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

by Denise Domning

  A short wooden wall separated the final bay at the back of the chamber from the rest of the room. Although the wall didn’t reach the ceiling, it was enough of a barrier to create a private space. The door at its center stood ajar. Nanette tapped lightly but didn’t wait for an answer before she pushed open the panel and stepped inside.

  The room within was trapped in a gloomy dimness, what with the wall blocking the light from the landing and the shutters closed. Despite that, there could be no missing the bed that filled almost the whole space. Only a queen’s love for pretty gowns could have generated income enough to purchase such a piece. It was massive–as wide as two men and nearly as long. Four posts the size of small trees held aloft a wooden ceiling.

  He dared to step closer and touch the nearest post. His fingers found it had been carved in the same style as the columns on the wall. The curtains that hung from the wooden ceiling were pulled shut around the bed, enclosing the inhabitant.

  Nanette crossed to the north-facing window and pushed back one shutter panel. As muted light tumbled in to drive off the dimness, the top half of the merchant’s green brocaded bed curtains took fire, glittering like gold. Faucon caught his breath. It glittered like gold because that was what it was–cloth of gold, fabric woven from threads of gold.

  Last month he might have eaten his heart out over such a piece and choked after on sour envy. But then, a month ago he had been a second son with no prospects for improving his life save to pray that the Lord might take his mother and elder brother before their time, something he could never do.

  No longer. Upon Faucon’s elevation to Crowner, he’d become the master of a fine stone house in Blacklea Village that came with its own bed. To be sure it wasn’t as fine as this one, but it was his and his alone.

  “Who is it?” a woman asked from inside the enclosing curtains, her voice a rasping croak.

  “‘Tis me, mistress,” Nanette said. “I bring with me the king’s knight. Sir Crowner he’s called. He must speak with you regarding the master’s death.”

  There was a rustling, suggesting that the mattress inside that fine frame was only stuffed with straw. “A knight? Does he come from our sheriff?”

  “Nay mistress, I do not,” Faucon replied on his own behalf. Although he raised his voice so she could hear him, he kept his tone gentle as befitted addressing one so newly aggrieved. “Our archbishop has removed the responsibility for viewing the dead and calling the inquest juries, from England’s sheriffs and given them instead to certain knights in each shire. I am Sir Faucon de Ramis, now of Blacklea Village, and the knight who has assumed these duties for this shire. My pardon for disturbing you at such a time, but you are the first finder. The law requires that I receive from you a vow to appear at court when the justices call for you.”

  A long moment of silence followed his words. Just when he’d begun to wonder if Mistress Alina intended to reply, the wooden curtain rings on the far side of the bed scraped quietly over their pole. “Nanette,” the woman within cried softly, “come to me.”

  Nanette shot Faucon a swift sidelong look, then disappeared around the corner of the bed. Low-voiced hissing ensued. Although Faucon could make out only a word or two of the conversation they shared, he had no trouble recognizing Mistress Alina’s anger at his intrusion. Nor could he doubt Nanette’s place in the household. The woman who had expected to do no more than sweep ashes from a hearth boldly countered her mistress’s irritation with soothing words.

  There was silence for a moment, then Nanette returned around the corner of the bed. “You may come, sir,” she said, no sign in her expression that anything untoward had occurred.

  Faucon followed her to stop a decent distance from where Mistress Alina sat, bathed in the muted glow from the unshuttered window. Her feet were bare and she wore a set of pale orange gowns lacking the elaborate decoration that covered her daughter’s attire. She was unnaturally pale, something that Faucon credited to grief and shock.

  The new widow was swiftly braiding her uncovered honey-colored hair. Like her daughter, her features were long and narrow, but Mistress Alina’s face was more square, her chin and jaw strong, and her cheekbones more defined. Although Faucon guessed that Alina and Nanette were of an age, both of them being no more than ten years his senior, time had laid its map more heavily on Alina, webbing her skin. Deep crevices marked the corners of her eyes and either side of her mouth.

