He watched Gawne race toward the pale, aiming toward the hatch—the narrow low-hung gate that allowed men entrance into the king's forest, albeit bent in twain and one at a time. The lad threw open the gate. He was short enough that he didn't need to duck as he passed through it. Even from this distance, Faucon could hear Gawne's footfalls echo on the plank bridge that crossed the deep ditch lining the pale, meant to prevent the deer from leaping over the fence.
Odger reached the hatch, started through it, only to turn back with a shout of frustration. It seemed the lad had kicked the planking into the ditch after he was across. Still the bailiff persisted, now bearing right to a stretch that was fenced with a thick holly hedge. There was a gap where the holly had died. That the bailiff didn't return once he pushed through the sharp-edged foliage suggested that another plank bridge was located there.
Faucon sighed. Hopefully, the boy had enough of a head start to send Odger back empty-handed. The sooner the bailiff returned, the sooner his Crowner could be off to Alcester for the night. Faucon wanted to reach the safety of town and abbey before darkness fell.
Arms folded in the manner of monks, hands at his elbows and hidden inside his sleeves, Edmund came to stand beside his employer. "Why do you not aid in the chase this time, the way you did last week in Stanrudde?" his clerk asked, retreating into their mother tongue.
Faucon laughed. Beneath his undecorated and mud-spattered linen surcoat he wore not only his chain mail tunic and leggings but the usual padded gambeson and woolen chausses of a knight. All in all, these garments added nigh on three stone to his weight.
"What? Run that race in my armor? I'd be moving even more slowly than they." He waved in the direction of what passed for the hue and cry in Wike. Across the bailey, Gawne's brothers were managing a snail's pace. The strange youth had given up the chase altogether and was making his way back toward the well at that same odd gait.
"Moreover," Faucon continued, "I'd be far more likely to get lost in yon wild wood than to find the boy."
Then, having made his jest, he offered Edmund the more serious reply the monk deserved. "Last week, I needed to introduce myself to as many of the townsfolk as I could. The hue and cry made that an easy task. But why expend such effort here? All those in Wike have already seen my face and accept, or are at least resigned to, the fact that I serve king and court in this matter."
"Ah, I hadn't considered that," his clerk said, then rocked back on his heels. "It seems I was wrong to worry over how long it will take to note the particulars of this death. While they chase the boy, I'll scribble the details of what he's done onto our roll. When the bailiff returns with the lad, we can call the jury and be finished with this. I think me that we'll yet sleep within our own walls this night."
Faucon shot a smile at his clerk. "Is that so? What say you to a wager? I'll put coin on the possibility that the only walls we see tonight will be those surrounding Alcester, if there are any. Aye, and I also say that the morrow will find us back here at dawn, ready to spend our day sniffing out the trail that leads to the one who actually ended the girl's life."
His clerk shot him a startled look, then blinked rapidly. An instant later, Edmund's arms opened. His eyes widened.
"What do you know that I do not?" he demanded. "You showed me that she was throttled, not drowned in the well. Thus, it must have been the lad who killed her. He's the one who called the others to find her. Like the old woman said, who else could have put her in the well?"
"That is the wrong question, Brother. Her placement in the well is but a curiosity," Faucon replied with a quick lift of his dark brows. This time, when a huntsman's excitement overtook him, he gave way to it in pleased anticipation. He couldn't wait to uncover the spoor that would lead him to the girl's killer.
His response teased another frustrated sound from Edmund. "Why can I not see what you see?" he cried, only to dismiss his own question with the wave of his ink-stained hand. "Ack! What does it matter how you do it? At least one of us sees it. I'll fetch my basket, then enter what little I do know. Which, it seems, is only the dead girl's name, the manner of her death and that she was put into the well after she passed," he added irritably.
With that, the monk turned and stalked away from the well, following the arrow-straight pathway that led away from the manor toward the tiny settlement. Just beyond the farthest cottage was a rich greensward. It was in that small, grassy meadow that Faucon's big white courser and the monk's donkey grazed, waiting for their masters. The basket containing Edmund's writing implements yet hung from his donkey's saddle.
