The Reeve's Tale

Chapter 22

There had been no other way to do it.

Or if there was, she still did not see it.

With head bowed and arms wrapped tightly across herself, Frevisse went on pacing back and forth the length of the path between Anne Perryn’s garden beds with the same measured tread she would have paced St. Frideswide’s cloister walk if she could have been there. And she deeply wished she was. Or, better yet, on her knees before St. Frideswide’s altar, praying herself toward quietness.

But it would be days more before she could be there, and when the men had taken Mary Woderove and Father Edmund off to Master Montfort, with Dickon following along for curiosity’s sake, she had stayed here, to be alone until the trembling stopped; until she could undo the sickened ugliness left in her by the deliberate, cold rage she had summoned up to deal with Mary Woderove and then with Father Edmund because she could see no other way. She had come to understand, that little while she had questioned Mary on the green, that Mary’s anger was a cunning one-real enough but used like a weapon to have her own way. What no one had ever done before was use anger purposeful as her own back at her, until Frevisse did, and it had worked where maybe nothing else would have, just as proof he had never thought to see set up against him had brought down Father Edmund, had held him silent as Simon Perryn had risen to his feet at the head of the table and, looking at his sister and his priest with a face dark not so much with anger but the soul-deep misery of betrayal, said, “Aye, priest. It wasn’t enough to kill Matthew. To kill Tom. To whore my sister and break your vows. You had to try to make innocent men look guilty in your stead.”

Stiffly, as if it made a great difference, Father Edmund had answered, “I had no hand in Matthew Woderove’s death.”

Mary had cried out at that, pulling away from him, turning to face him. “No hand? No! You only urged me on to it, planned it with me. How I’d bring Tom to do it and everything and then how we’d be rid of Tom afterwards!”

‘I never meant Tom’s death,“ Father Edmund had answered sharply. ”I only meant for him to leave.“

‘And so did I!“

‘But when he wouldn’t,“ Perryn said, ”you killed him. Both of you.“

‘He found us together,“ Mary had said, sullen against the wrong he had done them. ”He would have killed us both, he was that mad. Would have killed you first,“ she added savagely at Father Edmund. ”It was you he was going for!“

‘And so you hit him from behind with what?“ Christopher had asked.

‘A piece of firewood, like you said, you clot! It was what was to hand.“ She had pointed accusingly at Father Edmund. ”And even then I had to tell you to stab him! That he wasn’t dead and he had to be!“

Frevisse went on walking, not regretting what she had done, only wishing the anger’s sickened residue, still curdled like churned lead in her stomach, would go away. It would, she knew. If not today, then later. Given time and prayers enough, she would finally cleanse its ugliness out of her.

Unlike Mary, who would almost surely take her ugliness to the grave with her, still seeing no reason she should not have killed two men to let her have a third unhindered.

And Father Edmund?

At thought of him the little quiet Frevisse had so far won back shredded away. There were priests in plenty like St. Frideswide’s Father Henry, men who held to God’s way as closely as they could despite the sins of the flesh that called to them as readily as to anyone else. There were, less often, priests who gave way to those sins. Priests fat with gluttony or corrupt with avarice or damned with pride or lost to lust. But to be a priest and murder a man… To take a man’s life without giving him chance to save his soul…

Frevisse found she was standing at the far end of one of the garden paths, staring down into a cabbage plant, noting with rather desperate care the particular cabbage-shade of its green, the fine patterning of its heavy leaves…

‘My lady?“

Too deep in contemplation of the cabbage, she had not heard Perryn come and looked around to find him standing a respectful distance away along the path behind her, and said the only greeting she could think of between them. “I’m sorry about your sister.”

‘I’ve been sorry about her a long while more than you have,“ Perryn said steadily. ”You did what needed doing. She couldn’t be let go. Neither of them could.“

Frevisse nodded, grateful he understood, and moved away, out of the path and toward the apple tree at the garden’s edge, plucking a tall-grown basil plant’s leaf as she passed, crushing it between her fingers, breathing in its spicy richness, something that blessedly would never change, no matter what vileness happened in the world.

Perryn followed her under the burdened branches, out of the sun into the apple shade, and as she sat on the bench there, gesturing him to join her, she asked, “Master Montfort was willing to believe what you told him?”

‘Not gladly,“ Perryn said. ”It was Master Christopher he listened to. Master Christopher’s his son, as happens.“

‘I know.“

‘I reckoned that you did. He listened to him right enough, and believed him. He’s furious at losing his grip on Gilbey’s goods, though.“

‘He would be.“ For Montfort this whole misery of lives put to waste undoubtedly came down at the last to the single hateful fact that he would make no profit from it.

Perryn looked up through the apple branches into a distance of sky, the silence stretching out between them before he said, still gazing away, “They’ll hang her, won’t they?”

Frevisse nodded.

They neither of them mentioned Father Edmund. Mary would be tried at county court, found guilty, and hanged, but Father Edmund’s priesthood put him beyond sentence of death. He would be tried, as Mary would be, and found guilty, but then be given over to his bishop to be kept in the bishop’s prison under penance until, inevitably, he was pardoned. There would be no hope of any great preferment in the Church for him afterwards but he would have his life. And Mary, Matthew Woderove, and Tom Hulcote would be long dead.

Bitterly, Frevisse hoped his penance would be hard beyond the ordinary.

Beside her, Perryn said, “One thing. I had the priest write out a confession of his lie against Master Naylor while we were there and Master Montfort witnessed it. Dickon has taken it off to the priory.”

‘Did you? Has he?“ Frevisse said, her heaviness suddenly lightened.

‘Will it be enough to have him loosed, do you think?“

‘With that in hand, Domina Elisabeth will have him out of guard by this afternoon’s end.“

Perryn gave a satisfied sigh. “That’s all right then. It’ll be good to have things back the way they should be. Not,” he added as if it was something that surprised him, “that it’s been all that bad to work with you.”

‘Nor with you,“ Frevisse said and meant it but had to add, ”No matter how glad I’ll be to give Master Naylor back all his duties.“

Perryn made a half-laugh at that. “Aye. Each to his own.” He stood up. “That’s what I wanted to tell you. Now I’m off to the church, to see how it is with Anne and the children.”

‘Please, tell Sister Thomasine I’ll be there soon.“

Perryn slightly bowed, started away, stopped, turned back to her, and said, “I wonder, my lady, if Father Edmund ever thought ahead.”

‘Ahead?“

Unlikely though it was, what looked to be laughter seemed trying to happen at the corners of Perryn’s mouth. “Aye. Ahead.”

Frevisse caught his thought. “You mean ahead to…” she began but broke off, fighting down laughter of her own.

‘Aye,“ Perryn said. ”Ahead to what would likely happen when Mary tired of him.’“

And despite of everything, they both began to laugh, laughter serving, for now, along with prayer, against the ache of mourning.