Lost Innocents (A Servant of the Crown Mystery Book 3) (17 page)

"In what way?" Faucon asked idly as he removed one of his metal leggings.

"In all ways," Edmund retorted. "The meal after Vespers was an embarrassment. Can you not see what's on your tray? The food here is excessive and rich to the point of sin. And there was no reading! When I asked about it, I was met with blank stares, as if none of these brothers had ever heard of such a thing."

Faucon glanced at his clerk. Edmund's nose fair quivered with his outrage. In that instant the jigging shadows cast by the lamp he held turned the monk's expression into the Devil's own.

Stripping off his second metal stocking, Faucon managed an "Is that so?" comment as he went to store them in the sack that held his mail tunic.

Edmund wasn't finished. "As if that's not bad enough, you should have heard them chatter through the meal. Indeed, when they asked why you and I were in their area, I mentioned the death of a leper's daughter in Wike. Not one but two brothers hurried to tell me that their sub-abbot had kept our leper as his mistress," his clerk pronounced angrily.

Easing around Edmund, Faucon brought the free stool to his little table. Once aseat, he shifted to look up at his clerk. "Where is their sub-abbot now?"

"Not at a leper's hospital where he belongs," his clerk shot back. "The abbot allowed him to become an anchorite and walled him into his cellar, as if that might shield the others from his disease. Insanity!"

Faucon caught back his laugh. Apparently the sub-abbot hadn't wished to give up his fine lifestyle to become a beggar like his mistress. "Ah, then I think we can say with certainty who it was that gave Amelyn the right to beg here. Although I think now this wasn't much of a gift, not with the abbey fair hidden from the road. Who comes here to give alms to beggars?"

That provoked a scornful snort from Edmund. "More folk than you might think. The abbot supports his lavish lifestyle by selling his monks and their quills to the local merchants. These aren't holy brothers. This is a den of scribes pretending to be monks. You must insist your cousin report the misbehavior of this abbot and the excesses of this house to the bishop of Worcester. If something isn't done about this place, our Lord will take his vengeance. This house will cease to exist, I know it, aye."

That provoked another ambiguous sound from Faucon. Interfering in the matters of monks and abbots wasn't anything he ever intended to do. "Do you think I can speak with the sub-abbot come the morrow?" he asked instead, now shifting to eye his meal.

"Here?!" Edmund retorted in disgust. "Here you can speak to anyone you wish at any time you like. They've no respect for the Rule. I wager they chatter as they will throughout the day."

Good. Then, come dawn, he wouldn't need Edmund to ask after the monks and their hogs. Disappointment followed. Even if he recruited a brother to lead him into the forest, it appeared he might be making the trip with Edmund. With his clerk so disgusted at this place, he doubted the monk would want to return here for lunch or the Sext service.

"Is it so irksome here that you'd prefer to sleep in the shed rather than mingle with these brothers?" Faucon offered, taking a handful of the nuts as he glanced up at the monk.

That startled the outrage from Edmund's face. He blinked. "Your offer is appreciated, but nay. I don't wish to be locked out of reach of the chapel. I," he said, giving the word harsh emphasis, "intend to celebrate Compline and Matins services even though I suspect I will be the only soul in attendance."

"As you will," Faucon replied, relieved at his clerk's refusal. They'd had to share accommodations more than once in the past weeks. Edmund snored, the sound as loud as the size of his nose.

The nuts were freshly shelled, rich and oily. Chewing, Faucon added more ale to his cup, then sliced off a bit of sausage. The smoked meat was overly salted and only adequate, at least in comparison to the nuts, but still edible. For that he was grateful. More often than not he went hungry overnight while out and about on his duties.

"By the bye," Faucon said to Edmund as he tried a bit of cheese; it proved better than adequate, "this evening I hired a soldier to ride with us."

"You did?" Edmund replied, his brows raising in surprise. Then he nodded in approval. "As you should. It's good to have protection as we travel. Is it one of your kinsman's knights?"

