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

by Denise Domning

  The small monk looked at him again, shaking his head as if befuddled. "As I said, it was the strangest thing. It was only a few lines and he took the skin with him when he left. I remember it all. I doubt I could forget it."

  Just as Edmund had done when recalling the pronouncement about the Keepers, Brother Heymon tucked his hands into his sleeves, shut his eyes and leaned back on his heels. "'I, Halbert Miller, now of Priors Holston, do admit that I had no right to marry Cecilia, daughter of Oton, even as I traded vows with her. At the time of our marriage, and to this day, I remain married to another. I regretfully pronounce Stephen, her son by me, bastard-born.'"

  The monk breathed out in satisfaction, then opened his eyes again. "That was it. Only those few lines."

  Edmund stared at him, round-eyed in surprise, then looked at Faucon. "By all that is holy, why would a man write such a thing?"

  Faucon smiled at him. "Because he had committed bigamy and knew it. Thank you, Brother. This has been very helpful," he said to Brother Heymon.

  The monk blinked at him, then tapped his ink-darkened fingertip to the stained corner of his mouth. "Now that he is dead, I don't see how it could be of assistance to anyone save our Lord, sir, but I am glad you find it so."

  Then, shouldering his hoe, he made his way down one of the paths. Only after he'd left the cloister to circle around the church on his way back to the fields did Edmund speak.

  "But why reveal such a thing now? This is especially so since it seems the miller had kept his secret for all his years in Priors Holston," asked the man with the 'honest' tongue.

  "It was the final act of a vicious man, who knew he was doomed and wanted to punish the ones he blamed for destroying his life," Faucon replied. "It's the sort of thing a sot does, striking out at others over what is his own responsibility."

  "But if Stephen is a bastard—" Edmund started.

  Faucon finished the sentence for him. "Then he can inherit nothing, not that there is anything for him to inherit. Halbert had no right to claim ownership of anything that belonged to Cissy before their marriage, because he was never married to her. Susanna has herself a new cottage, I think."

  "This does not bode well for what we'd thought to collect on the king's behalf," Edmund said with a shake of his head. There was neither disappointment nor frustration in his voice, or in the movement of his head. "Ah well, there will be other deaths, and other estates to value and confiscate."

  Faucon eyed his clerk in astonishment as the monk picked up a knee-high tubular basket by the leather strapping knotted into its weave at top and bottom. Edmund patted its lid. "This is a far better way to transport my supplies. I found a piece of an old lectern to use as my desk for the time being. If you are finished here, sir, I am ready to be on our way to collect whatever confession might come forth this day."

  "I am ready," Faucon replied, still battling his astonishment. Who was this stranger?

  As they started from the cloister, Edmund added, "I hope you don't mind, but I had enough of your horse's rump last night. I'll be riding my own donkey today."

  This time, Faucon let his laugh fly. Whoever Edmund was becoming, Faucon thought he liked him well enough. "I do not mind at all, Brother. Let's be off."

  Following Susanna's directions, and carrying her greetings to her niece-by-marriage, Faucon and Edmund found the hamlet and the farmhouse with ease. To call 'Wina's family home a simple farm was to do it an injustice. Then again, 'Wina and Stephen wouldn't have wed unless they each brought equal value into the marriage. Halbert would never have accepted anything less.

  Surrounded by barns and sheds, paddocks and fields enclosed by tall hedges, the main house was three times the length of any cottage Faucon had ever seen. With walls of piled stone and a thatched roof that reached almost to the ground, it was an ancient construction. It also appeared to be too short to allow a man to stand upright within doors.

  They rode through the opening in the withe-walls that separated the front of the place from the track, to be greeted by a great crowd of children. Oxen, more than necessary for a single team, and a flock of sheep wandered to the closest edges of their paddocks to study the newcomers. Chickens scattered, ducks eyed them in suspicion, while the geese came dashing toward them, ready to defend their home with beak and wing, if not their lives.

  Once the children had chased off the geese, Faucon and Edmund dismounted and were invited to enter the main dwelling.

