The Clerk’s Tale Page 4

  And what did he do with his notes between now and then if he couldn’t have them on the table? He had made them as soon as might be after Master Montfort’s death. It was important to do that; to set things down before the mind began to change things. He knew how that happened from the years he’d spent making record of everything people said when questioned by Master Montfort as crowner and lately as escheator. Most people’s minds and memories were very unsteady, so at the very first chance he’d had, he’d written down everything. Not that there was much. He’d added some other papers to his few to give him more to hold. If he couldn’t be writing, he liked having papers to hold. It gave his hands something to do.

  Now, as if some of his papers might have lost themselves in the little while they’d been lying on the table, he ruffled through them. Then, for lack of anywhere else to put them, he rolled them tightly together and tucked them into his close-cinched belt with unsteady fingers. It always made him uneasy when things weren’t as they’d always been. He liked things to be as they’d always been. He wanted—he admitted it to himself—he wanted to be safely behind a pen at the end of the table or off in a corner, unnoticed, hardly looked at. Today people were going to be looking at him. Not only looking at him but seeing him. He wasn’t used to being seen. He was used to not being seen. He liked not being seen. It was safer.

  But like and unlike had nothing to do with duty. He knew that as well as he knew anything, and with a bracing little sigh he gave a last look around to be certain yet again that everything was as it should be for now, then made to leave the hall, quickly before any servants should come back and maybe want to talk to him, only to be brought up short at the doorway by the need to step aside from a woman coming in. With his eyes down, as usual, he saw only the hem of her black gown—of good-quality wool, he noted; a lady, not a servant, surely—and murmured, eyes still down, “Pardon, my lady.”

  She should have simply gone past him. Instead she hesitated and Master Gruesby looked up, supposing she might have some order to give him, whoever she was, and was surprised to find she was a nun. Not that nuns were uncommon, certainly, but—in his unease at being noticed he looked her in the face, and gasped before he could stop himself, “Dame Frevisse!” Then dropped his eyes and slid past her and out the door and away, all haste and no courtesy at all.

  Frevisse turned to stare after him as he scuttled out the outer door, startled both to know him and to realize that she had no thought at all of what his name might be. She had seen him often enough in Montfort’s company but that he had a name he might be called by had never crossed her mind; he was simply the grubby-dressed clerk with ink-stained fingers who sat off to one side with inkpot and pen, scratching away at bits of paper and parchment. She had probably seen more of his stooped shoulders and the top of his balding head than she had ever seen of his face and didn’t remember that she had ever heard him even speak until now. She had not even thought of him when Lady Agnes said Montfort’s clerk had found his body. But then, Montfort had likely had other clerks; why should it be this one who found him? And it hardly mattered anyway, and if it did she’d know soon enough, once the inquest began.

  Meanwhile, her hope was for a little time alone in the chamber she and Domina Elisabeth had shared last night. Though she had awakened in the night at the hour for the Offices of Matins and Lauds, there had been no hope of going to them, of course, but she had said their prayers and psalms silently to herself, despite Domina Elisabeth’s even breathing across the wide bed that told she slept on, unnoticing the hour. They had both risen in time to go to Prime, though, slipping into the church’s nave with a few devout townswomen, rather than trying to join the nuns in the choir. They had been noticed nonetheless and afterward Domina Matilda had sent a servant to invite them to dine with her nuns in the refectory. Brief explanation of them had been made then and they had returned to the church with the nuns for Mass, Frevisse pleased for the day to have some familiar shape.

  As in St. Frideswide’s, the nuns’ chapter meeting had come then, where the nuns dealt with nunnery matters, no place for outsiders, and Domina Elisabeth had gone to spend the time with her cousin. Frevisse, not minded to return to Lady Agnes’s, had refuged in the church, trying for prayer but never managing to lose herself in it among the too much coming and going by others, most distractingly Montfort’s widow who, draped in trailing black and accompanied by a maidservant, came to kneel below the altar with bowed head and clasped hands, staying until the bell began to call the nuns to Tierce. Without ever raising her head enough to give Frevisse clear sight of her face, she had left then and Frevisse had gone into the choir, to wait until she and Domina Elisabeth were shown where they might sit since there were more choir places than nuns in St. Mary’s to fill them, just as at St. Frideswide’s.

  Frevisse had been deeply grateful to be able to join in the Office and to know she could again whenever else she so chose the while they were in Goring, but what she was hoping for now was a chance to sit quietly alone for a time before the inquest and she was not pleased as she reached the top of the steep steps from the hall, intent on the intricate effort of holding to the rope railing and managing her skirts, that Lady Agnes came at that moment out of her solar, saw her, and exclaimed gladly, “Ah! Dame Frevisse. You’re here. Domina Elisabeth isn’t with you?”

  Tucking her feelings away, Frevisse answered evenly, “She stayed to talk with Domina Matilda.”

