In his memory, Faucon again saw the airy drift of fabric off of Rob’s table as he entered Bernart’s courtyard. Unlike the usual warm cream color of raw linen, this fabric had been snow white. “Does Peter take that fine stuff to the pleykster after he retrieves it from his weavers?” he asked, certain what the answer would be.
“Aye, it goes to Hodge.” Roger’s voice broke. He cursed beneath his breath. When he again looked at Faucon, honest confusion and deep hurt filled his gaze. He shook his head like one befuddled.
“Two of the men I once held most dear in my life, lost to me in the space of three months. They have both known my son from the day of his birth. How could either one have set his heart against Peter? Nor can I understand how Hodge would accuse my son of slaying Bernart when he knows my lad as well as I do. No matter what wrong Bernart might have done, to me, to my son, to a beggar on the street or Christ Himself, Peter would never have killed the man who was his future wife’s father.”
He shifted, his hands once again closed into fists as he boldly met Faucon’s gaze. “I would have. By God, I should have killed Bernart the day he broke our agreement. He deserved no less. But, Peter? Nay, never Peter, I know it, aye.”
With that, Roger’s arrogance and anger returned, he straightened to his tallest, then looked down his thin nose at his Crowner. “Have you any further questions for me?”
“Not at this moment,” Faucon replied with a smile. “But more may occur as time passes.”
Roger gave a brusque nod. “Seek me out if you have need, sir. For the now, I and mine have work to attend.”
Without waiting for Faucon’s response, the webber pivoted and walked toward the table on which Bernart lay.
Faucon watched as the master webber paused next to Bernart’s body and spat into the dirt at the table leg before moving on. “What say you?” he asked Colin quietly.
“That Roger is a very angry man,” the monk replied, still watching the webber. “As he has every right to be, if what he says is true. But I fear he has no excuse for what happened to him in regard to that contract. He knew Bernart better than any man. Save Hodge, I suppose,” he added.
That stirred Faucon’s interest. “So Bernart has been an oath-breaker all his life? If that’s so, why did his former master put so much stock in him that he wed him to his daughter?”
Colin smiled at that. “Sir Crowner, if you wish to understand these men, you must learn to think like them. Master William chose Bernart for Alina because Bernart was brilliant at turning pretty ribbons into silver. No matter to whom that lad spoke, his manner was friendly, his words were always honey, and his attitude respectful but never fawning. It was the exact concoction needed to induce the wellborn folk who became Mistress Elinor’s customers, and Mistress Alina’s after her, to buy more than they intended. It’s a skill that neither William nor his other two apprentices could master.”
The monk lifted a hand to indicate the proud house. “As you can see, it worked quite well for Bernart, at least until now. Have you time to share what you’ve learned with me? Might I see where Bernart died?”
“Of course,” Faucon replied. “And I’m more than grateful for any insight you can offer.”
Waving to Edmund so his clerk knew he was stepping away, Faucon led Colin to Bernart’s workroom. A bucket of water now stood in the doorway, a short-bristled broom and a pot of soap at its side. Inside, a pair of lasses, no doubt the girls who now swept ashes from the hearth in Nanette’s place, knelt on the stone floor as far as possible from the spot where their master died. The two were half-heartedly plying their wet rags on tiles that were already clean.
Faucon’s heart jumped as his gaze flew to the shadow print. It was still there. He added yet another note on his mental list of mistakes not to make a second time. There would be no cleaning at the site of a death until he gave permission that it be done.
“Give us a moment, my dears,” Colin said to the lasses.
The alacrity with which they tossed aside their rags and fled said neither wished to touch their dead master’s spilled blood. As if to prove that point, they both shot a glance at the far end of the chamber and crossed themselves as they departed.
