3 The Outlaw's Tale Read online

  And almost as if he willed the words from her, she asked, so low she could barely be heard, “How did he die?”

  “Stabbed to the heart.” He ignored his wife’s pained exclamation. “Or near enough that he must have been dead in minutes. There was not much blood around him, Adam said.”

  With a distressed sound, Mistress Payne gathered Katherine to her and left the room. Her husband stayed only a moment longer, his eyes locked to his sister’s. Then he turned on his heel and followed his wife.

  Magdalen sagged down onto the window seat. Frevisse went to her to lay a hand on her shoulder and ask, “What is it?”

  Magdalen began to speak, then stopped; began again, shook her head against whatever she had been about to say, and finally managed, “Nothing. He was alive and now, all suddenly, he’s dead.”

  There had been more than that between her and her brother. But Frevisse was not in her confidence, and, unable to press Magdalen for more, she let it drop and turned instead to the practicalities of the matter.

  “The crowner will have to be sent for,” she said. “And the sheriff, too, for something like this.”

  Magdalen willingly picked up the shield of conversation. “Surely. My brother will know what to do. He’ll see to all of it.” She faltered. Before she ducked her head, Frevisse thought tears glimmered in her eyes. Not for Colfoot, surely. Still looking down, Magdalen said, “Will you do me a kindness, Dame Frevisse? A small one?”

  “I owe you several great kindnesses, for my sake and Sister Emma’s both,” Frevisse said readily. “What would you have me do?”

  “Go down to supper tonight with the family and tell me afterwards everything that was said. About Will Colfoot and… anything else.”

  Frevisse had no trouble making the promise, confessing to herself that it was for more than a service to Magdalen: Her own curiosity was among the worldly things she had not yet sufficiently curbed in her nunnery life.

  On the heels of her promise, both Bess and Maud returned. Bess was promptly sent to say that Dame Frevisse would dine with the family tonight, but Maud remained, full of what little was known and eager to talk it around and about for as long as she could make it last. Bess’s return let them start all over again. Magdalen did not try to curb them; their chatter filled the time and covered her own silence the short while until they were summoned to fetch Magdalen’s supper. As Frevisse went with them from the chamber, she heard Sister Emma’s querulous voice from the bed, asking sleepily why there was all this talk. Frevisse did not turn back.

  Downstairs in the screens passage the two women went into the kitchen and she continued to the hall. There the trestle tables had been brought out and set up in U-shape, the opening toward this kitchen end of the hall to make serving easier.

  Master Payne was returned from fetching Colfoot’s body. He saw her as she entered the hall and came to bring her to the head of the table, where Mistress Payne and Sir Perys were already seated to his right and left. There was an empty place on Mistress Payne’s other side where Frevisse presumed Magdalen usually sat; this evening it was to be hers. Master Payne brought her to it; she sat with a gracious thanks and turned to wash her hands in the basin of warmed water Edward came forward to offer her.

  He and Richard, as sons of the house, would serve their parents and elders at the head table. It was a gracious custom, and Edward performed it graciously. But when Frevisse, to make conversation, said lightly, “If cleanliness is next to godliness, do you suppose washing could be considered a form of prayer?” he did not make the light, scholarly response she expected, but raised his head as if he had forgotten what he was doing until she spoke. With pity Frevisse realized he must have gone with his father to bring back Colfoot’s body and seen violent death for the first time.

  “Y- yes,” he stammered, clearly not sure to what he was answering. “I suppose so.”

  Frevisse smiled comfortingly at him as she dried her hands on the towel over his arm.

  The three younger children were at the lower table to the right with two women servants sitting with them. On a usual evening, Magadalen’s women would undoubtedly have joined them but tonight would dine with their mistress in her room. Three menservants sat at the leftward table. There would also be a cook and at least one helper in the kitchen, but otherwise all the family was present. Frevisse noted with approval that the Paynes kept a reasonably sized household: enough for their needs but not excessive, and all of them well-kept and quiet-mannered. Even the children Kate and Bartholomew, sat quietly here under their father’s eye.

