large leather pack, the feathery green fronds of Mare's Tail making a huge spray above the top of the pack. Stepping over the dam at the head of the race, the brother half-swam, half-slid down the channel in the waist-deep water until he neared the wheel. After laying his pack and his hat upon the edge near Alf's feet, revealing a face as wrinkled as a dried apple and a thick head of pure white hair, he reached into the water for Halbert's feet.

  "Should I pull or push?" he asked Alf.

  "Pull, Brother. Know that both wheel and water will be against you, so you'll have to pull with all your might just to hold him in place," the servant told him, then pointed to his deceased master. "Look how his shoulder is trapped beneath the paddle? Perhaps if you shift toward me and pull in this direction? If he's not caught too deeply, his shoulder and arm may slide out from underneath what pins it. Whatever you do, don't let him be dragged any farther under the wheel when it begins to move else he'll be jammed even tighter than before. I'll join you in the water the very instant I release this last screw. Are you ready?"

  "I am," the monk replied.

>   With that, Alf pulled hard on the handle of his tool. The wheel gave another shuddering groan. It stuttered and strained, trying to rotate, but unable to do so as long as flesh and bone remained trapped beneath it. The monk shouted wordlessly as he pulled with all he had.

  There was a subtle crack from beneath the water, and the paddle that trapped Halbert's shoulder broke. With the snap of bone as the rim rode over the dead man's arm, the wheel squealed and began to turn. The miller floated free.

  Shouting out a surprised cry, the monk stumbled backwards in the water and lost his hold on Halbert's feet. Even as the current again took the dead man toward the wheel, Alf was there. Grabbing up his deceased master, he easily lifted Halbert out of the water and laid him on the ground beneath the turning axle. Then, hoisting himself out of the race, he returned to the brake and used his tool to secure it once more. When the screws were tight and the leather-lined wooden clamp once again snug around the axle, the wheel shuddered to a halt.

  As it stopped, Faucon stepped to the other side of the channel, followed by Edmund and Halbert's son. The fuller came to stand with them. Not being as tall as Alf, the monk in the water found he couldn't lift himself up over the edge, so he splashed back up the race to find an easier spot to clamber out.

  The miller had already grown stiff in death. This meant his head remained turned to the side, making it seem as though he rested his cheek on an unseen pillow. His arms were bent at the elbows as they had been in the race, which meant his hands now thrust awkwardly out to the sides. Beneath half-closed lids, his eyes were cloudy, but Faucon could still see that his irises were the same greenish color as his son's.

  "So now that he's free," Edmund said, turning a shoulder to Priors Holston's new miller as he addressed Faucon in French, "we must do what we should always do first, and ask for proof of the man's ancestry. We must ascertain if he is English or Norman."