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Authors: Margaret Frazer

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BOOK: The Reeve's Tale
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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?“

BOOK: The Reeve's Tale
13.81Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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