The Reeve's Tale

Chapter 18

Stiffly, as if her throat were suddenly too tight, too dry, Elena said, “No, Agnes. I’ll go,” but as she started forward herself, Frevisse held out a hand into her way and asked, too low for the guard at the door to hear, “Where’s Gilbey?”

With a twist of fear across her loveliness, Elena answered, equally low, “Gone to Banbury. I couldn’t talk him from it.”

‘Mistress,“ said the man at the door.

With her face suddenly all smiling for him, Elena said, “Coming, sir,” and went, graceful with her skirts and prettily hurrying. Agnes, as bid, stayed at the table but Frevisse followed, keeping distance and to the side as Elena said across the door to the man, smiling upon him with no trace of trouble and deliberate charm, “Yes? Is there something I can do for you?”

Staring at her, the man fumbled, “Mistress. Your husband.” He managed to gather himself. “Your husband. Is he here?”

‘I fear not, sir,“ Elena said brightly. ”Might I be of help to you?“

Her calm seemed to fluster the man the worse, but behind him his fellow said, trying for more authority, “Where is he then? We’ve come for him.”

‘My husband?“ Elena repeated.

‘Gilbey Dunn. We’ve come for him,“ the man repeated. ”Where is he?“

From somewhere across the yard Montfort yelled, “Get on with it!”

The two men swung around, the first one yelling back, “She says he’s not here, sir!”

‘Then where is he? Ask her, you fool.“

Elena unlatched the door and the two men fell back a few paces as she stepped out onto her doorstep and with the air of a puzzled housewife not understanding all the trouble, answered for herself, lifting her voice, “He’s gone to market, sir.”

Frevisse, shifting into the doorway behind her, saw Montfort on his bay horse beyond the foreyard garden, already red-faced with impatience. “Gone to market? You mean he’s run!” he snarled.

‘Sir!“ Elena’s voice scaled up in what sounded for all the world like innocent protest. ”He’s never! The green cheeses were ready, and I couldn’t take them because of the children. The mesels, you know.“

One of the two men at the door took a hasty step backward.

‘Stay where you are,“ Montfort snapped at him without shifting his glare from Elena. ”Your husband has run and you’re lying for him!“

‘I wouldn’t!“ Elena protested. She sounded far more peasant than Frevisse had ever heard her, and far less clever, as if she could not understand what Montfort was at. ”He’s only gone to market, to Banbury with the cheeses, like I said, sir.“

‘He’s run,“ Montfort declared. ”And he’s in the wrong even if he hasn’t! I gave him order yesterday, him and that reeve, not to leave the manor until I was done with them.“

‘He never said anything about any order, sir,“ Elena said with respectful puzzlement. ”He wouldn’t have gone if you’d told him not to, sir, I’m sure.“

‘He was told!“

Montfort had brought the rest of his guards with him, including Christopher, Frevisse saw, but they had stayed at the gateway, as if there might be need to keep back the handful of old men and a few women not gone out to the fields today and come to see what the crowner was about gathered beyond the ditch, bird-busy in talk and listening. They were none of them offering to come nearer except- Frevisse saw with mingled relief and worry-Perryn with Dickon behind him and both priests, circling them toward the yard’s gateway. But they were not there yet with whatever help they might have given. It was Christopher who stepped forward and said, his voice carrying maybe louder than he meant it to, “I beg your pardon greatly, sir, but I think he wasn’t.”

Montfort jerked around to look at him. “What? What d’you mean he wasn’t?”

‘He wasn’t told, sir. I mean, I was there, sir. Yesterday. They weren’t told, either he or the reeve, that they weren’t to leave the manor. Sir.“

Montfort purpled. “They were!” He pointed at Perryn, now coming into the yard with Father Edmund and Father Henry. “See. He’s still here.”

Frevisse stepped forward from behind Elena and said, deliberately loudly, “I most humbly beg your pardon, sir, but I was there, too, and nothing was said to either of them not to leave the manor.”

Montfort’s glower swung around to her. “You. What’re you here for, Dame? Go away.”

Perryn had stopped in the street, but the priests were come into the yard now, and from beside Montfort’s horse Father Edmund said, calm with the authority of his priesthood, “The Dunn children are ill. Dame Frevisse is here to comfort the mother, by right of God’s charity.”

‘And so are we,“ Father Henry rumbled behind him.

