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

by Denise Domning

  Having spoken his piece, Lambertus came to his feet in one graceful movement. "I can tell you nothing else, for I know nothing more to tell." That was a lie. The prior knew far more than he dared to share.

  Faucon offered the expected response. "My thanks for the information you've offered. I'm certain I will find it helpful."

  "Indeed," Lambertus replied. "Perhaps, once you have resolved the details of the miller's murder, you will return with the name of the man who did this foul deed. I am interested to know how this tale ends." However polite, it was a dismissal not to be brooked.

  Faucon yet reeled at the oddness of this whole encounter. "But of course, my lord prior."

  Once again, he bowed over Prior Lambertus' ringed hand, then started out of the room.

  "There is one more thing," the prior called after him.

  Faucon paused at the door, the latch in his hand. "Aye, my lord?"

  Lambertus watched him the way a statuary angel might, his expression beautiful and remote. "About the business of your lord uncle's benefice. I'm sure you understand that we will have no payment for you until our Eastertide accounting. If our dear Bishop of Hereford wishes you to have our Michaelmas portion, he will have to disburse it to you from his own treasury as that is where it now resides."

  "Of course, my lord prior. I completely understand," Faucon said.

  "I thought that you did," the prior said. "Indeed, I was certain that you would understand all, from the description your lord uncle offered me of you," he added, then pulled his cowl up over his head and returned to sit in the place that demonstrated his authority over his house.

  "Halbert came to the priory a few weeks ago and hired one of the monks to write a will for him," Faucon said to Edmund once he had closed the door behind him.

  He hadn't expected Edmund to wait for him after the monk had closed the chapter house door, thinking their day's work had been at an end. Now he was thrilled to find his clerk in the passageway.

  "If you wish to help me discover the name of the man who killed Halbert," Faucon continued, "you must seek out the monk who wrote that document and ask him what it contained. Or better yet, procure the copy if one was made."

  Edmund sent him a strained look. "I can't ask after what is a private matter."

  "Not even to discover the miller's murderer so we can place his estate into the king's hands?" Faucon used his words like a morningstar and Edmund flinched under the assault.

  "Nay, you misunderstand. It's that I cannot ask. While it is true our order isn't completely silent, and that we do share speech for part of the day, when the time comes for that sharing it's considered poor taste to broach subjects that aren't in keeping with the Rule. The Rule suggests we limit our conversations to those that are profitable to our brotherhood or necessary to convey information about tasks and goals of the house."

  "The issue of Halbert Miller's will is both profitable and necessary, if we are to find the one who killed him," Faucon replied.

  "To you and to me, that is true," Edmund agreed, nervously shifting the sack that contained his writing implements behind his arm again. Once more that parchment roll thrust up over his shoulder, quiver-like. "My brothers may not agree."

  Faucon hid his surprise as he understood Edmund's hesitance. As brusque and outspoken as his clerk might be, Edmund was a newcomer here, and as such, feared making a misstep that might result in being shunned by his peers. Then again, Faucon well remembered the pain of being a newcomer, standing on the outside of the group until those at the center allowed him entry.

  The urge to tell his clerk what the prior had shared caught Faucon by surprise. He swallowed it. However dearly Prior Lambertus wanted Halbert's will discovered, Faucon was absolutely certain the prior didn't wish anyone to know he was the one who had suggested it be sought out. It was a shame, but Edmund's 'honest' tongue made it impossible to entrust him with any confidence.

  "I suspect this may be one time when you need not worry over a misstep," he said, trying to hint as best he could.

  "I am not worried," Edmund shot back. "Nor can you assure me of what you cannot know."

  "As you say, but what if you are wrong this time?" Faucon tried again. "What if a simple conversation between you and one of your brothers results in us acquiring the name of the man who killed the miller before day's end, and with no repercussions to you?"

