Table of Contents
Praise for the Servant of the Crown Mysteries
Apologies
Dedication
Horarium
St. Elizabeth's Day
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Martinmas
A Note from Denise
Other Books
Copyright
From Award-winning, best-selling author Denise Domning
PRAISE FOR THE SERVANT OF THE CROWN MYSTERY SERIES
"...Domning brings the English countryside alive with all the rich detail of a Bosch painting. With well realized characters and a depth of historical detail, she creates a vibrant mystery and a layered, engaging protagonist. CSI 12th century style. I can't wait to see more."
— Christina Skye, New York Times best-selling author of A Highlander for Christmas
"...Pure and unapologetically Medieval...the world of Medieval justice is revealed in all of its shortcomings. Five solid stars."
— Kathryn LeVeque, best-selling author of The Wolfe
Dedication
To my lost innocents, Adam and Justin
My Apologies
My apologies to the people of Warwickshire. I have absconded with your county, added cities that don't exist and parsed your history to make it suit my needs. Outside of that, I've tried to recreate England in the 12th Century as accurately as possible.
Horarium (THE HOURS)
Matins, 12:00 Midnight
Lauds, 3:00 AM
Prime, 6:00 AM
Terce, 9:00 AM
Sext, 12:00 Noon
None, 3:00 PM
Vespers, 6:00 PM
Compline, 9:00 PM
The shivaree at last! Yawning, I shift in the darkened corner behind the altar where I took refuge from the rude gaiety common to this sort of event. All around this tiny church the wedding guests don cloaks or blankets as they prepare to follow the bridal couple to their bower.
Of the three dozen or so folk in attendance, everyone is drunk with celebration, if not with ale. Those who own musical instruments begin to ply them with no attempt at skill. Drums bang, pipes squeal, and bows saw across gut strings. Those lacking such noisemakers either sing at the top of their lungs or take up whatever is at hand. A metal spoon clashes against an emptied pot. One reveler rattles his fingers rhythmically against a food-stained wooden platter.
The church door is flung wide as they make their exit, letting rain spatter in on a gust of cold air. Dying torches flare as they draw their first full breath in hours, leaping back into fiery life. For one brief instant the plastered walls of the sanctuary seem to writhe, alive with dancing shadows. Then out the door everyone goes, moving in an undulating line that waves like a hound's tail, taking their cacophony with them.
More's the pity for any soul in this vale who expects to sleep any longer tonight. The wedding guests will surround the couple's bower and maintain their noise for as long as they can bear the weather. They seek to distract the groom from performing his duty, which is to turn the holy words of the marriage vows into a physical union.
I sigh in dismay. What the guests seek to prevent in jest I would prevent in earnest. This night, yet another of Eve's daughters will render up her purity to a base and lustful man, giving up the only gift that our Lord saw fit to bestow upon womankind.
Oh aye, I've heard all the foul nonsense that our priests spew. How dare they counsel that all women must submit to the men who rule them, that after marriage, male penetration into their bodies is a holy duty! Worse still is the empty promise that if a woman manages to bear her husband twelve children she's guaranteed immediate entrance into heaven upon her death.
Even though I realize how ignorant most folk are about churchly matters—not just these backward rustics but even those with purer blood who should know better—I still cannot understand how anyone might be misled by such obvious lies. All any woman need do is open her eyes to see the truth. The men in holy orders despise them and their sex. As all monks and priests must do. Aren't they taught that a woman was responsible for Man's banishment from the Garden? But they are wrong, both about the banishment and about redemption.
There is only one thing that guarantees a woman, or a man for that matter, a place in our Lord's Heavenly house. Their purity. This is the truth that our Lord has spoken to me in His own voice.
If only I could teach them what He has taught me. If only there were a few willing to heed me. I would tell them that our Father's heart breaks with every thrust a man makes into a woman's body. It doesn't matter that she might be that man's wife or that she is faithful to her Lord. Our Father weeps because He knows, as do I, that each time she submits to that lewd act, she is driven farther from Him and closer to the Devil's domain.
But tonight, as one ignorant woman loses all hope of Heaven, another will soon be serving at her Lord's table.
Rising, I gasp as my legs prick back to life. After I don my cloak and swing my pack onto my back, I creep across the sanctuary to where the half-grown girl sits on a bench. She was given the chore of watching over the youngest of the guests. Her back is to me. She is dressed in gowns dyed bright blue and red, and her fair hair streams across her shoulders from what surely started the day as sober plaits.
Trepidation gnaws at me. To steal a child is a far different thing than I've ever before done. Unlike the mothers of the other girls I sent to our Lord, all of whom freely gave up their daughters when I told them that their Heavenly Father had chosen a different path for their lasses, this mother lacks faith. For that reason alone must I take her child. How can I do any less? With so corrupt a dam, the lass is doomed, her very soul at stake.