They made a strange pair, the slender, dark-haired, graceful-mannered younger man and Father Henry with his crest of yellow curls and height and muscled bulk, but they served the Church as surely as Montfort served the Crown and were therefore as much to be reckoned with as he was, and despite the crowner looked as if he would have gladly chewed them both down to gristle and spat them out if he could, he said after a short, choking silence, “Yes, well. But Gilbey Dunn is still gone and he shouldn’t be. There’s guilt in that, whatever she says.” He made a curt nod at Elena. “There’s a man dead and evidence against Dunn and by the law when there’s suspicion of guilt and the man has fled, I’m bound to see into everything he owns, how much he has, and what it’s worth, and that’s what I’m going to do now. In the king’s name.”

Elena drew a sharp, frightened breath. For all her outward calm, she was rigid, and all Frevisse could offer was a hand on her arm to steady her from showing more, because Montfort was within his rights with what he meant to do. A criminal’s goods were seized and sold to pay for the wrong he had done against the king’s law. Everything he had, though it be no more than a beggar’s bowl, was forfeit for his crime, and because Gilbey was not here when the crowner came seeking him, Montfort was free to assume he had fled until shown otherwise and to begin reckoning of his goods and lands against the time he might be found and tried. Nor would it have been different if Gilbey were there, except he would have been arrested into the bargain; and smoothly, knowing that to argue Montfort’s right in the matter would have been to put himself in the wrong, Father Edmund said, “Of course. But since the children are too ill to be moved, we’ll stay- Father Henry and I, and Dame Frevisse if she will-to give them and their mother what care and comfort we can while your men do what they must.”

For all it was mildly said, the warning was there. Father Edmund would watch that there be no rough-handling of anyone or anything, and to judge by Montfort’s glare and tight-jawed answer, “As you choose, priest,” the crowner understood him perfectly.

Heavy-handed on the reins, he pulled his horse sharply around, forcing both priests back a few quick steps, and spurred forward out of the yard, making the watching villagers scatter from his way. Low and viciously, Elena said, watching him go, “There’s a mean-minded man.”

‘All mean and no mind, I don’t doubt,“ Agnes said behind her in the doorway.

Simon Perryn said something that served to keep the onlookers in the street and came on into the yard with Dickon still on his heels, while Father Edmund with Father Henry gathered up the guards from gateway and doorstep and set to arranging how things would go. Over her shoulder to Agnes Elena said, “Bring bowls and ale for all the men.”

‘The crowner’s, too?“ Agnes protested.

‘Would you rather we had friends or foes going through our things?“ Elena answered and went forward to join the men.

Frevisse followed but kept aside, only listening while Father Edmund and Christopher Montfort shared between them the sorting out of which guards would see to the barn and byres, which to the house, which the yard and sheds. With Montfort gone and Elena standing silently by, hands clasped beseechingly at her breast, lovely, helpless, and looking hopeful of their kindness all at once, matters went quietly. And then, when Agnes had come with the ale and Elena served each of the guards herself, Frevisse was left with no least worry that the business would go far more in Elena’s favor than Montfort would have stomached if he had been there.

Simon Perryn had kept his distance, partway between villagers and priests and guards, ready to go whichever way looked best. Frevisse wanted a word with him but waited until it was settled that Father Edmund would oversee what happened with the yard and outbuildings and Father Henry keep the boys eased with stories while Elena and Agnes watched over what was done in the house. Both priests and Christopher looked then to Frevisse, she supposed in expectation she would offer to stay with Elena, but instead she said, “By your leave, then,” and with a quick bow of her head to the priests, walked away before anyone could say whether they gave her leave or not. With a small beckon of her head she gathered Perryn to her as she went, but in the street he paused to answer the onlookers’ flurry of questions with, “She knows better than I do,” leaving it to her to say tersely, “Master Montfort has accused Gilbey Dunn of Tom Hulcote’s murder.”

‘And arrested him?“ a man croaked eagerly.

‘Gilbey’s gone to Banbury market. For now they’re making do with inquiring into all he has.“

‘Ho, that’ll take them a time,“ someone else said, and sharp, eager talk sprang out among them all while Perryn looked a mixture of dismay and relief because although it was bad to have Gilbey accused, it had to mean the crowner was given up on him if Gilbey was the only one he had gone for this morning.

