Season of the Raven (A Servant of the Crown Mystery Book 1) (2 page)

The shepherdess was right. This was the only abode in Blacklea that could possibly serve his uncle. Made of reddish stone blocks set in thick white mortar with a roof of dark slate tile, the house was three times the size and twice as tall as the largest of the cottages it overlooked. Although its door was on the second storey, accessible by a set of wooden steps that clung to its exterior wall, there was no keep tower for a final refuge.

One of the waiting men came forward to greet him. "Sir Faucon?"

"I am," Faucon replied. How did everyone here know him when he knew them not at all? Although this man did look familiar. Then again, after traveling to the end of the world and back again, Faucon had seen so many faces that everyone seemed familiar to him these days.

"I'll take your horse for you, if he'll allow me," the man offered.

"He will," Faucon reassured him. Although more than capable of carrying Faucon into battle, Legate was no nobleman's deadly destrier. "He's only a courser, and calmer than most at that."

As predicted, Legate tolerated the stranger's touch after a reassuring pat from his master. Faucon dismounted, only to groan as his feet met the earth. Almost a full day astride with only a few short breaks left pins and needles in his legs. Leaning against Legate, he pulled off his helmet and hung it from its tether on his saddle. After pushing back his mail hood, he removed the leather coif he wore beneath it and stuffed the cap into his helmet. As he reached for his pack, which contained his finest attire wrapped in oiled skin to keep it dry, the man holding Legate's bridle gave a jerk of his head toward the house.

"They're impatient for your arrival, as they hoped to be gone from here by now. You're to present yourself immediately. Go, knowing I'll see your mount is fed and watered."

They? Then again, his uncle rarely traveled without at least a few men near his own rank to bear him company, or some storyteller. William of Hereford was especially fond of men who could spin a proper tale.

Faucon grimaced as he looked down at his mud-stained surcoat and filthy chain mail. It did his father's name no honor to present himself to his betters looking like this. But if the choice was between being filthy or irritating his uncle by delaying him, well, that was no choice at all. He started up the steps on still-clumsy feet.

The thick door at the top was bossed in metal and scarred as if more than one army had tried its strength and been rebuffed. He reached for the latch, then hesitated. What if his mother was right, and the handwritten note from Bishop William commanding him to ride at all haste to this meeting meant an advancement in Faucon's fortunes?

Until this moment he hadn't dared believe it possible, even if he was eager for any purpose his powerful kinsman might find for him. Anything was better than the sorry half-life he'd been living of late. That made presenting himself so completely covered in mud impossible.

Tucking his stained gloves into his sword belt, Faucon ran his fingers through his matted hair. After rubbing as much of the muck and dirt as he could from his surcoat, he opened the door and stepped inside.

The chamber within was so small it hardly deserved the name 'hall.' At the back of the room, a man knelt in prayer at a modest
prie-dieu
set beneath a narrow window. Enough light streamed through that opening to reveal the shaved skin on top of his bowed head and his black habit. A Benedictine monk.

At the center of the room, two other men sat at a simple table made of planks set on braces, a chess board on the tabletop between them. Faucon paid little heed to the man with his back to the door, other than to note he was dark of hair and wore a leather vest atop a rough tunic. Instead, his full attention was on his uncle.

Bishop William of Hereford stared at the board in front of him, so lost in concentration he hadn't yet noticed his nephew's arrival. Faucon had not seen his august relative since departing England for the Holy Lands with England's king, Richard,
Coeur de Lion,
five years past.

If new silver threaded his uncle's black hair, his face seemed the same as ever. Like Faucon and his mother, William's features wore the stamp of the de Vere family. His brow was broad, his cheeks lean and his nose long. And then there was that chin. Faucon hid what he considered a far-too-pointed chin beneath his neatly-trimmed beard, but the bishop had sculpted his facial hair to a narrow thread that accentuated the acute line of his jaw.

When another moment passed and his granduncle remained focused on the chessboard, Faucon cleared the road dust from his throat. "My lord uncle, I have come as you requested," he said in quiet announcement.

William lifted his head, a smile already bending his narrow lips. His opponent shifted on the bench and looked over his shoulder. Faucon gasped in surprise.

"Lord Graistan! What are you doing here?" he asked of the man who was the elder half-brother to his cousins.

Rannulf, Lord Graistan, came to his feet. Taller than either Faucon or William, he was in his middle years but maintained the form of a man who counted on the strength of his sword arm to hold his livelihood. "That is something I've been asking myself all day, Pery," he replied, a quick smile bringing warmth to his gray eyes and banishing the native harshness of his roughhewn features.

He used Faucon's pet name, a name devised by Lord Graistan's youngest brother. Pery was short for Peregrine, a play on the meaning of 'Faucon.' Faucon had welcomed it. Far better to be called Pery than
Falcon
, even if his name supposedly came to him from an ancestor—one of the men who had followed Rollo the Viking into Normandy—as his mother claimed. Indeed, Faucon would have preferred a simple Thomas or well-used Robert, since neither of those names inspired taunts.

"Truth be told," Lord Rannulf continued, "all your uncle and I have managed to do here this day is waste hours waiting for your arrival."

"Waste them, indeed," William of Hereford snorted, fond irritation filling his voice. Although Lord Graistan wasn't blood kin to the de Vere family, he was among William's greatest supporters, as had been his sire before him.

The bishop's bench chittered across the wooden floor as he came to his feet. Like the baron, William was also dressed in hunting green, although his tunic was trimmed in golden embroidery at the neck, sleeves and hem. He pointed at the chess board. "You call this game wasted time, Rannulf? I have you on the run. I've almost got you!" he gloated.

