Although Edmund had drawn his mount to a halt before the foot of the drawbridge that led onto the artificial island, the monk had yet to dismount. Faucon glanced beyond his clerk and breathed out in satisfaction and not a little relief. The thick wooden doors that guarded this place yet stood wide in the arched entranceway. That was likely because the monk whose chore it was to close them had left his post. Instead, Brother Porter stood at the center of the bridge, his hands tucked into his sleeves. Both he and Edmund stared off to the left, their faces alive in avid and unguarded interest.
With his safety in hand, Faucon released the warrior's focus. Only then did he hear the on-going argument, three male voices, all speaking at once and in English, two native speakers while the other was clearly more comfortable in French. Each man kept raising his voice as he sought to talk over the other two. As expected, it was to the French speaker that the first two were making insistent pleas for aid, only to receive consistently negative answers from the high-born man.
Dismounting, Faucon shifted to glance in the direction of the argument. There were six, not three men, and four horses gathered a little way from the drawbridge. Two of the men faced him, one tall and powerfully built with his face buried in his hands, the other a short, balding priest with a bulbous nose and ears that stuck out from his head. Dark rings hung beneath this holy shepherd's eyes, exhaustion cutting deep lines onto his face. Despite that, the arrangement of his features suggested he was easy-going, not the sort that Faucon would have expected to raise his voice to his betters.
Both men wore wrinkled and water-stained garments, as if they'd swum in the moat then allowed their clothing to dry upon their bodies. That was an oddness indeed, for the priest wore his ritual attire, garments that generally never left the church. As for the taller man, his garment was also fine, a dark green tunic decorated with an expensive line of embroidery along its hem. Again, hardly the sort of garment a man risked to the wet.
The other four men had their backs to Faucon. Three of them were knights in full armor beneath their white surcoats and arranged in a protective half-circle behind their cloaked and hooded master. Even without knights to guard him, Faucon would have recognized their master as a wealthy magnate by the quality of his red cloak alone.
Dismissing the arguers, Faucon shifted to look at the track behind him. Just as he expected, Alain and his men were on the path leading to the abbey, about halfway across the field. And, just as he expected, the three of them moved as if they had no haste. That made Faucon grin. This time it would be the sheriff's pride rather than his Crowner's skill that cost Sir Alain what he wanted.
Just then, the on-going argument to his left escalated. "She's only a child! How can you refuse to help an innocent?!" the man with the deeper voice shouted.
Faucon shot another quick glance at the group, only to discover one of the knights now watched him from over his shoulder. The man was young, surely no more than Faucon's own score-and-four years. Although the knight's features were unremarkable, there was something in his face that sparked recognition.
That recognition was returned. The knight's eyes widened, then he smiled and raised a hand as if in greeting. Yet scrambling to place him, Faucon started to return the gesture, but the other knight had already leaned forward to speak into the cloaked magnate's ear.
Instantly, the well-dressed man pivoted. Oswald de Vere, nephew to Bishop William of Hereford and Faucon's cousin, stared at Faucon in stark surprise. Like Faucon, Oswald had the de Vere look, long nose, lean cheeks, black of hair, and dark eyed. So too did they both affect the latest fashion of a carefully-trimmed beard, shaved back to a narrow line that followed the jaw. In Faucon's case, his beard served to hide what he considered a too-pointed chin.
"Oswald! What are you doing here?" Faucon called in astonished and grateful greeting. The sheriff could now come as he may. His new Crowner was well and truly beyond his reach.
"Stopping for the night on our way home to Hereford, Pery," Oswald replied, using Faucon's pet name. Pery was short for Peregrine, a play on the meaning of Faucon. Then Oswald laughed. "Look at us! We meet for a second time in less than a fortnight after not seeing each other for—what? Five years?"
At this greeting, the tall, fair-haired commoner shifted, catching Faucon's attention. Dark rings hung beneath his blue eyes, and the man's face was haggard. And familiar!
"God be praised! Can that really be you, Sir Faucon?" cried Alf, the new miller of Priors Holden.
