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

by Denise Domning

  Lifting his cup, Edmund watched his employer over its rim for a long moment. He sipped, then set the wooden vessel back on the table. There was a new intensity in his gaze.

  "I could see you were struggling," he said, when he couldn't have seen Faucon at all, not when he was running up from behind. "I knew how important the words would be, what with the sheriff standing right beside you. You are still new to the law. I thought it best that I make the accusation this time." He paused, then whispered. "No one challenges a monk to judicial combat."

  It was Faucon's turn for surprise. Edmund had understood his warning for what it was. Then he'd curbed his 'honest' tongue, put aside his rigid rules, and broken an oath he'd made upon his love for the Lord God to protect the man he thought of as his 'penance.'

  Disrespectful, aye. Arrogant and inconsiderate, for certain. But courageous enough to put himself between two warriors with no thought for his own safety. There was much to be said for a man with that much heart.

  "I think we will do well together, you and I," Faucon told him, lifting his cup in salute to the monk.

  "I think we shall, sir," Edmund replied, and emptied his cup. He almost smiled. "I do think we shall."

  "My lord prior," Faucon said, turning in the center of the garden to face Prior Lambertus as the churchman entered the cloister from around the corner of the church.

  Faucon had escorted Edmund to the priory, only to be met by Tom, Legate's great friend. Lambertus had put the man at the gateway with the message that he wished to see the shire's new crowner, should he come.

  From the look of it, the prior had been working with his monks all this day. His habit was sweat-stained, and his feet in their sandals were dark with dirt. Grime streaked his face and his forearms; he'd rolled his sleeves above his elbows.

  "Sir Faucon," Lambertus said, that strangled smile of his lifting his lips. He didn't offer his hand, suggesting he'd set aside his ring while he labored, but accepted Faucon's bow instead. "I hear it has been quite a day in the village. I'm told that Stephen Miller is dead by misadventure, but before he died, you were able to accuse him of his father's murder."

  Faucon gave a single shake of his head. "Stephen was only accused of placing his dead father into the millrace to make murder seem an accidental death. In doing so he aided the one who killed Halbert. For that, I'm sure he will answer to our Lord."

  A tiny crease marred the prior's smooth brow. "But if Stephen had not done the deed, why did he run when he was confronted with the charge?" As he spoke, he unrolled his sleeves, then crossed his arms over his chest and tucked his hands into the sleeves.

  "Stephen ran because he couldn't bear to lose the identity and the life he had always believed belonged to him. He didn't wish to be exposed as Halbert's bastard son."

  The corners of Faucon's mouth lifted into a grim smile. "But I do not tell you anything you don't already know."

  Lambertus had known full well yesterday that there was no will . Where else would the illiterate son of Prior Holston's miller have taken the parchment he'd found, save to the prior who offered the villagers support and counsel?

  Lambertus tilted his head to the side as his shoulders lifted slightly in a show of helplessness. "What is given in confidence cannot be breached, not even to aid in seeking out a murderer. It's a shame you weren't able to identify the man who actually killed the elder miller."

  "The time for that has not yet come, but Brother Edmund tells me there is no limit to how long I may take in resolving the matter," Faucon offered, then paused for a breath. "I fear I must warn you that the right to operate the mill will not be coming back to you."

  "You are mistaken," Lambertus said smoothly. "Stephen is a bastard, and by the terms of our agreement with Halbert, the mill now returns to our control."

  "Come now," Faucon chided gently. "All of Priors Holston knew Halbert as a churl, a man who wouldn't give another so much as a piece of straw if there was no profit in it for him. Why else would he have allowed those damning words to be scribed onto parchment, save that he believed he had a son who could inherit all he'd built?"

  The prior's arms opened. His eyes widened. He pressed a hand to his brow as if in pain. "Nay. That cannot be true."

  "You read the words," Faucon persisted. "Halbert admitted that he was married to another. Did you not stop to wonder if there were children from that first union? As it turns out, Halbert's elder son, his legitimate heir, presently resides as my guest at Blacklea."

