The Outlaw's Tale

by Margaret Frazer

  Too intent on his business to actually note her existence until then, Colfoot came to as abrupt a halt as his bulk allowed, looming over her. A long while since he had gone past a natural thickness of body into layers of fat laid solidly around his middle and along his jowls. Further padded out by the overly full houppelande he wore and his wide-rolled, long-liripiped hat, he was impressive for sheer size, even before his glare centered on her with the full force of his not-inconsiderable character.

  He glared at her for the instant before he recognized her habit. Then his face and manners changed from heavy annoyance to a degree of respect. He pulled off his hat and bowed to her with, “Good sister, my apologies. This fool never said who Payne was with. I thought it was business, not..."

  He stopped, clearly at a loss why she should be with Master Payne about anything. Obligingly Frevisse said, “I was thanking Master Payne for his kindness and asking if he would send someone with a letter to my prioress." She sighed and drooped slightly with weariness. “He and his good wife gave us shelter from yesterday's rain, you know, and now Sister Emma has such a chill that we have to stay a while longer. He's such a kind man, don't you think?"

  Will Colfoot was clearly not interested in Master Payne's kindness. His very minor curiosity about her existence satisfied, he was already looking past her to the parlor door. “I think I've heard folk say so about him, yes," he agreed. “He's a good man. He's a good head for business."

  Frevisse forced his attention back to her, asking, “You've had many dealings with him?"

  “Enough. Yes." Colfoot sidled sideways to pass her, deft on his feet despite his size. “We deal together. Have these ten years past, or more."

  Frevisse sidled with him, smiling into his face ruthlessly. “And his wife. She's such a gentlewoman. So kind. She's been the soul of kindness to us, coming as we did all unexpected. Haven't you found her kind?"

  Colfoot visibly groped for an answer. Frevisse suspected that so slight a person as Mistress Payne barely impinged on his consciousness. “Yes," he managed, still sidling. “A kind woman. With children, and all," he added, probably hoping that if he added to the conversation, it might end sooner.

  Before Frevisse could go on, Master Payne himself opened the parlor door behind her and said with open pleasure, “Will, what brings you here, so unlooked for? I thought you meant to be off Burford way by today."

  “I did but-“ Colfoot's voice had risen but he caught himself long enough to bow to Frevisse and say perfunctorily, “Sister, good day. Your prayers for me." Then he surged past her, his volume mounting again as he declared with mingled anger and satisfaction at Master Payne, “But something out of the way delayed me and I want..."

  Sure of Nicholas' escape, Frevisse did not care about Colfoot's business, whatever it was. She passed on out of the hall and along the screens passage to the stairs. The waft of dinner smells as she passed the kitchen door reminded her she was behind on her day's prayers if the morning was that far gone. She had meant to follow the Rule today.

  “He wants to marry Mistress Dow," Bess said behind her on the stairs.

  The surprise of that stopped Frevisse, turning her around to face the woman as best she could in the narrow space. “He wants to marry Magdalen? Surely she doesn't-"

  She stopped herself. Magdalen Dow's life was no concern of hers. But the idea of kind Magdalen tied to Colfoot's rude arrogance...

  “Oh, no!" Bess shook her head emphatically. “She doesn't. Nor does Master Payne want it either. He thinks she can do better than Master Colfoot if they bide their time."

  Frevisse wanted to know more, but not by gossiping with servants. And not cramped on a narrow stairway. She turned away, continuing upward, but Bess chatted on at her back. “When young master goes to London, then likely Master Payne will look for someone for her there. A merchant very like. Imagine living in London."

  Clearly Bess' country imagination was more than ready for a marriage in far and marvelous London. Frevisse wondered what Magdalen's thoughts on the matter were.

  A fussy, unfamiliar voice at the head of the stairs interrupted her wondering. “Now, Master Edward, I can't think that your father would want you to. And what has become of Richard I can't...“

  “Coming," Frevisse said, to warn anyone from starting down, and the voice cut nervously off.

