The Hunter's Tale

Chapter 22

In weary, protesting grief Lady Anneys said, “Oh, Philippa, no,” at the same moment that Miles stood up, saying, “Philippa!”

Ignoring them both, Philippa said at Dame Frevisse, “Anyone can tell you I’d left the gathering place and wasn’t there when Sir Ralph was killed.”

“You left the gathering place with Miles and you came back with him,” Dame Frevisse said.

“He… we didn’t stay together. He went off one way and I met Sir Ralph and… killed him.”

“That’s feeble,” Miles said at her angrily.

“It’s the truth,” Philippa returned, refusing to look away from Dame Frevisse.

Miles caught her by the arm and turned her roughly toward him. “Stop it!”

Philippa looked down at his hand on her. He looked, too, then jerked his hand away from her as if burned and would have turned away except Philippa now caught him by his arm, holding him where he was before she moved closer to him, took his face between her hands, and said up at him, intensely tender, “Never think it, my heart. He never cared what he did. You do. You’re not him in any way.”

Hugh held back from any word or movement, until after a long moment of staring down at Philippa, Miles closed his eyes and let out a shaken breath, accepting what she had said. She put her arms around him and his arms went around her and they clung together. Hugh breathed again. If they could hold like that-together and silent-then there was chance…

“My guess would be,” Dame Frevisse said evenly, “that Sir Ralph did indeed come on you in the wood, Philippa, but you were with Miles, and Sir Ralph went into a rage. He did something or said something or both, and Miles killed him.”

Philippa turned around, out of Miles’ arms, to face her. “No. It happened like I said.”

“That can’t have been the way of it, Philippa,” Lady Anneys said. “You had no blood on you when you came back to the gathering place. I know. I looked for it on everyone and there was none on anyone. Not on you or Miles or anyone. You don’t have to tell this lie.”

“It’s not a lie. It’s no more a lie than saying Miles set Bevis to kill my father!”

And Miles did the one thing Hugh had hoped he would not do. He turned his head and looked at him-a long meeting of their eyes-and Hugh knew that everything he was feeling was naked on his face for Miles to read there-beginning with the sickened certainty that Miles had indeed deliberately set Bevis to kill Sir William.

Hugh had had that dark knowing with him all day, since he had wrenched his eyes away from Sir William’s torn corpse and seen, instead, Miles’ face triumphant with raw pleasure.

Then Bevis had staggered and they had realized he was hurt and had both gone to him, and when Miles saw how bad the wound was, he had grabbed the dagger out of the rib-bone where it had stuck, and made at Sir William’s corpse. Only when Hugh had grabbed him and they had stared into each other’s faces did Miles seem suddenly to understand what he had been about to do-maybe saw Hugh’s horror at him, too-because his raw savagery had turned to something close to that same horror and he had dropped the dagger and hidden his face.

Since then Hugh had taken care not to meet Miles’ gaze. Until now. When very surely Miles could see his certainty that it wasn’t only Sir William he had killed.

And still Dame Frevisse went on, now at Miles, saying, “Philippa will lie for you for as long as she has any hope it will save you. She’ll lie and you’ll lie and others will believe your lies or pretend to believe them and lie for you, too, until neither you nor anyone else knows when you’re telling the truth and when you’re not. You won’t know what the truth is anymore, even between each other. You know too well how long-lived anger can corrupt and darken lives. Do you think living in lies won’t do the same?”

Miles was heeding her. He had turned his head away from Hugh and was listening to her, and Hugh searched desperately for something to say, anything he could say to keep Miles or Philippa from answering her.

But it was Lady Anneys who said with quiet force, “Leave it, Dame Frevisse. All of it. Sir Ralph’s death. Sir William’s death. Leave them as they are. And you, Miles, you will be quiet. You’ll say nothing else. Nor you, Philippa. Leave it, Dame Frevisse. Here and now it’s done.”

“It can’t be left where it is,” Dame Frevisse insisted. “You can’t-”

“We can.” Lady Anneys did not raise her voice. “We’re broken pieces of what should have been a family. Sir Ralph’s cruelty kept us from ever being whole and we’ve had too little chance to mend since he’s been dead. We need that chance. We’ll never be as we might have been if we’d been always whole, but mended is better than broken, healed wounds better than unhealed wounds. If we start searching for ‘justice’ now, everything will only be made worse, broken into pieces so small we’ll never mend. Leave it as it is. That Sir Ralph was killed by someone unknown who will never be caught. That Sir William brought his death on himself. Leave it and leave us to make what we can of what we have left. Please.”

