Season of the Raven (A Servant of the Crown Mystery Book 1) (3 page)

William was still speaking. "Since your return from the Holy Land, letters from your lady mother often relate how well you do as your father's steward, how you have a gift for calculating the value of lands, structures and harvests."

So she would say, since her goal had been to remind her uncle of her son, hinting that a comfortable position might be found for her heir in the vast estates held by the bishopric of Hereford.

"But mostly, it is because both Rannulf and I have seen the care and concern you've shown your brother and his inheritance these past years. We agree that you have no ambition in that regard. That you should lack all avarice or impatience when your brother is so obviously incapable of being your father's heir, despite your parents' protests to the contrary, is admirable," William finished.

Although meant as a compliment, his words struck Faucon like a bolt through the heart. He'd been nearly ten-and-four, two years younger than his brother, when Will had taken a blow to the head while practicing at arms. It had rendered him unconscious for days, and when he'd finally awakened, it had been as not-Will, a man who walked and talked like Faucon's brother, but wasn't the same at all. This new Will held tight to rationality for long periods, long enough to achieve his knighthood, but the relentless head pain never left him. There were times when it drove him into the darkest corner of the hall, made his words jumble and his thoughts go astray. Other times he'd explode in towering rages, spurred by nothing at all, the anger driving him from home and hearth. He could disappear for weeks before returning, thin and wild-eyed.

Worst of all, Will understood he was damaged. It ate at him, as did the knowledge that their father had made Faucon a knight instead of a churchman because of Will's injury. Will hated Faucon for that as much as he hated himself for being incapable of rising above what had happened to him.

His uncle smiled. "You are an honest man, Faucon, and honest men are just who the Archbishop of Canterbury and I wish to become our new Keepers of the Pleas."

Here, Lord Graistan gave a scornful snort. "Keeper of the Pleas. I think me it would have been better if you and Hubert Walter had named the position 'the sheriff's bane,' for that is its true motive."

The shepherdess's words rang in Faucon, about how he was too young to be pitted against this shire's sheriff, and how she thought the man would eat up his bones.

"And so they should become the sheriffs' bane, if those sheriffs are lining their purses with stolen royal income," William retorted. "King Richard wants all his due, and that is his right no matter what you say, Rannulf."

"All I've said is that the king of England is a far higher honor than the count of Anjou, or even the duke of Aquitaine or Normandy. A king should keep his attention on his kingdom," the baron replied flatly.

"I'm sure His Majesty will spend more time in England once he's settled all the challenges to his continental holdings which arose because of his imprisonment," William replied quietly, but his voice lacked conviction.

Lord Rannulf smiled tightly. "I pray you're right. Now, have your servants gather themselves while I find Marian. Before we depart, she must know that Blacklea has a new master."

Then he grinned at Faucon. "She especially needs to find your new Keeper of the Pleas a tub and some soap. Your new royal servant is a solid clot of muck."

William looked at the nobleman in surprise. "We're still riding out? It's almost sunset."

"What?" Rannulf retorted. "Do you intend to waste tonight sitting idly by and chatting? I thought me that was why you brought that monk of yours, so he could do the explaining to Pery, leaving us free to track boar. There's still light enough for us to reach my hunting lodge. That means we can be out with the dogs and beaters as early as dawn on the morrow."

The nobleman's words sent the longing to hunt washing over Faucon. He loved the chase, from the careful search for spoor to the stealthy tracking, the discerning of false trails from the true, and the discovery of every hidey-hole his prey sought out while trying to escape him. Unlike most men, joy came for Faucon when the creature he'd tracked was cornered with nowhere left to hide. If it were up to him, he'd happily turn away at that point, letting his prey escape to be hunted again another day.

William's grin was slow and pleased. "You're right. We've wasted far too much time on this issue as it is. Pery my lad, meet Brother Edmund." The bishop didn't turn his gaze to the monk as he made his introduction.

"He will be clerk for all those who serve the crown in this shire, which makes him yours alone for the time being, since we've not yet recruited the two other knights required. Brother Edmund is well-versed in the laws of our land, and will act as your right hand,"—the bishop gave odd emphasis to his words as he paused to shoot a look at the brother before continuing—"as you make your assessments and hear the pleas that might come your way.

"As for the Priory of St. Radegund, aye, you will now collect its income on my behalf. I had suggested to the prior this would happen when we arrived at Blacklea yesterday, and have told Prior Lambertus to expect your visit. Brother Edmund will confirm with him that you are to receive that income when he retreats to the priory this night to take his rest. Pery, do not fail to present yourself to the prior on the morrow. When you do, remind him one more time that he has my best regards."

With that, Faucon's auspicious uncle drew his grandnephew into a brief embrace, the press of his arms around Faucon's back dislodging another shower of dirt. When he stepped back, his hands still on Faucon's shoulders, his eyes were filled with warmth and not a little relief.

"You will do well with this, lad. I know it, aye."

Then he turned and left the room.

Faucon watched in stunned surprise as his uncle departed, still not certain he hadn't fallen asleep and dreamed all this. But surely not even his wildest dreams could have conjured up such a turn of fortune.

The monk came forward to stand beside him, his footsteps echoing hollowly on the wooden floor. "After years of loyal service, a single mistake and you are now my penance," Brother Edmund said harshly.

That brought Faucon firmly back to earth. A great turn of fortune, aye, but one not fully in his own hands. At least not yet.

As the animals and men in the green below the house stirred into action, horses neighing and huntsmen whistling and shouting, Faucon studied the monk his uncle had made both his mentor and his servant. The monk's clean-shaven face was well-made, with a strong jaw and high cheekbones. Indeed, he might have been accorded handsome, despite the impressive thrust of his nose.

