3 The Outlaw's Tale

by Frazer, Margaret

  The wimple and veil were most assuredly not like Frevisse’s own; the linen was woven far finer than any they wore in St. Frideswide’s, and she had not worn a white veil since she was a novice.

  “Pins,” said Magdalen and went to fetch them, then arranged the wimple to cover Frevisse’s forehead, throat and chin. She pinned it in place and the veil over it. “There! And here’s the cloak.”

  As Magdalen draped the cloak around her shoulders. Frevisse felt its sumptuous soft wool and its squirrel-fur lining. Trying to ignore how elegant it felt, she glanced across the room at Sister Emma, still soundly sleeping. Iseult, following her thought, went to close the bed curtains. Magdalen stepped back from making sure the cloak covered her down to her toes and said, “Yes, you’ll do very well. I doubt even your prioress could object. Let him come in now, Iseult.”

  Frevisse rose, and her hands moved to tuck themselves up either sleeve in a familiar gesture. But the gown fitted too close to her wrists. Feeling the lack of her habit’s dignity more than she would have expected, she made do with folding her hands in front of her as Mistress Payne hastened out the door.

  The man who entered a few moments later had Magdalen’s height and her rich dark hair. But he was older, with the solid build of a man going into successful middle age, and with more gray in his hair. He had done his guests the honor of washing and changing before he came to see them; he wore a rich, wide-belted gown of soft crimson wool, well-fitted hosen and red leather shoes in which he clearly had not traveled.

  Although there was correct courtesy in his bearing as he crossed to Frevisse and bowed to her, there was also assured pride as he said in a deep, even, pleasant voice, “My lady, my greetings and my gladness that you’re here.”

  “Master Payne,” Frevisse returned, with a slight curtsey to his bow. “We owe you a great thanks for your hospitality.”

  “My pleasure that we’re able to serve you.” He looked toward the bed. “The other sister sleeps?”

  “By God’s mercy and Magdalen’s kindness. Sleep is the best thing for her chill, I think.”

  “You both have everything you need?”

  “In abundance, I assure you. We’re well cared for.”

  He turned to Magdalen. “If there’s anything you need, send someone for it immediately.”

  Magdalen smiled reassuringly. “I will. How was the day?”

  “Well enough except for the rain. That made it tedious. But the child is christened and the dinner was ample and the company good. And it seems the message was true that said the expected godmother was safe but delayed.”

  Frevisse startled. “You were at the Pellow christening?”

  Master Payne laughed aloud, then caught himself with a little bow of apology. “Yes. I think you were supposed to be? I’m in the presence of the missing godmother?”

  Frevisse found herself smiling back at him. She nodded toward the bed. “Yes. Sister Emma was to be godmother, and I was traveling with her. They found someone else? Master Naylor arrived with his message in good time?”

  “The mother stood proxy for Sister Emma. There seemed to be a general feeling that – since they were assured of her safety – it was more exciting than alarming that the godmother was – uh – delayed on the way. The Pellows will make a story out of that for some time to come.”

  If the rest of the Pellow family were anything like Sister Emma, Frevisse could readily believe that. In fact, Frevisse already had an uncomfortable suspicion that when they were finally home again, recreation times at St. Frideswide’s were going to be full of Sister Emma’s recitation of this adventure for far longer than Frevisse was going to want to listen.

  “Master Naylor, our nunnery steward – he was safe?” she asked.

  Master Payne inclined his head. “I assume he was. He had come and gone before Edward and I arrived.”

  And was undoubtedly returned to St. Frideswide’s to inform Domina Edith what had happened. But Master Naylor thought they were still with Nicholas in the woods.

  “Would it be possible for me to send a message to my prioress?” Frevisse asked. “To let her know we’re well.”

  Master Payne inclined his head in willing agreement. “Few things would be simpler. I can send one of my men tomorrow with anything you wish.”