That last was as much command as plea.

“The truth-” Dame Frevisse started to answer.

Lady Anneys cut her off. “The truth is that between them Sir Ralph and Sir William tore us all into pieces and broke us, and if ever we’re going to mend, the truth of things here is no one’s business but our own.” Her voice hardened into plain command. “So leave it.”

Dame Frevisse stared at her. She stared back. No one moved. No one spoke.

Then Miles drew breath as if to say something, and more sharply than Hugh had ever heard her speak, Lady Anneys ordered at him, “No.”

And Miles held silent.

Dame Frevisse rose abruptly to her feet and went toward the door. Hugh barely gathered his mind enough to open it and stand aside before she reached it, and without even glance at him, she left, leaving silence behind her save for the soft fall of the rain outside the window.

It was a long silence. Then finally Lady Anneys drew an unsteady breath and was no longer rigid but only sitting, her shoulders a little bowed, and that released the rest of them. Miles gently seated Philippa in her chair again and stayed standing beside her while Hugh crossed to sit on the chest under the window where Dame Frevisse had been, and reached a hand toward Lady Anneys, who gave him one of her own, holding to him tightly as she said softly, “It would have maybe been better, Philippa, if you’d said nothing.”

“I was afraid,” Philippa said. “I was afraid that if she went on saying…” She stopped but the unsaid words were there, no need to say them. If Dame Frevisse had gone on saying what she had been saying about Sir William’s death, Miles might have admitted what none of them wanted to hear. “I was afraid,” Philippa repeated and left it there.

“Unfortunately,” Lady Anneys said, her voice oddly empty of feeling, “what she said about lies and their corruption is true. And it’s a pointless corruption here among us, because, lie how we may, we know the truth. That one of us did kill Sir Ralph.” She looked at Miles, who looked back, his face as empty as her level voice going on, “We’ve all known from the very first that it was one of us who killed him. It’s only been desperate pretense that it wasn’t.”

In silence again, she and Miles looked at each other. Then he said, “I killed him. Yes.” He straightened. Weight seeming to slip from his shoulders. A weight that had been crippling him, Hugh realized. And now that those few words were said, Miles said the rest, pouring it out with a hatred-tainted anger oddly mixed with raw grief. “Sir Ralph came on Philippa and I alone together. It was too apparent why we were together and alone. He flew into one of his rages. He was so angered he choked on it. He couldn’t even yell he was so furious. He backhanded me in the face and swore he’d see Philippa locked up until she was married to Tom and that he’d geld me if I tried to see her again. He grabbed Philippa by the arm. He hurt her and I hit him.” Miles stopped and looked at Hugh. “The way one of us should have done years ago, because all the years when I hadn’t hit him were in that blow. I knocked him down and before he could get up I kicked him in the head and then I took up a rock that was there and… finished it.”

Hugh had dropped his gaze to the floor before Miles finished, unable to look at him, remembering what Sir Ralph’s head had been like. As if all the beatings he had ever given had been returned to him in one. And maybe they were all thinking that because for a long moment no one said anything. Only finally, with no particular feeling except curiosity, Lady Anneys asked, “How did you do that and stay unbloodied?”

Perhaps because she asked it so evenly, Hugh was able to look up and watch Miles as he answered evenly back, “I had my doublet off when Sir Ralph found us together. It was my shirt and upper hosen that took the blood. I washed the shirt…”

“We washed it,” Philippa said, claiming her part in it.

“We washed it,” Miles agreed. “We went away from Sir Ralph’s body, back along the path we’d taken from the gathering place to where there’s a small stream. We were there when you found him, Hugh.” Miles looked at him and this time Hugh met his look, accepting it because his mother and Philippa were accepting it. “That’s why we were so long coming back to everyone. I had to put the shirt back on wet, but the doublet is thick. By the time it was soaked through, it passed for sweat if anyone noticed at all. I don’t think anyone did. Not with all else that was going on. And the doublet is long enough it hid most of the blood-spattered part of my hosen and they were dark enough the blood didn’t much show after I’d rubbed some dirt over them. By the time I gave them over to be washed here, the blood was so long dried there was no telling it wasn’t from the hunt.”

“Then all we had to do was keep quiet,” said Philippa. “Pretend to know nothing more than anyone else did.”

She said it simply but then shuddered, her hands suddenly gripping each other in her lap, and she began to cry. Miles dropped to his knees in front of her, taking her hands in his own and looking up into her face, saying, “I’m sorry, Philippa. I’m sorry it came to this. I’m sorry.”

