Caught Red-Handed
Table of Contents
Praise for the Servant of the Crown Mysteries
Dedication
Apologies
St Clement's Day
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Dies Mala
A Note from Denise
Other Books
Glossary
Copyright
From Award-winning, best-selling author Denise Domning
"Domning brings the English countryside alive with all the rich detail of a Bosch painting. With well realized characters and a depth of historical detail, she creates a vibrant mystery and a layered, engaging protagonist. CSI 12th century style."
— Christina Skye, New York Times best-selling author of A Highlander for Christmas
"Pure and unapologetically Medieval ... The world of Medieval justice is revealed in all of its shortcomings."
— Kathryn LeVeque, best-selling author of The Wolfe
To all of the my farm animals, past and present. I've learned so much about life from them, and so much more about death.
My apologies to the people of Warwickshire. I have absconded with your county, added cities that don't exist and parsed your history to make it suit my needs. Outside of that, I've tried to recreate England in the 12th Century as accurately as possible.
"Mother, I fear I bring bad tidings," I say as I step inside the prioress's private chamber. Bad tidings for her, but proof to me that His hand is yet at work in my life. As has happened so often before, once again a path has appeared before me. I have faith that the way will be made clear.
Seated at the far side of the room, Mother Superior raises her head to look at me. The midday sun fills the narrow arched windows behind her. Despite waxed linen panels meant to stymie the cold air, the light is bright enough to reveal flecks of white in her gray habit, the dress of our house. Her bleached linen wimple gleams, lending her a halo she does not deserve and will never earn.
Her expression tightens as she recognizes me, and her blue eyes narrow. Only as I stop at the forward edge of the table between us does she set aside the garment she's been decorating. It's a bishop's chasuble. She's adding embroidered crosses done in precious silver thread. Bracing her elbows on the arms of her chair of state, she steeples her fingers in front of her. Her brusque nod gives me permission to speak.
"Mea culpa, Mother. I at last began preparations for the Christmas festivities only to discover that I've made an unexpected error," I confess without shame. I know well my value here. My ability to tally numbers and manage the necessities of communal life has driven back the threat of dissolution. "We haven't enough candles in store to decorate for the season. But I've just come from Sister Martine, who tells me her bees have suffered this year. The hive can afford to lose no more wax."
As I fall silent, I fold my hands before me and bow my head. It takes all my will not to flinch with the movement. The cuts upon my back tighten as they heal. Sister Infirmaress offered salves to soften them, but I welcome the pain. It keeps me ever-present to what lies ahead for me, and for the child who will be my final companion.
"This cannot be," Mother Superior replies in dismay. As always happens when she's disappointed, her voice quavers so badly that her words are almost unintelligible.
"How can we celebrate the Angels Mass without candles?" she complains like a heart-sick child. Midnight mass on Christmas always finds our chapel decorated with so many candles that it seems the stars themselves hang from our ceiling.
"All is not lost, Mother," I assure her. "If our bees have suffered, the rest of our house has prospered. Although there is not enough in our purse to purchase all the wax we need for the full twelve nights, there is coin enough to provide candles for both the Angels Mass and Christmas Day. Sister Martine believes there are a number of farmsteads and hamlets nearby from which we can buy what we need. With your permission I'd visit these places, doing so soon, before the weather turns for the worse." As I speak, I raise my head far enough to watch her.
"You?" the prioress spits back, her brow creased in sharp surprise. "You've barely recovered. Send Sister Martine if she knows where these apiaries and their keepers are."
"Knowledge is one thing, Mother. Courage is another," I reply. "Who within these walls is brave enough to venture so far beyond our sanctuary walls? None save me and Sister Herbalist, and she is away until spring. That is, unless you wish to do the chore," I add to drive home my point.
Just as I expect, a shaft of fear darts through the prioress's eyes at my suggestion. I continue swiftly to take advantage of that emotion. "Although I am not yet quick on my feet, I mend rapidly. Moreover, Sister Infirmaress has recommended walking as part of my cure. Nor will I be alone. Simon will travel with me as always."
And, as always, Simon will plan to part ways with me outside of our walls, he staying with his family until I rejoin him there. It is an equitable arrangement. I prefer to travel alone and he prefers not to travel with me.
That piques a hopeful sound from the prioress. "Of course! Simon. He can do the task," she almost cries.
"You would trust our purse to a servant?" I reply, my brows raised.
Although there is only one sensible reply she can give to my question, I expect further argument. Instead, as if even so short a conversation with me has exhausted her, the prioress's shoulders sag. With that gesture, I see His hand sweeping the way clear for me. I give thanks to the One who arranges our lives to suit His needs.
"Mother, if you're concerned for me, allow me to take a companion, one who has already shown her willingness to support me in my recovery. Lady Marianne of Blacklea, the child who found me in my extremis. Many thanks to you for allowing her frequent visits," I offer.
"It was at her request," the prioress replies. If her tone is flat, her expression says I've confused her.
