The Reeve's Tale

Chapter 4

Frevisse gave Simon Perryn leave to go without hesitation, agreed to wait to finish with the bylaws and hear some questions he had for Master Naylor about the second haying, and watched him leave, a sure-striding, square-built man of middle years and middle height in a dark blue tunic of well-woven cloth, un-mended heavy green hosen, and leathern boots that had had good wear and would last for more. There was nothing shabby about his servant either, even rough-dressed as he was for fieldwork, and that spoke as well of master as of man. In truth, everything Frevisse had so far seen of Perryn and his holding spoke well of him, everything well kept and prospering. Here in his foreyard, between the house and the shallow ditch that separated the messuage from the street and village green, the garden was laid out in neatly bordered beds with narrow paths between and crowded full of herbs and summer vegetables- garden peas and beans, summer squash, lettuce and other greens, rhubarb-for fresh eating after all the months there had been only kept food to hand. Along one side of the yard a low withy fence separated the yard from a neighbor’s, while on the other side there was a long byre, right-angled to the house because none but the poorest peasant shared house-space with their animals. Whatever cows Perryn had were long since out to pasture this morning after milking, but there were chickens scattered around the dusty stretch of yard in front of it, questing for what they could find in the way of dropped grain or roused insects; and because messuages were usually narrow-fronted to the street and long to the back, behind the house there were likely a barn, maybe another byre, sheds, probably a sty with pig and piglets for winter pork and bacon, possibly more garden, and maybe other fruit trees besides the pear tree here and, across the yard, beyond the garden, an apple tree with branches beginning to bend to the weight of its apples, its shade sheltering a patch of grass and another bench.

That was where Sister Thomasine had betaken herself, to sit alone at her prayers while Frevisse talked with Perryn and where she was now but no longer alone or at her prayers. A while ago a small girl-child in a loose, knee-long smock had toddled out from the house, stood for a time staring at Perryn and Frevisse, then trotted off across the yard to Sister Thomasine and was there now, leaning against her knees, listening to Sister Thomasine who seemed to be explaining about the string of rosary beads she held.

That Sister Thomasine might be good with children had never occurred to Frevisse. But neither had she thought Sister Thomasine would be so little disturbed at being out in the world. She had taken their prioress’ order with bowed head and a quiet “Yes, my lady” and nothing more, and when the time had come this morning to go out the gateway from the priory’s inner yard as she had not gone since entering as a novice, she had done nothing more than pause, bow her head to murmur a brief prayer and make the sign of the cross over her breast, before she went on, her hands tucked into her opposite sleeves and her head down, showing as little as possible of herself and seeing as little of the world as might be while she and Frevisse crossed the priory’s outer yard with its clutter of stables, barns, byres, workshops, storage sheds and folk-mostly men-busy at their work.

Time had been, in Sister Thomasine’s young days, that even the sound of men’s voices had been enough to shrivel her with fear but thankfully she was grown past that depth of simplicity. In truth, Frevisse had come to see that in the ways of prayer and the spirit, Sister Thomasine was very far from simple, whatever lack of interest she had in going out into the world beyond priory walls, although today as they had walked along the road sunken between low-cropped hedges toward the village, she had stopped once to bend down and touch an herb Robert’s red petals bright in the wayside grass, another time had paused, head lifted, to heed a chaffinch making merry on an upthrust hedge branch, and once, where a low field gate let them see beyond the hedges, she had stopped to watch the long grass in an unmown hayfield bend and sway with the warm wind, then turned to Frevisse and said in her soft, near-whispering voice, “It’s very beautiful, God’s world.”

Frevisse had nodded silent agreement, Sister Thomasine had watched the wind-brushed hayfield for another moment, and they had gone on, Sister Thomasine withdrawing into herself again when they entered the village, leaving questioning of where the reeve lived to Frevisse and, when they had found him, taking herself aside to sit under the apple tree with her prayers.

Frevisse stirred out of her thoughts, considering she might after all not wait for Perryn to return. If they left now, she and Sister Thomasine might be in time for None, and she could come back tomorrow after talking over what small matters she needed to with Master Naylor about the bylaws. But before she could do more than stir, a woman said beside her, “My lady, would you and the other sister care for something to drink?”

