The Reeve's Tale

by Margaret Frazer

  ‘Good as the day is long? Not even nearly,“ Cisily said bluntly. ”Never has been. Never will be.“

  ‘Not even for Tom Hulcote?“

  Cisily tutted fretfully. “Well, there’s no surprise you know about that, is there? People talk, that’s sure.”

  ‘Do you think Matthew ran off because of his wife and Tom Hulcote?“

  ‘Who’s to say? Though he’d put up with it two years and more already, so why go hot over it all of a sudden?“

  ‘He maybe didn’t know until now.“

  ‘Who’s to say? He never did. Still, everyone else knew, didn’t they?“

  ‘And Father Edmund never sought to put stop to it?“

  Cisily put down her mug, frowning a little. “Now there you have me. He didn’t know because nobody would tell him, would they? Him being new-come here and all.”

  ‘But Matthew Woderove never said anything to anyone? Not about his wife or Tom Hulcote or running off?“

  ‘Not that I’ve heard, and I would have.“ Cisily seemed quite sure of that. ”My own thought is that, Mary or no, losing his land was too much shame for him, that’s all. He just wanted to be away, once and for all, and he went.“

  ‘How did he go?“

  ‘At night.“ Cisily shuddered. ”That shows you how desperate he must have been, to be away in the dark like that.“

  ‘With no warning either?“

  ‘Oh, he’d had a yelling time that afternoon with Mary, out at the end of their furlong at west end of Shaldewell Field.“

  ‘What over?“ Frevisse asked.

  Cisily shook her head, looking put out. “Now there, no one else was working that end of the field that afternoon. No one was near enough to hear more than that they were angry. But they were that, right enough. The way I’ve heard it, they were at it a while and while, then Mary threw down her hoe—a wonder she didn’t throw it at him, I’d say—and went home on her own and that was the last she saw of him.”

  ‘He never went home?“

  ‘Oh, aye, he did, but not until he’d worked the afternoon out, there in the field, and came home when everyone else did. Wouldn’t talk to anyone nor didn’t want them talking to him neither. And then what do you think he found when he was home?“ Cisily leaned a little forward over the table and said with slow relish, ”She’d barred the door. Wouldn’t let him in. Not into his own house, with half the village passing by on their own ways home and able to see it. That’s what she did to him.“

  It briefly crossed Frevisse’s mind to wonder why it was not Mary Woderove who was dead instead of her husband, but all she asked was, “What did he do?”

  ‘Matthew?“ Cisily was as free with her scorn as with her tale. ”Some of the men asked if he wanted they should bring a timber, they’d have the door down for him, and that’s what he should have done, if you ask me, and given her a beating she wouldn’t forget. But then he should have done that years ago, God’s truth. I’ve heard Simon tried to bring him on home to here, but all Matthew did was shake his head at everybody and skulk away into his byre, to spend the night in the hay, it was reckoned. Like always.“

  ‘She’d done this to him before?“

  ‘Oh, aye. More than once. Have a screaming quarrel with him, bar the door, and leave him to sleep in the byre, and the next morning he’d be asking her pardon and thanking her for letting him back into his own house, fool man. Nobody thought but it’d be the same this time, but next morning he and one of Gilbey’s horses was gone.“ Cisily slapped the tabletop with a merry hand. ”And you should have heard Gilbey swearing over that horse!“ She changed her mind. ”No. Pardon, my lady. No, you shouldn’t have.“ But the memory was too ripe for her; she could not help adding, ”But it was worth the hearing anyway.“

  Frevisse did not doubt it had been, if your humor went that way. Trying to make the question sound like idle talk, she asked, “That was about Midsummer, wasn’t it?”

