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

lifted his crook and swept its base forward until he pointed at the three men of the guard who stood on the far side of the steps, “nor you”–the tip now aimed at Hodge the Pleykster–“nor you”–he pointed the crook at Faucon–“has the right to remove him from these walls. Not even the sheriff’s men speaking in our king’s name can do this.”
    “That is as you say, Father,” Faucon agreed with a smile, trying to soothe where Edmund had injured. “But you and I both know that forty days hence this man Peter must exit your church. On that day I will be here, ready to take his confession.”
    “Or, if he will not confess his crime,” Edmund interjected, “then Sir Faucon will command him to abjure our realm. He will be driven from home and hearth for all time, with no hope of returning to our shores.”
    As determined as the crowd had been to prevent Peter the Webber from claiming sanctuary in this holy place, to a one they groaned at the idea of his banishment. It was a rare man who didn’t tremble at the thought of being stripped of all that was familiar to be sent to where folk knew him not. Faucon understood their reaction. He’d been a crusader with the Lionheart, and had spent far longer than he liked traveling through foreign lands fraught with strange tongues and odd customs.
    Father Herebert once more leaned heavily on his crook. “So it has always been, sir. Come you for him in forty days, for you cannot have him now.”
    With that, he turned and limped back into the world he ruled. When he closed the church door behind him, Faucon heard the bar drop into its brackets. It was a symbolic gesture. Within a quarter hour the church door would be under guard by the town’s defenders. The door would remain watched for every moment of the next weeks to prevent Peter the Webber from escaping both the church and his rightful punishment.
    Nor was the guard the only thing that would hold the webber close over the next long, lonely weeks. For, if Peter wanted to remain in his sanctuary, he could not leave the frith stool. Now there was a truly terrifying thought, being imprisoned in a stone chair for every moment of the day. Every person who entered the church, whether to attend a daily mass, a baptism or a funeral, would watch him. Should Peter lose physical contact with that chair even for an instant, even while relieving himself, his right to sanctuary would end. Anyone who witnessed that moment could fall upon him and drag him from the church to face his fate.
    Hodge stepped off the stair, halting beside Faucon although he yet faced the men of the hue and cry. “Aye, sanctuary Peter, son of Roger, has for the now, but I am a patient man. In forty days I will be here to see that he pays for what he has done to my friend and yours!” he shouted.
    The crowd roared their agreement. Faucon wondered whom these men liked so well, the pleykster or the dead linen merchant.
    Edmund grabbed Faucon by the arm. His gaze was frantic. “They’re all going to leave now but they cannot, not when I must scribe the name of the one who raised the hue and cry. They can’t go until I know it!”
    Faucon shot him an irritable look. “Why are you even here? Did I not command you to stay?”
    Edmund blinked in astonishment at that. “Surely, you didn’t intend that command for me. You need me.”
    With that, he released his master to race up the steps to the porch. “Stay, all of you! You cannot leave yet,” he shouted. “Sir Crowner and I must know who found the body. Who raised the hue and cry? And we must have proof of Englishry!”
    It was enough to make Faucon’s head ache. Edmund was right; these bits of information were what they needed to record. But this was neither the place to do it nor the right way to achieve the townsmen’s cooperation.
    “Edmund, come down,” he commanded without heat. “What eats at you that you’ve forgotten the proper order of things? Isn’t our first task to view the