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

by Denise Domning

  Faucon came to a stop at the base of the steps. His clerk set aside the short length of wood that presently served as his desk, then descended to join his new master in the yard.

  "The time has come to begin the viewing," Edmund announced to his better.

  "Is that so?" Faucon retorted, his voice low. "I don't recall commanding that."

  His clerk blinked in surprise. "You haven't yet, but now you will. You must. This is how all inquests must be. Once we have recorded the oaths of those who swear to the miller's Englishry, as I have just finished doing, the time arrives for jury to view the body of the deceased. Until each man has seen the corpse and confirmed the manner of Halbert Miller's death, none may leave."

  "I have not commanded the viewing to begin because I am not yet ready to do so," Faucon retorted, his eyes narrowed and his voice hard. As he spoke, he leaned even closer to the monk, his hand resting on his sword hilt.

  A startled Edmund took a backward step, his gaze darting between Faucon's face and his weapon. "But you must begin now," the monk cried, almost pleading. "I vow if we don't, we'll be here all night waiting for so many to do as the law requires."

  The logic in his words punctured Faucon's outraged pride. Edmund was right. It was almost midday and there were so many men waiting here. Who knew how long it might be before the place where Halbert bled his last was found? If Faucon delayed the viewing until then, it was entirely possible night could fall before the jurors were released.

  Faucon eyed his clerk, pride battling common sense. "Brother Edmund, I concede your point," he said at last, his words stiff. "I also concede that I have much to learn from you. But it will not serve either of us if you persist in your present manner. Take caution to do no more than remind me of what is mine to do. Know that you command me at your peril."

  Edmund made a sound that suggested ancient frustration, then pressed a fist against his temple as if his head ached. "But remind you is what I did," he protested, honest confusion filling his dark eyes. "Did I not send Alf to you so you could command him to bring the miller's body for the viewing?"

  Irritation hissed from Faucon on a sigh as his pride admitted defeat. His hand opened over his hilt. Once again, he surveyed Edmund's writing tools on the porch. This time, his eye told him they weren't just neatly arranged. Nay, each piece stood precisely a hand's breadth from the next. In that precision, Faucon thought he understood Edmund's honest tongue and rigid world. Edmund found comfort and certainty in the exactitude of laws and rules. It was this certainty that gave a simple monk the courage to confront a baron, a bishop and a lord high sheriff, using nothing more than words as his sword and shield.

  But like any weapon, Edmund's inflexibility cut both ways. Faucon would have wagered all he owned that his new clerk had once too often insisted that others apply the same rigor to their lives. That was likely how Edmund ended up without a house and trapped in his new position, one he considered a penance.

  "I accept your explanation," Faucon said, turning what had not been a plea for pardon into an apology, "and agree that we must now begin the viewing."

  Edmund's sigh was heartfelt. His face relaxed. "Now remember, all must pass by the dead miller. That doesn't mean they can mob the body, shoot a glance at Halbert and hurry on. Each man is required by law to look, and this should be done in an orderly fashion. That said, neither can any man linger for an unseemly time, else all the others will be delayed."

  Apparently, Edmund meant to pretend as if nothing had gone awry between them. Faucon wondered if the monk expected that to serve as his apology. Although hardly polite, it was reasonable. Considering that attention to their duty was of prime importance at the moment, Faucon could tolerate reasonable, as long as Edmund neither gloated nor sulked. Such were the emotions not-Will ever aimed at Faucon, that was, when his brother wasn't swimming in his usual sea of sullen resentment.

  "Good advice," Faucon said, then returned his attention to the mill yard as the men within it suddenly quieted.

  Alf and his aides passed through their midst, carrying Halbert to the catafalque. Once the dead miller lay atop the planks, the crowd pulled back, men and boys arranging themselves in a cautious circle around their deceased neighbor. Brother Colin came to stand near Halbert's head. Stephen trailed after the smaller monk, stopping a short distance from the foot of his father's bier. Faucon kept his gaze on Halbert's son. If the mill's new master had any reaction to the wound that had ended his father's life, Faucon wanted to note it.

