Lost Innocents (A Servant of the Crown Mystery Book 3) (2 page)

Gathered in this clearing hewn from Feckenham Forest and separated from the deer by the pale—here, that separation being both tall wooden fencing and thick stands of holly trimmed into a wall—were the villeins of Wike. All had put aside the usual tasks they owed their lady in her fields and orchards to watch one of their own as she exited her watery grave. At their smith's call, the older folk among the watching serfs all ceased their impatient muttering to attend the doings around their well. Not so the youngsters. Wearing rough homespun dyed in shades of acorn brown, mossy green, or chestnut yellow, the children made good use of these carefree moments, chasing a few dogs around a sunbathing sow and her soon-to-be slaughtered piglets. Their play set a small flock of chickens to squawking and flapping as they escaped the activity.

Only one soul among the fifty or so families of Wike hadn't joined the watchers. Yet standing outside the kitchen shed, a structure larger than the miserable manor house beside it, was the dead girl's mistress. Wide of waist and wearing gowns the cheerful shade of beetroot, the old woman stood with her head bowed and her hands folded as if in prayer. Her white braids were uncovered, proudly naming her never married. That was an uncommon thing for any female in a place such as this, but especially for one of her age.

"Leave be, Da!" the lad in the well cried up to his sire. His words echoed hollowly into the air above the shaft. Coughing, he splashed in water that could take him as easily as it had the unfortunate lass. "I won't come up until I can bring Jes with me."

"Brave lad," murmured Sir Faucon de Ramis, the shire's new Coronarius, the man responsible for discerning the murdered from those who departed this Earthly vale due to accident or in happy answer to the Lord God's call. One thing was certain. When it came to water, that boy had more courage than his Crowner, as the commoners were coming to pronounce Faucon's title. He'd rather die an embarrassing death on the edge of the sheriff's sword than face drowning in a well.

Gawne had volunteered to do the dangerous deed of retrieving the drowned girl's body after the well proved too deep for any ladder from either the manor's barns or the nearby homes. When the smith sought to dissuade his son, the boy argued that the dead girl had been a friend and he could do no less for her. Then, with a boldness beyond his age, he pointed to the manor's overgrown fish pond and reminded all the adults within hearing that he swam better than anyone in Wike. When that still didn't convince his father, Gawne had added that he was both small enough to maneuver within the narrow shaft, and strong enough to do what must be done.

At that, all the smith's neighbors shouted for his father to agree. They wanted the use of the well, and that meant the corpse had to come out. So down the lad had gone, his father's leather apron and a web of ropes his only guarantee of returning to the bosom of his earthly family.

There was another spate of splashing in the shaft. "There's only one more knot to tighten. She's almost ready," Gawne called, wheezing again, his words punctuated with the echo of his chattering teeth.

"Almost ready," Faucon's clerk repeated sarcastically in his native French. "I doubt that."

Brother Edmund stood beside his employer, his hands braced on the waist-high stone wall that encircled the well. The clerk's black Benedictine habit wore spots of the same ruddy Warwickshire mud that spattered Faucon's surcoat and chain mail. Last night's storm had turned this morning's journey to the nearby village of Studley into a filthy plod.

It had taken longer to reach this corner of their shire than it had to resolve the death of one of Studley's wealthiest farmers. As it turned out the man had returned unexpectedly from a horse fair to discover his wife in bed with her lover and had been killed in the fight that ensued. Within an hour of Faucon's arrival, he'd called the jury so they could render the verdict of death felonious, then called for the arrest of the woman's lover.

After sharing a tasty but meager midday meal with the canons of the local priory, Faucon and Edmund then spent a pleasant hour appraising the lover's home and chattel, that being the true purpose behind the creation of his position at the Michaelmas court just past. It was now Faucon's duty to set the fee England's king received for the man's wrongdoing, based on the value of the accused's estate. What would profit King Richard left both the killer's family and Sir Alain, Warwickshire's sheriff, poorer. The arrested man's kin had offered Faucon treasure in trade for a lower appraisal only to have their new Crowner spurn what their sheriff would have accepted.

