The Reeve's Tale

Chapter 17

Frevisse crossed the green slowly from Perryn’s messuage toward Father Edmund’s with head bowed, eyes down, hands folded into her opposite sleeves, thinking on what she had so far learned. None of it looked to be of use in finding out Tom Hulcote’s murderer, and nothing in it linked his death to Matthew Woderove’s. Nothing even linked one man to the other except her own unease and that they had both known Mary-in the several meanings of “known.”

She feared that more questioning, no matter who she asked, was only going to bring out, over and over, what she had already heard. That Matthew Woderove had been pitiable and Tom Hulcote troublesome. That Tom had been given to wandering and Mary was a shrew. Worse, sooner or later, she would have to question Mary and so far had found nothing yet to like about the woman. But then, she was purposing to talk to Montfort and there was nothing she liked about him either.

There was no guard at Father Edmund’s gate, only on the bench beside the house door, a young man in the crowner’s livery who rose to tell her with good manners instead of the usual surliness Montfort’s men seemed to catch from him, that the crowner was still at breakfast.

Frevisse, thinking that Montfort kept comfortable hours if he was only to breakfast now, said, “Best I see him then, not to interrupt him later when he’s set to work.”

The guard looked doubtful her consideration would make her any more welcome, but he stepped inside to say, “Dame Frevisse begs leave to see you, sir.”

She had begged nothing but supposed there was no harm in saying so if it brought Montfort to receive her more graciously.

It did not.

At the crowner’s grunted agreement, the youth stepped aside from her way with a slight bow to her, and she entered to find Montfort seated at the head of the priest’s table, with Father Edmund on his right and an array of dishes set out cold in front of them that must be from last night’s supper-sliced pork in some sort of sauce, the remains of a cheese tart, a loaf end of brown but not coarse bread, and wine. She had not known the priest lived that well, but then the village living was his, not some other priest’s who paid him poorly to serve in his place; and very possibly, if he were skilled at ambition, he had income from somewhere else, too. What disconcerted her more was that he seemed at ease in the crowner’s company, sitting pleasantly with him over the end of their meal, and momentarily she could not help wondering if that spoke well or ill of Father Edmund, then decided it spoke well, because Christian forbearance toward Montfort could not come easily. For her, assuredly, any forbearance she had ever managed toward him had always come with gritted teeth.

As she curtsyed to them both, Father Edmund said welcomingly, “Dame Frevisse,” and Montfort managed, “Dame.”

‘Sir,“ Frevisse returned.

‘Am I needed at the church?“ Father Edmund asked.

‘God be thanked, all’s well,“ Frevisse said. ”Adam Perryn’s fever broke at dawn.“

Father Edmund crossed himself. “Blessed be God and the Virgin. We’ve prayed long and hard for him and the others.”

Montfort echoed his gesture with his usual impatience at everything that was not to his purpose and said, “Why are you here, Dame?”

There being no point in coming to it subtly, she said, “About Matthew Woderove’s death. Is everything about it sure?”

‘Matthew Woderove?“ For a moment Montfort looked as if he could not place who that was, then remembered and said disgustedly, ”Of course it’s sure. We boxed what there was of him. His folk here buried him. There’s no more sure than that. He’s dead.“

Frevisse bypassed wondering if Montfort meant that for a jest and asked, “Is it sure he was killed where he was found? That he wasn’t killed elsewhere and moved?”

Montfort’s small eyes narrowed with displeasure. “Shouldn’t you be at your prayers, Dame?” And aside to Father Edmund, “She does this. Makes trouble where there isn’t any.” And back to her, “Leave these matters to those whose business they are, Dame. Go back to your prayers and stay there after this.”

It was utter dismissal. Frevisse managed a curt curtsy and to say without strangling on it, “Pray, pardon me,” and to Father Edmund, “By your leave.”

Looking as if he regretted what had passed, Father Edmund made a sign of the cross in silent blessing toward her, and to him she gave another curtsy, more graciously, before she retreated.

