Agnes offered a quick lift of her brows and a thin smile. "That Alf was Halbert's bastard, come to steal Stephen's inheritance. The truth, according to 'Wina, is far less romantic. She says Alf came to the mill last year after parting ways with his mercenary troop once they returned to England from the Holy Land."
"A crusader?" Faucon replied in surprise.
That sent his thoughts flashing through the time he spent in the Levant, seeking some recollection of Alf's face, in case their paths had crossed. He quickly released the notion as impossible. Early on, King Richard had discovered that Faucon's cousin Gilliam was a gifted jouster. The result was that Faucon and Gilliam, along with their foster father who traveled with them, had been invited into the king's own retinue to battle at his side.
"Aye, and according to 'Wina, it was Alf's crusading past that caught Halbert's attention when he arrived in Priors Holston seeking work," Agnes replied. "Years ago, at the end of the time when he was a soldier, Halbert had also traveled to the Holy Land. Apparently, just as happened to Alf, Halbert also lost his taste for soldiering while in our Lord's homeland. It was on Halbert's return to England from that journey that he bought his release from his commander and troop, then came to settle here."
Agnes paused and glanced from Faucon to Edmund. "You have asked me many questions and I have answered them. Now, answer mine. What purpose have you for asking me of Alf and Halbert, or any questions at all for that matter? If your answer does not satisfy, I believe it may be time for you to depart. I have much to do if I'm to be prepared to leave before Stephen comes and forces me from his home."
"How dare you speak so boldly to my master!" Edmund retorted swiftly. He sounded as outraged as he had yesterday when he chastised Lord Rannulf, and looked as ready to do battle as when he'd argued with the sheriff about extracting Halbert's body from the race.
"Brother Edmund," Faucon warned, but Edmund had the bit between his teeth and was racing full tilt ahead.
"Sir Faucon is the king's servant. It is his purpose to find the man who killed your husband. As that is his duty, he may ask you what he will and you will answer him, else answer to the royal court."
Abject surprise flattened Agnes' expression. "Killed?! What nonsense is this? Halbert wasn't killed. He fell into the race because of drink and drowned beneath his wheel."
"Nay, your husband was already at Heaven's gate when his body was put into the water," Edmund informed her, bent on revealing what Faucon had hoped to conceal until he judged the moment appropriate.
"Enough, Brother Edmund!" Faucon cried in panicked command.
"There's a hole in his chest, put there by the one whose name Sir Faucon and I shall soon discover," the clerk trumpeted.
Faucon sighed in defeat. More fool he for not instructing his clerk prior to beginning this conversation with Agnes. There would be no regaining the advantage Edmund had just stolen from him.
Agnes gazed at him, a new hollowness in her expression. She looked as if she were starving and knew he had the food she craved. "Is this true?" she almost whispered.
"It is," he confirmed reluctantly.
Sudden color rushed up her neck to flood her face. She swallowed and released a breath. In that long slow sigh, Faucon recognized the sounds of relief and gratitude. Then she folded her hands in her lap and bowed her head.
A few hours ago, Faucon would have thought her reaction simply that of a modest woman. Now, having glimpsed her true nature, he recognized this sham of humility as her shield, one she plied to great effect.
"Do you know who killed your husband?" Faucon asked. It was a waste of his breath. She would tell him nothing more, no matter how he asked.
She didn't disappoint. "I do not," she said without raising her head. "Until this very moment I believed only that Halbert had drowned."
Faucon watched in frustrated silence as she returned to her feet and once more turned her back to them. Opening her chest, she pulled out the garments she'd moments before tossed into it and began to fold. He didn't expect her to offer another word, save a suggestion that they leave. She surprised him when she paused, the gown she held pressed to her chest.
"Murdered," she breathed in disbelief, then shifted until he could see the curve of her cheek and brow from over her shoulder. "Nay, you must be wrong. How can Halbert have been murdered when I saw nothing amiss anywhere near the wheel this morning, save that the wrench was beneath the brake when it should have been in the mill? If he was stabbed as your clerk suggests, shouldn't we have seen his blood upon the earth around the wheel?"