Faucon's head spun at the impossibility of two such unexpected meetings at once. He called back to the former solider in English, "Alf, what are you doing so far from home?" Then he shifted into French to address his cousin. "Why aren't you already back in Hereford, Oswald? I thought you left Stanrudde last week on the same day I did."
Speaking two tongues at once only made that spinning worsen, especially atop so many coincidences. As Faucon held up a hand hoping to forestall either man from responding, Edmund drew his little mount beside Faucon, the donkey's nose to Legate's tail.
"This is your cousin, the one you met at Stanrudde's abbey last week? The one who is Bishop William's secretary?" Faucon's clerk demanded, staring at Oswald as he spoke.
The longing in Edmund's voice was a reflection of his overweening ambition to reclaim his previous life. Faucon suspected that the monk saw in Oswald an unexplored avenue that might lead him to that destination, or at least return to him a bishop's favor. Also implicit in Edmund's query was the request to be presented to Bishop William's secretary. That was something Faucon had been able to avoid when he'd met Oswald a week ago in the town of Stanrudde.
Edmund couldn't know—nor would he ever believe—how little such an introduction might serve him. Aye, Oswald was the bishop's right hand. But that position guaranteed Faucon's cousin knew exactly what Edmund had done to earn his demotion. And that assured Edmund would ever own Oswald's eternal disregard.
Sidestepping both his clerk's questions and his ambitions, Faucon leaned closer to the monk. "If my cousin is here, it's a given that there'll be no space for me in the guest house," he said in a low voice. "Brother, I need you to go within and beg shelter on my behalf, even if the only place Brother Hosteller can offer me is a stall in their stables. Under no circumstances can you let the hosteller refuse me. The sheriff is at our back. Against that, I cannot afford to be turned away from these walls."
"Holy Mother save us," Edmund gasped quietly as he craned his neck to look at the gap in the trees. He was in time to watch Sir Alain and his men ride through the branches.
Although Faucon's clerk might not know of their sheriff's recent attempt to end his employer's life, Edmund did know, or rather suspected he knew, why Sir Alain wanted his new Crowner dead. Edmund's jaw firmed and his eyes narrowed. With his whole being, he radiated his intention to shield his employer, a man he'd met only three weeks ago and had initially considered a burdensome penance.
"It shall be done," the monk assured Faucon, then turned his donkey's head and rode onto the drawbridge without so much as a glance at the influential man he'd hoped to use only a moment ago. Faucon watched his clerk go, startled. As grateful as he was for Edmund's loyalty, he wasn't certain what he'd done to earn it.
Sir Alain brought his horse to a halt near Legate. "Why, if it isn't our shire's new Keeper of the Pleas," the sheriff said by way of greeting to Faucon. As always, no expression shifted the weathered creases of the older man's face, nor did any emotion color his tone as he continued. It was the look that many an old soldier wore, the one earned by a man who'd dealt out so much hurt in his life that his heart had turned to stone. "What a surprise to find you here at the abbey when I thought you'd yet be in Studley. Have you already completed your task there, sir?"
"Indeed I have, my lord sheriff," Faucon replied, offering Alain a brief and respectful nod, the sort shared between equals. "The man who committed the foul act is presently being held in Sir Peter's keep by his steward. There he'll remain until his family r
aises the funds to purchase his freedom. What of you? I thought you were in Killingworth at the moment. What brings you to this end of our shire?" It was a subtle challenge, one meant to warn the sheriff that the man he wished to kill wouldn't die easily.
"Why, assessing taxes for our king, of course. There's a salt road nearby," Sir Alain replied quickly.
"Good eventide to you, my lord sheriff," Oswald said as he strode forward to stop beside Faucon. Being Oswald, a man whose ambitions surpassed tenfold any Edmund might cherish, Faucon's cousin offered the most influential royal servant in this shire a deep bow. When he straightened, Oswald's lips had spread into a smile that didn't warm his dark eyes.
"It has been a good while since we last met, sir," he told Alain. "If you do not recall, I am Oswald de Vere, secretary to and nephew of Bishop William of Hereford. For these past weeks, I've been in your shire on my lord bishop's business, as well as tending to some personal details. Before Lord William departed for London a fortnight ago, he bid me convey to you his happiest greetings should our paths cross whilst I was here. With this my last night in your county, I'd given up all hope of doing so. But how now! I shall be able to tell my lord that I have done as he requested, albeit at the last moment."
