Season of the Raven (A Servant of the Crown Mystery Book 1)

by Denise Domning

  "I think you're wrong," Drue replied with a cocky smile. "And I also think you'll be glad 'twas we two who came to help."

  He patted the leather purse that hung from his belt. Three needles had been threaded through its front. "It's much easier to take apart Halbert's garments than to try to remove them. I remake and sell used clothing here in Priors Holston, when not tending my fields. Opening seams is just what this lad and I might be doing today, if not for the call to attend the jury," he said.

  "Aye, that will suffice," Faucon replied in surprise and satisfaction.

  "Then I will do it for you, but only if you let Stephen Miller know that it was done at your command. I dare say Stephen is his father's son, and anger can often get the better of him. This tunic must be new, for I've not seen it on Halbert before this day. Although he didn't purchase it from me, I suspect it was meant to replace one he'd torn so badly I couldn't mend it so that the repair didn't show."

  Here, the commoner grinned. "What I lost by not selling him this new tunic, I made up when Halbert sold me the ruined one. He's a big man. I got his torn garment for next to nothing, and sold it three times over, after turning it into garments for boys."

  Such a profit was no surprise. Garments and the fabric from which they were made were worth their weight in gold. In the de Ramis household, Faucon's mother stored even their oldest and most worn garments in locked chests.

  "I hereby command you to do as you must to bare the miller's corpse," Faucon told the tailor.

  The tailor nodded, then drew from his purse a scissor no larger than his hand. Carefully crafted, its looped handles fit neatly into his palm. "Step aside and let me at my work," Drue commanded of his betters.

  Colin came to his feet, joining Faucon as they backed away from Halbert. The tailor swatted his apprentice across the top of his head. The boy squeaked more in surprise than pain, and looked up at his master.

  "Stop gawking, lad, and hold the garment taut as I've shown you, so we can open it here," he said, pointing to the left side of Halbert's tunic.

  Once the two had stretched the fabric between their hands, the tailor slid his shears up the length of the seam that joined front to back. Threads popped and snapped as he did the same to the joining between sleeve and tunic. When both were open, the lad pulled the left front of the tunic up and over Halbert's crushed right shoulder. The hem of the garment slid over the edge of the race to once more enter the water.

  Beneath his tunic Halbert wore an undyed linen shirt. This the tailor also opened along the seam line, and the boy folded back the pieces to reveal Halbert's torso. The miller's chest was covered in thick coarse hair from the base of his throat until it disappeared beneath the voluminous folds of his braies, the undergarment that all men wore beneath their clothing.

  Over the course of his life, Faucon had seen a great many wounds, of late most of them the gaping holes left by war, including a lance thrust that had torn a man in twain, spilling his entrails as the parts of him dropped in opposite directions. He'd even seen his cousin Gilliam gored so badly by a boar that it had been a wonder he had survived.

  Save for Halbert's crushed right shoulder and arm, the miller's chest wore only two obvious signs of injury. Both were old and well-healed. Just below his left shoulder was the almost star-shaped mark where an arrow had penetrated his flesh, then been pulled out again. Judging by the shape of the scar, the journey out had done more damage than the journey in. The second was the mark of a sword that ran across his chest from his collarbone to the base of his ribs. It was easy to see, because Halbert's chest hair had never grown back along it. More than the arrow mark, this scar confirmed the miller's previous life as a soldier.

  Colin returned to Halbert's side to run his hands over the man's chest. "You must be here. Where are you hiding?" he asked of the wound he sought.

  A moment later, his fingers circled over the center of Halbert's chest, where his heart nestled beneath flesh and bone. "Here is something."

  Brushing aside what concealed it, Colin revealed a puncture wound just to the left of the miller's breastbone. "The placement could mean a heart wound. What say you? Do you know what could have made this hole, and could it have ended the miller's life?" he asked of Faucon.

  It was a fair question, directed at a man who'd happily spent almost half his life training with every sort of lethal weapon, so he might use them on the battlefield to kill other men in every possible way a life could be ended.