Philippa fell into greater sobs and bent forward to put her arms around him and her face against his shoulder. He put his arms around her waist, his face pressed against her hair; but behind him Lady Anneys said, “Now admit the rest,” and Miles jerked back from Philippa.

Without rising, he pivoted to face Lady Anneys and said, barely above a whisper, “The rest?”

“The thing Philippa kept you from saying to Dame Frevisse.”

“No.”

Lady Anneys leaned toward him. “It has to be said.” Her voice was low and steady, her look at him unwavering. “It’s leaving it to rot in the dark will poison your life and Philippa’s.”

“He doesn’t have to say it,” Philippa said, laying her hands on Miles’ shoulders from behind. “There’s no need!”

But there was need. If Hugh had not seen Miles’ face after Sir William’s death, he might well have failed to understand that, but what he had seen in Miles then should not be left in silence where the rot of it would only spread. The only hope Hugh had came from the horror that had swept though Miles afterward, because it meant he was not dead inside himself to what he’d done. But it had to be said. Whatever damage the truth would do among them, lies-or even a silence that was the same as lies-would do worse.

“Miles,” Lady Anneys said. “Philippa already knows. We all know. It’s for you that you have to say it. Admit to it. Accept it. Leave no room to lie to yourself about it. It’s how I survived those years with Sir Ralph. By never lying to myself about what I felt or what I thought. It’s by truth and whatever penance goes with it that we stay strong and grow. Not by darkness and lies. You have to say it.”

“No,” Philippa sobbed.

“Philippa, you have to accept it as fully as he does,” Lady Anneys said relentlessly. As she must have been relentless with herself all of her years with Sir Ralph. “You have to accept it or else reject him because of it, but don’t think you can ignore it or deny it. It can’t be left to twist and go foul in the dark between you. Miles.”

Miles stood up, turned to Philippa, took her by the hands and drew her to her feet, then let go her hands and said, “I killed your father. I seemed to stumble because I knew that would set Bevis at him. I meant for Bevis to kill him.”

And now it was Philippa who had to choose but her choice had been made before ever Miles said anything and she drew close to him, whispered something in his ear that no one else heard, and then, as Miles sank to his knees in front of her, his body shaken with sobs, she sat quickly down, and took his head on her lap, her own tears falling on him as she leaned over him, holding him.

“How often I wished,” Lady Anneys said softly, maybe for only Hugh beside her to hear, “through the years, that I could have cried. Instead of simply hating.”

But she had not simply hated, Hugh thought. She had loved, too. Loved strongly enough that they had not been destroyed by Sir Ralph’s dark-heartedness. They had all been tainted by it, yes, but not so destroyed that, now, they couldn’t face the darkness and fight it instead of giving up to it.

Not so destroyed that they couldn’t love.

The rain had stopped and the cool, gray afternoon was drawing on when Sister Johane found Frevisse in Lady Anneys’ arbor. The thick leaves had kept off most of the rain; the benches were dry enough and in the while that Frevisse had been there only Alson from the kitchen had come out once, to ask if she wanted anything. Frevisse had not and otherwise she had been left alone; had tried to pray but not much succeeded; had tried to make peace with her thoughts and utterly failed. So she welcomed the distraction Sister Johane might be.

But Sister Johane sat on the facing bench, still a little unsure of her welcome, and explained, “Lady Elyn has come to cry on her mother for a while. Lucy and I came back with her.”

Frevisse nodded to that, would have listened to more if Sister Johane had offered it, but she did not, and Frevisse had nothing to say either and for a while the raindrops’ drip from the leaves was all there was, before Sister Johane made a small movement of her head toward the house and said, “It’s very strange in there. Among all of them. It felt like something other than grief.”

“Yes,” Frevisse said. “It would.”

And maybe she would have been the one to say more but a footfall on the path gave brief warning that someone was coming before Hugh appeared outside the arbor. His look went uneasily from Frevisse to Sister Johane and returned to Frevisse before he asked, “My lady, if I might speak with you?”

“Alone?”

His eyes flickered back and forth again. “Unless she knows, unless you’ve told her…”

Sister Johane immediately stood up. “I’ll walk the far side of the garden for the while,” she offered.

“If you would,” Frevisse said. “Thank you.”

Hugh stood aside to let Sister Johane leave and Frevisse moved one hand, letting him know he should sit where Sister Johane had been. He did, and Frevisse, her hands tucked into her opposite sleeves and resting quietly on her lap, waited for whatever he had come to say.

