Lost Innocents (A Servant of the Crown Mystery Book 3)

by Denise Domning

  Here, the rustic braced the heel of his damaged leg upon the ground. Shifting his foot from side to side, he displayed one of his simple but sturdy leather shoes. "Look what a townsman gave to me last month! I didn't believe merchants knew the meaning of generosity, especially when it comes to our sort. Always thought they were like Odger, too wedded to coins and too full of themselves to care about the needs of others. I assumed they considered those of us bound to the fields and furrows as no better than the oxen that pull our plows," he added harshly.

  "But the one who brought these to me spoke humbly and bowed as if I were his better. Me! He said he'd noticed me a fortnight earlier and saw I hadn't a stitch to cover my toes when winter was coming. Then he pressed these on me. He simply gave them to me, asking for nothing in return!" As Hew finished, he returned his comfortably- and warmly-shod foot to the hard earthen path, still shaking his head in remembered amazement.

  Faucon gave a friendly shrug. "Kindness begets kindness, or so the priests ever tell us."

  "Yours, perhaps," the old man shot back, then turned once again in the direction of the greensward. Now that they were walking away from the cottages, the verge was less rugged and the path not as deep. Faucon stepped outside of it so he could walk alongside the old man as Hew continued.

  "Our priest only ever speaks about how those of us who labor must bow to both God's will and that of our lady." Hew glanced up at the knight walking alongside him. "That is, when our holy man chooses to leave the comfort of Coctune to appear here. Most often, we must trek the Lane to him if we wish to have him hear our confessions and our prayers."

  Somehow it didn't surprise Faucon that the priest who served folk such as these, men chained by long tradition to their lords' lands, might choose to lecture about submission and obedience. It was a hard-fought and different sort of war that barons and earls waged these days, what with so many lucrative opportunities available in the burgeoning towns across this land, tempting their villeins to find a better life. The grander the town and merchant, the greater their need for men to produce what they sold. That made these merchants far more likely to bite their thumbs at the law, stealing what they wanted from their betters. Perhaps that explained why Odger used an iron hand to rule the folk of Wike, however misguided the practice. The bailiff was doing all he knew to keep those beneath him from fleeing to greener pastures.

  "You know the best part about these shoes?" Hew's eyes flashed with amusement as he glanced up at Faucon. "When Odger accosted me about them, demanding to know how I came by them, I told him that one of the monks who tends the hogs in the woodlands had given them to me. You should have seen him choke at that. None of the monks will speak with Odger. He was irate when our lady's brother-by-marriage gave the monks the rights to run their hogs so near our fields. He wanted them moved and he thought he might accomplish that by lies. So he complained time and again to the abbot and the bailiff in Coctune about the brothers not minding their hogs, lying about how those poor piggies were destroying our fields. Now look at me! I've lied to him, knowing that between Odger's falsehoods and his arrogance, the brothers wouldn't say him yea or nay, even if he did ask them about my footwear!"

  Hew brayed at his own jest. When his amusement died, the rustic picked up a trail his Crowner had given up any hope of following, much to Faucon's surprise.

  "Sir, a moment ago you asked about why Gawne wanted to bring Jessimond back to Wike. It's that he couldn't bear the thought of leaving his friend in the woods for the wild creatures to make a meal of. But neither could he bring himself to call the others to that place, not even to bear her home from where she died. That's why I believe he never told his kin where their spot is. To Gawne, it would be revealing a secret he didn't think was his to spill."

  The old man released another breathy bray. "All I can say is God be praised that boy chose to beg my assistance in bringing her home the morning after he found her. Between his size and my age, if he'd waited until last night, I vow we'd not have reached Wike until midday on the morrow. Neither of us thought to steal a wheelbarrow to use."

  "Why put her in the well?" Faucon asked.