"Hardly so! I'd never let you catch me, not when your win would result in you stealing my son's inheritance from me," the nobleman retorted, his tone more taunt than complaint.

"My lord, have a care how you speak to our lord bishop!" Filled with outrage, the chide came from the monk at the back of the tiny hall.

Startled that one so humble would dare so much, Faucon watched the black-robed brother come to his feet, his prayer beads clutched tightly against his chest. Outrage pulsed from the man.

Lord Graistan's expression could have been carved from stone. William lifted a warning hand without turning to look at the monk.

"Brother Edmund, once again you overstep yourself," the bishop said, his voice cool and low. "For the sake of your abbot and your sire, I have been patient, but know you there is precious little left of my tolerance."

"But my lord bishop, he calls you a thief," the monk protested.

William stood as he was, his hand raised. Chastisement filled every line of his body.

The monk bowed his head. "I beg your forgiveness, my lords." There was no meekness in his tone.

The bishop continued speaking as if there had been no interruption. "All I want is what is my due, Rannulf. I have helped you, now you must do the same for me. Did you not say you wanted marriage for my grandnephew Gilliam?"

Faucon blinked in shock. His cousin was to marry? When? To whom?

The better question was how. Gilliam was a third son. He had no inheritance or means of supporting a wife. Then again, neither did Faucon, and he was a second son. One day he'd own the land his mother had brought with her into her marriage, but that wasn't enough wealth for any man to ever give him his daughter.

"You know I do," the nobleman replied, "but not at the cost of Blacklea."

"Then keep Blacklea and tell the hundreds to elect you to the position, as you know I wish you would," William retorted. "The Keeper of the Pleas should be a man of substance and some stature in his shire. Rannulf, you are such a man here."

Lord Rannulf's smile suggested that he and William had chewed this bone so well between them that there was naught left save the joy of fighting over it. "I can't. Your new position will take me away from home far too often, when my greatest need is to make a legitimate heir with my new wife. Remember her? She's the one you made me pay an additional fee for marrying, because I didn't invite you to officiate at our wedding."

"Pah! I'm also the one who made sure she got her rightful inheritance, which means you're rich enough that you won't need Blacklea's income until your bastard son comes of age years from now," William retorted. "If you won't take the position, do as I request and give Blacklea to Pery, so I may make him a keeper in your stead."

Faucon rocked back on his heels in shock. He looked from bishop to baron, wondering if he had fallen asleep in the saddle and dreamed. This had happened to him in the past.

The nobleman paused as if considering, then bowed his head. "As you will."

William's smile was slow and pleased. "Then you will lease Blacklea to Pery at no cost for this year, letting him collect its profits as his own?"

"Only if Pery agrees that he will return Blacklea and all its rights and rents to me with no prejudice, either when my son comes of age or at the moment Pery ceases to serve court and crown," Lord Rannulf replied, haggling.

He paused, then added, "And only if you allow me to marry my brother to the woman of my choice, at no cost to me. I'll not budge on this, William."

The bishop made a low noise in his throat, then sighed. "So it will be."

Lord Graistan grinned. He reached to the chess board and laid one of his bishops on its side. "This game has been much more interesting and satisfying than the one on the board, my lord bishop."

William groaned. "What did I miss? What were you holding in reserve, Rannulf?"

"You'll never know, William," the baron replied with a pleased laugh, then walked to Faucon, his hands outstretched before him as if in prayer. "Give me your oath, Pery."

Too confused to question, Faucon dropped to one knee and put his hands between Lord Rannulf's. "I am your loyal man."

Graistan's lord nodded in satisfaction, then helped Faucon back to his feet. "Then I hereby elect you as Keeper of the Pleas for this village as well as all the other villages and hundreds over which I have dominion. Take good care of my son's patrimony, Pery. You'll have all Blacklea's income as your own for this first year, as William requests, but you must feed and house the steward and his family if they choose to stay. Any salary you wish to pay Sir John can be negotiated between the two of you. Should you remain a Keeper of the Pleas after this year, you will pay me one sixth of your profit as rent, and continue to support the steward's family for as long as they remain."

Faucon's shook his head, trying to wake himself. "What is this Keeper? Why are you giving me Blacklea? No man just gives another his property and his income."

Lord Rannulf smiled again. "You're wrong, Pery. Not one man gives you income, but two. You'll not only have the profits from Blacklea, but your dear uncle is giving you the sums he claims from one of his benefices." He nodded his head toward William. "I do believe you're to receive the income from the Priory of St. Radegund, which lies not far from here. You see, to serve your uncle and Archbishop Hubert Walter as they wish, you need an income of twenty pounds a year."

Faucon gaped. Twenty pounds! That amount went far beyond any hope of advancement his mother had cherished for him. It was wealth enough to encourage a nearly penniless second son to do more than dream of marriage and a life as no man's servant.

"As for why, you heard me say it's not convenient for me to become a servant of the crown just now," Lord Rannulf continued. "Of all the men we could conjure up to take my place, yours was the one name that kept recurring between us, and one we both trusted."

Beyond stunned, Faucon looked from one man to the other. "Me? Why would you even consider me?"

"First, because your mother's dowry lands lie within this shire, and you are her heir," his uncle replied, coming around the corner of the table to stand next to his noble friend. "That ties you here. Also, you read and write, but that is not as important as your nature. You are a careful man, slow to speak, but not slow of wit, being quick to learn. Your foster father continues to take great pride in you, in how you came so late to squiring, yet swiftly mastered the skills required of knighthood."

Faucon swallowed uncomfortably. He had mastered those skills because he'd loved learning them as much as he'd hated the studies required of a scholar.