Then I chastise myself for my own lack of faith. Did not our Lord guide me here this night? Did He not tear open the day's heavy skies the moment I arrived in this rude settlement, sending rain in torrents, driving me to the door of this very church? And did I not approach yon door chanting prayers to St. Elizabeth in honor of her day, asking her aid in my mission?
Imagine my surprise and joy when my prayers were answered just as miraculously as He answered those of our Virgin's cousin. Both of us were given the child we longed for after we believed such a gift beyond all earthly hope.
Easing around the end of the bench, I wait for the watcher to turn her head and acknowledge me. She doesn't move. I bend a little to peer into her face, then grin.
His voice echoes in me, chiding me for my doubt. Thy will, not mine, I respond to my Holy Master. Although the tender sits upright, she is sound asleep, as lost in her dreams as those she should be tending.
Still smiling, I eye the colorful gaggle of children on the floor before me. What a pretty image they make in the oily yellow light of the torches. They lie like pups, curled and piled one upon the other. From infants to those owning a half-dozen years, their limbs are relaxed and mouths open, save one little lad who sucks his thumb.
My gaze comes to rest on the one revealed to me as His, the one I was beckoned here to fetch. But of course she sleeps on the far edge of the group, closest to the door, her back to the others. Even in the uncertain and shifting light her golden-red hair gleams with t
hat otherworldly glow I've come to recognize as His touch. As I watch, the illumination grows until it circles her whole body. Oh aye, she is beloved by Him, chosen for His special purpose.
The girl is the best dressed among the babes, her tunic made of a fine green wool, as it would be. Until recently her mother was one of the leading wives in their home village. Despite myself, compassion stirs in my heart for her daring dam. Here is one woman who will grieve mightily in her daughter's absence when she should be rejoicing that her Lord cherishes her child above so many others.
I circle around the sleeping watcher, then skirt the group to kneel beside His chosen lass. Again I hesitate, as sinful doubts once more consume me. This moment is the true test of my mission. If I am wrong, if my faith had been misplaced all these years and what I do—have done—is the most heinous of sins, then the child will surely awaken and call out in alarm.
Bracing my heart, I begin to chant the words of my prayer, doing so inwardly, praying not for myself, but for this child and all the future lasses who might be denied their heavenly home should I fail.
I ease my hand beneath the slumbering girl. She stirs, her foot moving until it touches the babe sleeping next to her. He groans sweetly in his sleep. I send a muttered blessing his way and wait until he settles.
Then closing my eyes, barely daring to fill my lungs, I gently shift my arms beneath her. She murmurs. I wait until her breathing is even once again, then lift her until she rests against my breast. With a sigh, she drapes herself bonelessly over my shoulder.
Her weight is greater than I expect. I stagger back a step as I balance her in my arms. A moment passes, then another and still she doesn't awaken. My heart takes flight. Blessed am I to be His most faithful and true servant.
Rearranging my cloak to shield the sleeping girl from the rain and sharp night air, I tread as lightly as I can to the church door. With a push of my foot, the heavy panel opens just enough to let me ease into the gap. I slip outside and carry another of His maids into the darkness. As the panel shuts behind us, it takes all my will not to sing out prayers of thanksgiving as we go.
"Gawne lad, this is taking too long. Let us bring you out," the smith shouted into the well, his tone pleading.
Although the man's wild mane of fair hair and thick graying beard concealed much of his face, worry filled what could be seen of his strong features. His fists were clenched around the ropes that connected his youngest son to the world outside the watery shaft, his forge-scarred knuckles white.
He stood bare-chested under this day's weak sun, his leather apron having been converted into the sling that supported his son in the well. Still wearing their own leather gear, the smith's elder sons, dark-haired and already taller than their sire, were aligned behind him. These two, their appearance neater than that of their father, held fast to the same hempen lines as he, in case something should go awry. All three men wore their workaday attire, well-singed leather chausses to cover their legs and charred wooden sabots on their feet. Healed burns marked their burly forearms and their bare chests where their leather aprons hadn't protected them; these men chose to preserve their shirts rather than their skin.
Gathered in this clearing hewn from Feckenham Forest and separated from the deer by the pale—here, that separation being both tall wooden fencing and thick stands of holly trimmed into a wall—were the villeins of Wike. All had put aside the usual tasks they owed their lady in her fields and orchards to watch one of their own as she exited her watery grave. At their smith's call, the older folk among the watching serfs all ceased their impatient muttering to attend the doings around their well. Not so the youngsters. Wearing rough homespun dyed in shades of acorn brown, mossy green, or chestnut yellow, the children made good use of these carefree moments, chasing a few dogs around a sunbathing sow and her soon-to-be slaughtered piglets. Their play set a small flock of chickens to squawking and flapping as they escaped the activity.
Only one soul among the fifty or so families of Wike hadn't joined the watchers. Yet standing outside the kitchen shed, a structure larger than the miserable manor house beside it, was the dead girl's mistress. Wide of waist and wearing gowns the cheerful shade of beetroot, the old woman stood with her head bowed and her hands folded as if in prayer. Her white braids were uncovered, proudly naming her never married. That was an uncommon thing for any female in a place such as this, but especially for one of her age.
