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

by Denise Domning

  "Hurry, Papa!" The lad had reached the gate in the enclosure that surrounded the fuller's croft. Simon had made his fence from wooden frames into which whip-thin branches had been woven until it looked as much like a basket as a wall. Each panel was pegged in place and fastened to the next with leather bindings. Pausing in the opening, the child sent an impatient wave in the direction of his elders—the motion suggesting they were moving far too slow to suit him—then disappeared.

  They followed him into the croft. The space that provided Simon's family with their vegetables measured at least a furlong by four rods, which made it about the same size as any other croft Faucon had ever seen, around seven hundred feet in length and forty in width. The fuller's family had divided the space into a series of small rectangular plots separated by a grid of well-worn paths. Each plot included a fruit tree beneath which grew neat rows of cabbages, parsnips, herbs or beans drying with the season. Just now, two of these plots were piled high with recently-harvested garlic. The heads had been left upon the earth to cure in the warmth of autumn's waning days.

  At the far end was the fuller's cottage, a dwelling that appeared to be about half the size of the miller's home. Just behind the house stood the wide vats in which the fuller and his family walked newly-woven woolen cloth into fabric worthy of a garment. At this end of the croft, as far from the house as possible within the enclosure, grew a massive chestnut tree, its low-hanging branches heavy with sweet nuts dressed in their spiny coats.

  The tailor stood with his back to the chestnut's burly trunk, one hand on the end of the fuller's pole axe. The tool, nothing more than a great knob of wood with a handle almost as long as Simon was tall, had but one purpose—to deal a stunning blow to an animal prior to slaughter.

  Dashing and darting in noisy play was a veritable mob of children. Save for Drue's apprentice and the lad who had come to fetch Simon, the rest were girls. To a one, these lasses wore garments dyed the same shade of brown as the fuller's tunic. Only two of the girls didn't participate in the play: the eldest, a sad and sober lass of no more than ten-and-six with a housewife's apron atop her gown, and the youngest, the toddler she balanced on her hip.

  "These are all your children?" Faucon asked Simon.

  The fuller sighed as if beleaguered, but there was pride in his voice when he spoke. "They are indeed, every last one. I have two more lads. You met Bertie, but didn't see Willie, who was yet waiting to view Halbert."

  "Your wife is young to mother such a brood," Faucon said, indicating the girl as they crossed the garden to join the tailor. If she was without doubt too young to be the mother of any save the child she held, that didn't mean she was too young to be married to the fuller.

  "Nay, that's my eldest daughter. My wife is gone. We lost her last year," Simon said softly. "She just wanted one more babe. She always liked the little ones best of all."

  Before Faucon had a chance to offer his condolences, the fuller lifted his voice and called, "You're mad if you think Halbert died here, Drue. If there's anything to find in my croft, it can only be a bit of offal that my sons missed yesterday after we'd finished that gilt."

  "You are most likely right," Drue called in return. "That's why I wanted the knight to come and see this for himself, him being wise in the ways of death." As he spoke, Drue pointed to a stump not far from him.

  Although now only knee-high, the width of the former tree suggested it had originally rivaled the chestnut that had replaced it. The stump's face was scarred and long since stained to a rusty brown. That said it was being used for slaughtering fowl and smaller animals.

  Uneven drifts of wood ash blanketed the ground between the stump and the chestnut. The spilled lines of charred wood led back to a fire pit. Faucon was certain yesterday had seen that pit filled with burning coals as the fuller heated a great pot of water. A pig's carcass was always dipped after slaughter; the hot water made scraping off the animal's bristly hair so much easier.

  Both Faucon and the fuller coughed as they joined Drue in the shade of the chestnut, doing so in instinctive reaction to a smell that would soon be the stench of rotting blood. Flies buzzed and circled around the base of the stump.

  "Have you been slaughtering chickens?" Faucon asked the fuller.

  Simon shook his head. "Not this time of year," he said. "Emmie, I swear we didn't spill anything yesterday. Did you and I accidentally leave something out here to rot?" The sweep of his hand indicated the ashy expanse. "And if we did, how did the boys miss it when they cleaned up? They know better."