  They stepped down to enter; the floor of the structure was well below ground level. The air inside was warm and smelled of smoke. The massive beams which held the roof aloft were themselves held aloft by what seemed whole trees, buried deep into the earthen floor and set like columns down the middle of the structure. The spaces between the tree trunks were set off by more woven walls so they could be used as individual chambers.

  It was obvious that the back half of the house was used as a barn for the animals; the heat of their bodies went far to warm the interior in deepest winter. The more forward of these walled bays were used for either food storage or sleeping. The kitchen end included a massive hearthstone, the walls behind it filled with shelves on which stood pots, jars, utensils and more. Bulky and misshapen with what they held, hempen bags were piled in one corner surrounded by barrels and large ceramic pots. Smoked meats, strings of garlic and onions, and drying herbs hung from the rafters above the hearth.

  A large table with benches and stools of all sizes filled the central portion of the house. Four women sat at the table, all of them willowy, fine-boned beauties with honey-colored hair. None of them looked capable of pouring boiling water on an abuser. Only one looked distressed.

  It was she who rose to her feet as Faucon entered. As tall as he, her eyes were red-rimmed from crying and her otherwise flawless skin was blotched with grief.

  "You are this new crowner folk are talking about?" she asked before he could introduce himself.

  It startled Faucon that she might have heard of him, until he realized she'd no doubt had visits from neighbors and friends after the inquest jury disbanded yesterday. Faucon would have wagered all he owned that she hadn't heard of him from Stephen.

  "Don't forget," Edmund whispered from behind him. "She must swear an oath that she will speak the truth even though she is but a woman."

  "I am," Faucon replied, ignoring his clerk for the moment. "I am Sir Faucon de Ramis, Keeper of the Pleas for king and crown, but you may call me crowner if you wish. I have questions about your husband."

  "So do I!" 'Wina cried, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "He has gone mad!" One of her sisters came to put an arm around her shoulders.

  'Wina caught back a sob. "Yestermorn, I thought I could breathe again. I admit it. I was glad that Halbert was dead. He was a hateful man."

  "Not hateful," her sister interrupted. "That man was purely evil. I don't know why my parents allowed our 'Wina to marry into that family."

  "She was smitten by Stephen, more's the pity," another offered.

  "He wasn't like his father when we wed," 'Wina protested, then once more looked at Faucon. "It's certain these last months have been the worst since I married Stephen, what with his father and Aggie locked in that horrible union of theirs. But I didn't expect—" she drew a ragged breath as the tears that filled her eyes spilled over to track down her cheeks.

  "I didn't expect Halbert's refusal to speak to us about why he'd married Aggie to eat at my husband until the man I thought I knew was no more. I cannot bear what he has done!"

  "Then Stephen left last night after the wake?" Faucon prodded gently, trying to lead her where he wished her to go.

  "She must swear," Edmund hissed from behind him. Again, Faucon ignored him.

  "He didn't stay for the wake. He left us to mourn on our own as the sun began to set," another of 'Wina's sisters said, her tone snide.

  This one rose from the table to go to the hearth. As she stirred whatever bubbled in the pot, she looked over her shoulder at Faucon. "He opened yo
n door," the jerk of her head indicated the only entrance or exit from the house, "then walked the opposite way from Priors Holston on the track. Poor 'Wina went running after him, calling her questions and pleading with him to tell her where he went. He never once looked back. He didn't cross our threshold again until nearly dawn yesterday."

  'Wina buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook for a moment, then she raised her head. Catching another ragged breath, she used the backs of her hands to dry her cheeks, then looked boldly at Faucon, her shoulders squared and her spine straight.

  "Wife I may be, but I will not—cannot hide what he has done, not even to preserve our marriage. My soul will not carry it," she said, her lips quivering as she spoke.

  In that instant, Faucon saw what Susanna so admired. No matter what the world sent 'Wina's way, she would do what was right, the consequences be damned. Stephen had married the wrong woman.

  "Come with me, sir," 'Wina almost commanded, then threw off her sister's embrace. When she walked past Faucon, her long-legged stride was as confident as any man's.