Edmund's well-made face twisted in impatience under his circle of carefully trimmed dark hair as he launched into his complaint. "More than an hour we've been here, waiting as they tried this crook or that ladder, now a boy on a rope. They shouldn't have called for us to come until after they'd gotten her out. It's not ours to retrieve the body, but theirs."

"Retrieval is their duty," Faucon agreed with a casual shrug, "but I thought the law required that they leave the body where it is until we arrive?"

The monk ignored the question—they both knew that answer well enough—and gave a disgusted shake of his head as he continued to prosecute his complaint. "This is but another child's accidental death, and only a girl child at that. Why are we wasting our time? There can be no profit for our king here, only our Church. Command me to note the servant's orphan status and that she drowned, then you can declare the well deodand. Once you've done that, we can be on our way home."

Faucon grimaced. Far too many youthful deaths had already been inscribed on his clerk's ever-lengthening parchment roll. Until Faucon stepped into his newly-created position three sennights ago, he'd taken little note of how often and easily children died. Why, in this past week alone they'd added yet two more babes to their list, three if he included this unexamined girl.

The first had been an infant who crawled into the household fire pit while his admittedly young and careless mother had stepped outside their home to visit with friends. It proved a terrible tragedy but not murder, despite the claims of the child's great-grandfather who, it turned out, despised not only his granddaughter-by-marriage but her whole family. The second was a boy who died by falling from a tree. The grieving mother had raised the hue and cry, charging murder on the part of her child's playmates. But all those who witnessed the event attested that her son had been trying to follow the older children onto the next higher branch when he'd lost his grip.

Edmund was right about this death, though. If the well became deodand, their king saw no profit. Instead, whatever priest or prior was connected to this place would collect a fee from the residents to bless the manor's water source, removing the stain of murder from it.

What was likely here in Wike hadn't proved true for the other two childish deaths this week. Just as there was a price to pay for doing rape, burglary, or killing another, fines could be levied for bringing false charges or wrongly raising the hue and cry.

"For shame, Brother Edmund," Faucon chided quietly as he glanced at the folk around the well. "If you must complain, at least lower your voice."

His rebuke only provoked a rude sound from the monk, the disrespectful reaction one Faucon had come to know too well over their brief acquaintance. Edmund was incapable of deference. Faucon suspected this character flaw was why the monk found himself banished from his convent and clerking for Warwickshire's first and only Servant of the Crown.

"Why?" Edmund shot back, although he did lower his voice. "I doubt there's anyone in this rustic place who speaks our tongue other than their bailiff, who's not here just now to overhear. And he's barely fluent." As the lad had descended into the well, the hamlet's headman had excused himself, saying he needed to feed his stock and promising to return soon.

"Nor is there any priest here who might know a word of our tongue," Edmund continued. The wave of his hand indicated the flimsy mud-and-manure homes used by those whose lives were forever chained to this place. "I saw nothing church-like as we rode past yon cottages. Nor do I see anything resembling a chapel within this demesne. Hardly a surprise, as impoverished as the place is."

This time, when the jerk of Edmund's head indicated the manor house, Faucon shrugged to concede that point. Save for its barns, outbuildings and the amount of land attached to it, the manor house looked much like the homes it ruled, save that, unlike the other dwellings, it was poorly tended. Its thatch was rotted while moss and more stained its plastered exterior. The stone foundation that raised it a little above ground level was moldy.

"Rustic this place might be, but even if you're correct that no one understands you, I say again, for shame," Faucon once more chided his clerk, still keeping his voice low. "Although these are naught but uncouth serfs and it's only an orphaned serving girl in the well, their lives and her death deserve our respect."

That sent Edmund's brows high upon his forehead as his dark eyes widened. "You mistake me," he protested, this time matching his master's quiet tone. "I mean no disrespect to you or them. All I wish to point out is that by the time the lad manages to knot the ropes around the girl's corpse, if he manages it," the monk emphasized, "I doubt there'll be light enough for me to note even these few names when we call them to view the body." Although he gestured toward the crowd, the movement was meant to include only the men and boys over twelve years of age among the watchers.

