Servant’s Tale

by Margaret Frazer

Meg shook her head to herself. There was no going away from the fact that Hewe was going to have to do a man’s share of the work from now on, no matter that he was too young for it. She was not going to give up her work at St. Frideswide’s. There had to be those pence to buy Hewe free and into the priesthood. He and Sym would both have to see that and help her do it. Hewe as a priest would then be able to help them in turn. Money for new cloth, maybe, to make a good woolen dress or cloak. A pair of boots for Sym. Another ox.

  But first there was the broken cart. The only hope Meg saw of paying Gilbey Dunn for it was by persuading him to take its worth in work from one or both of the boys. And that would be hard, persuading not only Gilbey but Sym and Hewe, too. Sym especially would mightily resent it, no matter what sense it made. Why did he have to be so much like his father, so blind to what was necessary? Why was even Hewe so stubborn in such needless ways?

  A confident clearing of a throat made her look up to find Gilbey Dunn standing in her doorway, as if summoned by her musing. He had had the decency not to come to the funeral feast; probably he had seen Sym’s face in the churchyard. But Sym was gone and here he was, a stocky figure bulking large in her doorway. He was scarcely taller than she was but solidly built and looking larger in his russet tunic, his bald head gleaming a little in the outdoor light, but the cottage’s shut-windowed gloom hiding whatever expression was on his blunt face.

  Meg was angry that he had opened the door without first knocking, as if he had some right to be there. She said, “They’ve all gone. The feasting and funeral are done and you’ve no business here just now. We’ll pay you for the cart but I ask you for a day’s grace before we deal with it.”

  As if that were an invitation, he came in, shutting the door against the cold but saying, “Why are you sitting here in the dark? Haven’t you even a candle to light? You might at least build up the fire.”

  “The spare candles went for last night’s wake. Sym’s gone for more firewood and I’m well enough till he comes back. What is it you’re wanting, Gilbey?” He wouldn’t be there if he did not want something; his complaining was meant to make her feel small so he could get the better of her. Though his wife had been her friend and they had hoped Sym would marry his girl, Meg had never liked Gilbey.

  He sat down across the table from her. “You’re in deep trouble, my girl.”

  Meg frowned, misliking his familiar tone. “You needn’t have come out of your way to tell me that. And there’s ways out of our trouble, so you needn’t be troubling yourself over it, thank you.”

  “”Tis not out of my way at all but very much in my way,“ he said. ”That’s why I’m here.“

  Meg straightened and for the first time looked directly at him. He wasn’t there to talk about the cart, but something more serious.

  “Go away, Gilbey Dunn. For pity’s sake if nothing else. I’ve griefs enough to deal with. I don’t need arguing today.”

  “It’s to end the arguing I’ve come. And a bettering for both of us in the bargain.”

  Meg’s tired brain could not see what he was aiming at. “There’s no use in talking to me about the lands. I’d not part with them if I could. They’re Sym’s.”

  “That’s as may be, and there may be more said on that before it’s done, but no, ”tis you who must answer what I’ve come to ask, Meg.“

  “And what would that be?”

  “That you marry me.”

  Meg stared at him.

  Gilbey leaned across the table toward her. “Think on it, Meg. You’d not have to live in this half barn anymore. Think on my house and how you’d live there. I’d keep on the woman I’ve hired. She’d help you see to the place. You’d not need to wear yourself so close to the bone as you do now.”

  Meg kept on staring, wondering just how befuddled her wits had gone. He could not be saying what she thought she heard.

  Gilbey put a hand out toward her, but she pulled her own back. His voice warm with persuasion, he went on, “Look you, it would serve us both well. Better than maybe you’ve thought. How can you hope to keep up, all alone, with what you couldn’t even with Barnaby alive?”

  “My sons…”

  Gilbey dismissed that possibility with a wave of his hand. “You know them better than that. Even if Sym is let to take the holding—and that’s not certain, mind you. Bailiff and steward both know things about him and have their own mind on the matter—it’s still like as not that he’ll lose it all anyway, even faster than his father would have. Marry me and there’ll be someone to see to you and your land both.”

  “The lands aren’t mine,” Meg insisted.

  “There’s nothing says a widow can’t inherit her husband’s property. A strong word from me to the steward would do it. He’d be willing.”

  His certainty about that made Meg suspect that Gilbey had asked him a long while ago. She rose to Sym’s defense. “It goes to the eldest son if there’s one. That’s where it goes.”

  “And Sym will lose it. You have to know him well enough to see that, even with a mother’s eye. Both your boys will be the better for a firm hand directing them the way Barnaby never could. I’ll swear to find them both good marriages if you’re wanting that.

  “Hewe—” Meg began feebly.

  “I’ll help him to the priesthood if that’s what you’re wanting. Your marrying me would make things come right for you, and both the boys as well.”

  “What are you doing, talking of marriage?” Sym snarled from the doorway. “She’s barely a widow and sure not for the likes of you!” He shoved the door back hard enough to crash it against the wall and strode toward the table. “Take your scheming, miserly self out of here, Gilbey Dunn, away from my mother and out of my house!”

