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

“However, I’ll be calling the inquest jury to confirm the verdict of murder, doing so before nightfall. I think it might better serve you to place your sire in your courtyard where all can see him without intruding upon your mourning. Once your neighbors have rendered their verdict and viewed him, you may care for him as you will.”
    There was the slightest softening in her expression. “Ah, you said as much before. I wasn’t thinking,” she added. “Aye, I’ll see he’s taken to the courtyard for you. My thanks.” Her words were flat and lacking in all gratitude.
    Even knowing what this might cost him, Faucon couldn’t resist testing her. “By the bye, I struggle to convince myself that Peter the Webber killed your sire.”
    Her eyes flew wide. Her face whitened and she began to crumple. Startled, he grabbed her by the upper arms to steady her. Her head bowed, her breath coming in tiny gasps, she wrapped her hands around his forearms, holding herself upright. When she had regained her composure and steadied on her feet, she opened her hands to push back from him, her head yet bowed.
    “Mary, please save him,” she whispered.
    Then, she fled past Faucon and down the stairs, shooting him only the swiftest of glances as she went. It was all he needed to see of her face to know that Gisla la Linswoman loved her betrothed with all her heart.
    Startled and pleased that he had generated that bit of information with so little effort, he added it to all the other bits he’d collected thus far. The need to speak with Peter the Webber once again niggled at him. Forty days was too long to wait. The sooner the webber told his tale, the sooner Faucon could drive his true prey out into the open and have him arrested.
    He shifted to look at the women gathered to the south side of the chamber. To a one they now watched him in an interest far bolder than was appropriate for their sex. He nodded to them.
    “Your mistress was the first finder. As required by the law, I must take her oath, doing so in our king’s name. Who among you will lead me to her and stay at her side to comfort her as I say what I must?”
    “I will, Sir Crowner.”
    One of the older women came to her feet. As tall as he, her plaited hair was fair and her head uncovered, suggesting that she remained unmarried. Time had been kind to her, despite that she was in her middle years, adding only faint lines at the corners of her eyes and either side of her mouth. That left her yet a pretty woman with a round face, blue eyes and the lush lips that men found attractive.
    The needlewoman shook out her skirts as if to brush off the day’s upset, then looked at the others in the bay with her. “Aye, we’ve all done enough mourning and moaning for the now,” she told them. “On the morrow we’ll be called to honor our master at his wake. It will reflect poorly on our house and us if we open our hall when it’s at less than its best. Up Ella, Tilda and Jeanne. Run to the warehouse and fetch the covering cloths for the frames.”
    “Aye, mistress,” said all three of the youngest girls as one, leaping to their feet.
    Their use of the title ‘mistress’ piqued Faucon’s interest for it pronounced the older woman accomplished at her trade. But if that were so, why did she still live with her master, or her mistress as was the case here? In every occupation, including his own, there was a time for learning and a time for leaving. A squire became a knight after he’d mastered the skills of dealing out death, whether man-to-man or on the battle-field. Once a squire received his coleé and his title, he departed from his foster father’s home to make his own way in the world. Then again, perhaps a woman’s trade was different than those practiced by men.
    As the three young girls trotted past him and down the stairs, this mistress spoke to the other women. “Bestir yourselves, all of you. First, see to it that our work is folded away and properly protected,