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

by Denise Domning

  “But he did come,” Faucon replied. “He did, because the one who needed him in the workroom at that hour left that sign for him. Where do you keep those ribbons when they aren’t in the wall, Mistress?”

  The girl gasped and reached for the purse threaded onto her embroidered belt. She thrust her hand into the pouch, only to cry out in dismay as she pulled back empty fingers. “They’re gone!”

  Faucon stifled his urge to grin in triumph. Peter’s presence in the workroom had indeed been very carefully planned. Of course it had. One of the terms of the union between Gisla and Peter had included Peter becoming master here after Bernart. What better way to negate that contract, such as it was, than to see Gisla’s love hanged for her father’s murder?

  After Colin had bid Mistress Gisla to find her bed, sending her up the stairs with the promise that God and His angels would keep her safe, Faucon and the monk returned to the courtyard. The jurors were gone as was Elsa’s body, but Bernart yet lay on the table. In the dimness, the gaping gash across his throat looked blue against the pallor of his cold skin.

  Edmund yet sat on his stool, bathed in the oily glow of a flickering torch. He had his arms outstretched before him and was flexing his fingers as if to ease their aching.

  “Sir Faucon,” he called when he saw his master, “you are just in time. The inquest is complete and all is recorded as it must be. A good day’s work done and done efficiently, if I do say so myself,” he added in satisfaction.

  “Then so you should say, Brother Edmund,” Faucon called back as he and Colin started toward him.

  “Sir Crowner, your patterns,” Tom said, stepping out of the open doorway of the now-darkened storehouse. He held out the bits of linen Rob had cut. “I’m glad I found you. Once we take our master back within the house, the door will close and we’ll not be out again until the morrow.”

  Faucon took the thin sheets of fabric, folding them until he could tuck them into the purse that hung from his belt with his gloves. “My thanks again to you and your brother.”

  Tom’s reply was a single nod. “I hope you find the one who wears that shoe, sir. Our master may not have been the best of men, but no one deserves to die thusly in his own home.”

  Then, turning toward open door behind him, he called, “Come all of you. It’s time to fetch the master inside so he might be washed and wrapped.”

  Two men came with Rob to join Tom. The four of them hurried ahead of Faucon and Colin to lift Bernart’s unresponsive weight between them. Then, grunting, they bore their former master on their shoulders as they returned him to his fine house for one last time.

  As they departed, Faucon smiled at his clerk. “Brother Edmund, I cannot speak for you, but I know my belly reminds me of how little I’ve eaten this day. Brother Colin and I are meeting an acquaintance of mine at an alewife’s shop. Will you join us?” Just as Bernart put food upon his table for those he employed, it was Faucon’s duty to supply Edmund’s meals.

  “Nay, I’m for the abbey,” his clerk replied, then aimed a hard look at his fellow monk. “It’s a fast day today, Brother. I think you should return with me to the abbey as well rather than courting temptation by lingering where men make a show of savoring food and drink.”

  It was no request. While Faucon bit his tongue to keep himself from chiding his small-minded clerk, something Colin wouldn’t allow him to do, Colin bowed his head. In that instant, his demeanor shifted from the intelligent friend Faucon appreciated to the humble lay brother Edmund expected.

  “Indeed, it is a day of fasting, Brother Edmund, and so I have done all the day long,” the commoner said. “Please harbor no concerns my behalf, secure in the knowledge that Abbot Athelard does not. I but go with Sir Crowner to show him this place, he being a newcomer to our town. Once he’s there, I’ll return to the abbey.”

  Colin paused to look at Faucon. “Tell me, Sir Crowner, now that you are locked within our city walls for the night. Have you accommodations?”

  “Not as of yet,” Faucon replied. “I’ll admit I hoped Abbot Athelard might offer me your guest house.”

  “I fear that isn’t possible, not tonight,” Colin replied with a shake of his head. “Our abbot holds aside that space, expecting the arrival of a bishop’s private secretary who comes either late this night or on the morrow. I cannot promise you that the alewife will have space for you, but should you find nothing else, there is a comfortable corner in my stillroom. It’s not much, but it would suit a man who isn’t overly fastidious about where he lays his head.”

