The Hunter’s Tale

by Margaret Frazer

  Hugh raised his head and looked at Miles. “ ‘Whoever she is’?” he echoed, and was pleased he matched Miles’ light touch on the words. “You mean you’ve decided not to make me marry Philippa?”

  ‘I don’t think I’d like what she’d do to either one of us if we tried.“

  ‘Then you’ll marry her before you leave for Leicestershire?“ Hugh pressed.

  ‘If I marry her, I’ll have to leave and it won’t have anything to do with Leicestershire. It will be because Sir William is after me.“

  Hugh let go the lightness, said seriously, “Have you thought that once Philippa is married, Sir William loses one of his reasons for trying to take over Sir Ralph’s will? Then I’ll find a husband for Lucy as soon as may be and someone for myself, and with only Ursula left, none of it will be worth Sir William’s bother anymore and Master Selenger will give over troubling Mother.”

  ‘Selenger had better give over troubling her before then,“ Miles said. ”And how are you going to protect her in the meanwhile?“

  ‘She’s doing that, by seeing to it she’s never alone. That’s why she brought the nuns back with her, I think.“

  ‘You can’t keep them forever.“

  ‘When they leave, I’ll do something else. Meanwhile, the thing is to get you married to Philippa.“

  ‘Leave it, Hugh. For now, just leave it,“ Miles said amiably. But firmly. He slid down to lie on his back, his head pillowed on the grave. Bevis, who had been sitting patiently this while, promptly lay down and nudged his muzzle into Miles’ side to remind him he was there. Miles obediently began to play with his ears.

  Hugh held silent. Silence was better than making a quarrel where he did not want one, and although the sun was well up now and the dew already dried from the grass, warning the day would be hot later on, just now it was good simply to sit here in the warm, heavy sunshine. He pulled at the grass beside him until he had a handful, then let it fall in a small scatter, listening to Father Leonel without making out the words, while the quiet drew out between him and Miles, until he said, “You still mean to go to Leicestershire come Michaelmas?”

  Miles made a wordless, assenting sound.

  Hugh plucked more grass and let it fall. “I’ve thought of another reason you should marry Philippa.”

  ‘Hugh…“ Miles started warningly.

  ‘Just think how angry it would have made Sir Ralph.“

  That took Miles enough by surprise that he laughed, choked, began to cough, and had to sit up. Hugh cheerfully beat on his back, helping not at all. Bevis, looking confused about whether he should worry or not, sat up, too. Miles, fending off Hugh’s blows with one hand, put his other arm around Bevis’ neck and croaked, “Let be, you dolt.”

  Hugh let be and stood up out of reach before Miles recovered enough to repay him. “Mass seems done,” he said. “I’m going in to talk to Father Leonel before going back to the hall. Will you come?”

  ‘May as well,“ Miles said, and together they circled back to the other side of the church. The village folk were already out, spreading homeward down the village or to work, but as Hugh and Miles reached the broad, round-topped door of thick planks and heavy ironwork standing open into the nave, Hugh heard Father Leonel, inside, saying to someone, ”Go on then,“ not sounding pleased about it.

  ‘The day Sir Ralph was killed…“ Dame Frevisse said.

  Hugh stopped in midstride. So did Miles beside him.

  ‘… why did whoever went looking for Tom Woderove have such trouble finding him? I understand he’d come back to the manor well before his father’s body was found, but he couldn’t be readily found when he was looked for.“

  Crisply, in a way that made Hugh think she had been asking other questions and the priest was not happy about it, Father Leonel answered, “Tom took so long to be found because no one thinks to look first thing in a church for a young man. That’s where he was. He’d come to me to talk off his anger and make confession of it. Why is knowing that of any help to Lady Anneys?”

  Hugh and Miles looked at each other, each silently asking if the other knew what this was about, both of them shaking their heads that they did not.

  And Dame Frevisse was ignoring Father Leonel’s question to ask, “Was he worried that Sir Ralph was going to find out what you both had been doing with the accounts?‘

  ‘There was nothing to worry about that way. We always made certain there was money enough for his hounds and Sir Ralph cared nothing about the rest. Dame, be advised— let all of this go. Let it rest with the dead. It’s better there than being raised up to plague the living.“

  Hugh could not make out her murmured answer to that. Maybe she had bowed her head and was accepting the priest’s order, because the next that Hugh heard was Father Leonel blessing her in farewell. Beside him, Miles drew back a step, making to leave before they came out. Hugh was ready to retreat with him but they had waited too long. Nor was it Father Leonel who came out but both the nuns, and there was nothing either Hugh or Miles could do, caught flat-footed and in the open, except bow, wish them good-day, and move to go past them into the church. But Dame Frevisse, quicker than they were, said, “Master Woderove, we were just talking to Father Leonel, trying to understand matters better, so we can maybe better help your mother.”

  ‘Help her how?“ Miles demanded.

  ‘She’s in deep grief,“ Dame Frevisse said.

  ‘For Tom,“ Hugh said stiffly. ”We all are.“

  ‘For Tom, yes,“ Dame Frevisse agreed. ”But she’s in grief for her own life, too.“

  ‘In grief for her life?“ Miles echoed, sounding as if he understood no better than Hugh did.