"Nay, a common soldier." Faucon cut another bit of sausage to follow the cheese.

"You hired some ruffian?" Edmund almost chided as he leaned forward to set the lamp on the corner of his master's plank table. "Well, I hope you'll remind the oaf to keep his place and spare us his low opinions."

Keep his place? Spare us? What, so Edmund's opinions could be the only ones heard?

Laughter tried to escape Faucon's throat at the same time he swallowed. Choking, he grabbed up his cup and took a goodly sip of ale. He was still fighting for breath as his clerk gave an irritable huff and turned toward the doorway.

"On the morrow then, Sir Faucon," Brother Edmund offered as he retreated.

"On the morrow, Brother," Faucon managed when he cleared his throat.

Later than Faucon had wanted, he and Edmund departed from the abbey. They'd been delayed while he waited to meet with the former sub-abbot. It had been well after Prime when the anchorite at last sent a reply through a novice, saying he was too ill this day to entertain a conversation.

With geese and swans flocking noisily overhead, departing for the season, Edmund rode from the abbey ahead of Faucon. Faucon let the monk precede him only because he knew they wouldn't encounter the sheriff or his men on this day, nor any day before Faucon's return to Blacklea. Sir Alain had made his point. Their confrontation would wait until Oswald was far from Warwickshire's borders. Against that, Faucon had stored his metal armor and his surcoat in his saddle bags in favor of his more comfortable underarmor, with his sword belted over his padded gambeson.

Under the drawbridge the flowing water sparkled in mid-morning's cold clear light as he crossed, leading a workhorse. It had been donated to the monks by the son of the abbey's patron, the lord of Kinwarton. The piebald gelding was old, but of the size and with the hooves of a warhorse. According to the abbot, who proved to be as congenial and expansive as the food that came from his kitchen, the horse had been ridden in the past but now powered the abbey's apple press. With their fruit already processed for the season, the churchman had been happy to lend the nag to his new Crowner for a few pennies. When Faucon promised to return the gelding in a day or so, the abbot only laughed. He reminded the shire's new Crowner that as long as the horse wasn't here, he wasn't eating their hay.

At this late hour, the abbey's contingent of beggars was already well into their day. They didn't stand near the drawbridge as Faucon expected, but in the field in front of the trees that stood between the Street and the island abbey. No doubt this was so they could be seen by travelers. There were two elderly men, neither of them Hew, and a younger man using a crutch in place of his missing left foot.

As the rustic had suggested last even, Amelyn wasn't among them. However, Alf stood a little beyond the clutch of beggars, leaning against a tree, one foot braced upon its trunk, as he watched Ryknild Street. The miller had set aside his finer attire, and wore instead a short yellow tunic and green chausses. Or they would have been green and yellow had the garments not been so completely embedded with flour that their colors were naught but dusty memories of the original hues. Instead of a cloak, the commoner wore an aged but well-tended leather hauberk. A short, serviceable sword hung at his side.

As Edmund rode past the tall man without a sideways glance, Faucon drew Legate close enough to toss the gelding's reins to the soldier. Alf caught the leather straps, then lifted himself into what passed for a saddle on the creature's back. The old workhorse gave no sign that he found it strange or uncomfortable to again have a man sitting upon him.

"Purchased?" the soldier asked with a grin.

Faucon shook his head, smiling back. "Borrowed. He'll do for the now."

"He will," Alf agreed pleasantly.

Hearing voices, Edmund yanked his donkey to a halt and shifted on the little creature's back to look behind him. His eyes flew wide when he saw Alf. "This is whom you hired? He's not a soldier! He's a miller's workman," Edmund protested in French.

Alf glanced from his Crowner to the monk, his expression flat. "I am the miller now, Brother. But for the next little while I've chosen to return to my original profession." If Alf's French was heavily accented, that he spoke it at all said he'd been more than a simple foot soldier in his time.

Edmund's eyes flew wide at being corrected by a commoner in his own tongue. His mouth moved as if to speak. But knowing he'd be understood by one he didn't wish to overhear him stopped the words.

