The Servant’s Tale (29 page)

“To ask if everything is satisfactory to your comfort here”—which was true, it was one of her tasks as hosteler— “and to ask if it would be possible for Joliffe to perform this evening with his company. They’re to do a play in the old guesthall.”

“A play? Here?” Montfort was surprised.

“We do our poor best to honor the season,” murmured Frevisse, surprised by his interest.

“Well, I never expected such a thing in a place such as this!” Montfort’s enthusiasm lightened his face. He rubbed his hands with satisfaction. “A play, you say? Which one?”

“I don’t know its name, but it’s about the Magi, the Three Kings.”

“And, of course, you need three men for that. Well, there’s guards enough, I suppose. We could bar the gates to the courtyard, he could be escorted there, and then all the ways out guarded. It should be possible.” His expression sank back to its usual displeasure. “Let’s hope these players are better than they look to be. I know a good play when I see one.”

Frevisse was nonplussed at this unexpected aspect of the crowner. Before she could collect her thoughts for a reply, a modest tapping came at the door.

“Yes?” Montfort barked. Father Henry came in.

Before he completed his bow to Master Montfort, she was standing in front of him. “Where have you been? I’ve needed to see you!”

Her suddenness took both the priest and Montfort unprepared. Father Henry looked uncertainly toward Montfort, whose face was reddening, but Frevisse pressed on before he could interrupt, “Were you out rabbiting yesterday? After you’d been to the village, did you go out rabbiting?”

Father Henry flushed his hearty pink of embarrassment and fumbled, “Yes. A little while. I wasn’t gone long.”

“Did you see anyone while you were out? Did anyone see you? Or your dog? Where is your dog? What does he look like?”

Father Henry gaped, mentally stumbling over so many questions, then caught up the last one and said, “He’s not very tall.” The priest dropped the flat of his palm a little below knee level. “Rough coated, white with tan spots. Not a blood dog,” he hastened to assure Montfort. “Naught like that. Just a mixed breed, with enough hound in him that he’ll course small game. Hal the miller keeps him for me and since I was already out there yesterday…”

“And a fine rabbit you brought home for Domina Edith’s New Year’s treat and no harm done,” Frevisse said encouragingly. “But did you see anyone while you were out? Anyone in the fields?”

“Oh, aye. One of the player folk. The fair-haired one. I didn’t hail him. I don’t have much time for players, and this one, well, he’s a bit… more like a girl than a man.” Father Henry shrugged his own manly shoulders and flushed a little more. “And maybe a bit soft?” He tapped his forehead. “Walking alone, he was, talking to himself, gesturing like a friar preaching a sermon, though I couldn’t hear what he was saying.”

“But he didn’t see you?” Montfort was interested despite himself.

The priest’s blush deepened. “I was lying low in a thicket just then, not wanting to be seen. He saw Trey, though. My dog. Is that what this is about? My hunting? Is Domina Edith unhappy with me?”

“You are in no trouble,” Frevisse assured him. “When was it you saw him, and where?”

“Over by Long Hill, near the ford at the end of the meadow.”

“How far from here is that, walking time?”

He thought on it hard before answering, “A full half hour at the fastest walk if you come through the village. Longer if you come around.”

Joliffe, who was seeking solitude, did not come through the village or someone would have seen him.

“And how long before Vespers was that?”

Father Henry rolled his eyes to die ceiling, considering. “An hour maybe? By the sun it was maybe an hour.”

“And you’re sure it was that particular player?” Montfort demanded.

Father Henry nodded solidly, pleased to be sure of something. “There’s no doubting him. The one who dresses like a woman in his acting.”

Frevisse turned to Montfort. “But Meg said she saw Joliffe going toward the church three-quarters of an hour before Vespers, by the sun. Even if Joliffe came through the village he couldn’t have reached here by then.”

“So she was mistaken. He did the murder before he went out wandering the fields,” Montfort said. “Yes, and that’s why he went out alone. To say prayers, to think on penitence, to—”

“She was not mistaken in her time of seeing him, she showed me with her fingers how low the sun was. And it isn’t possible Sister Fiacre was murdered earlier. She would have been discovered—by Meg herself, if not one of us.”