"So she has confessed," I respond with a nod. "During our time together I've come to know her as a girl of fine character with a quick mind, one fit for tallying. Were she to so choose, and with me to train her, she would make a fine cellaress. Perhaps if she and I spend more time together, she might be encouraged to consider joining us in our life instead of one outside our walls?"
As I speak, I raise my head even farther until I am looking directly at my superior. Astonishment adds wrinkles to the prioress's already creased face. She's never once heard me attempt to promote our house, and she's certainly never seen me show any interest in our students. Almost immediately, her surprise melts into avarice, just as I knew it must. Lady Marianne has kin in Coventry, a family of well-to-do cloth merchants.
Won over by the thought of exploiting the child's rich connections, the prioress nods. "I will agree to this," she says. "Remember that the child is our responsibility. Even with Simon to guard you, you and she cannot be away from our walls after nightfall."
"Of course not," I agree. "None of the places Sister Martine mentioned are far, but it would tax me to try to visit them all in one day. Instead, Lady Marianne and I will make several short trips. If you allow, there's enough day left to this afternoon that we could make our first foray, going only as far as the baker in the village. Sister Martine says he always has wax to spare."
Stark amazement rounds my superior's eyes. Her mouth opens. "You, who ever chides us for celebrating our saints with aught but quiet meditation, would deign to walk among the commoners on Saint Clement's Day?"
"Mother, you're wrong. I do not judge others," I tell her. "I have always recognized that my practices are but one way to worship our Lord. However, I find such peace and joy in how I worship that I wish only to share it with others. You must recall that I was an infant oblate and this life—" The lift of my hand is meant to include the whole of our house. "—is the only life I've ever known. The customs of the laity will ever and always be strange to me.
"As for Lady Marianne," I continue, "she is no doubt well-accustomed to such raucous revelry. I thought an outing on this day might be a way to show my gratitude for her care and kindness."
Again, the prioress gapes at me. Disbelief fair wafts from her. I hold my breath. Her mouth snaps shut and she offers a slow and approving nod.
"Perhaps it is possible for you to change, Daughter," she says, a tiny smile pulling at her full lips. "Know that kindness and tolerance become you. I pray this is not the last time you will reveal them to me. Thus, with hope for both your and Lady Marianne's future among us, I agree to your request."
I offer her a quick bend of my knees. "Have no fear for the child. She and I are safe in our Lord's hands."
"But sir, you cannot tell them this was an accidental death," Brother Edmund insisted.
Although the day's clear sky and bright sun had turned a frosty morning into a mild afternoon, the monk still had the cowl of his black habit pulled close around his well-made face. As Edmund spoke he gave a sweep of his hand to indicate the fish pond that the dead man had been hired to help expand, the same place where he had taken his fatal injury.
"Even though it was several days before the man perished," continued the clerk who served Warwickshire's newly-elected Coronarius, "by all rights the tool should be named deodand, for murder was most definitely done."
The twelve Cistercians arranged around their spiritual kinsman stirred uneasily at this. As one, they looked at Brother Edmund's employer. Sir Faucon de Ramis cursed himself. Would that he'd known all the circumstances of the man's death before he'd begun his northward journey to Merevale Abbey. Faucon was certain he'd still have come, doing so for no other reason than to introduce himself where he was yet a stranger. However, had he known that the injury had occurred on Church land, he'd have left Brother Edmund to his priory and his prayers.
Then Faucon expanded his curse to include Sir Alain, Warwickshire's sheriff. The sheriff's latest attempt to rid his shire of its new servant of the crown had doomed Faucon to riding out dressed in full armor, his gambeson beneath his chain mail tunic and leggings, with his shield on his saddle and his metal helmet on his head. Despite the cool air, the sun was strong. By noon Faucon had felt overheated, but all he dared remove was his helmet and his chain mail hood. Even now sweat trickled down his spine.
"Brother Edmund," he said to his clerk, shrugging to ease the prickle, "we have verified the wound that killed the man occurred on abbey land. His death isn't ours to investigate. Why does it matter what I say?"
"But sir, it does matter!" Brother Edmund protested, his brown eyes widening as if his employer's response had astonished him. An earnest crease formed between his brows. "You know as well as I that precision is of the utmost importance when it comes to death and the law."
Standing at Faucon's left, his brother Sir William de Ramis freed a scoffing breath. Will was also fully armed and had shed his headgear earlier in their ride. Although Faucon's brother was two years Faucon's senior, silver already threaded his hair and glinted at his temples. Except for that, he and Faucon were startlingly similar in appearance, sharing the same thick black hair, broad brow, lean cheeks, and long nose. The resemblance was reinforced by the fact that they both chose to wear a closely-trimmed beard to hide what they agreed was a too-pointed chin.
Alf, the common soldier Faucon paid to watch his back, stood slightly behind Will. The tall fair-haired Englishman was also armed, dressed in a boiled leather hauberk studded with metal rings. Like his betters, he also wore a sword belted at his side. Alf had his arms crossed in front of him. His brimmed metal helmet hung from one elbow by its leather strap. As the common soldier caught his employer's glance, he gave an amused lift of his brows.