Then the monk's eyes narrowed and his jaw firmed. "
Quod non servierit
," he said in Latin to Faucon.

This will not serve, Faucon translated but he shook his head. "Brother, I hope you don't expect me to understand what you just said. As I told you in our first days together, it's been years since I've had to think in the tongue of the Church. I fear I've forgotten most of what I learned all those years ago."

As a second son, Faucon had been intended for the clergy. He'd spent his early years in a monastery school until his elder brother had suffered an injury to his head, one that left Will with erratic, unpredictable, and ofttimes dangerous behavior. To ensure his line, Faucon's father had chosen to make his second son a knight instead of a priest.

With an exasperated huff, Edmund once more jerked around to face his little mount's ears. His back stiff, he beat his heels against the stubborn creature's side. That teased a sound from the donkey so like Edmund's huff that Faucon almost laughed.

As the monk continued toward the Street, keeping his mount at a fast pace, Alf drew his horse up next to Legate. "He does not approve of me?"

This time Faucon did laugh. "My clerk doesn't approve of anyone," he replied. In afterthought he added, "Although he does seem to tolerate me. I know not why."

With but a few short miles between them and Wike, it wasn't long before they were guiding their mounts into the greensward at the far edge of the settlement. Before dismounting, Faucon scanned what he could see of the hamlet. Not a soul moved along the paths that wound between the cottages and traced across the manor's bailey. Nor was there anyone in the fields that stretched from the manor house to the pale. All he could hear was the crow of cocks, the homely nasal chatter of grazing ducks, the honk of wild waterfowl as they departed these realms for the winter, and the more distant ring of hammers from Ivo's forge. Judging from the metallic sound, the smithy was located behind the decaying house in the demesne.

Save for the smiths, it seemed Odger had taken all his folk out of Wike in defiance of his Crowner's command. Then Faucon's gaze came to rest on the dome-shaped oven near the kitchen shed. A narrow stream of smoke made its lazy way heavenward out of the oven's vent at its apex. And the bakestress. The thought of having to speak with Meg made Faucon's mood sour even more.

He and Alf dismounted, Alf tying their horses with the ropes and stakes from the previous day. That these items had remained where they'd been left last night suggested Amelyn's curse kept all of Wike behind barred doors after their Crowner departed. As Legate and the piebald began to graze, Edmund yet watched his employer from atop his little donkey.

"Your soldier should stay with our mounts," the monk said. It wasn't a suggestion.

Faucon glanced at Alf. The big man said nothing nor did he look at Edmund. He but stood where he was, awaiting a command from his new master.

"Nay, Alf stays with us for the now," Faucon told Edmund. "That way he can learn what it is we do. The more he knows, the better prepared he'll be, should he need to come to our aid."

In that instant Edmund looked as sour as Faucon felt. Dismounting, leaving his donkey to graze freely alongside the larger beasts, the monk removed his basket of writing tools from the saddle. His expression hadn't improved by the time he'd hoisted its strap over his shoulder and was once again facing his employer.

"By my reckoning, we've completed but one of the duties the law requires of us. We've determined that the dead girl was murdered, something I have yet to note," the monk said flatly. "As for where she was found, I think you know better than I, sir. Should I add to our record that she was put in the well after her death? The only reason I need to do so is if it has any bearing on the estate we will ultimately assess."

Faucon shook his head. "Then do not add it. Her placement in the well was a misguided act of kindness."

"As you will," Edmund replied, then his eyes narrowed in consideration. "Also, for all intents, the old man from yesterday confirmed the leper's story that her child's father is unknown and unnamed, no matter what guesses the leper makes regarding who did the deed. However, we failed to have that man swear to the fact that all the folk here agree that no one knows the name of who fathered her child. Should we come across the old man again today, I suggest we request a more formal oath from him. That said, since we both witnessed what he said, if we don't meet with him, our word should suffice. That leaves us needing three more men who can confirm by oath that the girl's sire is unknown. Only then can we state that she isn't proved English."