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

Crowner in the means and manners of a miller’s death. Now he wanted to discover how well his student did in his new vocation, as well as prying out every detail Faucon had gathered thus far about Bernart’s passing.
    “My thanks, indeed, but I fear you’ll need to wait a bit before I have time for conversation. I intend to call the jury in a few moments, hoping to complete the inquest before the moon rises.”
    Again, the monk’s snowy brows lifted. “So soon?”
    “What else can I do?” Faucon returned in the pretense of helplessness. “I can hardly wait forty days to conclude this matter if Master Bernart must be buried before that.” This seeming fact wasn’t precisely true and by Colin’s slow smile Faucon saw that the monk knew as much.
    Enjoying that Colin stewed, Faucon shifted to face the waiting merchants, ready to introduce himself as he had done so often this day. To his surprise, the men who only moments before had eyed him in something less than welcome now watched him as if he were someone they recognized but couldn’t quite remember. Their arms were open and their expressions relaxed.
    “Master Manfred, Master Gerard,” Colin said, lifting his hand to indicate the better dressed among the men, “this is Sir Faucon de Ramis, or Sir Crowner as he prefers to be called. As of two sennights ago, it is now Sir Crowner’s responsibility to hold our inquests. It is also his right to assess and confiscate the king’s portion from the estates of those who do murder in our shire.”
    Faucon shot the monk a startled sidelong look at this last piece. Although Colin’s explanation of his duty as assessor was accurate, that part of his position wasn’t something Faucon expected to be emphasized, especially not to men who had wealth worthy of royal notice. Apparently Stanrudde’s former apothecary knew the folk of his city well indeed. Both merchants smiled and nodded at this. It said that the assessment of estates was another place where Sir Alain had trod too heavily over the years.
    “Sir Faucon, Master Manfred is our mercer, bringing us the finest of silks, while Master Gerard deals in fleece like many of the better households in our town. As Brother Edmund requires, both these two masters and their journeymen, here,” Colin indicated the four younger men who stood with the merchants, “have lived their whole lives in Stanrudde and have known Master Bernart for all that while. They can swear to the fact of his birth. As can I,” he added, “having known Bernart from his earliest days.”
    “Don’t have them speak their words yet,” Edmund sang out as he trotted back into the courtyard. He had his desk beneath one arm, the stool hanging from the other and his basket slung by its strap over his shoulder. “I wish to record their names before I hear their vows.”
    Faucon sighed. It was he, not Edmund, who needed to hear their vows.
    The witnesses and Faucon alike watched as Edmund set his stool at the end of Bernart’s bier, then carefully laid out the tools he needed at hand: inkpot, quill, whetstone and knife. Edmund placed each implement a precise finger’s distance from the next. Then, taking his partially-filled roll of parchment from his basket, he sat on the stool, placed his desk in his lap, and spread the skin atop it.
    Once he’d dipped the trimmed end of his quill into the inkpot, he looked expectantly at Faucon. “I’m ready to record the oath of the new widow as first finder.”
    Faucon nodded and repeated Mistress Alina’s words out in the open air where God and the men around him could both bear witness. “Alina of Stanrudde, wife of Bernart le Linsman, swears that she was the first finder, and that she rightfully raised the hue and cry as the law requires.”
    Then Faucon looked at the two merchants and their men. “Will you who are Bernart’s neighbors, and those men of your household who stand with you today, guarantee on pain of fine that Mistress Alina makes her