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

by Denise Domning

  "It's not about the child," Faucon replied. "It's about the command."

  Oswald groaned at that, trapped into agreement by his own arrogance. "Is there no other way?"

  "You need not stay," Faucon started to offer.

  "Of course I must stay," his cousin shot back. "Were you not watching? Sir Alain has no liking for you. I know how fond Lord William is of that man, but in this one instance I fear my lord's trust is sorely misplaced. You and I will remain together and search a bit longer, but only until the light is no more."

  "The light is gone," Oswald grumbled. It wasn't the first time he'd suggested this.

  "Not quite. When Father Otto walks past again, we'll be finished," Faucon replied.

  This time and at Faucon's command, the searchers had arranged themselves in a long line, each man or woman, or mounted knight, spaced at twice the distance of their arms from their neighbors. The priest was walking up and down the line of searchers, carrying messages as they made their way at a steady slow walk along the path that led north toward a settlement the locals named Aston. With more than four dozen of Haselor's folk participating, it made for a long line.

  A moment later, Oswald stirred himself again. "Why wait for the priest? The light is gone for certain now."

  That brought Faucon's gaze up from the ground as he eyed midnight blue heavens above them. He stifled a sigh. That first lass's corpse had been so degraded that there hadn't been much to see and little to gain from examining her. He'd hoped for better this time.

  "I think you're right, Oswald," he agreed. "Ah well. Haselor can be along my route back to Blacklea. I'll stop here to search again after I complete the inquest at Wike."

  "Wike? I thought the sheriff said you were in Studley," came Oswald's startled reply.

  Faucon sent a quick smile in Oswald's direction. "I was in Studley earlier this day, much to our king's profit," he added, winning a return grin from his cousin. "As I left the place the bailiff from the hamlet of Wike met me, saying they'd found their leper's daughter in a well."

  "Bah," Oswald replied in scorn at that. "Another girl child, drowned and the daughter of a leper? What profit can there be for our king in such a death?"

  That made Faucon laugh. "More than you'd think, Cousin. Not only did the girl prove to have been murdered, but her mother attests that her child was conceived in rape and the father's name remains unknown. That, Oswald, means our sovereign will collect the murdrum fine from the community, or so Brother Edmund informs me."

  Oswald's smile fair glowed in the dimness. "There was no proof of Englishry?"

  "Nay. Nor can there be, not unless the man who did the rape comes forward to claim his child posthumously," Faucon replied. Then, although he thought his effort wasted, he did what he knew would please Edmund. "You must let our uncle know that I'm grateful to have such a learned monk at my side to guide me."

  Just then, shouts rose from the left. The repetitive sound suggested a message being passed mouth-to-mouth up the line. Concentrating, Faucon caught the echo of a miracle. The girl was found. Instantly, he turned his horse, leaving Oswald without a backward glance. He didn't want anyone disturbing the body or the place where she was found, not until he could examine it.

  Ahead of him, a woman appeared out of the dimness, walking swiftly toward him, bearing a small form in her arms. Faucon cursed himself for not warning the searchers to leave the child's corpse where they found it. Then the corpse coughed and moaned hoarsely in her bearer's arms.

  That provoked a sour but amused laugh from him. Such was the hazard of dealing with death and murder on a daily basis. Look at him, starting to believe that anyone, even a nun, was capable of murder, and a heinous one at that.

  It was full dark by the time Oswald and Faucon stepped out of the cottage where the child had been reunited with her overjoyed mother. The lass was fevered and barely conscious, and clots of blood marked the back of her head. Perhaps because of her head wound, she'd resisted being touched by any man, even Alf. When the Englishman had tried to take her, she'd thrashed in hysterical fear, kicking and crawling back in her female rescuer's arms. To Faucon that suggested that—if she'd been taken—it had been a man who'd done the deed.

  "You should have insisted," his cousin chided. "Mother or not, that woman had no right to keep the girl from you nor refuse to let you pose your questions to her."

  Faucon closed the door behind him. The same impatience gnawing at Oswald also ate at him. But unlike his cousin, who knew nothing of common folk and traded in arrogance the way others traded in silver, Faucon knew better than to press a mother in regard to her child.

