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

by Denise Domning

  Satisfaction tasted as sweet as Susanna's ale. Faucon raised his cup to his lips and drained it to the last tasty dregs. Taking coins from the purse at his belt, he offered the alewife the value of her brew, which was more than her stated price, then came to his feet and bowed.

  "My thanks. You are indeed a master brewer, and I'm grateful I don't have to call you to stand before the justices for boiling the miller to death."

  Susanna roared at that. She was still laughing as he mounted Legate and sent his horse down the lane, following the walking Edmund.

  With Edmund leading the way to the priory, Faucon guided Legate for a half-mile along the bank of the miller's brook after it left Priors Holston. There was no exterior wall to separate the Priory of St. Radegund from the lands and folk it had once ruled. Instead, there was only a sloe hedge that grew along the front of the compound. Although pruned into a tall leafy wall, many of the plum bushes were so old they were either gnarled and barren or dead. At one time someone had cut away the bushes to create an opening along the path leading into the priory. There wasn't even the pretense of a gate to close out the world.

  Faucon dismounted and walked Legate through the leafy gap. Just as there was no gate, there was no porter standing guard, waiting to challenge their entry. Then again, with but the prior and eleven monks—twelve now that Edmund had joined them—it wasn't likely they could afford to dedicate one man to do nothing more than watch an opening.

  Beyond the bushes, the rectangular layout of the priory looked much the same as any other monastery Faucon had seen. The dorter, the two-storey residence where the brothers ate and slept, connected to the south transept of a small church. The monks' cloister, the walled garden with its arcaded walk that was meant to separate the world of the monks from the world of men, sprang from its nave. What looked like a barn of some sort had been built off the cloister's end and met with a long wooden kitchen shed that formed the last leg of the rectangle. The only construct Faucon expected but couldn't see was the chapter house, but experience told him it was most likely at the back of the dorter.

  The priory church was ancient, or so walls of mossy reddish uncut stones and patched mortar proclaimed. However, its roof seemed new. Despite the dozens of doves, no doubt kept by the monks for their meat and eggs, perched atop its peak, Faucon could see no markers of time's passage on the dark gray slate tiles.

  The dorter was also new, the hewn rectangular blocks of red stone in its walls typical of structures Faucon had seen raised over the course of his lifetime. So was the cloister, or at least its colonnaded walkway seemed to be. The arches cut into the roofed walk were low and narrow but outlined with costly carved stonework.

  Without looking back to see if Faucon followed, Edmund started toward the dorter. At that same moment, the servant who'd ridden with Faucon to Priors Holston walked out from between the kitchen and cloister.

  "Sir Crowner, Brother Edmund," he called to them with a smile of welcome. "Prior Lambertus sent me to greet you. You are to meet with him in the chapter house, sir. If you like, I'll see to your horse again," he offered. "We're becoming great friends, we two. If you say I may, I'll take him to an area where he can graze until you're ready for him. I'll keep watch for you here by the gateway," the servant finished with a jaunty salute.

  "If you please," Faucon replied as he handed the man Legate's reins. Then he unbuckled his scabbard and sword from his belt and hung it from the pommel of his saddle. "My thanks indeed."

  "This way, Sir Faucon," Brother Edmund said, once again turning his back on his master.

  Faucon followed Edmund through the wide gap left between the kitchen shed and the dorter. Edmund opened the side door to the monks' living quarters. Faucon entered the refectory, the place where the monks took their meals, only to stop but a single step within the chamber, as awed by this room as Edmund had been of the miller's home.

  Sunlight shot through the line of narrow, south-facing windows finding bright blues, greens and yellows in the patterned ceramic floor tiles and making the freshly plastered walls glow a pure white. A line of columns ran down the middle of the chamber to hold aloft the vaulted ceiling, or rather the floor of the monks' second-storey sleeping chamber. The same geometric pattern Faucon had noted carved onto the cloister was repeated here, decorating the stone window frames, the heads of the columns and the joints of the vaults. But in here, each line of the carved design had been painted a vibrant blue. That gave the upper reaches of the room an airy feeling, despite the clutter of the columns and low ceiling.