  ‘For her life,“ Dame Frevisse repeated. ”We gather that Sir Ralph was not… kind… to her.“

  Miles gave a short, harsh laugh. Hugh said only, “No. He wasn’t.”

  ‘Or to any of you,“ Dame Frevisse persisted.

  ‘Or to anyone,“ Miles snapped.

  ‘And to you most especially,“ Dame Frevisse said to him evenly; but she returned to Hugh with, ”You got on the best of anyone with him, didn’t you?“

  ‘For what that was worth,“ Hugh said, ”and only because of the hounds and the hunting. He probably got on best with Sir William.“

  ‘Since they were both of a kind,“ Miles said, not hiding his raw dislike of that ”kind.“

  ‘Does Lady Anneys ever talk about Sir Ralph’s murder?“

  ‘We’ve none of us talked about it,“ Hugh answered sharply. ”Ever.“

  ‘Not at all? Not even when it happened?“

  ‘Not then and not now,“ Hugh said almost harshly.

  ‘We were too glad that he was gone,“ said Miles.

  Dame Frevisse fixed a suddenly narrowed look on him. “Somebody wanted him gone badly enough that they killed him.”

  Miles met her look with his own and answered, “Yes. And blessings on them for it.”

  ‘Don’t you care who?“

  ‘Not greatly, no.“

  ‘Whoever did it,“ Hugh put in, ”is long gone and not likely to be found. So there’s no point in caring.“

  ‘What about Master Selenger?“ she asked them both.

  Hugh traded quick, questioning looks with Miles, who did not look as if he understood the question either, before Hugh answered, “Master Selenger didn’t kill him, no more than any of us did.”

  ‘How do you know he didn’t? He was there that day. And he’s made plain his interest in Lady Anneys.“

  ‘He’s only interested because Sir William told him to be,“ said Miles.

  ‘Or was Master Selenger interested before,“ Dame Frevisse asked, ”and it’s Sir William who’s being led, rather than the other way on?“

  Hugh and Miles traded looks again, and this time it was Miles who answered, somewhat slowly, thinking it out as he went, “Because if one of them murdered Sir Ralph, it would be the one who first thought of how they could gain by his death. Master Selenger because he wanted Lady Anneys. O
r Sir William through the will.”

  ‘Yes,“ Dame Frevisse said.

  He and Hugh looked at each other again.

  ‘That,“ said Miles, still slowly, ”could be worth the finding out.“

  But Hugh said, “My lady, please leave it alone. Please.”

  ‘The day Sir Ralph died…“ she started.

  Worried and puzzled, Sister Johane said, “Dame…” at the same moment Miles burst out, “Hugh said let it lie, my lady! So let it!”

  Hugh, still pleading more than demanding, held out a hand to silence Miles and said, with more quiet than he felt, “Dame Frevisse, please believe this—that we’re all far the better off with Sir Ralph dead than we ever were with him alive. His death is neither a trouble nor grief to anybody here. If there’s any grief over Sir Ralph, it’s for the wasted years he was alive.”

  And there was the terrible truth. That was what Sir Ralph’s life had been and it was what he had made of all their lives while he lived. A waste. His life had been a waste, and Tom’s death was a waste, and the grief of both those truths suddenly choked Hugh. “So let his death go, my lady,” he forced out. “We’ve grief enough and don’t need more.” And because he could not trust himself beyond that, he turned away from her and the other nun and Miles. Turned away from them and everyone and everything except his grief and tangled thoughts. Turned and went out of the churchyard and across the road, blindly headed toward the forest’s edge across the pasture there, wanting the sanctuary the forest always gave him. Sanctuary and time to think. Sir Ralph’s life had been a waste of all of their lives and none of them talked of his death because no one wanted to know… who among them had done it.

  Because, very surely, one of them had.

  And Dame Frevisse knew it as well as he did.

  Chapter 20

  With Hugh almost to the woods, Miles broke the startled silence left behind him, saying, “If you’ll pardon me, too, my ladies,” and went the other way, across the churchyard, not even to the gate but bracing one hand on the low wall when he came to it and swinging over. His hound cleared it in an easy leap after him and they disappeared together into the village.

  When Frevisse looked back toward the woods, Hugh was out of sight. Beside her, Sister Johane said softly, “Oh my,” and when Frevisse looked at her, her eyes were large with pity and unease.

  ‘Oh my indeed,“ Frevisse agreed.

  ‘Do you think one of them did it?“ Sister Johane almost whispered, though there was no one to overhear them.

  Slowly Frevisse answered, “There’s nothing that says so.”

  ‘Nor anything that says not,“ Sister Johane said, her gaze fixed on Frevisse’s face.

  ‘No. There’s nothing to say that either. In truth“—and the truth came hard—”I’ve not yet learned anything that tells against anyone more than another. Anyone at all.“

  Hopefully, Sister Johane asked, “Then you’re going to let it go?”

  Staring downward at the grassy edge of the graveled path, Frevisse said slowly, “I don’t know what else I can ask or where else I can look for answers. But to leave it like this…”

  ‘If it’s the only place you can leave it, you have to,“ Sister Johane said.

