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

by Denise Domning

  "What is it you desire of me, Keeper?"

  "Crowner," Faucon replied. "That seems to be what folk are comfortable calling me. As for what I desire, it is the resolution of Halbert Miller's murder, which I now believe within my grasp. I would like you at hand when I confront the one who committed this foul deed, so you can take him into custody."

  "What murder? It looked to me yesterday that Halbert Miller drowned." The sheriff kept his gaze focused on the men ahead of him.

  "So it did to me, as well," Faucon agreed, "until we removed the miller from the race and examined his body, to discover that his heart had been pierced. It was a tiny wound, barely noticeable. Indeed, it was so small that I might well have dismissed it as inconsequential, save that the brake on the waterwheel was set yestermorn. If you recall, your man was trying to release it when I arrived. If the miller had been alone when he drowned, pinned beneath the wheel, then he could not have set that brake."

  The sheriff shot Faucon a sidelong look. His brows were lowered over his eyes. As he studied Faucon, he ran his gloved hand over his beard in what seemed an unconscious gesture.

  "How clever of you," he finally said, his voice still flat. "And how foolish of the one who set that brake. There cannot be many who have access to the miller's tools."

  Faucon nodded. "There are not. The man you will be arresting is the miller's son. There is no other save he who could have used that wrench two nights ago when the miller died."

  "Ah, I recall now. When I arrived at the mill yestermorn, the man did not seem much aggrieved over his father's passing. Do you know the reason the miller's son killed his sire? To win his inheritance sooner than time was offering it, perhaps?"

  Faucon drew a steadying breath. This must be how a rope dancer felt, toes curled tightly to the one thing that prevented him from crashing to the earth so many feet below.

  "Nay, not to take his inheritance sooner, but to confirm his inheritance. Stephen Miller was unwilling to lose what he believed was his by right of birth, but in truth, was not. He was desperate to keep his father from revealing to the world that Stephen had been bastard-born."

  So sharply did Sir Alain shift toward Faucon in his saddle that his mount danced, trying to buck. The soldiers ahead of them looked back, startled by the commotion. Once the sheriff steadied his mount, he again looked at Faucon. The man's eyes were yet wide in surprise. His mouth opened and closed a few times, as if words bubbled onto his tongue, only to dissolve before they could exit past his teeth.

  "Bastard? How—?" Sir Alain finally managed to spew.

  "How is it possible that Stephen is a bastard?" Faucon offered, keeping his gaze on the rump of the horse in front of him. "It turns out that Halbert became a soldier to escape his rightful wife. The wife he abandoned never tried to free herself from their vows, and yet lives. Thus Halbert was never wed to Cissy, and that makes Stephen a bastard.

  "A few weeks ago, Halbert had that exact confession scribed onto parchment by one of the monks at St. Radegund's. I suspect Stephen found the skin—" something Faucon was certain Halbert had intended his son to do"—and took it to one he trusted to read it for him. I believe Stephen thought what he'd discovered was the marriage contract between Halbert and his new wife, Agnes of Stanrudde. That marriage had quite upset him. He feared his father had given his new wife a substantial dower. He said as much to me yesterday. It seems his father refused to speak to him about his new union, threatening disinheritance if Stephen pursued the matter."

  Faucon said no more. It wasn't necessary. He knew the rest, as did Sir Alain.

  Stephen hadn't approached the sheriff to help him kill his father, because Sir Alain had been Agnes' lover. Stephen had never known that. Instead, he'd gone to Sir Alain because he was Halbert's lender. Stephen, protesting that his father was ruining their trade with his drinking, and how that would soon affect their ability to make payments on what was owed, had given the sheriff the opportunity he craved to correct the error of Agnes' marriage, a marriage that never was.

  The sheriff once more stared ahead of him. "What proof have you that it was the miller's son who did this deed?"

  "He left his bloody garments at his wife's family home, and the pigs found them," Faucon replied.

  "And there is no abettor? The man did this on his own?"

  It was Faucon's turn for surprise. He hadn't expected so direct a question. It was a potent warning. The sheriff would use every tool at his disposal to protect himself from one he considered an interloper.

