The Servant’s Tale (24 page)

Dame Claire, with a nod of appreciation for the prompt solution to one part of the problem, curtsied deeply. “As you wish, Domina,” she murmured, and went, taking Sister Juliana with her.

“Now,” said Domina Edith, “you, Master Naylor, had better go see to it that the players are in the lesser guesthall and stay there, then that Master Montfort’s horses are properly stabled.” To the servant she said, “Go, give Master Montfort my greetings and tell him I will see him in my parlor so soon as he is able to come. Sister Thomasine will accompany me there now. Dame Frevisse, you stay here until Sisters Juliana and Emma come, then haste to your duties in the guesthall. See if there is something warm that can be had from our kitchen.”

She paused, considering if that covered all that needed doing on the moment, then nodded and held out her hand to take Sister Thomasine’s.

She had hardly departed when the two nuns who would begin the watch over Sister Fiacre’s body came in. Frevisse brought two candles and two gilt candle holders from the sacristy for the head and foot of the coffin, and lit them from the altar candle, which she then blew out and replaced.

It was nearly dark out, and the courtyard was lit by flaring torches. Frevisse, standing outside the church’s western door, made a quick count of the men Montfort had brought with him, and saw the crowner himself among them, his bulk muffled in a heavy hooded cloak, standing by his tall yellow gelding, giving curt instructions to a priory servant before handing over the reins. The torchlight made his face more florid than it already was, and judging by his expression, his temper matched its color.

Frevisse pretended not to see him as she went quickly by, bound for the greater guesthall. The last time he had had to come to St. Frideswide’s, she had interfered with his investigation in what he considered a wholly improper manner for a woman and a nun. That she proved herself right and him wrong did not change his opinion of her. She did not want to set him off again, nor allow him to make his usual facile, incorrect deductions. She would have to work around him, and send her ideas to him by way of Father Henry or Master Naylor, in the form of suggestions or questions that would cause no offense. Master Naylor did not favor cleverness in women but at least knew how to work around stupidity in men.

In the guesthall the servants were already gathered, waiting for instructions. She ordered first that Sym’s body be moved to an empty shed in the outer yard—Montfort would not approve of sharing his quarters with a dead villein—then that the fireplaces in the best chamber and the guesthall kitchen be lit. She set the servants to their other duties, and with everything in motion and certain her people knew how to carry through, Frevisse left them to it.

In the yard, she looked toward the lesser guesthall. A servant she recognized as Naylor’s assistant was standing guard at the door. She ought to go back to the cloister, to confer with Dame Alys in her kitchen about heating cider. But she turned away from the cloister for the other guesthall. She would make sure the players knew there would be no play tonight.

Chapter
19

Frevisse awoke the next morning heavy with weariness. Standing her watch in the cold church beside the stiff body of Sister Fiacre had, besides denying her needed rest, depressed her. She was tired of death, tired of being cold and ill, tired of being around other cold, sick women, tired even of prayers and worship. She forced herself through the day’s beginning until the end of chapter. Then, as the nuns left to go about their various morning tasks and Dame Claire moved to Domina Edith’s side to help her back to her rooms, the prioress, accepting her arm, gestured to Frevisse to come with them.

Domina Edith needed only a little help while walking, but on the stairs to her private rooms gave way to their steadying help with simple grace. Under the furred cloak and several layers of clothing she seemed all thin flesh and small bones.

Her rooms had more luxury than the rest of St. Frideswide’s. Her parlor, where she received guests of importance or ones personally welcome, overlooked the courtyard through three tall windows glazed with clear glass. In the more than thirty years since Domina Edith had become prioress, her personal things had so gradually come into the room that St. Frideswide’s would have seemed incomplete without them. A woven rug from Spain lay over a table and an embroidery frame with an unfinished wall hanging of Virgin and Child in a field of flowers stood near the fireplace. On the hearth was an elderly basket where her greyhound had slept; though the dog had died last summer, Domina Edith had not yet given order for the basket to be taken away, and no one would ever think to do it without her order.

