The outlaw's tale (11 page)

“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.

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 shut 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."

“He's an oaf!" Edward declared, his face colored with indignation.  “I'll tell Father you're upset, and that you want to see him.  He should hear more than Colfoot's side of it."

“No, Edward, wait."  Magdalen reached a hand to stop him, but he had pushed past his brother and was gone.  Magdalen sank back in the chair, looking abruptly exhausted.  “Oh dear."

The other boy grinned from the doorway, less moved than his brother.  “Will Colfoot's more bluster than anything.  Father will send him off with a flea in his ear."

“Oh, Richard," Magdalen sighed.  With an effort she recalled her good manners and stood up to introduce Frevisse.  “Dame Frevisse, this is my nephew Richard Payne.  Richard, Dame Frevisse of St. Frideswide's Priory."

“Good sir," Frevisse said, giving him a small curtsey.

Richard returned a creditable bow, though its dignity was marred by his wide grin that seemed as much a part of him as his light-brown hair.  He was average-grown for twelve years old, with his mother's mild coloring and, Frevisse thought, an easier nature than his older brother.

“Edward just thinks he's older than he is," he explained.  “Father is forever having to bring him back to being only fifteen.  Ouch!"

Richard spun and dived away into the shadows behind him.  There was a scuffle so brief that Magdalen had not time to reach the door before Richard was back, hauling a much smaller boy by the scruff of his tunic.  “It's Bartholomew," he said disgustedly to Frevisse.  “He wants to meet you, too.  So he hit me from behind."  Someone jerked at the back of his doublet.  “And so does Kate," he added.

As he set his unrepentant brother in the doorway, a little girl pushed in beside him.  Except that she was slightly taller, they were so alike they could have been twins.  Darker-haired than their older brothers, they had their father's and Magdalen's clear gray eyes, bright now with a mischief that faded under Frevisse's cool gaze.

“Bartholomew.  Kate."  Richard lightly thumped each on the head along with their names.  “They're all trouble.  Don't ask them in."

Frevisse had no particular way with children and did not intend to ask them in.  She gave them another slight curtsey.  Kate returned it and Bartolomew managed a shy bow and then they both giggled.  Frevisse was about to ask them their ages when behind them a girl's voice said, “Here you are.  Mother says you're to come.  She's in the solar."

“This is my other sister, Katherine," Richard explained.  “Now you have to meet her, too."

Katherine Payne did indeed resemble her mother, just as Magdalen had said, down to her uncertainty and shy willingness to please.  She and Frevisse exchanged curtseys, but clearly her main concerns were to take Kate and Bartholomew to Mother and leave her aunt and guest in peace.  With Richard's help, the withdrawal was made somewhat gracefully, and Magdalen closed the door after them.

She had recovered her quietness.  A little ruefully she smiled at Frevisse.  “Sister Emma is deeply asleep to have slept through all of that."

“Mistress Payne sent some poppy syrup to help her rest."

“That's very good of Iseult.  She rarely parts with any of it.  She treasures her poppy syrup for the times when she cannot bear one of her backaches any longer.  Though I doubt I've known her to give way to the need above once a year.  Isn't it strange."  Magdalen had sat down on the window bench and taken up her embroidery.  “Someone who seems so frail, so easily led, isn't actually either.  She runs her household very well, and if I suffered with the backache the way I've seen her suffer, I'd have drained that poppy syrup to the dregs at the first chance."

“Did she have a bad fall?" Frevisse asked.  She would rather have talked about what had passed between Magdalen and Will Colfoot, but decided to let Magdalen lead the conversation.

“No.  Something went wrong at Kate's birth.  Iseult's never been fully well since then."

“But she had Bartholomew afterwards."

Magdalen made a sad little shrug.  “As will happen," she said gently.  “And he's a delightful child.  If you don't have to be with him all the day," she added, smiling.

They went on chatting, about the Payne children, about how different here was from St. Frideswide's, the weather that looked like turning to rain again.  Simple things that stirred no deep interest but passed the time.  Frevisse asked for some mending to occupy her hands.  Bess returned, but Magdalen told her she would not be needed until dinner; Maud did not come at all.  Once, distantly, there was more door-thudding somewhere in the house.  Momentarily Magdalen was tense again, not looking up but frozen over her work.  Then she picked up her sewing and went on as if she had not paused.

Except that she looked out the window unusually often, seemingly watching for something, and her work lying idle while she did, she seemed as before.  Eventually Frevisse brought the conversation around to Master Payne and found Magdalen had no hesitation at all in talking of him, her respect for her brother clearly deep and strong.

“But he works himself so hard.  All this is his doing."  She gestured to include the room and all of the house beyond it.  “Our father was a freeman and did well enough in his own way.  He held almost a hundred virgates under Lord Lovel.  But Oliver, beginning with that, has worked his way up to being steward to properties around here for half a dozen lords.  They look to him to see that all goes well and to their profit, and it does.  There's not a man among all their manor officers he oversees that has any just complaint against him.  He's from home too often and that saddens Iseult, but she understands."

How had Oliver Payne become involved with Nicholas then? Frevisse wondered.  What business could they share?  But that was not a question she could ask.  Instead she said, “This Will Colfoot is one of his men?"

“Will Colfoot-" Magdalen began with as near scorn as her soft voice was likely to manage.  But she stopped herself, looking again out the window as she said more evenly, “He works for himself and no one else.  He began small but now holds lands hereabout, enough to make him feel he's Oliver's equal.  No, he feels he's Oliver's better.  He feels he's better than most and the equal of everyone else."

“He's not a pleasant man, I gather.  And you don't wish to marry him?"

Magdalen shook her head.  “He buys lands from freemen who can't go on.  He's cruel about it, buying very cheaply from those in the most desperate need and boasting to the countryside about what he's done.  He makes money, he manages his properties well, but he's not - a kind man."

Frevisse wondered if Magdalen's husband had been kind.  And whether Magdalen valued kindness in a man so much because he had been kind, or because he had not.

“He hopes to be a sheriff someday, I think," Magdalen went on.  “And maybe a justice of the peace.  And whatever else will give him power and impress men with his greatness.  He's very fond of himself."  She laughed unexpectedly.  “Take care.  If he learns you're Master Thomas Chaucer's niece, you'll have no peace from him this side of your convent walls because he'll set out to have you tell your uncle all about him, worthy as he is."

“It's truly sad how my uncle never listens to my opinion on such worldly matters," Frevisse said drily.  “I'd best avoid this Colfoot if I can.  Perhaps I can come down with Sister Emma's chill."

Earnest despite Frevisse's teasing, Magdalen said, “Yes.  Avoid him if you can."

It was said that there had been a time in the long-past beginnings of the world when there had been three orders of men, each doing in peace the God-given duties they were born to.  First were those whose lives were dedicated to prayer, for the sake of their fellow men and all the world.  Next were those who fought to protect the godly against the world's evils.  Third were those who labored in the fields or crafts, sustaining those who prayed and those who fought for their well-being.