  Two dining tables, one on either side of the central columns, stretched nearly the full length of the chamber. At the head of the room was a low dais on which stood a small table and single chair, no doubt for the prior's use. There was no pulpit; instead, a lectern stood to one side of the dais. This was surely where the designated monk would read the daily scripture as the rest of his brothers ate.

  Edmund followed Faucon in through the door, then eased around his dumbfounded employer. As the monk stopped beside him, Faucon shot him a wondering look. "Everything in this chamber—tiles, tables and stonework—it all looks new," he said in surprise.

  "I believe everything is new at the priory, all save for the old church," Edmund replied with a quick shrug, then started up the south side of the room.

  Faucon followed. The sound of their footsteps echoed hollowly in the empty space. Now that he was closer to the wall, Faucon could see what he'd thought blank plaster wasn't blank at all. Faint drawings, outlines only, covered them. There were men and women, buildings and trees. He recognized the image of the Christ. It seemed the work in the refectory wasn't yet finished.

  "Do you think the monks of St. Radegund allowed their former bondsmen to buy free of their ties so the priory could be rebuilt?" Faucon asked as they reached the far end of the room where there was another door, the one that should lead to the church.

  Edmund opened it and stepped aside so Faucon could proceed. "I cannot know that answer, being so new here. But wouldn't that be a short-sighted policy?" His voice was as harsh as usual. "I cannot imagine that the rents these new freeholders pay are the equal in value to their previous tithes, tributes and days of labor. Once there is no more 'freedom' to peddle to the commoners and the coins have all been spent, what then? Will tithes alone be enough to supply my brothers sufficient bread and meat, ink and parchment?"

  "Will they, indeed?" Faucon murmured.

  What Faucon expected to be a narrow passageway leading from dorter to church was instead almost its own small room.

  The floor within this space was covered with the same colorful ceramic tile as the refectory. A single column at the center held up a ceiling as tall as the two-storey dorter.

  There was an opening in the nearest corner of the passageway; through that arched door-shaped gap Faucon could see the spiral stairway leading upward to the dormitory. Two other doors stood wide. One led to the cloister and its central garden, while the other offered access to the church.

  The fourth door was barely ajar. It was toward this door that Edmund jerked his head. His movement indicated it was the entrance to the chapter house, the chamber where the monks wrangled over how to spend their new rents and less-than-sufficient tithes, and whether to continue to build, and where Prior Lambertus awaited.

  When Faucon pushed it open, he once again drew a breath of appreciation. The monks might have spent coins on the refectory, but they had lavished treasure on this six-sided chamber. Anywhere stone could be decorated with carvings—on the columns holding up the vaulted ceiling, on the ribs of the arched vaults, around each of the five tall pointed windows—it had been, and then those carvings had been painted brilliant greens and golds. What with the yellow and brownish-red floor tiles, Faucon felt as if he stood in some forest glade.

  Built out of the wall itself, the bench upon which the monks sat while discussing their business was a nearly knee-high stone shelf that ran unbroken around the chamber from one side of the do
or to the other. Unbroken, but not unaltered. Directly across from the doorway, the bench extended into a deeper seat, this extension framed by a pair of carved stone arms. The wall behind the seat had been painted to look like the back of a tall chair.

  It was in this illusion of a chair that Prior Lambertus sat. With his narrow face, aquiline nose and straight brows over startlingly blue eyes, the leader of the Priory of St. Radegund looked every inch a sainted churchman. His black robe, no different from the one Edmund wore, was arranged so its wide sleeves draped his hands where they rested on the arms of his 'chair' until only his fingertips were exposed. His cowl lay in careful folds at the back of his neck. He offered Faucon a graceful nod of his head, then looked past the knight's shoulder.

  "Thank you, Brother Edmund. You may close the door." His was a deep and musical voice.

