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

by Denise Domning

  Stripped to his braies, Faucon sat on a short bench and plied his spoon as he ate the alewife’s lamb stew. It was fragrant and tasty, if not very warm. God bless him, Colin had appeared in the alley with a stoppered jug of ale and stew in a small wooden pail, which he’d insisted on carrying Faucon’s meal for him in deference to his injuries.

  Once they’d arrived in the stillroom, Faucon hadn’t waited for Colin to find him more than a spoon. What need had he for a bowl when the pail worked well enough? As for the ale, Colin had insisted his Crowner use a cup for that. Faucon had agreed only because that made the rich dark liquid easier to savor. Indeed, he was enjoying it almost as much as the brews made by the alewife in the village of Priors Holden.

  “This isn’t nearly as deep as I expected,” Colin said, as he washed away the last of the blood from the wound on Faucon’s back. “It’s more scrape than cut. That said, you’re missing a goodly patch of skin back here. It’ll burn as it heals and leave a strange scar, I fear, although I have an unguent that’ll help a bit with that.”

  The monk had already stitched the cut in his Crowner’s upper arm. He’d even applied some wondrous potion to the area that had deadened pain before he’d started sewing. That alone won Faucon’s respect and unending gratitude.

  “Did I not tell you?” Faucon replied, finishing the last of the stew. “The worst of the whole encounter is that yon tunic isn’t mine.” He pointed his spoon toward Sir John’s sodden garment, fearing it was ruined now that it was both bloodstained and watermarked. The walk to the abbey had been long enough for the fabric to clot to his wound, and Colin had needed to soak the area before he could remove the tunic. “I cannot return it to the man who owns it both stained and torn.”

  That made the monk laugh. “In the morning, I’ll see to your garment, making sure it’s mended and cleaned for you while you make your visit to our shoemakers. I’m sure the abbot can find you a tunic to use on the morrow, that is, if you vow not to allow more brigands to attack you and ruin that one as well.”

  As he said that, Colin laid a hand on Faucon’s right shoulder. “If you are able to visit Peter on the morrow, I think you’d best stay in Herebert’s church long enough to offer our Lord a bit of thanks. Both injuries on the left! You won’t be away from the tools of your trade for long, if at all. My only concern is how to wrap it, for it will surely seep,” he finished, speaking more to himself than Faucon.

  Turning to a tall basket that leaned against the far wall, the monk asked, “So, are you going to tell me what happened tonight?”

  Faucon laughed, draining his cup, then lifting the jug to squeeze the last drop from it. “After you tell me if Hodge is wed and if has he any heirs.”

  Colin pulled a length of linen from the basket, nicked it with a knife then tore it. The fabric whirred softly as it separated, doing so in a straight line. “He’s a widower as of half a year ago,” he said, as he continued to tear bandages, “although I find it hard to name him so when his was hardly a marriage. Master William arranged the union for Hodge, choosing Maud, the widow of our previous pleykster, so she might train him in her husband’s trade. Hodge was an honest lad, and hard working. Yet, despite that he strove mightily, he ever remained the least of William’s apprentices. He couldn’t understand the value of what Mistress Elinor and her women produced. And because he couldn’t, he consistently undersold their products. William was right to find him a more straightforward trade to master.

  “As for heirs, nay, Hodge has none. Maud was a toothless crone when they wed, all her own heirs having passed before her. Hodge became more son to her than husband, and he was good to her until she finally left this earthly vale.

  “Now, you tell me your tale,” the monk demanded, albeit mildly as he brought his strips of linen to the table.

  As Faucon’s bits and pieces once more shifted, this time falling into what was becoming a pleasing pattern, he smiled and shifted to straddle the end of the bench as Colin indicated. “Tonight’s little spat was a message from Sir Alain. He’d prefer that I cease to be a servant of the crown in his shire.”

  That startled a laugh out of the monk. He shook his finger at Faucon. “Did I not warn you at our first meeting that our lord sheriff wouldn’t much like your appointment?”

