“But he manages your properties?”
“And consults me on his decisions. My husband was somewhat older than I am. He taught me and trusted me to understand as much as he did about what we owned. So I know what Oliver does with what is mine, and why.”
“What about Iseult?”
“You mean, does he consult her? Not about their properties, no.”
“But he leaves the running of the house and servants to her?”
“Assuredly.” Magdalen smiled. “I know she fusses and dithers but she’s neither foolish nor weak; it’s simply her nature to seem so. Oliver by necessity is often gone about his stewardships. Then everything here is in her governing and she does it very well. You’ll find everything always in order and the servants willing to do everything she asks of them because she cares for them nearly as she does for her children. She’s fierce about anyone in her care – Oliver, the children, the servants, even me now that I live here.”
“What can you tell me about the servants?”
“For that you had best ask Bess. She’s among them more than I am.”
Sister Emma took the last spoonful of broth, sighed, and settled deeper into the pillows. “I’m sleepy now,” she announced and mopped her running nose. “I really do feel better.” She started to cough; when it did not stop Bess came with a basin for her to spit into. “If I could just stop coughing,” she said at last. “It does wear me out so.”
Magdalen patted her hand. “Coughing clears your lungs. You’ll be much better by tomorrow.”
Sister Emma lay back, murmuring agreement, her eyes closing.
Softly Magdalen said over her head to Frevisse, “I’ll stay with her while she falls asleep. Go talk with Bess across the room.”
Bess went willingly enough to sit with Frevisse by the farther window. Their heads close together, Frevisse asked, “What was said at breakfast about the murder and… yesterday?”
Bess paused, considering, then answered, “Not anything new, I don’t think. And not really that much. The men are tired from taking turns at watch by Colfoot, and I think Mistress Payne had told her women not to chatter. So except for Sir Perys’ praying not much was said.” She leaned nearer. “I hope it’s that stranger that bothered Mistress Dow in the orchard, not someone we know.”
Did that mean that Bess was unaware of Magdalen’s secret meetings in the orchard? Or was she loyally protecting a secret? Frevisse asked, “Is it true what Mistress Dow said? The servants are happy here?”
“Mistress Payne is a good mistress. And the master leaves much of running the manor to her. Which is as it should be, of course.”
“Tell me about everyone.”
Bess hesitated. Frevisse prompted, “About Maud? You and she came with Mistress Dow from her old home?”
“We were all she needed, she said. And really she only needed one of us - there’s so little to do here - but neither of us had any family to go to so we came with her. I mostly serve her, while Maud is good with her needle and at ironing and does a great deal for Mistress Payne.” Bess gave a private smile. “I think she’s sweet on Tam of the stables and if Mistress Dow does ever leave here, Maud will find cause to stay.”
“Tam?”
“The stableman. Good with the horses, better with the cattle.”
“And who are you sweet on?”
Bess blushed a little, very becomingly. “Nobody that notices me,” she said shyly. And then added, “Jack.”
“So when Mistress Dow leaves, you may stay as well?”
“Indeed I will not.” The very idea made Bess indignant. “Jack could just come with me if he had a fancy for me. But he doesn’t,” she added regretfully. “There’s a girl in the village, and if his mother and her parents agree, he’ll marry her. Mistress Payne has already said she can work in the kitchen here if she marries him.”
“And the other man? Adam, is it?”
“He’s a worker, he is. Not that Jack isn’t, but Adam seems to want to do even more than he’s given.” Bess leaned nearer with a knowledgeable nod of her head. “Wants more than is good for him, and I don’t mean work, either.”
Frevisse had never been particularly good at gossip; she had never learned the knack of it. But she knew an opening when it was offered her. She arranged her expression into wide-eyed interest, and Bess nodded again. “Beatrice at The Wheatsheaf. That’s the alehouse in the village. Adam goes there more than he ought to, and for more than the ale.”
Remembering the talk at supper last night, Frevisse said, “But he’s not the only one who wants Beatrice, is he?”
