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

by Denise Domning

  "So he would have done," Simon agreed, "and so we would have done as well, even if half of us didn't know what we were confirming when we called out our agreement, or that we were wrong to confirm that verdict. We'd have done what he told us and been glad to be released so we could be on about our day."

  That set the men gathered around them to muttering. "Do you know that I can't recall a time when we've ever had a viewing as you've asked of us here today, sir," one said.

  "Aye, and that makes me wonder how many other deaths we've confirmed that were mistaken," another added.

  Simon offered Faucon a nod. "I give thanks to you for the care and concern you spent on one of our own, Sir Crowner."

  "I give thanks to his clerk," Stephen shot back then looked at Faucon. "Because of that monk's courage in defying Sir Alain, my father will surely rest more easily in his grave. If only I'd thought to change my gown before I raced for home this morning. We were leaving for the parish church for the funeral when Bertie arrived with the news."

  Stephen made an impatient sound. "Look at the mess I've made of my finest." Indeed, his shoes were thick with dust, which had transferred to the expensive trim that decorated the hem of his long tunic. He bent forward and slapped at the bottom edge, trying to beat out some of the heavy smudges.

  Faucon drew a swift breath as one thought connected to another. Stephen hadn't want to ruin his best any more than Faucon had wanted to stain his richest attire with horse sweat as he rode to Priors Holston. He shot a frowning glance over his shoulder at Halbert's body, at the tunic that had been taken apart and was now pulled over the dead man's face. Halbert had done the work of two men yesterday, what with his son away for the day.

  "Did your father usually wear his finest or newest on a work day?" Faucon asked.

  That brought Stephen upright with a start. "Of course not. Who can afford that?" the new miller retorted, his tone suggesting the question was foolish.

  "But he's wearing a tunic I don't recognize, Stephen," a man said to him. "It must be new."

  Stephen's expression flattened in surprise. He shifted on the barrel until he could look at his father's corpse, then looked back at Faucon. "I didn't even notice he was wearing that tunic this morning when I saw him in the race. All I saw was my father under the wheel. That isn't what he was wearing when I last saw him yesterday, and I have no idea why he would have donned this tunic between then and now."

  Then he sighed. "Not that it matters. He's dead and the garment's ruined. I might as well bury him in it."

  As Stephen fell silent, Simon Fuller removed his arm from his son's shoulders. The movement caught Faucon's eye. As his gaze met the fuller's, Simon offered a lift of his chin, the gesture suggesting he had something to share.

  Content with what he'd garnered from his conversation with Stephen, Faucon laid his hand on the new miller's shoulder. "My condolences on the loss of your father. I can see you will greatly miss him."

  "That I shall, sir," Stephen whispered, his eyes closing.

  Side-by-side, Faucon and the fuller walked back to the edge of the courtyard, stopping near the millwheel. The last of the men and boys who had occupied the tenting grounds were now stepping over the race to file into the yard. It was an orderly migration, so much so that Faucon was certain Edmund must be grinning in pleasure from his perch on the porch. As the jurymen shuffled past, more than a few of the commoners shot curious glances at their new crowner.

  Simon leaned his head close to Faucon, seeking to keep his words private between them. "My pardon for interrupting, but you were asking Stephen about his father's tunic. It was that garment that had Halbert seeking to beat Agnes last night. He was screaming at her, accusing her of having whored to purchase it for him."

  A jealous man, Agnes had said. Then again, perhaps Halbert had reason for his jealousy. "Do you know if Agnes did in fact give him that garment, and if futtering was how she acquired the tunic for him?" Faucon asked.

  Shock dashed across the fuller's face. "I have no idea how he came by that tunic, and of course she didn't spread her legs for it," Simon spat back in sharp disgust. "Don't you think she'd need to be a far comelier woman to use bed play to earn as much as that tunic is worth?"

  His words stirred thoughts of the whores Faucon had used on those instances when he had both the opportunity and the coin. Appearance was never as important to him as availability and price. Besides, comely whores tended to think themselves worth more than those who were less attractive, when both sorts rode the same as far as he could tell.