  Although he needed no further confirmation that this was Gisla’s mother beyond Alina’s visage, if he’d wanted it, he could have found it in her manner. Like her daughter, she had none of a woman’s proper humility. As Nanette sat beside her mistress on the bed, taking over the task of plaiting, Faucon offered the new widow a deep bow.

  “Mistress,” he said by way of introduction.

  Mistress Alina watched him hollow-eyed. “What is this vow you need from me?”

  “You must swear that you’ll appear before the justices when they arrive in Stanrudde to examine the matter of your husband’s murder,” Faucon replied. “They’ll want to hear from your own lips that you were the first to find Master Bernart after his death, and that you then rightfully raised the hue and cry, urging your neighbors to seek out his murderer.”

  He paused to watch her closely. “This you can do because both of these things are true, aye?”

  Nanette spoke for her mistress. “Aye, they are. She was the first finder.”

  Faucon ignored the woman, keeping his gaze on Bernart’s widow. “These things are true?” he repeated. “You were the first finder?”

  “I was,” Mistress Alina replied, her voice as hollow as her eyes. “Nanette says I must also leave my bed to seek out my neighbors, asking them to guarantee that I will come to court when called.”

  “Ah,” Faucon said, understanding a little better her reluctance to speak with him. It startled him that Nanette might have said as much to her.

  Because the process of justice in these far-flung shires was so slow–it sometimes took many years before the justices in eyre circled around to a distant locale–first finders, as well as witnesses, often lost their enthusiasm for participating in a trial that had seemed so urgent years earlier. Sometimes even the attestors, those who had begged for justice in the first place, refused to appear when called, having settled or forgotten the original matter over the years. But every complaint that wasn’t heard cost England’s king a penny or two, the fee that was charged for each complaint brought before the justices. To stem this steady trickle of forfeited silver, the law required four of the first finder’s neighbors to swear on pain of incurring their own fine to deliver the finder to court.

  “Nay, there’s no need for you to leave your chamber. My clerk is presently seeking out your neighbors so they can promise on your behalf,” he assured her, then hesitated. Once he had her oath, she could rightfully dismiss him and he would have to comply, when he craved more from her.

  “What I need to hear from you at this moment is your oath to appear at court when called and also a description of how and when you found Master Bernart,” he said, taking Edmund’s precious law and twisting it a little.

  “Must she swear upon anything?” Nanette asked as Mistress Alina yet hesitated.

  “Nay,” Faucon shook his head. “Mistress Alina’s word will suffice.”

  The widow sighed at that, her shoulders relaxing. “I vow to appear when called upon to do so by the justices. When I stand before them, I will testify that I saw Peter the Webber kill my husband. After that, I raised the hue and cry as I knew I should,” she said, her voice rasping again.

  Then she buried her face into her hands. “May God take Peter! How could he have done this?” she cried into her palms.

  “Hush, sweetling,” Nanette murmured, wrapping her arm around her mistress and rocking the woman a little.

  Alina pushed her away. “Nay, I cannot hush!” she cried out.

  Her grief propelled her to her feet, proving that she was as tall as Faucon. Li
ke some women, her form was thin as one of her needles above her waist, while heavier around her hips and her womb. She paced past the stranger in her bedchamber to its door where she threw her arms wide.

  “That arrogant fool! Bernart did this to himself. Did he think that Gisla wouldn’t tell Peter?”

  Faucon watched her, content to wait. The merchant’s wife did not disappoint. Whirling, she started back toward him.

  “Or that Peter wouldn’t be outraged over the news?” she nearly shouted as she passed him, then again dropped to sit on the bed.

  “So your daughter’s betrothed had good reason to wish your husband dead,” he said. It was a comment, not a question.

  Alina lifted her gaze to meet his. Faucon raised his brows. As much as Gisla loved her betrothed, Mistress Alina hated her husband. It was written for all the world to read in her expression.

  “My daughter isn’t betrothed to Peter the Webber or any other man,” she told him.