  "Perhaps," he agreed as they crossed the yard to where the knights and horses waited. "But I think my effort would have been wasted. Until her fever breaks, nothing the lass says can be trusted. Nay, I'll wait until she's improved before I ask for her tale, even if it means waiting until mother and daughter make their way back to Priors Holden."

  Behind him the cottage door opened again, spilling warm and uncertain yellow light into the silvered darkness. Faucon glanced over his shoulder. By size alone did he recognize Alf. Leaving Oswald to mount his palfrey, Faucon retreated a few steps to meet the Englishman.

  "'Wyna sent me," the miller told him, offering a respectful nod. "She asks me to both beg your forgiveness for sending you away and offer you her everlasting gratitude. I think her head at last begins to clear now that her babe is once more safely in her arms."

  Faucon smiled at that. "'Wyna is well come to my efforts on Cissy's behalf. God be praised that we found her daughter alive. Good night, Alf."

  Rather than return his adieu, the taller man reached out to touch Faucon's mail sleeve. "You rode without armor when we first met. Dare I ask from whom you now seek to protect yourself?" he challenged with a quiet smile.

  That made Faucon grin. "You of all people know who chases me, and why. Now, if by mentioning this you're offering to stand at my back, I'd be interested in hearing what you have to say."

  That won a moment's silence from the former soldier. When Alf at last spoke, disappointment colored his tone. "I may very well be."

  "What?!" Faucon retorted in surprise. "But you just came into the milling life. I hear it's a fine one. And didn't you tell me only three weeks ago that you found it suited you?"

  Alf sighed. "Aye, so I did. But since that time I've discovered that the one thing I want most from that life I can never have."

  "Ah," Faucon murmured. Although now widowed, 'Wyna had been married to Alf's half-brother. No priest would ever allow a union between her and Alf, not as long as the prior of St. Radegund's wished to reclaim ownership of that mill.

  "Against that," Alf continued, "I find my taste for milling has flagged. But I thought I was trapped until I saw you standing next to our sheriff at the abbey. I feared if I left the mill, the prior would find a way to reclaim it, cheating 'Wyna of the lifestyle she expected to own when she wed. Now, of a sudden I see how I can hire others to do the daily tasks, with 'Wyna to manage them, while I go no farther from Priors Holden than Blacklea. As long as I remain close at hand and visit the mill regularly, the prior cannot argue that I've abandoned my birthright. Instead, I'll be no different than any other landowner who holds a distant property."

  Alf's smile gleamed in the dark. "What do you think, sir? Will you make room for me at your back? I could be available as early as the morrow, should that suit your purposes. I won't need much of a salary, not with the profits from the mill yet coming to me after 'Wyna's taken what she needs. I do have two requests, though, should you agree. First, if I join you on the morrow, you'll need to buy me a horse. I've no coin with me at present, and I sold my nag before I came to Priors Holden. And I'll want to escort 'Wyna home when she's ready to leave this place."

  Faucon threw back his head and laughed. Miracle after miracle on one enchanted day. "I'll wait for you at the abbey on the morrow," was his reply.

  "Where did you go and why did you leave without me?"
Edmund complained from the doorway of the small tool shed that would be Faucon's chamber for the night. The monk held a large oil lamp before him. The jigging flame spilled a shifting dance of light and shadow across his features, making a grotesque of his face.

  Edmund yet stood in the doorway because there wasn't room for three men inside the shed. The monk responsible for tending to the abbey's guests had sent a servant with Faucon to help him disarm. At the moment, the man was loosening the laces on Faucon's chain mail tunic.

  "At our sheriff's request, my cousin, his men, and I rode to a nearby hamlet to look for a missing lass. Once the child was found, we returned," Faucon replied, again glancing around the shed as he spoke.

  Brother Hosteller, had been flustered and apologetic over offering his new Crowner such lowly housing. Faucon had assured the monk that he'd made his bed in stranger places, and as such places went, there was nothing offensive about this tiny space. The tools had been removed and the dirt floor swept clean. A straw-filled pallet topped with a woolen blanket now filled the back half of the shed while a milking stool near the door would serve for a chair. In between the stool and the pallet was a makeshift table—a plank of wood resting atop two more milking stools–pushed against the wall beneath the empty tool pegs.