“No, but he’s the only one who thinks she’s better than she is.” Her voice dropped lower, weighty with scandal. “The only one who thinks he wants to marry her.”
“He doesn’t!” Frevisse did not have to feign her surprise at that.
“He does.” Bess was plainly pleased at Frevisse’s response to her tidbit. “He’s that fond of her that even after her looks have been beaten out of her – did you hear about that? – he still wants her. That’s what Lovie says.”
“And what of Lovie?”
“She does for Mistress Payne what I do for my lady. Though not so well, though I say it myself. She’s more burble than brains…”
Bess had very clear views about everyone in the Payne household. Carefully Frevisse gleaned all that she could, right down to the boy who helped Tam in the stables. “He’s Lovie’s brother. Not very bright but a hard worker,” Bess confided.
When Sister Emma was soundly asleep, Magdalen joined them and added her comments. By the time they had finished, Frevisse felt she could now move knowledgeably through the household, to see what else she could learn.
“The younger children will be at their lessons with Sir Perys this time of the morning,” Magdalen said. “And Edward and Richard with their father since he’s home. He’d meant to be off on another of his circuits today and be gone likely a week, but with all this he’s had to stay.”
“Mistress Payne?”
“Anywhere, depending on where she’s needed. Try her bedroom across the way since the children will be in the solar at their lessons.”
Before going out, Frevisse made sure her veil was on evenly and pinned firmly in place. Not so much for the sake of appearances, but to give herself time to brace for her intrusion into the Payne household. There was need for her to do it – and reasons why she should not – but she felt committed to it now.
At her knock on the door across the way someone bid her enter and she found herself in the house’s great bedroom. Like Magdalen’s chamber it went the full width of the house, was open to the rafters and had a fireplace in one wall. But it was altogether a larger room, with not only the wide bed that Master and Mistress Payne shared, but two other beds where their younger children slept and an upright loom in a farther corner. As with Magdalen’s room there were chests for storage and clothing, and various stools and a chair, but the long window in the wall opposite the fireplace overlooked the foreyard and the fields beyond the road rather than the orchard. The servant woman Lovie was seated there, where the overcast morning’s light was best, with a pile of linens beside her.
She was glad Frevisse was come. She would have been glad of any company, but someone new to talk to was best of all. At her eager invitation Frevisse sat down and, despite Lovie claiming she did not have to help, began to fold linens with her.
“Everything is all upset with this death,” Lovie said. “Your visiting was exciting enough, you going astray in the woods and Sister Emma – that’s her name, isn’t it? - falling ill – it’s bad weather for travelling, I can’t help but say – and how fortunate you fell in with that forester fellow who thought to bring you here.”
Frevisse agreed readily to all of that, and asked, “Do you see much of him around here?”
“Now and again. He’s best acquainted with Master Payne and sometimes comes but not often, no.”
“He’s better known in the village, I gather.”<
br />
“Oh, I think so. At least some places in the village.”
Lovie gave a knowing smile and wink that invited further questions. Frevisse, choosing not to feign innocence, said, “And Beatrice at the Wheatsheaf prefers him to Adam?”
Lovie made a little, scandalized sound. “How talk does fly around! People will say anything to anyone.” But then she nodded and leaned toward Frevisse, her voice lowered over what was certainly no secret. “But I think Adam may have a better time of it now. Old Nick won’t want her now she’s lost her pretty face.”
“But Adam will? In spite of that and… and…”
Lovie saved her the trouble of finding a polite word by nodding vigorously. “Oh, Adam knows all about her and has liked her anyway, right along. Still does, even after seeing her yesterday.”
“He saw her yesterday?”