She was across the yard and to the street again before she realized there was someone behind her, and because she meant to go to the church anyway, she swung leftward, to be out of the way of whichever of Montfort’s men was going to the alehouse, but behind her someone said, “Dame Frevisse,” and she stopped and turned to find the guard who had been at Father Edmund’s door bowing to her with hurried awkwardness.

‘My lady. If you please. A word.“

‘Of course, sir,“ Frevisse answered, puzzled but matching his courtesy.

‘About what just passed. In there.“

‘Yes?“ Wary now as well as puzzled.

‘This Matthew Woderove’s death. I was the one who inquired about it. After he’d been identified.“

That meant he was one of the crowner’s Sergeants instead of merely a guard, and suddenly he had all Frevisse’s attention. “You made investigation? You learned something?” she asked, trying but knowing she failed to hide her eagerness.

He failed as badly to hide his pride. “A little, yes.”

‘What?“

It was abrupt but all the encouragement he needed. “I found out he went from here to Banbury. He sold the horse there.”

‘You found Gilbey Dunn’s horse?“

‘The dealer had sold it again. It’s gone. But he admitted he’d had it. From the description.“

‘He’s a more forthcoming horse dealer than most I’ve known,“ Frevisse observed wryly.

The youth, whether or not he wondered how she had come to know horse dealers that well, answered, “He sees that if he helps us in a matter where he’s not at fault, it’ll go better for him if ever he is. At fault. And we find out he is.”

Frevisse wondered who had pointed that out to the man but only asked, “He was certain it was the same horse?”

‘A dark chestnut with an off hind white stocking and a finger-long scar above the near hock.“

That was certain enough, at any rate. “And it’s certain it was Matthew Woderove sold it?”

‘The man described him and what he was wearing. It was how the widow described him and what he was wearing when he left here.“

‘When was he in Banbury?“

‘The day after he left here.“

Frevisse paused, feeling her way along the wrongness of that before she said slowly, “He sold the horse the day after he left here, then set away on foot to somewhere west and was robbed and killed not many miles out of Banbury.”

‘It seems so. Yes.“

She liked the caution in his answer. Moreover, she was starting to like him and asked more openly than she might have otherwise, “Why sell the horse? Why walk when he could have gone on riding?”

‘Come to that,“ the youth said back, ”why did he go north from here instead of simply west? Horses sell as well in Worcester as in Banbury.“

So he was dissatisfied with it, too; but Frevisse had had time now to notice more about him-his hair’s color, for one thing-and she asked at a guess, “Are you kin to Master Montfort?”

The youth flushed a dark red, close to his hair’s shade, but answered steadily enough, straightly meeting her gaze, “I’m his son.”

And was well-witted enough to know that was not necessarily to his advantage, so that, at a loss for better comment, Frevisse offered, “I didn’t know he had a son.”

‘Three of us, actually. And two daughters. I’m Christopher.“

Frevisse slightly inclined her head to him. “Master Christopher.”

He slightly bowed in return. “My lady.”

And for no good outward reason they smiled at one another, unwarrently at ease on apparently no more than the basis of good manners. Another thing in which he differed from his father. And he asked, turning the questioning around, “Why your interest in this man?”

Frevisse hesitated, then said, “It’s that I keep thinking how he and Tom Hulcote died much the same way. By blows to the head and stabbing. And…” She trailed off, not knowing to where the “and” should lead.

‘And they’re both from here and… interested in the same woman,“ Christopher offered. To her questioning look, he added, ”There’s always talk in plenty in a village alehouse.“

She was coming to approve of him more by the moment but, looking past him, had to say, “You may need to go back. The jurors are coming.”

Christopher glanced down the green toward the four village men going toward the priest’s house and agreed, “I’ll be wanted.” He began to back away, saying as he did, “It’s just that I thought there was no reason you shouldn’t know what’s known about this Matthew Woderove’s death. If you wanted it.”

‘Thank you.“

He gave her a brief bow, hesitated as if inclined to say more, but did not, only bowed again and left her.

