Season of the Fox (A Servant of the Crown Mystery Book 2) (13 page)

Here, the merchant stopped to bow his head, no longer able to meet Faucon’s gaze. “God help me, perhaps I am an idiot,” he said quietly, “blinded by my own greed for what Bernart offered. Today, I know that it wasn’t Alina delaying the wedding, it was that bitch’s son stalling, waiting for a better offer and hiding behind his wife and daughter as he did.”

“Still, the promises you had between the two of you should have served even without the betrothal,” Faucon said. “Why not bring a complaint against Bernart for breaking his end of your agreement?”

The webber straightened with a start to glare at his Crowner. “What good would that do?” he snapped. “Gisla would have been wedded and bedded, and most likely have brought forth her first child, before your royal justices ever saw my complaint, much less ruled on it. Damn Bernart! He added insult to injury when he came offering me coins to convince me to let him break his oath. As if his coins could heal the wrong he’d done to me and my house! I threw his purse back at him.”

He sighed, then continued in a softer voice. “What else could I do? My son has fixed his heart on Gisla and will not be moved.”

“Ah,” Faucon said, then hesitated, for what followed was a delicate subject to explore, especially with Peter’s father. “I’m told that your son and Gisla have taken the matter of their union into their own hands and are trysting. Is this true?”

Shock started through Roger’s blue eyes. He gaped at Faucon, his face the image of astonishment. Then surprise ebbed and wicked amusement took its place.

“By God, is that so? Well, Peter hoodwinked me for certain. I had no idea.” He laughed, his face creasing even further with the depth of his pleasure. “Now, wouldn’t that have tweaked Bernart right smartly if his proud London merchant had thrown back his daughter as damaged goods?”

Still nodding in satisfaction at the vengeance his son had dealt his former friend, Roger continued, “Well now, I begin to think Bernart’s passing is all to my good. Once Peter has been adjudged innocent, I’ll see Alina fulfills our contract and we’ll get the two wed before any little bastard sees the light of day.”

Faucon wasn’t as certain of that outcome as Roger. “So, tell me of Peter’s doings this day. When did he leave your house? Where did he tell you was he going?”

“He left this morning and told me nothing of where he went, because, as far as I knew, he was going where he always did,” Roger replied. “My son is a journeyman like all the others in my house. Every day Peter takes broken flax to those spinners he manages, so they might turn it into thread, collecting from them what they’ve finished. Depending on Mistress Alina’s needs, he then takes the new thread to the dyers for coloring or takes raw thread to the weavers with whom we work. It’s the job of my journeymen to string the weavers’ looms for each piece, instructing them on what pattern, if any, is to be produced. When a weaver finishes a piece, it’s on my journeymen to remove the completed project, so the weaver bears no fault should something go amiss in that process.”

Here the webber paused. The jerk of his chin indicated Garret, who squatted next to his mother’s body as the men of the jury made their steady passage around the table. “He’s one of ours,” Roger said. “Upon Bernart’s return from his last trip to London, he was eager to begin creating the wimples that the high-born ladies are all wanting to wear these days. Both Garret and his mother proved adept at weaving the delicate cloth needed for such pieces. More’s the pity that she’s gone. She was a good weaver and faster than he. Now I’ll not only be short what she made, but be getting half as much from him. Elsa kept him working and away from his ale.”

In his memory, Faucon again saw the airy drift of fabric off of Rob’s table as he entered Bernart’s courtyard. Unlike the usual warm cream color of raw linen, this fabric had been snow white. “Does Peter take that fine stuff to the pleykster after he retrieves it from his weavers?” he asked, certain what the answer would be.

“Aye, it goes to Hodge.” Roger’s voice broke. He cursed beneath his breath. When he again looked at Faucon, honest confusion and deep hurt filled his gaze. He shook his head like one befuddled.

