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

duties, Faucon had parted with precious coins to send a man to Bishop William, who was his great-uncle. The uncle’s private clerk, a man who was also one of Faucon’s cousins, had returned the requested proof at the same swift speed.
    When Father Herebert raised his hand in command, the crowd parted for Edmund. The monk pressed his elbows close to his sides, and keeping a hand curled tightly to the strap that held his basket on his back, he lowered his head and drove straight through the press, not caring whom he jostled as he passed.
    Once he stood beside Faucon, he opened the leather scrip hanging from his belt and brought forth a packet wrapped in soft cloth. Folding back the fabric, he held up the parchment that testified Faucon rightfully claimed his special relationship to court and king. That parchment said nothing at all about Faucon’s duties. That wasn’t something that could yet be done, mostly because the archbishop hadn’t specifically named his duties.
    Not that anything scribed on the bit of skin mattered to any man in this crowd. Nay, what convinced them and other folk in this shire that Faucon served those who ruled this land was the large red wax disk that hung by threads sewn to the edge of the parchment. On its face was the imprint of the bishop’s seal.
    Edmund climbed the steps to offer their proof to the priest. Father Herebert took the parchment and wax disk, holding it aloft for all to see. Faucon climbed to stand on the step above the pleykster and faced the men in the square. To a one, they watched him in return.
    “At the Michaelmas court just past, our Archbishop of Canterbury did decree that Sir Alain will no longer keep the pleas of this shire or call your inquest juries,” Faucon told them, his voice raised to reach every corner. Then he hesitated and drew a bracing breath.
    “Thus, it is now my duty in this shire to investigate all murders and other unnatural deaths, and my responsibility to determine who did the deed so I may confiscate the king’s portion of the wrongdoer’s estate, as the law allows.”
    That wasn’t precisely a lie, but it was a dodge, one that Faucon daily became more adept at offering. Even he thought it far more likely that the archbishop intended his new Coronarii to do no more than make note who died and how they passed, as well as noting any fees or fines to be collected from the wrongdoer. But to Faucon’s way of thinking, if the king wished to profit from the estates of those who committed murder, then someone had to deduce whose property needed to be attached. And in this shire, that someone was going to be him.
    The priest moved his jaw as if he chewed on this information and found it unpalatable. Faucon continued, giving the clergyman no chance to question or pry.
    “If you doubt the proof that we have presented here, call for Abbot Athelard. It is at his behest that I am presently in Stanrudde. He sent for me so I might investigate the death of one of his tenants.”
    “This is true,” Brother Edmund seconded as both he and Faucon retreated down the steps. Having retrieved their precious seal and parchment from the priest, Edmund came to a halt directly beside Faucon rather than slightly behind his master as was proper for a servant. After tucking their proof back into his scrip, he looked up at the priest. “At the command of Archbishop Hubert Walter you must cede all authority in the matter of the linsman’s death to Sir Faucon. He, and only he, will arrest the one who did this deed.”
    As always, Edmund’s natural arrogance ran roughshod over the good he intended. The old priest’s eyes narrowed. He freed a harsh sound.
    “I care nothing for the duties you claim or your authority to claim them, or even the authority of our archbishop in this matter,” he shouted out, announcing his defiance to all who could hear him. “They are matters belonging to the world of Man. I have granted Peter the Webber sanctuary. No one, not you”–he