Frevisse went her way, too, but not back to the church. Head down and hands in her opposite sleeves again, crossing the green to Gilbey Dunn’s, she considered what Christopher Montfort had given her about Matthew Woderove. More than she had had but still very little, and the very little made no sense. Why had he sold the horse so soon? He had to know that on the whole Lord Lovell was not one to let his villeins simply leave. Why hadn’t he sought to put as much distance as might be between him and possible pursuit before being rid of the horse since he’d gone to the trouble of stealing it?

She needed to know more.

But what?

About Tom Hulcote, she supposed. Matthew Woderove had died elsewhere but Tom Hulcote had died here and here was where she had the only hope of learning anything of use. The trouble was that Montfort’s impatience was as much a threat as his stupidity and might leave her too little time to learn enough. If she could learn enough. Because she was guessing at what she needed to know.

But since guesses were all she had, they would have to do.

Elena Dunn was gathering chives from the herb bed beside her door among a scattering of hens. She straightened when she saw Frevisse coming toward her and wished her good morrow, and when Frevisse returned the greeting and asked after her sons, smiled a tired smile, answering, “They’re recovering far faster than Agnes and I will. She’s told them already today that if they don’t stay quiet, she’ll take to her bed and leave them to look after her instead. How is it with the others?”

‘Adam Perryn’s fever broke at dawn. We think that means the worst is altogether past.“

Elena gave thanks and crossed herself but was watching Frevisse’s face while she did and asked, “What else? More from the crowner?”

‘Not yet, but I have more questions, if you’d be willing to answer them.“

‘About Tom Hulcote?“

‘Yes.“

Elena sighed. “He’s proving as much a trouble dead as he was alive. Yes, of course I’ll answer what I can. Best come in and sit down.”

She went first, to open the half-door and let Frevisse enter first, while she fended off the red hen with skilled skirts, warning it, “There’s nothing in here for you, you ninny. You’re going to find yourself as Sunday dinner you keep this up.”

Inside, an eastward window let in the morning light and Agnes was busy at the table chopping vegetables. Elena asked, “May she go on, or is this only between us?”

‘There’s no reason she can’t stay,“ Frevisse said, keeping to herself the thought that Agnes might have answers, too.

Agnes nodded greeting and, deft of knife, wrist, and fingers, went on slicing carrots while at Elena’s invitation, Frevisse sat, accepted an offer of cider, and waited while Elena poured three goblets full, handed her one, set one in Agnes’s reach and, taking the third, pulled a chair around to sit facing her, asking as she did, “Questions about Tom Hulcote, you said?”

Agnes made a harumphing noise and slammed the knife through an onion with unnecessary force. “Worthless man.”

‘Not in the eyes of God,“ Elena said.

‘Unfortunately what I want to know,“ said Frevisse, ”is how he was in the eyes of men. You said he quit at St. Swithin’s.“

‘The day after.“

‘Why had you kept him on so long when he was forever going off for days at a time?“

‘Forever going off for days at a time?“ Elena repeated as if puzzled. ”His going off like that only began this summer. Until then, he’d go for a day now and again, no word to anyone, but show up the next day.“

‘With no excuse, and it’s not as if he did much of his work when he was here,“ Agnes said. Having reduced the onion to small bits, she reached for another.

‘It was only lately that he’d started taking off for three and four and more days at a time. It’s what finished it for us. He wasn’t worth the bother.“

‘But I thought…“ Frevisse stopped. Yesterday Elena had only said he was gone too much. It had been Cisily who said he was forever being gone for days at a time, and Cisily had been enjoying herself and likely as not had gone to excess with it. Frevisse shifted her question to, ”When did he begin this?“

‘Being gone for days at a time, you mean? About Whitsuntide.“ Elena looked at Agnes to confirm that. Agnes shrugged. Elena thought a moment, then said, certain, ”That would be when. It was early haying the first time he went off and didn’t come back for three days, I think it was, that time. It was the worse surprise because he’d never done that until then and we were haying.“

‘Hiding in Mary Woderove’s bed most likely,“ Agnes said.

