Lost Innocents (A Servant of the Crown Mystery Book 3) (24 page)

"Just so," Faucon agreed with a nod. "Now, if you're calm, I need you to think back over the week just past. You said yesterday that Jessimond had fled the kitchen to meet with a stranger. Now, the monks tell me they saw a whore, the mistress of a stew in Alcester, enter the woods a few days ago."

This shift of subject had the old man blinking in surprise. "There's only one brothel in Alcester. Was this bawd big for a woman and broad?"

"That I cannot say. The monks didn't describe her," Faucon replied with a shrug.

"But I do know what she looks like," Hew shot back, his voice rising in excitement, "and I did see such a form moving through the woods on the night Jes died! I never would have thought it was the bawd. I'd been delayed in Wike until well past dark that night. My family was celebrating my older son's saint day. After passing through the hatch to enter the forest, I heard movement. When I glanced toward the sound I gave thanks because the one who moved away from me on that path was very much alive. No haunt carries living flame."

Here, Hew paused to release a harsh breath. "Would that I'd known then that Jes had fled the kitchen. I would have followed instead of hurrying off in the opposite direction, fearing for my own safety."

"How could you have known it was this bawd in the dark?" Faucon asked.

"You are right to ask that question," Hew replied, "but I am certain even though the night was dim, what with the moon but a sliver. This one held the lamp in front of her whilst her back was to me, but hadn't I seen this exact form before and only recently, one not so tall but broad? It's you telling me that the monks saw the bawd that convinces me. So too does this convince me of what Meg must have done. She sold Jes to the bawd," the rustic insisted. "Didn't she tell us all the day after Jessimond left the kitchen that the lass had run to Alcester to whore? Sir, at last it makes sense," the old man almost pleaded.

"If Meg had sold the girl, then Jessimond would be whoring in Alcester, not dead," Faucon replied with a shake of his head. "Instead, tell me why you think the procuress would even know to seek out Amelyn's daughter."

"Because of what she said to Amelyn last month," the old man said swiftly. "I didn't think whores were even allowed in at the abbey, but when the woman walked past Amelyn along with all the other townsfolk who'd come for Prime service, she stared at us. I could see that even with Amelyn hooded and cloaked, the whore knew who she was. And I could tell that the two liked each other naught at all. If the bawd came for the service, she didn't stay until it was done. Instead, just a short while later she was again on the path, returning to the Street. This time, she stopped in front of Amelyn and said that she would finally receive full repayment for what she'd lent her."

Shock tore through Faucon. The pieces within him rearranged one more time, doing so at their will. When they came to rest, he couldn't bear to look upon the image they created.

Reeling as surprise gave way to all-consuming rage, Faucon turned to stare in the direction of Wike. Question piled atop question, but none of them would lead him to the certainty he craved, not now that Amelyn was gone. Yet, among them was one question that had a certain answer. Amelyn hadn't spent her life because of grief, but to shield another from the ultimate hurt.

To Hew, he said, "Odger has taken all of Wike into the forest to collect wood."

"Aye, so I know, sir," the old man replied, his voice muted and his head bowed. "They're a mile or so from here. My grandson came earlier this morn to bring me these nuts, something to occupy my hands while I awaited you."

"Will you carry a message to them for me?"

"Aye, that I can do, sir," the rustic replied, his voice still subdued and his neck bent in a position of humility, one that ill fit him. "What would you have me say to Odger when I find them, sir?"

Only then did Faucon realize that his rage had driven him for his sword. His fingers were clenched around the pommel as if he meant to draw it. Releasing his weapon, he brought his arm back to his side, battling for calm. Overhead, the sun said it was yet an hour or so before midday.

"You'll tell Odger that I will hold the inquest at the hour of None. Make sure he knows how enraged I am by his defiance. Tell him that I will see him fined for what he's dared, then say that the amount of my fine will increase should he delay the return of your folk to Wike. If he asks about Jessimond, you'll say that I have her body and no more. Nor will you mention that Amelyn is dead."

"As you will, sir," Hew agreed, still not daring to raise his head to look directly at his Crowner.

"Many thanks," Faucon said brusquely, then whirled, returning to the path that led to Alcester, all the joy gone from his day.

"Brother Henricus, I am Sir Faucon de Ramis, newly appointed Coronarius and Keeper of the Pleas for this shire. As is my duty, I am investigating the death of Jessimond, daughter of Amelyn the Leper," Faucon said in introduction to the island abbey's diseased anchorite.

The sub-abbot had been walled into a cell built into the cellar of the abbot's house. Two small rectangular openings, screened to prevent a wayward touch, allowed the monk bare glimpses of the world he'd forsaken. Air and light came to him through the opening in the exterior wall, while the inner one permitted him to communicate with his brothers. Or his Crowner. Faucon sat upon a stool that brought his face to the level of that small, screened rectangle. At his feet was the hatch that allowed food and drink to be pushed into the cell and the monk's wastes to be removed. If a door existed in the cell, it was hidden, covered by a coat of plaster.

It had taken Faucon the full length of his walk between the hogscotes and the abbey to tame his rage. Time well spent. Arriving in control of his emotions had prevented him from overstepping with the abbot, and that had resulted in the churchman's invitation to share lunch. The rich meal would have enraged Edmund, but it hadn't been food that Faucon craved. After entertaining the abbot with tales of his own more august relatives, he'd pleaded ignorance about local history. The abbot had offered up every bit of gossip he had in store. That left the man so sated and expansive that when Faucon asked to speak with his former sub-abbot, the churchman agreed without hesitation and despite the anchorite's earlier refusal.

