Caught Red-Handed Read online

  His helmet once more in place, Alf offered his employer a nod as he rode past, heading for the gate. Will halted his courser near Faucon and tossed his younger brother Legate's reins. As Faucon rose into his saddle, he shot a look heavenward.

  Now that Christmas was but a few weeks away, the days had grown short. At best they had no more than an hour of light left to the day. If Mancetter was as close as the abbot said, that was likely time enough to claim the boy's body in the king's name. But that wasn't all that needed doing. He had to find a secure place to store the corpse for the night. If that took even the slightest amount of time, night would fall before they could start back for the abbey.

  And what if there were no secure place for the body in Mancetter? Well then, the four of them would be staying in the village for the night, to guard the boy's remains.

  That wasn't a welcome thought, not if Brother Edmund was right about the possibility of the boy walking after death. What if they needed to bind Dickie's body? The thought of watching a corpse struggling to free itself made Faucon's stomach twist again.

  "Gauging the time, are you?" Will asked with a laugh when Faucon brought his gaze back to his brother. "So tell me. How far are we from this unholy place where a dead father rises from the grave to kill his living son? I'm not certain how I feel about riding in the dark across a land where the dead walk and Harlequin rides."

  Faucon smiled at that. "I couldn't agree more. The abbot assures me the village isn't far. Best you pray, brother. Pray that all goes well and swiftly so we can return here to these walls before full dark and enjoy that perry."

  "That I shall do," Will replied on a not-quite-amused breath.

  Then he sent Faucon a laughing sidelong look. "Or perhaps I won't. I wonder what it's like, watching a corpse walk? What say you? Shall we sit up all the night long and find out for ourselves?" In that moment Will sounded like the older brother Faucon had once adored, the one who had never refused a challenge, and had never sought to hurt his younger sibling for no reason.

  "I will if you will," Faucon shot back with a grin.

  That had Will laughing again. "If we must, we shall."

  Just then Brother Edmund's donkey streaked past them at almost a gallop. The monk had his arms wrapped around the creature's neck. Although the long basket that contained Edmund's scribbling tools was safely strapped to his back, it bounced wildly.

  Faucon sucked in a worried breath. It would be one thing if his clerk fell, but if that basket spilled, they'd be delayed well past nightfall as Edmund collected and reorganized his belongings. He kicked Legate into motion.

  "I'm coming for you," he shouted after the monk.

  His rescue attempt proved unnecessary. By the time Legate exited through the abbey's gateway, Father Godin had caught Edmund's little mount. That the donkey had given up any resistance and stood calmly, only his ears twitching, said the Northern priest had more than a little familiarity with horses and their kin.

  As for Edmund he remained bent over the neck of his despised mount, his basket blessedly intact. Panting, eyes closed, he came slowly upright. Faucon grinned again. Edmund's inability to master his little beast was proof that a university education wasn't the only training a man— even a Churchman— needed to make his way in life.

  "Waddard," Faucon said, looking at the potter on his bony nag, "your horse is the slowest. You'll ride ahead of us to set the pace.

  "Alf?" Faucon turned toward the English soldier and shifted into French for the sake of Will and Edmund. "Take Mancetter's priest up with you and ride at the back. Brother Edmund, you'll ride in front of Alf. Will, you'll ride between me and my clerk."

  Much to Faucon's surprise, Father Godin released the donkey's bridle and started toward Alf without waiting for a translation. If the priest spoke French, why hadn't he used that language to communicate with Brother Samuel? Then again, perhaps he had, only to discover his accent made him indecipherable in two languages.

  Ahead of him, Waddard urged his mount onto what looked like a footpath. Unlike the steep side of the abbey's hill, which was planted with fruit and nut trees, this side, the one with the gentler incline, had been left a grassy, shrubby waste. That made it useful for nothing save fodder for sheep.

  At the bottom of the hill their path intersected with another track, this one a good deal wider and often used, or so said the pair of well-worn ruts that cut into its face. Judging by their depth and spacing, heavily-laden wagons— the sort that would carry both that buyer of wool the abbot mentioned and all the fleece that man came to purchase— often traveled along here.