  That partially answered one question Frevisse had. Master Payne’s easy answer reassured her that they were not prisoners here. But it left other problems. He seemed to accept their presence here without question. Did he know what Nicholas was, and yet had dealings with him, which the law expressly forbid?

  But then Nicholas had said Master Payne did not know what he was and that such dealings as they had were honest. There must be a lie there somewhere, but she did not know which way it went. Best not to say too much at present, she decided. Let it wait until morning.

  “We’ll leave you now,” Master Payne was saying with another moderate bow. “You’re sure you have all you need?”

  “More than enough,” Frevisse assured him.

  “And the other - Sister Emma – is not very ill, you’re sure? We can send for a physician.”

  Frevisse shook her head. “So far it’s no more than a bad chill and a heavy cough. She’s resting now and should be better in the morning. I think there’s no need to worry.”

  “Then we’ll leave you to your rest. God be with you.”

  “And with you,” Frevisse replied.

  He left, and while Magdalen shut the door behind him, Frevisse moved wearily to lay the cloak on the chest where it had come from and remove the veil and wimple, careful not to lose the pins. How had she come to be in this position? Sworn to aid her outlaw cousin - to aid his whole band, come to that. Guest of a man whose honesty she had to doubt but whose womenfolk she found open and friendly. And certainly in her behavior she was stretching the limits of the Rule farther than she thought Domina Edith would accept. She had not even said Compline prayers yet and it was long past time for them.

  And long past time for being in bed. Again she was aware of her own exhaustion, and aware of how welcomingly soft and deep with blankets she was expecting the bed to be. Tomorrow she would sort it out, both the questions and her feelings. Tonight she simply wanted to sleep.

  Chapter Eight

  There were several reasons Nicholas preferred to meet with Oliver Payne in Payne’s house, rather than along some road or in the forest. Not least was the fact that they could be dry and warm. Today there was a coal fire on the parlor hearth, giving off heat like a blacksmith’s forge. Nicholas kept near it as he could, steam rising from his drying clothing while they talked. He wished Payne would offer him some of the Spanish wine he knew was kept locked in the aumbry along the farther wall. And besides Spanish wine and a coal fire, the man had two elaborately carved and cushioned chairs, a woven – not painted - French tapestry showing the Fall of Troy, a mullioned glass window looking out into a lady’s garden, and – God save the mark – a carpet on the floor instead of plain rush matting! Nicholas’s own father had had no carpet and he had been a knight, not a jumped up commoner like Payne. Damn him, Payne did not stint on his own comforts, but Nicholas meant to match him and more when this outlawry was over.

  But in the meanwhile one of the other pleasures of coming here – and not the least - was that Payne hated him to be there.

  Today, dressed in a green wool houppeland with a high standing collar and huge bagged sleeves edged with white rabbit fur, Oliver Payne made stark contrast to Nicholas, rough in his green-brown doublet and slack hosen, worn boots, and ragged-hemmed cloak. They both felt the difference; but Nicholas, for the sake of what he wanted out of Payne, was keeping his irk hidden behind smooth face and cool voice, while Payne kept as much of the room as he could between them. He stood now drumming his fingers on the locked lid of his accounts chest as he said, “This could be handled otherwise. I’m perfectly able to oversee her writing this letter. You don’t need to be here. I understand what you want.”

  Nicholas
made a dismissive gesture. “I want to be sure of what she does. This is my life at stake. “

  “It’s your life if you’re caught here, and a great deal of damage to me, explaining you away. There are safer ways to meet.”

  That was true enough; but they were not so amusing. Nicholas dragged one of the carved chairs nearer to the fire. “I thought it would still be raining today,” he explained. He sat down and stretched his feet to the fire. Payne hadn’t asked him to sit, but Payne was a commoner, with manners to match. “I thought you’d not care to muddy yourself coming to me.”

  In fact the rain had stopped in the night. This mid-morning there was watery sunshine through thin clouds, but the world was still dripping, and a damp chill permeated everything. A strong draught of Spanish wine would have gone to warm the right places, if Payne weren’t such a swine as not to offer it.