  "Tell me this," he asked of Edmund without looking at his clerk. "As these men view the body, is it the law that we must point out to them the wound that caused the miller's death?"

  "There is no need to show a wound unless it is clear that this was the injury that did cause death. Since Halbert's crushed shoulder and now-broken arm did not kill him, it isn't worthy of note," Edmund replied, his pedantic tone another reminder of the tutors Faucon had so despised in his youth. "You must only tell your witnesses to confirm the cause of the miller's death. You must say that he was drowned under his wheel, as I have already noted in our record."

  Faucon shot the clerk a swift sidelong look. "You have already written that he drowned? Then ply your knife and scrape off those words, for they are mistaken."

  Edmund's eyes flew wide. "I will not!" he protested, his voice rising in complaint. "I cannot. I am required to note the truth, and we all saw that Halbert had drowned."

  "Did we?" Faucon asked with a quiet laugh, then crossed the yard to stand at the left side of Halbert's bier.

  He scanned the ranks of the waiting men and boys, thinking to gather their attention. It wasn't necessary. To a one they already watched him.

  "Come all, and view your deceased neighbor, Halbert the Miller," he called out in their tongue, his voice lifted to a shout so as many as possible could hear him.

  "Wait!" Edmund called. "Don't forget to tell them they must swear before God that they will speak the truth if they give any information about the death, and do the same if asked to give any appraisals or assessments regarding the miller's property and the deodand."

  Faucon looked at his clerk with a frown. "I think they cannot all hear me. If they cannot hear me, how will they all know to swear?"

  That made Edmund blink in surprise. His mouth opened, but there seemed to be no answer on his tongue.

  "We know what must be done," Alf said. "Ask for the oath. As those too far back to hear your voice catch the sound of the oaths being given, they will add their own vow to those that already ring out from in here."

  "So it must be," Faucon replied, uncomfortable with this. How could an oath be true if the one demanding the oath couldn't hear the response of those who swore? Then again, who was he to question? Perhaps it was up to God to punish the foresworn.

  "Swear before God that any assessments and information regarding Halbert Miller's death or his property you give will be honest and true," he demanded at the top of his lungs.

  "I so swear!" The words rolled like distant thunder across the mill yard, then echoed out into the miller's croft and over the race into the fuller's yard. A final and faint retort came from the lane that ran before the miller's cottage.

  Faucon nodded. "Then come all you jurors and view Halbert the Miller. You must look upon the wound that killed him, then confirm my verdict that he was murdered by persons yet unknown."

  "What?!" Stephen shouted, his voice rising to an almost girlish squeal, his face twisted in abject surprise.

  As he fell silent, his brows remained high on his forehead, his mouth yet agape. In the next instant, the miller's son bent at the waist, grabbing the edge of the board beneath his father's feet, as if he feared he would fall. Yet bent in twain, Stephen clung to the wood, panting and trembling. The sound of his gasping breath echoed in the quiet courtyard.

  Faucon wasn't the only man in the crowd left a little startled by the depths of Stephen's reaction. Alf shot a frowning glance at the dead man's son, then stepped to Stephen's
side. He rested his hand on his new master's back as if to comfort. That brought Halbert's son upright with a start. Keeping his head turned away from his father, Stephen shook off his servant's touch and took a backward step from the bier, still gasping.

  "Murdered?" Simon Fuller called out as a new muttering filled the yard. Men whispered to each other, spreading the startling news about Halbert's death back and beyond, to those who couldn't hear what happened in the mill yard.

  The fuller pushed past all the others to make his way to Stephen. "What cause have you to say such a thing?" he demanded of Faucon, his tone and stance saying he spoke for all the men of this inquest, demanding the proof that was their right. "Did I not find Halbert beneath the wheel this morn, with the wrench that opens the brake right on the edge of the race this morn? Did we all not see our miller removed from that channel only moments ago? How can you say that he did not fall in and drown by accident?"

  As Simon spoke, he offered his neighbor a quick pat on the back. Although Stephen accepted this touch without reaction, he didn't look in the shorter man's direction.

