Season of the Fox (A Servant of the Crown Mystery Book 2) (16 page)

Dragging Faucon’s mantle closer around her, she pulled its collar up around her chin as if she wanted to disappear into its depths. “I didn’t want to see,” she whispered. “I just wanted everything to go back to the way it had been, before all this.”

“You didn’t want to see, but you entered anyway, did you not? So what met your gaze as you entered?” Colin prodded gently.

She kept her attention on her hem. “There was blood,” she shuddered. “Papa lay in it. It was all over Mama’s hands and gowns, and on Nanette.”

“Mistress Nanette was in the workshop with your mother?” Faucon interrupted.

“Aye. Nanette had just then climbed the stair on her return from the kitchen when Mama left the table that final time. She followed Mama to the workshop door, or so she told me later as she and I undressed Mama, and I helped Nanette into clean garments. You arrived before I had the chance to change my own gowns,” Gisla told Faucon, then continued.

“Nanette told me that she’d followed Mama down the stairs, but waited outside the workshop, thinking she gave my parents their privacy. She said an instant later Peter raced past her to escape out our door as Mama began shouting of murder. Indeed, Mama flew after him as if she meant to chase him down herself. Nanette said she followed Mama into the yard and caught her to keep her from doing so, but Mama must have insisted on returning to the workshop, for that’s where I saw them. Mama was on her knees beside Papa, sobbing and pressing her hands to his throat as if to close his wound while Nanette was trying to drag Mama back from him.”

Gisla paused, taking a few steps before continuing. “Or mayhap Mama was standing over Papa while it was Nanette leaning over Papa seeking signs of life.” She shook her head. “Nay, it cannot have been that way. Mama wore Papa’s blood all over her gowns and hands. She’d even smeared what stained her onto Nanette and, shortly after that, onto my outer gown.”

At last, she sighed. “My pardon. Would that I could be more precise, but this day is such a jumble in my thoughts. I just know that I best like the idea of Mama trying to save Papa’s life, even if he was already gone and despite all the wrong he’d planned to do her.”

Colin put his arm around the girl’s back. “Tell me if you can. Was your father’s wound still oozing blood when you saw him?”

Gisla made a gagging sound and stopped. Faucon and the monk stood with her. “I don’t know,” she cried, her voice high and reedy. “I am such a coward. I should have been the one trying to close his wound as my mother had done. All I’m sure of is that this whole day feels like a horrible dream.”

They stayed where they stood, waiting for her to collect herself. Overhead, bats had replaced the birds in the sky, the flying mice darting and dashing. In the stillness of the gathering gloom, Faucon could hear the sounds of the jury, men chatting to each other in low voices as they made their shuffling way around Bernart’s body, Edmund’s voice as he asked their names.

So too, had the sounds of city life changed as night came on. The clanging of hammers in the smithies was no more. That persistent noise had been replaced by a discordant cacophony of music. Here, a sackbut, there a pipe and tambour, nearer still a viol, each one playing a different tune. Instead of shop owners calling out about the quality of their wares, those men and women who liked darkness better than light bellowed in laughter or shared bawdy songs.

“Can you tell us what you did after you entered the workroom?” Faucon asked gently as Gisla started forward again, leading them through the dim shadows clinging to the sheds and outbuildings as they made their way into the courtyard.

That teased a choked laugh from her. “I went to my father’s side as my mother had done, thinking to kiss his brow in farewell. But as I leaned forward, my fingers found the pool of blood on the floor. I stained my hands and the sleeves on both my gowns.”

She held up her arms for them to see. Her undergown had fitted sleeves, laced tightly at her wrists. Even in the dark, Faucon could see that their lower edges were discolored.

“I couldn’t help myself after that. I fled, following my mother and Nanette up the stairs to help settle Mama. I suppose it’s just as well I did. It took both Nanette and me to strip those bloody gowns from her,” she finished at a sigh. “They were ruined. That’s why I burnt them.”

They stopped in front of her home’s grand doorway. Faucon pushed open the heavy wooden panel, then stepped aside so she might enter ahead of him. As she stepped around it, she gave a quiet cry and stopped.

