Season of the Fox (A Servant of the Crown Mystery Book 2) (9 page)

Nanette looked at him as if his question surprised her. “They name me so because I have earned that title. I completed my masterwork, one that fetched me a pretty penny, too.”

“Then, why haven’t you left to form your own house?” he persisted in confusion.

That made her laugh again. It was the sound of a woman well-pleased with her life. “Form my own house? Where would I put such a house? Nor do I have an interest in any other sort of commerce. Nay, there are only a very few who can afford to buy what I and the other women in this house have learned to make. I know well what my talents are and they don’t include dealing with the sort of fine folk who buy our wares. That was the skill the old master discovered and nurtured in Master Bernart, and why the master married him to Mistress Alina. Master Bernart knows...” she paused to sigh, her eyes suddenly glistening.

If the manservants of the house resented their master, it seemed that wasn’t the case for the women here. She cleared her throat and began again.

“The master always knew just what to say to please bishop and baron alike. It’s a skill that he passed on to his daughter. Although,” she paused, then sighed again.

“Although?” Faucon asked, daring to pry where he had no right. But her tale stirred more questions than it answered.

“Although Mistress Gisla is a woman,” Nanette finished with a shrug. “I wonder how well the high and mighty will like trading coins with her instead of the master they expect. Despite what skills we might have in our trade, men expect to deal with other men when they make a purchase, especially one as costly as those made here. What a pity none of the master’s sons survived.”

“Such is the world in which we live,” Faucon said.

She nodded at that. “And that is why I’m content to serve out my days here, saving what I earn for that time when my fingers are no longer nimble enough to ply my needle. Meanwhile, I happily train Mistress Alina’s apprentices so that they can do what I have–support their families as they claim a life far easier than they ever expected to own.”

Then, restoring the cobwebs to her memories, she started past Faucon toward the door on the opposite side of the landing. Her expression remained amused, as if she yet laughed inwardly at the idea of owning her own trade. “Come with me, sir,” she said, already starting through the opening, “and ask your questions of our mistress.”

The chamber beyond the door was the mirror image of the hall, lined with columns and bays, each bay set with a tall window, but the shutters were closed, leaving the room cloaked in shadows. Enough light streamed in through the open door behind him to reveal that each bay was filled with neatly stacked pallets and folded blankets. If this house was similar to the others Faucon knew, then this was where the female apprentices and journeywomen, as well as any female servants, slept. As a rule, all a household’s womenfolk, no matter their age or rank, slept close to the protection of their master and out of the reach of the household’s male members, who generally made their beds in cellars, kitchens or workshops.

A short wooden wall separated the final bay at the back of the chamber from the rest of the room. Although the wall didn’t reach the ceiling, it was enough of a barrier to create a private space. The door at its center stood ajar. Nanette tapped lightly but didn’t wait for an answer before she pushed open the panel and stepped inside.

The room within was trapped in a gloomy dimness, what with the wall blocking the light from the landing and the shutters closed. Despite that, there could be no missing the bed that filled almost the whole space. Only a queen’s love for pretty gowns could have generated income enough to purchase such a piece. It was massive–as wide as two men and nearly as long. Four posts the size of small trees held aloft a wooden ceiling.

He dared to step closer and touch the nearest post. His fingers found it had been carved in the same style as the columns on the wall. The curtains that hung from the wooden ceiling were pulled shut around the bed, enclosing the inhabitant.

Nanette crossed to the north-facing window and pushed back one shutter panel. As muted light tumbled in to drive off the dimness, the top half of the merchant’s green brocaded bed curtains took fire, glittering like gold. Faucon caught his breath. It glittered like gold because that was what it was–cloth of gold, fabric woven from threads of gold.

Last month he might have eaten his heart out over such a piece and choked after on sour envy. But then, a month ago he had been a second son with no prospects for improving his life save to pray that the Lord might take his mother and elder brother before their time, something he could never do.

No longer. Upon Faucon’s elevation to Crowner, he’d become the master of a fine stone house in Blacklea Village that came with its own bed. To be sure it wasn’t as fine as this one, but it was his and his alone.