Frevisse could not fault him for his confused feelings, but none of the men to whom she wanted to talk was here and she cut across the general questioning and comments to ask, “Where are the jurors? They were with Montfort already today. Where are they now?”

‘Gone out to the haying,“ a bent-shouldered old man answered. ”Even old Bert. I saw ’em go.“

‘Aye,“ one of the women agreed. ”The crowner had them in but not for long, and they weren’t talking to anyone when he let them out, from what I saw.“

‘Must have said they weren’t to say aught to anyone,“ the first man put in. ”Even Bert wouldn’t share a word about what passed, just kept going. We were to have a game of draughts this morning, too.“ Which seemed to grieve him more than anything else that had happened.

‘Didn’t look happy, though, none of them,“ someone else said.

‘Have them fetched back, if you would please, master reeve,“ Frevisse said to Perryn. ”I need to talk to them.“

‘I’ll go!“ said Dickon, eager-footed at Perryn’s elbow.

‘You do that, then, youngling,“ Perryn said. ”Where to?“ he added to Frevisse.

‘The oak on the green, I think.“ Where they could talk with no chance of anyone unwanted overhearing them.

Dickon left, thrusting away between people while Frevisse said, “I need Mary Woderove fetched to me, too.”

‘Geva,“ Perryn said to a well-set, firm-armed, rosy-faced woman. ”She likely won’t throw anything at you. You tell her she’s wanted, will you? And see she comes?“

‘You want her at the oak, same as the men?“ Geva asked, and at Frevisse’s nod she went off toward the green.

‘The rest of you,“ Perryn said, ”there can’t be that little to be doing you should be standing here doing naught. Off to it, why don’t you?“

‘Do you think maybe some of us…“ a woman started with a nod toward Gilbey’s.

‘I doubt Elena Dunn needs more folk underfoot than she has,“ Frevisse said, ”or I would have stayed.“

There being no way to dispute that, what there was of a crowd straggled away, not altogether willingly, but Frevisse and Perryn stayed standing in the street until they were well gone. Then Perryn asked, with a twitch of his head toward yard and house, “You’re sure we’re neither of us needed there?”

‘Even if we were, we’re needed elsewhere more. Has Gilbey truly gone to Banbury as his wife says, or do you think he may be fled?“

Perryn shook his head. “There’s no saying.” But he was thinking about it as they started along the street toward the green and after a moment added, “But why would he run when there’s naught against him save the belt? It’s not much, no more than what’s against me, and I never thought to run.”

‘Elena said he had to take green cheeses to market.“

‘That’s likely enough, and if he’d planned to do it before yesterday happened, he’s that stubborn he’d go ahead with it, whether it made sense or not. And maybe it’s a good thing, too, or he and Master Montfort might have had at each other’s throats just now.“

That had crossed Frevisse’s mind, too, but following another thought, she asked, “Have you brought to mind yet anyone at all who most particularly dislikes Gilbey?”

‘You asked that yesterday, about us both.“

‘You’ve had more time to think on it.“

‘Not to any use. There were Tom Hulcote and Matthew, but you already know that, and they’re both dead.“ And Gilbey was not. If Perryn thought that, he did not say it, only went on, ”And Mary. But I can’t see how her hating Gilbey can have aught to do with Tom’s death or Matthew’s.“

Nor could Frevisse and without real hope she asked, “No one else?”

‘Gilbey is talked against. Him and his Banbury wife both. But it’s only the kind of talk you get when folk keep to themselves as much as they do. They’re talked on and disliked, but it goes no farther that I’ve seen.“

‘By anyone more than another?“

They had reached the oak, its thick shade welcome, and Frevisse sat on the bench, but Perryn remained standing, staring away at nothing with a thinking frown before he said regretfully, “No one. Just who I’ve said.”

And of them, two were dead, and even if Mary Woderove had for some unlikely reason killed Tom Hulcote, she could not have moved his body the way it had been moved, nor had she been at Gilbey Dunn’s, to take his belt.

Frevisse tried going a different way. “When Matthew Woderove left, was search made for him?”

‘Aye. Surely.“

‘Much of a search?“

Perryn paused again, then said quietly, “Not much. Nor for long. There were even some as were glad he’d gone, thinking he’d have better chance elsewhere than he had here.”

‘Were you glad?“

Again the pause and then, “It made trouble for me, being reeve, him running off. But otherwise I wished him well. There was naught left for him here.”