As the monk went, he called back over his shoulder, "It would be good to know when the lad announced the girl's presence in the well. Also, mayhap you can also encourage the leper or the girl's mistress to swear that the child is English? At least we'll get that much done before we must leave this place for the night."
Once again Edmund issued commands where he had no right, but against such a successful day, and the possibility of an even better day on the morrow, it didn't rankle just now. Faucon grinned and called back, "So I shall, although I doubt I can do the task as well as you."
If his clerk noted the friendly sarcasm in his employer's reply, he gave no sign of it.
Still shaking his head over Edmund's impossible behavior, Faucon brought his attention back to the four living people yet near the well. Once more weeping, Amelyn now sat upon the moist sod, her daughter's corpse cradled in her arms. As for the oldster, the rustic continued to watch his new Crowner with sharp interest.
The old woman, her gaze yet afire with the satisfaction of having accused Gawne of murder, stared boldly at her better. That was rude behavior for an unmarried woman, even one as old as Meg. What sort of gentlewoman, even as an absent landlord, employed a servant with so disrespectful a manner?
As for Ivo the Smith, he stared after his departing sons, looking as stunned as he'd seemed when Amelyn the Leper had approached the well. And stunned Ivo should be. In the space of a breath his youngest child had gone from rescuing hero to accused murderer.
Faucon touched the smith's bare arm to draw his attention. With a jerk, Ivo sidled away from his Crowner. Then, like a man startled out of a terrible dream, he gave a violent shake of his head.
"Gawne didn't do this," he shouted at his Crowner, his fists closing. "They were like brother and sister, those two. Just a pair of children seeking to wring a little innocent joy out of a life gone sad and sober too soon. Gawne would never, ever have hurt Jes."
"Master Smith, you protest when I have said nothing at all about your son," Faucon replied mildly. He picked up the leather apron Gawne had used in the watery depths and handed it to Ivo. "Take your gear and go home. There's nothing more you or I can do for the now save wait on your bailiff's return."
Which Faucon continued to pray would be without Gawne. He also hoped that Ivo or Gawne's brothers had some inkling where their young kinsman might choose to hide. More importantly, Faucon needed to find a way to win their trust. If the bailiff didn't bring back the boy, then one of them would have to lead him to Gawne on the morrow.
While the smith blinked in surprise at his Crowner's command, Meg freed an irritable huff. "Better that you hold tight to this sorry ass until Odger finds his lad, sir knight. Ivo cares nothing for your laws or your king, only for his own flesh and blood."
She turned her disrespectful gaze on the smith. "I warned you, didn't I? Spare the rod, spoil the child, said I. But you didn't heed me. The way you let Gawne wander as he would, making whatever mischief he chose!" She made an impatient sound. "I tell you, it wouldn't surprise me to learn you've never asked so much as an hour's work out of that child. See now how you spoiled your boy until he thought he could do this horrible thing with no fear of consequence? That little smell-smock! His sin rests upon your shoulders."
"There is no sin," Ivo protested again. "He didn't kill her. Gawne is innocent."
"Innocent, indeed!" Meg retorted. "There was nothing innocent a
bout those two when they were together."
She turned her shoulder to the smith to address her Crowner as if she were his equal. "Make note of my words, sir knight, and you'll understand why Gawne did murder. Those two were forever stealing off together, disappearing into yon woods, sometimes gone for the whole night." The wave of her hand indicated the direction in which Gawne had fled. "And her just this year coming into her courses! I told Ivo his boy was out to steal that brat's maidenhead. I warned him that if she came with child I'd see to it both his boy and Ivo paid the price. But our smith ignored me.
"I say it's because of Ivo's neglect that the worst happened. I say that the smell-smock got her with child and, not wanting his father to learn what he'd done, killed her. That boy didn't want to be forced into wedlock with a penniless pauper whose dam is a whoring leper. Who would?" she added, shooting a hateful glance at Amelyn.