  They all rose while Sir Perys said grace. His dry, quick voice dealt with all the necessities of the matter briefly, and they sat again to their food.

  Inevitably, talk passed with the first platter to Colfoot’s death. Frevisse contented herself with listening while she ate. A salad of garden greens was excellent, subtly mixed and seasoned. The sauce for the meat was somewhat thin; Mistress Payne, aware of it, murmured to her under the flow of conversation among the tables, “The flour is running so low, you know, and there’s none to be bought around here. We hope for some from London, but our man’s not returned yet. And even then - the cost – after last year’s harvest – you know how it is.”

  Frevisse, well aware of how lean last year’s harvest had left everyone’s stores, and also aware that at St. Frideswide’s they rarely had meat from one great holy day to the next, nodded. “It’s delicious nonetheless. And I’m sure our cook would love to know what yours has done with the salad. It’s quite good.”

  Mistress Payne flushed a soft pink with pleasure. Her gentle nature seemed to respond to even the most modest compliment.

  But it was the murder and Colfoot that Frevisse wanted most to hear about. It was easily clear from the general conversation that the man was disliked.

  “He’s earned many a man’s hatred with his ways,” one of the menservants said. “The wonder is he wasn’t killed before.”

  “And he kept his ways to the very end,” one of the women put in. “They say he beat a woman in the village last night. The one who’s at the inn.”

  The man named Jack made a sound that was the start of a rude comment, but Mistress Payne’s glance stopped him short. Another of the men said, “And it was yesterday he was robbed and his yeoman hurt, just outside the village.”

  “Before or after he beat this woman?” Frevisse asked.

  “You, Adam, you were the one was telling us,” one of the women said. “Which was it?”

  Adam jerked his attention up from his food and looked around as if the answer might be hanging in the air somewhere close. “Before.” His blunt face firmed into certainty. “Aye. Before. He’d been at the alehouse-”

  “Most of the village was,” Jack said. “Because of the rain.”

  “He’d been at the alehouse,” Adam repeated, not to be put out of his way. “And he and his man had left and weren’t much outside the village when they were attacked.”

  “From behind,” the third manservant said. “Colfoot never saw who ‘twas.”

  “A glimpse of the man’s back going into the trees,” Adam agreed. “But he must have thought something about it. And after he took his man back into the village for help, once he’d seen him settled in the widow’s place for tending, that’s when he went for Beatrice.”

  “He’s the one who beat her?” Jack exclaimed. “But not then surely. Not until later, after all’d gone home.”

  “Aye, then, when there was none to help her,” Adam said bitterly. “When he knew there’d be no one there but her and Old Nan likely – and the door barred if there were so he didn’t have to worry about anyone seeing him, he’d just have to wait till anyone left.”

  He saw their faces and seemed belatedly to realize he had revealed rather much knowledge of Beatrice’s ways. He took a sudden interest in his food.

  “He beat her near to death, they say,” one of the women said. “They say her face-”

  “Lovie,” Mistress Payne
said, questioning rather than ordering, but with a significant look at the children who were listening avidly. Lovie did not finish what she had been about to say.

  Frevisse, with a thought of her own, said, “Colfoot wasn’t known for beating women, was he?”

  There was general agreement to that; it was folk’s purses and hopes he mauled, not their bodies.

  “And she wasn’t his particular – friend?” Frevisse asked. “He wasn’t likely to be jealous over anything?”

  “Oh, no.” Adam was certain of that. “Nothing of that, I’m sure.”

  “Then he must have thought she knew something about the robbery,” Master Payne said, with the same thought Frevisse had had. “And beat her to make her tell.”

  Glad of the chance, Frevisse asked, “Did he speak of it when he came to see you this morning?”

  “Not about the woman, but about being robbed and his man hurt. He hated for anything of his to be damaged and, worse, to lose anything, particularly money. He came to me because he said he knew now for certain there were outlaws around here, a band of them. He wanted me to join him in demanding the sheriff move against them.”

