Season of the Fox (A Servant of the Crown Mystery Book 2)

by Denise Domning

  From Award-winning, best-selling author Denise Domning

  PRAISE FOR THE FIRST SERVANT OF THE CROWN MYSTERY, SEASON OF THE RAVEN

  “In this medieval mystery of stunning realism, 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

  Season of the Raven is a brilliant novel and a triumph for Denise Doming. The storyline sucks you in from the start... Pure and unapologetically Medieval, it reads like a Hollywood movie... The world of Medieval justice is revealed in all of its shortcomings. I can't recommend it highly enough. Five solid stars.”

  — Kathryn LeVeque, best-selling author of The Wolfe

  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 done my best to keep my recreation of England in the 12th Century as accurate as possible.

  Dedication

  To my dear friend Gail Haugland. Thank you for being there for me over this difficult year and for letting me use your husband as a model for one of the characters in this book.

  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

  Blasphemy! Rage drives my feet until I am almost running– disgraceful behavior!–along the red-brown track away from that...that hovel. How dare a peasant, a lowly commoner, refuse my request after I’ve told her God has placed his special blessing on her child?! Is it not bad enough that her husband faces eternal damnation for the taking of his own life? Lie to herself as she may about how her man died, every soul in this vale knows that it was at his own will, if not by his own hand, no matter what that newcomer to this shire declared at the inquest.

  All too soon I am gasping for breath and must stop. I find a coppiced ash that yet retains most of its summer raiment, although the once vibrant green leaves are now a rusting yellow. The tree’s many slender trunks offer a welcome dappled coolness against the unseasonable heat and intense sun of this autumn afternoon.

  When I regain my calm, I’m surprised at how far my anger has taken me. I know these fields, they’re attached to my house. Oafs, no doubt from the hamlet whose duty it is to tend our farthest-flung rows, stride along the path in my direction, bellowing out a bawdy song as they come. Most carry pruning hooks, although a few bear shepherds’ crooks. Their tools suggest they’re off to collect winter firewood from the nearby forest and wasteland, as is their yearly right. To a one, their feet and legs are bare, and they’ve shucked the top halves of their tunics and shirts until the garments hang from their belts, sleeves dangling, revealing their naked chests.

  When they notice me they fall instantly silent. The ensuing quiet is broken only by the twitter of some small bird in the branches above me. As they reach the place where I stand, each man tugs at his forelock in deference to my estate. Only two are bold enough to let their gazes meet mine.

  I watch them until they are tiny figures, threading their way into a distant stand of trees. Only when they disappear does my mood steady, balancing like a scale. As it does, my faith is restored.

  Fie on me! Our Holy Father would never place His blessing on this child if He meant to keep her from me, and Him. Thus, it can only be His will that her mother presently refuses. I breathe out in understanding. This child is younger than any of the others He has shown me. I must be patient.

  Again I chide myself, this time for arrogance. This is another test on His part; He again seeks proof of my obedience to His will.

  Content, I step out onto the path and make my way home.

  ***

  Sir Alain, sheriff of this shire, slid his arm under the woman sleeping next to him. Agnes of Stanrudde sighed, her eyes opening, then smiled up at him. His heart twisted in both pleasure and pain as her plain face came to life with the love she yet bore him despite what he’d done to her.

  “Good morrow, my love,” she whispered, shifting until she could rest her chin on his chest. Her dark eyes glowed as her smile widened. “It is a miracle.”

  “What is?” he asked, wanting nothing more than to keep her close to him for all time. So it had been since they’d first lain together, more than a score of years ago, and so it would always be. The contentment he felt now made him wonder how accruing wealth and influence had ever become more valuable to him than keeping her at his side.

  “That I should once more be in your bed, speaking these simple words to you,” she replied, still smiling.

  There was no condemnation or regret, not even the merest hint of chiding in her expression. That was Aggie. She had never expected more than he could give her. Indeed, he was far more likely than she to rage against the perfidies of fate and rank that had conspired to prevent a more perfect union between them.

  “And here you shall remain until the end of my days.” He made his words a vow, the only vow he was free to give her.

  She frowned at that. “How can that be? I thought–”

  “He is dead. I heard at the Michaelmas court. My bitch of a wife is now without kith or kin to fight her battles for her. And if she doesn’t care for how I live my life, she can seek out a convent to give her shelter.” He freed a harsh breath at that thought. “Pity the poor abbess who agrees to take her, along with her ill temper and unending complaints.”

  “Ah.” Aggie’s smile curved in understanding. “That is why you came for me, and that is why we are at Aldersby.”

  “Would that I had come sooner. If only I’d known–” Alain began.

  She pressed a stilling finger to his lips, forestalling his excuses and apologies. “It matters not. You came, and here I am, just where I have always longed to be.”

  Then, lowering her hand, she studied him, pleasure dying to something more sober in her gaze. “But you do know you cannot keep me here, aye?”

