Lost Innocents (A Servant of the Crown Mystery Book 3) (16 page)

"It's not about the child," Faucon replied. "It's about the command."

Oswald groaned at that, trapped into agreement by his own arrogance. "Is there no other way?"

"You need not stay," Faucon started to offer.

"Of course I must stay," his cousin shot back. "Were you not watching? Sir Alain has no liking for you. I know how fond Lord William is of that man, but in this one instance I fear my lord's trust is sorely misplaced. You and I will remain together and search a bit longer, but only until the light is no more."

"The light is gone," Oswald grumbled. It wasn't the first time he'd suggested this.

"Not quite. When Father Otto walks past again, we'll be finished," Faucon replied.

This time and at Faucon's command, the searchers had arranged themselves in a long line, each man or woman, or mounted knight, spaced at twice the distance of their arms from their neighbors. The priest was walking up and down the line of searchers, carrying messages as they made their way at a steady slow walk along the path that led north toward a settlement the locals named Aston. With more than four dozen of Haselor's folk participating, it made for a long line.

A moment later, Oswald stirred himself again. "Why wait for the priest? The light is gone for certain now."

That brought Faucon's gaze up from the ground as he eyed midnight blue heavens above them. He stifled a sigh. That first lass's corpse had been so degraded that there hadn't been much to see and little to gain from examining her. He'd hoped for better this time.

"I think you're right, Oswald," he agreed. "Ah well. Haselor can be along my route back to Blacklea. I'll stop here to search again after I complete the inquest at Wike."

"Wike? I thought the sheriff said you were in Studley," came Oswald's startled reply.

Faucon sent a quick smile in Oswald's direction. "I was in Studley earlier this day, much to our king's profit," he added, winning a return grin from his cousin. "As I left the place the bailiff from the hamlet of Wike met me, saying they'd found their leper's daughter in a well."

"Bah," Oswald replied in scorn at that. "Another girl child, drowned and the daughter of a leper? What profit can there be for our king in such a death?"

That made Faucon laugh. "More than you'd think, Cousin. Not only did the girl prove to have been murdered, but her mother attests that her child was conceived in rape and the father's name remains unknown. That, Oswald, means our sovereign will collect the murdrum fine from the community, or so Brother Edmund informs me."

Oswald's smile fair glowed in the dimness. "There was no proof of Englishry?"

"Nay. Nor can there be, not unless the man who did the rape comes forward to claim his child posthumously," Faucon replied. Then, although he thought his effort wasted, he did what he knew would please Edmund. "You must let our uncle know that I'm grateful to have such a learned monk at my side to guide me."

Just then, shouts rose from the left. The repetitive sound suggested a message being passed mouth-to-mouth up the line. Concentrating, Faucon caught the echo of a miracle. The girl was found. Instantly, he turned his horse, leaving Oswald without a backward glance. He didn't want anyone disturbing the body or the place where she was found, not until he could examine it.

Ahead of him, a woman appeared out of the dimness, walking swiftly toward him, bearing a small form in her arms. Faucon cursed himself for not warning the searchers to leave the child's corpse where they found it. Then the
corpse
coughed and moaned hoarsely in her bearer's arms.

That provoked a sour but amused laugh from him. Such was the hazard of dealing with death and murder on a daily basis. Look at him, starting to believe that anyone, even a nun, was capable of murder, and a heinous one at that.

It was full dark by the time Oswald and Faucon stepped out of the cottage where the child had been reunited with her overjoyed mother. The lass was fevered and barely conscious, and clots of blood marked the back of her head. Perhaps because of her head wound, she'd resisted being touched by any man, even Alf. When the Englishman had tried to take her, she'd thrashed in hysterical fear, kicking and crawling back in her female rescuer's arms. To Faucon that suggested that—if she'd been taken—it had been a man who'd done the deed.

"You should have insisted," his cousin chided. "Mother or not, that woman had no right to keep the girl from you nor refuse to let you pose your questions to her."

Faucon closed the door behind him. The same impatience gnawing at Oswald also ate at him. But unlike his cousin, who knew nothing of common folk and traded in arrogance the way others traded in silver, Faucon knew better than to press a mother in regard to her child.

"Perhaps," he agreed as they crossed the yard to where the knights and horses waited. "But I think my effort would have been wasted. Until her fever breaks, nothing the lass says can be trusted. Nay, I'll wait until she's improved before I ask for her tale, even if it means waiting until mother and daughter make their way back to Priors Holden."

Behind him the cottage door opened again, spilling warm and uncertain yellow light into the silvered darkness. Faucon glanced over his shoulder. By size alone did he recognize Alf. Leaving Oswald to mount his palfrey, Faucon retreated a few steps to meet the Englishman.

"'Wyna sent me," the miller told him, offering a respectful nod. "She asks me to both beg your forgiveness for sending you away and offer you her everlasting gratitude. I think her head at last begins to clear now that her babe is once more safely in her arms."