  Gilbey rose to his feet, not apparently offended or frightened. “Your house? I think not, boy. You’re not of age. Even if the steward gives you seisin of it and your land, someone will have the keeping of it—and of you, God help them— these few years more. Maybe your mother. Maybe someone else. But not you yet. And from the smell of ale on you, the day you take it for your own will be the worst day for the holding since your father took it.”

  “Better that than your having it!”

  “It Meg marries me, then you can have the house at least. Let that satisfy you for the while, boy. Let your mother come live where the animals are kept in the barn instead of the kitchen!”

  “She’d rather live with animals than you!”

  “Sym!” Meg rose to her feet between them. She did not want the quarrel to freshen, not when they were so in debt to Gilbey, not until that was settled and the quarrel could be faced on open grounds, not the hidden ones of debts unpaid, or unpayable. And not with Sym just drunk enough to not think what he was saying. Gilbey had the kind of temper that simmered long and deep.

  But Sym was past heeding. “My mother’s not marrying anyone. And never you, no matter what! Rather we all starve here than take a thing from you! Don’t go trying to lay your hands on anything of ours or you’ll find I’m man enough to put you where you ought to be!”

  “Sym!” Meg came around the table to grab his arm and shake it. “Sym, you mind your tongue! There’s no need for words like that! You stop it!” Still holding on to him, she said to Gilbey, “You’d best go. It’s too soon for me to be hearing things like you’ve been saying. Best you go.”

  Gilbey nodded, his gaze on Sym speculative. “Aye,” he agreed, moving toward the door, keeping wide of Sym’s reach though he was the boy’s match and better. “I’m going. But you think on what I’ve said. You’re a clever girl, Meg, and you can see the possibilities in our joining.”

  “There’s devilment in it, that’s what there is!” Sym shouted at his back and the closing door. He turned his temper on his mother. “What are you thinking of to listen to him like that? And Da not cold in his grave yet!”

  “Barnaby’s cold enough,” Meg said. “It’s a winter grave.” She sighed. “Sym, there was no need to say those things. Listening doe
s no harm. We need to know what’s in his mind. It doesn’t hurt to listen.”

  “But you’re not thinking of doing it!” It was no question, only a flat demand, and he sounded like his father as he made it.

  As she had learned to do with Barnaby, Meg only looked back at him flatly, until he twitched his eyes away. Then she said, “I’m tired. You go help Hewe find some wood or there’ll be no fire by morning. I’m going to bed.”

  Not even much caring if he obeyed her, she left him standing there and went to crawl under the ragged covers of her cold bed in its corner.

  Chapter 11

  Meg slept heavily. She awoke once in the dark to hear the tick of sleet against the wall and eastward shutters, but slept again, and next woke to know by the slant of pale light through the crack around the window and under the door that the morning was well along and the day sunny.

  It was the thought of sunshine more than anything that drew her from bed. There was a full fire on the hearth and evidence by way of dirty dishes that both Sym and Hewe had managed to feed themselves. She went to stand close to the warmth, taking a bread crust from the table to chew. The coarse weave of her gown shook out its own wrinkles and except for needing to pad her shoes with fresh straw against the cold ground before she put them on, she was ready for the day. She checked the chickens and found they had been fed, too, and the floor under their roost cleaned. That would be Hewe’s doing, because Sym scorned to have anything to do with “the clacking things,” saying that was women’s business—though he ate the eggs readily enough when they could be had. And the goat was gone, probably staked out to graze what winter grass there was behind the house. Maybe Sym had done that, Meg thought.

  She gave a silent prayer of thanks for so much help from her boys—or from Hewe, if that was the case—and picked up her cloak. They had told her at the priory that there was no need for her to come back the day after her husband’s burying, but with the holiday there was always extra kitchen work to hand. She would be needed, and the priory was a better place to be than here.

  There was no trace of last night’s sleet. Thin, unwarm sunlight gave brightness to the frozen road and village, but Meg hardly bothered noticing. There was the field path that cut from her end of the village along the hedgerows to come out on the road near the priory gate. That was her usual way to the priory, but as she crossed the road toward it, she glanced leftward toward the village green beyond the church. This time of year there were rarely gatherings of any size outdoors, but from what she could see a goodly portion of the village was clustered on the green. The church hid whatever they were looking at, and with plain curiosity and a little fear Meg turned that way.

  But there was nothing fearful. The travelers from the priory had set up some sort of wooden framework on the green, a little taller than a tall man, twice as wide as it was high, and hung with thick red curtains that showed their fading and patching in the sunlight. The villagers were gathered in front of it, and the older man among the travelers was standing before the curtains saying in a powerful, clear voice, “… so by your lady prioress’s leave we give to you this day the play of The Statue of St. Nicholas, that it may please you good folk of Prior Byfield.”

  He swept as elegant a bow as Meg had ever seen and disappeared around the end of the framework, behind the curtain. Meg had seen players once; some had come to the village when she was a girl. They had been funny, she remembered. And they had wanted money at the end of their performing. So would these, she supposed, and would not have stopped to watch except that she saw Hewe near one edge of the crowd and after a moment’s hesitation went to join him.