  "Because Gawne wanted Amelyn to believe her daughter's death an accident," the old man answered swiftly if sadly. "The lad feared she'd grieve all the more if she knew the truth. And now it seems he was right," Hew added, then shook his head. "But weren't all his efforts, and mine in aiding him, for naught? First, neither of us considered that if we put the lass in the well, someone would have to bring her out again. As you saw, sir, that was no easy task. Gawne had made it mine to convince Amelyn to stay away from Wike once she learned of Jessimond's death. I failed miserably, and only barely returned to Wike ahead of her, hoping to warn Gawne that she was coming. Yet again I failed, and Amelyn came racing in when she shouldn't have.

  "But not all of this failure is mine to claim," the oldster offered with a twisted grin. "Instead, you'll have to own some of it, sir. The instant you revealed Jessimond hadn't drowned, you destroyed all the good Gawne intended and inadvertently turned him into the murderer."

  Faucon laughed at that. "So I did, setting you both, with your intentions, onto that road to Hell of which our priests warn," he offered.

  "That's God's own truth," the old man agreed.

  They had reached the near edge of the greensward. The long and narrow strip of grass yet retained most of its summer color. Staked at its center, Faucon's white courser Legate offered a sharp snort of greeting to his master, then the gelding shifted in annoyance. Just beyond the horse, Edmund's donkey was doing his best to escape the monk as Edmund sought to mount. Although Legate was well-trained and patient for his breed, he wanted his master to know that so much agitated motion was making him edgy.

  Faucon turned his back on his courser to address the rustic. "My clerk and I intend to seek shelter for the night at the abbey in Alcester. If we don't meet you while you beg at the gates as we depart from that place in the morning, I'm certain Brother Edmund will want to share Sext prayers and the midday meal with his brethren. I'll return with him and seek you out then. You will be there with Amelyn on the morrow, the morrow being her day at the abbey, aye?"

  Hew only shrugged. "It is her day for certain, but I wouldn't put your trust in her, sir. I think she won't want to leave her child. I'm not certain it's wise of me to come to the abbey without her."

  "I think she'll have no choice about leaving her daughter. From what I've seen, I believe your bailiff intends to drive her out of Wike once he returns this even, no matter what he must do to achieve that," Faucon replied with a lift of his brows. "I'm all the more convinced of this after hearing your tale. If Odger drives her away, where else will she go save to the abbey?"

  Still Hew shook his head in disagreement. "That's hard to say, sir. But rather than depend on one man's cruelty or a grieving mother's woes and whereabouts, instead ask for one of the brothers to lead you to their hogscotes, and make your way into the woods at your convenience. Know that when you arrive at those hog pens, you'll find me waiting for you. Indeed, I think me that's where I'll sleep this night, once I bear your message to Meg."

  Hew's eyes again took light as his lips lifted into a grin. "I think she'll pass your words onto our bailiff. There's nothing that old biddy likes better than to offer up commands to Odger. Now, good evening to you, sir. I'll see you upon the morrow." At that, the rustic shifted as if to depart, only to pause and turn his head until he looked at his Crowner from over his shoulder.

  "Pity poor Amelyn. I worry that she'll not survive being driven from Wike a second time, not with nothing left in this world to connect her to it or us," he offered on a sigh.

  Faucon sighed with him. Aye, there was much to pity on Amelyn's behalf. Then again, who was he to judge their Lord's plan for another? The only part he had to play in all this was to ignore any wrongdoing the leper might have committed in regards to what was written in the king's records.

  "The road to Hell," Faucon repeated more gently t
his time. "On the morrow, Hew."

  Hew touched his forehead in a gesture of respect, then started along the edge of the greensward, moving back into the bounds of a place that no longer offered him home or hearth any more than it did the leper.

  Once Edmund managed to turn his little mount in the proper direction, Faucon guided Legate to the deer path that Odger had earlier named Wike Lane. Unlike the forested lands into which Gawne had fled at the far end of Wike, here the branches and brambles that lined the narrow track swiftly gave way to fallow wastes. As far as Faucon's eye could see there was naught but coppiced stumps and stands of saplings. Occasional swards, islands of yet green grass, sparkled amid this sea of brushy growth, those strips just now beginning to yellow despite that winter would soon be upon them.