“Who is it?” a woman asked from inside the enclosing curtains, her voice a rasping croak.

“‘Tis me, mistress,” Nanette said. “I bring with me the king’s knight. Sir Crowner he’s called. He must speak with you regarding the master’s death.”

There was a rustling, suggesting that the mattress inside that fine frame was only stuffed with straw. “A knight? Does he come from our sheriff?”

“Nay mistress, I do not,” Faucon replied on his own behalf. Although he raised his voice so she could hear him, he kept his tone gentle as befitted addressing one so newly aggrieved. “Our archbishop has removed the responsibility for viewing the dead and calling the inquest juries, from England’s sheriffs and given them instead to certain knights in each shire. I am Sir Faucon de Ramis, now of Blacklea Village, and the knight who has assumed these duties for this shire. My pardon for disturbing you at such a time, but you are the first finder. The law requires that I receive from you a vow to appear at court when the justices call for you.”

A long moment of silence followed his words. Just when he’d begun to wonder if Mistress Alina intended to reply, the wooden curtain rings on the far side of the bed scraped quietly over their pole. “Nanette,” the woman within cried softly, “come to me.”

Nanette shot Faucon a swift sidelong look, then disappeared around the corner of the bed. Low-voiced hissing ensued. Although Faucon could make out only a word or two of the conversation they shared, he had no trouble recognizing Mistress Alina’s anger at his intrusion. Nor could he doubt Nanette’s place in the household. The woman who had expected to do no more than sweep ashes from a hearth boldly countered her mistress’s irritation with soothing words.

There was silence for a moment, then Nanette returned around the corner of the bed. “You may come, sir,” she said, no sign in her expression that anything untoward had occurred.

Faucon followed her to stop a decent distance from where Mistress Alina sat, bathed in the muted glow from the unshuttered window. Her feet were bare and she wore a set of pale orange gowns lacking the elaborate decoration that covered her daughter’s attire. She was unnaturally pale, something that Faucon credited to grief and shock.

The new widow was swiftly braiding her uncovered honey-colored hair. Like her daughter, her features were long and narrow, but Mistress Alina’s face was more square, her chin and jaw strong, and her cheekbones more defined. Although Faucon guessed that Alina and Nanette were of an age, both of them being no more than ten years his senior, time had laid its map more heavily on Alina, webbing her skin. Deep crevices marked the corners of her eyes and either side of her mouth.

Although he needed no further confirmation that this was Gisla’s mother beyond Alina’s visage, if he’d wanted it, he could have found it in her manner. Like her daughter, she had none of a woman’s proper humility. As Nanette sat beside her mistress on the bed, taking over the task of plaiting, Faucon offered the new widow a deep bow.

“Mistress,” he said by way of introduction.

Mistress Alina watched him hollow-eyed. “What is this vow you need from me?”

“You must swear that you’ll appear before the justices when they arrive in Stanrudde to examine the matter of your husband’s murder,” Faucon replied. “They’ll want to hear from your own lips that you were the first to find Master Bernart after his death, and that you then rightfully raised the hue and cry, urging your neighbors to seek out his murderer.”

He paused to watch her closely. “This you can do because both of these things are true, aye?”

Nanette spoke for her mistress. “Aye, they are. She was the first finder.”

Faucon ignored the woman, keeping his gaze on Bernart’s widow. “These things are true?” he repeated. “You were the first finder?”

“I was,” Mistress Alina replied, her voice as hollow as her eyes. “Nanette says I must also leave my bed to seek out my neighbors, asking them to guarantee that I will come to court when called.”

“Ah,” Faucon said, understanding a little better her reluctance to speak with him. It startled him that Nanette might have said as much to her.

Because the process of justice in these far-flung shires was so slow–it sometimes took many years before the justices in eyre circled around to a distant locale–first finders, as well as witnesses, often lost their enthusiasm for participating in a trial that had seemed so urgent years earlier. Sometimes even the attestors, those who had begged for justice in the first place, refused to appear when called, having settled or forgotten the original matter over the years. But every complaint that wasn’t heard cost England’s king a penny or two, the fee that was charged for each complaint brought before the justices. To stem this steady trickle of forfeited silver, the law required four of the first finder’s neighbors to swear on pain of incurring their own fine to deliver the finder to court.