  Faucon grinned. “So you did, and you weren’t the only one to offer up words of caution. Lady Marian of Blacklea told me she expected Sir Alain to eat up my bones. Do you think she’s right?”

  The monk eyed his Crowner for a moment, then gave a slow and negative shake his head. “Although I might have agreed with her two weeks ago, I’m no longer so certain.” Then he winked. “Although you do look like death. You’re more spattered than Bernart.”

  Faucon laughed. “Wind your bandages around me, old man, then let me find that corner you promised me.”

  Faucon groaned as he awakened. He was indeed sore, but he blamed most of his aching on that new bed of his at Blacklea. It was making him soft. In just two weeks he’d forgotten how to rest easily on an earthen floor with nothing but a straw-stuffed pallet between him and the dirt. Lifting off his mantle, which he’d used as a second blanket, he pushed aside the thin sheet of wool that Colin had offered, then sat up and squinted. The stillroom door stood wide, letting in both dawn’s light and morn’s chill air.

  Although the sun had barely risen–dawn came later now that Winter was almost upon them–the business of the world was already at hand. Small birds darted back and forth across the opening, chittering and commenting happily to each other over the richness of the dying herb garden that spread out before the stillroom door. In the distance, hammers on anvils were already tapping out the beat of the city’s heart. Closer to hand, donkeys brayed and sheep bleated. Someone whistled a cheery tune.

  Faucon grinned. And he yet lived. He came to his feet, his mantle in hand, then rotated his injured arm and smiled. Not only did he move, he moved well. He shifted his shoulder blade and winced. All things considered, it was a good day. But then, he’d never doubted that Colin knew his trade.

  Although the monk was nowhere to be seen, on the corner of the table nearest Faucon was a neatly folded tunic. Blue in color, it was woolen and well made. No doubt it had come from one of the abbey’s new novices. Beside the tunic was a small loaf of bread, a good-sized wedge of cheese and a jug. Pulling the stopper from the jug, Faucon sniffed, then made a face. Not watered wine but watered vinegar.

  On the floor beneath all this welcome bounty was a pail of water that was as cold as this morning’s air. A cloth hung over the pail’s brim. Again Faucon grinned, taking Colin’s hint. He didn’t bother dressing after he washed, knowing that the monk would want to check his wounds and bandages. Instead, he wrapped his mantle around him and ate, even choking down the vinegar. He was just finishing when Colin returned to his workspace.

  “How does Sir Crowner this morn?” the monk asked, throwing back his cowl and disentangling his hands from his wide sleeves. His breath clouded a little as he spoke. “Look here, Dickon. This is Sir Crowner. Sir Crowner, Dickon is my new apprentice.”

  Only then did Faucon see the oblate tagging along behind the monk. The boy, an extra son or an orphan given over to the convent to be raised by the brothers, could have been no more than eight. A compact child, he had a freckled face and red hair that stood in spikes about his head. In his hands he carried a wad of crumpled linen.

  “Good morrow, Dickon,” Faucon said in greeting. The lad but smiled shyly at his Crowner. That he was tongue-tied was no doubt the outcome of being raised among the brothers with their mostly silent ways.

  “Dickon and I have quite the day ahead of us, so I fear I won’t be able to assist you any further as you go about your duties, Sir Crowner,” Colin said, sounding disappointed.

  “I doubt you’ll be missing much, not when I think I’ll be on the road for home before midday,” Faucon replied with a shake of his head. “However, should something occur, you can rest assured you’ll know about it. I’
ll see to that.” Aye, he owed Colin that much.

  “My thanks,” the monk replied with a nod and a smile. “Now, Dickon and I are here to see to your dressings. If you’ll remove your mantle?”

  After Faucon set aside his outer garment, Colin plucked at the lengths of linen he’d wrapped about his Crowner’s back. They’d loosened overnight, pulled free by Faucon’s tossing and turning.

  “Dickon, do you see how loose these have become?” the monk said to his red-headed shadow. “They will never stay in place once he dons his tunic. How shall we keep them were they should be?”