  Faucon kept his gaze focused ahead of him, his thoughts scrambling. The quiet lasted long enough that Sir Alain once again shifted to look at him.

  "Nay, no one aided Stephen as he put his dead sire into the race, then released the brake so the wheel would take him," Faucon said carefully. "By the by, Bishop William of Hereford remembers you with admiration from the journey the two of you shared to the Holy Land. I spoke with him about it yesterevening, when I went to view the remains of a murdered lass who had been left in the open to rot. He and Lord Graistan discovered her body while hunting. There was so little left of her that we buried her, having no hope of discovering her identity."

  Still Sir Alain stared at him. Faucon battled the urge to touch his sword hilt, to reassure himself it was still within reach.

  "A murdered child, was it?" the sheriff asked at last. "On Lord Graistan's lands?"

  "Aye, a girl of perhaps a half-dozen years," Faucon replied.

  "Well, if she's on Lord Graistan's land, then she's his problem to resolve," the sheriff replied, turning his attention back to the track ahead.

  They completed the ride to Priors Holston in silence. It took almost that long for Faucon's muscles to relax. Nay, Stephen would never see the inside of the gaol at Killingworth.

  Nor would Faucon be called to meet Sir Alain sword-to-sword in judicial combat, as the sheriff sought to prove himself innocent of the miller's death.

  Not yet.

  As they entered Priors Holston and started toward the mill, their troop acquired a following. The men, women and children kept a respectful distance as they trailed the soldiers. Just as Faucon had done yesterday, the soldiers stopped at the end of the lane near the coppiced trees and dismounted, walking the remainder of the way to the mill. Across the race, Simon and his boys straightened from the fabric they were stretching to watch the soldiers and monk as they made their way through Stephen's toft and croft. Faucon watched Simon glance from the mill to Faucon, then shoot a look heavenward. After that, he called his boys back to work.

  The stones were turning. The air in the yard was alive with the rumble of the wheel as it spun on its axle, the constant splash of water and the unrelenting grate of stone on stone.

  As Faucon opened the gate and let the sheriff step into the mill yard ahead of him, Stephen exited from the three-sided shed where he'd sat yesterday, the wrench in his hands, no doubt to brake the wheel as he took his midday repast. Halbert's son wore a dusty red tunic, and green chausses just as flecked. Although his head was down, Faucon could see Stephen was smiling to himself.

  Only as he stepped outside of the shed did he realize he wasn't alone. He raised his head and his smile died. All the color left his face as he froze where he stood, the wrench cradled close to his chest as if precious beyond silver.

  "Wait," Edmund called out from behind, trying to catch up to Faucon. "Wait, you must wait for me!"

  "What is this?" Stephen cried out, his voice thready and weak. "Why are you here?"

  Faucon glanced at Sir Alain. The sheriff watched him, his expression as flat and dead as always, his arms crossed.

  "Well, Keeper," he said, "if you now keep the pleas, then I think it is no longer my duty to make the accusation. Accuse him, and let the man refute or confess. I will take him after that."

  Of a sudden, Faucon was once more dancing on that taut rope, high above the earth. Only now it swayed as if in a storm. He had expected Sir Alain to make the accusation, doing so to protect himsel
f. Stephen would never dare directly accuse the man who had helped him end his father's life. Such an attempt would be pointless. Sir Alain would simply deny it.

  But that wasn't true if Faucon made the accusation. If Stephen spewed a counter accusation at his sheriff, Sir Alain would demand that Faucon either refute the charge or offer proof that it was true. To lie and say the sheriff was innocent was not only cowardly, it would prevent him from ever pursuing the matter further. But to suggest Sir Alain was guilty was to put himself in death's way before he was ready.

  Faucon's throat closed. He was too new and unknown in this shire. Edmund came to a panting halt beside him.

  "Stephen, son of Halbert," the clerk sang out, the sound of his voice rising above the thundering racket of the working mill, "I have the sworn oaths of your wife, her sisters, and two of their husbands that you were not in their house the night your father died, and did return to their home just before dawn on the morning your father was discovered in the millrace. They swear they found your garments in a byre, and that your clothing was stained with blood. Will you confess that you are the one who placed your father beneath the wheel, so it might seem as if he died by accident?"