"Halbert didn't die near the wheel," Faucon said, praying that if he gave her the information she craved she might continue to satisfy his questions. "The one who stole his life waited until Halbert was deep in besotted slumber, then took him into Simon's croft to do the deed."
She gasped at that. "Where in Simon's croft did my husband breathe his last?" Her words remained hardly louder than a whisper.
"At the place where the fuller does his slaughtering," Faucon told her, wondering at her question. "Simon had butchered a pig. It seems the one who took Halbert's life knew this, for he used that same location to murder Halbert, burying his blood under the ashes spread about that area." If only Faucon could puzzle out why it had been necessary to hide the true cause of Halbert's death.
Agnes bent to store the garment she held, then retrieved another to fold. "Poor Simon," she said as she straightened. "And here I thought I was doing him a boon, what with that ever-hungry brood of his, when I sold my pig to him. It was my gilt he slaughtered. Yesterday, I awoke to discover one of my pigs had a broken leg. It had been done apurpose. Pigs don't just break their legs," she added as harsh aside. "I confronted Halbert, but he denied doing any harm to the animal. I didn't believe him. How could I? There is—was no one else in this house cruel enough to hurt an innocent creature for no reason."
Then she whispered, "But there was a reason."
Faucon's hands closed into fists. He heard it in Agnes' voice and in the careful way she strung together her words. She might not have witnessed her husband's death, but she was certain she knew who had killed him. Damn her, but she had taken his tidbits, sewn them to those she already had in store, and found the one who waited at the end of this trail, when he lagged miles behind her, looking at nothing but a jumble of footprints!
Faucon wanted to command her to turn and face him. He wanted to demand that she give him the name she was even now cherishing. To no avail. She would only plead ignorance, then once more apply that shield of hers when he had no weapon to pierce it.
It was time to end this.
He came to his feet. "Thank you, goodwife. I will wish you a good journey from Priors Holston, and pray you find far greater peace in your next home than you have had here."
She threw a startled look over her shoulder at him. Once again, she had expected him to press.
"You are kind to say so, sir. Thank you very much," she said, as softly and humbly as any man would expect of a well-behaved housewife. She made no move to see them to the door, only concentrated on her packing.
"So, tell me. What is the name of the man who killed Halbert?" Edmund asked as they left the miller's cottage.
"How should I know?" Faucon snapped. "You cheated me of my chance to winnow what I needed out of Halbert's widow to help me as I track this one. Why did you speak so rudely to her?" he demanded, even though it was his own fault he'd lost the chance to put his questions to the widow. Edmund was under his command and he had failed to control him.
His clerk frowned back. "Me! I did no wrong. You must never allow commoners to be disrespectful. That woman had no right to question your purpose." What started as a vehement protest softened with every word Edmund spoke, until the last word almost whispered from his lips. Reflected in his dark gaze was the barest hint that he now recognized his misstep.
The silence stretched between them. Faucon waited, but once again Edmund offered no apology.
He shook of
f his irritation. Dwelling on his clerk's misbehavior was a distraction he couldn't afford. At least he had one new piece of information in store: the best way to find the man who had murdered Halbert was to discover the name of the man who had once kept Agnes.
It wasn't a name known here in Priors Holston, of that Faucon was certain. Had it been, he would have already heard it either from Stephen or one of the many men in the inquest jury. Nay, if Faucon wanted that name, it was the folk of his own class he needed to ask. That was, if he could discover the right person to ask. He was an outsider in this shire, with no idea who among the knights and nobles was the most informed gossip. Or, who would betray the misbehavior of one of their own to a stranger.
"Edmund, collect your writing implements. We need to have a bite to eat, then I must make my way to St. Radegund's. I need to present myself to the prior, as my lord uncle commanded of me yesterday, before I return to Blacklea."
Aye, first he'd speak with Susanna the Alewife, then he'd be on to the monastery. It was as good a place to start asking after Agnes' lover as any other. Hadn't his father always said, although not in his mother's hearing, that there was no greater gossip than a churchman?
