The Murderer's Tale (5 page)

Now Dame Claire was saying to Lionel, “You’re kind to do so much for us. You were readying to leave when we came, I think?”

“Thinking of it, no more,” Lionel lightly answered. “The day’s too fine to waste in haste.”

“And it’s not so many miles to Minster Lovell that we need worry,” Mistress Knyvet added.

“But weather is always a chancy thing, no matter what it looks like just now,” her husband said. “And night falls on even the most pleasant day.”

“It would take a miracle to make rain fall from this clear of a sky,” Lionel said.

Giles shrugged without answer to that. His wife held out the goblet they shared to him with a smile that was either commiseration or appeasement. Frevisse had already decided he was a tense-tempered man and wished Mistress Knyvet luck.

Master Geffers began recalling a particularly rain-fouled journey he had once made to Gloucester town. Father Henry ventured an opinion that such good weather as at present meant the harvest might be good this year. The Stenby father and son quickly took up that thought, agreeing that they hoped so.

The conversation lagged a little then, weather and travel having been covered with some degree of thoroughness but Dame Claire, Father Henry, and Frevisse were still finishing their meal so that no one could take the moment to suggest they should all be on their way. It was Mistress Knyvet who smiled and asked, “Martyn, have you any new riddles?”

The steward smiled back. “I do, as it happens.”

Lionel half-turned on his cushion to look up at him, his face alight with laughter. “You’ve been holding out on me? Unfair.”

“If I emptied out all that’s in my head…” Martyn started.

“… there’d be a puddle on the ground,” Giles finished.

Masters Geffers caught the beginning of a laugh behind his hand. Lionel turned an angry look on Giles and might have spoken, but Mistress Knyvet, hurriedly passing the goblet to her husband again, glanced aside at him, and Lionel held back what he might have said and turned again to Martyn, who had not changed color or expression. He might not have heard Giles at all, except he did not finish his sentence but said, “Try this. In a garden was laid a pretty fair maid, as fair as the light of the morn. The first day of her life she was made a wife, and she died ere she was born.”

Giles, done with the goblet, yawned his boredom and lay back on a cushion behind me. The Stenbys and Father Henry looked utterly lost, but the rest of them set to the problem, Lionel with open delight. Dame Claire repeated, thinking about it, “ ‘And died ere she was born’?” Her literal mind that served her so well as infirmarian was a liability when it came to riddles, and no one else seemed to be faring any better. Only Frevisse, given to thinking aside from other people’s usual ways even at the best of times, suddenly saw the way of it and declared, “It’s Eve of course! She was made from Adam’s rib and never born at all.”

Martyn declared, “You have it!” Lionel laughed and clapped his hands in admiration. Everyone else groaned or continued to look bewildered.

“Now you have to ask one,” Lionel declared. “Make it hard. She’ll match you, Martyn, and serve you right. You’ve had your own way at this too long.”

“You’re jealous because you can’t keep a riddle in your head long enough to bring it to me and ask it,” Martyn returned in kind.

“And I swear you’ve cheated by sending to London for a riddle book and kept it secret. That’s how you manage to look so clever,” Lionel shot back.

“And you wish you’d thought of it first,” Martyn returned.

That was bold, between servant and master, but Lionel only laughed. Frevisse wondered how it went in the Knyvet household with them more like to friends than master and steward; but she had her riddle and said before they could go on, “A shoemaker made shoes of no leather but all the elements taken together—earth, water, fire, and air—and every customer had two pair.”

“Ah!” Lionel cried. “Martyn, where’s your book? I’ve heard that one and can’t remember it!”

Dame Claire murmured, “A shoemaker? ”Earth, water, fire, and air‘?“

Away along the hedge one of the horses stamped at a fly, his hoof thudding softly against the turf. Martyn Graves-end’s expression changed, betraying he suddenly had the answer, but Mistress Knyvet cried out before he could, “Horseshoes! It’s horseshoes, isn’t it?”

“Yes, horseshoes,” Frevisse agreed.

Pleased beyond measure, Mistress Knyvet exclaimed, “Lionel, I finally guessed one! All on my own!”

Lionel and Martyn were both laughing at her, as pleased as she was, and Lionel reached out to take and squeeze her hand. “Haven’t I told you that all you need to do is think crookedly, like Martyn does, and you could do it?”