Frevisse turned to look up at the woman in the doorway with a green-glazed pitcher in one hand, two green-glazed cups in the other. Simon Perryn’s wife, she guessed, because although, as with most women of middle years, the wimple and veil made it difficult to judge her age, she was assuredly no servant. Though her gown was simply cut, shaped to her but loose enough for working in, it was of well-dyed, good linen, her wimple and veil of equal quality, the veil lightly starched, the wimple falling in soft folds over her throat and shoulders, only marred on the breast by a somewhat grubby handprint of a size to have come from the little girl across the yard; and though she likely had never had a nun at her doorstep before now, she was at ease, smiling, as she held out the pitcher and cups.

Frevisse smiled back at her. “You’ll have to ask Sister Thomasine if she does but, if you’ll join me, I’ll gladly thank you for some.”

Perryn’s wife made her a smiling curtsy and crossed the yard to where Sister Thomasine and the child were still busy together, spoke with them and was coming back when a burst of boys appeared from between house and byre. There momentarily seemed to be a great many of them but as they skidded to a halt, bumping into one another, at sight of her, Frevisse saw there were only three, the oldest maybe twelve, the youngest maybe eight, the other somewhere in between, but all of them wet and muddy. Staring at her, they jostled elbows into each other, made awkward boy-bows, and headed away along one of the paths through the garden toward Perryn’s wife, who met them where their way crossed the garden’s wide middle path and said sternly, albeit around laughter, “Nay, keep your distance. I don’t need you dripping on me nor you’re not going inside like that either.”

‘But Mum…“ the middle one began in protest.

She pointed toward a shadowed corner beside the byre. “You just take yourselves over there and dry for a while before you even think of coming inside. Cisily will bring you something to eat and drink,” she added.

Promise of food diverted them and they went, laughing and loud, where their mother had pointed while she came on, to set the jug and cups on the bench and lean through the houseplace doorway to call, “Cisily! Starving boys by the byre. Milk and buttered bread, please,” and sat down on the bench where her husband had been. Still smiling, she said, “They’ve been to the stream,” and took up the jug to pour a pale ale into one of the cups with, “Sister Thomasine wanted none but I hope you do?”

She held the cup out to Frevisse who took it with thanks and, “You’ll join me, I pray you?”

‘Thank you, my lady,“ she said and added while she poured for herself, ”I’m Anne, the reeve’s wife.“

Frevisse acknowledged that with a slight bow of her head and, “I’m Dame Frevisse.”

They talked a little of Master Naylor’s trouble, then moved on to how grateful they were for the good weather. An older woman in simple servant’s garb and apron came out of the house bearing a tray with a plain pottery jug and wooden cups and half a loaf of sliced buttered bread. Brisk and cheerful, she crossed the yard toward the boys who leaped to their feet, the tallest taking the tray from her. She told them, “Mind you bring it in when you’re done, not just leave it sitting here,” and for what it might be worth they nodded agreement, mouths already crammed with bread. On her way back to the house she took the chance for a thorough look at Frevisse while making a quick-bobbed curtsy to her and her mistress, and was just gone inside when Anne stood quickly up, calling, “Lucy, no,” and moved to head off the little girl now making a toddle-legged run along the straightest garden path toward the boys-or, more probably, toward their food.

Anne caught her where the garden paths crossed, saying as she scooped her up, “There now, if you get dirty with them you’ll have to be washed now and at bedtime, too, and you don’t want that, do you?”

‘Food!“ Lucy declared, her determination undeterred by being carried toward the house tucked under her mother’s arm like a kindling bundle.

Setting her down on the houseplace’s door sill, Anne said, “Cisily will give you your own bread and milk inside,” straightened the child’s gown and gave her a gentle push. Lucy, as biddable as her brothers if food was promised, went in and Anne sat down again with a great sigh and an apology.

‘She’s a pretty child,“ Frevisse ventured, that usually something safe to say to a parent and this time true.

‘Pretty is as pretty does, and sometimes she’s none too pretty, I promise you,“ Anne returned, smiling. ”We named her for my husband’s grandmother and she looks like to be as set to her ways as she was.“ Anne did not add ”more’s the pity,“ but it was there in her rueful tone.