  "My lord prior," Edmund replied. The door creaked a little as it shut.

  "Sir Faucon de Ramis." The prior extended his beringed hand so Faucon might pay proper obeisance to him and his station. "Bishop William has informed me that for the time being you are to receive his portion of the income from our little house."

  Faucon crossed the room, once again having cause to regret not wearing his best this day. After touching his lips to the prior's ring, he straightened and took a surprised backward step. There was nothing in Prior Lambertus's face or form to suggest it, but Faucon could feel deep anger wafting from the man.

  "How fortunate you are to have an uncle who cares so for you," the prior said, punctuating his words with a what might have been a gracious bend of his head if not for that hidden rage.

  "I am indeed," Faucon replied carefully as he sought to make sense of the contradiction between the man's inner and outer expressions. All that came to mind was that the prior didn't wish to give up his coins—the coins he was using to turn his priory into a treasure—to some inconsequential lay relative of his bishop, a man who had no right to live on Church income.

  "I must admit I was taken aback by my lord uncle's gift, having had no idea of his intentions when I rode from my home yestermorn. Had I known, I would have come better prepared. I apologize for presenting myself to you in nothing but my under-armor." The sweep of Faucon's hand indicated his padded gambeson and chausses, which were now stained with sweat, water and the ashes from Simon's croft.

  "I was even more surprised this morning when I found myself already putting my hand to my duties as a Keeper of the Pleas. Many thanks for sending a servant to me with the message of the miller's death."

  "Ah, the matter of Halbert the Miller, may our Lord have mercy on his soul," the prior said with a slow lift of his brows. "It's fortunate that Brother Edmund had offered to read our scripture this morn when the village bailiff arrived. Since your clerk was already free to speak, he was the one who met with the bailiff, then convinced me that I must send a servant to call you to the village. Were you able to resolve the matter of the miller's death and release the man's earthly remains to his relatives?"

  "I can report that the inquest is complete and Halbert's remains are in his son's hands. However, I cannot say I have yet resolved the matter of the miller's death," Faucon replied.

  "How so? If you have completed the inquest, how can there have been no resolution?" A tiny crease appeared between the prior's brows, a bare suggestion of confusion. "The bailiff said that the miller had drowned."

  "Therein lies the problem, for Halbert Miller did not drown," Faucon replied. "Instead, the jurors of the inquest did confirm my finding that the miller was murdered. The man who killed him used an awl to pierce his heart then, for reasons I yet seek to discern, dressed the miller in his best tunic and placed his body in his race so it would seem he'd fallen in and died beneath his own wheel."

  Prior Lambertus blinked twice. That was the extent to which emotion played across his expression. Nonetheless, it was enough to convince Faucon that, like Agnes, the prior was privy to some piece of information he didn't have, and that the churchman had used that piece of information to identify the man who had killed Halbert.

  Trapped so far behind that point, Faucon wanted to gnash his teeth in frustration. He wanted to shout at the churchman to spill what he knew. But as with Agnes, Faucon was utterly convinced that any demand he made for information would result in his expulsion from the chapter house, if not the priory. There had to be another way to winnow out what he wanted from the churchman.

  "Why would the miller have been killed in such a strange fashion?" the prior asked as if he didn't already know the answer.

  "That remains to be seen, as I have yet to identify the man who did the deed. Against that, the verdict of the inquest jury could only be that Halbert was killed by persons unknown," he replied, struggling to keep his frustration out of his voice.

  "Unknown? Then the hue and cry was unsuccessful in apprehending the one who killed him?"

  Again, the prior's words sounded calculated, his tone empty of any true curiosity. If Lambertus already knew the man, what profit could there be for him in playing this strange game of theirs?

  "The hue and cry came hours too late," Faucon replied. "The miller was stabbed deep in the night while all in the village slept. There was no one abroad then to witness the act or chase the man who did this to him."