“So the woman was mistaken? Whom did she see instead?”

“I don’t think there’s anyone else here at the priory who looks very much like that fellow,” offered Father Henry.

“By any reckoning, Joliffe is cleared of Sister Fiacre’s death.” Frevisse pressed her point.

Montfort, frowning at the floor, said sullenly, “Seemingly. But that doesn’t mean he and his fellows are not guilty of some lawbreaking. They are not ill-thought-of for nothing, you know.”

Frevisse let that pass and said instead, “Meanwhile there’s still Gilbey Dunn to consider.”

“Ah, him. The trouble is, what reason would he be having for killing a nun?”‘

Nearly Frevisse brought out Domina Edith’s thought that maybe there were two murderers, or a single madman, but Montfort suddenly smacked his hands together with great satisfaction. “Unless of course there was something between this Gilbey Dunn and Sister Fiacre that we don’t know of yet!”

Father Henry’s blankly astonished face was doubtless the mirror of Frevisse’s own at the wholly improbable thought of Sister Fiacre and Gilbey Dunn finding common ground.

But Montfort, too pleased with his idea to bother noticing their reactions, went on, “Yes! There’s the path I have to take! That’s the man I need to talk to!” He almost smiled at Frevisse. “Doubtless you’re right, Gilbey Dunn is guilty of doing away with an obstacle to his gain, to wit, Sym. And now, it appears, he’s taken his murderous ways into this holy place.” His pleasure turned sour. “But this is no business of yours. You stay out of my way, or I shall complain of you to your mistress.”

This encouraged Frevisse not to mention Annie Lauder’s story of Gilbey’s whereabouts that night. She bowed her head humbly and eased toward the door. “As you will. But at least there’ll be no need to guard the player tonight. He can be set free now, can’t he?”

Despite her seeming humility, Montfort read something that made him send a glare that should have blistered her. But then he shook it off and over his shoulder he snapped at his clerk, “See to his release. Now if you’ll be good enough, Father, to take this interfering woman away so I may get on with my work?”

With Father Henry panting behind her she hurried from the chamber and out of the guesthall. In the yard she paused, meaning to thank the priest for his timely appearance.

But he was still full of their recent experience. Grinning with embarrassment and hilarity, he said, “Sister Fiacre and
Gilbey Dunn?
How can he think that?”

Frevisse shook her head. “I don’t know how he thinks anything.”

“And if it wasn’t the player Meg saw going to the church, who was it?”

Frevisse thought, pressing her fingers to her eyelids. In the cold of the courtyard, her head had begun to ache. “One of the other players in a wig perhaps? But why? Unless a conspiracy—no, then Joliffe would surely have made a point of being seen wandering so far from the church at the time.”

“The only other person as fair as Joliffe is Hewe.”

“But Hewe’s a child, nowhere near as tall as Joliffe. Unless—”

“Unless what?”

“Meg saw Hewe, perhaps. And knew that if she saw him, another might. Better to say she saw a tall, fair-haired man like Joliffe going to the church than say she saw her son. So that another witness, saying he saw Hewe, or at least a fair-haired boy, could be contradicted by Meg. Because a mother should know her own son, and saying it was a man she saw might confuse things enough to protect her son.”

Father Henry looked confused already.

She would talk to Hewe. Had he in fact gone into the church?

Father Henry said, “Meg was angry with Joliffe, for hurting Sym in the alehouse.”

“Yes, you’re right.” That, too, may have entered into this lying business. A great many facts perhaps did or did not enter into this business. Too many. She wanted the truth. “Did you talk to Gilbey Dunn and learn what he was doing when Sym was killed?”

Looking, as always, a little surprised at any sudden change of conversational direction, Father Henry shook his head. “I couldn’t find him at his croft this morning, nor anywhere. He’s not been seen around the village since yesterday early.”