  The fuller's eldest daughter must have resembled her mother, for she was a sweet-faced girl with dark hair and pale eyes. She shot her father an amused look, then set down the child she held. The fuller's littlest lass trundled off after the other children, crying for them to wait for her.

  "You know better than that, Papa. How could we have spilled blood when we put the gilt's head in the pot before we cut her throat? Come now, you're too fond of blood sausage to let me waste so much as a drop." There was both irritation and affection in her tone. Her manner suggested she had stepped comfortably into the hole her mother's death had left in their family.

  "Nor did the boys miss anything," she continued. "I'm certain that what Master Drue believes he has discovered wasn't here yesterday when the ash was spread. Neither Bertie nor Willie would have spread ash the way this has been done."

  Here, the fuller's girl shifted to look at Faucon. "See how it's piled so it crawls up our stump? My brothers wouldn't do that. If they left warm ash like that, it might set the stump on fire. And we only ever use a thin layer to cover the ground after we've finished slaughtering. It's really all that's needed to keep down both the smell and the flies. Anything more means trouble. It's too tempting for the little ones, isn't it, sweetling?" she asked of the toddler.

  The littlest girl had been unable to keep up in the game of tag presently being played and had returned to cling to her sister's skirts. Lifting the child to once more balance her on a hip, Emmie caught the wee one's chin in her hand and turned her face toward Faucon. Although it had been only a moment, grimy streaks already crisscrossed the child's rosy cheeks and darkened her wispy brows.

  "See? I'll be scrubbing faces all evening, won't I just?" the elder girl said.

  The child chortled at that, then buried her head into the curve of her sister's shoulder. Faucon laughed with her and Emmie shot him another glance. Their gazes met. The girl gasped, her fair skin taking fire until her blush burned almost scarlet. She dropped her gaze to the ground and bobbed a quick curtsy.

  "Pardon, sir," she offered at a whisper, mortified by her forward behavior.

  "Emmie said the same to me about the ashes when I first asked," Drue said, speaking over her. "That's when we started searching and I found this. I didn't look any further, sir," he said to Faucon, "wanting to wait until you were here to see."

  The tailor dropped to one knee on the ashy ground, while Faucon knelt at the other. Waving off the flies, the tailor pointed to an area on the front of the stump.

  Faucon had to lean close before he saw what Drue indicated. Small dark splotches looked as if they'd been sprayed up and down the side of the stump. He brushed his fingers over the spots. As he found and read the spaces in those lines of gore, he closed his eyes and followed the trail they made. It led him to an image of Halbert, stripped of all clothing so his shirt and braies wouldn't be marked with blood and ashes, slumped against the slaughtering stump. The awl was driven into him. Too drunk to react to the lethal blow, the miller had slipped to the side as his life's blood spurted from him. As he came to a rest on the ground, the final beats of his heart spattered blood against the stump.

  "Brush aside this ash. Let's see what hides beneath it," he commanded.

  As Faucon returned to his feet, slapping smut off the knee of his chausses, Emmie set her young charges to clearing away the piles of ash. This they did with a shovel and broom, arguing over who was to use which implement. A few moments late
r and all of them, young and old alike, looked upon an uneven circle of stained earth that was already attracting more insects than just the flies. Not realizing its import, the little ones made play out of gagging over the sight and smell.

  Drue shook his head. "You were right, sir," he told Faucon. "Here is the spot where Halbert died. They carried him into Simon's croft, did their worst, then waited until he bled his last. When he was in God's hands, they removed him to the race then added more ash from the pit to cover this area, thinking no one would notice, not even Simon. Even if he caught the smell, why would he think anything amiss? He wouldn't, not when he'd slaughtered here earlier the same day."

  Drue looked at the fuller. "If not for Sir Crowner, we would never have found it, would we have, Simon? Even you thought it must be just a bit of offal that your lads had missed, didn't you?"