Both he and Colin shifted to see past the door. Faint light flickered out of the open workshop door. Colin crossed himself. Faucon wondered if he did so against the possibility that this was the light of Bernart’s soul, yet trapped in the earthly realm.

“Who is there?” Gisla demanded.

As she strode for the workshop door, reclaiming her role as the mistress Faucon had met only two hours ago, he and Colin followed. It was the lasses, returned to the workroom with their cloths and soap, although they cleaned by the uncertain light of a single tallow lamp. They were plying their rags more vigorously this time, now that Bernart’s congealed blood had been removed. Still, the younger of the two was crying softly as she worked.

Faucon looked at the far end of the worktable. That troublesome counting board still sat there. The lamp was bright enough to show him that the coins were also still in place.

“What are you two doing in here at this hour?” their mistress asked of the lasses.

“Mistress Nanette says we must finish scrubbing the chamber floor this night,” replied the elder girl with a shaking voice, “so no one will see it befouled upon the morrow.”

“Mistress Nanette is wrong,” Gisla said, yet clinging to the workshop doorway. “No one will see this chamber on the morrow because the door will be closed and locked. Go now. If she chides, tell her I said as much.”

Just as they had done once before, the two fled the room as swiftly as possible, taking their tools but leaving behind their lamp. After moving aside to let them pass, Gisla retreated to stand in the doorway. Her gaze was locked on the floor where her father had bled his last.

“Mistress, help me with something,” Faucon said, entering the chamber, leaving her and Colin to stop in front of the blood-stained board. “This suggests your father was paying wages when he was struck down.”

She nodded, yet struggling to free her gaze from the place where her father ended his life. “Aye, he would have been. Today was the day for it.” Her voice was flat and quiet.

“Then where are his tally sticks?” Faucon asked.

That caught her attention. Blinking, she aimed her gaze at the worktable and the counting board. “What is this?” she cried.

As Colin stayed where he stood, she picked up the lamp–naught but a clay bowl in which melting fat fed burning wick–then joined him. “Where are they?” she asked, speaking to herself as she eyed the board.

Bending over, she reached deep under the table. There was the dull clink of metal against metal, then she brought out an iron ring on which hung as many keys as there were strongboxes in this chamber. Going to a central chest, she opened the lock that closed the iron band encircling it. The chest’s hinges creaked a little as she lifted the lid.

Holding the lid high with one hand, she raised her lamp until it illuminated the interior of the box. “Thank the Lord, they’re here,” she breathed in relief, then gave a quiet shriek and stumbled back a step, letting the lid slam shut.

Needing to see what upset her, Faucon lifted the lid for himself. Inside, a shallow tray hung from braces fastened to the sides of the box. The tray completely filled the space, obscuring whatever lay in the belly of the chest. In that tray were several dozen wooden wands, each of these tally sticks a little longer than his hand. Carved into the top of each stick was the unique mark that named the account holder. There were flowers, stars, curling lines, fish and more. Slashed along their lengths were any number of evenly spaced cuts. Some wore but a few of these notches while others bore cuts from top to bottom. Even by the light of a single lamp, he could see the dark streaks and spots of blood that stained them.

“Who put those in there?” Gisla demanded shakily from where she stood. The trembling of her hand made light dance wildly across the walls around them.

Faucon offered her a quick glance, then looked back at the tray. “The one who arranged your sire’s death.” But not the one who had caused his death. “Would your father have left those keys of yours upon the table while he worked?”

“He might have,” Gisla said with considering frown. “Papa wasn’t concerned about his things in here because he had no need for caution, not in here. We can bar the workshop door while we work. Nor is it a great secret about where we keep the ring, mostly because we can also lock the workshop door from the outside, thus protecting what we keep within this chamber.”

That was disappointing. “I still don’t understand why the tally sticks were put away when the coins were left out where anyone could take them,” he said.

Gisla pivoted to look at the board and gave another quiet cry, this one less of fright than surprise. Setting the lamp on the table, she gathered up her skirt with one hand to form a sack, then lifted the other, preparing to sweep the coins off the board and into the fabric of her skirt.

“Wait!” Faucon cried out. “First, tell me if what you see here looks usual for the wages you pay.”

