The Reeve's Tale (26 page)

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.

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.”