As he and Edmund returned to the courtyard, the clerk went to gather his scribbling supplies while Faucon joined Brother Colin. The former apothecary yet stood beside Halbert's corpse, ready to offer his explanations if asked. Colin's job was almost at an end now. There were so few jurors left in the yard that the wrens living in the mill's eaves had returned to trilling out that complicated song of theirs.
"Have you seen Alf, the miller's servant?" Faucon asked of Colin. "I'd like to speak with him."
"I fear you'll have to wait to do that," Colin replied, then pointed to the shed where Halbert's son yet sat upon his barrel. The new miller was now attended only by Father Walter, the village priest. "Stephen called for him a few moments ago and, after they spoke, the workman left the yard. Where he went, I cannot say. How goes your hunting, sir?"
But of course Alf was gone. Faucon reluctantly set aside the questions he wanted to put to the man for some other time. That left him wondering how long he had before the matter of the miller's murder was required to have a final resolution. Then again, perhaps there was no need to hurry. Hadn't Edmund mentioned that many pleas for justice had languished for years prior to the last Eyre?
"Both better and worse than I expected," Faucon told the monk with a frustrated sigh. "I vow my thoughts are so tangled at the moment, I want to throw away the spindle and start anew."
"I can listen while you think aloud, if that might be of use to you," Colin offered.
"Well, it cannot make matters any worse," Faucon shot back, tempering the harshness of his words with a laugh.
He began counting out the bits of information he now held dear by touching the awl that lay beside Halbert on his bier, then brushing his fingers against the sleeve of the miller's blue tunic. "I'm content to claim this awl as deodand and say it was used to kill our miller, even if that may not be the truth. Also, I know that the miller despised the tunic he wears, and that he would never have donned it, given a choice. Someone else put it on him and did so for their own purposes. And I know where he died."
"Where?" Colin's gaze came to life with interest.
"In the fuller's croft, but don't let your thoughts run wild, expecting to find anything of import there. That path has lead me nowhere, and nowhere is where I've been since I discovered it."
Colin laughed and shook his head. "You don't believe there's nothing important there."
"You may be right," Faucon admitted with a grimace. "Lastly, I've made no progress in discovering the 'who' in all this, because the two I believe mostly likely to have killed the miller weren't at the mill when he died." It was enough to make his head throb. He pressed his fingers to his temples.
Again, the monk laughed. "Then someone isn't telling the truth, because Halbert is dead, rendered so by murder most foul. If you want to know who is telling you tales, you'll have to pick at their stories. A lie is always more complex than the truth, and the liar, no matter how accomplished, will always forget something as he crafts his falsehood. It's up to you to discover where he's erred.
"So tell me. Why do you believe the place of Halbert's death has no story to tell? Prove that to me. Start by telling me where in the fuller's croft he died."
"At the place where the family does its usual slaughtering. It just so happens that Simon slaughtered a young pig yesterday, a pig that had belonged to Agnes and whose leg..." Faucon's words trailed off.
Whose leg had been broken for a reason. That's what Agnes had whispered. He caught his breath, knowing what he'd missed when he stood beneath Simon's chestnut tree.
"What is it?" Colin prodded.
"It was no accident that Simon had a pig to slaughter the morning before Halbert died. That's why the gilt's leg had been broken, and not by Halbert, although that's what his wife originally believed," he said, no longer seeing the last of the commoners as they made their way past their murdered neighbor.
The man who murdered Halbert had broken the pig's leg, knowing Agnes would offer the injured creature to Simon and knowing Simon wouldn't wait to slaughter it, not when he had so many mouths to feed. All this had been done so there would be a hidden place to kill Halbert. It was the same reason the awl had been used, so there would be an insignificant wound in Halbert's chest.
"Ach!" Faucon cried out, as his thoughts once more stalled anew as they came up against the way Halbert's death had been disguised.
