Lost Innocents (A Servant of the Crown Mystery Book 3) (13 page)

Far sooner than Faucon expected, the stench of Alcester reached out to envelop him, although he couldn't yet see anything of the town. So it was with any settlement larger than a few hundred souls. That was, if any of those souls wished to eat meat. Turning livestock into food required a shambles, and there was no escaping the stink that accompanied slaughtering. Since tanners often lived cheek-by-jowl with the butchers, the foul odor of turning skin into leather mingled with that of butchery. But twining 'round and 'round all that reek was the rich, sweet aroma of malting barley.

Just as that enticing smell set Faucon's stomach to wishing, the church bells began to ring. There were three distinct voices, each marking a different religious house, all of them inviting their parishioners to celebrate the Vespers service. The one with a clear tenor tone rose from ahead of them, marking a church within Alcester proper, while a more distant baritone voice echoed from an establishment a good ways to the east.

The closest invitation came from a deep bass bell that rang out across the resting field to Faucon's left. Startled that there might be a church located so close to Alcester but not within the security of the town and whatever walls it had, he glanced in that direction. There was nothing to see except a line of trees, the same water-loving willow, alder, and birch that grew along the bank of any waterway. In this instance, yon trees marked the course of the river that moved in a far more meandering fashion alongside the arrow-straight route of Ryknild Street.

The peal of those bells only increased Faucon's concern. At Vespers in the winter and Compline in the summer, not only did these bells announce the time for prayers; they also warned all who heard them that the moment had come to close and bar their doors, be those doors a simple panel in a hovel or the gates in a town wall.

Praying that Alcester's watch was in no hurry to bid the world goodnight, he rose in his stirrups, seeking to judge the distance between him and the security he craved. The roofs of the houses within the town's enclosing wooden wall rose just high enough for him to see the pall of smoke snaking and swirling over a sea of gentle thatch. No gate was readily visible, at least not from this angle. As for distance, the span between him and the town walls was no more than a quarter mile by his eye.

Not that he and Edmund would reach those walls or any gate that could give them access to Alcester.

Coming toward him at a walk on this Street were three mounted men. All of them wore leather hauberks while two sported metal helmets, the sort usually worn by foot soldiers. The lead rider was barrel-chested and broad-shouldered. He rode bare-headed, revealing sandy-colored hair and a full beard that gleamed reddish even in the dimming light.

Sir Alain.

In that instant, Faucon did as he'd been taught by the man who had forged him into a warrior. He sent a prayer for his continued life winging heavenward, then released his fate into his Lord's hands. As he breathed out worry, he drew in resolve. It would be three pitted against one, and that one had a monk to protect. Beneath him, Legate sensed the change in his master and reacted, snorting and lifting his head.

"This way, sir," Edmund called from behind his employer just as that nearby deep-toned bell pealed its last.

Faucon shot a startled glance back at his clerk. Edmund had left the Street to guide his little mount across the field beside them, heading directly toward that fading bass echo. Again Faucon peered at the screen of trees. This time he saw what he'd first missed. Barely visible through the tangled branches was a wooden wall.

The abbey wasn't inside Alcester.

He grinned in wicked pleasure and not a little relief. Not only was that holy house close at hand, but he'd reach the place well ahead of the sheriff. More importantly to his pride, he'd do it at a pace no faster than an easy walk.

God save them, he and the sheriff were a pair. Neither of them could bear to give another the satisfaction of a reaction. Just as Faucon would rather die than send Legate galloping for safety, he was certain Sir Alain wouldn't wield his spurs to chase down his new Crowner, not even if it meant losing his prey to holy ground, where no man dared shed blood.

In only moments, Faucon followed Edmund through the gap in the trees. It wasn't the river that fed them. Instead they lined the far side of the man-made moat that coursed in front of the monastery's weathered wooden walls. That meant the river ran behind the abbey and put this house on its own little island, explaining why it didn't need the safety of town walls.

