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

From Award-winning, best-selling author Denise Domning

PRAISE FOR THE FIRST SERVANT OF THE CROWN MYSTERY, SEASON OF THE RAVEN

“In this medieval mystery of stunning realism, 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. I can't wait to see more.”

— Christina Skye, New York Times best-selling author of
A Highlander for Christmas

Season of the Raven
is a brilliant novel and a triumph for Denise Doming. The storyline sucks you in from the start... Pure and unapologetically Medieval, it reads like a Hollywood movie... The world of Medieval justice is revealed in all of its shortcomings. I can't recommend it highly enough. Five solid stars.”

— Kathryn LeVeque, best-selling author of
The Wolfe

My Apologies

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 done my best to keep my recreation of England in the 12th Century as accurate as possible.

Dedication

To my dear friend Gail Haugland. Thank you for being there for me over this difficult year and for letting me use your husband as a model for one of the characters in this book.

Horarium (THE HOURS)

Matins, 12:00 Midnight

Lauds, 3:00 AM

Prime, 6:00 AM

Terce, 9:00 AM

Sext, 12:00 Noon

None, 3:00 PM

Vespers, 6:00 PM

Compline, 9:00 PM

Blasphemy! Rage drives my feet until I am almost running– disgraceful behavior!–along the red-brown track away from that...that hovel. How dare a peasant, a lowly commoner, refuse my request after I’ve told her God has placed his special blessing on her child?! Is it not bad enough that her husband faces eternal damnation for the taking of his own life? Lie to herself as she may about how her man died, every soul in this vale knows that it was at his own will, if not by his own hand, no matter what that newcomer to this shire declared at the inquest.

All too soon I am gasping for breath and must stop. I find a coppiced ash that yet retains most of its summer raiment, although the once vibrant green leaves are now a rusting yellow. The tree’s many slender trunks offer a welcome dappled coolness against the unseasonable heat and intense sun of this autumn afternoon.

When I regain my calm, I’m surprised at how far my anger has taken me. I know these fields, they’re attached to my house. Oafs, no doubt from the hamlet whose duty it is to tend our farthest-flung rows, stride along the path in my direction, bellowing out a bawdy song as they come. Most carry pruning hooks, although a few bear shepherds’ crooks. Their tools suggest they’re off to collect winter firewood from the nearby forest and wasteland, as is their yearly right. To a one, their feet and legs are bare, and they’ve shucked the top halves of their tunics and shirts until the garments hang from their belts, sleeves dangling, revealing their naked chests.

When they notice me they fall instantly silent. The ensuing quiet is broken only by the twitter of some small bird in the branches above me. As they reach the place where I stand, each man tugs at his forelock in deference to my estate. Only two are bold enough to let their gazes meet mine.

I watch them until they are tiny figures, threading their way into a distant stand of trees. Only when they disappear does my mood steady, balancing like a scale. As it does, my faith is restored.

Fie on me! Our Holy Father would never place His blessing on this child if He meant to keep her from me, and Him. Thus, it can only be His will that her mother presently refuses. I breathe out in understanding. This child is younger than any of the others He has shown me. I must be patient.

Again I chide myself, this time for arrogance. This is another test on His part; He again seeks proof of my obedience to His will.

Content, I step out onto the path and make my way home.

***

Sir Alain, sheriff of this shire, slid his arm under the woman sleeping next to him. Agnes of Stanrudde sighed, her eyes opening, then smiled up at him. His heart twisted in both pleasure and pain as her plain face came to life with the love she yet bore him despite what he’d done to her.

“Good morrow, my love,” she whispered, shifting until she could rest her chin on his chest. Her dark eyes glowed as her smile widened. “It is a miracle.”

“What is?” he asked, wanting nothing more than to keep her close to him for all time. So it had been since they’d first lain together, more than a score of years ago, and so it would always be. The contentment he felt now made him wonder how accruing wealth and influence had ever become more valuable to him than keeping her at his side.

“That I should once more be in your bed, speaking these simple words to you,” she replied, still smiling.

There was no condemnation or regret, not even the merest hint of chiding in her expression. That was Aggie. She had never expected more than he could give her. Indeed, he was far more likely than she to rage against the perfidies of fate and rank that had conspired to prevent a more perfect union between them.

“And here you shall remain until the end of my days.” He made his words a vow, the only vow he was free to give her.