The parlor was ready for its mistress, the fire built up in the fireplace and braziers lighted in two comers of the room. The only thing not friendly or fitting was Master Montfort standing spread legged in front of the fireplace, displeasure plain on his fox-nosed face. His hands were behind him, the back of one slapping into the palm of the other, filling the gap of his waiting with sharp noise.

Frevisse felt a sharp rise of dismay and alarm at seeing him. There was simply no way around the fact that Master Morys Montfort, the King’s crowner for northern Oxfordshire, was an arrogant fool.

Domina Edith inclined her head to him.
“Benedicite,
Master Montfort. I pray you give me a moment to finish some bit of business with Dame Claire.”

She did not slip free of her cloak as she turned to settle into her chair, but kept it close around her. Even before this winter sickness she had been somewhat declining. Her soft folded skin was so pale it was difficult to tell where it ended and her white wimple began. But her eyes had lost none of their alertness and she fixed them now on Dame Claire.

“So—” she began, but the word croaked and she paused to clear her throat before trying again. “So, how is our siege of the rheum doing? Is this going to be done with soon, or shall we go on like this until spring?”

“Not into spring, surely,” Dame Claire said, a little stiffly. She had as little liking for Montfort as Frevisse did. “It’s easing among most of us, rather than going on to something worse.”

“And for that we must thank you as well as God, I know,” Domina Edith said. “It will be a blessing when it’s finished, though. I’m very weary of the offices sounding like a chorus of frogs. Thank you, Dame.” She turned to Montfort with an unapologetic smile. “It was not something I was minded to ask in chapter for fear of inspiring relapses. Now, how are matters with you? Are you being well seen to, and helped in your questioning?”‘

Montfort stopped his impatient hand slapping. “Your steward has told me enough that there’s going to be a little trouble in concluding matters.”

Dame Claire knew more about Sym’s death and Sister Fiacre’s than did Roger Naylor, but it was clear from her expression that Montfort had not questioned her. But Montfort saw her ready to speak and directed so ill-tempered a look at her that she pressed her lips closed. He sniffed his contentment at putting an impertinent female in her place.

“I had thought to find this was a mere death by misadventure,” he said. “A villein picking a quarrel with a rogue during Christmas idleness and falling on his own knife. I wish it were so, as I have my own holiday to enjoy, Lord Lovel being so kind as to honor my wife and me with an invitation to keep the holidays with him.”

He tried to make it sound as if he were frequently so honored, but his stretch to include the fact in this conversation made it clear that he was honored to the point of astonishment. It made Frevisse wonder if he would not have taken his time arriving, or even sent his decision by messenger—it seeming to be so small a matter—had he not wished to show his host his own importance. So here he was, having come at speed despite the season and weather, and was equally impatient to be gone again, doubtless to regale his host with tales of his skill.

“But now I hear that this first death was deliberate murder, and another murder has followed it. Two murders, one in your very church.” His tone made it clear that such a thing was a personal attack on God, on the King’s peace—and himself. He paused. Frevisse wondered if he was expecting them to apologize, but no one did, so he went on. “And another thing is abundantly clear.” He glared at Frevisse. “Someone is interfering in what is not their business. Again.”

Domina Edith looked mildly toward Frevisse. “Are you interfering with Master Montfort, Dame?”

Her hands folded into her sleeves, her eyes and voice downcast, Frevisse said, “I have asked questions, my lady. There seemed a need to make an early record of what had happened, as we were not sure how swiftly Master Montfort could arrive.”

Someone began scratching on the door to the parlor. Domina Edith seemed not to hear it—her servants knocked firmly—but then the door opened and a balding man put in his head.

Montfort gestured for him to come in, and by the gesture reminded Frevisse that the crowner had a clerk, so much in Montfort’s shadow that he usually went as unnoticed as one. He wore a loose gown cinched around his skinny middle with a broad leather belt. Hanging from the belt were an ink pot, a fat, shabby purse stuffed with parchment squares, a small knife, and a leather cord holding a bundle of raven feathers.

