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

only to retrace its path a moment later.
    Faucon had closed Bernart’s gate prior to the jury’s arrival, to prevent the men from viewing Bernart’s body until they’d given their oaths. Colin now stood on the low exterior wall that lined the lane in front of Bernart’s home to monitor the arrivals. At his signal that all the expected households had come, Faucon hoisted himself up next to the monk.
    Men and boys packed the rutted earthen path in both directions. To the left–toward the city center, the direction Peter had run when seeking sanctuary–he caught a glimpse of a latecomer appearing out of the jumble of poorer homes, trotting up the lane toward the back of the jury. But when he looked to the right, he breathed out in frustration.
    Here, men packed the lane for a dozen or so perches until the pathway bent to the right and disappeared behind a home. How many more waited there, out of sight and, more importantly, out of sound of Bernart’s gateway? How could he ever know who among them might not be speaking the words of the vow that bound them to speak the truth, leaving them free to say whatever they may? Although Faucon was certain it was a sin on his part, he didn’t wish to leave it up to God to punish those who lied or were foresworn. That task should belong to him.
    “I am Sir Crowner, the king’s servant in your shire, and I have called this inquest,” he shouted.
    His words startled a sudden silence from those nearest to him. That abrupt quiet flowed like a steady wave in either direction down the lane. Within the space of a few breaths, all the chatter and hissing ceased, leaving only the distant sound of commerce being transacted at the city’s center, punctuated by the ever-present rhythmic clang of smiths working at their anvils. Nearby, a rooster crowed, calling his hens home for the night. Singing their harsh rasping song, the swallows nesting in the eaves of the linsman’s warehouse darted and circled over Faucon’s head, seeking that last fly before retiring.
    “You are here this day in the matter of two deaths, that of Bernart le Linsman and Elsa of Stanrudde, a weaver,” he shouted, scanning as many among the crowd as he could see. “As you give your oath, know that it binds you before God to speak the truth, should you be asked to give any information about either death. Your oath also binds you to speak truthfully if you are asked for information regarding the property of the one who killed Master Bernart. Swear now that you will deny the verdict of murder in the matter of Elsa of Stanrudde, who passed instead because our Lord called her to Him, and confirm the verdict of murder for Bernart le Linsman.”
    “Wait!” someone bellowed. “This new Crowner is not speaking the words as he must.”
    Every last man and boy in the crowd looked in the direction of the call, the rustle of their movement echoing loudly around the lane. It was Hodge the Pleykster. The big man was pushing his way through the back of the crowd, working his way forward as if he meant to claim a spot at Bernart’s gate. Against the better-dressed among this crowd, he looked out of place in his splotched tunic and apron. “He must ask you to confirm that Peter the Webber is the man who killed Bernart,” the man who bleached the linen for Bernart shouted as he came.
    Faucon grimaced at the challenge, one he should have expected, given the hue and cry, but hadn’t considered he might face. He raised his hand, ready to call for the watching jurors to part so Hodge could reach the gateway. If God was good, he might be able to woo the man into compliance with private conversation.
    Before he could speak, a dark and dangerous sound rose from a household on the opposite end of the lane. These men wore parti-colored tunics of dark green and a blue pale enough to remind Faucon of Bernart’s colors.
    “He doesn’t belong here. Robert, you and yours hold him! Do not let him pass!” shouted a long, lanky man from