  Edmund's worry warred with his need to curry Bishop William's favor. As if he sought to hide his turmoil from Faucon, the monk whirled on his heel and started back through the refectory, head lowered and shoulders hunched. Faucon followed him to the exit, torn in twain between his desire to command his clerk to do what he was told and the equally pressing need to win Edmund's compliance, and his trust. One avenue promised a single success. The other might well guarantee a far easier time for them, as he and Edmund continued into their future.

  It wasn't until they'd reached the door to the outside world that his clerk finally spoke. His words were grudging and low. "I will do what I can, but I make no promises."

  Triumph and relief made Faucon smile. "I asked for none. Before I leave, tell me something else. How long do we have to identify the one who killed Halbert and confiscate his property?"

  Edmund gave a tight shrug. There was a gentle clink from within his sack as one metal object touched another. "As long as it takes. If, when this man is discovered, he makes his confession, we can immediately claim his goods and property even though justice has not yet been meted out, although we cannot take his chattels or profits. All that remains in the custody of the bailiff or headman for the area until he is adjudged guilty. If he flees after he is confronted, he will be outlaw, and we can then claim his goods and property, holding them in trust until that time he is caught or abjures the realm."

  "And if he is discovered but protests that he is innocent, refusing to confess? What then?" Faucon asked, more from curiosity than any need to know.

  "We cannot take his property. Instead, he will sit in the sheriff's gaol at Killingworth until he stands before the Eyre and is judged accordingly. That is, unless he raises the funds required for his bail. Not an easy task that one, since he must also recruit neighbors to stand surety for him. They must agree to bring him to court when the time comes, or pay a fine if he flees before that day. But if he is able to pay his bail, he will remain free until he is called to court, and we must wait until he is adjudged guilty to take the king's portion. Why?" Edmund asked.

  Faucon shrugged. "I once knew these things and have forgotten most of them, and I must know them again. I was concerned about needing to rush to resolve the murder of the miller, the way we had to rush to complete the inquest."

  They exited from the dorter. Edmund stopped just outside the doorway, as Faucon started through the passageway that led out of the monks' rectangular world.

  "God be praised! Sir Faucon!" The call came from a rider atop a dancing horse just inside the opening in the hedge. The man was dressed in mud-spattered hunting green. His horse whinnied in complaint and turned a nervous circle, harnesses rattling. The servant who had promised to care for Legate was racing away from horse and rider, running toward the field beyond the dovecote.

  "Sir Faucon," the rider called again, "you must come at once. Lord Rannulf and Bishop William have found a murdered child."

  As little as he liked it, Edmund bumped and jounced along behind Faucon on Legate's rump as they rode for more than an hour to reach the place where Bishop William and Lord Rannulf awaited them. It was an open spot, a great sweep of grassy hillside, undisturbed by homes or farms, trees or hedges, the drying vegetation rustling and shifting in a mid-afternoon breeze.

  The hunting party had found their ease as they waited for their new crowner to appear. The horses grazed, while the hunting dogs dozed in a sleepy pile, ears occasionally flicking, a tail lifting now and then. The beaters and kennel master were just as relaxed in their own gathering, laughing and chatting as they reclined in the sun.

&nbs
p; All that marred the idyllic atmosphere were the ravens. From high overhead, they threw down their raucous complaints as they circled. They had not appreciated being disturbed at their feasting.

  Faucon looked from the carrion eaters to the valley that spread out below him. Although he did not yet know Blacklea's landmarks well enough to identify it from a distance, he could guess about where it must be. As near as he could tell, this was the same place he'd noticed yesterday when he'd seen the ravens from the road.

  Once he and Edmund dismounted, Faucon left his clerk to fumble with his sack next to Legate as he joined Lord Rannulf and Bishop William. The stink of death reached out to assault them as they walked toward the girl's remains. Faucon raised a hand to cover his nose, Susanna's stew stirring in his gullet.

  Predators and putrefaction had left little to identify her as human, much less as the child she'd once been. The ravens and God only knew what else had made swift work consuming her face. Her eyes were gone, the meat stripped from her forehead down her cheeks and nose to her jaw. Her teeth and jawbone gleamed rusty-white in the sun.