Entering the room ahead of Faucon, Colin went to crouch near the gruesome puddle. “He lay here as he bled his last, I see,” the monk said, then looked more closely at the gelled and seeping remains of Bernart’s life. He shifted in his crouch, his gaze wide-eyed. “But the hue and cry was–”
“Exactly so,” Faucon interrupted with a grin, then stepped into the clean area that had been beneath Bernart’s stool, shifting into the murderer’s stance. He lifted his arms, his hands poised as if he were about to slice through the merchant’s neck. “Bernart was sitting here on his stool when he was attacked.”
He mimed the act of murder, then stepped back to once more frown down at the counting board. Every one of the coins still sat where it had been when he’d entered the workshop. That was unexpected, considering that the whole parish was now in the courtyard and the workshop was more or less unguarded. Serving lasses were hardly a deterrent to theft. Perhaps this was just the way those were who had as much wealth as Bernart, that a few stained coins were of little matter.
“Come look at this, Brother,” he said to Colin. “You were once a man of commerce. Tell me what you see upon this board.”
The monk joined his Crowner and stared down at the blood-spattered coins on the board for a moment. “Many small payments. Perhaps the sums he owed for the minor things a household needs day-to-day?” As soon as the words were out Colin shook his head. “Nay, that cannot be. There are too many stacks with the same number of coins in them. These are wages.”
“My thought as well,” Faucon replied, “although neither Mistress Alina nor Mistress Nanette were able to confirm that for me.”
The monk’s brows rose at that. Faucon nodded. “Again, exactly my reaction. Now tell me this. When you were a man of the world, would you have calculated the sums you owed men, whether for goods or services, with your tally sticks and purse yet locked into your treasure chest?”
The surprise on Colin’s face deepened. “Never,” came his stout reply.
As Faucon had done before him, the monk turned to scan the chests in the workroom. “All locked? And they were like this when you first entered?”
“Aye, nothing’s changed since I arrived just after the hue and cry chased Peter into his sanctuary.” He paused, shifting his bits and pieces as he thought. “I cannot make sense of it. Why put away the tally sticks and purse, but not remove the coins from the board?”
“Perhaps the one putting away these things intended to collect the coins as well, only to be interrupted by Peter’s arrival?” Colin offered.
Faucon shook his head at that. “I think not. Peter’s arrival was no interruption. It was intended and well-timed. Here, look at this,” he said, stepping back and pointing to the shadow print on the floor.
Colin came to stand at his side. He stared in silence at the area of tile Faucon indicated for an instant, then shot a sidelong look at his Crowner. “What am I looking at?”
That made Faucon laugh. “Not one for the hunt, are you?”
“Never in my life,” the monk admitted, smiling. “I’m a city man, born and bred.”
Making a show of it, Faucon eased the toe of his soft leather boot into the clear spot, until the print became a bare outline of clean floor around his foot, making the shape clear.
“A shoe!” the monk cried out. “He left a trace!”
“He did, indeed,” Faucon replied, then crouched to once again place his hand into the clean area, refreshing his memory of its outline. “What you see here isn’t the spoor of just any man bent on dealing out death. Nay, the one who did this deed was so trusted that he was able to walk up behind Bernart and ply half of a strange scissors across the man’s throat before Bernart even knew what he was about. All I need do now is find a man beloved by Bernart who wears one shoe spattered
with blood.”
“I take it that man is not Roger,” Colin remarked, coming to crouch next to his Crowner.
“Hardly so.” Faucon traced the outline with his finger. “Even if the webber hadn’t worn a shoe clean of gore, I would have known it wasn’t he who did this. He loves his son too deeply, that one. He’d never use his child to shield his own wrongdoing. So, who did Bernart love that much and who loved him in return? Hodge is a name that comes, for he grieved mightily at the hue and cry.”
“Aye, so Hodge might do, but he’s not a man Bernart ever betrayed,” Colin replied, shaking his head to emphasize his certainty. “Indeed, now that Roger is betrayed, Hodge may be the only man left in Stanrudde whose fingers Bernart never burnt.”