Then Meg pointed at the dead girl. "As for that brat, it's no surprise to me that she spread her legs for the first man who touched her. Her mother bred lewdness into her bastard's blood and bones, and that sly little creature was never going to be other than a whore. Headstrong bitch! It didn't matter what punishment I dealt her, she kept stealing out against my will.
"And what was she doing while she was out of my sight?" Meg threw her question at Ivo, then answered it for him. "Bedding your son!"
"Gawne wouldn't have touched her that way! He didn't!" Ivo protested again at a shout. "I tell you, he loved Jessimond like a sister."
Meg ignored him, her attention coming back to Faucon. "You've heard me, sir knight, and you've heard our smith," she told him. "Now also know that I speak the truth when I say he'll do anything and everything to protect his son. If you don't hold Ivo, that little dastard will never face just punishment for the wrong he's done. Arrest the father, else you'll never get custody of the lad."
"That isn't what the law requires," Faucon replied flatly, looking away from her to hide a dislike that grew with every breath.
"Go home, Master Ivo," he once more commanded the smith. "I'll need to speak with you about this matter but our conversation must wait until the morrow. I'll seek you out when I'm ready."
Clutching his apron close, the smith gave his Crowner a startled but respectful nod. Then sending a final scathing glance at the vicious old woman, Ivo departed, moving like a man twice his age. As he went, he crossed paths with the strange youth now circling in the direction of the well.
"Go, with your tail between your legs, knowing the price you paid for ignoring me," Meg threw after him, as if needing the last word, only to hiss in annoyance as she saw the odd young man making his strange way toward them.
"What are you doing here, you dulcop?" she shouted at the youth. "I told you to stay in the kitchen. Go home!"
The youth didn't spare her a glance as he continued toward the well at his unusual gait, heels raised, hands flapping, tongue clicking.
"You imbecile!" Meg shrieked. "Dimwit you are, but I know you can hear me. Go back to the kitchen!" When he still didn't heed her words, she added, "Mary save me, but I should just slit your throat and be done with you."
That stopped the simpleton. His heels and chin lowered, his arms fell to his sides. Then, blinking as if only now coming into awareness of where he was, he scanned the few folk still gathered around the well.
Amelyn sighed, yet holding her daughter close. "I'm so sorry, Johnnie," she said sadly.
Hearing his name spoken, this Johnnie swiveled until his gaze fell upon the leper. A crease formed between his brows as he noticed Jessimond's body in her mother's lap. This time when his hands began to flap, the motion was clearly agitated. With a high-pitched squeal, he came straight toward Amelyn, moving as fast as he could given his odd bearing.
"By all the Holy Helpers, I told you to go home and you'll do as I say!" Meg screeched, flying at him, slapping and punching.
The youth squealed again at this attack. Amelyn echoed his cry and started to rise, only to have the weight of her daughter's body drive her back to sitting. She turned her hooded head toward Faucon. "Stop her! Don't let her hurt one so helpless," she begged.
Faucon had already started forward, intending to part the two. Instead, he paused. Imbecile or not, there was nothing helpless about this Johnnie's defense. The youth had lowered his head so his ears and skull were out of Meg's reach as he used his arms and shoulders to deflect the woman's blows. Then, at precisely the right instant, Johnnie gave a swift jerk. Meg tumbled off his back with a frustrated shriek. As she sprawled onto the turf behind him, the youth began again to lumber toward Amelyn.
"What's happening?" Edmund shouted out, having returned as far as the edge of the manor's demesne.
Not wanting his clerk's presence to alter what might next happen, Faucon held up a hand. It was a clear command that Edmund should stay where he was, and a wasted gesture. As always, his clerk ignored him and lifted his heels into a trot, his quiver-like basket of tools bouncing against his back from the strap slung over his shoulder.
At the well, Meg was back on her feet. She launched herself at the idiot with a raging cry and grabbed the neck of his tunic. Given her modest stature, the woman's hands were larger and stronger-looking than Faucon expected.
Twisting and writhing, the youth sought again to throw off the cook. This time, Meg held tight, beating at his head with her free hand. Unable to shuck her, Johnnie continued forward, carrying her with him until he fell to his knees next to Amelyn. Meg caught a hank of his knotted hair and pulled. Johnnie bleated. However much pain she caused him, it wasn't enough to stop him from wrapping his arms around Jessimond. Using his elbow like a lever, he tried to pry the dead girl from her mother's grasp.