‘That was before her husband left,“ Elena pointed out.

‘As if Matthew’d notice. Or say anything if he did,“ Agnes said. ”He…“

Elena cut her off, going on, “He-Tom-was back for the most of the haying, I remember, so Gilbey held off being over-angry at him that time. But then he was gone again just before the sheep-washing and shearing, and we were feared he wouldn’t be back in time at all.”

‘Just past Midsummer,“ Frevisse said.

‘He was gone Midsummer Day, and we didn’t see him again until…“ Elena looked to Agnes. ”How long was it?“

‘He was off nigh to a week that time.“ Agnes was definite. ”Was here Midsummer’s eve but gone Midsummer’s morning. He wasn’t here for all the going on when Matthew Woderove ran off a few days after that, I mind, and he didn’t come dragging home for…“ Agnes paused, tapping the knife tip on the table as if counting something. ”… for four more days. A week and a bit more, I’d say.“

‘Were those the only times he was gone for long?“ Frevisse asked.

‘He did his usual gone-a-day at least twice after that,“ Elena said, ”but there was only once more he was gone three days together.“

‘When?“

‘St. Swithin’s day,“ Agnes said.

‘He came back on St. Swithin’s,“ Elena clarified.

‘And had a fiend’s quarrel with Gilbey the next day, and that’s when he quit. Half a word before Gilbey would have told him to…“

‘Dame Frevisse isn’t here for talk of private matters,“ Elena said.

Private matters were precisely what Frevisse was there for, but since she could hardly say so, she settled for mildly commenting, “What I wonder at is why you hadn’t been done with him long since.”

While Agnes savaged into a summer squash, Elena answered easily, “We have need of two men besides Gilbey here. When Tom worked, he was good enough at what he did.”

‘When he worked,“ Agnes muttered at the squash.

‘Mostly it was that there aren’t many who can put up with my husband for very long. Tom Hulcote did. At least better than most we’ve had.“

Probably by leaving those days when he had had enough of Gilbey and could bear no more, Frevisse thought, but only said, “It was the quarrel at St. Swithin’s that finished things?”

‘There would have been an end soon anyway,“ Elena said. ”Besides being gone so much that last month or more, he’d taken to being churlish in the bargain, angry more often than not or else ill-humored.“

‘He hadn’t always been that way?“

‘No.“ Elena frowned a little, as if thinking on it for the first time. ”No, he wasn’t. What he was, was lazy when he could be. Slack at his work unless he was watched. But not ill-humored, no. Not until around Whitsuntide?“ she asked of Agnes, who left off assaulting the squash, thought about it, too, and agreed, ”From around then, aye. From then on and growing worse.“

About Whitsuntide, when he had first gone off for longer than a single day.

‘You never knew where he went those days he was gone? Those times he was gone longer than usual?“

Agnes mumbled something under her breath that might have been, “Mary Woderove’s bed,” but Elena considered before saying, “The last time at least, he was in Banbury. Gilbey saw him there.”

‘In Banbury?“ Frevisse echoed, surprised. ”What was he about in Banbury?“

‘Gilbey didn’t know. It was a market day, crowds and all, and Tom was on the other side of a street and didn’t see Gilbey nor Gilbey let on he’d seen him either.“

‘Not until they were quarreling after Tom came back,“ Agnes said. She paused in scraping the squash off the cutting board into a pot to relish the memory. ”In the midst of their yelling, Gilbey twitted him with being in Banbury when he ought to have been here, and Tom went up like a scalded cat.“

‘Agnes,“ Elena said quellingly. ”That’s more than Dame Frevisse needs to know.“

It was not, and Frevisse asked, “What did Tom say?”

‘Nothing to the point,“ Elena said. ”As Agnes said, he just went angrier.“

But anger could be cover for so many things. Frevisse looked for another question, but before she found one, there was a bustle of noise in the yard. Both she and Elena rose to their feet and Agnes put down her knife, all of them turning toward the door, in time to see one of Mont-fort’s guards looking in, and past him Frevisse could see another.