Once he lifted her to her feet, Faucon released her fingers and stepped back from her. "Because it is," he said.
Retrieving the empty bell box, but leaving the lock in the chair, he waited for the widow in the open doorway. Sir Robert of Offord's lady wife squared her shoulders and joined him.
"If I must," she said, "but promise me this. If they bar me outside the hall tonight, you'll come with and see to it that I don't freeze to death."
Faucon grinned at that. "I so vow."
Returning down the narrow spiraling stairs, Faucon removed the bar and opened the door, then stood aside so the widow could enter the hall ahead of him. As she exited from the tower, he looked past her into the big room. Three maidservants dressed in red gowns topped with undyed linen overgowns bustled as they cleared away the remains of the household's midday meal. Two manservants— one more boy than man, and both wearing red tunics over yellow chausses— strove to bring life back to the fire. One shoveled out the dead ash while the other plied a metal rake through the charred wood, seeking yet-glowing embers.
Lady Bagot and her daughters stood near the curtained bed in the corner. Despite the chill room, Sir Adam's womenfolk had shed their cloaks. Unlike Idonea and her fine garments, mother and daughters wore the same red gowns and plain overgowns as their maids. Faucon expected no less for the girls. Only a fool allowed children to ruin good fabric. That Lady Joia dressed so simply suggested she was like Marian, the sort of woman who expected to dirty her hands over the course of a day.
Sir Adam, Will, and Brother Edmund were all seated at the high table, the one reserved for Offord's ruling family. Although it wasn't raised on a dais as was customary, the table sat crossways in the hall while the other tables ran lengthwise. This not only allowed the servants to move easily along the inside of the tables, but Sir Robert and his kin could look upon their servants as the household dined.
A plain wooden chair with a tall back, no doubt the chair from which Sir Robert had ruled his folk, was set at the center of the table. Brother Edmund sat on the long bench to its right. The monk had created a workspace for himself. Sitting on the table in front of him was the small leather sack that contained his powdered ink and the tiny bowl in which he mixed it. His traveling basket, the lid askew, leaned against the end of the table. Faucon didn't need to see them to know that Edmund had arranged his writing implements— quills, blotting cloth, and knife— in front of him with his usual precision.
Sir Adam and Will had taken the bench to the left of Sir Robert's chair, both of them facing the tower door. The rusty-haired knight had his arms crossed. His jaw was tense. As for Will, Faucon's brother slouched against the table, his legs comfortably outstretched. A small smile curved his lips.
The instant Idonea exited, Sir Adam leapt to his feet, his arms opened and his fists clenched. "How dare you bar the hall door against me and my family!" the older knight roared at his wife's stepmother.
Brother Edmund wrenched around on his bench to see what happened. So, too, did all the servants and the ladies turn to watch. Idonea's frightened squeak sounded loud in the startled silence.
Faucon moved around Lady Offord to stand between her and the knight. Better that Sir Adam vented his bile on someone new and equally deserving. His host took the bait without hesitation.
"You're no better, Sir Faucon," he shouted, then pointed to the tower wall behind his new Crowner. "King's servant or not, you breached all courtesy when you shut yon door on me. This is now my home! You had no right!"
"My pardon, sir," Faucon began, ready to offer a false apology for he didn't at all regret what he had done.
"Hey," Sir Adam interrupted, his eyes wide with surprise. "By what right do you carry Robert's bell and box? Where's the lock? You'll give that to me this instant."
"By Lady Offord's agreement and your need," Faucon replied, striding for the table. As he neared Sir Adam the knight stretched out his arms to take the box, but Faucon continued past him.
"Sir?!" the big knight cried in protest as Faucon rounded the corner of the table and set the coffer next to Edmund's roll of sheepskin.
"Brother Edmund, please note that there has been a burglary at Offord. A bell belonging to Sir Robert was stolen," he told his clerk as he opened the box and turned it so Sir Adam could see the empty interior.
"What?!" Sir Adam yelped. He leaned across the table and grabbed up the coffer, staring deep into its interior as if he thought the bell might yet be hiding somewhere within it.