  Payne’s disapproval was unabated, “It would be better than your coming here.”

  Nicholas shifted ground. “But here I am, say what we will. So while we wait for my cousin to come down, tell me how my money goes.”

  Making a sharp, impatient gesture, Oliver Payne turned to pace away from his accounts chest. “Well enough.”

  “Well enough I can live at ease in my ‘retirement’ when it comes?” Nicholas persisted, enjoying Payne’s dislike of the subject. From what Payne had told him other times, his money had been set to good account in three merchant ventures, and profits from those had been put into a London goldsmith’s keeping for further investment. Nicholas had never bothered over the details of how it was all managed; Payne was the steward, that was his business. It was enough that Payne could tell him how much he had and how much it was likely to grow into.

  “If you can enjoy retiring on what you’ve thieved, yes, you’ll be able to enjoy your pardon when it comes,” Payne answered irritably.

  Rubbing his hands, Nicholas laughed with unfeigned amusement. “I come by my money as honestly as the men I take it from: stewards and franklins and all their kind, who harry the common folk for great lords’ gains. They all know as much about thieving as I do. As much as you know, Master Oliver Payne,” he added, for sport.

  Payne swung around to face him, mouth open for a retort. But he cut it off before it came.

  Nicholas pressed harder. “You and your kind are the ones with the fat purses, not the rest of us. You wring farthings from villeins for the sake of their lords, and then more farthings for yourselves by every way the law allows – and every way the law can blink at. An overcharge here on some custom of the manor, a forestalling there of someone’s rights. How many ways do you have of putting a profit into your own purse? How much of your profit comes from cheating the men you’re steward to? You’re steward to how many lords, Payne? How many manors do you play games with? More than enough, to judge by your house here and what you have in it. Aren’t you thankful you and I’ve made an agreement whereby you do me service for my protection, rather than your having to pay me outright for it?”

  Payne’s face was closed over whatever he was thinking, but a small muscle jumped in his cheek.

  Nicholas leaned back in the chair and went on. Deprived of the Spanish wine, he would at least enjoy himself this way. “And merchants! Now they’re the prettiest piece of all. How many ways have they got of bringing up their earnings? Bribing woolpackers to low-value wool before they buy it off some hapless wight. Pricing what they offer to sell up past any reason. And who knows what else? I can’t regret or do penance for so much as a ha’penny had off of any of them, by highway robbery or otherwise. God send the lot of them where they deserve to go. There’s not an honest pair of them in the whole kingdom! No more than you stewards-”

  He was cut off from learning how much it would take to goad Payne into open anger by a light tapping at the door.

  “Come,” Payne said tersely.

  One his servants entered and bowed. “The lady waits in the hall, sir.”

  “Bid her come in, if it please her,” Payne said, and as the servant withdrew, turned on Nicholas. “You’ve already made the mistake of bringing her here,” he said in a low, hard voice. “You say you haven’t told her anything except we have business together and that I don’t know you’re an outlaw. But she must be curious, and the more time she has to wonder, the more she may guess. So do what you want done as fast as may be, and then be gone. Those are my terms.”

  A hot reply rose along with Nicholas’ temper, but before he could answer, the servant had returned with Frevisse and a maidservant.

  * * * * *

  Frevisse took the room in at a glance, as she came forward to curtsey to Nicholas and Master Payne. She had the impression of something unpleasant and uncompleted between them, and the looks they briefly gave each other as they straightened from their bows to her were sharp and bare of cordiality. She gave no sign of noticing, but simply went to sit on the chair Master Payne indicated.

  Nicholas looked at Payne as if expecting him to tell the servant Bess to leave, but Payne of course did not. A nun must not meet alone with men.

  Bess withdrew unobtrusively to the side of the now-closed door, to stand with her eyes down, her hands folded in front of her.

  Frevisse’s Benedictine habit had been laundered, dried, and well-ironed before being returned to her this morning. Dressed and veiled in its familiarity, her confidence more settled than last night, she said, “You want me to write my letter to Master Chaucer now, I suppose?”