"Nay, Johnnie! Leave be," Amelyn shouted.
As she fought for control of her daughter, her gloved hand brushed the sleeve of Meg's gown. The old woman yelped in panic, her fear of contagion greater than her need to punish the simpleton. Releasing Johnnie, she stumbled back and collided with the oldster. As the ragged ancient started to fall, he cried out and caught Meg at the waist in instinctive reaction. The old woman pivoted, her arms raised and fists closed. Instantly, the rustic released her and tumbled to the ground. There, he stayed head turned to the side and arms raised to protect himself from an attack. Meg ignored him, shifting to once again watch the idiot and the leper. As she did, she scrubbed her hand against her skirt.
"Johnnie, it's me," Amelyn cried as she battled the youth, now clutching Jessimond's body close to her. "I am Amelyn, and Jessimond is my daughter."
That stopped the simpleton. Without releasing the dead girl, Johnnie shifted until he could stare under the leper's hood. The crease between his brows returned.
"That's right," Amelyn said to him, her soothing tone owning a mother's lilt. "It's me, Amelyn."
That crease deepened. Releasing the corpse, the idiot sat back on his heels. Once again, he began to make that clicking sound. Then with a swift sweep of his arm, he knocked the hood off Amelyn's head. With a frantic cry, the leper grabbed for it and missed as it came to rest between her shoulder blades, exposing her face and neck.
Pity raced through Faucon. Jessimond had been her mother's image. Although Amelyn was in her middle years she remained a beautiful woman, despite the reddened, misshapen lumps that told the tale of her progressing disease.
"Lord save him, he touched the leper!" Edmund cried as he halted a little distance behind Amelyn and the well. He let his basket of tools slide off his arm. As it tumbled to the ground he folded his hands and bowed his head.
"You touched her?!" Meg shouted, echoing the monk's shocked protest.
Then the old woman laughed, the sound deep and satisfied. "God be praised, you touched her! My prayers are answered. I won't have you back now and there's no one who can force you on me, not for any reason. Starve, you dulcop, and know that I'll happily watch you die." With that, Meg whirled and started back toward her lady's kitchen at the same raging pace by which she'd left it.
>
Johnnie paid no heed to either clerk or cook. Instead, making a cooing sound, he lifted a hand as if intending to touch one of the angry patches on Amelyn's face. Yet seeking to retrieve her hood with one hand, the leper caught the idiot's arm with the other, trying to forestall his touch at the same time. She looked up at Faucon. Her eyes were a crystalline blue beneath the arch of her dark brows.
"Meg's wrong. I swear he didn't touch me," she vowed, then turned her gaze on the youth. "Nay, Johnnie, I will not allow this. If you touch me, you may grow ill as I have."
Johnnie relaxed and gently freed his arm from Amelyn's grasp. The youth looked at the dead girl in the leper's lap, then drew his hand down Jessimond's cold cheek. As he did, he raised his gaze to Amelyn, his brows lifted as if in question.
"She lives no more," she told him, her voice quavering anew. A mother's grief again filled her eyes. "Like your mama, my Jessie has also gone to Heaven to dwell with the angels."
This provoked a moan from Johnnie, suggesting he wasn't as witless as Meg named him. Once more, the youth stroked Jessimond's face, tears now rolling unheeded down his cheeks. Faucon eyed the odd man's hands. They were of a size with his own.
"Who is he to you?" he asked Amelyn.
Before replying, the leper restored her oversized hood to its rightful place, concealing the disease eating her alive. When she looked up at him, all that was exposed of her face was the end of her nose, her chin and jaw, and they were cast in light shadow.
"Another unwanted child of Wike," she murmured bitterly, then continued in a stronger voice. "He is my half-brother, the son of Meg's sister Martha, who married my father when they were both widows facing their later years."
Lost Innocents (A Servant of the Crown Mystery Book 3) Page 4