Mistress Knyvet’s delight shifted to dismay. “But now I have to have a riddle. Giles, can you think of one for me?”

Her husband had occasionally watched what was going on through half-opened eyes, but now to his wife’s plea, he only shook his head and closed his eyes completely.

“Giles!” she pleaded.

“The cat one from the other day,” he said.

“But that’s no good! Lionel and Martyn already know it!”

“Then tell them they can’t guess.”

Lionel rescued her with, “What we should do is not be guessing anything but being on our way.”

Dame Claire, Father Henry, and Frevisse had finished eating, and he was undeniably right. It was time they were all about their business again.

“But we’ll all meet at Minster Lovell,” Lionel added, “and that will be pleasant.”

Servants gathered up the cushions to pack away in a pannier on one of the horses. Girths were tightened and horses brought while the men talked of how far it might yet be and Dame Claire made light conversation with Mistress Knyvet on the beautiful day, Frevisse with them but not interested. Giles, already mounted, said impatiently, “Edeyn, come on. You delay us all.”

Since he was the only one so far mounted, Frevisse thought his comment made him look a fool; but his wife’s expression was shaded somewhere between alarm at his overt displeasure and resentment at his tone before she smoothed it away, excused herself, and went to her horse, leaving Frevisse appreciative of the fact that though it was difficult for her to be worthy of her own godly bridegroom Christ, she was spared the awkward temper of a mortal husband.

The others were mounting now. Farewells were made and the riders gathered on the road, Father Henry and young John waiting aside with their horses. The Stenbys’ two sturdy bays each had a scarlet ribbon frivolously braided into their forelock by someone who hoped their venture into the world beyond their village would be gay as well as holy, and for no good reason Frevisse’s spirits rose a little at the sight. She had not known how uncheerful and unsociable she was until they had joined this mostly happy group. She must think more of scarlet ribbons and less of Domina Alys.

She and Dame Claire stood side by side to watch the Knyvets and the others go, waving just before they were lost to sight around the next curve of the road. Alone again, they knelt where they were beside the road, joined by Father Henry to say the prayers of None together. John Naylor stayed with the horses but bowed his head with the quiet willingness to prayer that had helped make his companionship acceptable these past few days. It probably helped that he was spared the full complexity and length of the offices’ psalms and prayers, but Frevisse was pleased that, even shortened, None’s prayers still included,
Pes enim meus stetit in via recta.
My foot truly keeps on the right way. A line most apt for travelers, even with so few miles now between them and Minster Lovell.

Chapter 4

In the warm light of late afternoon their way brought them down into a soft curve of valley where a narrow river ran glittering in the sun between low banks. Happily this was one they did not have to cross; the road turned to run along it toward a stretch of houses with the squat tower of a church at their far end and a glimpse of taller buildings beyond it so that Frevisse guessed their day’s walking was nearly done.

The road became a street between the timbered houses. The smells of cooking came from the open doorways, and a cluster of small children pulled back cheerfully from their game in the middle of the street to watch them pass. When Frevisse and Dame Claire smiled at them, they smiled back, a happy, barefoot, untidy little group, dirty with their day’s play but well-kept under it.

A woman came out on the house doorstep nearest them. One of the little girls ran to her and caught hold of her skirts, not frightened, merely asserting her claim, and the woman laid a hand on her head in absent caress while taking in the sight of the four travelers. She smiled when Dame Claire asked, “Is this Minster Lovell?” and answered with a curtsy. “Indeed, my lady.”

“And the manor house?” Dame Claire asked.

Other housewives were coming to their doorsteps, drawn first by their children’s silence and now by the chance to look at strangers. Pleased to be the one speaking to them, the woman pointed on along the street. “There beyond the church. Just go on the way you’re going. You’re nearly there.”

Dame Claire gave their thanks and a blessing that the woman gladly curtsied again to receive.

Past the houses, the road left river as well as village behind to skirt a low churchyard wall. Some of the church’s stonework was new and the yard was neatly kept around the grave markers, the paths lately graveled. Frevisse noted it all the way she had noted the quiet prosperity of the village, but what she noted more was the wall at the churchyard’s east end. It was higher than a mounted man could see over and plastered a shining, unweathered white. It was safe guess that Minster Lovell manor house, the end of their day’s walking, and the chance of a good night’s rest were beyond it.