Alain waited until Oswald fell silent before shifting his flat gaze from Faucon to his cousin. "Ah, then it must have been you who passed through Alcester a little while earlier and drew the attention of the townsmen. As I arrived, one of the aldermen mentioned seeing Bishop William's knights riding through. Thus did I come to the abbey. William has stayed here on other occasions, and I thought it would be he I caught here this night," he said.
"I beg pardon for disappointing you," Oswald replied, still displaying his empty smile. Then he startled his cousin by adding, "By your greeting to him, I take it that you're already acquainted with my kinsman, Sir Faucon de Ramis?"
Never once in all the years of Faucon's life had he heard Oswald so boldly claim a connection to any of his far less prominent—thus less useful—relations. More to the point, that Oswald made his claim so publicly suggested that both he and their uncle knew just how much illicit profit Sir Alain had lost when the royal court forced a new Keeper of the Pleas on him. That also explained Oswald's strange introduction. It was their uncle speaking through his secretary. Bishop William was doing what he could to protect the lowly and unknown relation he'd recruited to become the first of Warwickshire's new Coronarii.
What neither of Faucon's kinsmen knew was that the reason Alain wanted his new Crowner dead went far deeper than his purse. Rarely did either of Faucon's prominent relatives make a misstep, but this time they couldn't have erred more greatly. Rather than protection, all Oswald's words did was warn the sheriff he'd best be very covert about how he rid himself of his new Crowner. And that only complicated matters for the man they meant to protect.
The sheriff stared down from his saddle at the well-born coxcomb who served his erstwhile friend and former traveling companion. Alain's grizzled brows shifted, the movement minuscule, then he glanced at Faucon. "Aye, Sir Faucon and I are acquainted. Indeed, we grow ever more familiar with the other as the weeks pass."
It was both a careful dodge and a hidden promise of a future confrontation. Sour amusement tugged at Faucon's lips. Oh aye, the two of them were a pair, indeed. The time for hiring the single soldier he could afford had been yesterday.
There was a touch on Faucon's arm. He shifted in sharp surprise, his hand instinctively dropping to his sword hilt. Alf the Miller didn't so much as flinch at the aggressive reaction.
"What are you doing here so far from home, Alf?" Faucon demanded swiftly, his hand falling back to his side.
Alf scrubbed at his brow as if to wipe away his exhaustion. His bloodshot eyes were filled with concern. "A second cousin of 'Wyna was married yesterday in a hamlet not far from here. I came with her as her escort, for her sisters had traveled ahead of her, and Haselor is farther than she was comfortable traveling alone with a child," the former soldier said in explanation, then hurried on. "Sir Faucon, I know you have no cause to grant me a boon, but I beg you—"
"I know you," Alain interrupted in English, dismounting as he spoke to the taller man. "You hail from Priors Holden. You're Halbert the Miller's workman."
The former soldier offered his sheriff a quick and respectful bow but when he straightened, his expression was carefully blank. Alf had his own reasons for being wary of Sir Alain. "Aye, I was Halbert's workman, sir. But as you well know, I no longer serve him. His son's widow and her aunt now run the mill," the tall man lied.
Faucon blinked at that. Why lie when Alf knew the sheriff was aware of who he was and to what Alf was entitled by right of birth? Alain's only reaction to the commoner's reply was another of those brief quirks of his brows.
Alf didn't wait for Sir Alain's response. Instead, he directed the same urgency he'd displayed toward Oswald onto both his Crowner and his sheriff. "Sir Faucon, my lord sheriff, I beg your aid," he began anew. "Last night, Halbert Miller's granddaughter Cissy wandered away from the church in Haselor where a wedding was being celebrated. We don't know how long she was gone before we returned from the shivaree to discover her missing, but we've been searching for her since that moment, scouring the fields and wastes. To no avail. Night is almost upon us and we have yet many furlongs left to walk if we wish to complete the task before dark cloaks all."