  What Faucon took from Lambertus with one hand, he now returned with the other. "But take heart, my lord prior. I think this man will be a far more honest miller than Halbert ever was. He doesn't need to make the same profit. Remember, all obligation to repay the money Halbert borrowed died with him. More's the pity for his lender, if that amount was as rich as you suggest."

  Here was Halbert's revenge at being forced to wed Agnes. Not one more shilling would the sheriff see in repayment of that loan, nor a single penny of whatever Stephen had promised to pay in return for Sir Alain ending his father's life. The sheriff couldn't even claim whatever collateral Halbert might have promised him. The slate had been wiped clean with the death of Halbert and his second son.

  "Now, my lord Prior, the day dims and I still have miles to ride to Blacklea. I'll bid you good health in our Lord, and good night."

  Lambertus said nothing as Faucon bowed, then turned and made his way back through the priory to where Legate waited.

  The next day dawned overcast again, but the air was warmer and dryer. Once more wearing his armor, he rode out of Blacklea on Legate. At last he'd had time to arrange for a man to take the news of his great good fortune to Faucon's home, along with a request to send his personal belongings to Blacklea. It would be at least another two weeks before he saw them.

  It turned out that in the whole village of Blacklea there were but two riding horses. Perhaps the day would come when Faucon could afford to make such a ride as this dressed more comfortably, and on a proper traveling horse. That day had yet to arrive. Until he had the coins he needed to buy and maintain his own palfrey, he'd ride Legate.

  Marian rode one of the riding horses, the palfrey. It had an ambling gait that wouldn't be challenged, but didn't mind the baskets filled with Mimi's possessions tied to its saddle like saddlebags. Marian proved herself a capable and no-nonsense horsewoman. Her traveling gown, cut so she could ride modestly astride, was sturdy wool, dyed a dusty brown.

  The other mount was the pony on which Mimi and Robert had learned to ride. Mimi had no riding attire. She sat astride, with her gowns hiked above her knees. When the spirit moved her, she'd drum her heels into the little creature's sides, sending it racing ahead, then racing back again, until Legate made his disapproval known. The outcome was the pony's reins tied to Marian's saddle, and a sulking Mimi perched behind her mother, her knees high as she rested her feet on those baskets.

  Over the course of the hours, their conversation flowed like a river. They began by discussing Blacklea. As Susanna had suggested of women, Marian turned out to be as much Blacklea's steward as her lord husband. She knew from whence its income came, which of its folk did what was required of them and more, and which found ways to avoid labor.

  Then she began to speak passionately about sheep and wool, about how her father's business continued to grow with no end in sight. When Faucon asked why her husband or Lord Rannulf hadn't already put more sheep on pasture, she admitted that neither of them had much interest, being content with matters as they were.

  As Faucon stewed over that information, Mimi asked her mother about the nuns, and their conversation shifted. Where Marian fondly recalled the years she spent at her convent, Faucon told tales about his time with the monks, until Marian chided him for scaring her daughter. He then diverted them both with memories of his squiring, tales of their king, and his travels to the Holy Land.

  They reached Nuneaton late in the day. By then, Mimi was seated in front of her mother, dozing.

&n
bsp; Upon entering the town, they left behind the tofts and crofts of farmers, and now rode along a lane crowded on each side with homes, each standing cheek-by-jowl to its neighbors, right up against the edge of the lane. The smells and sounds of a town at rest filled the air. Beneath the ever-present smell of wood smoke he caught the scent of cabbage, onions and apples being boiled from one place. A sheep bleated from someone else's back garden. Raucous laughter, the amusement of a least a dozen folk, rolled out of another home, then one man began to sing, his voice deep and a little off key.

  Although these townhouses had been constructed in the same manner of the more rural cottages, with flimsy walls and thatched roofs, they rose to two- and three-storeys tall. Each one seemed to have a placard hanging above its door, proclaiming some sort of trade, as well as a lower storey dedicated as a shop.

  "Which came first, the holy house or the town?" Faucon asked.

  "A village," Marian replied with a smile. "My father told me that, until the nuns came some thirty years past and our old king gave them the right to hold their market, this was only a village, not much larger than Blacklea. Look what's happened in so short a time!" She pointed out a goldsmith's establishment, then shot that smile of hers at Faucon. "As coins change hands, miracles happen, or so my father always says."

