Lost Innocents (A Servant of the Crown Mystery Book 3) (26 page)

Meg swallowed, but she still refused to yield. Instead, she held that shield of hers high even as his blows began to crush it. Outside her kitchen, her neighbors whistled and sang, laughed and chattered as they gathered in her yard.

"But I didn't kill her," she whispered, haggling now, bartering for her life.

Faucon waited to hear what she brought to the table, already certain there was nothing of value in it for him.

"Aye, Lina and I waited in the ditch for Jessimondto pass over us," Meg started. "But as you say, night after night, she didn't come. Then, on the night she died, Hew crossed the ditch right atop us not knowing we were below him. When he reached the other side, he cried out.

"Praying it was Jessimond he saw, I crawled up the ladder once he walked on. That's when I saw the light flickering in the shrubbery and knew it was someone in the woods. I was sure it was the girl!

"Damn Lina!" the old woman snarled then. "It's all her fault we didn't catch the little brat. That bawd is a plodding cow and so afeared of the dark that she wouldn't let me go ahead, nor would she walk any faster for fear of falling. The best I could do was keep my gaze fastened on the light as we trailed it, marking where it went.

"That's how I knew where Jessimond finally stopped. I kept my gaze on the place where the light disappeared, despite that Lina was in terrors once the dark was complete about us. She clutched at my arm and blubbered about the Devil coming for her each time the brambles caught her. Then Jessimond screamed, and at last the stupid bawd found some speed. But by then we were too late. When we entered that place, Jessimond was dead in the bracken. The rushlight was still burning, resting on a stump where the girl had left it."

Meg paused to draw breath, then made an impatient sound. "When Lina saw the girl in the ferns, she cursed me. She accused me of trying to get her charged with murder. As if I wasn't there alongside her?!"

Then the bakestress sneered again. "Aye, the stupid whore tore my apron when she attacked me, but I was the stronger. I beat her until she cowered, then took my garments off the brat, grabbed the light and left the bawd to her terrors."

"Well now, all you need to prove your innocence is to call this Lina to confirm your story. Do you think she'll come?" Faucon asked, a grim smile upon his lips.

That sent Meg's eyes flying wide. Her mouth opened as if to speak. No word fell from her tongue.

"Since we're haggling," Faucon continued, "it's my turn to show you what I have to offer. In return for my saying nothing about your plot to sell Jessimond, you'll take my man Alf to where you buried your purse and let him retrieve it for you. Then the two of you will go to the abbey, and you'll give half of what your purse contains to the abbot to secure a pension for your nephew."

Her expression flattened in surprise at that. Then, despite that her Crowner would leave her half of what she'd stolen over the years, her fists opened and closed, as if she could not bear to release a penny. She had nothing left in her armory to throw at him save, "Odger will never allow Johnnie out of Wike."

"You may leave the matter of your bailiff to me," he replied in soft assurance as he blocked her last avenue of escape.

Even then, she refused to bow to him. Her jaw tightened in refusal. Resistance flared in her eyes.

Faucon shrugged. "As you will. I'm content to let your neighbors choose. You see, unlike you, I cannot lose. No matter which name the jury in Wike confirms, neither king nor court will be surprised when I add nothing to the royal treasure chests from a place such as this. But every soul in Wike knows about your purse. And as long as you are locked away in some dungeon, I imagine their search for it will be frenzied and persistent. While they hunt, there you'll be, unable to buy your freedom and starving to death because you put profit over friendship. Perhaps you can find some comfort in the fact that you'll die before the hangman has a chance to stretch your neck," he added.

Meg gagged at that, as if she already felt the rough rope of the noose crushing her throat. She was beaten, her shield bent beyond use, her every weapon broken or discarded, yet her expression said she wanted to spit in his face. At last, moving as if every muscle ached, she came to her feet. There she stood, her chin lifted, hands on her hips, defiant to the end.

"Call your man," was all she said.