  He gave her a brief look and smile but returned his attention to the curtain as a man came from behind it. This one wore a high-collared, scarlet robe that swept to his feet and was patterned all over with gold-painted crosses and lambs. He carried a fancy curve-topped staff in one hand and wore a tall mitred hat to show he was a bishop, and his face was all immobile with solemnity, his eyes gazing off somewhere above everybody’s head as if to Heaven. The crowd murmured with admiration.

  Ignoring them, he stepped up on a low box waiting in front of the curtain and struck a pose, his free hand raised in blessing, and froze there. Immediately a lady came from behind the curtain, willowy and fair, her long blue dress trailing on the grass behind her. She was carrying a small chest. Coming roundabout with stately, light-footed grace to the waiting man, she knelt and set the chest on the ground in front of him, then clasped her hands together as if in prayer, raised her eyes to him imploringly and said in an affected, high voice, “O Nicholas, I must a journey make. Guard thou my wealth for Jesu’s sake. No other may I trust but thee. Help me as thou did the virgins three. Thou wilt ever my favor earn, if my wealth is here when I return.”

  The man did not move or answer but the lady seemed satisfied. She rose and turned away toward the curtain, gracefully swirling her gown. Meg, seeing her face plainly for the first time, realized with a start that the lady was the pale-haired young man called Joliffe. She leaned to comment on that to Hewe, but as the “lady‘’ went away behind one end of the curtain, another player appeared promptly at its other end. Dark-browed and skulking, wrapped in a black cloak, he peered around him and apparently saw no one, though the nearest of the crowd was hardly ten paces from him and some were already calling out warnings to the lady to come back. Chuckling wickedly, he slunk toward the motionless man, peered around again and snatched up the chest.

  “No, no,” Meg complained under her breath. “Why doesn’t St. Nicholas see him and stop him? The lady told him to watch her treasure.”

  Hewe, without taking his eyes from the players, leaned near to her ear and whispered, “He’s a statue of St. Nicholas, that’s why. He can’t move. All he can do is stand there. Isn’t he grand? Doesn’t he hold still as a statue grandly?”

  The thief, clutching the chest, slunk out of sight, back the way he had come. As he went around the curtain, Rose appeared at its other end, wearing a saffron yellow gown that fit closely down to her hips and then flared into full skirts embroidered with green around the hem. Without pause she did three backward flips across the front of the curtains, made a quick, clever curtsey to the crowd, and went the way the thief had gone.

  The “lady” reappeared, wearing a traveler’s cloak. She came toward the statue, saw the chest was gone, looked around for it frantically, then threw up her hands in dismay and cried out, “O heavy, cruel chance! My treasures are fled! Now I must live in want and dread. Money and goods I entrusted to you, but like all mankind, you have failed me, too. To you I gave prayers and all my trust. Revenge I’ll take, as I surely must.” She reached under the near edge of the curtain and drew out a short riding whip. “I shall beat you, day and night, until my treasures are back in my sight.”

  The women cheered and the men booed as she pretended to beat the statue about the back and shoulders. But Meg quickly saw that none of the blows actually hit the statue, and the men began to laugh and the women to jeer. But St. Nicholas never flinched and the lady finally threw down the whip with a sobbing cry and fell to her knees, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with grief. As she did, the thief reappeared at the far end of the curtain, still clutching the chest. He looked around, seemed to see no one, came further into the open and set the chest on the ground. Opening it, he began to gloat over its contents. Meg craned her neck but could not see what it held, and then was distracted as St. Nicholas, who had been so motionless all this while, stirred. With an awful majesty, he lowered his upraised hand until it was pointing at the thief and in a deep and angry voice he said, “Wretched man, you’re not unseen.” The thief straightened with a huge start; the crowd laughed. St. Nicholas went on, “Your crime is not unknown. For you my back has beaten been. Bring back these stolen things whose loss has caused such sorrow—” The lady gave a loud, trembling sob. “—or surely on a gibbet high will you be hanged tomorrow.”

  The thief had turned a terrifi
ed gaze on the saint while he spoke, and gradually sank horrified and penitent under the threatening words and voice. Now, in scrambling haste, he grabbed up the chest, sprang to his feet, and hurriedly came to set it down between the crying lady and St. Nicholas who, after a slow, approving, lordly nod, returned to his former statue pose. The thief scurried out of sight and the lady, after a few more fading sobs, raised her head to see the chest set on the ground in front of her. She cried out in delight, “Here is my treasure come again! Joy of my heart, where have you been? Excellent saint, guardian of all, what was lost is here in full. My thanks to you will never dull.”

  The saint’s head inclined to her and he said in the same solemn voice he had used to the thief, “Pray not to me, good sister, but rather only to God. He made the heavens, he made the earth, and by his power is this restored. Leave off your love of worldly ways and turn your love to God.”

  As he spoke the lady had fallen back in wondering astonishment. When he finished, she stood up, clasped her hands, and exclaimed joyfully, “Here will be no hesitation. This message is a visitation. I will give these goods to all the poor, and serve sweet Jesu evermore. With his blessing I will no more sin, and a treasure in Heaven I will win.”