“Two of the men I once held most dear in my life, lost to me in the space of three months. They have both known my son from the day of his birth. How could either one have set his heart against Peter? Nor can I understand how Hodge would accuse my son of slaying Bernart when he knows my lad as well as I do. No matter what wrong Bernart might have done, to me, to my son, to a beggar on the street or Christ Himself, Peter would never have killed the man who was his future wife’s father.”

He shifted, his hands once again closed into fists as he boldly met Faucon’s gaze. “I would have. By God, I should have killed Bernart the day he broke our agreement. He deserved no less. But, Peter? Nay, never Peter, I know it, aye.”

With that, Roger’s arrogance and anger returned, he straightened to his tallest, then looked down his thin nose at his Crowner. “Have you any further questions for me?”

“Not at this moment,” Faucon replied with a smile. “But more may occur as time passes.”

Roger gave a brusque nod. “Seek me out if you have need, sir. For the now, I and mine have work to attend.”

Without waiting for Faucon’s response, the webber pivoted and walked toward the table on which Bernart lay.

Faucon watched as the master webber paused next to Bernart’s body and spat into the dirt at the table leg before moving on. “What say you?” he asked Colin quietly.

“That Roger is a very angry man,” the monk replied, still watching the webber. “As he has every right to be, if what he says is true. But I fear he has no excuse for what happened to him in regard to that contract. He knew Bernart better than any man. Save Hodge, I suppose,” he added.

That stirred Faucon’s interest. “So Bernart has been an oath-breaker all his life? If that’s so, why did his former master put so much stock in him that he wed him to his daughter?”

Colin smiled at that. “Sir Crowner, if you wish to understand these men, you must learn to think like them. Master William chose Bernart for Alina because Bernart was brilliant at turning pretty ribbons into silver. No matter to whom that lad spoke, his manner was friendly, his words were always honey, and his attitude respectful but never fawning. It was the exact concoction needed to induce the wellborn folk who became Mistress Elinor’s customers, and Mistress Alina’s after her, to buy more than they intended. It’s a skill that neither William nor his other two apprentices could master.”

The monk lifted a hand to indicate the proud house. “As you can see, it worked quite well for Bernart, at least until now. Have you time to share what you’ve learned with me? Might I see where Bernart died?”

“Of course,” Faucon replied. “And I’m more than grateful for any insight you can offer.”

Waving to Edmund so his clerk knew he was stepping away, Faucon led Colin to Bernart’s workroom. A bucket of water now stood in the doorway, a short-bristled broom and a pot of soap at its side. Inside, a pair of lasses, no doubt the girls who now swept ashes from the hearth in Nanette’s place, knelt on the stone floor as far as possible from the spot where their master died. The two were half-heartedly plying their wet rags on tiles that were already clean.

Faucon’s heart jumped as his gaze flew to the shadow print. It was still there. He added yet another note on his mental list of mistakes not to make a second time. There would be no cleaning at the site of a death until he gave permission that it be done.

“Give us a moment, my dears,” Colin said to the lasses.

The alacrity with which they tossed aside their rags and fled said neither wished to touch their dead master’s spilled blood. As if to prove that point, they both shot a glance at the far end of the chamber and crossed themselves as they departed.

Entering the room ahead of Faucon, Colin went to crouch near the gruesome puddle. “He lay here as he bled his last, I see,” the monk said, then looked more closely at the gelled and seeping remains of Bernart’s life. He shifted in his crouch, his gaze wide-eyed. “But the hue and cry was–”

“Exactly so,” Faucon interrupted with a grin, then stepped into the clean area that had been beneath Bernart’s stool, shifting into the murderer’s stance. He lifted his arms, his hands poised as if he were about to slice through the merchant’s neck. “Bernart was sitting here on his stool when he was attacked.”

He mimed the act of murder, then stepped back to once more frown down at the counting board. Every one of the coins still sat where it had been when he’d entered the workshop. That was unexpected, considering that the whole parish was now in the courtyard and the workshop was more or less unguarded. Serving lasses were hardly a deterrent to theft. Perhaps this was just the way those were who had as much wealth as Bernart, that a few stained coins were of little matter.