"Well chosen," Faucon said as he rose, Jessimond's clothing yet tucked beneath his arm.

"My garments," Meg said in harsh reminder.

"Jessimond's garments," he replied with a shake of his head. "You gave them to her and she will take them with her into eternity."

Turning, he moved to the doorway, blocking it with his body. Now that his goal was almost in hand, he was unwilling to risk losing her.

Outside, Alf had retrieved the child's bound corpse from wherever he'd laid her before Meg's attack. Jessimond now rested atop the reassembled table that stood before the oven. Given the girl's small size, Alf had needed only three of the planks to support her. Abutting the makeshift catafalque was the fourth plank, stretched across two barrels. Arranged in a precise line along one end of this temporary desk were Edmund's writing tools. The monk had pulled another barrel toward the center of this plank to use as a stool, and was mixing his ink in a small wooden bowl. The piece of wood that had saved him from Meg's shovel rested atop one end of their parchment roll, a weight to hold the skin in place against the day's light breeze. From where Faucon stood he could see that board now owned a bit of a curve, rendering it unusable as a desk.

As Alf noticed his new master, he returned to the kitchen door. "Sir?" the commoner asked as he came.

"Alf, Meg has decided to retrieve the purse she buried. I need you to go with her. I suggest you carry the shovel and dig it up yourself," he said, his words laden with no small amount of sarcasm. "Once you have it, carry it for her to Alcester Abbey. She intends to donate half of its contents to the monks as a pension for Johnnie," he said carefully.

Edmund might be right about the monks and their lack of discipline bringing death to their house. But that day would arrive long after Johnnie had finished his life under the care of a congenial abbot who insisted on a rich kitchen.

Alf studied his new employer for a long moment. "And after that, sir? What would you have me do with her?" was all he asked.

"You may escort her to Hell's door for all I care," Faucon retorted without thought.

The commoner's brows and lips lifted. "Are you certain you want me to go that far afield?"

Faucon dragged his fingers through his hair, then freed a long slow breath. "My pardon. I vow I've had my fill of this end of the shire and all who reside in it. That includes the abbey." Or at least one who dwelt within its walls. "At the moment, I find I'd rather rent an alewife's bed than enter those gates again."

That teased a quiet laugh from the soldier. "Well, as much as I'll regret missing what happens here whilst I'm gone, what say you that once my task with the old woman is complete I go on to Haselor to arrange for your night's stay? Father Otto will happily play host to the monk, while I'm certain 'Wyna's kin will be thrilled to offer you the best they have."

"My thanks," Faucon said, startled and pleased by his new man's offer. He stepped outside the door so Alf could enter the kitchen. "That will do very well, Alf."

"Then, until I return, sir," the commoner replied. He picked up Meg's shovel from where he'd leaned it against the outside wall, then paused in the doorway to offer a quick wink. "By the bye, if this is a Crowner's day, then I think we'll do well together, you and I."

That made Faucon laugh. "I fear you'll be disappointed, or so I hope."

Then, having placed the matter of the bakestress into his man's capable hands, Faucon turned to face the yard. Bound with hempen rope, great bundles of branches—faggots for Wike's winter fires—were piled near the decaying manor house. There they would stay until reclaimed at the end of the inquest.

By habit and tradition, the men and boys older than twelve—Faucon gauged that number as no more than sixty of the two hundred or so souls that dwelt in Wike—had drawn close to where Jessimond's corpse was displayed. Faucon found Hew among them, near the back of the group. The rustic leaned heavily on a young man who very much resembled him. As their gazes met, the oldster offered his Crowner a confident nod and a smile. Whatever else, that motion said Hew meant to cause his bailiff grief at this inquest.

As for that bailiff, Odger stood at the forefront of Wike's menfolk, near the foot of the catafalque. His crossed arms and narrowed eyes said he hadn't much like being called like a dog to his Crowner's heel.