  Her simple shift, a long shirt no different from those all females wore beneath their gowns, had prevented the four-legged or winged flesh eaters from reaching all of her. It was here that the insects and the foul liquids of decay had done their work. As they had consumed her softer organs, the seeping liquid had stained what had once been white fabric until it looked mottled and rotten, and as filthy the ground beneath her.

  Lord Rannulf crouched beside the girl. Dressed in the same leather hauberk over a huntsman's green tunic as yesterday, the nobleman looked less a baron than one of the beaters he employed. Faucon squatted next to him.

  "Look here. I see a line too regular to be anything save the stroke of a well-honed knife." The baron extended a hand to point out what little flesh yet clung to the fragile bones of her neck. Whether moved by a carrion eater or because this was the way she'd been left, her head was twisted to one side, her chin lifted up out of the collar of her shirt. That had separated the cut meat of her neck, revealing its even edges.

  "Aye, that seems the work of a blade," Faucon agreed.

  "Pity the poor child," Lord Rannulf said softly. He lifted one of the girl's dark tresses. The movement dislodged the faded ring of blue flowers that, until that moment, had clung precariously to the top of her head.

  "Would that we'd found her before the beasts and birds had their way with her," Bishop William added, yet standing behind the two warriors. As he had yesterday, he wore his gold-trimmed green gown over dark green chausses and brown boots cross-gartered to his legs. "We will never discover who she was, with nothing left of her face to see."

  He continued, speaking this time to the remains of the child on the ground before him. "I pray our Lord accepts the blessings I laid upon you this day, even though you are already gone to Him."

  "Who was the first finder?" Edmund asked, his voice as harsh and brusque as ever. "And did this one raise the hue and cry?"

  Faucon drew a sharp and irritable breath, only to catch back his chide. Edmund was right. This child had been murdered, then left here without family or friend to see to her final rest. Only the shire's new crowner could help her now, by identifying her killer and bringing him to justice.

  Beside him, Bishop William released an angry breath at Edmund's questions. Lord Rannulf shot Faucon a swift sidelong look, filled with impatience and the arrogance of his rank.

  "It is the law that these questions must be asked and answered," Faucon told them both, coming to his feet. Lord Rannulf followed. When the three of them stepped back from the girl's body, all of them coughed a little to clear their lungs of the stench.

  "So it is," Lord Rannulf replied, his brows rising slowly as subtle surprise filled his gray eyes. He glanced from Faucon to Bishop William, then called, "Hobbe."

  A slight man in his middle years wearing the green garb of a forester rose from among the baron's waiting men. Faucon recognized him as a man he'd met time and again while hunting with Lord Rannulf and his brothers. As the forester joined them, he offered a brief bow.

  "My lords," he said to the noblemen, then nodded to Faucon. "Sir."

  "Hobbe atte Lea was the first finder, Pery," Lord Rannulf said to Faucon, a half-smile clinging to his lips. "He was running with the beaters this day when he came upon her."

  "Did you—" Edmund began.

  Faucon spoke over him. "Did you raise the hue and cry, Hobbe?" he asked the smaller man.

  "In as far as is possible here, sir, I did," Hobbe replied, speaking the nobles' tongue with a heavy accent. "Of course, we knew when we looked upon the poor babe that we were far too late. The one who had done this to her would not be found here. Still, I cried out for my fellow beaters to search the area, looking for anything that murderer might have forgotten or discarded that might identify him."

  "And you found nothing?" Faucon asked.

  "We found nothing," Hobbe confirmed.

  "But Sir Faucon, the law requires—" Edmund began.

  Faucon again interrupted him. "I believe I remember that the law requires these men to answer 'aye' or 'nay' to the question of hue and cry, doing so on pain of being fined for either not raising it when needed, or wrongly raising it.