  Faucon caught back his laugh. Just as Colin knew his way around a corpse, so too did the monk understand how to circumvent Edmund’s unbending attitude.

  “That would be a gift, indeed. I’m sure your stillroom will be quieter and cleaner than an alewife’s house,” he replied. “Would you mind remaining with me for the duration? The man I’m meeting isn’t one to chat, so I doubt I’ll linger long at the alewife’s house. It would be a welcome boon if you were to stay to lead me to your stillroom when the time comes. Perhaps Brother Edmund will be comforted with my promise to see you aren’t tempted to break your fast.”

  “That I can do, Sir Crowner. With Brother Edmund’s permission, of course,” Colin said, his head still bowed.

  “Go then with Sir Faucon, Brother,” Edmund said, “knowing that I will be looking for you at Compline service tonight. Sir Faucon, if it’s no trouble to you, I’d like to attend morning prayers with my brothers before we leave Stanrudde on the morrow,” Edmund continued as he slid off Bernart’s stool. He picked up his traveling basket and prepared to pack his tools. “Perhaps we might stay our departure until after Terce?”

  Faucon grimaced at the thought of leaving Stanrudde without resolving the matter of Bernart’s death. But there was nothing more he could do with what little he had at the moment. Nor had he any hope that he might have gathered anything more before mid-morning on the morrow. Somehow he doubted that the shoemakers would put aside paying business to sort through who knew how many patterns on the behalf of a man they didn’t know. Nay, if the shoemakers were willing to find that pattern for him, it would happen in their leisure hours. He feared Peter would have to linger a good while longer in his wrongful prison, even if the webber managed to confirm what Faucon now suspected.

  “After Terce it will be, then,” he said to Edmund, nodding his agreement. Well, at least that gave him until almost midday to distribute his patterns, doing so without his clerk’s interference. “On the morrow, then.”

  Leaving Edmund to make his own way to the abbey, Faucon and Colin started out Bernart’s gate, once more following the path of Peter’s flight, this time moving in the proper direction. As they walked, Colin entertained his Crowner by pointing out this shop and that home, offering tales of the lives that had been lived in them.

  It was on their second turn that Faucon sensed those who followed. He shot a quick glance over his shoulder. There were five. Unlike the groups who sang their drunken way down the lanes, laughing and shouting insults to one another, or those who strutted along, seeking trouble or a whore, these men came on with purpose and moving as one. It was the precision of their movement that named them soldiers, and in that precision Faucon identified the one who’d sent them.

  His mouth set in a grim line. However inconvenient, their appearance in Stanrudde at this particular moment wasn’t unexpected. He’d seen their master today on the road after he’d departed from Blacklea. All that remained was to determine who would play the fox and who the hare in this encounter.

  Keeping his head bent in the posture of a listener, Faucon again released the pin that held his mantle close around him, fastening that pretty bit of metal to his tunic. With no buckler for his left hand, the possibility of wrapping his mantle around his arm was the best he could do. That was, if he could manage to turn his garment around his hand without tripping over it or otherwise hampering his own defense.

  Pulling his shoulders forward to keep his outer garmen
t balanced on them, he claimed his gloves from where they’d spent the day tucked into his belt. He donned them beneath the shield of his mantle, then repositioned and loosened his sword.

  Colin led them around the next corner and into a narrow alley. The inviting aroma Faucon had noted earlier was muted now, no doubt much of the alewife’s wares having been consumed in the past hour. With nightfall, her daytime trade wisely departed for their homes, finding safety behind their own barred doors, as should all good folk do. That left her her nighttime trade, those from whom good folk should always flee, free to creep out of hiding, ready to seek out what perverted pleasures they could under the cloak of darkness.

  Faucon eyed the alleyway. This was the perfect place for the assault he expected. Not only were there no windows overlooking the alley in any of the houses that lined it, he suspected those who lived here knew better than to involve themselves in a stranger’s misfortune. Moreover, those who followed him would come for him here as they no more wanted to be seen than Faucon wished others to see them.