  “I will keep you where I please,” Alain retorted, frowning at her, hoping that her brief marriage hadn’t changed her. Aggie had never before volunteered comments or opinions, despite the sharp intelligence that had originally drawn him to her.

  She shook her head. “I cannot–will not stay here, not when doing so is certain to bring about your destruction,” she whispered, then pushed herself upright until she sat on the mattress next to him.

  Her rejection drove him up as well until he was seated at her side. “My destruction? What nonsense. I told you. There’s no one left to keep us apart,” he laughed, hiding his irritation at her boldness.

  “Oh, but there is,” she replied, her gaze yet steadily meeting his. “He knows. Even if he did not challenge you as you expected, he knows. Trust me. He’ll be watching for his opportunity, waiting for his chance to exploit it. My love, I will not be the cause of your destruction. You must hide me well.”

  Her refusal tore through him, doing almost as much injury as the insult couched in her words. “That cowardly boy?” he mocked.

  She made a soothing sound and shifted closer until she was again pressed to him. Despite his irritation with her, he couldn’t stop himself from embracing her. He needed to feel the beat of her heart against his own.

  “You kno
w better, love,” she murmured. “I will not stay here, knowing that you use me to hurt your wife and knowing, as you do as well, that she will be looking for a new champion to fight her battles for her. Find a cottage in some hamlet near Killingworth that I may use as my own, then visit me sparingly, doing so for your safety and the sake of my heart.”

  Alain swallowed his irritable reaction. Aggie was only trying to protect him, just as she has always done, even if what she requested resulted in her own pain.

  Alain’s eyes narrowed. As long as he was sheriff here, this shire was his to rule. Those who were loyal to him would remain loyal, and would do what he required. No matter what Aggie said, he knew that puling knight, that ragtag poor relation of a man Alain had once considered a friend, lacked the courage and honor to fight his own battles. As soon as he was dispatched, Alain would see to it that any new Coronarii elected in this shire were men he could trust.

  “I will not do it,” Brother Edmund protested, nay, pronounced, his well-made face twisting in disgust. Then he blinked rapidly, a sign that he realized just how rude his response had been. “What I mean, sir, is that I cannot do it. That is a woman,” he amended, pointing the feathery end of his ink-stained quill at the corpse in the corner of this November-chilled chamber.

  Sir Faucon de Ramis, the newly-elected Coronarius for this shire and now proud master of Blacklea Village, sent a narrow-eyed look at his clerk. He and Edmund had known each other for all of two sennights, the same amount of time that Faucon had been responsible for keeping the shire’s pleas. Although that had been long enough for him to discover much good in Edmund, his clerk daily tested the limits of his patience.

  Two weeks had also been enough time for Faucon to learn that Edmund could use an excuse as well as any other man, be he knight, cleric or commoner. While it was true that the Benedictine brothers were avowed not to touch women, both he and Edmund knew that wasn’t why the monk was resisting his master’s command. Edmund no more wanted to expose himself to the possibility of fleas than did Faucon.

  Edmund met Faucon’s gaze in a wide-eyed pretense of innocence. Then he cleared his throat. Faucon now knew that sign, too. Edmund meant to resist his command with all his might.

  A low rumble of amusement rose from the seven men and three women crowded into this impoverished chamber. Although Faucon and Edmund were speaking in their native French while the watching commoners spoke only English, these folk were hardly strangers to the covert war presently being waged between master and servant. This was the sort of battle they prosecuted daily, resisting their own rightful masters. So it had always been between those who were born to serve and those whose God-given right it was to command service.

  “What I mean, sir,” Edmund amended, “is that I cannot assist you, not if I’m also to record the names of all these witnesses prior to you calling the inquest.”

  This time, the clerk used the end of his quill to indicate the watching folk. As he did, the wide sleeve of his black habit swept across the surface of the parchment on his lap desk. Edmund, who intended precision and perfection in all things at all times, squeaked in dismay.

  “Nay! I’ve smeared the ink! Now I shall have to scrape all off and begin again.”

  All else forgotten, the monk retrieved his knife from the lidded basket in which he transported his scribing tools, and began to hone its edge on his stone. Faucon grimaced in defeat. How much easier it was to force a man to his will when armed with a sword rather than just his tongue.

  Pivoting, he aimed the full force of his frustration at the corpse as if he could blame her for setting him on yet another fool’s errand. His new position as Coronarius had been created out of whole cloth at the Michaelmas court a little more than a month ago. The unstated purpose of the position was to insure more of this shire’s pennies made their way into the Lionheart’s strongboxes, and less into the purse of Sir Alain, this shire’s sheriff.

  So far, Faucon had failed miserably at his purpose. Of the six deaths, two burglaries and one rape, which had turned out to be a lover’s spat, that Edmund had recorded onto their ever-lengthening roll of parchment, not one event had added so much as a farthing of profit to the king’s treasure chests. If Faucon wished to reward his uncle’s faith in him, then he needed a death where the murderer had at least some wealth to his name that could be confiscated in the king’s name.