  While such an expanse might be tempting to ox, goat, or sheep, for the browse was rich and varied, it did little to please the eye. Nor was such a landscape unusual, especially in places that had been so long settled. Over the ages, each generation had harvested the trees they needed to feed their home fires, forges, and charcoal pits, until the oak or ash were gone. Indeed, it was a surprise to see so many full-grown trees yet standing in one place. But then, the only reason any forest remained was at a lord's command, that lord for Feckenham Forest being the king.

  It wasn't long before the scrubby landscape again gave way, this time to something more settled and productive. The closer they drew to the hamlet of Coctune, the more cultivated fields unfolded around them. Some of these patches already rested for the season beneath blankets of rotting manure or trampled grasses. Others were yet bearded in golden stubble, all that remained of this year's wheat and barley. It was among the remains of these fields that the hamlet's geese grazed, moving slowly toward the cottages that promised them safety for the night.

  Although the flock was a goodly distance from the riders, the fowl sensed strangers and raised their heads as one to look. Then they did as geese ever do when alarmed—they honked out an aggressive warning. Never mind that the travelers were on a distant track, the one that followed the hamlet's farthest-flung boundary.

  As Faucon and Edmund made their way around the settlement, Faucon marked the tiny church that served the priest Hew had mentioned. It stood beside a manor house that was in much better repair than the one in Wike. When Odger had led them past Coctune this afternoon, the hamlet had appeared empty. No longer. Having returned from their fields or barns, brightly-dressed folk came and went along paths that wound between cottages and hovels, waving and calling out to one another as they finished their last tasks of the day.

  Alerted to it by the geese, a band of reckless lads, all about Gawne's age, raced out to meet the riders. In their excitement at finding strangers on their lane, these brave boys dared to run alongside horse and donkey. As they did, they peppered a stranger—an armed knight in an unmarked surcoat no less—with their questions.

  "Who are you? From whence did you come? Why are you riding out of Wike? Where are you going? Sir knight, why do you travel with a monk?"

  Their boldness made Faucon laugh. He answered them in a voice as strong as their own. "I am Sir Faucon de Ramis. At our king's command, I am your shire's new Crowner and this monk is my clerk. Remember my name, for my clerk and I travel our shire in King Richard's name, seeking out those who have done murder and rape." He grinned as he offered this, liking the sound of it.

  Talk of murders, rapes, and kings startled some of the lads. While those boys fell back, huddling to discuss this further, the more daring of the bunch yet trotted alongside the strangers, keeping pace for the sheer joy of it. Their continued presence stirred Edmund from his silence.

  "Haven't you anything better to do than pester us? Now that you've marked Sir Faucon's name and noted that he is your new Keeper of the Pleas, be gone with you!" the monk shouted. The lads laughed at the toothless threat and continued to defy Edmund all the way to the headless cross, where Wike Lane met with the Ryknild Street.

  Faucon once again looked askance at the Street. Earlier today the prior in Studley had lauded it as a grand thoroughfare. Thoroughfare, indeed! Although the path did run straight and true, as did many a truly ancient road, Ryknild Street looked like nothing more than another well-used trail cutting into Warwickshire's ruddy earth. Hardly impressive to someone who'd traveled marvelous stone-paved highways while crusading with King Richard.

  "South, Sir Faucon," Edmund commanded unnecessarily from behind his employer.

  With a final wave to the lads, Faucon turned Legate onto the Street, then urged his courser to a fast walk. In only moments, the edge of Feckenham Forest receded until it was but a golden-brown wave, marking the gentle rise of the land to the west. The fertile fields did the same, once more giving way to that ragged scrub. Even though the coverage wasn't dense, there was more than enough dying foliage to hide horse and rider.

  That set the skin on Faucon's nape to prickling. His ears came into tune, seeking out every crack and snap. To the marrow of his bones he was certain that Sir Alain awaited him somewhere along this stretch. Bringing his heels to Legate's sides, he urged the courser into a trot, leaving Edmund to rouse his little mount as best he could. Fortunately, the donkey sensed the end of day. Like most beasts of burden, he didn't much care for the dark. The monk had only to apply his switch a time or two before the little creature was skittering along behind Legate, Edmund huffing as he jounced in his saddle.