  Colin laughed at something he’d just said, something Faucon hadn’t heard.

  “Brother,” he said softly, “I need you to do me a boon, one that may well save my life. I’ll be needing the man you call Richard Alwynason at my side in a moment or two.”

  Even in the dark, he could see the monk’s eyes fly wide at his request. Colin’s mouth opened. Faucon carefully shook his head in warning. God bless the man, he understood, and neither looked behind them nor blurted questions.

  “What do we do now?” Colin whispered, bowing his head as he crossed his arms, tucking his hands into his sleeves.

  “We do nothing. All the help I need is in the man you’ll warn, begging him as you do to come to me in silence,” he replied. “After that, you’ll stay inside the alewife’s door until he or I call for you. For the now, we walk until those behind us force the issue.”

  Then, raising his voice to its normal tone, Faucon said, “So, tell me about this alewife and her wares. Not that I need you to speak words when my nose tells me I’ll enjoy this meal.”

  Again, Colin followed where he led without hesitation, starting in on the alewife’s tale. The five steadily closed the gap between them for another half a perch. A sharp whistle pierced the air.

  “Now, Brother,” Faucon said calmly.

  As Colin sprinted down the alley, Faucon turned, swinging his mantle out over his head with his left hand. Although only fabric and fur, his unexpected movement was enough to confuse his attackers for an instant. That was hesitation enough for Faucon to draw his sword and get his mantle wound twice around his left hand.

  Then they were on him. Holding his wrapped arm before him as a shield, he caught the first one’s shorter sword on his own. With a shriek of metal, he twisted his weapon free, then smashed its hilt into this one’s face. As the man’s nose and cheekbone broke, he screamed and fell to the side, colliding with two of his mates.

  Steel nipped at the flesh of his left shoulder. Faucon danced to the side, tempting his attacker to follow. The fool did. Faucon’s foot met the man’s knee with enough force to knock his leg out from beneath him. As this one toppled, he shifted, sword flashing as he drove its tip into the next man’s throat. His assailant dropped, well on his way to death.

  Yanking his sword clear, Faucon danced back. There were four yet afoot, but the man he’d stunned swayed helplessly behind his companions, his face darkened with blood.

  Two came at once. He pivoted, slamming his shoulder into one as he caught the other’s blade with his gloved hand and twisted. The man’s sword flew. From the corner of his eye he saw the third man swing his weapon toward his unprotected neck.

  Faucon bent his knees and swiveled. The blow glanced off his upper back, cutting into flesh and cloth and sending him staggering. One knee barely touched the earth before he was rising and turning. As he did, one of his attackers dropped before him, blood gushing from his throat the way it had from Bernart earlier this day. The warm wet spray spattered Faucon’s face.

  Another piercing whistle tore through unnatural quiet in the alley. In an instant the three who could yet walk were gone, leaving behind their dead or dying companions.

  Panting in exertion, Faucon leaned against the wall behind him and shrugged his shoulders. They both moved without pain, telling him that nothing of import was injured, although he would surely ache on the morrow. Still, blood trickled down his back, sticky and warm, staining another man’s garment. He made a face, guessing it would take needle and thread to repair both him and Sir John’s tunic.

  As Temric FitzHenry, or Richard Alwynason, crouched to wipe his knife blade on the fallen man’s tunic, the older warrior looked up at Faucon. “I was told to make no sound as I came,” he said, his tone amused. “May I assume it’s safe to speak now?”

  “Aye, you may, but I think I’ll speak first,” Faucon said with a grateful smile as his rescuer came to his feet. “By God, I’m glad you agreed to meet with me this night. If the day comes when you have such a need, know that I am yours.”

  The knight who was not a knight almost smiled at that. “For the sake of my half-brothers who love you, glad I am I was here to assist. Although I think the news you crave of them should wait for another meeting. Brother Colin was none too happy at being commanded to stay away. Once he’s got you, I expect he’ll busy himself tending to your needs.”

  Then the knight toed the man whose throat he’d cut. “Tell me, Sir Crowner. Shall we raise the hue and cry, and chase down these evildoers?”