He very obviously would rather have not been there to say anything at all and said, to have it done, “My mother sent me. She wants you to know what passed after you left.”

That was not what Frevisse had expected. A plea for her silence, or assurance she had misunderstood what she had heard, or a veiled-or even unveiled-threat against her if she ever spoke of what she more than suspected. Any of those had seemed possible. But to tell her of what had happened after she left? Unless, of course, he had come to lie to her, in hopes of deceiving her into silence.

“Why didn’t she come herself?”

“She said it would be too hard for her. She said it would be better for me to do it, who doesn’t know you so well.”

Frevisse slightly bent her head, accepting that, and waited, regarding him with a steady gaze while he readied himself and finally said, “We talked after you left. Miles admitted to Sir Ralph’s death. Philippa was there when it happened and knew why and helped him hide the signs he’d done it.”

“And Sir William’s death?”

“He admitted that, too.”

“With Philippa there to hear him?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“She loves him.”

“He’s twice committed murder.”

“Any of us could have killed Sir Ralph at almost any time. The time happened to come to Miles first.”

“And Sir William’s death?”

She heard the coldness in her voice and so must have Hugh and he held back his answer, before saying at last, slowly, “Sir William’s death was a mistake. Miles was angry at him. Rightly angry. I think Miles thought that because killing Sir Ralph came so… easily, that killing Sir William wouldn’t matter to him either. Afterwards… he found out it did.”

“And you? Does or doesn’t it matter to you?”

Her question startled him. “Matter to me?”

“That he killed your father. That he killed Sir William.”

Hugh paused over his answer, then said slowly, “I’d rather have him free than paying for those men’s deaths with his own.”

“So you’ll lie for him and go on lying.”

“Yes.” Hugh did not hesitate over that but then paused again before adding, his eyes locked to hers, “We’ll all lie. But not to each other anymore. And none of us, anymore, to ourselves.”

They stayed staring at one another for a long moment more before, slowly, still meeting his look, Frevisse nodded, accepting that as something better than nothing.

Hugh dropped his gaze, stood up, bowed to her. “Lady Anneys simply wanted you to know. That’s all.”

He made to leave but Frevisse asked, “Where’s Miles now?”

“He’s gone to Father Leonel. To confess and take whatever penance he’s given.”

That was something, too. But there was one more thing and she asked it before he could leave as he so openly wanted to do. “Are you still Miles’ friend?”

She had startled him again. He stopped, eyes widened with surprise, and said, “Yes,” plainly never having thought not to be Miles’ friend. Then he left.

Sister Johane did not come immediately back to the arbor when he was gone and Frevisse stayed where she was, watching a last few rain droplets fall from leaves. Over the hall’s roof a waterish gray and yellow sunset trying to happen through the westward clouds gave some hope that tomorrow would be clear. A hope but not a certainty.

Frevisse had been haunted after she left the parlor by the thought of the reckoning that had come-a reckoning as vile as everything that had gone before it, however long it took to come-if Lady Anneys, Miles, Hugh, and Philippa refused to face the depth of wrongs there had been done here. If they tried to ignore what they all knew, the corruption of it would destroy them, heart and soul. Of that she had been sure, and that fear, at least, Hugh had taken from her. They had ended their lies to themselves and to each other.

For the world’s authorities to know-crowner and sheriff and all-Sir Ralph’s death would go unsolved and Sir William’s be seen only as a fearsome mistake. For Miles there was the hope that penance might finally cleanse his heart and spirit of hatred’s ugly dross and bring, in God’s eyes, absolution for his sin of murder. And Frevisse found she could live with the law’s justice not being done if a deeper justice was being answered, if payment was being made-payment of maybe a deeper and more healing kind than the law’s justice would have exacted. Penance and love might well save Miles: the others’ love for him and, as important, his love for them.

Sister Johane came hesitantly back and sat again, watching her for a silent while before saying, “Something is better?”

“Something is better.”

“But not well?”

“Not well. Not yet. But now there’s hope.” Where, before, there had been none.

“It has to do with the deaths, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“But you can’t tell me?”

“No.”

Sister Johane thought on that, then said, “But I should pray for all of them because of it, shouldn’t I? For Hugh and Miles and Lady Anneys.”

“And Philippa,” said Frevisse. “Yes. For all of them.”

Sister Johane accepted that in silence, before saying, sad with longing, “May we go home soon?”

Something tight-coiled around Frevisse’s heart began to ease at simply the thought of that. “Yes,” she said. “Soon we’ll go home. For now, though, shall we say vespers?”