  At his words, Emmie once more lowered the child she held to the ground. Then, turning to the side, she lifted the hem of her apron until she could bury her face into it. After a moment of dry retching, she began to cry, her face still covered by the fabric.

  Simon fell to his knees on the ash-covered ground, then slid to the side to sit. His face was as gray as what coated his bare legs and feet. His eyes were wide in terror.

  "God save me, call Father Walter to come here for me, Drue. He must bless this ground else Halbert will haunt me for certain."

  "Nay," Edmund said in stern reply and frowned at his new employer.

  Upon Faucon's return to the mill from Simon's croft, he'd called Edmund down from his perch on the porch. They stood near Halbert's corpse. There was no longer a crowd in the courtyard, now that so many had viewed Halbert and confirmed the verdict, then returned to what remained of their day. The only men yet waiting to make their way past Halbert were those whom Faucon had first encountered, the ones who had the misfortune to approach the mill from the lane beyond the wall.

  "You don't have the right to say me 'nay,'" Faucon warned the monk.

  It was a toothless reply. Although he was looking at his clerk, he was giving him only half an ear. The remainder of his attention lingered on that bloody spot in Simon's croft. He'd missed something beneath that chestnut tree. Try as he might, he couldn't identify what it was.

  He breathed out in frustration. Or, perhaps he hadn't missed anything and this was just his reaction to watching the fuller tremble in fear of Halbert's ghost. For sure, the depth of Simon's distress left Faucon regretting he'd ever sought out the site of the murder. This was especially so since locating the spot hadn't added anything to what he already knew of Halbert's death.

  Or had it? Faucon huffed again in frustration. What had he missed?

  "Sir Faucon?" Edmund asked.

  Faucon blinked, pulling his thoughts back to his clerk. Edmund was watching him. When the monk realized he had his employer's attention again, he launched into speech without preamble.

  "Indeed, as your clerk, I have no right to deny you. However, Bishop William wished me to guide you. I would be remiss if I didn't warn you against a misstep," Edmund offered, no hint in his voice that he intended to be disrespectful even as every word he spoke betrayed his arrogance.

  "I do not think it can be your duty to seek out the man who committed the miller's murder." The monk offered a firm shake of his head to emphasize just how strongly he believed what he said. "I think our only duty is to reveal and note the details of an unnatural death. If murder has been done, as it was here, I think it is still the sheriff's right to pursue and capture the one who committed the act."

  Faucon eyed him in surprise. "You only think it isn't our duty? Yesterday you were far more certain of what is and is not ours to do. You recited a great list, doing so with complete certainty."

  As he spoke Faucon realized all he knew of his position was what Edmund had told him. The monk was hardly objective, not when he classified his service to Faucon as a despised penance.

  "Tell me exactly what the archbishop said about the Keepers of the Pleas and their duties. What was said when this new office was announced? When you've told me that, I can determine for myself what is mine to do."

  The monk crossed his arms, tucking his hands into the wide sleeves of his habit. His expression flattened until it was as shielded as his body. "I don't think it matters what was said at court."

  "Perhaps not, but I would know," Faucon pressed.

  "It wasn't much," Edmund replied, his lips barely moving as he spoke.

  "Tell me what was said," Faucon commanded without anger. He didn't begrudge this argument. So it would be between them until they learned to trust each other.

  "Well, if you must know," Edmund said almost irritably, then closed his eyes to better draw the words from memory. "'In every county of the king's realm shall be elected three knights and one clerk to keep the pleas of the crown.'"

  Faucon waited. Edmund uncrossed his arms and opened his eyes. He looked at Faucon, his expression still shuttered.

  Faucon blinked as he realized the recitation was finished. "That's it? There's nothing more? What of all those duties yesterday? Where did they come from?"

  "You speak as if I created them out of clear air," the monk protested. "I didn't. Most of them already existed, being part of what the sheriffs did when keeping the pleas was their duty. The others are those Bishop William told me would soon be added to the duties of all the coronarii."