  Awaiting him on that plank was his evening repast, the food and drink of startling quality and quantity. The ewer, and now the cup as well, held ale made by the monks, or so Faucon had been told. It was tasty, indeed. On the tray was a good-sized round loaf of fine bread—white, not the usual brown. Several wedges of fragrant cheese, made in the town, not at the abbey, according to the brother who brought the tray, sat next to a small bowl of nuts and dried fruit. Faucon's eating knife lay at the ready near a length of smoked sausage.

  After opening the laces, the serving man stepped in front of his new Crowner. Faucon bent at the waist and extended his arms in front of him. The servant reached over him and grabbed the tails of his metal tunic. As he tugged toward him, Faucon yanked and pulled his body in the opposite direction. He came free of the tunic with a grunt and a gasp, then straightened, rolling his shoulders to release them. Once the servant stored the folded steel garment in its sack, leaving it at the foot of Faucon's bed, he returned to open the cross garters that held the shafts of Faucon's boots to his calves.

  As the man knelt before him, Faucon reached for the ties that closed his padded gambeson, only to hesitate. As much as he longed to sleep in the comfort of just his shirt, this shed stood in the open air at the edge of the garden. If the night grew as cold as the last, he'd be grateful for these garments come midnight. Once Faucon was free of his footwear and the servant had bid them both a good night, Edmund stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

  "Holy Mother preserve us," the monk said in harsh complaint. "I was wrong to think the canons at the priory this afternoon were profligate! This place is much, much worse."

  "In what way?" Faucon asked idly as he removed one of his metal leggings.

  "In all ways," Edmund retorted. "The meal after Vespers was an embarrassment. Can you not see what's on your tray? The food here is excessive and rich to the point of sin. And there was no reading! When I asked about it, I was met with blank stares, as if none of these brothers had ever heard of such a thing."

  Faucon glanced at his clerk. Edmund's nose fair quivered with his outrage. In that instant the jigging shadows cast by the lamp he held turned the monk's expression into the Devil's own.

  Stripping off his second metal stocking, Faucon managed an "Is that so?" comment as he went to store them in the sack that held his mail tunic.

  Edmund wasn't finished. "As if that's not bad enough, you should have heard them chatter through the meal. Indeed, when they asked why you and I were in their area, I mentioned the death of a leper's daughter in Wike. Not one but two brothers hurried to tell me that their sub-abbot had kept our leper as his mistress," his clerk pronounced angrily.

  Easing around Edmund, Faucon brought the free stool to his little table. Once aseat, he shifted to look up at his clerk. "Where is their sub-abbot now?"

  "Not at a leper's hospital where he belongs," his clerk shot back. "The abbot allowed him to become an anchorite and walled him into his cellar, as if that might shield the others from his disease. Insanity!"

  Faucon caught back his laugh. Apparently the sub-abbot hadn't wished to give up his fine lifestyle to become a beggar like his mistress. "Ah, then I think we can say with certainty who it was that gave Amelyn the right to beg here. Although I think now this wasn't much of a gift, not with the abbey fair hidden from the road. Who comes here to give alms to beggars?"

  That provoked a scornful snort from Edmund. "More folk than you might think. The abbot supports his lavish lifestyle by selling his monks and their quills to the local merchants. These aren't holy brothers. This is a den of scribes pretending to be monks. You must insist your cousin report the misbehavior of this abbot and the excesses of this house to the bishop of Worcester. If something isn't done about this place, our Lord will take his vengeance. This house will cease to exist, I know it, aye."

  That provoked another ambiguous sound from Faucon. Interfering in the matters of monks and abbots wasn't anything he ever intended to do. "Do you think I can speak with the sub-abbot come the morrow?" he asked instead, now shifting to eye his meal.

  "Here?!" Edmund retorted in disgust. "Here you can speak to anyone you wish at any time you like. They've no respect for the Rule. I wager they chatter as they will throughout the day."

  Good. Then, come dawn, he wouldn't need Edmund to ask after the monks and their hogs. Disappointment followed. Even if he recruited a brother to lead him into the forest, it appeared he might be making the trip with Edmund. With his clerk so disgusted at this place, he doubted the monk would want to return here for lunch or the Sext service.