So it was true, Gilbey Dunn had disappeared. Unease stirred in Frevisse’s mind, but Father Henry went on, “But about that night, some of the men say he was at the alehouse for a while but went out sometime, they couldn’t say when. I know he wasn’t there when I came in but that’s all anyone knows. And I couldn’t find him to ask. Should I tell Master Montfort all of that?”

“If he sends for you. If you go to him from me, he may say I am interfering again.” She walked away and did not see the appreciative grin Father Henry aimed at her back.

Her turn to keep watch by Sister Fiacre’s body with Sister Emma came soon after that. She was not sorry for an excuse to stay away from the guesthalls and everyone else for die rest of the afternoon, and made a fairly competent job of losing herself in praying for Sister Fiacre’s soul and that of her murderer, who was surely in greater need of prayers than his victim.

She was somewhat quieter in her mind when time came for Vespers and she was released.

She asked and was given permission to leave supper early, to go be sure that all was ready for the play before Domina Edith and the others came. The day’s early dark was gathering in as she crossed the yard, and the cold deepening with it. Frevisse hurried past two menservants struggling to carry Domina Edith’s second-best chair toward the guesthall. She must see to a chair for Montfort’s comfort, too. It would be better to keep him as unoffended as possible just now.

Inside the guesthall everything was ready. A few of the priory’s servants had slipped away early from their tasks and were standing along one wall, eyeing the players’ curtains and talking cheerfully among themselves. They fell silent when she came in but she merely nodded to them and surveyed the hall, ignoring them, and they went back to their talking. The lanterns were waiting to be lighted on either side of the playing area. In the shadowy hall all sign of the players’ belongings were gone except for their curtained poles. The players themselves were nowhere to be seen, but sounds of them came from behind the curtain and, satisfied that everything was ready, Frevisse turned to direct the men where to set Domina Edith’s chair, sent them to the new guesthall to fetch one for the crowner, told another servant to light the candles, and decided to go herself to tell Montfort in courtesy that Domina Edith would be coming soon.

He received the message with satisfaction. “Good. Good. A fit diversion for the holidays and certainly not expected here. I’ll come directly.”

The nuns were just coming out the cloister door as she returned to the yard. Domina Edith, deeply wrapped in furred cloaks and supported on either side by Sister Lucy and Dame Claire, walked at their head, her slow pace setting their own. As inconspicuously as possible, Frevisse slipped into her place in the double line and entered with the rest.

The priory servants were all gathered there now, drawn back along the walls to leave the nearest places for the nuns. While Sister Lucy and Dame Claire settled Domina Edith into her chair at the edge of the playing area, Frevisse had time to notice Roger Naylor standing to one side. Beside him was a small, dark-haired woman. Her hands and his were resting on the shoulders of two small girls and a slightly older sturdy young boy standing in front of them. His family, Frevisse thought, and realized that while she had seen the children around the priory, she had never connected them with Naylor before.

Then Montfort and his men arrived, the crowner striding forward to make a perfunctory bow to Domina Edith and take his place in his chair to her right. While his men faded to one side, apart from the priory people, he leaned over to make some sort of comment to Domina Edith, who nodded and murmured something back before they both straightened in their chairs and were still.

The pause then was disturbed only by a few whispers from along the walls and the rustle of reeds under shifting feet, before a small flute began to play behind the curtain, so softly it was at first barely heard. But the listeners gradually hushed, and its music strengthened into a soft weave of melody sweet and clear in the hall’s quiet. Except for the music’s movement everything was still and waiting in the candles’ gold light until from behind the curtain a silver-shining star rose with slow majesty into view, held in Piers’s small hand, followed by Piers himself. But he was no longer Piers. In place of the small, grinning boy was a serene, winged, shining Angel who gazed out at the gathered folk, the star lifted above him with one hand, his other hand—Frevisse suspected—holding to the cross pole of the stage for his balance atop the stacked packing baskets that had let him mount to Heaven. But the practicalities left her as Piers began to sing,
“Gloria in excelsis Deo, et in terra pax hominibus…
.”his voice so clear and piercingly sweet it might indeed have been coming from somewhere above the world.