  Frevisse lifted her head with a sigh somewhere between accepting that and impatient at herself, her heart and mind heavy with more than the day’s growing heat.

  Hugh was afraid and Miles was angry, and she understood Miles’ anger. Sir Ralph had done enough to him to fuel a lifetime’s anger. But what was Hugh afraid of?

  Of being found out for his father’s murder?

  Or of finding out who had done it?

  Or did he know who had done it and was afraid for them?

  Or afraid of them.

  She stood staring at the woodshore where Hugh had disappeared. It was the weather, she told herself. It was too hot for her to think clearly. But the woods’ rich greens of high summer were already dulled toward the dusty beginnings of autumn. The year was on the turn.

  ‘This weather can’t hold,“ she said. ”There’ll be a storm before long.“

  ‘Shall we stay here for Tierce and say it in the church?“ asked Sister Johane.

  ‘No,“ Frevisse said, finding she did not want to meet Father Leonel again just yet, with his burden of knowledge about the Woderoves. Had Sir Ralph’s murderer confessed to him yet? Did he know who it was? Or maybe, with his deeper knowledge of everyone here, did he at least have too true a suspicion? ”No,“ she said again to Sister Johane’s question. ”Let’s go back to the manor for it.“

  The day passed somehow. The heat grew worse, weighing on everyone, stilling even Lucy’s chatter. Neither Hugh nor Miles came in to midday dinner and for once Lady Anneys was impatient at them, saying, “They could at least say when they’re not going to be here.”

  At her order, a double share of ale was sent out to the fields for the harvesters’ midafternoon rest-time. Later, Helinor came into the garden to tell her, “Alson brought back word Master Hugh and Master Miles are both in the field, helping to harvest. Thought you’d want to know,” and afterward Lady Anneys was a little farther away from the edge of her ill-humour. She even had supper delayed until nearly dark, waiting for their return, and buckets of water set on the bench outside the hall door to the foreyard to warm in the afternoon sun, with towels and a bowl of soap and clean tunics laid beside them, so that when Hugh and Miles finally walked wearily into the yard, they were able to wash there, stripped to the waist and scrubbing each other’s backs, Ursula reported, hanging out the tall window to watch them.

  ‘Well, tell them to hurry. I’m starved,“ Lucy said irritably from the table.

  ‘Not so starved as they surely are,“ Lady Anneys said curtly. ”You’ve done nothing all day except moan about the heat while they’ve been out working in it. Ursula, come here and sit down. They don’t need your help to wash themselves.“

  They came in, in their clean tunics and with their hair slick to their heads from dunking in a bucket. Baude, wide with her whelps, heaved up from beside the hearth and waddled to meet them, she and Bevis circling each other with waving tails. Talk through the meal was of how the harvest went and whether the weather would break in a storm sooner rather than later.

  ‘Gefori says sooner,“ Hugh said. ”Late tomorrow maybe. If it holds off to late afternoon, we’ll have most of the wheat safe.“

  ‘What of the beans and peas?“ Lady Anneys asked. A storm that battered them into the ground when they should be drying on their plants could ruin the crop and mean much of the manor’s food for the next year was gone.

  ‘Father Leonel is praying,“ Hugh said.

  ‘Do you still mean to hunt tomorrow?“ Lady Anneys asked.

  ‘The hounds need it, if nothing else,“ Hugh said. ”But I’ll make it short and be done early.“ Taking great care at spreading butter on a piece of bread, probably so he did not have to look at her, he added, ”I asked Sir William if he’d join me.“

  Suddenly no one except Lucy was looking at anyone else, until after a moment Lady Anneys said with careful quiet, “And is he going to?”

  ‘He sent back his thanks but said he’d not.“

  ‘Another time, then.“

  Lady Anneys spoke as if hardly interested one way or the other; and Hugh with relief said, “Yes. Likely later.”

  The message had been passed between them that, when the time came, she would accept it.

  Because they had dined so late, there was little time for staying up and by the last fade of twilight they all went to their beds, before there was need to light candles to see their way. Shut into Lady Anneys’ bedchamber, Frevisse freed her head from veil and wimple with a relief matched by Sister Johane’s sigh of pleasure as she rubbed at her bared neck. While Sister Johane settled onto their truckle bed, Frevisse moved to close the window shutter but Lady Anneys said, “Pray, leave it open.” She was sitting on one of the chests with her hair already loosed and falling to her waist, Ursula
combing it with long, slow strokes in which both she and her mother seemed to be taking pleasure. “I’d rather risk the night vapors,” Lady Anneys said, smiling, “than smother the way we surely will with the window shut.”

  So would Frevisse and she willingly left it open, but it made small difference. The hoped-for evening coolness did not come and sleep was hard to reach, no matter how much it was wanted. And Frevisse wanted it very much, because otherwise she lay thinking when there was far too much she did not want to think about because there was far too little she knew.

  But without sleep, she found herself considering, in the quiet darkness after Lady Anneys had gone to her bed and Lucy and Ursula to theirs, how comforting it would be to believe Tom Woderove had killed his father.