  As Faucon turned to follow her, Edmund looked at him, his raised brows adding emphasis to his disapproval. "She hasn't sworn to tell the truth," he complained, still whispering.

  Faucon stepped up out of the long house, then waited for his clerk. They walked together as they followed 'Wina, who was heading toward a nearby byre.

  "Brother Edmund, can you not see?" he asked of the monk, his voice lowered to keep his words between them. "It is not in that woman to tell anything but the truth. Let her cleanse her soul as it demands of her. When she is done, we can ask her to swear, telling her that this is what the law requires. If we ask it of her now we only add insult to injury. Her heart is already battered almost beyond bearing."

  Although Edmund still frowned, his disapproval now like a cloud over his head, he held his tongue. As they stopped at the byre with 'Wina, Faucon could hear the grunting of pigs. Just outside the enclosure was a pile of what seemed rags, until she lifted her hems, and, using her foot, spread them out onto the ground before her crowner and his clerk.

  "These are Stephen's garments. I know them well, having washed them often these past years, which is why he didn't dare bring them into the house. My nephew found them at the back of the byre yesterday morn when he came to feed the pigs. I cannot know if Stephen buried them and our sows pulled them out, or if he gave them to the pigs, thinking they would tear them to pieces or eat them. I do know what they mean."

  It was a yellow tunic and a pair of red chausses. The brightly colored stockings were darkened with a thick coating of ashes but the tunic seemed only torn and stained by the action of the swine. Squatting, Faucon straightened the mangled garment until it lay flat on the ground, front up. Reddish marks smeared its left shoulder. He lifted it by that shoulder and folded it over until the back of the garment could be seen. There was no mistaking the blood that darkened its back.

  "God help me, I know what this means," 'Wina repeated, her voice trembling. As she spoke, she rubbed her hands on the skirt of her blue gown as if to scrub them clean, even though she had not touched the garments.

  "Mama!" A child dashed up to her. The lass's face was the reflection of her mother's fair features, her creamy skin without a single mark; her hair was a glorious deep red.

  'Wina grabbed up her daughter. Then, tucking her babe's head into the curve of her neck, she bowed her head and began to cry in earnest.

  Once 'Wina calmed, they returned to the house. The two sisters who yet lived with their families at the farm sent their eldest children to fetch their fathers. Only then did Edmund put quill to parchment.

  To a one, men and women, they swore Stephen had not been in the house during the night of Halbert's death. They stated that he had instead arrived just before dawn, coming within doors already dressed in his finery. By the time Faucon and Edmund were leaving, 'Wina had returned to weeping.

  "Why are we turning in this direction?" Edmund asked as he sent his donkey out of the gate, following Legate. He drummed his heels into the sides of the small creature, trying to bring the ass alongside the courser. At just a walk, Faucon's mount was almost too fast for Edmund's donkey to keep pace.

  "We are going to Aldersby. I am hoping the sheriff hasn't yet departed."

  "Ah, of course. You wish him to arrest the miller's son," Edmund said immediately, mistaking Faucon's intention for seeking out Sir Alain. "Know you, it is no matter if the sheriff has already gone. If it is our duty to discover who did the murder, then it must also be our right to arrest the one we identify." He paused in thought for an instant. "Although, if the sheriff is gone, it might be best if we seek out the village bailiff to assist us, just to be certain."

  They rode for a bit in silence, then Edmund cleared his throat. He looked up at Faucon. "I don't understand how you could know the miller's wife would speak only the truth." His tone was both hesitant and wary.

  "I don't see how you didn't know it," Faucon replied, again listening to his clerk with but half an ear. His thoughts were already at Aldersby as he prepared for battle, although he prayed this would be no more than a mere skirmish of words. "It was written on her face for all to read."

  "On her face?" The clerk made a disbelieving sound. "How can you say that? There was nothing on her face save eyes and nose and mouth."

  Then he sighed. "But that matters not. You were right. There was no need to get her oath beforehand. It is a shame there were but two men to add their voices to those of the women. So few men speaking to Stephen's actions may not convince a justice of his guilt, not if he brings enough of his own witnesses."