  ‘Two days past. They held the court where Matthew lost his land—and wicked that was of Gilbey, he doesn’t need more land—the day after Midsummer’s, and a day later was their quarrel, and Matthew disappeared that night.“

  ‘How did Mary take his leaving her like that?“

  ‘Well, I mind she came to the well that morning with the rest of us, and when some cat asked after Matthew, she answered that she hadn’t seen him and hoped she didn’t. She thought he’d gone out early to the fields somewhere, you see. It was only later, putting together that Gilbey’s horse was stolen and Matthew nowhere to be found that we started to guess he’d gone and didn’t mean to come back. Then there was some caterwauling, let me tell you.“

  Frevisse supposed that sooner or later she would have to talk to Mary Woderove but doubted she would enjoy it when the time came and asked, “What did she do when Tom Hulcote disappeared?”

  ‘Now that I don’t know,“ Cisily said with deep regret. ”She was that upset over them not being given the holding that she’d taken against everyone, and being I’m Simon and Anne’s, she’d have had nothing to do with me, even if I’d not been taken up then with the children and all. What I’ve heard is she racketed on to anyone who’d listen and to Tom most of all that everything and everyone was rotten against him here and he’d never have a chance in life at all except he left.“

  ‘Ran off, you mean?“

  ‘He’d have to. He’d never money enough to buy himself free, that’s sure.“

  ‘And she was going to go with him?“

  ‘Nothing so good as that, and not that most everybody here wouldn’t mind seeing the last of her, but no, she was saying, too, she meant to stay and keep the Woderove holding in the teeth of whatever anyone tried to do to her and be damned to her brother and everyone. That’s what I’ve heard. She has hot humors, does Mary.“

  And not overmuch sense, to be telling the world at large you wanted your lover to break his bondage and run, Frevisse thought, but aloud she only said, “When Tom disappeared then, nobody thought anything about it but that he’d run?”

  ‘If they thought about it at all, that’s what they thought,“ Cisily said. ”Or just that he’d wandered off like he was always doing and would come back when it suited his own self. Nobody much cared except Gilbey and only because Tom was supposed to be working for him. This time there wasn’t even Gilbey to care. Nobody but Mary, I’d guess, and likely she thought he’d run, sure, like she’d been telling him to do. Else we’d have heard about it. Loud and long.“ Cisily shook her head, lips pursed. ”The way we’re hearing about him being dead. You think no one had ever been grieved but her.“ She suddenly crossed herself. ”It’s being said, my lady, there’ll have to be things done, for fear he’ll walk, dying the way he did. Have you heard aught about that?“

  Caught by the changed direction, Frevisse hesitated, then said, “Not once he’s been laid in consecrated ground and prayers said over him. Not with Father Henry and Father Edmund both to pray for him. And I will and Sister Thomasine.”

  Cisily gave a little shudder of pleased fear. “That’s well enough then. I shouldn’t like to meet him of a twilight, that’s all, with him all bloodied and angry about it.”

  Frevisse readily agreed that neither would she, and Cisily, diverted to remembering village stories of ghosts there had been—none she had ever seen herself, mind, and all of folk dead before her time but nonetheless…

  With much thanks for the breakfast, Frevisse escaped out into the warming day.

  Chapter 17

  Frevisse crossed the green slowly from Perryn’s messuage toward Father Edmund’s with head bowed, eyes down, hands folded into her opposite sleeves, thinking on what she had so far learned. None of it looked to be of use in finding out Tom Hulcote’s murderer, and nothing in it linked his death to Matthew Woderove’s. Nothing even linked one man to the other except her own unease and that they had both known Mary—in the several meanings of “known.”

  She feared that more questioning, no matter who she asked, was only going to bri
ng out, over and over, what she had already heard. That Matthew Woderove had been pitiable and Tom Hulcote troublesome. That Tom had been given to wandering and Mary was a shrew. Worse, sooner or later, she would have to question Mary and so far had found nothing yet to like about the woman. But then, she was purposing to talk to Montfort and there was nothing she liked about him either.