“I most humbly beg your pardon,” he said in a thin voice, addressing not the mistress of the room but his own master. “I heard voices, and thought if you were taking testimony you would require me to make a record of it.” Indeed, he held a thin packet of parchment at the ready in one hand and a feather already carved into a quill in the other. Frevisse drew an angry breath; his ignoring Domina Edith was rude past forgiving.

But the prioress forestalled her. “Do come in,” she said. “Master Montfort can review for your record anything of importance.”

“Collecting gossip from a priory nun is hardly likely to prove valuable,” Montfort said, gesturing the clerk to a place in a corner even while he returned to the topic at hand.

Frevisse, not wanting to quarrel, or to lie by seeming to agree with him, bowed her head again and tucked her hands even further up her sleeves.

“So,” Montfort said, “I can assume that now I have arrived, you will stop interfering in my work?”

“I would never knowingly interfere in the Crown’s business,” replied Frevisse, putting a hint of shock in her reply.

Domina Edith agreed, “We have the highest respect for the Crown of England.”

Montfort shifted his ill temper to the rear and said, almost graciously, “That is well said, my lady. There should be no more trouble then.” He cleared his throat and turned again to Frevisse. “I would require you to tell me what has been said to you, Dame.”

Frevisse bit the inside of her lip. He scolded her for interfering, but had wit to remember she was right the last time their paths crossed and might on this occasion again have learned something of value. Taking firm hold on her temper, not daring to let him see her face, she said, “I have discovered that while Sym was being killed, the man he had fought with in the tavern was with a girl. And it appears that a great many people disliked Sym. There’s a neighbor who wants to marry Sym’s mother for the sake of their holding and Sym was furious about it.”

“And?”

Frevisse looked at him. “And what?”

“The other players. They quarreled with both the man and Sister…” His set frown sank a little deeper as he looked for a name.

“Sister Fiacre,” Domina Edith murmured.

“Sister Fiacre, Sister Fiacre,” Montfort grumbled. “The villein and the nun quarreled with the players and now they’re both dead. What about that?”

“I know nothing to indicate any one player could be involved in both murders. Three quarreled with Sister Fiacre, but two of them had no reason to murder Sym, and the other has a witness who says he was with her when Sym was murdered.”

Montfort scowled. “So they conspired to do it. The one who quarreled with Sym killed the nun, one of the others killing Sym.” He turned his attention to Domina Edith. “They’re a shameless lot, these lordless players, a menace to honest folk. The matter may lie in which two of them shared the task, but they are all equally to hang for it.” Montfort was fond of prompt, straightforward decisions. They enhanced his reputation, and kept his expenses low. “It should be easy enough to break whatever story they have concocted among themselves. These kind of folk are clever but not loyal, especially when one can save his neck by informing on the others. I’ll have the truth out of them soon enough, by questioning them separately.”

Frevisse clutched her forearms tightly inside her sleeves, not saying anything and keeping her head bent toward the floor. It took great effort just to control her breathing. He must
not
do this, she thought.

In her faded voice Domina Edith said, “We will pray for the truth to be quickly revealed, Master Montfort.”

Montfort grumbled his thanks and came to bend over Domina Edith’s hand. The clerk made a rustling business of gathering up pen and parchment scraps the while, and followed his master out the door. When the sound of their footfalls was gone from the stairs, Domina Edith drew a deep breath, coughed briefly, and said, “What do you think are die facts, Dame Frevisse?”

It took a moment for Frevisse to relax enough to answer. “The facts are simple and few, hardly more than I have already said, either about Sym’s death or Sister Fiacre’s. Sym was truly not much liked in the village, according to what Father Henry tells me, and most particularly disliked by the family of a girl he was paying heed to, and by his neighbor Gilbey Dunn. Sym and his father had quarreled with him. Now, with his opposition safely out of the way, Gilbey is pressing his suit on Sym’s mother.”