  They had barely turned upon this pathway when tall, dry grasses and shrubs gave way abruptly to a dense copse. Here, the trees were so large that Faucon judged them ancient. It was a reminder of what the Forest of Arden had been in some long-ago age. Unlike Feckenham, Arden had not been claimed by England's first Norman king. Instead, it had been carved into pieces— including the piece that would one day come to Faucon— this virgate belonging to that knight's manor, those hides owned by some baron's estate, or by some monastery. With no one overseer, each landholder did as he wished, whether that was to harvest every last one of the great trees— oak, hazelnut, and linden, to feed his fire, build his manor, or make charcoal to temper his iron— or to leave the land wild to attract the beasts of the hunt.

  This was one of the wild slices. Indeed, the tangled canopy overhead was so thick and wide-spread that little light penetrated, even now that every branch was bare. A daunted sun hadn't prevented brilliant green moss and airy ferns from growing up around each massive trunk. Where light did reach the soil, stands of glossy holly, or sloe and elderberry— presently just winter skeletons— had taken root. With those creatures that slept through the cold now abed and the chittering birds and waterfowl gone for the season, it was as hushed in here as a monastery at midnight. Not even their horses' hooves sounded, what with a thick layer of damp leaf litter covering the ground. Instead, Legate's every step stirred up the sweet spice of autumnal decay.

  Just then, Will brought his courser alongside Legate. "Beware! Here is the place where the dead walk and you must one day live," he taunted, his overly-loud voice shattering both the stillness and Faucon's moment of peace. There was a harsh, envious edge to his words. That was a sure sign that not-Will had returned.

  Faucon smiled to hide how deeply he disliked this facsimile of his brother. "I'm doomed."

  "And always have been, so say I," not-Will retorted with an unkind laugh.

  To respond was to encourage further conversation with the unnatural creature who was not his brother. Thus, Faucon kept his gaze on the track and rode on in silence. Not-Will retreated only when the trees gave way again to grassland.

  The man who owned this next piece of Arden had chosen to harvest all the hardwoods, but had left their stumps to use for coppicing. Thus had once proud oaks and ash been humbled into large bushes, each one sporting a dozen or more straight, slender branches destined to become handles for tools or the supports for a thatched roof. When the track curved, the stunted trees disappeared behind a thick hedgerow. On this side of the living fence, every leaf and smaller twig was gone almost to the height of Legate's shoulder eaten by wild browsers.

  Curious what lay beyond the hedge, Faucon stood in his stirrups. It was as he expected, fields and orchards, each outlined with their own protective hedgerows. In the distance was a thick, square stone church tower. Perhaps two dozen gentle reedy mounds clustered near the church tower, most emitting lines of twining, curling smoke— thatched-roofed homes.

  That had Faucon once again glancing at the sun, only to note how much closer it was to the horizon. He urged Legate forward until he rode next to Waddard. "Is this Mancetter?" he asked hopefully.

  "Nay, Atherstone," the commoner replied without looking at his Crowner, once again using his sleeve to wipe away his grief. "Atherstone is but a spit of a place, not at all like Mancetter." Although his voice was filled with pride and scorn, his
tone sounded more like bluster, meant to disguise his raw emotions.

  "Will we reach Watling Street on this track?" Faucon asked, this time out of simple curiosity.

  "We would if we were going that far." Waddard kept his gaze trained on a spot between his horse's ears. "But Mancetter isn't quite on the Street, what with the River Anker between us and it. You'll see.

  "Oh, and by the bye," the commoner continued, still speaking to his horse's head, "I doubt you knights will think there's a place in Mancetter suitable for you to lay your heads. Given the hour, sir, once we arrive, perhaps you should send your clerk or your man to the manor. They should ask the monks if there's room for you to board with them for the night. The manor isn't far from our church."

  Once again, although Faucon completely understood what Waddard said, the man's words confused him. Monks lived in convents, not manors. "Do you mean your lord?" he asked to clarify, in case grief had addled Waddard more than Faucon already knew.