"What?!" his wife echoed from across the quiet hall, her word torn with pain.
Lady Bagot trotted toward the table, her little lasses following in her wake. As she reached her husband, she rose to her toes, trying to see into the interior of the coffer. Sir Adam lowered the box and the lady gave a quiet cry as she witnessed its emptiness, then pivoted to look at the child who was her stepmother.
"Is this why you barred me from my own home? Is that what you think of me?" Lady Joia accused, her voice quivering and tears filling her eyes. "You craved time to secrete the bell, fearing I would steal it from you."
"I did not," Idonea moaned, sounding as heartsick as her stepdaughter.
"Lady Offord took nothing, but even if she had taken the bell, there's no one who could accuse her of wrongdoing," Faucon said, speaking over the widow. "The bell is her dower, meant to be hers if Sir Robert died before she had given him heirs."
"Says who?" Sir Adam snarled. As he bent an irate look on Idonea, he folded his arms around the empty coffer as if he feared the widow might wrench it from him.
"The lady herself," Faucon shot back. "If you don't know the details of Sir Robert's marriage contract, I suggest you send for Lady Offord's father. Have him bring those who witnessed their vows and the exchange of property. For the moment, it's enough for me that Lady Offord believes herself to be the rightful owner of the missing bell."
He glanced between Sir Adam and his lady. "More importantly, given where the key to this coffer is kept, who save one of you could have taken it from its box?" he accused flatly.
Much to Faucon's surprise, Lady Joia didn't protest in outrage. Instead, she gasped and grabbed her husband's arm. "The prior!" she cried as she looked up into his face. "That's why he banished us from Papa's chamber last night."
Releasing her husband, she turned a narrow-eyed look on Faucon. "That Churchman has coveted our bell from the moment my sire told him its tale. He stole it last night, I know it!"
At her charge, Sir Adam turned his head heavenward and freed a wordless raging sound. His pale skin was freckled with anger. "That sanctimonious, thieving bitch's son! I will have it back from him this very night, see if I don't!" Thrusting the empty coffer at his wife, he turned on his heel and jogged toward the hall door.
Will, who had kept to his comfortable slouch as he watched what played out around him, now came to his feet. The corners of his mouth quivered in amusement. "What say you, little brother? Do we stay here or follow our host as he confronts a churchly thief?"
Faucon shook his head. "Do as you please. I'll stay. There's no sense chasing around the shire until I'm certain who took the bell."
"I told you. Prior Thierry has it," Lady Joia insisted, her voice harsh. Anger made her all the more beautiful and in her rage she forgot all propriety. Lifting her head to a proud angle, she met the gazes of the strange knights before her. "If you think me mistaken, tell me what other reason that Churchman had for locking me out of my sire's chamber while my father was on his deathbed?"
"Perhaps your father made a gift of it to him in his last moments?" Faucon suggested gently.
"With what tongue?" Lady Joia shot back, almost sneering. "My father had lost his ability to speak before the prior arrived at Offord. Moreover, my sire had already promised the bell elsewhere," she added, glancing at Idonea and making a lie out of her husband's protest to the contrary. "My father would never have given the bell to Prior Thierry, not even to win the sons that Churchman swore he'd have if he gave
up his bell.
"That man!" she continued, sputtering in her rage. "Time and again, he plied my sire with his false vows and empty promises, assuring my father he would have everything from glory here on Earth to a seat beside our Lord in trade for that bell. Yet my father steadfastly refused him. That's how I can be certain the Churchman took what he wanted last night."
As the lady paused to draw breath, Brother Edmund cleared his throat. Faucon shot him a look. The monk's dark eyes were filled with concern.
"Sir, perhaps you should go to the priory with Sir Adam. I think that man very much provoked at the moment. He may not be in the right mind to confront an unarmed Churchman," he finished in understated warning.
Lady Bagot's eyes widened at this. Outrage drained from her expression, only to be replaced by something akin to horror. "Mary protect my husband, but the monk is right! Sir Adam rages too swiftly and is far too slow to regain his peace. There's no telling what he might do at the priory in his present state, especially if Prior Thierry refuses to return the bell. You must go with him to Wootton Wawen," she now pleaded of her Crowner and his brother.