  Faucon examined the wound. It was round and seemed too small to be deadly until he probed it with the tip of his little finger. The wound was larger than it first looked, having closed in on itself after the weapon exited. No blood crusted around it, but that was no surprise, not with Halbert in the water so long.

  At last, he sat back on his heels. "The blade of whatever made this left a hole no larger than the tip of my smallest finger. And as you say, Brother Colin, the wound is in the right place and at the correct angle to do damage to Halbert's vital organs, whether heart or lung. Because there is only one wound and it is neither torn nor distended, as might happen if the blade had been repeatedly thrust into him along that same path, I believe Halbert's death came with a single thrust of this weapon. That is certainly not improbable, not if that thrust penetrated his heart on the first blow. I once saw a man drop dead within the space of a few breaths when an arrow pierced his chest and lodged in his heart."

  Now Faucon used his forefinger to trace a circle around the hole. "I see no bruising on his chest, when I think I should," he said. "To kill with but one blow demands a certain amount of force. In my mind, the thrust should have been powerful enough that the hilt of the weapon would have marked him. That is, if the hilt made contact with his flesh. Because there is no bruise, I can only guess that this weapon is either long enough that the hilt didn't touch him when the blade entered, or it has no hilt."

  He shook his head, finding it hard to imagine either case. "But what a strange weapon that would be. Not to mention one with a very odd shape. Nothing I've wielded has a blade this round, much less a long round blade with no hilt. That leaves me thinking what killed Halbert must be a tool of some sort."

  As Faucon said this, one bit of knowledge knit to a piece he hadn't realized he already had in store. The woman he'd ridden past on the way to the mill this morning, the one sewing together a boot. She had been using an awl, a tool about the length of his hand and with a shank that must have been at least half as thick as his little finger.

  "A tool, indeed," he said and smiled at Colin. "It's the damage done by an awl we're looking at here. And since the handle didn't bruise his chest, I'm thinking it was an awl with a long shank. Now there's an awkward weapon for sure."

  Faucon extended his hands over Halbert's chest as if he held the tool he imagined. With his right hand cupped about the non-existent handle of a workman's tool, he put his left at the opening of the puncture wound. "Remember, it can enter Halbert once and only once, and the handle will leave no bruise upon his flesh. See how with such a long shank I must keep a steady slow hand to guide it into him?"

  When his right hand, the one gripping the invisible handle, was an inch or two short of Halbert's chest, he paused. "But could such a gentle stroke actually pierce his heart and cause his death? I cannot say for certain, but I doubt it."

  Then he shifted his pretended grip on his imaginary tool until his pinched fingers seemed to hold something slender and handleless. "But if the awl has no handle, which would mean it is more needle-like, it becomes much easier to guide."

  Again, he pushed the non-existent tool into Halbert until his pinched fingers almost rested on the man's skin. "But here I am again, with no way to drive my weapon into the man with the force I believe necessary for a lethal blow. Worse, how do I remove it from him without tearing or disfiguring the wound, for that is what happened. Moreover, if his heart is pierced, he will bleed. Now I must not only remove my tool, I must do it while both the awl and my hands are slick with blo
od."

  Colin held up a forestalling hand. "Never mind all that. The better question is how you get Halbert to stand still while such a weapon is pushed so exactly into him? I say that is the greatest trick," he finished in wonder.

  "Easier than you think in all instances," Drue the Old Clothes Seller replied with confidence. "I have no need of a handle, not when I have this."

  He pulled one of the needles from the front of his purse and held it up so Faucon could see the loop of thread through its eye. Holding out his opposite arm, Drue pushed the needle into the fabric of his sleeve but didn't draw it all the way through. "In it goes," he said, then took hold of the thread loop and pulled the needle out again, "and out it comes.

  "As for adding power to my thrust." Drue brought out a tiny metal cup from his purse and placed it on top of his middle finger, the one on the hand in which he held the needle. Smiling, he tapped this cup's metal base against the end of the needle he held. "With the eye end of my needle braced on this, I can drive its tip through the thickest of fabric with ease, and it goes exactly where I will it every time."