  She laughed. "It can only be true. Coins changed hands, and I married a knight."

  "Miracles, indeed," he replied in agreement. Coins had changed hands, and he became a Keeper of the Pleas, the crowner for this shire, and a man of sudden substance.

  Marian led the way onto another lane. At its end stood a tall red stone wall. He could see the roof and tower of the church rising above the wall. Unlike St. Radegund's leafy fence line, this wall had a proper arched gateway built into it, complete with a pair of iron-bound wooden doors, one door thrown wide. A nun—the portress—stood in the opening speaking with a monk, a fellow Benedictine who wore a broad-brimmed hat and had a leather pack upon his back.

  "Brother Colin?" Faucon called, as he and Marian drew their tired mounts to a halt before the gateway.

  The elderly monk turned in surprise, then grinned in pleasure. "Sir Crowner! Do the living or the dead bring you to Nuneaton?" he asked as the portress hurried off to fetch the help she needed to accommodate her new visitors.

  "The almost-living, Brother." Faucon pointed to the child stirring in Marian's saddle. Yawning, Mimi slid to the ground and leaned sleepily against the palfrey's side. "Lady Marianne of Blacklea comes to be educated by the nuns, just as was her mother, Lady Marian, wife of the steward of Blacklea."

  Dismounting, Faucon went to help Marian from her saddle. With his hands at her waist, he steadied her as she worked to free her feet from the bulky gown and stirrups. When she was ready, he lifted her down. She was lighter than he expected. As she found her feet, she discovered the joys of a long day in the saddle. Groaning a little, another man's wife leaned against him for an instant.

  He smiled at her, his hands still at her waist. "Pins and needles?"

  "Oh Lord, save me," she complained with a laugh, then stepped back from him. There was nothing but gratitude in her gaze.

  Faucon let her go, then indicated Colin. "Lady Marian, wife to Sir John of Blacklea, this is Brother Colin of Stanrudde, the monk I told you about last night, the one who can tell how a man has died by looking in his mouth."

  Marian offered the elderly monk an unsteady bend of her knees. "Quite the feat that seems, the way Sir Faucon tells the tale," she said. "What brings you to Nuneaton, Brother?"

  "Herbs, my lady," Colin replied. "I am away from my house in Stanrudde all the growing season, harvesting what is needed for treating ills. There is much to be found in this area, and the infirmaress here enjoys tramping through brambles and bracken with me. Only it seems she's away from the house at the moment, and not expected back until the day after the morrow."

  Just then the portress returned with stable hands and a maidservant. The lads took all three horses, after being assured Legate was safe without his rider. The portress called for Mimi and Marian to follow her. Mimi waved her farewell and Marian called back a promise that she'd be ready for an early departure in the morning.

  "This way to the guest house, sir." The waiting maid servant pointed to a fine, two-storey structure that clung to the outside of the convent wall only a few dozen yards distant. It had a second-storey entry door, reached by an external staircase. "I'm to help you disarm, then I'll see you get a warm meal."

  As she started toward the guest house, Faucon looked at the older monk. "If you are at loose ends this night and have no prayers to say, I would enjoy your company."

  "I do have prayers to say, but I would be pleased to join you for a time, until I retreat for the night to the chaplains' house," Colin replied with a smile and a nod.

  It wasn't until they were climbing the stairs to the guest house door, the monk trailing Faucon, that Colin asked, "So, have you come any closer to resolving who murdered the miller?"

  "I have indeed, and it's a strange tale for certain. I even know why Halbert Miller was killed."

  "Why?" Colin asked.

  "Because the Priory of St. Radegund is short of money, while in the middle of building," Faucon said as he stopped on the porch at the top of the steps and looked down at the monk.

  "I beg your pardon?" Colin gasped, his eyes wide in shock. He stopped where he stood, midway up the stairs.

  "Come up. It is a complicated tale, and I'll need to be out of my armor and filling my belly if I'm to tell it properly."