Still holding her skirt as a sack with one hand, she shifted to stand directly in front of the board. With her index finger, she tapped each of the squares that held coins, then pushed at the tumbled pennies. Her lips moved soundlessly as she counted.

“Aye, this amount is our usual. Papa must have just finished his task when”–she drew a deep breath–“it happened.”

Then she scraped the coins off the board into her makeshift sack. Turning, she dumped the bloodied bits of silver into the tally stick tray. This she did when Faucon was certain that hidden beneath the drawer was a purse short by the number of coins upon the board.

Locking the chest, Gisla returned the keys to the hidden peg under the table. This she did with her head turned to the side, so she needn’t look at dark stain that marked the spot where her father died. As she retreated toward the doorway, she removed Faucon’s mantle from her shoulders. She held it out to him as he joined her near the door, offering him a small but grateful smile.

“Mistress, before I leave you, I have one more thing to ask,” he said as he donned his outer garment. “I fear it’s of a private nature.”

Taking that as his cue, Colin shifted into the room, pulling the door closed behind him. The chamber dropped into dimness, what with only that spit of friendly orange light from the tallow lamp and the little torchlight from the courtyard that managed to spill in through the open windows.

“Ask what you will,” she told him, nodding her permission for him to speak as he would. “I’ll answer if I can.”

Faucon cleared his throat. “I have been told that you and Peter are trysting,” he said, releasing what he knew would be bolt right into her already aching heart, destroying what was left of her pride.

Giving a quiet cry, she buried her face into her palms. “How can you know that?” she begged, stumbling back to lean against the nearest chest as she peered at him through her fingers.

“Your mother and Mistress Nanette said as much to me,” Faucon said gently.

“Nay!” Gisla gasped out, spreading her fingers to peer at him through them. “I never said...they never...how can they know?” She bent her head and her shoulders shook.

“Sweetling,” Colin said, crossing to lean against the chest next to her, once more wrapping an arm around her shoulders, “such things are never as hidden as you think. People see. Even if it’s just a glimpse, they still talk, even if what they say isn’t the whole truth.”

Faucon spoke over him. “It’s vital that you tell me where the two of you met and if you did so at a regular time. Most importantly, I need to know how you arranged these meetings with Peter.”

She dropped her hands. This time, she made no attempt to scrub away her emotions when she looked up at him. Her lips trembled.

“You’ll not believe me, I know, but I vow to you that Peter and I have never done anything untoward. We met only to enjoy each other’s company,” she said, her voice soft, her words broken. “We began doing so after my sire returned from London, full of greed and plans. I–I never meant to dishonor my parents, but how could I even consider marrying another when for the past five years I’ve believed that Peter would be my husband?” she protested, defending herself.

Faucon smiled at that. “Take heart. If Peter can be proven innocent, I think Master Roger will swiftly see the two of you wed, paying no heed to whatever more recent agreements your father might have made.”

“Thank you,” Gisla offered quietly, her honest gratitude rising from the depths of her soul.

“So how did you arrange your meetings?” Faucon asked again.

“It was against the timing of Peter’s schedule. On those days when he left fabric with Master Hodge for bleaching, his route home brought him by our house around the time that our midday meal ended. That hour, the one just after we’ve left the table, is the busiest of the day. The servants are intent on completing their tasks before nightfall, while Nanette’s women are settling back into their own work, taking advantage of the day’s brightest hours. That was also the hour Papa would lock himself into the workroom, doing so for the same reason, because of the light. As for my mother, she likes to nap for an hour after eating.

“I thought they were all too busy to notice,” she added at a shamed whisper, then sighed. “Most often, Peter came to me in the garden, behind the apple trees. He’d climb Master Gerard’s wall, then steal across their garden to ours. I truly never thought anyone would see us there.”

“Most often? Then there is second place for your meetings?” Faucon asked, utterly certain what her answer would be but wanting to hear her speak the words.

Even with the light so low, Faucon saw shame burn on her face. “Aye,” she said quietly. “From time to time, my father delivers our projects himself, if the destination isn’t so far. It’s something he’s done a half-dozen times in the last few months. While he’s away, I take on all his tasks, including counting out coins for purchases and wages.” Her voice trailed off into silence.