  At this blunt statement of purpose, Master Payne’s eyebrows rose.

  “If you’ll be so good,” Nicholas replied, his smile warm with charm. Frevisse noticed he had taken the trouble to shave, but supposed there had been little he could do about his clothing; the contrast of his roughness to Master Payne’s assured sleekness was strong. She remembered Nicholas in his noble youth, peacock proud and always elegant.

  Only his arrogance remained. She wondered at the tension between him and Master Payne. “And you’ll take the letter to Master Chaucer yourself?” she asked, knowing full well he could not dare to put himself in such jeopardy.

  He hesitated, his eyes gleaming at what he perceived as a challenge from her. Then he shrugged. “Payne has offered to send one of his men with it.”

  Master Payne appeared surprised.

  “I also need to write to my prioress, to advise her where we are, what has happened, and that we’re well.”

  There was something less than strict truth in that; Sister Emma was not well. She had slept through the night but woken before dawn, feverish and choking on phlegm.

  Frevisse looked around the room. “Where will you have me write?”

  “You wish to do it yourself?” Master Payne asked. “Or would you rather I wrote it for you?”

  Frevisse smiled her thanks but answered, “I write a fair hand, thank you, and my prioress and uncle both know my writing. It will probably be better if I do it myself.”

  Nicholas laughed harshly at that, but said nothing.

  “Then here,” Master Payne said, and set out ink and pen and paper on a standing desk set near the window for best light.

  Frevisse had noted and appreciated the room’s furnishings when she entered. Now, as she went to the desk, she noticed that the windows had heavy shutters, and the shutters could be barred. Also, the chests along the farther wall were both metal banded and heavily locked. This was clearly a room meant for Master Payne’s business.

  The three pens laid out beside the inkwell were well-trimmed, the sheet of paper she drew toward her of fine quality. Master Payne with admirable reticence stayed where he was, but Nicholas came to stand behind her shoulder and ask, “Do you want my help with what to say?”

  “No.” Frevisse picked up a pen, chose her words, and began the first of what would probably be several drafts. “Right worshipful and my revered and most special and esteemed good Uncle, I commend me to you in my best way…”

  The balance between what needed to be said and what left out was dif
ficult, but once she had what she needed to say clear in her mind, the body of the letter came fluently. At one point, Nicholas, hovering behind her, began to interrupt, but Frevisse shook her head in a short, sharp negative and he subsided.

  Still, it was more than an hour before she was reading over her final fair copy, with its closing plea, “For these reasons I beseech you to have talk with him, that you may know as I do that he is sincere in his desire and reformation. Acknowledging myself deeply bound to you for many favors and by my especial love, and having you ever in my prayers, I remain in humble reverence, your niece.”

  She signed and dated it, straightened up and held it out to Master Payne who had stood waiting at the far end of the window while she wrote. With a glance at Nicholas, who shrugged indifferently, Master Payne took the letter, read it with no sign of surprise, and handed it back. One question answered: Payne knew what Nicholas was.

  “It should serve very well,” he said. “You can be pleased with it, Nicholas.”

  “Seal it then,” Nicholas said impatiently, “and we’ll send it.”

  When the letter was folded and sealed, Frevisse wrote Master Chaucer’s name and “At his manor of Ewelme or wheresoever he may be,” on its outside. She handed it to Master Payne and took another sheet of paper.

  The letter for Domina Edith might prove more taxing than the one to her uncle, she was afraid, because she suspected that Domina Edith would have deep reservations about what she had done through the past few days and was doing now; she needed to find a way to put it all in the best light.

  But before she could begin, there was a hurried knock and, at Master Payne’s “Come”, one of his men entered, bowed, and said, “Will Colfoot’s at the door, wanting to see you, sir. He’s set up over something and says he has to speak with you now, though I said you’re busy.”

  “The hall door?” Master Payne asked.