"Let them do what they can to retrieve the child tonight while we ride for home. We can return on the morrow when the sun and I will both be fresh," he insisted.

Faucon read the longing in Edmund's tone. Over the three weeks the monk had served Faucon, they had been on the move across the shire on a daily basis. Nor was there any indication their pace of travel might change. Edmund's demotion had cost him what he prized most—the comfort of familiar walls around him as well as the regularity of a learned brother's daily routine.

However, the monk was right about the light. Faucon glanced heavenward. Day was fading, its oncoming death promising to tint the thin and ragged clouds, remnants of the previous night's storm.

But unlike his clerk, who had groaned at the thought of a second investigation in one day, Faucon couldn't have been more grateful when the bailiff of Wike sought them out just as they were departing Studley. Warwickshire wasn't like his home county, where villages and hamlets were so many that they often shared boundaries, and fought over them. Here, there could be long stretches of untended wastes between this place and that settlement. Such emptiness offered excellent opportunities for an ambush.

Five days ago, Sir Alain, who had more than monetary reasons for wanting to rid himself of his new Keeper of the Pleas, had sent men in secret to end Faucon's life. Although the assassins had failed, their failure wasn't their sheriff's. Now, each time Faucon departed the stone walls of his new home in Blacklea, he did so fully armed against the certainty of another attempt.

The worst of it was that Sir Alain almost always knew where to find his new Coronarius. By long custom, folk with a corpse in need of viewing reported to their sheriff. It was Sir Alain who sent them on to Blacklea and Faucon, just as he'd done this morning with the soldier from Studley Keep.

As much as Faucon despised playing the rabbit to Alain's fox, without a small army of his own there was no way to escape that role. Unfortunately, he lacked the coin necessary to hire either a trained knight or the four or five common soldiers he'd like to keep at his back. That left him looking for what his purse could tolerate—one experienced mercenary to ride with him. Finding such a man was no easy task. Nor was entrusting his life to a stranger who wasn't honor-bound to him, one whose allegiance was guaranteed only by the silver Faucon was able to put into his purse.

Faucon shook his head as he eyed Edmund. "Even if the lad fails to bring the girl up before dark, we won't be returning to our own beds this night. We're farther from home than you think, Brother, given that beast of yours."

Once again Faucon avoided the explanation that was Edmund's due. Only two men knew of the sheriff's attack, and his clerk wasn't one of them. At least there was no need to lie. The monk's donkey was a headstrong creature who kept to his meandering pace no matter the goad.

Edmund opened his mouth to protest. Faucon raised a forestalling hand. The monk's mouth snapped shut. It was a gratifying reaction, as it didn't often happen.

"Why should we ride all that way to Priors Holden and Blacklea only to turn around and repeat our journey come dawn?" Faucon continued. "Perhaps the bailiff is permitted to offer us the use of yon house for the night. If he cannot, I'll wager Sir Peter's steward will open the door to his keep in Studley for us," Faucon added. "Or, if taking your rest with soldiers and servants doesn't suit you, perhaps you can stay at the priory there."

That teased a second rude sound from Edmund. His clerk aimed his gaze back into the well's depths as he spoke. "Bad enough that we had to share bread with that rude bunch this day. Did you not see that house? Profligate and lacking in discipline, commoners coming and going! Nay, I'll not sleep with them," he said harshly, then huffed in irritation as he gave way.

"So be it. I can see you're set on remaining in this area for the night. Just know that I won't be resting my head with the rats or whatever other vermin surely infest this rustic place," he said in scorn. "Why should I, when I can instead take comfort and find peace within a house of my own order in Alcester? The town is just a little to the south, perhaps no more than two miles from here," the monk explained for Faucon's benefit, his employer being new to this shire. "If my brothers don't have space in their guest house for you, Alcester is a market town. The folk there are accustomed to opening their homes to strangers for a penny or two. Perhaps you can find an alewife willing to rent you her bed and feed you as well," he finished.