  “‘Struth?” Faucon asked in surprise. “I joined the hue and cry as we chased the webber,” he told her. “When the man Hodge confronted Father Herebert, trying to breach Peter’s claim to sanctuary, he named the webber your daughter’s betrothed.”

  “So would any man in Stanrudde do,” Nanette replied, nodding.

  “And that man would be just as mistaken as Hodge,” Alina retorted. “Nay, when Bernart and I last spoke of Gisla’s marriage not but a month or so ago, his intention was to wed her to some Londoner. Oh, there was a time when my husband considered a union between our house and Roger’s, wishing to reunite two pieces of the trade my father tore apart so that each of the journeymen he loved would have a business of their own.”

  She glanced up at Faucon. “Bernart and Roger, and Hodge as well, were my father’s apprentices when my mother’s trade supplanted my father’s. They won my father’s affection by their loyalty, by remaining with him and our house after all the others left,” she added in bitter explanation.

  Then her mouth twisted. “But the plan to wed Gisla and Peter occurred five years ago, when Bernart and Roger yet shared some fondness for each other. Now, all their affection is gone, killed by Bernart. He discarded his friend, just as he wished to discard me and my love for him.” The rancor in her voice alone suggested that her husband’s dislike for her wasn’t the first time she’d experienced his betrayal.

  “Oh aye, Bernart continued to make sly suggestions about the union of our children to Roger, but they were only the pretenses of promises. No vows of betrothal have ever been spoken between Gisla and Peter, nor is there a written contract describing the terms of their union.”

  She freed a harsh breath. “That was Bernart. Full of clever words and pretty phrases, talking, always talking, until you believed he’d agreed with you and would provide what you requested. Then, when you finally demanded he produce what you thought he’d promised, his vows would prove empty.”

  Punctuating her remark with a brusque shrug, she stared at her chamber door, her gaze boring holes through the thick wood. “Woe to anyone beneath the rank of baron if they believed a word he said to them.”

  Faucon nodded. He’d known a few with this sort of character. Generally, they’d been men of much charm and wit, but, because they lacked all honor, their word could never be trusted. The proof that Bernart was of their ilk was in the manner of his death. Departing life on the edge of a blade was a common fate for those who broke their word too often.

  That made him reconsider the affection shown by the hue and cry. If Bernart had been this sort of man, it was hardly likely he’d be that beloved by his community. Or that so many men would be set on delivering instant justice to his murderer. Who then did they love, if not Bernart?

  “How was it that you happened to be in the workshop at the instant of your husband’s death?” he asked.

  “I had come down from the hall to call my husband to the table for our meal,” she replied, supplying the answer he expected.

  “And when you stepped into the workroom you saw Peter the Webber. What was he doing when you entered?” he asked carefully, hoping to guide her where he needed her to go.

  “Aye, I saw him,” Alina shot back, her words as sharp as the scissors used on Bernart. She looked directly at him, her dark gaze no less well-honed. “He was kneeling at Bernart’s side as my husband lay on the floor, bleeding his last. The bloody blade was still in his hand.”

  It took all Faucon’s will not to react as she described seeing the impossible. “What did you do when you saw this and realized what Peter had done?”

  That made the widow frown. She glanced at Nanette. The other woman reached out a hand in invitation. Alina twined her fingers with Nanette’s, then shifted on the bed to better study Faucon.

  “What did I do?” she repeated in confusion. “What else, save what I just vowed to tell the justices when they come? I screamed that he had done murder to Bernart. I called for my household to take him.”

  “So she did,” Nanette agreed. “We all heard her from the table.”

  “But even before I raised my voice, Peter had seen me and was racing past me for the door,” Alina said, speaking over the other woman. “I followed him into the courtyard, still screaming of murder and calling for my servants and neighbors to stop him.”

  “As you should have done,” Faucon assured her, smiling a little. “And then you returned to the workshop?”

  Again, his question startled her. She looked at Nanette. “Did I return?”

  “You did,” the needlewoman told her mistress, her tone soothing. “You were very distraught. I found you at Master Bernart’s side. You were trying to close his wound with your hands. I had to drag you away from him. I brought you up here while Mistress Gisla remained in the workshop.”