  Faucon freed a surprised breath. "Well, answer me this then. What sense is there in only recording the manner and means of a murder, and not taking the next step to discover the man who committed the act? We're at hand, viewing what happened and how it was done. The sheriff is not. Think on it, Brother Edmund. Do not those who commit murder forfeit all to the king?"

  "Not all their property is forfeited," the clerk replied in what Faucon was beginning to recognize as his rote reaction to an error. Edmund had to correct, the way a fish needed to swim.

  "Murderers forfeit the profit they would accrue in a year and a day, along with all waste land and all their chattels," the clerk said.

  "Well, then it must be we who seek out and arrest the one who killed the miller. That revenue is exactly what Archbishop Hubert Walter wishes to collect for our king and the reason for the creation of my new position. If we do not prove the murderer guilty and deliver him to the sheriff, how can we collect what he owes?"

  Edmund's eyes widened in pleased surprise at this. "I never considered that!"

  "Apparently not. I hereby state it is my duty to find the man who ended Halbert Miller's life, and with all my heart I shall do my duty to my king," Faucon told him. "Feel free to scribe that I spoke these words in that record of yours. Put it right below the description of Halbert's death wound." Offering Edmund a nod and wondering if the monk would discern the sarcasm, Faucon started across the courtyard, walking toward the gate that led to the miller's croft.

  "Where are you going?" his clerk cried out.

  "To speak to Halbert's widow. Talking with her is my next step as I seek the man who killed her husband," he threw back over his shoulder.

  "Wait for me!"

  From the corner of his eye Faucon watched Edmund dodge and dart through the last of the commoners. The monk twisted this way and that, as if he wished to avoid making physical contact with any of the men and boys. He came abreast of his employer just as Faucon entered the miller's garden.

  "Of course you are right, sir," Edmund said, new enthusiasm in his dark eyes. "We must identify and pursue those who do murder, so they might be brought before the justices and right be done. This is sure to please Bishop William well indeed." The clerk nigh on glowed at that thought.

  Faucon almost grinned. 'We,' was it now? He wondered if Edmund realized he'd again revealed that it wasn't the shire's new crowner he intended to serve.

  The miller's croft was no different in size than Simon's. But where the fuller grew his crops in small plots, Halbert's family opted to raise their vegetables in long rows that ran the length and half t
he width of the croft. The other half was a grassy swath that hosted a number of sheds and small barns. A ewe and her half-grown lamb grazed near one such structure, while nearby a young pig lifted its head and grunted a greeting to them.

  Waist-high hurdles, double-sided braces made from thick branches, separated the back of the miller's whitewashed cottage from the croft. Agnes, or maybe Stephen's wife, had used them to dry the household laundry. Three shirts, two tunics, two pairs of chausses, a child's tiny blue gown and four aprons, two of them so ancient and well-used that they were now a mottled brown, had been left to air on them. Faucon and Edmund made their way through the braces and started toward the rear entry of the cottage.

  "So now that we are agreed you must seek out the one who killed Halbert," Edmund said, his previous excitement dimming into new worry, "how will you do that? How can you know who committed the act?"

  "By following the trail that began with the lack of foam in Halbert's mouth and his cloudy eyes," Faucon replied, shooting a laughing, sidelong look at his clerk.

  The creases on Edmund's forehead deepened into crevices. "I don't understand how those things can lead us anywhere."

  This time Faucon did laugh aloud. "Neither did I until I arrived at Priors Holston this morning. Yet here I am, learning to read this trail just as I was taught to track game animals by reading their spoor."

  Their voices were enough to announce their arrival. Even before they reached the cottage, the top half of the back door opened. If no more wet streaks marked Agnes' face, her nose remained reddened from her earlier upset. As she recognized who waited outside, she opened the lower half of the door and stepped into the portal.

  "Have you come to remove me from this house, sir?" she asked quietly, speaking Faucon's native French with more fluency than he expected.

  "Nay, that is not my purpose nor my intent," Faucon replied in the same tongue. "However, I fear that moment is coming for you all too soon, goodwife. Might we enter and share a word or two?"