  Far sooner than Faucon expected, the stench of Alcester reached out to envelop him, although he couldn't yet see anything of the town. So it was with any settlement larger than a few hundred souls. That was, if any of those souls wished to eat meat. Turning livestock into food required a shambles, and there was no escaping the stink that accompanied slaughtering. Since tanners often lived cheek-by-jowl with the butchers, the foul odor of turning skin into leather mingled with that of butchery. But twining 'round and 'round all that reek was the rich, sweet aroma of malting barley.

  Just as that enticing smell set Faucon's stomach to wishing, the church bells began to ring. There were three distinct voices, each marking a different religious house, all of them inviting their parishioners to celebrate the Vespers service. The one with a clear tenor tone rose from ahead of them, marking a church within Alcester proper, while a more distant baritone voice echoed from an establishment a good ways to the east.

  The closest invitation came from a deep bass bell that rang out across the resting field to Faucon's left. Startled that there might be a church located so close to Alcester but not within the security of the town and whatever walls it had, he glanced in that direction. There was nothing to see except a line of trees, the same water-loving willow, alder, and birch that grew along the bank of any waterway. In this instance, yon trees marked the course of the river that moved in a far more meandering fashion alongside the arrow-straight route of Ryknild Street.

  The peal of those bells only increased Faucon's concern. At Vespers in the winter and Compline in the summer, not only did these bells announce the time for prayers; they also warned all who heard them that the moment had come to close and bar their doors, be those doors a simple panel in a hovel or the gates in a town wall.

  Praying that Alcester's watch was in no hurry to bid the world goodnight, he rose in his stirrups, seeking to judge the distance between him and the security he craved. The roofs of the houses within the town's enclosing wooden wall rose just high enough for him to see the pall of smoke snaking and swirling over a sea of gentle thatch. No gate was readily visible, at least not from this angle. As for distance, the span between him and the town walls was no more than a quarter mile by his eye.

  Not that he and Edmund would reach those walls or any gate that could give them access to Alcester.

  Coming toward him at a walk on this Street were three mounted men. All of them wore leather hauberks while two sported metal helmets, the sort usually worn by foot soldiers. The lead rider was barrel-chested and broad-shouldered. He rode bare-heade
d, revealing sandy-colored hair and a full beard that gleamed reddish even in the dimming light.

  Sir Alain.

  In that instant, Faucon did as he'd been taught by the man who had forged him into a warrior. He sent a prayer for his continued life winging heavenward, then released his fate into his Lord's hands. As he breathed out worry, he drew in resolve. It would be three pitted against one, and that one had a monk to protect. Beneath him, Legate sensed the change in his master and reacted, snorting and lifting his head.

  "This way, sir," Edmund called from behind his employer just as that nearby deep-toned bell pealed its last.

  Faucon shot a startled glance back at his clerk. Edmund had left the Street to guide his little mount across the field beside them, heading directly toward that fading bass echo. Again Faucon peered at the screen of trees. This time he saw what he'd first missed. Barely visible through the tangled branches was a wooden wall.

  The abbey wasn't inside Alcester.

  He grinned in wicked pleasure and not a little relief. Not only was that holy house close at hand, but he'd reach the place well ahead of the sheriff. More importantly to his pride, he'd do it at a pace no faster than an easy walk.

  God save them, he and the sheriff were a pair. Neither of them could bear to give another the satisfaction of a reaction. Just as Faucon would rather die than send Legate galloping for safety, he was certain Sir Alain wouldn't wield his spurs to chase down his new Crowner, not even if it meant losing his prey to holy ground, where no man dared shed blood.

  In only moments, Faucon followed Edmund through the gap in the trees. It wasn't the river that fed them. Instead they lined the far side of the man-made moat that coursed in front of the monastery's weathered wooden walls. That meant the river ran behind the abbey and put this house on its own little island, explaining why it didn't need the safety of town walls.