Faucon gave a quick shake of his head. With Sir Adam gone, he was free to speak as he would with Offord's folk, especially Lady Bagot. "You fret without cause, my lady. No matter how angry, every man alive knows better than to harm a Churchman. The cost is too high. Think on the father of our king. Didn't old Henry end up walking unshod through Canterbury while the archbishop's monks flogged him, even though it wasn't he who had killed their archbishop?"
"What you say is true of sensible men," Lady Joia cried. "My husband is anything but sensible, especially just now. Are you not the king's man? Do as your oath requires. Go with him and see that he respects the king's peace," she commanded.
Will took a quick step forward and offered the pretty woman a swain's bow. As he straightened, he brought his hand to the hilt of his sword. "My lady, I may not be a royal servant, but I will ride with your husband. I vow to you that neither he nor the Churchman will come to harm over this matter."
Not waiting for her response, Will turned his back on the lady then leaned close to Faucon. "I was wrong to think your new duties boring. A bold and beautiful woman begging aid is definitely something I could learn to enjoy." Even at a whisper there was no mistaking the lust in his voice.
Guilt shot through Faucon as Will started toward the hall door at a swift jog. It was wrong to be grateful that he would be rid of both men for a time. But it was also wrong to squander the gift he'd been given.
Brother Edmund again cleared his throat. Faucon glanced at the monk. His clerk was frowning at him in open disapproval. Faucon offered Edmund a cock of his brow and a shift of his shoulders before he turned his attention back to Lady Joia, who stared toward the hall door even though Will was no longer in sight.
"Lady Bagot, are you content to have Sir William serve in my stead?" he asked.
"Yes, one man is enough," she said on a slow breath, her voice free of its cutting edge for the first time. "Sir Adam is less likely to strike out when others watch."
As she came back to herself, she glanced around the hall. A tiny crease pleated the space between her brows. "What is this?" she called to the watching servants, her words the crack of a whip. "I may no longer be your lady, but know that you stand and stare at your own peril. There is still much to be done if we're all to have a comfortable night."
To a one, Offord's servants leapt back to their tasks. As they did, Lady Joia hugged the coffer closer to her and began to sway as if she soothed a babe. "Why didn't I realize last night what the prior was about when he shut us all out?" she mourned softly to herself.
Her daughters, who had kept a fearful distance from their agitated parents, now slipped around the corner of the table. The elder girl wrapped her arm around her mother's waist. "Papa will get it back for us," Lady Helena assured her mother.
"It's Idonea's fault," the little one cried as she stood beside her sister. Lady Martha shook her finger at her step-grandmother. Her fine red brows lowered over her green eyes. "You have been very bad, Idonea. You had no right to lock us out in the cold."
Faucon eyed the child in shock. Although there could be no question from whom Martha had learned her bold and disrespectful manner, being pretty and petted was a dangerous combination. Young as she was, this child was well nigh on the way to being as spoiled as rotten meat.
Rather than scold as the child deserved, Lady Joia gave a watery sigh and stretched out an arm, offering to embrace her youngest. "Enough, Martha. What's done is done. We're inside and all is well again. Now, no more dawdling. Neither you nor Helena have worked on your stitchery today. Nor have you, Idonea," Offord's true lady said, turning her gaze on the child who was her stepmother.
Idonea's shoulders hunched. "My pardon, Joia," she said in passable French. "Martha is right to scold me. I shouldn't have barred the door on you."
Joia only shook her head. "If you want my forgiveness, help my daughters with their stools and baskets. Bring them to where you now stand. Those torches are fresh and the light is better. Wait," she said, instantly calling back her words.
Releasing her youngest child, Lady Joia glanced across the faces of the three girls. Although nothing changed in her expression, something about her eased. "What say you all? Why not use what's left of this day to finish Martha's poppet?"