  When she reached the top an elderly man in plain priestly black and a tall young man were waiting. No, not a young man. A boy. He was well grown for fifteen, almost his father's height, and had his father's sense of dignity and pride, too, to judge by the self-assured bow he made to her, his hand resting on the scholar's scrip at his waist. But for all that he was still a boy, with a boy's long bones and a boy's face untouched yet by much living. And though his gown had the plain cut and color of an Oxford scholar, his belt bore an ornate buckle and its end hung fashionably long almost to the floor.

  She smiled at him. “Master Edward," she said, “I hear you are at Oxford. How go your studies there?"

  “Omnia bene, and I thank you." He cocked an intelligent eye at her. “You are...“

  “Dame Frevisse of St. Frideswide's priory in the north of the shire."

  “Ah, yes. I'd heard everything about you but your name."

  Despite the glib reply, Frevisse doubted he had heard very much at all beyond some story that she and Sister Emma had sheltered in his home from the rain yesterday. She looked at the man standing beside him. “You are his tutor, sir? Are you to be congratulated on your pupil?"

  “Sir Perys," the man said with a rapid ducking of his head. He was a thin man, not tall, with a habit of clearing his throat before every utterance. “He's a fine boy. A fine young man. An excellent fine scholar."

  Frevisse knew she should resist the urge but she did not. Her own Latin was not good, but this was a mere boy. “Salvasti de necessitatibus animam meam," she said, hoping she remembered it correctly from the psalter, “quoniam respexisti humilitatem meam." You have saved me in my distress, for you have looked with pity on my helplessness.

  But Edward was more than equal to the test; lectures and debates at universities were entirely in Latin, and he answered fluently, “Non opus agere gratiam. Salveris ad domum modestam. Valeant preces tuae voluntam servire quemquam egentem." Frevisse held up her hand with an appreciative smile. “Pace. My store of Latin doesn't go much beyond my prayers. What I learned else was long ago, and I never had the scholar's knack of it."

  Edward smiled and said, “Et ne nos inducas in tentationem."

  Which was, of course, from the Lord's Prayer: And lead us not into temptation. Duly chastened and amused, Frevisse replied, “I will know better next time."

  Sir Perys tapped Edward on the shoulder with a teacher's proprietary air. “By your leave," he said to Frevisse.

  Frevisse inclined her head. With his tutor close on his heels, Master Payne's heir disappeared down the stairs.

  Chapter Nine

  Frevisse went on to Magdalen's room with Bess still behind her. Only Maud and Sister Emma were there. Fever-flushed, Sister Emma was propped up on pillows, fretting at the coverlet with restless fingers while Maud urged her to drink something from a faintly steaming mug.

  “I'm hot enough already," Sister Emma complained, the words thick. “I want something cool. There's no point bringing brands to a burning barn."

  “But Mistress Dow says..." Maud began for what was probably the fifteenth time to judge by her voice's strain.

  “Master Colfoot's here," Bess interrupted. “He's come all unexpected and gone in to see the master. Where's she at? He'll be asking to see her surely."

  Maud looked around and made a distracted curtsey toward Frevisse. “Gone out." She nodded her head toward the window. “To walk in the orchard for a while she said, though it's still damp and chill."

  The chamber's long window overlooked a pear and apple orchard that a few weeks ago must have been beautiful and fragrant with blossoms. Now it was a canopy of young leaves sloping away to
a stream that boundaried the manor from a stretch of forest to the east.

  “Should we tell her he's here, do you think?" Bess asked, moving toward the window.

  But Sister Emma chose that moment to throw back her covers and swing her feet toward the floor. “I'm hot," she declared. “I want to go home. Where are my clothes?" And they were all three immediately busy in settling her back into bed and persuading her to the medicine that would make her rest whether she wanted to or not.

  * * * * *

  Nicholas was laughing softly to himself as he slipped out the rear gate of Payne's garden where Cullem had been waiting this while with the horse they had "borrowed" from Dame Frevisse. If fat Colfoot had a hound's nose it would be twitching on a hot scent in Payne's parlor right now. But for all he was a dog, the man didn't have a good hound's nose. Nor a fat purse either.