  "Aye, what you describe is indeed what we saw," Faucon agreed, "but it was not the truth. Halbert's presence in the race was a ruse, one arranged to convince us that he had drowned. The one who killed him took great pains to hide the true manner of the miller's death. Unfortunately for Halbert's killer," Faucon again scanned the faces in the yard, meeting the gazes of the watching men eye-to-eye as he continued, "he did not know that a drowned man has foam in his mouth, and that his eyes will never be cloudy. Those are the signs that set me to seeking the true cause of Halbert's death. Now, look for yourselves and see that I am right."

  Faucon lifted the fronts of Halbert's garments, pulling them back until the miller's face was covered and all of his torso, including his crushed left shoulder, was revealed. Even with his gaze aimed away from the bier, that caught Stephen's attention. He yelped, his distress giving way to dismay as he stared at his father's opened garments.

  "You've ruined my father's clothing!"

  "Not ruined. What was done was necessary and it can be repaired. We were looking for this," Faucon finished as he used his finger to trace a circle around the otherwise insignificant puncture wound in Halbert's chest.

  "Here is the cause of your neighbor's death," he told the watching men. "I believe the one who killed the miller used an awl, or something like an awl, to do his worst to Halbert. This tool would be long and slender, for it slipped easily between his ribs to deal out death to him. Given Simon Fuller's tale of drunkenness, I believe Halbert Miller was senseless when it happened."

  Faucon did not add that he suspected Halbert had not been killed beside the millwheel. There was no need.

  "Nay, it cannot be," Stephen whispered.

  His face had paled to a pasty white and he once again shook on unsteady feet. Then, even though he was too far from the bier to do it, he extended his hand as he meant to touch his father's wound. The next instant, he snatched back his fingers and crossed his arms tightly around his middle.

  "Do you think as I do, Master, that our awl was used on him?" Alf asked him, his voice gentle, nothing but concern showing on his face.

  The miller's son nodded, the movement of his head swift and jerky.

  "Shall I examine the wound for you?" the workman asked.

  Again the miller's son nodded. Alf stepped close to Halbert and laid his hand on the dead man's torso. Stephen turned his face to the side as if he could not bear to watch. As the workman moved his fingers around the wound, Alf's fair brows rose high on his forehead.

  "Mother of God, there it is, just as Sir Crowner says. If the knight is right in his description of the weapon, then I fear this hole has a size I know all too well," he announced quietly. There was no need for him to speak any louder. The only other sound in the courtyard was the steady drone of bees.

  Alf looked at Faucon. "There's a special awl we use to sew drawstrings into hempen bags when we use such bags. It's almost as long as my forearm, but as slender as my finger."

  "I would like to see it," Faucon replied.

  "Master?" Alf asked of Stephen.

  One more time Stephen nodded mutely.

  It wasn't until Alf had walked back through the crowd, heading toward the three-sided shed that filled one corner of the yard, that the miller's son found his voice. "Papa," he said to the dead man, "I shouldn't have left you alone. I shouldn't have gone."

  With that, Stephen buried his head into his hands and sobbed.

  "Cloudy eyes and no foam in his mouth, indeed. Who has ever heard of such things? And, hole in his chest or no, I still think that wheel killed him," Edmund muttered, and not for the first time since reclaiming his seat on the porch.

  He'd returned the plank to his lap and once more had the parchment sheet stretched across it. With his nose aimed at the skin, he plied his knife, scraping off the words that had wrongly identified the cause of Halbert's death.

  "Tsk! Look at the mess I'm making. I'm going to scratch right through the skin."

  Faucon hid his smile. He gave his new clerk credit for doing no more than muttering his complaints. Nor did Edmund aim his dismay at his employer. In fact, had Faucon not stood near the stairs as he awaited Alf's return with the awl, he wouldn't even have heard the man. It almost felt like a victory.

  A moment later, Alf pushed his way through the crowd once more. As he rejoined the shire's new coronarius, he set a long needle-like tool into Faucon's hands. "Here it is, Sir Crowner."