‘And you’ve Master Naylor’s son on your hands, too,“ Frevisse remembered somewhat belatedly. ”How does he?“

‘Dickon? Very well.“ Anne nodded across the yard toward the boys, sitting with their backs to the byre wall now, each with a cup in one hand and a large slice of bread in the other, the two older boys kicking lazily at each other’s bare feet lest things be too peaceful. ”He’s the brown-haired one.“ The other two were fair-haired like their sister and younger than Dickon, guessing by their look. ”It helps he was already friends with most of the village boys before this trouble and here as often as not, so nothing is strange to him.“

‘Is he bothered by what’s happening?“

‘If he is, he keeps it to himself. He says he doesn’t mind being away from his sisters and baby brother because, according to him, they all stink. Mind you, when someone-not Adam or Colyn, they know better-teased him the other day over his father being a villein instead of a free man, Dickon took him down, rubbed his face in the dirt, and told him, ’My father never lies and if he says he’s not a villein, then he’s not a villein, there!‘ “

Anne told it laughingly but her laughter stopped and her face clouded as she looked away toward the street and a woman coming along it, a napkin-covered plate in her hands. “Gilbey Dunn’s wife,” she said, not welcomingly, but brought up a smile and rose to greet her as the woman started across the plank bridge into the yard.

Frevisse stayed seated, watching the woman come. She had had brief dealing with Gilbey Dunn years ago and was curious as to what sort of woman had married him. She was younger than Anne and, Frevisse was startled to see, lovely out of the ordinary. Her face was heart-shaped from wide forehead to perfect chin, and she was so fair skinned and pale browed she was surely golden-haired beneath her veil and wimple. Beyond that, her rose-colored dress was of a finer sort than most village women would have, better even than Anne’s for cut and cloth, but it was the way she wore it, with a light-hipped grace, that made the greatest difference.

By then, Anne had met her, was bringing her back toward the bench with a creditable display of welcome, saying, “Dame Frevisse, this is Elena, Gilbey Dunn’s wife. Elena, Dame Frevisse is doing what can be done to take Master Naylor’s place this while.”

Elena curtsyed deeply, with practiced grace, Frevisse slightly bowed her head, and they briefly exchanged comments on Master Naylor before Elena turned to Anne, taking the napkin from the plate to show small cakes and said, “They’re honey-raisin, new-baked, that I thought the boys might like. And Lucy, too,” she added to the little girl come to stand in the doorway staring at her and bent to hold the plate out to her.

‘Only one,“ Anne said.

‘There’s enough for two apiece,“ Elena said.

‘Two,“ Anne said. ”And say thank you.“

Lucy, a cake in either hand, said clearly, loudly, “Thank you,” and disappeared inside again.

Meanwhile, the boys had begun to sidle across the yard as soon as the plate had been uncovered, coming faster when they saw Lucy claiming cakes, and now the taller of the fair-haired boys, with his brother and Dickon Naylor crowded close at his back, said, “Thank you, too,” with earnest hope behind Elena, and she turned and held the plate out to them all. Hands flashed and with chorused thanks the boys retreated toward the byre as Elena turned back to Anne and Frevisse, holding the plate out to them, too, laughing silently.

Frevisse said thanks but shook her head. Anne said, “Keep mine a moment while I bring a cup for you and see to a pot I left on the fire. Please, sit.”

She gestured to the bench and left them, and Elena sat, holding the plate toward Frevisse again, asking, “You’re sure?”

Frevisse assured her she was. Elena looked briefly across the yard to Sister Thomasine beneath the apple tree, her head bowed over the rosary in her hands and made no offer that way but settled with the plate and its remaining cakes on her lap. “It’s a warm day,” she observed.

‘You wanted to talk to me?“ Frevisse said in return.

The neat arch of Elena’s eyebrows curved higher and her smile suddenly warmed past mere good manners. “Yes, I do indeed, if you please, my lady. About my husband.”

How had so well-spoken a woman come to be a villein’s wife in Prior Byfield, Frevisse wondered. But only asked cautiously, “Yes?” Because from what she knew of Gilbey Dunn, caution seemed best.

‘You’ll be talked to about him this while that village matters are in your hands. I wanted to talk to you about him first.“

That it was already so widely known that she was taking Master Naylor’s place came as no surprise to Frevisse, knowledgeable of village ways. To show she, too, knew more than might be expected of her, she said, “I understand he’s interested in acquiring more land.”