  There was no guard at Father Edmund’s gate, only on the bench beside the house door, a young man in the crowner’s livery who rose to tell her with good manners instead of the usual surliness Montfort’s men seemed to catch from him, that the crowner was still at breakfast.

  Frevisse, thinking that Montfort kept comfortable hours if he was only to breakfast now, said, “Best I see him then, not to interrupt him later when he’s set to work.”

  The guard looked doubtful her consideration would make her any more welcome, but he stepped inside to say, “Dame Frevisse begs leave to see you, sir.”

  She had begged nothing but supposed there was no harm in saying so if it brought Montfort to receive her more graciously.

  It did not.

  At the crowner’s grunted agreement, the youth stepped aside from her way with a slight bow to her, and she entered to find Montfort seated at the head of the priest’s table, with Father Edmund on his right and an array of dishes set out cold in front of them that must be from last night’s supper—sliced pork in some sort of sauce, the remains of a cheese tart, a loaf end of brown but not coarse bread, and wine. She had not known the priest lived that well, but then the village living was his, not some other priest’s who paid him poorly to serve in his place; and very possibly, if he were skilled at ambition, he had income from somewhere else, too. What disconcerted her more was that he seemed at ease in the crowner’s company, sitting pleasantly with him over the end of their meal, and momentarily she could not help wondering if that spoke well or ill of Father Edmund, then decided it spoke well, because Christian forbearance toward Montfort could not come easily. For her, assuredly, any forbearance she had ever managed toward him had always come with gritted teeth.

  As she curtsyed to them both, Father Edmund said welcomingly, “Dame Frevisse,” and Montfort managed, “Dame.”

  ‘Sir,“ Frevisse returned.

  ‘Am I needed at the church?“ Father Edmund asked.

  ‘God be thanked, all’s well,“ Frevisse said. ”Adam Perryn’s fever broke at dawn.“

  Father Edmund crossed himself. “Blessed be God and the Virgin. We’ve prayed long and hard for him and the others.”

  Montfort echoed his gesture with his usual impatience at everything that was not to his purpose and said, “Why are you here, Dame?”

  There being no point in coming to it subtly, she said, “About Matthew Woderove’s death. Is everything about it sure?”

  ‘Matthew Woderove?“ For a moment Montfort looked as if he could not place who that was, then remembered and said disgustedly, ”Of course it’s sure. We boxed what there was of him. His folk here buried him. There’s no more sure than that. He’s dead.“

  Frevisse bypassed wondering if Montfort meant that for a jest and asked, “Is it sure he was killed where he was found? That he wasn’t killed elsewhere and moved?”

  Montfort’s small eyes narrowed with displeasure. “Shouldn’t you be at your prayers, Dame?” And aside to Father Edmund, “She does this. Makes trouble where there isn’t any.” And back to her, “Leave these matters to those whose business they are, Dame. Go back to your prayers and stay there after this.”

  It was utter dismissal. Frevisse managed a curt curtsy and to say without strangling on it, “Pray, pardon me,” and to Father Edmund, “By your leave.”

  Looking as if he regretted what had passed, Father Edmund made a sign of the cross in silent blessing toward her, and to him she gave another curtsy, more graciously, before she retreated.

  She was across the yard and to the street again before she realized there was someone behind her, and because she meant to go to the church anyway, she swung leftward, to be out of the way of whichever of Montfort’s men was going to the alehouse, but behind her someone said, “Dame Frevisse,” and she stopped and turned to find the guard who had been at Father Edmund’s door bowing to her with hurried awkwardness.

  ‘My lady. If you please. A word.“

  ‘Of course, sir,“ Frevisse answered, puzzled but matching his courtesy.

  ‘About what just passed. In there.“

  ‘Yes?“ Wary now as well as puzzled.

  ‘This Matthew Woderove’s death. I was the one who inquired about it. After he’d been identified.“

  That meant he was one of the crowner’s Sergeants instead of merely a guard, and suddenly he had all Frevisse’s attention. “You made investigation? You learned something?” she asked, trying but knowing she failed to hide her eagerness.