  The chamber set aside for the convent's male visitors to use was a rich one, complete with a curtained bed. As it should be. The place had been founded by an earl who had come often to visit his sister.

  Not only did the room have a line of narrow windows in its outer wall, but its hearth had an odd arrangement, with bricks built into the wall above the stone that formed a channel of sorts to lead the smoke up through the roof where it vented to the out-of-doors. When Faucon asked about it, the maid said as long as the shutters were open on the windows for air flow, the smoke wouldn't leave the channel.

  She was right. Faucon and Colin brought their small backless chairs up to the hearthstone and savored the heat without the sting of smoke in their eyes.

  The meal the nuns offered was richer than he expected, with a thick and tasty fish stew, bread and a wedge of fine cheese, and fresh cider to drink. Dressed in nothing but his braies and seated on one of the two backless stools in the room, Faucon savored the warmth and the company as he warmed his bare toes on the edge of the hearthstone.

  "Prior Lambertus has always been a man eaten alive by his ambition," Colin admitted with a shake of his head after Faucon finished explaining the priory's connection to Halbert's death. "I see God's hand in sending Alf to Priors Holston, and am glad to hear he will become the village miller. I think each day that Prior Lambertus has to look upon him is one less day he will spend in purgatory, cleansing himself of sins."

  Colin leaned forward on his chair to set his cup of cider on the edge of the hearthstone. "So tell me how you can be so certain it is the sheriff who murdered Halbert with Stephen's aid."

  "Would that I were completely certain," Faucon replied, then sighed. "If I were, I would leap wholeheartedly into the accusation, more than ready to face Sir Alain in judicial combat."

  The monk's brows rose high on his forehead, his dark eyes alive with surprise. "Do you truly think he would challenge you?"

  "Of course he would," Faucon replied with a quiet laugh, "doing so not because I believe he killed Halbert, for he knows I will never prove that. I cannot. Nay, he'd do so because I am now the 'sheriff's bane.' That is how Lord Graistan named this new position of mine. To be the Keeper of the Pleas is to be the man who is tasked to see to it the sheriff gets nothing more from his position save his due, which is a pittance. I'm an even worse threat to Sir Alain, because I'm unknown to him. From this moment forward, he must watch his every move. How mu
ch easier his life would be if he were to challenge me to judicial combat over the miller's murder and either end my life or leave me so injured that I could no longer serve the royal court. If that happened, he'd see to it some neighbor or friend was elected in my place and his life would continue as it had."

  "You don't think you'll ever prove our sheriff murdered the miller?" Colin asked, elbows braced on his thighs, his cup cradled in his hands.

  Faucon sighed at that. "Not if I cannot find the woman who was his leman and convince her to speak against her love. Neither one is possible, not now that Sir Alain is aware of what I believe I know. I have no doubt she is once more in his protection. Sir Alain will keep her safely hidden. Nay, I will never again see Agnes of Stanrudde."

  Colin shifted his gaze from the crackling, leaping flames on the stone to look at his host. He frowned a little. "A small woman, and plain?"

  "Aye, didn't you see her at the mill?" Faucon replied. "She was dressed in red and her eye was blackened."

  Colin only shook his head. "I saw no woman at all, only you and the other men of the inquest. Would you know if this Agnes is a woodcarver's daughter?"

  "You know her?" Faucon blurted out, straightening in his seat. "Aye, Agnes of Stanrudde."

  "Of course I know Aggie," Colin replied, as if surprised by Faucon's surprise. "Did I not tell you I'd been the apothecary in Stanrudde for almost all my life? I was at her father's side when he died. Her sister never forgave Aggie when she took up with Sir Alain, even though his coins were what kept food on their table before their mother remarried. She said that Aggie brought nothing but shame down upon their family. I think that's why Margery left Stanrudde for Banbury, marrying as far as she could from those who knew her sister had become a rich man's poppet."

  That made Faucon laugh. "Information come too late to do me any good," he said. "That leaves me only one final mystery to solve."

  "Glad to be of service, however belated, Sir Crowner," Colin said with a scornful breath. "So what is this final mystery? Mayhap I have a solution for it hiding somewhere in the recesses of this old head of mine."