  Alina’s sighed at that. “Aye, you took off my bloodstained gowns and dressed me in these fresh ones.”

  “Can you tell me where the tally sticks are that Master Bernart was using before he was attacked?” Faucon asked.

  His sudden shift of subject caught both women off-guard and left them staring at him, wide-eyed. “Tally sticks?” Mistress Alina asked at last. “What tally sticks?”

  “I am but assuming,” Faucon offered with a shrug. “It’s the way Master Bernart had arranged his coins on the counting board, as if he were calculating wages. I’m surprised that he would do such a chore without also recording to whom and how much he paid.”

  Again, both women looked startled. Oh aye, something strange was afoot in this house. Mistress Alina was no simple housewife, but an accomplished tradeswoman in her own right, as was Mistress Nanette. It was impossible that they wouldn’t know which tools Master Bernart used to do so important a chore. This was especially so with something like the payment of wages, a task that occurred with regularity.

  Faucon shook his head, dismissing his question. “It was but a thought. I’m told that Master Bernart had a habit of remaining in the workroom while the household was at its meat.”

  Mistress Alina pressed her fingers to her temples as if to ease a pain and looked into her lap. His heart sank, sure this was a sign that she was done with him when he wasn’t finished with her. He waited for her to either refuse to answer or command him from the room, both of which she had the right to do. She surprised him.

  “Your questions are so strange, sir,” she said, lifting her head to look at him again. “What does it matter why my husband was in his workroom and not at our table? Is he not still just as dead?”

  He followed where she led him, daring to press a little further. “I wish to discern if Peter the Webber knew where Master Bernart would be at this particular hour, and also if he knew that your husband would be alone and unguarded. Aye, and if Peter might have realized he would be able to enter your courtyard and home unseen. Is it possible that others outside your household were aware of your husband’s habit of not joining the midday meal?”

  “Others? How can I say what others do or do not know?” Alina demanded of Fau
con, at last sounding like the powerful mistress of commerce he expected her to be.

  “Come now, Mistress,” Nanette chided gently, patting Alina’s hand as she spoke. “It’s no secret, either within these walls or without, that Master Bernart has been avoiding our table for a good while. Say what you know you must. Confirm for Sir Crowner that Peter the Webber knew very well he would find the master alone in his workshop upon the hour of our meal, and that there would be no one to watch his entry into our yard. Also tell him from whom Peter might have learned such a fact.”

  Alina’s expression crumpled at that. Sudden tears glistened in her eyes. She pressed a hand to her mouth, still looking at Nanette.

  “You cannot believe that she would have done such a thing?” The words slipped unsteadily between her fingers, more cry than question.

  “Who else could have told him?” Nanette replied with a sad shake of her head.

  “Nay,” Alina moaned, “she wouldn’t have. For all that was wrong in Bernart, Gisla loves her sire.”

  “But I think she loves Peter more,” Nanette countered, “and so do you. Her father hurt her deeply when he informed her he was negotiating a marriage contract for her with that Londoner.”

  Faucon glanced between the women. “You’re saying that Mistress Gisla told Peter her father would be alone in the workshop during the household’s meal this day?”

  “So it would seem,” Alina sighed.

  Tears slipped unnoticed down her cheeks as she grieved for her daughter the way she didn’t mourn her husband. “I have only recently learned that my daughter has been trysting with Peter, doing so against all that is right and proper. Indeed, she may even now be with child by him.”

  The words were both an admission and a dismissal. After offering his condolences, Faucon departed the chamber, leaving Nanette to comfort her mistress as best she could. Descending the stairs, he once more stopped in the doorway of the workshop.

  Bernart’s body was no longer inside, but the congealed pool of blood that had formed beneath him remained on the floor. Faucon thought the stain left by the merchant’s passing would linger long after they removed the gelled mass. Indeed, it was likely that this fine floor would retain the traces of his death for the lifetime of his house.