  "Aye, that would work," Faucon replied in new excitement. "With the awl's butt braced on something, say the flat of a dagger's blade, and its tip properly placed against Halbert's chest, a sharp thrust would send it deep into the miller's heart with all the power necessary to kill him. Once the damage is done, a quick yank on the cord, if it has no handle, and out it comes."

  His excitement dissolved with his next breath. "Nay, none of this can be. Brother Colin is right. The only way Halbert could have been killed was if he lay still and allowed those bent on doing their worst to murder him."

  "And so Halbert would have done, if he was as besotted as Simon Fuller says," Drue retorted. "Once Halbert had enough ale in him, he'd fall into a slumber so deep that no amount of prodding or shouting stirred him. At the last two village feasts, Alf and Stephen have had to carry him home because he was senseless. If Halbert was like that last night, he'd have been a lamb at the slaughter."

  Faucon almost gaped. Could there be a better opportunity for stealthy murder than while a man was dead drunk? "So he would be," he agreed.

  With that, the bits and pieces in his mind began to assemble and the trail he followed shifted, curving unexpectedly. He leaned forward to examine Halbert's undergarment, which was held closed about his waist by a simple knotted cord. Faucon examined the voluminous folds, shifting makeshift pleats this way and that. No obvious blood stains marred the creamy undyed linen.

  "Tailor, tell me. Do you see any sign of damage to Halbert's garments? Was an awl like the one I've described thrust through them?" Faucon asked, certain he already knew the answer but wanting confirmation.

  Drue pulled the pieces of Halbert's tunic and shirt back over the man who'd owned them, then ran his fingers across the breast of the tunic. "There's nothing," he reported. "The awl that made that wound would have punched the same size hole through the fabric as it did his chest. It wouldn't necessarily have torn or gashed the cloth, but the weave would surely have parted, stretching around the shank to let it pass. Even after the awl was removed, and even after his garments spent hours soaking in the water, I think I would still find a gap or edge where it entered and exited the cloth. All I feel on the front of this tunic is unblemished woolen fabric, far finer than any Simon Fuller has ever produced," he added snidely.

  Faucon offered Colin a grim and knowing smile. "Since there's no blood on his shirt or tunic, I think our miller was unclothed when he took the wound that killed him," he said. "What we see here is no accidental killing, nor a murder driven by passion that is later regretted. This is a death well-planned. Not only did the one who ended Halbert's life choose a weapon that would leave an insignificant wound, he stripped the senseless man of his garments before he delivered the killing blow, so they would not be stained as Halbert bled his last. This was done to conceal the true cause of his death and befuddle us all."

  "Ah, so that is why I found nothing upon his garments to guide me to the death wound," Colin said with a nod.

  "And that is also why you'll find no trace of blood here." The sweep of Faucon's hand indicated the clean stretch of hard-beaten earth around the wheel. "Not all heart wounds spurt blood, but they most definitely can. I wager our senseless miller was undressed here, then carried to some hidden place where any blood he might shed wouldn't be noticed. In that hidden place, the one who delivered the blow that ended his life let him lie there until he bled his last." He looked at Colin. "That is when his eyes dried."

  Brother Colin nodded. "Aye, and since they did dry, we can assume his wound oozed for some time. This one had no choice but to wait until it ceased. If he didn't wish the means of Halbert's death to be discovered, then he couldn't risk the wound leaving a telling bloodstain on Halbert's shirt or tunic."

  "Just so," Faucon said, then pointed to the race. "After Halbert's wound ceased oozing, he was carried back here, washed clean by the race and redressed. The brake was released, Halbert was lowered into the water and swept under the wheel. Once he was lodged, the brake was reset. Then Halbert's killer retired, going to his nightly rest, convinced he had misled us all. He expected today's inquest to render only one verdict—that the besotted miller had fallen into his race and been drowned under his own wheel."

  With that, Faucon offered Colin a respectful bend of his head. "And that is what would have happened here today, if not for you, Brother. I would never have recognized the meaning of the miller's cloudy eyes, and would have done Halbert and his family an unwitting injustice. I am most grateful for your aid."