Although it wasn't customary for women or children to attend such an event, the wives of Wike hadn't gone on to their homes after their jaunt in the woods. Instead, the mothers, daughters, wives, and sisters of the jurors stood in a nervous but curious group at the back of the jury. Like their menfolk, they carried pruning hooks and shepherds' crooks, for only with these tools could they take wood from the living trees within the king's forest.

As Alf lead Meg out of the kitchen, his hand firmly grasping the old woman's upper arm, Odger's arms opened. He stared at the pair in surprise. "Who is this man? Where does he take our bakestress?" he demanded of his Crowner.

"My man-at-arms has agreed to escort Meg as she tends to some private business," Faucon replied, then raised his voice to address Wike's housewives. "As you can see, goodwives, Meg is leaving for the next while but your bread yet bakes in her oven. Who among you will tend it in her stead? I'd not have it said that I allowed your bread to burn."

"I will," replied a young woman, plain but fresh-faced. The clean white cloth she wore upon her head named her married. As she made her way to the oven he saw it in the curve of her lips and the jaunty sway of her hips, and in the way the other women eyed her. This was the one who had dared to defy Meg and steal from the thief.

He looked at Edmund. "What of you, Brother? Did you find everything you need to complete our task today?"

"Aye, I'm ready," the monk replied with a nod, "but you aren't. You've not yet unwrapped the corpse so these men may see how the child's life was ended," he warned in unnecessary instruction to his Crowner. "And your jury is short by three."

Startled, Faucon stared at his clerk in amazement. "You've already tallied and named the jurors?"

Edmund shot him a disbelieving look. "Hardly so. Even
I
am not so swift in my notation," he replied, "but I can see what's in front of me well enough. The smiths are missing when they are required to come, just like the others, and to confirm their earlier oaths regarding the girl's parentage."

Only then did Faucon hear what he'd missed in the continuing raucous noise of migrating waterfowl. There was no clang of hammers from the smithy. That brought him around to Odger. "Bailiff, your jury is not yet assembled. The smiths are missing."

Subtle surprise darted through the bailiff's gaze as he, too, recognized what his Crowner had just noted. He looked at the man standing next to him. It was one of the farmers who'd aided in Jessimond's removal from the well. "Run to Ivo's home and fetch him and his sons."

"Are they there?" the farmer asked, already moving.

"They'd better be," the bailiff retorted to the man's back.

While they waited, Faucon unwound Jessimond's bindings, exposing her head and neck. Death was already ravaging her, expanding her even as she was being consumed from within. Her skin was now green and her neck swollen, thankfully not so much that the bruises on her throat couldn't be distinguished.

It wasn't but a few moments later that the smiths and the farmer jogged into the manor's demesne. Much to Faucon's surprise, Ivo and his sons wore shirts, albeit with no tunics atop them. The linen garments were clean and white, and unblemished by any burn marks.

As they drew near the yard, Odger's chin lifted sharply. "Why did you leave the smithy?" he demanded of Ivo.

"We've repaired or replaced as many axe blades as we can with the supplies at hand. Until you bring us more iron, there's nothing to be done. So we banked the coals and returned home to do our own work," Ivo called back, as he came to a halt behind Edmund's desk. His elder sons started past him, intending to join the other jurors. When their father stayed where he was, they hesitated, then retreated to stand with him.

The smith glanced across the crowd in the yard. "Where is Gawne?" he asked Faucon.

"Yet outlaw, soon to be named murderer," Odger retorted, then faced the folk he ruled. "We gather here this day to confirm that Gawne, son of Ivo, did murder Jessimond the Whore's Daughter."

Instantly, Edmund thrust up from his barrel to shout, "That is not how this is done, nor is it yours to do! Usurp your place on pain of fine, commoner!" So said the mere clerk as he usurped his Crowner's place to rebuke one he had no right to chide.

If the monk's rebuke didn't surprise Faucon, it caused Odger's mouth to gape and his eyes to widen. Between the monk's scold and their bailiff's reaction, muted laughter rumbled across the jury. It sounded much like distant thunder.