Her offer drew a happy gasp from both of Sir Adam's daughters and a trembling smile from the young widow. Hems flying, Martha dashed to the commoner she'd just chided. Grabbing the older girl's hand, she pulled her step-grandmother toward the curtained bed. "Hurry, Idonea. You must show me how to give our poppet her eyes," she urged as she went.
"As you will, my little lady," Lady Offord replied, sounding almost happy as she allowed herself to be pulled along.
Helena followed them at a more sedate pace, her head carefully lowered. It was the sort of behavior expected of a girl-child who would likely rule a hall such as this one day.
Lady Bagot watched in silence as the children found what they needed near the head of the curtained bed. A moment later they placed three stools in the circle of the torchlight, then Idonea returned to the bed for a basket that spilled over with threads, yarn, and bits of fabric.
Once certain the girls were intent on their task and no longer paying heed to their elders, Joia's green eyes narrowed. "I know what my husband has told you about my sire's death," she told Faucon, "but he is wrong. My father was not murdered. He died because it was his time and there's nothing more to it than that. You waste your effort here, sir."
"Apparently not," Faucon replied evenly, pointing to the bell box in her arms. "Your bell was stolen."
As if prodded to it by his words, she set the coffer on the table, then shifted to stand between it and him. She crossed her arms and again lifted her chin to that imperious angle. "Nothing is stolen. The prior will return the bell to Sir Adam and the matter will be settled. Leave now, before night falls. Leave us to get on with preparing for my sire's funeral," she rudely commanded.
Faucon's jaw loosened in abject surprise. The words he'd intended to speak, phrases meant to win the lady's trust and cooperation, melted from his tongue. Brother Edmund shot to his feet with such force the table went scratching through the rush-covered floor.
"You'll guard your tongue, woman," the monk scolded harshly. "Give me the name of your confessor so I may inform him of your misbehavior." His demand was the right of every Churchman when it came to the daughters of Eve.
Rather than bow to her head to a Churchman, Lady Joia glared at the monk. "Ask my husband if you want to know, for I'll not tell you," she snapped.
Outrage stained Edmund's lean cheeks. He pointed his finger at her, a certain sign that he intended to offer an even harsher scold. Faucon shifted, drawing his clerk's attention, then held up a hand in a wordless plea for restraint.
Gaze fixed on his employer, Edmund drew himself up until he stood lance-straight. His dark eyes nar
rowed in refusal. Faucon gave the smallest shrug, his brows lifted in pleading, then waited with little hope of success. He had no right to ask the monk to retreat, not in this instance.
Much to his surprise, Edmund took a deep breath and gave a single nod. Turning his back to the lady, he busied himself bringing bench, table, and his tools all back into their precise alignment. Beyond grateful, Faucon did his best to smile at his discourteous hostess.
"You may well be correct about your sire's passing, my lady, but it was your husband who called me here. As long as Sir Adam remains uneasy with what happened last night, I think I must also remain. As for the bell," he continued, "even if it returns to Offord this night, it and the identity of the thief must still be added to our record and the estate of the thief assessed.
"Is that not correct, Brother?" he asked of Edmund, who had his head bowed over his little bowl as he made ink. The monk's response was a muted huff.
"Another waste of time," Lady Joia shot back, her lush mouth held in a sour line. "By royal edict the priory is free from all English service and toll."
Faucon fought to keep the corners of his mouth lifted and his voice gentle. "That may be, but assessing and recording value remains my duty. It's not on me to discern if the king can collect those fines."
Reaching down, he brought the bench next to her knees away from the table. "Humor me, my lady. Sit for a moment and tell me what you believe happened to your sire last night. Tell me why you are certain your father's death was natural and why your husband is not. If you convince me, I'll be free to release Sir Robert's corpse so you may prepare him for burial."
Lady Joia's eyes filled at his words. Her lips began to tremble. She dropped to sit on the bench, her back to the table. Her face was stained with grief.
"Why can you not just go?" she cried, her voice softening with each word. "My father is up there in his chamber all alone, unwound and undressed. I cannot bear to leave him that way."
Tears began to trickle down her cheeks. She turned her gaze toward the tower wall. "Oh Papa, why did you wed again?"
The Final Toll Page 6