  The monk smiled. "Then I give thanks that our Lord sent me your way this day. I'm glad I could assist you, and even more pleased to have met you, Sir Crowner. I don't doubt you'll find the man who did this to the miller."

  Then the monk paused and cocked his head to the side. "I do have one thought, though. As much trouble as we had trying to undress the miller when he was dead, could all this have been accomplished by one man alone?"

  Faucon's gaze flew to what he could see of the miller's cottage. In that oversized house lived the wife Halbert had abused and a son who did not grieve for him. Who else had cause to wish Halbert dead? Who else had the tool that opened the brake on the wheel so it could be used to conceal what had really happened here?

  Almost as swiftly, certainty faded. That made no sense. If Halbert were declared drowned by his millwheel, the wheel would be named deodand and confiscated. As Stephen had said, the cost of replacing the millwheel might well drive him to the brink of poverty, if not completely ruin him.

  As for Agnes, while her bruises certainly gave her cause to wish her husband dead, it was clear her new freedom had come at a price. By Stephen's words, she was now without hearth and home. Faucon doubted her stepson would let her leave Priors Holston with a farthing more than she'd brought with her into her marriage, no matter what dower Halbert might have endowed upon her in their marriage contract. Indeed, he suspected she'd have to bring a plea for her dower to the royal court before Stephen gave it to her.

  But most importantly, according to the fuller, neither Agnes nor Stephen had been at the mill last night to do the deed.

  If not the miller's family, then who? Whoever it was must hate the miller and his kin with all his heart, for he'd concocted an elaborate scheme calculated to not only kill Halbert but destroy his family's livelihood.

  "I need to find the place where Halbert bled his last," Faucon said, the huntsman in him demanding it. "I think it must be close by, but I guarantee it won't seem instantly obvious that a man died there." The care taken by the one who killed Halbert assured Faucon of that.

  As he spoke, Alf and three others walked around the corner of the mill to stop across the race from them. The miller's servant looked at Brother Colin. "Will you speak for me, Brother? Please tell the knight that his clerk sends us to bring my master's body to the courtyard so the viewing may begin."

  Faucon clenched his teeth,
biting off the urge to shout in rage. Once more, Edmund trod where he had no right to step. This had to stop.

  "Go as you must," Drue said to him, "leaving your search to me and my apprentice. We've already viewed Halbert and give our oaths that, before God, we hereby render the verdict of murder, with you as our witness. Oh, and if Stephen complains about his father's tunic, pay him no heed. Don't tell him, but I've a mind to repair it at no charge, given the importance of what lay hidden beneath the cloth. Perhaps with a little haggling, I can convince him my work is worth his grinding at least half of my grain at no cost," he added with a wink.

  Faucon offered the tailor his thanks, then turned to Brother Colin. "Will you come with the miller's body for the viewing, to offer your explanations if required?"

  "I will," the monk replied.

  With that, Faucon looked at Alf, a man strong enough to lift Halbert without the aid of those he'd brought to help him this time. It remained to be seen if Alf was a man capable of carrying the besotted miller to the place of his death, then putting a dead Halbert into the race.

  "Take up your master and bring him to the mill yard," Faucon commanded the workman.

  Then, stepping across the race to make room for Alf and the others to do what they must, Faucon turned his back to the wheel and entered the mill's courtyard.

  A makeshift catafalque, nothing more than a few planks of wood atop four barrels, now stood at the center of the yard near the entry gate. The mill towered over it, built as it was on a stone foundation half as tall as Faucon. Perhaps the additional height was needed to protect the building and its precious machinery from flood. Whatever the reason, the result was that the door to the mill stood high enough over the yard that three steps were needed to reach it. The top step widened into a spacious wooden porch before the door. It was here that Edmund sat, having claimed this space as his temporary scriptorium. His flask of ink, his knife and the container for his quills, as well as a bound roll of parchment, were all neatly arranged along the porch edge.