  "Is it so irksome here that you'd prefer to sleep in the shed rather than mingle with these brothers?" Faucon offered, taking a handful of the nuts as he glanced up at the monk.

  That startled the outrage from Edmund's face. He blinked. "Your offer is appreciated, but nay. I don't wish to be locked out of reach of the chapel. I," he said, giving the word harsh emphasis, "intend to celebrate Compline and Matins services even though I suspect I will be the only soul in attendance."

  "As you will," Faucon replied, relieved at his clerk's refusal. They'd had to share accommodations more than once in the past weeks. Edmund snored, the sound as loud as the size of his nose.

  The nuts were freshly shelled, rich and oily. Chewing, Faucon added more ale to his cup, then sliced off a bit of sausage. The smoked meat was overly salted and only adequate, at least in comparison to the nuts, but still edible. For that he was grateful. More often than not he went hungry overnight while out and about on his duties.

  "By the bye," Faucon said to Edmund as he tried a bit of cheese; it proved better than adequate, "this evening I hired a soldier to ride with us."

  "You did?" Edmund replied, his brows raising in surprise. Then he nodded in approval. "As you should. It's good to have protection as we travel. Is it one of your kinsman's knights?"

  "Nay, a common soldier." Faucon cut another bit of sausage to follow the cheese.

  "You hired some ruffian?" Edmund almost chided as he leaned forward to set the lamp on the corner of his master's plank table. "Well, I hope you'll remind the oaf to keep his place and spare us his low opinions."

  Keep his place? Spare us? What, so Edmund's opinions could be the only ones heard?

  Laughter tried to escape Faucon's throat at the same time he swallowed. Choking, he grabbed up his cup and took a goodly sip of ale. He was still fighting for breath as his clerk gave an irritable huff and turned toward the doorway.

  "On the morrow then, Sir Faucon," Brother Edmund offered as he retreated.

  "On the morrow, Brother," Faucon managed when he cleared his throat.

  Later than Faucon had wanted, he and Edmund departed from the abbey. They'd
been delayed while he waited to meet with the former sub-abbot. It had been well after Prime when the anchorite at last sent a reply through a novice, saying he was too ill this day to entertain a conversation.

  With geese and swans flocking noisily overhead, departing for the season, Edmund rode from the abbey ahead of Faucon. Faucon let the monk precede him only because he knew they wouldn't encounter the sheriff or his men on this day, nor any day before Faucon's return to Blacklea. Sir Alain had made his point. Their confrontation would wait until Oswald was far from Warwickshire's borders. Against that, Faucon had stored his metal armor and his surcoat in his saddle bags in favor of his more comfortable underarmor, with his sword belted over his padded gambeson.

  Under the drawbridge the flowing water sparkled in mid-morning's cold clear light as he crossed, leading a workhorse. It had been donated to the monks by the son of the abbey's patron, the lord of Kinwarton. The piebald gelding was old, but of the size and with the hooves of a warhorse. According to the abbot, who proved to be as congenial and expansive as the food that came from his kitchen, the horse had been ridden in the past but now powered the abbey's apple press. With their fruit already processed for the season, the churchman had been happy to lend the nag to his new Crowner for a few pennies. When Faucon promised to return the gelding in a day or so, the abbot only laughed. He reminded the shire's new Crowner that as long as the horse wasn't here, he wasn't eating their hay.

  At this late hour, the abbey's contingent of beggars was already well into their day. They didn't stand near the drawbridge as Faucon expected, but in the field in front of the trees that stood between the Street and the island abbey. No doubt this was so they could be seen by travelers. There were two elderly men, neither of them Hew, and a younger man using a crutch in place of his missing left foot.

  As the rustic had suggested last even, Amelyn wasn't among them. However, Alf stood a little beyond the clutch of beggars, leaning against a tree, one foot braced upon its trunk, as he watched Ryknild Street. The miller had set aside his finer attire, and wore instead a short yellow tunic and green chausses. Or they would have been green and yellow had the garments not been so completely embedded with flour that their colors were naught but dusty memories of the original hues. Instead of a cloak, the commoner wore an aged but well-tended leather hauberk. A short, serviceable sword hung at his side.