“Come look at this, Brother,” he said to Colin. “You were once a man of commerce. Tell me what you see upon this board.”

The monk joined his Crowner and stared down at the blood-spattered coins on the board for a moment. “Many small payments. Perhaps the sums he owed for the minor things a household needs day-to-day?” As soon as the words were out Colin shook his head. “Nay, that cannot be. There are too many stacks with the same number of coins in them. These are wages.”

“My thought as well,” Faucon replied, “although neither Mistress Alina nor Mistress Nanette were able to confirm that for me.”

The monk’s brows rose at that. Faucon nodded. “Again, exactly my reaction. Now tell me this. When you were a man of the world, would you have calculated the sums you owed men, whether for goods or services, with your tally sticks and purse yet locked into your treasure chest?”

The surprise on Colin’s face deepened. “Never,” came his stout reply.

As Faucon had done before him, the monk turned to scan the chests in the workroom. “All locked? And they were like this when you first entered?”

“Aye, nothing’s changed since I arrived just after the hue and cry chased Peter into his sanctuary.” He paused, shifting his bits and pieces as he thought. “I cannot make sense of it. Why put away the tally sticks and purse, but not remove the coins from the board?”

“Perhaps the one putting away these things intended to collect the coins as well, only to be interrupted by Peter’s arrival?” Colin offered.

Faucon shook his head at that. “I think not. Peter’s arrival was no interruption. It was intended and well-timed. Here, look at this,” he said, stepping back and pointing to the shadow print on the floor.

Colin came to stand at his side. He stared in silence at the area of tile Faucon indicated for an instant, then shot a sidelong look at his Crowner. “What am I looking at?”

That made Faucon laugh. “Not one for the hunt, are you?”

“Never in my life,” the monk admitted, smiling. “I’m a city man, born and bred.”

Making a show of it, Faucon eased the toe of his soft leather boot into the clear spot, until the print became a bare outline of clean floor around his foot, making the shape clear.

“A shoe!” the monk cried out. “He left a trace!”

“He did, indeed,” Faucon replied, then crouched to once again place his hand into the clean area, refreshing his memory of its outline. “What you see here isn’t the spoor of just any man bent on dealing out death. Nay, the one who did this deed was so trusted that he was able to walk up behind Bernart and ply half of a strange scissors across the man’s throat before Bernart even knew what he was about. All I need do now is find a man beloved by Bernart who wears one shoe spattered with blood.”

“I take it that man is not Roger,” Colin remarked, coming to crouch next to his Crowner.

“Hardly so.” Faucon traced the outline with his finger. “Even if the webber hadn’t worn a shoe clean of gore, I would have known it wasn’t he who did this. He loves his son too deeply, that one. He’d never use his child to shield his own wrongdoing. So, who did Bernart love that much and who loved him in return? Hodge is a name that comes, for he grieved mightily at the hue and cry.”

“Aye, so Hodge might do, but he’s not a man Bernart ever betrayed,” Colin replied, shaking his head to emphasize his certainty. “Indeed, now that Roger is betrayed, Hodge may be the only man left in Stanrudde whose fingers Bernart never burnt.”

As Faucon opened his mouth to speak, Colin held up a forestalling hand. “Don’t misinterpret nor take any heed of my opinion. All I’m saying is that I cannot imagine him wishing his friend dead. To me, this act has the look of vengeance to it, and I see no reason for Hodge to revenge himself on Bernart.”

“Say what you will, Brother, and I’ll be grateful for it,” Faucon replied. “All I intended to say was that I saw Hodge at the church where Peter has gone to ground. He’s a tall man and this shoe suggests someone smaller.”

“Ah,” Colin replied. “Well then, I’ll say that I think the question you’d best ask is who once loved Bernart that much, then was betrayed. I’ll warn you. The numbers could be legion. Bernart couldn’t prevent himself from using others any more than a fish can stop swimming. It was a bad habit that grew steadily worse once he began living like a lord.”