Although Edmund had drawn his mount to a halt before the foot of the drawbridge that led onto the artificial island, the monk had yet to dismount. Faucon glanced beyond his clerk and breathed out in satisfaction and not a little relief. The thick wooden doors that guarded this place yet stood wide in the arched entranceway. That was likely because the monk whose chore it was to close them had left his post. Instead, Brother Porter stood at the center of the bridge, his hands tucked into his sleeves. Both he and Edmund stared off to the left, their faces alive in avid and unguarded interest.

With his safety in hand, Faucon released the warrior's focus. Only then did he hear the on-going argument, three male voices, all speaking at once and in English, two native speakers while the other was clearly more comfortable in French. Each man kept raising his voice as he sought to talk over the other two. As expected, it was to the French speaker that the first two were making insistent pleas for aid, only to receive consistently negative answers from the high-born man.

Dismounting, Faucon shifted to glance in the direction of the argument. There were six, not three men, and four horses gathered a little way from the drawbridge. Two of the men faced him, one tall and powerfully built with his face buried in his hands, the other a short, balding priest with a bulbous nose and ears that stuck out from his head. Dark rings hung beneath this holy shepherd's eyes, exhaustion cutting deep lines onto his face. Despite that, the arrangement of his features suggested he was easy-going, not the sort that Faucon would have expected to raise his voice to his betters.

Both men wore wrinkled and water-stained garments, as if they'd swum in the moat then allowed their clothing to dry upon their bodies. That was an oddness indeed, for the priest wore his ritual attire, garments that generally never left the church. As for the taller man, his garment was also fine, a dark green tunic decorated with an expensive line of embroidery along its hem. Again, hardly the sort of garment a man risked to the wet.

The other four men had their backs to Faucon. Three of them were knights in full armor beneath their white surcoats and arranged in a protective half-circle behind their cloaked and hooded master. Even without knights to guard him, Faucon would have recognized their master as a wealthy magnate by the quality of his red cloak alone.

Dismissing the arguers, Faucon shifted to look at the track behind him. Just as he expected, Alain and his men were on the path leading to the abbey, about halfway across the field. And, just as he expected, the three of them moved as if they had no haste. That made Faucon grin. This time it would be the sheriff's pride rather than his Crowner's skill that cost Sir Alain what he wanted.

Just then, the on-going argument to his left escalated. "She's only a child! How can you refuse to help an innocent?!" the man with the deeper voice shouted.

Faucon shot another quick glance at the group, only to discover one of the knights now watched him from over his shoulder. The man was young, surely no more than Faucon's own score-and-four years. Although the knight's features were unremarkable, there was something in his face that sparked recognition.

That recognition was returned. The knight's eyes widened, then he smiled and raised a hand as if in greeting. Yet scrambling to place him, Faucon started to return the gesture, but the other knight had already leaned forward to speak into the cloaked magnate's ear.

Instantly, the well-dressed man pivoted. Oswald de Vere, nephew to Bishop William of Hereford and Faucon's cousin, stared at Faucon in stark surprise. Like Faucon, Oswald had the de Vere look, long nose, lean cheeks, black of hair, and dark eyed. So too did they both affect the latest fashion of a carefully-trimmed beard, shaved back to a narrow line that followed the jaw. In Faucon's case, his beard served to hide what he considered a too-pointed chin.

"Oswald! What are you doing here?" Faucon called in astonished and grateful greeting. The sheriff could now come as he may. His new Crowner was well and truly beyond his reach.

"Stopping for the night on our way home to Hereford, Pery," Oswald replied, using Faucon's pet name. Pery was short for Peregrine, a play on the meaning of Faucon. Then Oswald laughed. "Look at us! We meet for a second time in less than a fortnight after not seeing each other for—what? Five years?"

At this greeting, the tall, fair-haired commoner shifted, catching Faucon's attention. Dark rings hung beneath his blue eyes, and the man's face was haggard. And familiar!

"God be praised! Can that really be you, Sir Faucon?" cried Alf, the new miller of Priors Holden.

Faucon's head spun at the impossibility of two such unexpected meetings at once. He called back to the former solider in English, "Alf, what are you doing so far from home?" Then he shifted into French to address his cousin. "Why aren't you already back in Hereford, Oswald? I thought you left Stanrudde last week on the same day I did."