  "How unfortunate," Lambertus said, his tone still without inflection or emotion. "Tell me, since I am unfamiliar with your new position. What part do you play in resolving such deaths in our shire? Are you the one who must seek out the murderer and accuse him, so he must stand before a justice or the royal court?"

  "I am." Faucon filled these two words with more conviction than confidence. "As part of my duties, I am required to collect the king's portion from the estates of those who have committed murder. Thus, it is on me to discover whom to dispossess."

  The corners of the churchman's mouth twitched, whether in amusement or something else entirely there was no knowing. "A welcome change, I think. Sir Alain has not always been so scrupulous. Many are the times I've suspected him of turning a blind eye to those who have done wrong, including murder, doing so for love or profit, or simply because our sheriff did not choose to seek them out."

  "That seems to be the intent behind my new position, to prevent such occurrences," Faucon offered, the need to escape this ridiculous dance of words now goading him so deeply that it made him reckless. "I see you are a man who wishes justice to be done and one who feels its lack most deeply. Perhaps you can help me as I seek out the one who killed this man. I'm told you spoke recently with Halbert Miller's new wife."

  Lambertus once more gave a graceful nod of his head. "That is certainly possible. Over the years I've spoken with a great number of the villagers from Priors Holston, offering my counsel where and when it's needed. That they seek me out to serve them in this way is a tradition between the village and our house. It rises from a past time when all the commoners in this vale owed the sweat of their brows and the fruits of their fields to my long dead brethren."

  Faucon drew a slow breath, wondering how far the prior would allow him to go before he was stung enough to react. "You do not remember speaking with Agnes of Stanrudde? She mentioned she came to you only recently," he said, taking care to let no hint of emotion color his words. "It seems you instructed her to be patient with her husband, who was beating her out of anger and not in correction, and continue to pray that God might grant her a child from their union."

  Something shifted in Lambertus' blue gaze. "Such a matter would not be one I would discuss with you, even if I did recall the event. Perhaps if I tell you what I know of Halbert Miller, you can find something of use in it.

  "Five or so years ago, Halbert came to this house and offered my predecessor a substantial sum to sell to him the right to collect all the profit he earned from grinding grain at Priors Holston's mill. Along with that initial rich sum, he offered a yearly rent, and to grind our grain at no cost. I thought the rent he named a pittance, and, since we were already grinding
our grain at no cost in our own mill, there was no gain to us in his offer to continue doing so. As this was the first such offer from a villager, much discussion ensued among my brothers and your lord uncle. There were some of us who held that the miller could not have accrued the sum he offered without borrowing from the Jews, and these brothers did not wish to take tainted coins. Most of the rest argued that he couldn't have borrowed from the Jews. That was the year so many of the Hebrews were slaughtered in this land. These brothers felt there could be no Jewish moneylenders left capable of lending so much. In my mind, that was even more damning. If the miller hadn't borrowed from a Jew, he must have borrowed from a Christian. If interest was being charged, that was the sin of usury.

  "In the end, we could prove none of our suppositions, and agreed to sell the right to operate the mill with some restrictions. The deed was given in fee tail. None but the miller's legitimate heirs can claim the right to operate the mill, nor can the right we've given to Halbert and his line be sold or attached to another." The prior's tone was neutral, his words as careful and well-chosen as Faucon's had been.

  "The only other thing I know of Halbert is that he returned to the priory for a second time only a few weeks past. On this visit he requested the aid of one of my brothers in Christ to act as a scribe."

  Lambertus paused, his gaze catching and holding Faucon's. His brows rose. He offered a strangled smile. "It seems the miller wished to record his will." The barest hint of satisfaction colored his words.

  It took every ounce of Faucon's discipline not to gape in astonishment as he deciphered the meaning behind the prior's strange tale. Someone held Lambertus in a grip that the prior found both repugnant and painful, a grip so tight that it tied the churchman's tongue, preventing him from revealing what he wished to share. Lambertus believed the key to releasing that grip was written into Halbert's new will, but he hadn't the freedom to make use of whatever was there. For that, he needed Faucon.