  "I also know that Halbert would have beaten Aggie for bidding him 'good morrow,'" the fuller was saying. "She could do no right by him no matter how she tried."

  Here Simon paused, and looked in the direction of the miller's cottage, then sighed. "I don't understand why she stayed with him after he showed her who he truly was, or why she kept trying to win him. She's too sweet by half, that woman. She's never once raised her voice to him, save to plead that he strike her no more.

  "As for the tunic," Simon continued, "Halbert wore it the day he came home from Stanrudde with Aggie. Before he'd even wiped the road dust from his shoes, he started strutting up and down here," he pointed to the raceway that separated their properties. "He kept it up until he was sure I'd noticed he was wearing a garment that hadn't been made with my fabric. As far as I saw, he never again wore it after that day."

  He leaned forward once more, new excitement in his face. "But that's not what's important. It's that Halbert wasn't wearing any tunic when I stepped between him and Aggie last night. That's what matters. All he had on was his shirt and braies, just as he would have done at the end of any other day on which the stones turned.

  "Or rather, at the end of any day the stones turned since 'Wina married Stephen," Simon added with a laugh. "Poor 'Wina. She married into the wrong trade, she did. She can't tolerate her menfolk shedding flour all over yon fine house of theirs. That can't be an easy trait for a miller's wife to tolerate in herself, I think. At the end of each milling day, after they brake the wheel, 'Wina insists they all leave their dusty garments on the wall. Then, as her menfolk finish their chores, sweeping up or whatnot, she brushes their outer garments clean.

  "Yestereven, as my family and I were stretching the last of our fabric, I saw both Alf and Halbert strip off their tunics and hang them where they always do." He pointed to a spot along the enclosing wall near the gate.

  "With 'Wina gone, Aggie came out to do the brushing. When she finished, she put their tunics back on the wall and returned through their croft to the house, no doubt off to prepare supper. That's when it started. Of a sudden, there's Halbert, standing in the middle of the yard, holding his workaday tunic and shouting that Aggie hadn't gotten it clean enough.

  "This from a man who three years ago never brushed so much as a mote off his garments," Simon offered with scorn before continuing.

  "When Aggie came back into the mill yard, he threw his tunic onto the ground and trampled it into the dirt, then told her to clean it once again. While she did so, crying and trembling as she worked, Halbert left the mill and went toward the house." Simon rolled his eyes in disgust. "Off to start drinking as usual.

  "I didn't see Aggie finish cleaning his tunic, because it was time for me to go within doors for my own meal. Still, it didn't surprise me when the shouting started anew after dinner was done. I came back out here to the race to find Halbert and Aggie in the courtyard. He was stalking after her, his every move meant to intimidate as he drove her around the yard. He was still in his shirt and braies, holding his fine tunic—the one that's on him now—in one hand and his cup in the other. From the way he was stumbling, I'm guessing he'd wasted no time filling and draining that cup far more than a few times. He was shouting that she'd made a beautiful thing foul by spreading her legs for it, and because she had, he could never again bear to feel it against his skin.

  "He finally trapped her back here," Simon pointed to the outside of the courtyard wall b
etween the mill and the miller's cottage, "against the race. Even as she begged him not to hurt her, he held her pinned in place with his words as he named her 'whore' and 'harlot.' Although they were only words, I could see that she felt them like blows by the way she cowered and covered her ears. Because she had her head bowed, she didn't see his fist coming. He caught her in the eye.

  "That's when I crossed the race to separate them, sending Aggie to the alewife's house. Once Aggie was gone, Halbert tossed aside the tunic with no care for its expense. It fell there." Simon pointed to a spot not far from them, then shot a hard look at Faucon.

  "And before you go thinking he might have come back later and donned it, trust me. By that time, he was already too deep in his cups to so much as find the tunic again, much less get it over his head on his own. That didn't mean he was too far gone to start swinging at me, calling me foul names for interfering, something he's done far too often these past two months.