"Moreover, these are Cistercians," Edmund was saying. "Sir, Cistercians have no learning. You must take care to be clear or you'll confuse them."
This time Will choked on his laughter. Faucon groaned inwardly. Worse and worse!
He stepped between Edmund and Merevale's abbot. "My lord, I pray you forgive my clerk," he begged of Abbot Henry. The well-born Churchman was a small, clean-shaven man. With the afternoon so warm, he'd pushed back his cowl. The day's breeze made free with his curling, grizzled hair, setting it to dancing around his plain face. Gentle amusement filled the abbot's hazel eyes. The corners of his mouth quirked.
"The law is Brother Edmund's passion," Faucon continued, "and he is particular about its application. But I take his instruction, and will be clear. My clerk is correct. If the injury had been taken beyond your boundaries, I would name the tool deodand and call the jury to pronounce murder. But the man was injured on your land. This makes the matter your or your bishop's concern, not mine or our king's."
"Have no fear, Sir Faucon," Henry of Merevale replied in their shared French tongue. "Learning weighs heavily on our Benedictine brothers and we are happy to let them bear that weight. I assure you that the shovel does indeed belong to the abbey. We have prayed daily since the accident to cleanse all stain from both the offending tool and our home."
Edmund breathed out in noisy relief. "That is well done, Father Abbot."
"Thank you, Brother," his better replied with no trace of sarcasm.
Then the abbot again looked at Faucon. "It seems I must beg your pardon, sir. It was Atherstone's headman who insisted that you be called after Thomas's death. He tells me that it is you, not our sheriff, that he must now summon in the matter of unnatural death. He says our sheriff no longer has the right to assemble the inquest jury."
Here, the abbot paused to tilt his head in question. "What is it the headman called you? A Crowner?" He rolled the English word on his tongue as if testing its pronunciation.
"Sir Faucon is more correctly addressed as Coronarius," Brother Edmund swiftly replied, using the Latin word for Faucon's position. "It means—"
"Servant of the crown," translated the supposedly untutored Cistercian just as swiftly, nodding to Edmund.
Faucon's clerk straightened with a start, blinking in surprise. "Exactly so."
"I was not always a Cistercian, Brother," the abbot replied with a smile, the movement of his hand indicating his undyed, woolen habit. Although an abbot, his habit was as well used as those worn by his flock. The hems of his sleeves were frayed. Patches marked the places where his knees met the floor, or the ground when he worked in the abbey's fields and gardens. Unlike the Benedictines, who spent their days surrounded by manuscripts and quills, the Cistercians— even their abbots— daily put hand to hoe or crook to provide food for their house.
This time, Will made no attempt to hide his laughter. Faucon cringed. The sound had an all-too-familiar edge to it. A decade ago his brother had taken a blow to the head that rendered him unconscious for days. When Will had finally awakened, it had been as not-Will, a man who looked and talked like Faucon's brother but wasn't at all the same man. Although Will had recently been given a potion that eased his constant head pain, he resisted taking it, complaining he couldn't sleep away his life.
"Crowner is the title by which the common men of the hundreds prefer to address me," Faucon told the abbot. "However, the more fitting title for my new position is Keeper of the Pleas. At the command of king and court, I employ Brother E
dmund to see that all pleas for royal justice are inscribed on parchment, then kept safe until they can be presented to the king's justices.
"But you are correct, my lord. Our sheriff no longer investigates unnatural deaths, or charges of burglary or rape, or calls the inquest jury. Those are my duties now." Faucon didn't add that the king's councilors believed his premier duty was that of assessing and recording the value of the estates belonging to those charged with these royal crimes. Faucon's appraisal would then be used to calculate the fine the king could collect from the wrongdoer's estate.
"Huh," said Abbot Henry, his thick gray brows rising as he considered his new Crowner. Bright intelligence filled his gaze. "I think Sir Alain cannot have been much pleased by this change."
Faucon's chain mail rattled musically as he shrugged. "I wouldn't know, my lord. Although I will one day inherit land in this shire through my dam, my father's estate is in Essex. I am only now coming to know Warwickshire and its sheriff." That was true enough. However, the little Faucon did know about Sir Alain was the very reason Warwickshire's sheriff was determined to end the life of his new Coronarius by whatever means possible.
Once again, the corners of the Churchman's mouth quirked. As if he meant to hide his amusement, the abbot glanced skyward. "The sun tells me that it's near to None and that means our dinner hour is at hand. Sir Faucon, you and your party will, of course, join us for the meal. So too must you bide the night here. It's the least we can do to repay you for coming so far for no cause.
"I promise it will be worth your while," the abbot continued, smiling openly at his Crowner this time. "Brother Augustine" —he nodded toward the tallest of his flock— "has dedicated his life to producing cider. We all agree that his perry this year is his masterwork!"
While the other monks grinned and nodded in agreement, the abbey's brewmaster blushed. That had Faucon grinning as well. Unlike the rigorous life of the scholarly Benedictines, the simple honesty of the Cistercians' life spoke to him.