‘That’s not a fault,“ Elena said quickly, a little too carefully.

‘It’s not a fault,“ Frevisse agreed. ”Most men want to better themselves.“ She hesitated, then added, deliberately to see Elena’s response, ”The fault only comes if they do it with harm to others.“

‘Gilbey has harmed no one.“

That might be strictly true, if harm direct was meant, but there was harm indirect, and she asked, “Didn’t he lately bid a lease away from a man who’s now run off because of it?”

‘It’s more likely Matthew Woderove left because of his wife than because of Gilbey,“ Elena answered calmly. And raised herself in Frevisse’s opinion by saying nothing else of Matthew Woderove’s wife, though surely there was more that could have been. Instead she said, ”He’s a good man, my husband. He does well by all he holds, whether from Lord Lovell or your priory, and pays well for it, too. Better than most could or would. Any of the accounts you look at will show you that. There’s some who hold it against him that he does so well, but that’s all they have to hold against him. What I’ve come to ask is that you don’t, that’s all.“

Frevisse could hear Anne inside, telling Cisily what to do with the stew on the fire and moving toward the door while she did, and quickly she asked Elena, “Why does your husband pay the fine to keep from ever being reeve here?”

Elena paused at the shift of direction, then answered openly enough, “He isn’t liked.”

‘That isn’t needed for the office,“ Frevisse returned. Years and experience and a degree of wealth grown out of both were what were looked for, whether the office was appointed by the lord, as in Prior Byfield, or elected, as in other places. By that, Gilbey was as likely to the office as Simon Perryn was. ”There’s money to be made in it,“ she added bluntly.

‘There’s better ways to make money without having to daily deal with people who dislike you,“ Elena returned as bluntly. And laughed as if suddenly, truly pleased. ”My husband said I’d likely find talking with you more challenge than I’d expect.“

It was one thing for her to remember Gilbey Dunn and another to find that he remembered her, Frevisse found. Somewhat discomfited, she asked, “Why did he say that?”

‘Because unlike most women, he said, you see further than the flutter of your veil.“

And so did his wife, Frevisse judged; but Anne came out then, with a cup for Elena and a stool for herself. As she poured Elena ale after Frevisse refused more, she said, “So. You’ve kept in talk?”

‘I was about to set to persuading Dame Frevisse that she should put in good word for my husband when the matter of Matthew Woderove’s holding comes up,“ Elena said easily.

‘Matthew might still come back,“ Anne answered, a little stiffly.

‘He might,“ Elena allowed. ”But if he doesn’t…“

‘I think your husband has done Matthew enough harm without being the one to take his holding, too,“ Anne said, more stiffly.

‘The only person who’s harmed Matthew Woderove is himself,“ Elena said, unangrily but giving no ground.

Anne began an answer but Lucy called from inside and instead she rose with, “I pray you excuse me.”

When she was inside, Elena rose, too, not outwardly bothered, and said smilingly to Frevisse, “I’ll go, too, I think. By your leave.” What could have been regret tinged her smile and voice as she added, “Anne will be more comfortable if I’m not here.”

To Frevisse’s granting she could go, she made a low curtsy of farewell and went, leaving the plate and the remaining cakes on the bench. Anne was in time, coming out, to see her leaving and could have called farewell, or Elena might have looked back and waved, but neither did, and Anne, sitting down on the bench again, said while watching her out of sight, “I’ll say for her she never overstays her welcome.”

Frevisse almost asked how much welcome Elena had ever had but changed to, “Is she freeborn? Your husband said she’s from Banbury.” The nearest market town.

‘Aye, she’s freeborn. Her father is a baker there, with property and a likelihood of being mayor. What she was thinking of, to marry Gilbey and come here, I don’t know.“ Anne broke off a corner of one of the cakes and crumbled it between her fingers. ”She’s too young for him by far and… well, you’ve seen her. Men can’t help but look at her, and they want to do more than look, too, that’s sure. That Tom Hulcote that works for Gilbey, for one. Gilbey’d do well to watch him.“ It sounded a well-worn theme, with more to be said about it, just as with Matthew Woderove’s wife, but Anne broke off, turning a little pink across the cheeks, probably at such tale-telling to a nun, and changed course with, ”It’s that Gilbey’s not given to doing fool things. It was years since his first wife and their daughter died, and he seemed content enough. Then, next thing we knew, he’d married her and built a bigger house and started a family all over again. At his age! What was either of them thinking?“

‘There’s children then?“

‘Oh, yes. Two sweet little boys.“

‘Are they villein or free?“

‘Free. When she nears her birthing time, Elena goes to Gilbey’s sister. She bought herself free years ago and married and lives in Banbury. Both boys were born there.“

And so were free, like their mother, instead of villein like their father.