  That most certainly didn’t describe Garret of Stanrudde. Both Garret and his dead mother were but day laborers, working as weavers of linen cloth, or so said the half-finished pieces of fabric in the tall looms standing on the street wall of the chamber. The only things of value these two owned–if they owned them–were the chamber pot in the corner and the clothing hanging from the pegs near the door, which was naught but a leather curtain. No doubt even the fleas infesting both the mattress and the tattered blanket atop the corpse belonged to their landlord, the Abbey of St. Michael.

  And therein lay Faucon’s conundrum. With him so new to his position and this shire, it was a miracle that Abbot Athelard had known to send for him rather than the sheriff. Faucon supposed fleas and yet one more failure were a small price to pay to secure a crumb of favor with an influential abbot. Moreover, making the abbot into an ally would surely tweak Sir Alain. It was the thought of the unfinished business between him and the sheriff that ultimately propelled Faucon across the chamber.

  He dropped to one knee at the edge of the mattress, which was barely more than a hen’s nest contained in a worn hempen sack. Shifting his sword until it rested easily on the wooden floor, he threw back the edges of his better, vair-lined mantle, then brushed the front of his borrowed green tunic as if it were already infested with the nasty little bloodsuckers. If he did take on fleas, he’d owe an apology to Blacklea’s former steward when he returned the garment, something that wouldn’t happen until his own garments and personal possessions finally arrived at Blacklea. It was anyone’s guess when that might happen. According to the last message from his family, his belongings were now in the custody of a wool merchant, who would pass by Blacklea as he made his way from fair to fair across the shire.

  When Faucon could procrastinate no longer, he leaned gingerly forward and studied the old woman. Frail and thin, Elsa of Stanrudde lay trapped in the ever-disconcerting stillness given to the dead. Her earthly remains had already grown stiff. It had taken a good while for Faucon to reach Stanrudde from his new home. Given that the sun was well past its zenith–the bells for the hour of None had recently sounded–she must have passed sometime last night, no doubt earlier than later. Fading bruises marked her right eye socket and her left cheek.

  “When you are finished plying your knife, Brother Edmund,” Faucon said without turning his head and yet speaking in his mother tongue, “you must add that the dead woman shows signs of having been beaten by someone using his fists but that the bruises are days old and well on the way to healing.”

  He pulled back the thin blanket. As with most folk who owned but one set of clothing, the old woman had retired for the night in nothing but her wrinkled skin. Even older bruises, also the size and shape of a man’s fist and an ugly shade of yellow, marked her breastbone.

  Elsa’s granddaughter, Ida by name, came to kneel beside Faucon. It was she who had raised the hue and cry after arriving early this morn for a visit and finding her grandmother dead; it had also been she who made the charge of murder and brought it to her kinswoman’s landlord. A fair young thing, Ida wore a pair of tightly-woven gowns, the upper one bright blue, the inner one dark red. Their quality suggested she lived a better life than her grandmother and uncle.

  Tears sparkled in her pale eyes as she looked at the marks that discolored her grandmother’s chest. “If only my husband would have allowed me to take her into our home, but we just couldn’t afford to feed another mouth,” she whispered in English, her words fading into silence.

  Faucon made no reply, only traced his fingers across the line of the dead woman’s collarbone. Beaten but no
t broken. Then he rolled Elsa onto her left side. What little long gray hair remained to her streamed across the bluish-red discoloration that stained her back from shoulders to rump, save where her body had touched the pallet. That teased a grief-stricken moan from her granddaughter.

  As Faucon lowered the corpse back onto the mattress, Ida leapt to her feet and pointed at her uncle. “Didn’t I say that you killed her! You finally beat her to death just as I knew you would! How could you do that to your own mother?” she demanded in righteous accusation.

  Panic twisted Garret of Stanrudde’s features. Ida’s uncle stood as far as he could from the mattress and his mother, beside the looms that paid their meager wages. Although it was mid-afternoon, Garret yet wore only his shirt and braies, the length of cloth all men wrapped around their hips to cover their nether parts. The fabric of his undergarments was ragged with age and use. As small and frail as his mother, Garret’s pronounced cheekbones suggested he ate more sparingly than most monks.

  “I didn’t kill her!” he protested. “Didn’t we both find her this morning when you came and woke me? She was just as she is now–blue and lifeless. I told you, she was quiet all day yesterday, barely able to ply her shuttle and finishing only half as much as she usual wove. I let her be when she said she felt ill and retired early.”

  Still pleading, Garret turned to look at his neighbors, who had responded to his niece’s calls of murder and who by law were trapped here until Faucon released them. Garret reached out to grab the man closest to him by the sleeve of his brown tunic.

  “Watt, tell Sir Crowner,” he pleaded, using the commoners’ corruption of Faucon’s Latin title, one Faucon had begun to encourage simply because he liked the sound of it. “Tell the knight that you heard no cry or complaint from her last night. Not last night!”