  At the memory of last night, Nicholas laughed out loud. As easy a picking as he'd had these past five years. Slip out from behind a hedge, clout the yeoman from behind to send him tumbling into the ditch, and prick a sword into the franklin's fat arse. There'd been no trouble in having the purse handed over and being away without ever being seen. A handsome purse, and a handsome lot of silver in it. And, God's teeth, the man had roared afterwards, enough to shake the rain off the eaves.

  Chuckling, Nicholas jumped into the saddle Cullem had vacated, and took up the reins. “Any trouble?" he asked.

  “Not here," Cullem said. He took Nicholas's hand and pulled himself up behind the saddle. He nodded toward the stableyard. “But I was talking with Tam in the stable. He was into village this morning."

  “And there's talk enough there, I'll wager." Nicholas’ grin widened. There was bound to be talk when there was robbery hardly outside the village bounds; it would liven the sheep-brained place after years of complacency.

  “It's Beatrice," Cullem said.

  Nicholas turned in his saddle, finally hearing Cullem's unease. He asked sharply, “What about Beatrice?"

  “She was beaten last night."

  “Beaten? Who'd beat Beatrice? Why?"

  “From what Tam heard, she's not saying. And that's made talk, too, ‘cause she's bad, Nick. Hasn't left her bed this morning, and Old Nan's talking of sending for the apothecary maybe."

  Nicholas turned back to face the road. He hated the bother of other people's pain, but Beatrice... “We'd best go by way of the village then."

  * * * * *

  “She's poorly," Old Nan muttered, leading him toward the rattling stairs up to the rooms above her alehouse though she knew he knew the way. “She's that terrified I have to tell her who's coming or she'll set to screaming. I'll just warn it's you and then it will be all right."

  “Who did it to her?" Nicholas demanded.

  Age had shriveled and begun to stoop the alewife, but her tongue still had its vigor. “If she'd tell me, I'd have the hide off him! But she won't say, and I've no way of knowing who comes to see her." Beatrice had her room at the head of the stairs, while Old Nan slept at the back. The downstairs door was left unbarred for just such as might want to come to Beatrice after the alehouse closed; they barred it behind them when they entered and left it unbarred when they left. It was a simple, workable system that left Old Nan able to say she had no idea if Beatrice ever had a visitor after she had gone to bed herself.

  “There had to have been noise," Nicholas prodded.

  Old Nan shrugged. “There's often noises; but there's the storeroom between us so I don't hear them. And if I hear them, I don't heed them. There was nothing particular last night. I knew naught till the poor wight came crawling to my door. Wait here," she added as they reached the top of the stairs. She hobbled forward the few steps to tap at Beatrice's slack-hung door. “Bea-girl, it's me, don't fear. I've Nicholas here to see you."

  Beatrice made a muffled protest, but Old Nan opened the door anyway, and gestured Nicholas in, whispering not very low, “She doesn't want to be seen. Her beauty's behind her, I think, and she knows it. But she's going to have to grow used to it. She'll not earn the pence she once did, that's sure."

  Old Nan had done what she could, had washed the blood away and even made herb poultices to lay over the worst of the bruises. But what Nicholas could still see was enough to make him wince; and sympathy did not come readily to him for anyone but himself.

  “God's teeth, is it you, Beatrice?"

  “Nick?" she whimpered through broken lips. If she saw him at all, it was only dimly; both her eyes were swollen shut by purpled flesh that barely let the tears ooze through. She tried to drag the blanket up to hide herself but it caught on the raw wood of the bedstead and, lacking the strength to pull it free, she could only lie there with it clutched to her chest.

  “Who did this to you?" he demanded

  “Fell," she whispered.

  But the bruises on her throat were thumb-shaped, and there were gouges in her wrists and hands where she had been held and fought against the hold.

  “You didn't fall. I'm not a fool."

  Beatrice moved a hand as if she wished he would hold it, but he could not bring himself any nearer to her. Tears went on seeping from her eyes to run down her ruined cheeks. “Colfoot," she whispered. “Colfoot...“

  Nicholas came a furious step forward and grabbed her wrist. She shrieked with pain and he let her loose but leaned over her to ask harshly, “The fat franklin? Why?"