  The commoner shot his Crowner a watery sidelong glance. He shook his head. "We no longer have a lord. He gave our village and all these lands to some abbey in Normandy. They then sent monks to live in the old manor house, where we still go to make our payments.

  "They're a strange bunch, these monks, almost hermits some of them. Maybe that's why the abbey sent them to a strange land, so it would be easier for them to keep to themselves. For certain that's why Father Godin and I flew to Merevale rather than the manor. There's never any help for us from those monks, not for anyone from Mancetter.

  "Do you see that?" Waddard pointed back to the sliver of the stone church tower they could now see over the top of the hedgerow. "The monks spent what we in Mancetter gave them to build a big church for Atherstone and its few souls, when all we have is a small, wooden church. Wouldn't we like a fine, stone church as well?" he complained. "I mean, are we not as worthy as our neighbors? And aren't there more of us in Mancetter than Atherstone? After all, our village is the head of the parish!"

  His ire spent, Waddard fell into an abrupt silence, once again studying his horse's head. Much to Faucon's surprise, a moment later the commoner added, "Then again, if the monks built us a church, that'd be the end of Father Godin." His voice was low enough that he might have been speaking to himself.

  "How so?" Faucon asked, even though polite convention dictated that he should ignore the comment.

  The potter shot him a startled glance. For a moment Faucon thought the man might not reply. Then the commoner shrugged.

  "Well, Father Godin isn't actually our priest. Father Berold has gone mad." As Waddard said this, he made a number of wild and jerky motions with one hand. "He no longer has the strength to enter our church, not even during the daylight hours, not even to save his own soul, much less ours. When Father Berold could no longer leave his house, didn't we go to the monks to beg for a new priest, it being their right to appoint one for us?" This was an aggrieved comment.

  "They heard our pleas but did nothing, and we got no new priest. Those of us who wanted to hear a mass had to crowd in with the monks in that tiny chapel of theirs, or walk to Atherstone, seething with the sin of envy over their fine church. Then almost a year ago Father Godin and his wife came down Watling Street and stopped in Mancetter."

  Faucon's brows rose at that. He knew many a clergyman kept himself a convenient housekeeper, but none of them were open about calling her what she was, a wife.

  "We warned Father Godin about Raymond, but he said he wasn't afraid. He said his faith was stronger than Father Berold's. Perhaps it is, because his word has proven true. Despite that Raymond reached our church almost every week, that hasn't driven Father Godin from us.

  "We told him we couldn't offer him any payment, not when we were still supporting Father Berold, he yet being our true priest and all. Father Godin said he didn't need anything from us. He said he'd use what we gave Father Berold, that it was enough to care for all three of them— himself, his wife and that poor wracked man— for as long as Father Berold might live.

  "And so Father Godin and his wife have done," Waddard hastily assured his Crowner. "They're good folk, and very grateful for the sanctuary we gave them. As for us, we were all just thankful to have a priest in our own church again."

  Again Waddard fell quiet, only to sigh a moment later. "I suppose the monks already know that we've replaced Father Berold with Father Godin. How could they not know, when we all stopped attending their masses? I suppose someday they'll force Father Godin to move on, it being their right to choose for us. That'll be a sad day for us all."

  Faucon shook his head. This affair got stranger with every step. "Leave me to worry over where I and my party spend this coming night. The only thing that matters at the moment is to see your son's body protected before nightfall."

  Waddard jerked at the reminder of what he'd lost. His shoulders hunched and he choked a little, as if trying to restrain a sob. Faucon reined Legate back into position behind the nag, giving the man privacy to mourn as he would, and studied the land around him.

  The hedgerows had ended, suggesting they'd left Atherstone's fields behind them, and the land was again a shrubby waste. That was, except for an area where Faucon could see new tillage, He frowned. Not tillage, at least it didn't look like any tilling he'd ever seen done by the blade of a plow. Instead the torn earth had the look of foraging hogs to him.