"I can tell you nothing in that regard. I have no knowledge of the child's death," Brother Henricus replied, his voice hoarse and weak as he sat upon his stool on the other side of the opening. Between the dimness of his chamber and his cowl, Faucon could see nothing of the ravages of his disease.

"But you can tell me about the child's mother. Amelyn was your leman."

The monk sighed, the sound fraught with regret. "I sinned. My confinement to this cell is part of my penance."

"This is no penance, it is a kindness," Faucon retorted, now speaking with the authority that had had Oswald bowing to his wishes, "a greater kindness than was ever shown to Amelyn of Wike. You have much to answer for in regard to her, especially now that both she and her daughter are dead."

As the monk heard these words, his shoulders bent and he buried his face in his hands. "May God forgive me," he muttered into his palms, rocking on his stool.

"Pray as you will, but know that as you do, I shall be praying that our heavenly Father dooms you to the eternal fires. You're no monk," he spat out in disgust. "You only took your vows because your family willed it. You never had any intention of honoring your vow to our Lord."

Like Faucon, Henry of Kinwarton was a second son, in this case the cousin of the abbey's founder. He had been given to the Church with the expectation that he would rise in rank until he could use the power of his position for the benefit of his family, just as William of Hereford did for his kin. Instead, the man had squandered the opportunity, concentrating instead on pleasing himself.

"Pity poor Amelyn," Faucon continued harshly. "She came to Alcester an innocent in all ways. She knew nothing of whoring, nothing of this place and nothing of you. And weren't you and the procuress waiting for one just such as she? The bawd didn't want you using her girls, not when she knew you were diseased. So when she told you about a beautiful woman newly come to Alcester to whore, you lent the bawd funds to give to Amelyn, then used that loan to force Amelyn to serve you. You doomed Amelyn to death to feed your sinful appetites!"

The man within the cell but rocked, his face yet buried in his palms.

Faucon's eyes narrowed. "I know the bawd came to see you last month. Tell me what she asked you. Best you speak the truth, for I will know if you lie."

The man on the other side of the grate at last lowered his hands. There was no seeing his face in the shadowed cell. "Lina asked what Amelyn had told me of Wike and its folk," he said, his voice thick with tears. "I told her the truth, the same thing I now tell you. Amelyn never spoke to me of Wike. The only thing she ever shared about her life before whoring was that her daughter was precious to her beyond all else and made in her image."

It was a dragon's breath Faucon released. The monk had done worse than doom Amelyn to death. His words had convinced the procuress that it was worth her time to negotiate with Meg, who had no doubt set a steep price for the purchase of Jessimond.

"You selfish coward," he spat out in disgust. Where was the justice in this unholy monk holding tight to the comforts of his house, when Edmund, who had more courage than a lion despite his peculiarities, had lost all he held dear?

"I suspect your cousin pays a steep price to keep you walled in here rather than walking the byways in a leper's cloak, bringing shame upon your family name. After I leave, you'll request that your abbot draw from that sum to secure a place here for a new servant, Amelyn's mute and crippled half-brother. If you're asked why you wish to do this, say that our Lord has given it to you to see this youth gently cared for until his death, even if it means you go hungry to do it. If the brothers try to make him a beggar, you will refuse, telling them that you know the youth and he is capable of working in the kitchen. Betray me, and I will seek every avenue to have you accused of abetting the murder of the leper's daughter. Should I fail at that, I'll instead inform my uncle, Bishop William of Hereford, what you've done. Unlike you, my uncle is a man who honors his vows and expects the same integrity from those in his order. I guarantee you'll live out your last years begging for bread like the woman you used."

With that, Faucon came to his feet, kicked his stool to the side and departed.

He, Edmund, and Alf, who bore Jessimond in his arms, stopped before Meg's kitchen. Johnnie had remained in the glade after their attempts to remove him resulted in high-pitched squeals and thrashing limbs. Once released, the simpleton went back to gathering rocks for Amelyn's cairn. That's when Gawne insisted on staying behind to watch over him. Although Gawne freed no squeals and hadn't thrashed, it was clear the lad didn't trust his neighbors not to accuse him of Jessimond's murder.

"Is this where you intend to hold the inquest, sir?" Edmund asked, his breathing once more steady after his second perilous journey over the plank bridge. This time he'd rearranged his basket on his back before stepping out over the gap. With the strap crossing his chest, both of his arms had been free to extend for balance, and he'd moved at a snail's pace.

"Can you think of a better place than here, where that poor child was forced to live out her last miserable years?" Faucon asked bitterly.

Edmund had no answer for that. Instead he said, "We'll need a table for the corpse."

"There'll be one inside," Faucon replied, and started toward the kitchen door.

It was a baking day, and the oven radiated warmth along with a sweet, yeasty scent. The door to Meg's realm was ajar. He pushed it wide, only to have it bounce back at him as it collided with something behind it.

Stepping inside, he looked for the bakestress, but she wasn't within. The interior of the chamber looked much like the interior of any rural commoner's home except for the great maw of a fire pit to one side of the door, one big enough to have once provided meals for a knight's household. And one that hadn't been used at its full capacity since Wike Manor had been abandoned. Meg did her cooking on a much smaller hearth stone at the other side of the doorway. It was that stone that had stopped the door.