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

returned calmly. Well-honed after chanting countless masses, his deep voice carried easily to every corner of the square. He paused to glance across the faces of his parishioners. “Peter now sits in our frith stool. As Church law and our ancient traditions require, I have granted him his forty days of sanctuary.”
    Only a few groans of disappointment rose from the crowd at this. The priest’s announcement was no more than Faucon and any other man here expected. A clergyman’s authority in the matter of sanctuary was absolute, and what had been granted could not be retracted.
    Having vented their rage during the chase, the watching men and boys now settled into an uneasy quiet, their attention on the pleykster as they waited to see what the man might next do. They should have been watching their new crowner.
    Although Faucon was too late–or, more rightly, too early–to take custody of the murderer, forty days left him plenty of time to put his hand about the murderer’s estate. To achieve that, he’d need the cooperation of all these men. This time, when he set his shoulder to the men in front of him, he shouted in his native tongue, “Move aside! Make way for a servant of the crown!”
    Startled, those in front of him did as he commanded, while in every corner of this crowded square men shifted to see the newcomer who spoke the Norman tongue and claimed such an august, if unknown, role. On the porch, Father Herebert lowered his arms and leaned heavily on his crook. Relief softened the old man’s round face as he noted Faucon’s expensive weapon and recognized in it the possibility of a knight’s support, if not rescue.
    As Faucon stopped on the cobbled apron at the base of the church steps, the clergyman, speaking for all of Stanrudde, demanded, “Who comes?”
    “Sir Faucon de Ramis, master of Blacklea Village and newly-elected Coronarius for this shire,” Faucon replied, offering the priest the show of humility due his station.
    From his stance on the lowest step, Hodge the Pleykster studied Faucon with narrowed eyes. Subtle dislike tainted the merchant’s well-made features. Such a reaction was hardly unusual among those who earned their coins by the sweat of their brows. More than a few resented their betters, who dared claim a portion of their profits by right of birth alone. Faucon eyed him in return. The pleykster must have come directly from his pots to join the chase. His tunic was damp and reeked of urine, one of the substances he used in his trade.
    “A servant of the crown, are you?” the priest challenged. “Tell me, sir. How is it that you intend to serve the crown in this instance? Charges of murder belong to our sheriff and matters of sanctuary to our Lord.”
    “That is no longer so,” Faucon started to reply.
    “At the command of Archbishop Hubert Walter. it is no longer the sheriff’s duty to attend to the murdered or call inquests,” came Brother Edmund’s frantic shout from the back of the square. “Sir Faucon, I come! Let me pass! Stand aside, I say. You will let me pass!”
    Despite the command in his voice and the authority of his black habit, the men blocking Edmund’s way didn’t move. Raising an arm to catch his employer’s attention, the clerk jumped. His basket of tools, once more strapped to his back, bounced with him, rising above his tonsured head for a brief instant before falling back between his shoulders.
    Father Herebert frowned as he glanced from the stymied monk to his master. “If it is true that murderers are no longer the concern of Sir Alain, then why do I and these men,” he indicated the townsmen filling in the square, “know nothing of you or your appointment, sir?”
    “The position of Coronarius is new. Command them to let my clerk pass and you will have your answer. Brother Edmund carries with him proof of my right, given to me by Bishop William of Hereford,” Faucon said.
    After confronting this same question at every turn since taking up his