"I don't understand any of this," he complained to the monk. "Why does the one who killed Halbert go to such trouble to kill him? Carrying a big man here and there, undressing then dressing him, putting him into the race. It makes no sense! If Halbert was truly deep in besotted slumber, why not lower him into the race and let the wheel take him? Why is it important to make it appear that Halbert drowned by accident when he was in fact murdered by design?"
"Well, putting Halbert into the race might have been a simpler death, but it wasn't as certain," Colin offered. "The race is only waist deep. What if Halbert had awakened? Would he have come to his feet and avoided the wheel, or perhaps roused enough to call for help?"
"All possible," Faucon agreed, but he still felt as if he chewed on something distasteful.
That made Colin laugh. "I can see my reasoning doesn't satisfy you."
The monk's words shot through Faucon, tearing a hole in the wall that trapped him. Faucon threw back his head and laughed. "That's it! You've hit the nail, Brother. There was no satisfaction in simply drowning Halbert." Nay indeed, not when Halbert had drawn blood from a woman whom another man—a knight or nobleman well-trained in the art of war—had cherished, and might yet cherish. "Vengeance required his blood be shed."
Colin grinned. "Once again I am glad to serve. Does this mean you know why Halbert died?"
"The why I already knew but failed to mention. He died to free his wife from their marriage," Faucon answered with more than a little satisfaction of his own.
"Bless me," Colin cried. "A woman alone did this to him? Are you certain there was no man to help her?"
"Nay, it wasn't she who killed Halbert," Faucon started.
"I am ready, Sir Faucon," Edmund interrupted as he joined them. A cloth sack was now tucked behind one arm, its strap over one shoulder. The bundle was awkward and the roll of parchment thrust out from behind his head much like an archer's quiver.
Edmund acknowledged the lay brother with a brusque nod. "Brother Herbalist, is that the last of the jurors?"
Faucon glanced around in surprise to find there were no men left in the yard now.
"It is, Brother," Colin replied, his tone modulated to the more subdued expression employed by men of the first estate.
"Then you are free to return to your own tasks. Take with you our gratitude for your help this day," Edmund said in dismissal, then looked at his employer. "Sir Faucon, the inquest is now complete.
You may instruct me to inform the family that the corpse is theirs to tend to as they will, may the miller rest in peace."
God take Edmund! Faucon opened his mouth, ready to skewer the monk for his impertinence in commanding his better to heel like some dog, as well as for dismissing Colin. From behind his clerk, the older monk shook his head, his gaze filled with warning.
Faucon caught back his chide. "You are so instructed," he snapped, finding his patience with Edmund worn as thin as his uncle's seemed to have been yesterday when Bishop William had chided the man.
If Edmund recognized Faucon's reaction, he gave no sign of it. Instead, he turned and strode to the shed and Stephen.
Once his clerk was out of earshot, Faucon looked at Colin. "Why did you bid me hold my tongue? It is my right to chastise him as I will," he demanded of the monk.
"True enough, Sir Faucon. And if all you had intended was to scold him for how he spoke to you, I would not have interceded. But that was not your sole intent," the older man replied with an easy smile, seemingly untroubled by Edmund's harsh behavior toward him. "Although your urge to leap to my defense speaks well of the man you are, in all honesty, you have no right to speak on my behalf. I am but a lay brother. As such, Brother Edmund is well within his rights to command me to his purpose. If it helps, know that I chose this life of mine, and have never once had cause to regret that choice."
His was a gentle chide with a well-honed purpose, and unlike Edmund, Faucon understood the lesson and took the point. He vented what stewed in him with a long breath, then shifted to watch Edmund as the monk spoke with Stephen. There was no humility in the clerk's stance and nothing but command in his gestures.
"At every turn your brother in Christ demands respect from others, while offering no grain of it to those who deserve to receive it from him," Faucon complained.
Colin laughed. "You are expecting a dog to fly. Brother Edmund hasn't the ability to respect, or, I think, even admire another. Such things are not in his nature. Now, I have more herbs to gather before my day is done, and you must be on with your hunt."
Season of the Raven (A Servant of the Crown Mystery Book 1) Page 12