As Faucon opened his mouth to speak, Colin held up a forestalling hand. “Don’t misinterpret nor take any heed of my opinion. All I’m saying is that I cannot imagine him wishing his friend dead. To me, this act has the look of vengeance to it, and I see no reason for Hodge to revenge himself on Bernart.”
“Say what you will, Brother, and I’ll be grateful for it,” Faucon replied. “All I intended to say was that I saw Hodge at the church where Peter has gone to ground. He’s a tall man and this shoe suggests someone smaller.”
“Ah,” Colin replied. “Well then, I’ll say that I think the question you’d best ask is who once loved Bernart that much, then was betrayed. I’ll warn you. The numbers could be legion. Bernart couldn’t prevent himself from using others any more than a fish can stop swimming. It was a bad habit that grew steadily worse once he began living like a lord.”
“If that’s so, then why did so many men of the hue and cry scream for Peter’s blood, behaving as if Bernart were their own brother?” Faucon protested.
That made the monk laugh. “They don’t love Bernart any more than they love anyone else. All you saw was men enjoying the chase, sir, just as you do. Once they were on Peter’s trail, they raced after him, longing to taste blood at the hunt’s end.”
“More fool me,” Faucon replied, laughing at his own blindness. “In my own defense, I’ll tell you I’m the sort of hunter who cares naught if I return with prey in hand or leave the creature standing where I’ve cornered it, so I might chase it again another day.”
“Is that so?” Colin replied, looking surprised, then gave a jerk of his head to indicate the print on the floor. “Why not make a pattern?”
Faucon shot him a startled sidelong glance. “I beg your pardon?”
“A pattern. We’re at a linsman’s house. Perhaps the workmen have a scrap of fabric. If we press it on the floor, it’s possible the dried blood will leave an outline.”
That made Faucon grin in excitement. “I never thought! I know just the men with the skill to do that for me. Give me a moment,” he told Colin, coming to his feet, “and don’t let those lasses back in to do their work while I’m gone.”
“As you command, sir,” Colin agreed with a laugh.
Hurrying across the merchant’s yard to the storehouse, Faucon found Rob and Tom sitting on a table just inside the door. With them were another half-dozen of Bernart’s manservants and laborers. As they had already made their circuit around the table as part of the jury, they were now watching their betters and neighbors parade past their dead master.
“Have you found the bolt to your scissors?” he asked Rob.
The shy man glanced at him, then swiftly away. “I have not, sir, but Tom says our new mistress won’t take the value of that bolt from my wages,” he replied in relief. “We did search as much of the floor in the workshop as we could. We weren’t wont to move any of the chests, not without the mistress’s permission. It is not so large a thing, that bolt. Perhaps it rolled beneath one of them.”
“Possibly,” Faucon agreed although he no longer believed they would find what Rob sought in the workshop. Nay, he was convinced he’d find that bolt in the purse of the one who had opened the scissors. “Are your hands as steady with a tool that’s not as sharp as your scissors, Rob?”
Tom lifted his brows at the question. “Indeed, they are, sir,” he answered for his brother. “What is it you want Rob to do?”
A few moments later, the two laborers were back in the workshop, both of them crouching near their master’s worktable, a scrap of linen in Tom’s hand. Rob had brought with him a pot of ground charcoal. Using the tip of his smallest finger, he carefully spread the smut at the outer edge of the clean area, then took the fabric Tom held. Drawing it taut between his hands, he painstakingly pressed it to the floor inside the shape. When he was satisfied, he lifted the scrap to show his Crowner how the charcoal had marked the cloth.
“Does this suit, sir?” he asked.
When Faucon nodded, Tom handed him a more typical pair of shears, one made in the usual way, as a continuous piece of metal looped to form cutting blades. Lifting the cloth to what light yet streamed in through the windows, Rob clipped slowly and carefully along the outside of the mark, proving his worth. A moment later, he placed the shaped scrap into the print. It fit perfectly.
Faucon and Colin both grinned as they studied it. “Exactly a shoe,” the monk said to Rob, “or rather, most of one. Well done, lad.”