  His use of the title for the second time made Faucon laugh. "You're not the only one this day to name me Crowner, but how came you to use that word for my name?"

  Alf gave a small shrug. "I heard Drue Tailor use it. Have I offended?"

  "Not at all," Faucon said, still smiling as he turned his attention to the awl.

  As Alf had said, it was long, almost the length of his forearm, and exactly the size Faucon expected given the hole carved into Halbert's chest. Unlike some awls, such as the one the cobbler's woman had been using to sew the boot, this one didn't have its eye in its point. Instead, it resembled Drue's much smaller sewing needles, with the eye and point opposite each other.

  Nor did it have a handle. Instead, a loop of twisted hemp cording ran through its eye. No doubt this was how it was stored, by hanging the loop over a peg in a wall.

  The cording looked new and no sign of blood showed on the iron needle. Faucon would have been surprised, and not a little disappointed, in the one he hunted if he'd found such stains. The man who'd killed Halbert had expended far too much effort hiding the means of the miller's death to be so careless.

  Nay, as near as Faucon could tell thus far, Halbert's killer had made only one misstep.

  He turned the awl in his hands, this time noting that the eye end seemed a little off. He looked at the damage from every angle. Not only was that end a little flattened, it was ever so slightly bent to one side.

  He almost smiled, so great was his satisfaction. It was just the sort of bend he might expect to see had the flat of a dagger blade been used to drive such an awl into a man. Why the awl would deform under such pressure lay upon the anvil of the smith who'd made it. No doubt its metal hadn't been as well-tempered as that of the dagger.

  "Has it always been bent like this?" Faucon asked Alf, pointing out the end of the awl.

  The workman shook his head as he looked at it. "I can't say I've ever noticed that before today. Then again, I can't say I've ever looked at it that closely before now. All I can tell you about the awl is that it's old, so much so that Master Halbert had started threatening to replace it, and he's not a man who easily parts with coins." He offered the breath of a smile at that, then all humor left him.

  "So was this tool used to kill my master?" There was nothing to hear in the servant's question save concerned interest.

  "I cannot say that it was this particular awl, but I'm certain it was a tool very much like this one," Faucon replied. "Take it to B
rother Colin and have him lay it beside the miller, so those who view him can witness the sort of weapon used by the one who killed him."

  As Faucon laid the awl in the servant's hand, he asked, "Do you make your bed in the mill?" It was a legitimate question. Many tradesmen's servants took their nightly rest in their masters' shops, doing so to protect goods and supplies from thieves and vandals.

  "I do," Alf said as he examined the damaged awl, turning it in his hands much as Faucon had done. Then he dropped his hand to his side and looked at his new coronarius. Nothing in the workman's mien suggested he was at all distraught, or even nervous at handling the suspect awl. Then again, to have killed Halbert in stealth and whilst the besotted man was unconscious in drunken slumber was cold-blooded, indeed. Someone capable of that was hardly the sort of man to flinch after the fact.

  "Then tell me something," Faucon continued. "The fuller says he heard the wheel begin to turn late last night only to stop abruptly a little while thereafter. Did you hear the same?"

  Alf's eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened until it was a hard line. He shook his head. "I fear not, although it shames me to admit it. Such was the day we had yesterday, Master Halbert and I doing our own work and sharing Master Stephen's portion, that, when I retired, I heard nothing at all from the mill or the wheel."

  There was something in the way he parsed his words that caught and held Faucon's attention. "'Struth? You heard nothing when the fuller, whose house is at least a furlong from the race, was awakened by the millwheel turning?"

  Alf gave a stiff shrug. His expression was shuttered, leaving nothing for Faucon to see but the blank look worn by all servants when they interacted with their betters. "What can I say? I heard nothing from where I slept."

  Faucon kept his gaze on Alf. He'd heard it said some men could pick out the truth by studying just a man's eyes. If that were true, either he lacked the talent or Alf was innocent of Halbert's murder. No trace of guilt lurked anywhere in the workman's expression.