The horses jinked their harnesses, pulling at their reins, sensing along with their riders that they were nearing travel’s end for the day and wanting to quicken the pace. Frevisse had the same urge, but Dame Claire was past going any faster so she held herself back the way Father Henry and young John were holding back their horses. They would all of them arrive no sooner than the slowest of them and that, in God’s will, would be soon enough.

Beyond the churchyard, the road went on along the wall, now taller than a rider’s head, and when the wall turned to the right, the road went with it. On their left now there were barns and byres and the sounds of men and animals about their business at day’s end. On their right, above the wall, red-tiled roofs showed and two chimneys whose smoke was, Frevisse hoped, from kitchens, and then at last there was the gateway, its gates open, showing that the way ran as a cobbled, covered passageway through the thickness of buildings built inside and above the wall, into the manor yard.

She, Dame Claire, and Father Henry paused to let John Naylor go ahead of them. He spoke briefly to the man who sauntered out from the gateway shadows and then turned and nodded for them to follow him on through.

The wide yard was full of sunlight and edged by late afternoon shadows. Its south side, to their left, ran along the river with a plain wall and a small gateway standing open to the river. The other three sides were enclosed with long ranges of stone buildings. Low on either side of the gateway, at the north end of the yard they rose to a high roof of a great hall; while across from the gateway whatever was to be there was still a jumble of builders’ scaffolding, partial walls, and piled stone. The workmen were just coming down from their half-built walls, powdered with stone dust, laughing and loud among themselves. Other folk were going and coming from here to there and otherwise across the yard, busy with purpose that had nothing to do with the new-come travelers.

Frevisse had a disconcerting moment of longing for the familiarity of St. Frideswide’s, where everyone and their duties, including her own, were known. Here she was only a stranger, and her only purpose in being here at all was to deliver a document, a thing any servant could have done.

While she was still sorting out her feelings, putting them out of her way, a pair of stable hands came to take the horses. As they led them off, a servant came toward them from the hall, a hand raised to draw their attention and in greeting. He was an older man, dressed in plain livery of good blue cloth, with Lord Lovell’s badge of a hunting dog on his left breast. “From St. Frideswide’s?” he asked as if already sure of his answer. Dame Claire agreed that they were and he went on, “We were told you were coming. My lady set me to watch for you. If you’ll please to come with me?”

They readily would, thankful that Lionel Knyvet must have spoken of them and brought them this welcome. The man led them slantwise across a corner of the yard toward the great hall, to a low-arched doorway that led into a passage. On their right, to judge by the good odors and bustle beyond the doorways there, was the kitchen. On their left, halfway along the wooden screen, a single wide doorway led into the great hall itself and Frevisse supposed that was the way they were to go, but as they reached it a girl too well gowned to be a servant came toward them from the far end of the passage, calling gaily, “Have you found them, John? How very good of you.”

Frevisse held back the urge to say it had not been hard for him, once they had walked in through the gateway, but that was discourteous, her tiredness speaking, not her manners.

“I’m Luce,” the girl said with a bobbing curtsy to Dame Claire, Frevisse, and Father Henry. “One of Lady Lovell’s ladies.” She was softly pretty in a way that would likely go to plump soon, sure and pleasant in her manners, bright with cheerfulness. “Lady Lovell thought you might want to wash and rest a little first. I’m to see you to your room and then to Lady Lovell, if you like. Oh, Sire Benedict!” she said happily to a priest come into the passageway from the hall. “They’re here. See?”

Unless he’s blind, he does, Frevisse thought.

Luce turned her smile back on them. “Sire Benedict is our priest. My lady thought he and yours could spend their time together.”

Sire Benedict bowed gravely to them and then to Father Henry. He was an older man, cleanly kept in his black priest’s gown, his tonsure fresh and smooth. He looked more slight than he actually was next to Father Henry’s great size, and Father Henry was more rumpled than ever next to him, his tonsure as usual nearly hidden by his thick, willfully curling yellow hair. But they said polite things to each other and went away together while Luce said, “And Hugh will see to your man.”