Colin nodded to Faucon. “Now, Sir Crowner, all you need do is take this around to Stanrudde’s shoemakers. I wager one of them will have a form that matches this shape.”
Once again, the monk’s suggestion caught Faucon by surprise. This was a far easier route to discovering the owner of that foot, and by far a better way to follow his trail to the solution he now craved. “And here I envisioned myself walking the lanes in town, staring at every man’s shoes,” he laughed, then shook his head at Colin. “I see there remains much for me to learn about this sort of hunting. So, how many shoemakers are there in this town?”
“Four,” all three men replied as one.
“But only two of them are true craftsmen,” Colin added.
That made Rob and Tom hoot. “You still hold affection for your parish, Brother,” Tom said in mock complaint.
“That’s possible,” Colin said with a grin, then looked at Faucon. “Why do you ask, Sir Crowner?”
“If there are four, then I wonder if Rob might make me three more copies of this pattern, so each shoemaker could have one to compare to his own patterns that he holds in store. Would you, Rob?”
“Aye, I can do that,” the shy man replied, holding Faucon’s precious scrap.
“My thanks. It’s a great boon you’re doing me,” he said, then glanced between the men, considering asking them to guard their tongues about what they’d done for him. He instantly dismissed the idea as futile. No matter what vow he had from them, their tongues would surely wag. The whole household would soon know their Crowner had asked them to make that pattern, and that he’d found something of import in the workshop.
“Would either of you know where I might find Mistress Gisla?” he asked instead.
“Aye,” Tom said. “She said she couldn’t bear to watch the jury, so she took the hogs back to their pen, then went to the far end of the garden.” He pointed to the west, in the direction of the kitchen, to show them where he meant. “I expect you’ll find her on the bench we keep back there, under the apple trees. She likes it there because it’s private and quiet.” As he said this, the workman winked.
Oh aye, tongues wagged in this household. Faucon guessed there wasn’t a man, woman or child within these walls who didn’t know that their young mistress had been meeting illicitly with Peter.
Thanking the man again, Faucon turned for the door when a thought struck him. He looked back at the brothers. “Tell me this, if you can. Did Mistress Alina leave the table more than once to urge your master to join you at your meat?”
It was Rob who answered, doing so with certainty. “Aye, sir. She went three times.”
“Only three? Are you sure?” Tom countered.
Rob nodded, then cast his gaze downward again. “I am. She went fewer times than usual.”
His brother gave a harsh laugh. “Aye, fewer times for sure, but that was only because the master came up dead on her third trip down.”
“How long was she gone from the table on each visit?” Faucon wanted to know.
Tom squinted up at him. “Usually she’s gone only as long as it takes her to speak the words, reminding the master it’s time for him to join us. But this day, she stayed a goodly while as she made that second trip down the stairs. I think it was because she argued with the master. Is that not right, Rob?”
His brother nodded in agreement.
“But you didn’t hear them arguing?” Faucon asked in surprise.
It was Rob who answered. “The floor between hall and workshop is stone. You cannot hear anything, not if yon door is closed.” He indicated the workshop door.
“So how long do you think she remained in here on that second trip?” Faucon pressed. “As long as it might take her to go into your kitchen, say? Or perhaps farther than that? It’s not necessary to be exact. I’m but conjuring how this all happened. It helps me to know the particulars,” he added, to assure the men he asked nothing untoward of them, nothing that might threaten the livelihoods they made for themselves here.
Rob said nothing. Tom glanced from his Crowner to the monk. Colin smiled at him, nodding to encourage an answer. The workman eased back on his heels and closed his eyes for a moment as he thought.
“By my steps, I think she was gone as long as it would take me to pace slowly twice around our storehouse,” he replied as he opened his eyes.
“Did anyone else leave the table before your master died?” It was Colin who asked this question.
“Mistress Nanette,” Rob said to the floor. “She went to the kitchen, wanting milk instead of our usual ale.”
Season of the Fox (A Servant of the Crown Mystery Book 2) Page 10