"Your penance, am I?" Faucon asked quietly. "Should I be sorry to know that? Or perhaps you will someday be sorry you said as much to me," he replied evenly.

The monk blinked, his expression suggesting he hadn't expected a response to his jab. Then he recovered his arrogance. Faucon guessed the resentment that twisted Edmund's finely-drawn lips and befouled his dark eyes beneath their gently-arching brows was a long and closely-guarded habit.

The monk looked down his big nose at Faucon. "I am an honest man. I refuse to engage in the false compliments and fawning phrases others use to manipulate their betters. Instead, I have chosen to always speak only as my heart directs."

"A worthy trait, if a hard path to walk," Faucon acknowledged with no lack of irony.

Then, weary to his core, he dropped to sit on the bench Lord Graistan had vacated. "So what is this Keeper's position I've been given?"

Brother Edmund crossed his arms, tucking his hands into his wide sleeves. "At the Michaelmas court that ended a week ago, our dear Archbishop of Canterbury, may God preserve him, did decree that every shire of this realm shall now employ three knights and one clerk who will keep the Pleas of the Crown."

"Pleas? Do you mean the pleas for justice and redress that folk bring before the royal court when they have had some violence or wrong done to them?" Faucon asked.

"Exactly. Until this summer past, when our archbishop saw to it that the justices in Eyre visited every shire to resolve all the pleas waiting to be heard, it has been more usual for years to pass between the circuits. Because of that, much information was lost. When that happens, a goodly portion of the king's potential revenue disappears through the loss of fees and fines that could have been collected. The archbishop determined that, if written records were kept of these pleas, the royal court was far more likely to collect all His Majesty's rightful due. That is what you, and me through you, are to do. You will have me note the amounts of all fines, fees or amercements that might apply to any plea for justice, as well as all sureties promised or paid by those charged with wrongdoing. Also, we are to hear and note the confessions made by all felons.

"And as
coronarius
"—here Edmund used a Latin word Lord Rannulf had used earlier which translated to the phrase 'servant of the crown', although from what little Faucon yet retained of the Church's tongue, his translation would have been 'crowner'—"you will also be responsible for discovering and noting the details of all acts of murder, burglary and rape, as well as the theft of anything valued over a shilling, or any foul act, such as treason or outlawry, where property or goods might be forfeit to the king."

Faucon choked on a laugh. Holy Mother! No wonder Lord Rannulf hadn't wanted the position. These tasks could keep a man in his saddle for a good part of every week as he went from village to hamlet to town, meeting with all those who had been wronged in some substantial way.

"So I am to be a tax collector for the king?"

"Not a collector," Brother Edmund replied swiftly. "That is still the sheriff's to do. We but assess and make note of all, or rather, I note and you, along with whatever jury you have called, confirm.

"And from now on, only you, and the other two knights who will soon be serving this shire as
coronarii
, can call the hundreds to attend inquests over those who die by unnatural means."

Faucon leaned back on the bench to look up at the monk. "What portion of the shire's revenue is dedicated to compensating this new royal servant?"

The monk met his gaze with a narrow-eyed look. "None at all. It is the archbishop's intention that the new coronarii should never be tempted to line their purses the way the sheriffs do, taking what belongs to their king and country. That is why each Keeper must have an income of twenty pounds a year."

"And who pays you for your trouble?"

"You, for the time being. The bishop has arranged for me to stay at St. Radegund's, being fed and housed from the income he has directed to you."

This time Faucon let his laugh fly. And this was why Lord Rannulf had pushed to leave so swiftly. He didn't want to be in the room when Faucon realized the whole of what he'd been given.

In that instant, Faucon felt his life turn full circle. After gratefully escaping a second son's usual fate of a life dedicated to the Church, he had just accepted a position in which his limited ability with pen and parchment and even more limited knowledge of laws and courts were more important than his significantly greater skill with sword and dagger.

Twenty pounds, Faucon reminded himself. He'd have it for at least this year, and earn not only his granduncle's gratitude, but Lord Rannulf's as well. There was nothing wrong with that.

"When do I begin pursuing my new duties?" Faucon asked.

Brother Edmund cocked a brow at him. "You just have, even though you were not actually elected by those you are to represent. Then again, with every freeman and bondsman in these hundreds beholden to Lord Graistan in some way, if he says you are elected, you are. It doesn't matter to the nobleman that his actions subvert the archbishop's wishes. All he cares about is his own comfort and futtering his wife."

The insult tore through Faucon. His hand flew to his sword hilt. In the next instant, he breathed out costly rage and opened his hand. Long experience with the stranger who was not-Will had taught him it was safer never to reveal his true emotions, especially to an angry man. Besides, Faucon had weapons more suited to this sort of battle.

Cocking his head to the side, he said, "Do tell me of this honest path of yours, Brother Edmund. What event set you upon it? Better yet, relate how it is that your superiors have managed to leave your tongue intact in your head for all these years."

The monk's eyes flew wide. Bright color flooded up his neck to stain his cheeks. His mouth moved as if in speech. No sound came forth.

Faucon gave a slow nod. "You are right. Such a tale will wait until we know each other better. I shall give you your first lesson of me and mine, so you will have insight into who I am. Lord Rannulf is my cousin by marriage, and I am fond of him." Aye, so Faucon remained, even after this strange gift of his. "If we're to have peace between us, I suggest you keep your opinions of him to yourself."

Brother Edmund's jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. "You have my apology, Sir Faucon." He spat out the words. "If we are finished here, I will depart for St. Radegund's to bear company with my brothers for the night." Not waiting for Faucon to give him leave to depart, the monk pivoted and crossed the room, a most unservile servant.