  "I let him do his worst, knowing that after a few minutes of futile exertion, he'd be ready to drop. That's when Alf came out of the mill. I think he intended to see to Halbert, mayhap take him back into the mill with him or perhaps to the house to put him to bed. I wouldn't have it. The mood Halbert was in last night, he'd have sent Alf packing for no more reason than that the poor man breathed. Or done even worse to him.

  "Since Stephen wasn't here to distract his father, I told Alf to leave his master where he was." Simon sighed and shook his head. "Now, in the light of what you've revealed this day, I know how wrong my decision was. If I'd let Alf do as he wished, perhaps Halbert would yet be alive. But how could I have known last night wouldn't be like all the other nights these past two months? I expected only that Halbert would spend an hour or so cursing the wheel then fall asleep on the race." He fell silent, shaking his head as he stared at the wheel.

  "What happened after that?" Faucon prodded.

  Simon looked up, blinking as if startled. "Where was I? Oh aye, Alf. Well, Alf argued with me, insisting he had to take his master within doors. Stephen had told me perhaps two weeks ago that his father had started venting his wrath on Alf as well as him. I couldn't bear the thought of Alf enduring a beating last night for no reason. I commanded him to join Aggie at Susanna's. I told him to stay there for a few hours, saying Halbert would be safe enough where he was until then, and if Alf wished it, I'd help him take his master into the house once Halbert was senseless."

  Faucon caught a stunned breath as the trail that had been so clear only a moment before disappeared before his eyes. Why had Alf not told him this when it excused him of all blame? "Alf and Agnes were both at your alewife's house last night?"

  Simon offered a sharp lift of his brows as a vindictive grin twisted his lips. "So they were. There's no better place to be in Priors Holston if you want to avoid Halbert Miller. Susanna is Stephen's aunt. Susanna despises—despised," he corrected himself, "Halbert. That's why Aggie can sleep there night after night. Aye, Susanna's hated Halbert from the day he married her sister, although that never stopped her from selling him as much ale as he could drink. Or maybe she sold it to him, hoping he'd drink himself to death." The fuller loosed a harsh but pleased laugh. "Ha! I never thought of that before today."

  "Did Alf return last night?" Faucon asked, hoping he didn't sound as if he were pleading.

  "I don't know," Simon replied, then shrugged, "but I assume not. If he had, Alf would have either found Halbert under the wheel or moved him into the house and saved his life. I wouldn't have heard Alf if he had returned, not unless he came to my door. I was tired from my day and angry at Halbert. After Alf left, I went to claim my own bed, glad for what calm I could find there.

  "Although I'm surprised Susanna managed to keep Alf from returning. He doesn't much care to keep company with others. Even at our village ales and festivals, he maintains his solitude, much to the dismay of more than a few of the lasses."

  The fuller's smile at his own jest dimmed into new shock. "Nay! You're thinking it was Alf who did this to Halbert!"

  He shook his head, rejecting the notion with all his will. "Nay, you're wrong. I won't—I don't believe it. Everything about Alf, his manners and habits, suggests he's a year-and-a-day man. Such a man doesn't risk the freedom he's striven so hard to win by doing murder to his employer, especially when I can count a dozen men in Priors Holston who would have happily hired Alf away from Halbert. And this Alf knew."

  Faucon drew an astonished breath. Alf was a runaway serf?! He immediately rejected the idea. The workman was far too bold in manner to be some backward rural bondsman.

  Simon growled in frustration as he realized what he'd revealed to his better. He shook a finger at Faucon. "Now, don't you go thinking you heard me offer any certain truth about Alf, Sir Crowner. I know nothing of his history. I'm just spinning out the yarns tangled in my head. All that's in here," he tapped his temple with his forefinger, "is how Alf has acted since he arrived in Priors Holston—like a man who at any moment expects to find hounds nipping at his heels.

  "And even if it's true that he ran from his rightful lord and master, you're too late to return him. Last month, he was a full year in Priors Holston. That makes him a free man. May God bless him and grant good fortune to every soul who helped him make his escape I say, and I don't care if you hear me." As he finished, Simon drew himself up, squaring his shoulders and thrusting out his chest as if in challenge.