Unmourned and unmissed. That seemed to be the most that could be said about Matthew Woderove.

‘Here’s Mary coming,“ Perryn said, both wary and relieved.

Wary at having to deal with her and relieved that now Frevisse would turn her questions away from him to her? Frevisse wondered. Not that it mattered. She was wary herself at having to deal with the woman and relieved she had come without making a fight of it. From the one time she had seen her, she had no good opinion of Mary, nor did it better now, watching her walk across the green. Still in her black widow’s veil and wearing a plain brown gown-in further token of mourning Frevisse supposed, since Mary seemed not the sort likely given to plain gowns by usual choice-she even now walked with a sway of her hips and a swing of her skirts that made a- maybe unthought-invitation to any male looking her way. That her eyes were humbly downcast counted for something, Frevisse supposed, but not much.

Frevisse came up short on that uncharitable thought, tried instead to grant that maybe Mary was no more than putting on a brave front against her grief, and nonetheless did not rise to meet her or Geva. Subtlety where Mary was concerned would probably be a waste, and when the two women had curtsyed to her, Frevisse briefly thanked Geva and dismissed her, then fixed Mary with a stare and demanded, “Tell me about your last quarrel with your husband.”

Mary raised her eyes from the ground, red-rimmed from apparently much crying, and repeated blankly, “My husband? He’s dead.” She dropped her gaze groundward again. “Please let him lie in peace,” she whispered.

‘I would if I could,“ Frevisse said curtly. ”Tell me what your last quarrel with him was about. And look at me while you do.“

Mary looked up again, more wariness than grief showing now and a little anger.

Wanting her angry because then she might be careless, Frevisse repeated, still curtly, “Your quarrel with your husband. Tell me.”

Mary’s face paled with in-held fury, her lips tightened to a narrow line, and her hands, until now neatly folded in front of her, spasmed into fists. But only briefly. With effort, she eased her hands, dragged her face back to a simply puzzled hurt, and said softly, as if resigned to being cruelly used, speaking to some point just past Frevisse’s ear, “It was no more than what we always quarreled over. That he wasted every chance we had and didn’t care he’d dragged me down with him.”

‘Only usual things? Nothing about the lease lost to Gilbey Dunn?“

Mary’s gaze jerked sideways to Frevisse’s face. “Of course about that,” she said with an angry edge to the words. “ ‘Twas where we started. All of our quarreling was just more of the same. Not that any of it ever did any good.”

‘Why quarrel with him then?“

‘Because it made me feel better!“

‘Where did you quarrel?“

‘Anywhere we happened to be.“

‘I mean the last quarrel you had.“

Mary drew and let go a deep, impatient breath. “In Shaldewell Field. As if you hadn’t been told and told again by all the staring big-ears in the village. What’s the point of asking about Matthew? It’s Tom was murdered here. Why aren’t you asking about him?”

‘Don’t you care who murdered your husband?“

‘Of course I care, but it didn’t happen here. Why ask me questions? Unless you think I did it!“ Mary flung the words and only afterwards, hearing them, went round-eyed with horror. ”You do! You think that, don’t you?“ She turned fiercely on her brother. ”And you stand there and let her!“

‘What I think,“ Frevisse said, cutting off whatever Perryn might have answered, ”is that I want you to answer my questions and not make trouble over it.“

Mary snapped her mouth shut, thought on that, then said sullenly, still angry but willing to try to contain it, “We quarreled. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.” She sent her brother a resentful glance and amended, “Maybe a little worse that last time. I was that mad at him for losing the lease and all.”

‘You quarreled and locked him out of his house…“

‘Our house. My house,“ Mary snapped.

‘He went to sleep in the barn and in the night ran off,“ Frevisse went on. ”Had he ever threatened to run off, this time or another?“

‘Matthew? He never threatened anything. Wouldn’t say boo to a goose unless he was goaded to it. Was too afraid the goose might say boo back at him,“ Mary said disgustedly.

‘But you weren’t surprised to find he was gone?“

Mary shrugged. “I didn’t think he was gone far. Not until Gilbey’s horse was found missing.”

Frevisse looked at Perryn. “Where was Gilbey’s horse taken from?”