  “As this shire’s Crowner I pronounce their killings justified,” Faucon replied with a breath of a laugh, then he sighed. “I would just as well throw these two into the nearest cesspit. I’d rather they weren’t identified.”

  “How so?” Temric asked.

  An explanation was the least he owed this soldier. “The one who sent these dogs did so believing that the outcome would be in his favor no matter how this encounter ended. If I died, he would be rid of me and all I represent to him. He would then be free to replace me with a man of his own choosing. But he was equally prepared for me to live on past this attack. Now that I have, he’ll expect me to come for him, making accusations of attempted murder. He’ll meet my accusations with cries of besmirched honor, then challenge me when I’m not yet ready to meet him sword to sword. But, if his men are identified, I’ll have no choice in the matter. If I don’t make the expected charges, I’ll seem a coward.”

  “Ah,” the older man replied in understanding, “thus costing you the respect of every man in the shire.”

  Faucon nodded. To lose the respect of those in this shire so soon in the term of his appointment meant he’d never command the authority he needed to do what was expected of him. And if he failed at his tasks, he’d not only disappoint his great-uncle, he’d lose his twenty pounds a year.

  “As you can see, this man believed no matter what happened, he would be rid of me,” Faucon repeated. “The only factor he hadn’t considered when he sent his men to follow me to Stanrudde was that there might be someone here who could come to my aid.”

  As the words left Faucon’s mouth, the bits and pieces he held so precious shuffled, moving until the tale they told began to unfold. He grinned, at last understanding why the coins had been left on the board. Aye, who, indeed, was the fox and who the hare?

  The older knight freed a harsh breath. “Well, as far as these two, I think you’re in luck. It just so happens there are a few men inside the alehouse I suspect know how to make such offal disappear. I’ll pay them on your behalf, guarding your anonymity, and happily take in trade your promise of future aid. Although it’s a poor trade on my part, I think. I cannot imagine ever needing such assistance now that I have given up the warrior’s life to become a city man. Good night to you, Sir Faucon. I’ll send Brother Colin to you.”

  Much to Faucon’s surprise, this usually humorless man offered him a smile. As Temric’s mouth lifted, the shadows rearranged
themselves, flowing over the rough lines of his face, highlighting the rise of his cheekbones and bend of his nose. His eyes were but a bare gleam.

  “At the moment, I find myself thinking it may be a good thing to know a Crowner, but not such a good thing to be one, at least not in this shire. Rannulf was wise to refuse the position. If my guess is right as to who hunts you, I think you’d be well advised to hire someone to help watch your back.”

  Then Temric disappeared into the darkness at the back of the alleyway.

  Brother Colin’s stillroom, where the monk made the concoctions he used in his healing, was hardly more than a shed which stood near the end of the abbey’s infirmary. Long and narrow, it had a tile roof and wooden walls. The half dozen tallow lamps the monk had set out so he could see to Faucon’s injuries offered more than enough light to show his Crowner every corner of this amazing place.

  Only one wall was bare, that being one of the narrow end walls. It had been painted with the image of their Lord healing the leper. A small prie-dieu stood against the painting, no doubt the place where Colin offered up his private prayers in those instances when his work kept him from joining his brothers.

  Faucon could see little of the other three walls. Bunches of herbs, each one offering up its fragrance or stink, filled the length of every beam and hung from strings tacked to the tops of the walls. Beneath this leafy ceiling ran line after line of narrow shelving. These shelves were jammed with tiny pots and ewers, stacks of nested bowls and small spoons, mortars with their pestles, and wee wooden boxes, the sort that apothecaries used. Beneath the lowest shelf, the base of the walls was cluttered with sacks of who-knew-what.

  A long table took up the center of the chamber. Combs of beeswax as well as pots of goose grease and tallow filled one end. Aligned along its center were three small braziers, a metal bowl sitting atop each one. The only sign of the equipment Colin used for distilling his concoctions was the copper vessel at the far end of the table. Since the still needed fire to do its work, Faucon guessed that the monk did the actual distilling stood outside the shed.