Speaking two tongues at once only made that spinning worsen, especially atop so many coincidences. As Faucon held up a hand hoping to forestall either man from responding, Edmund drew his little mount beside Faucon, the donkey's nose to Legate's tail.

"This is your cousin, the one you met at Stanrudde's abbey last week? The one who is Bishop William's secretary?" Faucon's clerk demanded, staring at Oswald as he spoke.

The longing in Edmund's voice was a reflection of his overweening ambition to reclaim his previous life. Faucon suspected that the monk saw in Oswald an unexplored avenue that might lead him to that destination, or at least return to him a bishop's favor. Also implicit in Edmund's query was the request to be presented to Bishop William's secretary. That was something Faucon had been able to avoid when he'd met Oswald a week ago in the town of Stanrudde.

Edmund couldn't know—nor would he ever believe—how little such an introduction might serve him. Aye, Oswald was the bishop's right hand. But that position guaranteed Faucon's cousin knew exactly what Edmund had done to earn his demotion. And that assured Edmund would ever own Oswald's eternal disregard.

Sidestepping both his clerk's questions and his ambitions, Faucon leaned closer to the monk. "If my cousin is here, it's a given that there'll be no space for me in the guest house," he said in a low voice. "Brother, I need you to go within and beg shelter on my behalf, even if the only place Brother Hosteller can offer me is a stall in their stables. Under no circumstances can you let the hosteller refuse me. The sheriff is at our back. Against that, I cannot afford to be turned away from these walls."

"Holy Mother save us," Edmund gasped quietly as he craned his neck to look at the gap in the trees. He was in time to watch Sir Alain and his men ride through the branches.

Although Faucon's clerk might not know of their sheriff's recent attempt to end his employer's life, Edmund did know, or rather suspected he knew, why Sir Alain wanted his new Crowner dead. Edmund's jaw firmed and his eyes narrowed. With his whole being, he radiated his intention to shield his employer, a man he'd met only three weeks ago and had initially considered a burdensome penance.

"It shall be done," the monk assured Faucon, then turned his donkey's head and rode onto the drawbridge without so much as a glance at the influential man he'd hoped to use only a moment ago. Faucon watched his clerk go, startled. As grateful as he was for Edmund's loyalty, he wasn't certain what he'd done to earn it.

Sir Alain brought his horse to a halt near Legate. "Why, if it isn't our shire's new Keeper of the Pleas," the sheriff said by way of greeting to Faucon. As always, no expression shifted the weathered creases of the older man's face, nor did any emotion color his tone as he continued. It was the look that many an old soldier wore, the one earned by a man who'd dealt out so much hurt in his life that his heart had turned to stone. "What a surprise to find you here at the abbey when I thought you'd yet be in Studley. Have you already completed your task there, sir?"

"Indeed I have, my lord sheriff," Faucon replied, offering Alain a brief and respectful nod, the sort shared between equals. "The man who committed the foul act is presently being held in Sir Peter's keep by his steward. There he'll remain until his family raises the funds to purchase his freedom. What of you? I thought you were in Killingworth at the moment. What brings you to this end of our shire?" It was a subtle challenge, one meant to warn the sheriff that the man he wished to kill wouldn't die easily.

"Why, assessing taxes for our king, of course. There's a salt road nearby," Sir Alain replied quickly.

"Good eventide to you, my lord sheriff," Oswald said as he strode forward to stop beside Faucon. Being Oswald, a man whose ambitions surpassed tenfold any Edmund might cherish, Faucon's cousin offered the most influential royal servant in this shire a deep bow. When he straightened, Oswald's lips had spread into a smile that didn't warm his dark eyes.

"It has been a good while since we last met, sir," he told Alain. "If you do not recall, I am Oswald de Vere, secretary to and nephew of Bishop William of Hereford. For these past weeks, I've been in your shire on my lord bishop's business, as well as tending to some personal details. Before Lord William departed for London a fortnight ago, he bid me convey to you his happiest greetings should our paths cross whilst I was here. With this my last night in your county, I'd given up all hope of doing so. But how now! I shall be able to tell my lord that I have done as he requested, albeit at the last moment."