Careful not to look at his sister, Perryn said, “It was staked out to graze with his other one. In Farnfield.” The field that Matthew Woderove had lost to Gilbey. “Well away from the village, close to the wood,” Perryn said. “He could be away with no one likely to notice.”

‘At least he showed that much sense,“ Mary said.

‘Did he take anything with him?“ Frevisse asked her, curt again.

‘Just what he had with him when he came in from the field. No, he left the hoe, and good thing, too. All he took was what he was wearing and his scrip. A good leather bag, that was. Whoever did for him must have taken it, the bastard.“

Frevisse clamped down on her growing unfondness for Mary Woderove. Under all Mary’s passions of indignation and angers, there was a coldness to her that made Frevisse doubt she had ever really warmed to anyone except herself. More than that, Frevisse was beginning to suspect that she worked at keeping others hot with anger, the better to work them to her cold will, and not meaning to be worked, Frevisse said coldly, “Now. Tell me about Tom. When did you see him last?”

‘Tom,“ Mary echoed with bitter pain. ”Just because he loved me, no one minds that he was murdered!“

Refusing to be drawn into pointing out that if she did not care, she would not be asking questions about it, Frevisse repeated, “When did you see him last?”

‘Saturday midday.“ Brought to it, Mary gave the answer flatly. ”I keep telling people that.“

‘You’d been telling him he ought to leave here, to run. Would you have run with him?“

Mary gave her brother an angry glance. “I’d have gone to him but not with him. I meant to stay here a while.”

‘Making trouble over the Woderove holding, despite you knew it would do you no good,“ Frevisse said.

Mary jerked her chin at her brother. “Why should he get off easy? Him and the others that hate me around here. If nothing else, I want my harvest off it.”

‘Why not have Tom stay until after the harvest then?“ Perryn asked, goaded. ”Then you could have gone off together with money in hand.“

‘Because I was that mad I wasn’t thinking that far ahead,“ Mary snapped back at him. ”I just saw you wanted Tom ruined, and I wanted him away before you could.“

‘Did he tell you he was going to run?“ Frevisse asked.

‘Nay. At the last all I’d had out of him was that he had to think on it a while.“

‘When you didn’t see him again, did you think he’d gone off after all?“

Mary completely refused that thought. “He’d not have gone off without saying to me he was. I thought he was still angry at me for pushing him, that’s all, and when I’d had enough of him staying away, I went to his place.”

‘When?“

‘Sunday. Early. When most folk were to Mass, so I wouldn’t have to see anyone.“

‘He wasn’t there? Or any sign of him?“ Frevisse asked.

‘Course he wasn’t there. From all they’re saying, he was dead by then, wasn’t he? But I didn’t know that, did I? All I could tell was that he’d not run. Naught was gone that he would have taken with him. So I reckoned he was about, and all I need do was wait till he came back to me.

He always came back to me. But this time…“ Her mouth suddenly trembled, making her look like a small child fighting off tears; and piteously as a small child, she said, ”… this time he never did. I never saw him again ever.“

Unmoved by Mary’s sorrow for her own pain, Frevisse asked, “Has there been anyone angry out of the ordinary with Tom? Was there anyone he was afraid of?”

‘Tom? He wasn’t afraid of anyone, was Tom. But, aye, there was someone angry at him out of the ordinary. Gilbey Dunn. Frighted for his wife with her namby town-face and hot skirts. As if Tom would have looked at that flinty bit of bitchdom.“

‘Mary!“ Perryn said.

‘You think she doesn’t know about those kind?“ Mary jerked her chin at Frevisse. ”I’ll warrant she knows more about them than you do. Flinty bitches.“

Determined to be untouched by Mary’s venom, Frevisse said, “What are you going to do now that Tom is dead?”

‘Do?“ Mary’s brittle anger was back. ”What can I do, now I’ve been robbed of everything? I’ll live somehow. I’ll…“ She made a sudden, unexpected struggle against the anger, bowed her head, and said, strangling a little on the submission, ”We have to accept what comes to us. People die. It happens. Father Edmund’s been saying that, to help me. He’s been kind.“ She gave her brother a sour look. ”Unlike some.“ She lowered her eyes again and said stiffly, ”I just want to take what’s left me and make do. That’s what Father Edmund’s been helping me to see. That I have to thank God for what I have and make do with it.“

And Father Edmund had better take care, Frevisse thought without trying to curb the unkindness, or Mary would very likely next be trying to make do with him.