“He did indeed. As soon as he’d heard of it he was off to the village. Was there straight after old Nick saw her and no comfort she’d had from him either, I guess, from the way Adam told it. He was as mad at old Nick as at Colfoot after he’d talked to her. No, she’ll be more willing to listen to Adam after this. She’s not likely to have anyone else, from what they say about her face. It’s just as well Colfoot is dead, so far as Adam is concerned. He was angry fit to kill him yesterday.” She popped a dimpled hand over her pretty mouth. “Oh, I don’t suppose I ought to say that, things being as they are.” But she sounded more amused than worried that Frevisse might take her seriously. She picked up another towel to fold. “Only I surely shouldn’t like to be old Nick next time Adam comes on him. No, I wouldn’t.”
Overwhelmed by such a flood in return for her little question, Frevisse held quiet a moment. A random spatter of rain passed across the window. Lovie sighed. “I do believe this is going to go on forever. The laundry always smells smoky now, from drying in the kitchen.”
From beyond a door opposite where Frevisse had entered children’s voices rose in a concerted murmur that told they were repeating lessons. Frevisse nodded toward them. “Sir Perys surely earns his keep here, teaching all the children.”
Lovie giggled. “He’d no great problem with the older boys, and little Katherine is at least biddable, but I’d not try teaching that Bartholmew for all the gold in Oxford, and Kate’s no better.”
Beyond the door something heavy thumped to the floor and Bartholomew’s young voice yelled, “I won’t! I don’t want to!”
There was the smack of a rod and a yelp. Quiet returned. Lovie covered another giggle. “He’s a high-stomached man, is Sir Perys. He doesn’t take arguing from anyone he thinks under him. And he thinks most anyone is under him if they’re not an Oxford scholar, even if they are paying his wages.”
There was the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Frevisse went on folding the last of the linen, finishing as Mistress Payne entered with Maud behind her. Frevisse and Lovie rose to their feet respectfully. Mistress Payne fluttered her hands at them from under an armful of dusty-pink cloth, yards of wool as finely woven as it was beautifully dyed. Cut threads hanging from the empty loom in the corner indicated where it had been made, and after Mistress Payne’s flustered greetings, and her own explanation that she was simply tired of being in Magdalen’s room and had been passing the time in talk with Lovie, Frevisse complimented her on the cloth that Maud was now spreading out on the bed. “What are you planning to make?”
“I had thought dresses for the girls. But then again I’ve thought of a cloak for myself. But I don’t know.”
“Your old cloak is patched in three places along the hem, mistress,” Lovie said. “It’s going to be a disgrace for you to wear it by next winter. Your girls have gowns enough for the while.”
“Yes, I suppose.” Mistress Payne was not convinced though her hand lingered lovingly over the fabric. “But I doubt there’s enough here for a cloak after all.”
“There is if we turn this the short way,” Maud began. She swept the fabric off the bed and around Mistress Payne’s shoulders, keeping it in place with one hand while holding a length of it out to the side. “See now, this would work well. We cut this long end off and make a hood of it, and then cut the center out in triangle shape, turn it upside down and sew the pieces together, making a bell-shaped cloak that would be perfect.”
“And the color is beautiful on you,” Frevisse added.
Mistress Payne blushed a soft rose color that nearly matched the wool. She murmured something about Frevisse being kind. Frevisse murmured politeness back, then asked, “But is there anything I can do besides simply sitting? Some–” She glanced at a workbasket beside one of the chairs. “–mending perhaps?”
Mistress Payne followed her glance and sighed the weary sigh of a mother who cannot keep up with her children. “This tunic of Bartholomew’s,” she said, picking it up from the basket. “He’s torn it again. Do you think…?”
She held it out doubtfully. The tear was jagged and almost a hand’s length.
“I am not skilled at invisible mending,” Frevisse warned. All the world coveted the needlework of English nunneries, but none of it came from Frevisse’s fingers. Her talents lay elsewhere.
Mistress Payne laughed; it was a surprisingly merry sound. She said, “Neatness is wasted on Bartholomew. He’ll have the edges apart again before anyone notices how well or poorly they are joined.”
While Maud spread the cloth out again and set to cutting, and Lovie left with her pile of folded linen, Frevisse and Mistress Payne sat down to the mending. The brief shower had passed; sunlight made fickle play among the clouds and sent random beams through the windows. Mistress Payne sorted through her skeins of thread and passed one to Frevisse that most nearly matched Bartholomew’s blue tunic.