  The child shook out the fabric he had in his hands, revealing that it was a linen shirt. That was a garment Faucon didn’t presently have at hand. His own shirts were yet making their way to Blacklea at a snail-like pace.

  Clearing his throat, Dickon glanced between monk and knight. “Aren’t we to make him don this? Then you’ll pin the bandages to it so they won’t shift?”

  “Smart lad,” Colin complimented with a smile, taking the garment from the boy. “So we shall.”

  Faucon grinned. Would that the holy brothers with whom he’d begun his education had been as kind or careful with him. If they had been, he might have resisted leaving the Church rather than racing away as fast as he could, eager to take up a warrior’s trade.

  “Sit and we’ll see you properly wrapped again, Sir Crowner,” Colin said.

  As Faucon did as he was commanded, he looked over his shoulder at the monk and his boy. “Once again, many thanks for your good work, Brother. I move far more easily than I expected to this morn. And thank you as well for providing this clothing. Might I ask where Sir John’s tunic has gone?”

  “It’s already in the hands of our launderers. Although I think I should warn you,” Colin replied as he worked. “They’re not certain they can remove all the blood, not without also removing much of the color.”

  That’s all it took to stir Faucon’s precious bits of information into unfolding. He smiled as he looked upon the whole of the tale they told. It was, indeed, a good day to be alive, especially for Peter the Webber.

  When he at last left the stillroom, he gave Colin a message for Brother Edmund, warning his clerk to wait for him here after the mass at Terce ended. In return Colin gave him greetings to share with Stanrudde’s shoemakers, should he need something to help him win their compliance.

  The abbey’s bell began to ring as Faucon exited from the convent’s western gate. One by one, the bells of the churches across the city followed suit, their tones ranging from a dark bass to a sweet soprano. The sounds filled the chill air with the reminder to all within Stanrudde’s walls that the hour for the Prime mass had come.

  He let the carillon carry him in the direction of Father Herebert’s church. It was no longer just his need to speak with Peter that drove him, but his own heart’s demand for a conversation with his Lord.

  All around him, the city stirred mightily, rising swiftly to meet this new day. Roosters crowed, maids sang as they worked, masters shouted at their apprentices. Grunting hogs, chased from their sties, began their daily hunt for offal along the lanes. A great cloud of pigeons rose into the sky, circling and swooping in distress. No doubt the ones who tended these birds had entered their cote to harvest eggs.

  Faucon joined the surprisingly large number of folk moving toward Father Herebert’s church only to realize that this shorter service would suit city folk, who had so many demands on their day. As he entered the small square where the hue and cry had ended yesterday, he looked to the church porch.

  Four men of the town guard stood at either side of the open church door. Rather, they lounged. No doubt having spent the previous night guarding the door, the young men all leaned against the stone wall behind them, their cloaks wrapped tightly around them, eyes closed and faces turned toward the newborn sun.

  Ducking his head, Faucon climbed the steps then moved swiftly past them into the church without generating a reaction. That made him wonder if Peter might not be able to do the same going in the opposite direction. As swiftly as he thought it, Faucon set aside the notion. Roger the Webber’s son had no desire to become outlaw. Nay, all he wanted was the life that belonged to him, the one that others were just as committed to stealing from him.

  Against the possibility that Gisla hadn’t yet sent her message to the priest, Faucon eased into the shadows behind the open church door. From that vantage point, he studied the sanctuary. Like most churches as old as this one, it was small, perhaps no more than half as long as Bernart’s house, and narrow. Several modest windows pierced the upper reaches of its stone walls. Rather than the arches and rounded ceiling that was the style for churches built more recently, this one’s ceiling came to a sharp peak.

  Set in a line, three simple columns separated nave from apse, something that would surely change after the new tower was completed. Faucon peered through them, seeking Peter, but couldn’t see the webber in his stone seat. Then again, if this church were typical, the frith stool and its sorry occupant would be off to the side of the altar, hidden from Faucon by the angle of the columns.

  When the time came for Father Herebert to proceed to the altar, Faucon was startled to see that the sanctuary was nearly full. Folk stood shoulder to shoulder, filling almost the whole space on this side of the columns. As they waited for their priest to begin the service, they chatted with friends, offering those more distant from them waves and calls of good morrow.