  As they neared one of the turned patches, his brows rose in appreciation. And what good work those hogs had done! Great clumps of grasses, the sort with roots so thick they stopped the plow blade, had been completely uprooted. So had all the smaller bushes and saplings. The owner of this plot need only rake off the debris then bring in oxen and a plow to cut in new rows. Now, why hadn't he or his father thought of using their hogs to clear their wasteland?

  Just then the breeze lifted. Caught in its folds were chill hints of the oncoming night and the rich, moist scent of river water. "And now, sir, we have reached Mancetter," Waddard announced without looking back at his Crowner.

  Ahead of them stood a pair of wattle-and-daub homes, one on either side of the path. Each cottage stood so close to the track that Faucon could have touched the edges of their thatched roofs if he'd stretched out his arms. That cheated the householders of their toft— the space used for a front garden— although both homes did have a few herbs planted along their front walls. Ah, but what these owners gave up in front, they regained behind their homes. The line of withe fencing behind each house suggested a surprisingly generous croft, the area where a family kept their own livestock and gardens.

  Beyond that first pair of homes was another pair, also set up against the road and enclosed in withe fencing. The leftward house had suffered damage and had been temporarily patched with a withe panel. After that was yet another similar pair, then another, and another. The pattern repeated for as far as Faucon could see, which was to the roof line of the wooden church that Waddard despised and Raymond haunted. Unlike some villages that clustered around their church and green, Mancetter was long and narrow, and snaked along with the track that cut it in twain.

  In an instant the village dogs appeared in the track in front of Waddard. Although they barked viciously, the curs kept to the verge until all the horses, with their iron-shod hooves, passed. Then, yet offering toothless snarls and impotent growls, they reentered the track to follow.

  The dogs weren't the only creatures in Mancetter to take notice of the travelers. Offering irritated squawks, chickens fled the path. Someone's flock of geese honked out the alarm. A spotted sow stretched out in front of her owner's house, her head pillowed on the doorstep, opened her eye to study Faucon as he rode past.

  From both in front of and behind them, leather hinges creaked. Doors opened. Men, some wearing only their shirts and chausses, others with leather aprons over their tunics, stepped outside to warily eye the armed men in their track. Housewives, babes in arms and shawls over their shoulders, stained linen overgowns atop their brightly-colored gow
ns, stopped behind their menfolk. Younger children clung to their mothers' skirts, staring wide-eyed, while their older, braver siblings dared each other to touch the knights as they rode past.

  At first Faucon wondered if the threat of a murdering corpse had driven the village folk inside for the day. Then he remembered that this was the season when all rural folk retreated inside their own walls. With the spring wheat planted and manure spread on those fields that would sleep until Candlemas, there were no more communal chores left in the year. That gave each family two months to work for themselves, be that spinning wool into thread, weaving fabric, making garments, crafting tools, clearing a new garden, or building another shed.

  One thing was certain. Waddard was right to claim that every soul in his village had seen Raymond walk. Here in Mancetter, no traveler, dead or alive, would ever pass unnoticed.

  When they were only three pairs of homes away from the low wooden wall encircling Mancetter's churchyard, a petite housewife stepped to the center of the track. She looked worn to the bone, her face haggard, her skin ashen, and dark smudges beneath her eyes. Like all married women, common or noble, her head was modestly covered with a linen headcloth, but a few fine strands of fair hair had escaped to straggle around her thin face. The sleeves of her blue gown were rolled up above her elbows. When she crossed her arms, Faucon saw the same crusting reddish dirt that fouled her sleeveless linen overgown marked her hands and forearms.

  "Juliana?" Waddard called to her in surprise. "What are you doing?"

  "Why Husband, I am looking behind you for the abbot you went to fetch," Waddard's wife replied sarcastically. "Where is the Churchman we so need, and who are these knights riding with you?"

  As the potter's wife spoke three tiny girls slipped out of her doorway. The youngest— naught but a toddler— clung to the next tallest girl, while the middle lass clutched her older sister's arm. All of them wore gowns of pretty green, and all had hair so fair that it looked almost white, even in the fading light. Although they were petite like their mother, and had her narrow face, time and life had yet to pinch their features as it had hers.