  He was very particularly not looking at Frevisse. Matching his neutral tone, Frevisse asked, “What did you say?”

  “That I’d had no trouble, nor heard of any trouble lately in the area. That his was surely a single matter, and though surely the sheriff should be told, demanding a great move against outlaws we didn’t even know existed seemed unjustified at present.”

  “And what did he say?” Frevisse asked.

  “That I was such a short-sighted fool it was a wonder anyone trusted property to me.” Master Payne smiled with a bitter edge. “He had a temper that matched his arrogance. It was probably that which brought him to beat that woman if he thought she knew aught.”

  “Perhaps this Beatrice killed him,” Mistress Payne offered. “Or someone who was angry at him for it. If he hurt her so very badly, I mean.”

  “She’s not able to rise from her bed,” Adam said.

  Lovie put in, “They say her face is ruined.”

  “But someone else then might have killed Colfoot. To revenge her,” Frevisse suggested.

  “Who’d revenge a whore?” scoffed the third manservant. “She’s no one’s particular woman.”

  “That forester fellow, maybe,” said Jack.

  Frevisse was aware of Master Payne’s sudden, full attention on them. Adam said, “He’d not stick his neck out for her. Only a noddy’d think he would.”

  “I never said I thought he would,” Jack protested.

  The third man put in, “But look you, there’s a kind of sense to it after all. Why’d Colfoot go after her? Because he thought she knew who robbed him. That’d be the only reason. We don’t know what Colfoot knew, but suppose it was her man robbed him and Colfoot figures it out and takes out on her what he can’t on old Nick.”

  “And when old Nick finds out, he goes after Colfoot,” Jack agreed. “That’s like enough.”

  Frevisse was suddenly afraid she knew who the forester fellow was; it was unlikely there would be two foresters around with the same name.

  Master Payne put in, “Or maybe, by bad luck, it was only theft again, and this time Colfoot had time to fight back and died for it. That would be the simplest way of it.”

  There was general nodding to the possibility. It would surely be more simple if it was a stranger, someone now long gone. But it was not likely, and they all knew that, too.

  “But whoever did it, didn’t even take his horse. ‘Twas there along the road not fifty yards off, grazing,” Jack said.

  “A bad thief then, not to take the horse,” said the third man servant, grinning.

  “Or one who knows horses are easier to identify than coins and didn’t want the risk, not after he’d killed the man,” said Adam, more thoughtfully.

  “And maybe killing was what he wanted all along and not the horse or money at all,” concluded Jack.

  “Colfoot was well-hated enough by most everyone for that,” said Lovie.

  Frevisse noticed that now that Colfoot was dead, the hatred was put in the past tense, as if hatred stopped once the man had died. It occurred her that love went on past death; surely hatred did, too. But maybe it was considered less polite to say so. Or less safe, if there was chance of a vengeful ghost hovering near.

  “Not hated enough for killing,” said the other maidservant.

  “Well, he’s dead, isn’t he? And he didn’t fall on his own sword. It was unbloodied.”

  “But drawn?” asked Frevisse.

  “Oh, drawn, surely, lying there in the road beside him,” said Adam, remembering. “They didn’t even take that.”

  “They?” Frevisse looked to Master Payne. “Was he attacked by more than one?”

  From down the tables one of the men muttered, “Could have been. There’s men enough wanted him dead.”

  But Master Payne said, “There was really no telling. The road is pastern-deep in mud and much used. Everything along that stretch is a mire and no way to read how many might have been there.”

  “But it’s still likely to have been someone from around here,” Lovie said. She was clearly fond of the notion they were near to a murderer. “There’s been no strangers here or around the village this week and more. Not that anyone’s talked about.”

  She clearly did not count Frevisse as a stranger: She was a nun and well-accounted for, not likely to have been out murdering men in the road. But Lovie would gladly hear talk of any others. A pity no one could oblige her, Frevisse thought wryly, and leaned slightly aside to allow Edward to reach past her shoulder to set the last course in front of her. It was apples sliced and lightly seethed in milk with cinnamon and sugar, a pleasant ending to a well-cooked meal she had not appreciated as fully as it deserved.