  He failed as badly to hide his pride. “A little, yes.”

  ‘What?“

  It was abrupt but all the encouragement he needed. “I found out he went from here to Banbury. He sold the horse there.”

  ‘You found Gilbey Dunn’s horse?“

  ‘The dealer had sold it again. It’s gone. But he admitted he’d had it. From the description.“

  ‘He’s a more forthcoming horse dealer than most I’ve known,“ Frevisse observed wryly.

  The youth, whether or not he wondered how she had come to know horse dealers that well, answered, “He sees that if he helps us in a matter where he’s not at fault, it’ll go better for him if ever he is. At fault. And we find out he is.”

  Frevisse wondered who had pointed that out to the man but only asked, “He was certain it was the same horse?”

  ‘A dark chestnut with an off hind white stocking and a finger-long scar above the near hock.“

  That was certain enough, at any rate. “And it’s certain it was Matthew Woderove sold it?”

  ‘The man described him and what he was wearing. It was how the widow described him and what he was wearing when he left here.“

  ‘When was he in Banbury?“

  ‘The day after he left here.“

  Frevisse paused, feeling her way along the wrongness of that before she said slowly, “He sold the horse the day after he left here, then set away on foot to somewhere west and was robbed and killed not many miles out of Banbury.”

  ‘It seems so. Yes.“

  She liked the caution in his answer. Moreover, she was starting to like him and asked more openly than she might have otherwise, “Why sell the horse? Why walk when he could have gone on riding?”

  ‘Come to that,“ the youth said back, ”why did he go north from here instead of simply west? Horses sell as well in Worcester as in Banbury.“

  So he was dissatisfied with it, too; but Frevisse had had time now to notice more about him—his hair’s color, for one thing—and she asked at a guess, “Are you kin to Master Montfort?”

  The youth flushed a dark red, close to his hair’s shade, but answered steadily enough, straightly meeting her gaze, “I’m his son.”

  And was well-witted enough to know that was not necessarily to his advantage, so that, at a loss for better comment, Frevisse offered, “I didn’t know he had a son.”

  ‘Three of us, actually. And two daughters. I’m Christopher.“

  Frevisse slightly inclined her head to him. “Master Christopher.”

  He slightly bowed in return. “My lady.”

  And for no good outward reason they smiled at one another, unwarrently at ease on apparently no more than the basis of good manners. Another thing in which he differed from his father. And he asked, turning the questioning around, “Why your interest in this man?”

  Frevisse hesitated, then said, “It’s that I keep thinking how he and Tom Hulcote died much the same way. By blows to the head and stabbing. And…” She trailed off, not knowing to where the “and” should lead.

  ‘And they’re both from here and… interested in the same woman,“ Christopher offered. To her questi
oning look, he added, ”There’s always talk in plenty in a village alehouse.“

  She was coming to approve of him more by the moment but, looking past him, had to say, “You may need to go back. The jurors are coming.”

  Christopher glanced down the green toward the four village men going toward the priest’s house and agreed, “I’ll be wanted.” He began to back away, saying as he did, “It’s just that I thought there was no reason you shouldn’t know what’s known about this Matthew Woderove’s death. If you wanted it.”

  ‘Thank you.“

  He gave her a brief bow, hesitated as if inclined to say more, but did not, only bowed again and left her.

  Frevisse went her way, too, but not back to the church. Head down and hands in her opposite sleeves again, crossing the green to Gilbey Dunn’s, she considered what Christopher Montfort had given her about Matthew Woderove. More than she had had but still very little, and the very little made no sense. Why had he sold the horse so soon? He had to know that on the whole Lord Lovell was not one to let his villeins simply leave. Why hadn’t he sought to put as much distance as might be between him and possible pursuit before being rid of the horse since he’d gone to the trouble of stealing it?