  Yet seeking to remain hidden from the priest, Faucon wound his way into the midst of the crowd, away from the door and the central pathway Father Herebert would use. He pushed past ragged beggars and around well-dressed matrons to stop between a roughhewn workman and an alderman, or so said the gold chain the man wore. It was a good place to stand. There were still enough folk between him and the altar that he would see nothing of the priest at his table, save for the top of Father Herebert’s head.

  When the elderly churchman raised his rich voice to sing out the opening words of the mass, his rich voice filled the sanctuary, his Latin words both mysterious and familiar in one soaring instant. As always happened, the very cadence of the service lifted Faucon’s heart, filling him with comfort and gratitude. His head remained bowed even after it came to an end and he offered up his private thanks for all the wondrous good that presently filled his life.

  As the parishioners turned to depart, Faucon let himself be pulled along with them, once again seeking protection behind the door, hoping to prevent or at least delay what might be a confrontation with the priest. Much to his surprise, Father Herebert joined his departing flock, his head bowed. The priest kept his gaze focused at his feet all the way to the door, then stepped through the opening and was gone.

  Uncertain if this was Gisla’s hand at work or something else, Faucon pushed the door until it was stood barely ajar, then made his way to the apse end of the church. He found Peter the Webber sprawled miserably in the short squat stone chair that was placed between the altar and the wall.

  No older than Gisla, Peter looked much like his father, being long and lanky with blue eyes and fair hair, his skin summer-browned. The lad didn’t shift out of his sprawl as Faucon stopped in front of him. Indeed, he seemed barely able to lift his head to see who came. When he finally did, Faucon saw none of his father’s anger in his expression. Instead, there was only confusion and fear.

  “Peter the Webber, I am Sir Faucon de Ramis, the newly appointed Keeper of the Pleas for this shire. I am the man responsible for resolving the matter of Bernart le Linsman’s murder,” Faucon told him with a nod of greeting.

  Peter’s eyes widened. He jerked upright in his stone chair, his hands gripping its hard cold arms. “I have sanctuary,” he pronounced without raising his voice.

  “Indeed you do,” Faucon agreed, “and good it is that you have it. Not because you killed Bernart, for that was not done at your hand. But there remain others outside these walls determined to see you die in their place. They have fai
led once to achieve their aim, but I have no doubt they’ll finish what they began if you do not help me them.”

  The boy stared at him for an instant in astonishment, then released a shaken breath to bury his face in his hands. It was a moment before he again raised his head. To his credit he shed no tears. Instead, there was nothing but gratitude in his gaze.

  “Thank you,” he breathed. “She saw me trying to help him, even though I knew by looking at his wound it was too late to do aught. I couldn’t believe it when she shouted out that I’d done murder. How could anyone believe I’d kill a man I loved like my own father, the man who would one day be my father-by-marriage, especially her?” he pleaded, proving that his father and his friends knew Peter for who he truly was.

  “Best you thank God that you had the presence of mind to run rather than staying to argue the point,” Faucon told him with a laugh.

  The boy managed a tiny smile at that, then continued in a stronger voice. “Is she the one who did this horrible thing?”

  “I’ve yet a task or two to do before I can say anything for certain about who made the cut in Bernart’s throat as compared to those who planned the cutting. Only after I know all can I free you from this place,” Faucon told him. “What I need from you at this moment is your tale. Know before you begin that I’ve already spoken with Mistress Gisla and she’s told me of your private meetings.”

  This time, Peter’s eyes did fill with the moisture from his heart. “Mary save her. She must hate me, believing I used our secret to murder her father.”

  “You misjudge her,” Faucon replied. “I don’t think she ever thought, not even for a moment, that you had done this. For your heart’s sake you should also know that she had no hand in what happened to her sire. As for your secret, it isn’t much of one. So well did those who watched her know what was afoot that they easily discerned which of the two ribbons to place in the stones for you yestermorn.”