  For just the moment she was thinking of food rather than the murder. Then Master Payne, in the slow voice of someone just coming to a realization, said, “No. There was a stranger around here today. In the orchard. And Colfoot saw him.”

  He had all their attentions. They looked at him, and staring into empty air down the hall as if it were from there his thought was coming, Master Payne went on, “My sister was in the orchard this morning, alone. A man, a rough stranger, came out of the woods across the stream and spoke to her.”

  Mistress Payne drew her breath in sharply. Master Payne reached sideways without looking to lay a quieting hand over her own. “Nothing came of it. He offered her no harm. He was only rude. He – presumed to force her into talk with him. Maybe it would have come to more, but it didn’t. Colfoot came on them when he went seeking her after he left me.”

  Lovie put in. “That would be right. He asked me where she was, and I told him-”

  A glance from Master Payne silenced her. In the same deliberate voice as before, he said, “Colfoot saw the man had no business being where he was; that he was alarming Mistress Dow. He drove the man off and I doubt he was polite about it. The fellow must have lain in wait for him later and killed him.”

  “Poor Magdalen!” Mistress Payne exclaimed. “How upset she must have been! No wonder she’s keeping to her room. She hid it so well when I was with her. Poor dear. The man must have terrified her.”

  Frevisse tried to hold her expression blank. Whatever emotions Magdalen had been suffering this afternoon, she had given no sign of terror. Nor had she mentioned any man but Will Colfoot. Whoever the man was that Master Payne claimed was there, if indeed someone had been, he was someone more personal to Magdalen than a stranger come out of the woods. Else why would she sit looking for him out the window?

  On the back of that thought came another. Where had Nicholas gone when he left Master Payne this morning? To the orchard to meet with Magdalen? And been surprised by Colfoot who recognized him and returned to the house to tell Master Payne that his sister was meeting with an outlaw?

  That would surely account for Magdalen’s tension and her brother’s prese
nt careful choice of words.

  And for Will Colfoot’s death? Nicholas could depend on Oliver Payne to keep quiet about him, but not Colfoot. Or would Master Payne be desperate enough to protect his association with Nicholas to kill Colfoot himself?

  Talk had risen up around Master Payne’s idea. It saw them through to the end of the meal, with no one noting that Frevisse no longer joined in.

  But she noticed Mistress Payne was also silent, and suspected her hostess was relieved when Frevisse refused her offer to join the family for the evening, pleading that she should not leave Sister Emma so long to someone else’s care. Frevisse washed hands as Edward held the basin for her again. He was still silent, his eyes down. Even Richard had no glimmer of a smile tonight. No matter how disliked Colfoot had been, he was someone they had known, he had died very near by a violent hand, and his body now lay across the stableyard, unavoidably in mind.

  Rather thankfully she made her escape upstairs.

  As she came to Magdalen’s door she was met by Sister Emma’s voice. It was thick with her rheum and a little raw but quite determined.

  “I’m very sure it’s sage that’s to be used for rheums. And horehound for my cough. I’m sure that’s what Dame Claire always recommends. Not hazelnut. And Dame Claire is very knowledgeable. She has books about these things. She’s been infirmarian at St. Frideswide’s for years. Dame Frevisse, isn’t that so? Didn’t Dame Claire use sage and horehound for all of us when we had that dreadful rheum last winter?”

  Needing to blow her nose, Sister Emma paused, and Frevisse said quickly while she had the chance, “Dame Claire used sage and horehound, yes. And would have used hazelnut, too, but that the wet autumn rotted the nuts before they ripened.”

  “The Lord gives and the Lord takes away,” Sister Emma said philosophically. “So it is sage and horehound, you see,” she added to Magdalen standing beside the bed. “But I’ll take that if it’s all you have.” Magdalen gave her the medicine. She drank it and then sank deeper into her covers with a painful breath that ended in a cough. “I’m much better,” she assured the room in general. “I just don’t seem so yet.”