‘Gilbey isn’t well liked, is he?“ Frevisse asked.

Anne sniffed. “He’s too lucky, making money at everything he turns his hand to, and keeps what he has to himself, no fear, while letting you know he has it.” She waxed openly indignant. “You know he bought a lease away from Matthew Woderove this past Midsummer’s court? It’s for a stretch of rough pasturage gone to scrub and not worth the bother of clearing it again, everyone thought, but he’s bought half a dozen cows in milk from somewhere and turned them out on it, hired two girls and set them to be his milkmaids, making cheese as fast as can be to sell in Banbury, and the word is that come autumn, he won’t try to overwinter the cows but slaughter them and salt the beef down to sell. You see how he goes about things?”

What Frevisse saw was that Gilbey Dunn had a skill for turning money into more money and, covering her interest, asked, “Why didn’t Matthew Woderove use it that way?”

‘Matthew has only the one cow and no skill at making money enough to have more. He never had the chance, did he?“

But he had had the land and let it waste. Gilbey had seen its possibility and taken it, able to because of what he had not wasted through the years in the way of money and other chances, Frevisse guessed.

‘For all he’s so clever, though,“ Anne said, nibbling crumbs from one of the cakes as if grudging they tasted so good but unable to help herself, ”I’d keep an eye on Elena and that Tom Hulcote together if I were him.“

Perryn came into sight at that moment, long-striding up the street, his hand raised in greeting and an apology started as he crossed the plank bridge into the yard. Frevisse and Anne stood up and moved to meet him, but the boys were quicker, tumbling up like a rout of puppies from a game they had been scratching in the dust beside the byre, to pelt across the yard with happy shouts and cluster around him, jostling each other to be the first to tell him something while he tousled their hair and told them, “You wait on a moment. I’ll hear it all later. Right now there’s strangers by the alehouse if you want to go and have a stare at them.”

They did, and in a flurry of bare legs and yells they dashed away, leaving Perryn abruptly deserted and sharing a smile warm with affection with his wife as she came toward him. It was a smile full of so many things understood between them past the need of saying that Frevisse understood far more about them both-beginning with how glad they were of each other and how much they loved their sons-than words would have sufficed for.

But Perryn was already saying, “I pray your pardon, my lady. It was something more than I thought it would be. There’s men of the crowner come with questions about a body.”

‘Here?“ Frevisse asked, unlikely though that was. The village would know of any body before the crowner would, surely.

‘Nay. Over Wroxton way. Seems there’s been one found near there, with no one knowing who he was. The crowner’s sent these men out on rounds with some of what was found with him in hopes someone can say who he was after all.“

‘Poor man,“ Anne said.

‘The trouble is,“ Perryn went on, ”they don’t want to spend long over it, so I’ve had to send to bring everyone in from the fields, and when they’re done, I’ll have to see to them all going out again or they’ll likely stand about talking the rest of the day away.“

‘And you’d rather I came back tomorrow to finish our business,“ Frevisse said.

‘If it’d not be too much trouble, my lady.“

‘None. Or not compared to what you have on your hands now.“ Not that it would not have mattered if it had been too much trouble, because the crowner and his men were charged, as officers of the king, with looking into any uncertain deaths, to find if there was guilt or only happenstance involved, and whether or no the matter should be given over to the county sheriff. Therefore their business had precedence over hers. But then, neither did she mind the excuse it gave her to have done with manor business for today.

While she thanked Anne for her hospitality and beckoned for Sister Thomasine to join her, Perryn left them, returning down the street toward the alehouse, where Frevisse could now see the five horsemen waiting near a widespread oak on the green. A scattering of village folk not out to the fields today for one reason or another were already gathering to them and, grateful she needed have no part in it, she turned with Sister Thomasine to go the other way, back to St. Frideswide’s.