He glanced across the faces of his betters. "Sirs, she's but a wee thing, and she's already been lost out there for too long. Please, we need to find her and we need more men to help us if we're to complete our task. Help us convince the monks to assist us in our search."
"You I told! The monks not depart their abbey to seek a child," Oswald replied sharply in his clumsy English. He waved a hand, dismissing the commoner and the lost child, then glanced eagerly toward the abbey's gateway as if ready to be shed of all life outside of the comfortable walls of this house.
"The bishop's secretary is correct, Alf," Faucon seconded, as reluctant as Oswald to let anything distract him from entering the abbey, albeit for different reasons. "You're better off asking in Alcester. The townsmen are far freer to do what you need."
"We have asked them," retorted the common-born priest who accompanied Alf as he pressed his way through Oswald's armed escort to once more stand next to the tall miller. When he continued, he aimed his gaze in the direction of the nearby town, although it couldn't be seen through the trees.
"There is not a charitable heart to be found in that greed-infested place. The alderman we spoke to not only refused us, he threatened to drive us from their walls when we persisted in our pleas. That's why we came here." The priest's tone was resentful.
Again, Alain's brows shifted a little. The sheriff glanced from Oswald to Faucon. His gaze caught and lingered on his new Crowner as he replied to the priest. "Why, if you have no other who will help you in this, Father," he said, "then it must be your sheriff and your keeper who come to your aid. Is that not right, Keeper? We are both free to accompany these men on their quest, are we not? Mounted men will make short work of such a search."
As Alain paused, the corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly even as he kept his gaze on his Crowner. It was the mockery of a smile. "Aye, it's only right that we go together, do you not think? I and mine will seek the living child, as we must, now that our king has commanded that my only purview be the living. Meanwhile you, Sir Faucon, will ride as the court demands of you, seeking out a dead lass against the possibility that she has already passed." The faintest trace of humor and satisfaction filled his voice.
Before Faucon could form a response, Oswald took a half-step forward almost as if he meant to put himself between his cousin and the sheriff. "But you are right, Sir Alain. We must all go," the bishop's secretary said, that empty smile once more bending his mouth as he returned to his native tongue. "What man can leave an innocent child to perish in the night? If it's men on horseback these commoners require, then I and my kni
ghts must also come along. That's four more mounted men, bringing as many more sets of eyes to the task."
Alain made no reply to this, only stared flatly at the well-dressed clerk.
"Pery, tell this man," Oswald continued, speaking to Faucon as he indicated Alf, "that he has won what he needs. Tell him that Bishop William of Hereford has agreed to come to his aid and will find the missing child."
If not for Faucon's certainty that Oswald made his offer to protect him—or rather, to drive home to Sir Alain that Warwickshire's new Coronarius had a bishop's protection—Oswald's pretensions would have had Faucon grinning. Instead, the smile he sent his kinsman was one of gratitude.
"So I shall do, Cousin. And I offer you and Bishop William thanks on this man's behalf. I'm acquainted with him and I know that he's grateful to the depths of his soul for what you've given him this day. But having said that, I think we mustn't delay a moment longer, not if we're to accomplish what he requires."
Faucon cast a quick glance at the sky above. "Sunset will soon be upon us."
He didn't wait for Oswald's response. Instead, he mounted Legate and turned his courser's head away from the abbey. The sooner the girl was found, the sooner he could put a wall of monks, as well as Oswald and three knights, between him and Sir Alain. That would go far to extending the span of his life. At least for today.
Oswald's youngest knight took Alf up behind him while one of Alain's men shared his horse with the priest. That made swift work of the short distance between the abbey and nearest fields around Haselor. As the impromptu rescue party made their way across the furrows and stubble, the priest called out to the searchers, telling them to return to their church. By the time they reached the churchyard, nearly a hundred followed. That so many had participated in this search spoke well of this place. It wasn't everywhere that folk would spend precious time, or have risked even more precious garments to the rain, to seek a child who was a stranger to them, albeit one related by blood to a neighbor.
Lost Innocents (A Servant of the Crown Mystery Book 3) Page 10