  "In all truth, there was no need to raise a hue and cry here." He lifted his hand to indicate the open hillside. "This is no town or village with nooks and crannies where felons might yet be hiding. Brother, you saw as I did that we passed no hamlet or even a farm house for the latter half of our journey. Instead, Hobbe and the others did right by searching the area just as their betters did right by calling for the Keeper of the Pleas to come. And, as their Keeper, I declare that all their actions satisfied the law, even if those actions weren't a perfect reflection of what is written."

  "But sir," Edmund tried one last time.

  "I assure you, Brother Edmund. You may safely scribe on your parchment that Hobbe atte Lea was first finder and properly raised the hue and cry. Lord Rannulf, will you promise surety to see to it that Hobbe attends the Eyre when I bring the one who did this before the court to receive his earthly punishment?"

  "It is the right question to ask of me, Pery, but unnecessary," Lord Rannulf replied with approval and none of his earlier impatience. "These are my lands, and I have a franchise to sit as justice over all issues that arise, including those felonies committed within my boundaries and those of my vassals."

  "Thus, I do vow to present myself as first finder when called to testify before Lord Rannulf," Hobbe said, then retreated to join the others of his rank.

  Edmund blinked rapidly in thought. His mouth tightened and his brow creased. At last he nodded.

  "Aye, Sir Faucon. I can see how what you say about this place would make the hue and cry moot. I shall scribe that the first finder did all that was required and did it properly, and that Lord Graistan has promised to see justice done. What shall we do about proof of Englishry?"

  "There is nothing that can be done about it at the moment," Faucon replied. "Since there is no family from whom to demand proof, we will have to levy the murdrum fine against this hundred. My pardon, Lord Rannulf," he said, offering the baron a swift bow.

  That made the nobleman laugh. "It's not my fine, but this hundred's to bear. Collect it as best you can."

  "As you say, so it will be," Edmund replied with a nod.

  Then swinging his sack out from under his arm, he pivoted, scanning the grassy expanse around them. "Fie on me for not realizing I must always carry a traveling desk with me, rather than count on finding a place to write. Might I remove the bag from your horse's saddle, sir? It is about the size and firmness I believe I need." As always, Edmund didn't wait for permission, merely started toward Legate.

  "Can you not remember what is said here and scribe it later?" Faucon called after him.

  "Memory is a risky business, sir. Only a fool relies upon it," Edmund threw back over his shoulder, already working to loosen the saddlebag
that Faucon had left belted onto the side of Legate's saddle yesterday.

  "You did well enough remembering what our archbishop said at court a week ago about the Keepers," Faucon reminded him.

  "That was nothing that might need to be presented at an Eyre court," Edmund countered, taking a seat on the ground as he began pulling his scribbling supplies from his bag.

  "What is this?" Bishop William whispered, a strange tone in his voice as he stared at the monk.

  Faucon shot his uncle a quick look, suddenly uncertain about what he'd just said and done. "I know the law requires fines be levied on those who don't properly execute the hue and cry and that the archbishop seeks to collect all such revenue, but surely that can't be applied to such a discovery as this. As for the murdrum fine, I always believed that it was levied in every case where the one who died an unnatural death could not be proved English."

  The bishop shifted to look at his nephew. His face was alive in astonishment. "Nay, you mistake me, Pery. You've more than satisfied the law. It's the miracle you've performed with Brother Edmund that has me stunned. He was almost civil! How did you win that from him and do it in so short a time?"

  "Oh that," Faucon replied with a grin of relief, then continued, his voice lowered. "If anything is different with the brother, you cannot credit the change to me. Until a few hours ago, I was ready to beg you to release me from this new position so I could be free of him."

  "And now you no longer wish to be free of him?" Lord Rannulf said.

  "Not at this moment, although I will not vouch for the morrow," Faucon replied, still smiling. "I'm not certain how it happened, but he and I have begun to find our pace, doing so while we spent our day seeking out the one who murdered the miller at Priors Holston."