She frowned at that. “How can that be? I thought–”

“He is dead. I heard at the Michaelmas court. My bitch of a wife is now without kith or kin to fight her battles for her. And if she doesn’t care for how I live my life, she can seek out a convent to give her shelter.” He freed a harsh breath at that thought. “Pity the poor abbess who agrees to take her, along with her ill temper and unending complaints.”

“Ah.” Aggie’s smile curved in understanding. “That is why you came for me, and that is why we are at Aldersby.”

“Would that I had come sooner. If only I’d known–” Alain began.

She pressed a stilling finger to his lips, forestalling his excuses and apologies. “It matters not. You came, and here I am, just where I have always longed to be.”

Then, lowering her hand, she studied him, pleasure dying to something more sober in her gaze. “But you do know you cannot keep me here, aye?”

“I will keep you where I please,” Alain retorted, frowning at her, hoping that her brief marriage hadn’t changed her. Aggie had never before volunteered comments or opinions, despite the sharp intelligence that had originally drawn him to her.

She shook her head. “I cannot–will not stay here, not when doing so is certain to bring about your destruction,” she whispered, then pushed herself upright until she sat on the mattress next to him.

Her rejection drove him up as well until he was seated at her side. “My destruction? What nonsense. I told you. There’s no one left to keep us apart,” he laughed, hiding his irritation at her boldness.

“Oh, but there is,” she replied, her gaze yet steadily meeting his. “He knows. Even if he did not challenge you as you expected, he knows. Trust me. He’ll be watching for his opportunity, waiting for his chance to exploit it. My love, I will not be the cause of your destruction. You must hide me well.”

Her refusal tore through him, doing almost as much injury as the insult couched in her words. “That cowardly boy?” he mocked.

She made a soothing sound and shifted closer until she was again pressed to him. Despite his irritation with her, he couldn’t stop himself from embracing her. He needed to feel the beat of her heart against his own.

“You know better, love,” she murmured. “I will not stay here, knowing that you use me to hurt your wife and knowing, as you do as well, that she will be looking for a new champion to fight her battles for her. Find a cottage in some hamlet near Killingworth that I may use as my own, then visit me sparingly, doing so for your safety and the sake of my heart.”

Alain swallowed his irritable reaction. Aggie was only trying to protect him, just as she has always done, even if what she requested resulted in her own pain.

Alain’s eyes narrowed. As long as he was sheriff here, this shire was his to rule. Those who were loyal to him would remain loyal, and would do what he required. No matter what Aggie said, he knew that puling knight, that ragtag poor relation of a man Alain had once considered a friend, lacked the courage and honor to fight his own battles. As soon as he was dispatched, Alain would see to it that any new Coronarii elected in this shire were men he could trust.

“I will not do it,” Brother Edmund protested, nay, pronounced, his well-made face twisting in disgust. Then he blinked rapidly, a sign that he realized just how rude his response had been. “What I mean, sir, is that I cannot do it. That is a woman,” he amended, pointing the feathery end of his ink-stained quill at the corpse in the corner of this November-chilled chamber.

Sir Faucon de Ramis, the newly-elected Coronarius for this shire and now proud master of Blacklea Village, sent a narrow-eyed look at his clerk. He and Edmund had known each other for all of two sennights, the same amount of time that Faucon had been responsible for keeping the shire’s pleas. Although that had been long enough for him to discover much good in Edmund, his clerk daily tested the limits of his patience.

Two weeks had also been enough time for Faucon to learn that Edmund could use an excuse as well as any other man, be he knight, cleric or commoner. While it was true that the Benedictine brothers were avowed not to touch women, both he and Edmund knew that wasn’t why the monk was resisting his master’s command. Edmund no more wanted to expose himself to the possibility of fleas than did Faucon.

Edmund met Faucon’s gaze in a wide-eyed pretense of innocence. Then he cleared his throat. Faucon now knew that sign, too. Edmund meant to resist his command with all his might.

A low rumble of amusement rose from the seven men and three women crowded into this impoverished chamber. Although Faucon and Edmund were speaking in their native French while the watching commoners spoke only English, these folk were hardly strangers to the covert war presently being waged between master and servant. This was the sort of battle they prosecuted daily, resisting their own rightful masters. So it had always been between those who were born to serve and those whose God-given right it was to command service.