  ‘Who’s already sent word she won’t be here, but Domina Elisabeth won’t miss the inquest, surely?“

  ‘She means to be here, yes,“ Frevisse agreed.

  ‘She’d best not linger or she’ll have to push her way through the crowd to come in. They’re starting to gather, aren’t they?“

  Having noticed clusters of people in the street outside the house and others coming as she came from the nunnery, Frevisse agreed they were.

  ‘More than there’ll be room for, likely,“ Lady Agnes said. She gestured behind her to two men and a young woman come out of the solar behind her. ”We saw them from the window. But we’ll see all from up here in the gallery and no trouble. I’ve sent word to Mistress Mont-fort that she’s welcome to join us, rather than be crowded around by folk down there. Better for her son, too, if she’s not there, weeping in front of him while he’s trying to be crowner.“

  ‘There’s no ’try‘ about him being crowner,“ protested the younger of the men, joining her. ”He is crowner, and he’ll know she’s here whether he’s looking at her or not.“

  ‘If she’s not in plain sight in front of him,“ Lady Agnes said tartly, ”he won’t think about her at all. That’s how it is with you men and don’t tell me it isn’t, Stephen my boy, because I’ve lived long enough to know better.“ She turned to waggle a finger at the young woman. ”You take heed, Nichola. Out of sight is out of mind with men.“

  Nichola came forward, laughing, to take hold of Stephen’s hand. “That’s why I take care not to be out of sight.”

  Despite she was wimpled and veiled like a married woman, Frevisse saw with surprise that she was, like her laughter, very young, a girl hardly old enough to have come to her womanhood yet.

  ‘And how can you think you’re ever out of my mind and heart, Grandmother?“ Stephen asked, keeping hold of Nichola but taking Lady Agnes’s hand to raise and kiss. He looked to be as much as ten years older than the girl, a well-grown man in his early twenties.

  ‘I only believe it because I want to, not because it’s true,“ Lady Agnes returned, still tart but smiling on him before she turned to the older man on her other side, gesturing him forward as she said, ”Dame Frevisse, before you meet my graceless grandson, I pray you let me introduce Master Philip Haselden to you.“

  Because Lady Agnes gave him no particular title but his dark red houppelande, short-hemmed and slit for riding, was amply cut, deep-pleated, and trimmed in black fur at wrists and hem, Frevisse guessed him to be an well-landed esquire, plainly somewhere in hale middle-age, with th
e high coloring and firm bearing of someone who ate well and spent much time out of doors, probably in the saddle.

  As he bowed with a smile, Lady Agnes went on, “With my husband’s death, Master Haselden became first man of our corner of the shire.”

  ‘But alas, ever second in your heart, my lady,“ he said.

  Lady Agnes rapped him lightly on a booted ankle with her staff. “Flatterer. This, on the other hand, is my grandson and heir, Stephen Lengley.”

  The younger man let go of Nichola’s hand to give Frevisse a bow that showed off his legs in their dark hosen below his short-cut, cream-colored houppelande trimmed in thick brown fur. His grandmother took advantage of his bow to tap him lightly behind with her staff and warn, “Don’t show off,” before adding, “And this is his wife, Nichola. Master Haselden’s daughter.”

  Frevisse bent her head in answer to the girl’s low curtsy, understanding now how the girl had become so young a wife. The wedding of the heir of an obviously wealthy widow to a daughter of a well-landed, possibly equally wealthy squire was likely to be of profit all the way around. And though it had possibly not been a consideration when the match was made, Stephen and Nichola seemed to agree well together because, her courtesy to Frevisse done, Nichola smiled warmly up at Stephen who smiled warmly down at her, and it crossed Frevisse’s mind that although Nichola’s pretty little face was still more child’s than woman, her softly rounded body under her pale blue gown with its many-pleated bodice and spreading skirts, was probably not.

  ‘Ah! Here’s Letice come back from Mistress Mont-fort,“ Lady Agnes said and moved to the gallery’s waist-high railing to call down into the hall, ”Letice, is she coming?“

  Letice, dressed for going out with a short veil over her kerchief and a fresh-pressed apron over her gray gown, called back, “She begs your pardon and sends her thanks but she’s not ready to keep company yet and will sit below.”

  Lady Agnes slapped an impatient hand on the railing. “Fie! I was hoping for the chance to meet her. I’d like to see what sort of woman could be married to Morys Mont-fort and not kill him herself long before this.”

  Nichola giggled and Lady Agnes turned to point a finger in mock warning at her. “You just wait. You’ll know what I mean. There’s not a wife who hasn’t thought sometime of being rid of her husband.”

  ‘You never thought of being rid of Grandfather, did you?“ Stephen asked with unlikely innocence.

  ‘Not often. But mind you, if he’d been anything like Montfort, I might have done more than think about it.“

  Letting her curiosity have its way, Frevisse asked, “How well was Master Montfort known around here?”