“Not that matching colors matter, either,” she said. “He usually has his clothing covered in dirt very soon after putting them on. But one feels obliged to try.”
“Were all your sons so lively when they were young?”
“None of them so lively as Bartholomew, I must needs say.” Mistress Payne’s customary fluttering uncertainty was replaced by pleasure when she spoke of her children. “Edmund was nearest. He was the eldest and we meant him to follow his father, but I think he would eventually have gone a-soldiering instead. He could never hear enough of the French war. He had the heart of a lion. He loved adventuring. Just like Bartholomew.” Her face shone for a moment with deeply remembered affection; then her smile quavered and she blinked rapidly and bent over her sewing. “But one can’t always win against fevers, and now Edward is our eldest.”
To help her move away from memory of her loss, Frevisse said, “He seems quite scholarly. Magdalen tells me he’s to be a lawyer.”
“Indeed, yes. None of the others have his bent for learning. He loves it. I thought for a while he might enter the Church, but he says he has no time for playing churchmen’s games, for mocking God with pretended prayers while living a worldly life.” Mistress Payne suddenly realized who she was talking to. “Oh! Your pardon, please!”
Frevisse smiled reassuringly, with honest amusement. “No pardon is needed for your son’s very accurate observation of all too many churchmen.”
Mistress Payne gave her a friendly, puzzled little frown. “You’re far easier to talk with than I–” She blushed again, ducked lower over her sewing, and said hastily, “Yes, Edward is very good with words. Not that he isn’t brave, mind you. He and Edmund used to have terrible fights and neither of them would back off a step. Sir Perys used to have to beat them apart with his rod. I did hate that. Thank goodness Richard is a more peaceable sort. Nothing puts him in a temper. Or almost nothing. Richard will follow his father and become a steward. He has a good head for that, though not at all for scholarship.”
Led on by Frevisse’s questions, Mistress Payne chatted on happily about her children and her household. Some of it Frevisse had already learned from Magdalen or Bess or Lovie; most seemed of very little use, and when she had finished with the tunic she was thinking
how to go about her business elsewhere when Mistress Payne said, “So even with times so hard this year, we can’t think of turning out any of our people. They’re loyal to us and we are to them. And of course we try to help all we can, even if they’re not of the household. Just yesterday I was out to the Wilcox cottage to see if there was anything I could do for the mother. She’s down with a flux. I was going to send one of the women with soup, but decided I should go myself.” Mistress Payne shook her head sadly. “I fear it’s going to be the worst for her.”
Keeping her voice even, Frevisse asked, “When did you go?”
“Yesterday.”
“Morning or afternoon?”
“Why, just after–” Mistress Payne broke off, her face a confusion of expressions. “Why, just after Master Colfoot was here,” she said, more slowly than she had begun. “Oliver was so angered I thought I would go then and everything would be settled when I returned. I must have been at the Wilcox’s when Master Colfoot was - killed.”
She looked as pale as if she had witnessed the murder itself. Frevisse knew that for kindness’s sake she should change the subject, but she said instead, “Did you go alone?”
“Oh no, of course not.” It was improper, as well as dangerous, for a woman to travel the roads unescorted; Iseult was vaguely surprised that Frevisse felt a need to ask such a question. “Jack went with me. I wanted Adam, because he’s bigger and bolder, but he was gone somewhere. Isn’t it just dreadful when something like this happens? We loathed the man, and even now none is truly sorry he’s dead. I just wish the crowner would hurry and come, so his people can take him away from our holding.”
“I heard the men saying they doubt the sheriff and crowner will be here before tomorrow,” Maud put in.
“Oh no!” Mistress Payne exclaimed. And that set off a discussion of royal officials, who were underfoot when you wished they were three shires away and never to hand when you wanted them. Since this was not to her point, Frevisse made her excuses and went away.
3 The Outlaw's Tale Page 12