  Stephen screamed, the sound high-pitched and filled with panic. He leapt off the step, running even before his feet found the earth. He sprinted past Faucon as he headed for the corner of the mill.

  "Catch him!" Faucon shouted, grabbing for the miller and missing.

  The soldiers behind Sir Alain exploded into motion, toppling Brother Edmund. Still shrieking, Stephen flew around the corner of the mill. Faucon followed, only to stop at the edge of the race, cursing his own fear of water, made worse by the weight of his armor.

  The fastest of the soldiers pushed past him, leaping the race to give chase. In the lane, the commoners raised the hue and cry, shouting for their neighbors to catch Stephen the Miller. Some dashed into the mill yard to join the chase. As required by the law, Simon and his sons came running toward the race to do their civic duty.

  Stephen was halfway up the channel, on his way to the pond. The soldier was right behind him.

  "I've got him!" this one shouted, reaching for the back of the miller's dusty tunic.

  Halbert's bastard son jogged to the left, half-leaping, half-stumbling, and threw himself across the race.

  Those who retained some fondness for him would later say that he simply misjudged. Those who did not would swear they saw Halbert's hand reach out of the water and pull his son down into the race. They would say they saw Stephen struggle as he sought to free himself from that ghostly grip. They were telling tales.

  Faucon watched Stephen slide into the water and tuck the wrench that could save his life even closer to his chest. He rolled to face the stones at the bottom of the channel.

  Sir Alain's men tumbled into the water after him, but the torrent that fueled the wheel already had the man they sought. Water glistened, spraying off the paddles as the wheel turned its clanking circle. A moss-dabbled paddle sliced toward the bottom of the race. It caught Stephen on the back of his head, holding him down in the water just as its broken mate had held his father.

  The soldiers splashed and shouted. One had the big man by the feet, another took his free arm. The wrench floated free, rising in the water. From the edge of the race, another soldier reached in to snatch the tool and slipped. As he went under, he knocked over the man trying to winnow Stephen free of the wheel's hold.

  The wrench tumbled through the wheel, then cartwheeled down the race, driven by the power of the water. Faucon watched it go. When he could see it no more, he looked up at Simon who stood across the channel from him. They watched each other as more soldiers, both in the race and out of it, made their way downstream in an effort to catch the missing tool.

  "Good riddance," the fuller said, his tone bitter. "I should have known it was him who did it. I shouldn't have let him woo me with the promise of that fulling mill. I suppose this means 'Wina will not be back. I'll miss her, and Alf as well."

  Faucon shrugged. "Someone will have to run the mill, else you'll have no flour to make your bread."

  "Aye, I suppose," the man replied, then sighed. "I suppose this also means I'll lose another day's work because of yet another inquest jury. Perhaps I should curse the day my grandsire escaped his lord and came to own a cottage next to a mill."

  It was late afternoon by the time the inquest jury had finished its work. By then Sir Alain had long since departed, and thankfully so. The jury not only confirmed Stephen's death caused by misadventure, but they confirmed, at Faucon's insistence, that Stephen had only abetted another yet unknown man in the murder of his father. It was a hard-fought resolution, for there had been no end to the muttering the moment the jurors had heard the tale of Halbert's bigamy. Once they heard that tale, the jurors had no difficulty acknowledging that, as his father's bastard, Stephen had no right to inherit his father's property; therefore, there was no property for king and crown to collect. They went on to declare the millwheel deodand for causing Stephen's death, and set its value at the pittance Alf had warned they would.

  After hiding meekly behind a thick layer of clouds all the day, the sun finally slipped out of concealment as it neared the horizon. Faucon and Edmund tied their mounts to the fence at Susanna's alehouse. It seemed this was where all the jurors had flown after being dismissed. Men filled every table. More made themselves comfortable on the ground. Faucon wondered how many had come to commiserate with her over the loss of her nephew, and how many to taunt her over her sister's misfortune in meeting Halbert. Or maybe they'd all just come to drink up Susanna's fine ale.