  Beatrice was sobbing now, wincing with the pain the movement cost her. “He'd been robbed. He said... Oh, I warned you, Nick!"

  Nicholas resisted the desire to take her by the shoulders and shake her. “Why did he come back here? Tell me what he said!"

  “He was robbed after he left here. He thought it was someone from here. He'd seen you watching him, remembered you and I... that you and I..."

  “You greasy whore! You told him who I am?"

  Beatrice fought to smother the sobs that wracked her body into worse pain. “He described you. Your clothes. Your face. He was sure it was you. He wanted your name."

  “And you told him it was me!" Nicholas was standing over her now, wishing she would stop her useless crying. He grabbed the blanket off her so roughly she screamed. “Shut up! Did you tell him?"

  “No! No! Not until..." Tears and despair won over her attempt to talk. She made a helpless gesture at her uncovered body, as bruised as her face.

  “You told him!" Nicholas snarled, flung the blanket at her, and stormed out of the room. He rushed down the stairs and shoved past a blunt-faced youth who shouted something after him as he slammed through the alehouse door.

  The pardon was too near to let a fat fool of a franklin come in his way to it.

  Chapter Ten

  Frevisse found that Sister Emma now had more reason for her fussing and complaining of discomfort. She was more fevered, and her wrenching cough was painful to watch. She accepted a hot drink almost quietly and barely complained of its bitter taste.

  “But my prayers," she croaked as she handed the emptied mug away to one of the waiting-women. “I haven't said any of the offices today. What hour is it?"

  “It must be near Sext." Frevisse realized she had missed the prayers for Tierce altogether. Somewhat guiltily she offered, “Do you want to say the office now?"

  Sister Emma nodded. “Before I sleep again."

  But when she tried to join Frevisse in the opening psalm, she began to cough so heavily that Frevisse had to pause until she had finished. Gently Frevisse held her hand and said, “Just lie quietly and listen while I speak."

  Breathless and plainly aching, Sister Emma nodded wordlessly and closed her eyes. “Ave Maria, gratia plena...“ But her evened breathing told when she fell asleep before the office was ended.

  Frevisse had nodded for the two waiting-women to withdraw when she began the prayers. Now, finished, she stayed sitting on the bed holding Sister Emma's hand until she was sure the sleep was deep enough to hold her.

  Shortly, Frevisse was aware of a door thudding heavily sh
ut somewhere near below her; then of heavy and hurried footsteps and what she thought was Will Colfoot's voice - she raised her head to listen more carefully – declaring angrily about something. His stomping and voice diminished with distance, but now there were other footsteps, lighter, running up the stairs, that brought Frevisse to her feet with the sense of their urgency.

  But before she could move away from the bed, Magdalen entered. With something very like panic, she shut the door and leaned against it, breathless both with her haste and her emotion. Her veil and wimple had slipped down around her shoulders, leaving her head bare; she seemed neither to know nor care.

  “Magdalen, what's happened?" Frevisse asked, moving toward her, alarmed.

  Magdalen stared at her a startled moment, as if she had forgotten she would be there. Then abruptly she drew a deep breath, recovered herself, and straightened away from the door. Pulling her wimple and veil away from her shoulders, she tossed them toward a chest and went to fling herself down in the nearest chair, avoiding Frevisse's gaze. “Nothing," she said. She was still short of breath. “I ran up the stairs, that's all. I..." A knock at the door interrupted her. “Come," she said.

  Her nephew Edward entered, followed by another, younger boy who stayed in the doorway behind him. Both looked as if they thought there might be trouble. “Aunt, you were running. Are you well? Has something happened?"

  Magdalen drew what she meant to be a steadying breath, but there was a sob in it somewhere. She pushed her hair back from her face. “Will Colfoot still wants to marry me. He was driving his suit over-hard just now. He came on me in the orchard-" She cut off what else she had been going to say, but there had been both anger and fear in her voice. “He's gone to talk to your father now."