“Nay, there’s no need for you to leave your chamber. My clerk is presently seeking out your neighbors so they can promise on your behalf,” he assured her, then hesitated. Once he had her oath, she could rightfully dismiss him and he would have to comply, when he craved more from her.

“What I need to hear from you at this moment is your oath to appear at court when called and also a description of how and when you found Master Bernart,” he said, taking Edmund’s precious law and twisting it a little.

“Must she swear upon anything?” Nanette asked as Mistress Alina yet hesitated.

“Nay,” Faucon shook his head. “Mistress Alina’s word will suffice.”

The widow sighed at that, her shoulders relaxing. “I vow to appear when called upon to do so by the justices. When I stand before them, I will testify that I saw Peter the Webber kill my husband. After that, I raised the hue and cry as I knew I should,” she said, her voice rasping again.

Then she buried her face into her hands. “May God take Peter! How could he have done this?” she cried into her palms.

“Hush, sweetling,” Nanette murmured, wrapping her arm around her mistress and rocking the woman a little.

Alina pushed her away. “Nay, I cannot hush!” she cried out.

Her grief propelled her to her feet, proving that she was as tall as Faucon. Like some women, her form was thin as one of her needles above her waist, while heavier around her hips and her womb. She paced past the stranger in her bedchamber to its door where she threw her arms wide.

“That arrogant fool! Bernart did this to himself. Did he think that Gisla wouldn’t tell Peter?”

Faucon watched her, content to wait. The merchant’s wife did not disappoint. Whirling, she started back toward him.

“Or that Peter wouldn’t be outraged over the news?” she nearly shouted as she passed him, then again dropped to sit on the bed.

“So your daughter’s betrothed had good reason to wish your husband dead,” he said. It was a comment, not a question.

Alina lifted her gaze to meet his. Faucon raised his brows. As much as Gisla loved her betrothed, Mistress Alina hated her husband. It was written for all the world to read in her expression.

“My daughter isn’t betrothed to Peter the Webber or any other man,” she told him.

“‘Struth?” Faucon asked in surprise. “I joined the hue and cry as we chased the webber,” he told her. “When the man Hodge confronted Father Herebert, trying to breach Peter’s claim to sanctuary, he named the webber your daughter’s betrothed.”

“So would any man in Stanrudde do,” Nanette replied, nodding.

“And that man would be just as mistaken as Hodge,” Alina retorted. “Nay, when Bernart and I last spoke of Gisla’s marriage not but a month or so ago, his intention was to wed her to some Londoner. Oh, there was a time when my husband considered a union between our house and Roger’s, wishing to reunite two pieces of the trade my father tore apart so that each of the journeymen he loved would have a business of their own.”

She glanced up at Faucon. “Bernart and Roger, and Hodge as well, were my father’s apprentices when my mother’s trade supplanted my father’s. They won my father’s affection by their loyalty, by remaining with him and our house after all the others left,” she added in bitter explanation.

Then her mouth twisted. “But the plan to wed Gisla and Peter occurred five years ago, when Bernart and Roger yet shared some fondness for each other. Now, all their affection is gone, killed by Bernart. He discarded his friend, just as he wished to discard me and my love for him.” The rancor in her voice alone suggested that her husband’s dislike for her wasn’t the first time she’d experienced his betrayal.

“Oh aye, Bernart continued to make sly suggestions about the union of our children to Roger, but they were only the pretenses of promises. No vows of betrothal have ever been spoken between Gisla and Peter, nor is there a written contract describing the terms of their union.”

She freed a harsh breath. “That was Bernart. Full of clever words and pretty phrases, talking, always talking, until you believed he’d agreed with you and would provide what you requested. Then, when you finally demanded he produce what you thought he’d promised, his vows would prove empty.”

Punctuating her remark with a brusque shrug, she stared at her chamber door, her gaze boring holes through the thick wood. “Woe to anyone beneath the rank of baron if they believed a word he said to them.”