  "Nor do I care what I heard you say," Faucon replied, offering the man a crooked smile and a conciliatory lift of his hands. "As far as I can tell, having held my position for but one day, my purview seems to be limited to dead men, assessments of estates and royal revenue."

  Simon relaxed in relief. "Good. If you can forget that much, then you should also forget any ideas I might have wrongly given you about Alf killing Halbert. He didn't do it. I know it, aye."

  "If not him, then who?" Faucon asked.

  Simon blew out a long breath at the question and again stared at the millwheel. The quiet between them stretched.

  "I don't know," he said at last, "and I'm not even certain that I care. Good riddance. All I am certain of is that Halbert wasn't wearing that tunic when last I saw him alive and sitting right here."

  Simon again pointed to that spot on the edge of the race, the same spot he'd indicated for the tunic. Then he looked at Faucon. "So, who put that tunic on Halbert? That's what I want to know, sir. Because after listening to the vehemence of Halbert's curses over that garment, I don't believe he would ever have donned it on his own accord, sober or besotted."

  Faucon nodded, deep in thought. Putting Halbert into that expensive tunic before the dead man went into the race seemed almost an act of vengeance. But vengeance for what? Mistreating Agnes? The only one who seemed to care about Halbert's wife was Simon, and as open as Simon was, Faucon doubted even the fuller would offer up the very bit of information that damned him.

  "A strange marriage, theirs, Agnes and Halbert," Faucon said, still chewing on what he'd learned.

  "For sure," Simon agreed. "None of us could understand why Halbert wed her. After Cissy, Stephen's mother, died, Halbert made it clear to all the village that he had no desire to marry again."

  "And yet, wed again he did," Faucon said. "Tell me, if you can. Do you have any idea what the hour was when you heard the wheel begin to turn once more?"

  That made Simon think. "Perhaps after Matins?" he offered with no confidence, then took back his words. "Nay, I cannot be certain of the hour, save that it was still full dark, and that's the best I can tell you."

  "Papa! You must come!"

  The call came from a lad of no more than eight, wearing a too-large brown tunic. The child came dashing toward them through the tenting frames, something much easier to do now that all the men of the inquest had passed onto the miller's property. The boy's hair was yet sleep-knotted, its wayward spikes framing a face that named him another of Simon's progeny.

  "Come where, son?" Simon asked as the lad came t
o a dancing stop across the race from them.

  "Into the croft, Papa! You must come and you must bring that knight, too!" He pointed at Faucon. "Master Drue says he thinks he may have found the place the knight seeks, the place with hidden blood. It's where we do our slaughtering. Emmie says if there's something hiding there, it isn't from that pig we killed yesterday!" The lad whirled and started back through the frames as fast as he had come.

  Simon drew a sharp breath. "Nay, Drue's wrong," he said, his voice so low that Faucon wondered if he'd meant to speak the words aloud.

  The fuller looked at Faucon. His expression was flat, his skin had lost its color. "It's mad to think anyone would carry Halbert all the way into my croft to do his evil." Strong words, but Simon's voice broke as he spoke, and he crossed his fingers to ward off that evil and the devil who created it.

  "You're likely right," Faucon replied as he stepped over the race, following the boy. His movement stirred Simon into following.

  "You slaughtered a pig yesterday? Is that the way here? Where I'm from, we don't usually cull our swine until well into November, after they've eaten their fill of fallen nuts." Faucon asked, intending more to steady the man than to inquire after Priors Holston's slaughtering practices. Although, he was curious. To slaughter before the pigs had added the flavor of acorns and hazelnuts to their flesh was a waste of ham, at least in Faucon's estimation.

  "Nay, it's no different here," Simon replied, still working to shake off his reaction to his son's announcement. "This was a little gilt that had broken her leg, poor thing. I bought and slaughtered her—" He yelped, then hopped on one foot away from the corner of a frame.

  Cursing beneath his breath, Simon stumbled a bit before catching his balance, then sent Faucon a rueful grin. "Bless me if, after living here for all of my life, I still don't run into one of these things at least every other week."