Season of the Fox by Denise Domning

Author:Denise Domning
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Medieval
Published: 2015-08-29T06:00:00+00:00

Faucon watched as the master webber paused next to Bernart’s body and spat into the dirt at the table leg before moving on. “What say you?” he asked Colin quietly.

“That Roger is a very angry man,” the monk replied, still watching the webber. “As he has every right to be, if what he says is true. But I fear he has no excuse for what happened to him in regard to that contract. He knew Bernart better than any man. Save Hodge, I suppose,” he added.

That stirred Faucon’s interest. “So Bernart has been an oath-breaker all his life? If that’s so, why did his former master put so much stock in him that he wed him to his daughter?”

Colin smiled at that. “Sir Crowner, if you wish to understand these men, you must learn to think like them. Master William chose Bernart for Alina because Bernart was brilliant at turning pretty ribbons into silver. No matter to whom that lad spoke, his manner was friendly, his words were always honey, and his attitude respectful but never fawning. It was the exact concoction needed to induce the wellborn folk who became Mistress Elinor’s customers, and Mistress Alina’s after her, to buy more than they intended. It’s a skill that neither William nor his other two apprentices could master.”

The monk lifted a hand to indicate the proud house. “As you can see, it worked quite well for Bernart, at least until now. Have you time to share what you’ve learned with me? Might I see where Bernart died?”

“Of course,” Faucon replied. “And I’m more than grateful for any insight you can offer.”

Waving to Edmund so his clerk knew he was stepping away, Faucon led Colin to Bernart’s workroom. A bucket of water now stood in the doorway, a short-bristled broom and a pot of soap at its side. Inside, a pair of lasses, no doubt the girls who now swept ashes from the hearth in Nanette’s place, knelt on the stone floor as far as possible from the spot where their master died. The two were half-heartedly plying their wet rags on tiles that were already clean.

Faucon’s heart jumped as his gaze flew to the shadow print. It was still there. He added yet another note on his mental list of mistakes not to make a second time. There would be no cleaning at the site of a death until he gave permission that it be done.

“Give us a moment, my dears,” Colin said to the lasses.

The alacrity with which they tossed aside their rags and fled said neither wished to touch their dead master’s spilled blood. As if to prove that point, they both shot a glance at the far end of the chamber and crossed themselves as they departed.

Entering the room ahead of Faucon, Colin went to crouch near the gruesome puddle. “He lay here as he bled his last, I see,” the monk said, then looked more closely at the gelled and seeping remains of Bernart’s life. He shifted in his crouch, his gaze wide-eyed.

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