"Leave be, Da!" the lad in the well cried up to his sire. His words echoed hollowly into the air above the shaft. Coughing, he splashed in water that could take him as easily as it had the unfortunate lass. "I won't come up until I can bring Jes with me."
"Brave lad," murmured Sir Faucon de Ramis, the shire's new Coronarius, the man responsible for discerning the murdered from those who departed this Earthly vale due to accident or in happy answer to the Lord God's call. One thing was certain. When it came to water, that boy had more courage than his Crowner, as the commoners were coming to pronounce Faucon's title. He'd rather die an embarrassing death on the edge of the sheriff's sword than face drowning in a well.
Gawne had volunteered to do the dangerous deed of retrieving the drowned girl's body after the well proved too deep for any ladder from either the manor's barns or the nearby homes. When the smith sought to dissuade his son, the boy argued that the dead girl had been a friend and he could do no less for her. Then, with a boldness beyond his age, he pointed to the manor's overgrown fish pond and reminded all the adults within hearing that he swam better than anyone in Wike. When that still didn't convince his father, Gawne had added that he was both small enough to maneuver within the narrow shaft, and strong enough to do what must be done.
At that, all the smith's neighbors shouted for his father to agree. They wanted the use of the well, and that meant the corpse had to come out. So down the lad had gone, his father's leather apron and a web of ropes his only guarantee of returning to the bosom of his earthly family.
There was another spate of splashing in the shaft. "There's only one more knot to tighten. She's almost ready," Gawne called, wheezing again, his words punctuated with the echo of his chattering teeth.
"Almost ready," Faucon's clerk repeated sarcastically in his native French. "I doubt that."
Brother Edmund stood beside his employer, his hands braced on the waist-high stone wall that encircled the well. The clerk's black Benedictine habit wore spots of the same ruddy Warwickshire mud that spattered Faucon's surcoat and chain mail. Last night's storm had turned this morning's journey to the nearby village of Studley into a filthy plod.
It had taken longer to reach this corner of their shire than it had to resolve the death of one of Studley's wealthiest farmers. As it turned out the man had returned unexpectedly from a horse fair to discover his wife in bed with her lover and had been killed in the fight that ensued. Within an hour of Faucon's arrival, he'd called the jury so they could render the verdict of death felonious, then called for the arrest of the woman's lover.
After sharing a tasty but meager midday meal with the canons of the local priory, Faucon and Edmund then spent a pleasant hour appraising the lover's home and chattel, that being the true purpose behind the creation of his position at the Michaelmas court just past. It was now Faucon's duty to set the fee England's king received for the man's wrongdoing, based on the value of the accused's estate. What would profit King Richard left both the killer's family and Sir Alain, Warwickshire's sheriff, poorer. The arrested man's kin had offered Faucon treasure in trade for a lower appraisal only to have their new Crowner spurn what their sheriff would have accepted.
Edmund's well-made face twisted in impatience under his circle of carefully trimmed dark hair as he launched into his complaint. "More than an hour we've been here, waiting as they tried this crook or that ladder, now a boy on a rope. They shouldn't have called for us to come until after they'd gotten her out. It's not ours to retrieve the body, but theirs."
"Retrieval is their duty," Faucon agreed with
a casual shrug, "but I thought the law required that they leave the body where it is until we arrive?"
The monk ignored the question—they both knew that answer well enough—and gave a disgusted shake of his head as he continued to prosecute his complaint. "This is but another child's accidental death, and only a girl child at that. Why are we wasting our time? There can be no profit for our king here, only our Church. Command me to note the servant's orphan status and that she drowned, then you can declare the well deodand. Once you've done that, we can be on our way home."
Faucon grimaced. Far too many youthful deaths had already been inscribed on his clerk's ever-lengthening parchment roll. Until Faucon stepped into his newly-created position three sennights ago, he'd taken little note of how often and easily children died. Why, in this past week alone they'd added yet two more babes to their list, three if he included this unexamined girl.
The first had been an infant who crawled into the household fire pit while his admittedly young and careless mother had stepped outside their home to visit with friends. It proved a terrible tragedy but not murder, despite the claims of the child's great-grandfather who, it turned out, despised not only his granddaughter-by-marriage but her whole family. The second was a boy who died by falling from a tree. The grieving mother had raised the hue and cry, charging murder on the part of her child's playmates. But all those who witnessed the event attested that her son had been trying to follow the older children onto the next higher branch when he'd lost his grip.
Edmund was right about this death, though. If the well became deodand, their king saw no profit. Instead, whatever priest or prior was connected to this place would collect a fee from the residents to bless the manor's water source, removing the stain of murder from it.
What was likely here in Wike hadn't proved true for the other two childish deaths this week. Just as there was a price to pay for doing rape, burglary, or killing another, fines could be levied for bringing false charges or wrongly raising the hue and cry.
Lost Innocents (A Servant of the Crown Mystery Book 3) Page 1