  She'd recruited help to serve them. A grandmother and two girls young enough to be her granddaughters were moving around the yard with pitchers, the women laughing and chatting with those they knew. Susanna waved Faucon and Edmund into her foreyard when she saw them.

  "Up!" she shouted to the group of men sitting at the table Faucon had used the previous day. "Sir Crowner and his clerk need a place to sit, and I need to sit with them. Godiva," she motioned to the grandmother, "see to it these surly curs get their cups filled once again at no charge."

  That stopped the complaints of the evicted, who went to sit on the ground near the cottage door. Faucon and Edmund shared the bench on one side of the table, offering their cups to be filled as they did. After emptying her pitcher into them, Susanna sat upon the opposite bench.

  "I cannot believe my ears," she said, her eyes round and her expression astonished. "I mean, I knew Halbert was a stinkard, but to pretend to marry Cissy, and make Stephen a bastard, and all of us none the wiser? That's madness. And then Stephen! I was sure he'd killed his father. There was something different, something in his eyes these past weeks."

  "Indeed," Faucon replied. "Where is Agnes?"

  "Gone. She left this morning," Susanna said with a sigh. I begged her to stay, but a carter stopped by last night and offered to take her to Stanrudde."

  Faucon sighed as well. He would never find her again. Sir Alain would make certain of that.

  Then Susanna returned to matters closer to her heart. "Poor 'Wina. She's lost both husband and home, and Little Cissy is tainted by no fault of her own. Well, at least there'll be no heriot for them to pay. The king can't have his death tax from one who the law says cannot inherit." She grinned at that, but it swiftly faded.

  "But what happens to the mill now? Is it mine, as you suggested when last we spoke?"

  Faucon shook his head. "The cottage at the mill and all that it holds within its walls is yours, as it was Cissy's through Jervis. That means you'll be the one paying that heriot."

  That made her bray in laughter. She slapped her hand on the table top to emphasize her amusement. "I'll sell some of Halbert's pretty things to do that, won't I just?"

  "As for the mill," Faucon continued, "it cannot be yours as it never belonged to Cissy or Halbert. According to Prior Lambertus, all Halbert purchased with that great sum was the right to use the ren
ted mill for his sole profit. The prior also told me that their agreement with Halbert stipulated that only his legitimate heirs could continue renting the mill after his death. If Halbert had no legitimate heir, then the right to operate the mill would return to the priory's control."

  "Well then, it seems the monks once again are millers," Brother Edmund said, as he swallowed another mouthful of ale. Then he winced. Edmund's nose was crusted with dried blood, and there was a darkening bruise where his cheek had hit a stone in the courtyard when he had been overrun.

  "If that's so, then Prior Lambertus best take a lesson from his predecessor and swallow his objections to a woman running his mill, if he has any," Susanna declared. "The only one left in Priors Holston who knows how to work those stones is 'Wina."

  "You'll have to help her the way you told Stephen you'd help Agnes," Faucon replied, laughing. "You'll likely have to give up brewing to do it."

  "The devil will die first," Susanna snapped back, smiling. "Aggie needed help. 'Wina will do fine on her own, that girl, hiring as need requires. You look miserable, Brother," she said to Edmund. "Do you want a cloth to clean that? I have a salve for your cheek."

  "That would be a kindness, goodwife," the monk replied respectfully, but with his nose stuffed and swollen, the words broke into bits and pieces as he spoke them.

  That made her bray again. "That's me, a kind of good wife. Enjoy your drink and I'll be back in a moment."

  As she left them to enter her cottage, Faucon leaned forward, this being his first opportunity to speak privately with his clerk. "You broke your oath to me," he said, smiling at the monk. "You spoke when you swore not to."

  Edmund's eyes widened in surprise. His mouth opened, no doubt to spew some harsh word.

  Faucon laughed. "Nay, say nothing. That was but a poor jape on my part. I cannot thank you enough for accusing Stephen on my behalf. I went tongue-tied, with no idea of what needed to be said."