Faucon smiled at that. "'Wyna is well come to my efforts on Cissy's behalf. God be praised that we found her daughter alive. Good night, Alf."

Rather than return his
adieu
, the taller man reached out to touch Faucon's mail sleeve. "You rode without armor when we first met. Dare I ask from whom you now seek to protect yourself?" he challenged with a quiet smile.

That made Faucon grin. "You of all people know who chases me, and why. Now, if by mentioning this you're offering to stand at my back, I'd be interested in hearing what you have to say."

That won a moment's silence from the former soldier. When Alf at last spoke, disappointment colored his tone. "I may very well be."

"What?!" Faucon retorted in surprise. "But you just came into the milling life. I hear it's a fine one. And didn't you tell me only three weeks ago that you found it suited you?"

Alf sighed. "Aye, so I did. But since that time I've discovered that the one thing I want most from that life I can never have."

"Ah," Faucon murmured. Although now widowed, 'Wyna had been married to Alf's half-brother. No priest would ever allow a union between her and Alf, not as long as the prior of St. Radegund's wished to reclaim ownership of that mill.

"Against that," Alf continued, "I find my taste for milling has flagged. But I thought I was trapped until I saw you standing next to our sheriff at the abbey. I feared if I left the mill, the prior would find a way to reclaim it, cheating 'Wyna of the lifestyle she expected to own when she wed. Now, of a sudden I see how I can hire others to do the daily tasks, with 'Wyna to manage them, while I go no farther from Priors Holden than Blacklea. As long as I remain close at hand and visit the mill regularly, the prior cannot argue that I've abandoned my birthright. Instead, I'll be no different than any other landowner who holds a distant property."

Alf's smile gleamed in the dark. "What do you think, sir? Will you make room for me at your back? I could be available as early as the morrow, should that suit your purposes. I won't need much of a salary, not with the profits from the mill yet coming to me after 'Wyna's taken what she needs. I do have two requests, though, should you agree. First, if I join you on the morrow, you'll need to buy me a horse. I've no coin with me at present, and I sold my nag before I came to Priors Holden. And I'll want to escort 'Wyna home when she's ready to leave this place."

Faucon threw back his head and laughed. Miracle after miracle on one enchanted day. "I'll wait for you at the abbey on the morrow," was his reply.

"Where did you go and why did you leave without me?" Edmund complained from the doorway of the small tool shed that would be Faucon's chamber for the night. The monk held a large oil lamp before him. The jigging flame spilled a shifting dance of light and shadow across his features, making a grotesque of his face.

Edmund yet stood in the doorway because there wasn't room for three men inside the shed. The monk responsible for tending to the abbey's guests had sent a servant with Faucon to help him disarm. At the moment, the man was loosening the laces on Faucon's chain mail tunic.

"At our sheriff's request, my cousin, his men, and I rode to a nearby hamlet to look for a missing lass. Once the child was found, we returned," Faucon replied, again glancing around the shed as he spoke.

Brother Hosteller, had been flustered and apologetic over offering his new Crowner such lowly housing. Faucon had assured the monk that he'd made his bed in stranger places, and as such places went, there was nothing offensive about this tiny space. The tools had been removed and the dirt floor swept clean. A straw-filled pallet topped with a woolen blanket now filled the back half of the shed while a milking stool near the door would serve for a chair. In between the stool and the pallet was a makeshift table—a plank of wood resting atop two more milking stools–pushed against the wall beneath the empty tool pegs.

Awaiting him on that plank was his evening repast, the food and drink of startling quality and quantity. The ewer, and now the cup as well, held ale made by the monks, or so Faucon had been told. It was tasty, indeed. On the tray was a good-sized round loaf of fine bread—white, not the usual brown. Several wedges of fragrant cheese, made in the town, not at the abbey, according to the brother who brought the tray, sat next to a small bowl of nuts and dried fruit. Faucon's eating knife lay at the ready near a length of smoked sausage.

After opening the laces, the serving man stepped in front of his new Crowner. Faucon bent at the waist and extended his arms in front of him. The servant reached over him and grabbed the tails of his metal tunic. As he tugged toward him, Faucon yanked and pulled his body in the opposite direction. He came free of the tunic with a grunt and a gasp, then straightened, rolling his shoulders to release them. Once the servant stored the folded steel garment in its sack, leaving it at the foot of Faucon's bed, he returned to open the cross garters that held the shafts of Faucon's boots to his calves.

As the man knelt before him, Faucon reached for the ties that closed his padded gambeson, only to hesitate. As much as he longed to sleep in the comfort of just his shirt, this shed stood in the open air at the edge of the garden. If the night grew as cold as the last, he'd be grateful for these garments come midnight. Once Faucon was free of his footwear and the servant had bid them both a good night, Edmund stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

"Holy Mother preserve us," the monk said in harsh complaint. "I was wrong to think the canons at the priory this afternoon were profligate! This place is much, much worse."