  ‘Too well,“ Lady Agnes said. ”A few years back he bought a manor north from here, toward Wallingford, and began trying to make himself felt among the gentry.“

  ‘He was crowner in northern Oxfordshire all the time I knew of him,“ Frevisse said. ”I supposed that was where his interests lay.“ But in truth, when she came to think about it, she had known very little about him at all.

  ‘His interests lay in his purse,“ said Master Haselden with open bitterness. ”He began to take interest hereabout because he was hoping to win in with Suffolk.“

  He meant the marquis of Suffolk, who had been earl of Suffolk until somewhat over a year ago and was rumored to be aiming for a dukedom and was likely to get it, with all the influence he had come to have with King Henry these past few years. The rumors also ran, but more quietly and no one wanting their name attached to them, that influencing King Henry was not all that difficult; all you needed was to be in talking distance of him. Even in St. Frideswide’s, out of the way though it was, they had heard the talk: that his father King Henry V had won the French crown and a French bride by strength of arms and victory in battle but this King Henry looked likely to give it all back for the sake of making his own French wife happy. A French wife whom Suffolk had urged on him. A French wife who after over a year of marriage had yet to birth an heir to the throne.

  Frevisse, who for various reasons knew more than she wished she did about Suffolk, be he earl or marquis, held quiet but Lady Agnes took up what Master Haselden had said with, “I thought Montfort was aligned more with Lord Lovell.”

  ‘So did Lord Lovell,“ Master Haselden answered. ”But power looks to lie with Suffolk right now and Montfort liked power more than he liked good sense, that’s sure.“

  ‘Following power isn’t good sense?“ Stephen asked.

  ‘Good sense is to follow someone steadier than whoever is the chance-chosen man of the moment,“ Master Haselden said. ”There’s no steadiness in Suffolk. He doesn’t understand government, doesn’t understand the war, doesn’t…“

  ‘But didn’t he fight in France?“ Stephen asked, sharing a glance and glimmer of a smile with Nichola.

  Master Haselden rose to the bait, fuming, “What Suffolk did in France was lose. Give him troops and no challenge and he was fine. Let there be trouble of any kind and he didn’t know which way was up. Thank all the saints the Council had sense enough to make York lord lieutenant there…”

  ‘Philip, hush,“ Lady Agnes said, laughing with Stephen and Nicola now. ”You’ve let Stephen rustle you again.“

  Master Haselden reached out to punch his son-in-law lightly in the upper arm, admitting good-humoredly, “I know. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t heed what I say. Suffolk in power is going to be trouble and…”

  A thickening of sound from the hall’s outer door made him break off and turned them all toward it, Frevisse as readily as the rest, to see two men step in and aside, flanking the doorway with halberds in hand, clearly gurards against who might and might not come in but immediately bowing their heads to the man who followed after them.

  Chapter 4

  Even from the steep angle of the gallery, Frevisse knew him. Master Christopher, Montfort’s eldest son. When she had first met and last seen him, over five years ago, he had been a very young man in his father’s service but capable even then of standing out against his father’s authority if he saw the need, something no one else around Montfort dared to do so far as Frevisse had ever seen. Now he was crowner himself, come to the authority somewhat young perhaps but he strode up the hall through the bands of thin winter sunlight through the hall’s windows with all the certainty of someone ready to face and deal with whatever came. He was suitably gowned in black, his houppelande three-quarters long and severely plain over black hosen and plain, low-cut black leather shoes, his hat equally black and plain, without padded roll or liripipe, only a dark blue, silver-set jewel pinned to its left side.

  Frevisse had no clear view of his face before he reached the table at the head of the hall and turned his back to the gallery, laying down a leather case that he then opened and stood looking at while others took their places around and in front of him, beginning with another young man far more simply dressed, carrying papers and obviously his clerk, who went to a place made ready for him with pens and ink at one end of the table. While he was sorting things there to his satisfaction, another man in Montfort livery was seeing eight men into places on two benches, one behind the other, in front of the table. They were the jurors, Frevisse guessed, brought together to rule on Master Montfort’s death—its cause and his murderer, if so much was known. It was the jurors’ task to have learned as much as might be about the crime before the trial, that they might more sensibly judge the evidence and claims that came before them. Therefore they were usually local men, as these looked to be, dressed in their best doublets, gowns, and hats in a bright array of greens and blues and reds, trying to keep solemn demeanor but their heads bobbing toward each other in eager talk and turning over their shoulders to see who else was being let into the hall.

  Lady Agnes, having nudged Nichola along the gallery railing toward Stephen and Master Haselden, put herself between her and Frevisse and set to cheerfully telling her who each of the jurors were and her opinion of them. Frevisse neither particularly cared n
or particularly listened but gathered that, since there were no witnesses to the actual murder to serve as jurors, Master Christopher had given order for the eight male householders nearest to the nunnery to take the duty of viewing the body with him and coming to conclusions about the murder.