  That teased Faucon out of his twisted musings. Edmund was right. No one but the two who committed the murder had witnessed Halbert's death. Because of that, not even the testimony of Stephen's wife about blood-stained clothing would be enough to prove his guilt, not if Stephen could bring enough men from Priors Holston to swear that he was a good man and true, and not capable of murder.

  Then again, once Stephen was arrested, he'd be bound for the gaol at Killingworth. In that instance, Faucon doubted the young miller would survive that journey or his incarceration to stand before a justice.

  'Wina's directions led them without event to Lady Joan's dower house. Faucon eyed the place in surprise. The farmstead—and this manor was in all truth nothing but a farmstead—was surrounded by a staked palisade and a moat.

  Trapped within that wide, water-filled ditch was a square island of land that included a dovecote, a stable and what looked to be a separate kitchen building, and Lady Joan's dower house. The house itself was no bigger than the miller's abode, and as any other cottage, was built of sticks, mud and manure, with thatch for a roof.

  He and Brother Edmund drew their mounts to a halt at the tongue of wood that bridged the moat. The gate on the other side was open. Through it, Faucon could see the sheriff and a half-dozen men in the courtyard with their horses. All the men, the sheriff included, wore leather hauberks sewn with metal rings over their tunics, and swords belted at their sides. He and Edmund had arrived just in time. Sir Alain was readying to quit his lady wife's manor.

  "Who comes!" shouted one of the sheriff's soldiers as he stepped into the gateway. Behind him in the courtyard, all the men paused to turn their gazes toward the gate.

  "Sir Faucon de Ramis, Keeper of the Pleas for this shire," Faucon called back. "I have come to discuss the death of Halbert Miller with Sir Alain."

  At his call, Sir Alain lifted his head and stared at Faucon. Once again, no expression softened the harsh features of the older knight. He gave no sign of welcome or refusal, simply watched Faucon as the soldier in the gateway walked back into the courtyard toward his lord.

  "He'd better agree to speak with you," Edmund grumbled. "Just as we have done our duty and found what is necessary to prove Stephen guilty of his father's murder, the sheriff must now do his duty and convey the miller's son to the gaol, so he doesn't run and become outlaw."

/>   Faucon eyed his clerk. Edmund couldn't be allowed to alter the pattern of this conversation as he'd done with Agnes. Too much depended on the words that would be spoken.

  "Vow to me, Brother," he said. "Swear upon your love for our Lord that you'll say nothing whilst I speak with the sheriff. As you vow, do so as if you believed my life depended upon it."

  The request set Edmund to blinking rapidly. Then he frowned, although not in disapproval. His gaze caught and held Faucon's for a long moment. Awareness, if not understanding, stirred in his gaze.

  "What is this?" he asked

  "It is what it is," Faucon replied. "Ask me no more, only remember the law. It allows for a man to use more than witnesses and oaths to prove his innocence."

  Edmund's eyes widened slowly, as he struggled with what his employer had said, and what he had not. Faucon held his breath. A moment later, the monk's jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. He reached within the neck of his habit and pulled forth the wooden cross he wore against his skin.

  "I so swear, upon my vow to serve our Lord for all my days," he said, the crucifix clutched in his fist.

  Inside the courtyard, the soldiers mounted. Sir Alain rode at their head, leading them out of the manor gateway. Faucon and Edmund maneuvered their mounts so they no longer blocked the exit from the bridge, and as the sheriff crossed, he brought his mount to a standstill alongside Legate.

  "We will let them ride ahead so we may speak," Sir Alain said, his voice no more or less gruff or dark with violence than it had been yesterday.

  Together they waited, until the last soldier crossed the bridge and turned in the direction of Priors Holston and the main road that lay beyond the far border of the village. Only then did the sheriff put his heels to his mount. Faucon did the same, and they joined the back of the plodding, jingling cavalcade. Brother Edmund's donkey brought up the end, pitter-pattering behind them, doing its level best to keep pace.