9 The Reeve's Tale Page 13

  Simon wished it was his grandam going to face Master Montfort, rather than him.

  He likewise wished he thought some good were like to come of the crowner being here because the unease there had been ever since Tom’s body was found was only worsening, too many folk uncertain of too many other folk and folk uncertain of them in return because someone among them was surely a murderer.

  And from what he knew of Master Montfort he had small hope that things were going to better with him here. He had last had dealing with him six years back, when old Eva Mewes had slipped into the stream and drowned while doing Joane Goddard’s laundry. That time Master Montfort had complained bitterly all the while he was here, it being a wet, chill March, over the weather and having to come to nowhere over nothing more than a villager’s death, and had in the end ruled it an accident, as it had been, and taken the clothing old Eva had been washing as deodand—the cause of her death, and therefore taken to the king’s profit. Master Montfort’s complaints had been nothing to Joane Goddard’s at having to buy her own clothing back to satisfy the fine, and she had at least had cause to complain, none of the trouble being of her own doing, while the crowner was there because it was his business to be there and why did he have to make it a misery for everyone?

  This time he had not even been off his horse before he was demanding lodging and stabling as if they would have been denied him if he did not force the matter, though they were his by right of his being the king’s officer and on the king’s business. Nor did it matter that his needs that way had already been forethought and Father Edmund’s house and yard and byre readied for him, his men, and horses.

  At least he was wasting no time over what had brought him here. Simon would give him that. He’d still been stripping off his gloves when he demanded the jurors to be brought to him and said at Simon in the same breath, “Except you, reeve. I don’t want you on the jury, but keep where I can find you when I want you.”

  He had added the same to Father Edmund, somewhat more graciously though not much, then asked, “The whelp who found the body. I want him here, too.”

  Simon had used that for reason to leave, found Dickon helping Watt hoe the onions at home, brought him back and given him over to one of the crowner’s guards at Father Edmund’s gateway, then gone off to the alehouse, looking for something else to do than think but found no company, everyone off to the fields for weeding while the rain delayed the haying. Even the old men who usually found naught to do but sit around with their talking had jounced off in Will Cufley’s cart that morning, old Tod Denton saying he could hack a hoe well enough if he had to but don’t expect him to do it often-like. There had only been Bess and she had gone on about Tom’s death, the way everybody had been going on about it, one way or another, to no profit or useful end that Simon could see, since they knew what they knew and no more, no matter how much they talked, and what they knew was not enough. When he’d shown no interest in that, Bess had shifted to what might come of the crowner being here, another thing Simon had not wanted to think about, and he had put his halfpence on the table and gone out, with nowhere else to go but home, where Watt would only go on at him about the same things, so he’d gone to the church instead, wishing he could go to Anne, but that would have meant seeing Adam and he could not bear to see Adam.

  Nor bear not knowing how he was, and he’d asked for Dame Frevisse to come out, for all the good that had done him.

  God and the Blessed Virgin, but he wished all of this were over with.

  Two of the crowner’s men were sitting at ease on the bench beside the priest’s housedoor, one of them whittling, a pile of wood chips growing between his feet, the other leaned back, arms crossed on his chest, looking ready to doze if there was a chance. They both cocked eyes toward their fellow bringing Simon and the nun but said nothing, letting him lead them inside.

  The priest’s main room was open to the rafters and ran long to right and left of the door and the full width of the house, with one end walled off into a second room that was even ceilinged and walled above to make a third with stairs up to it. Most folk in the village had only the one room on the ground, serving for kitchen and most other living, and a loft where the children slept and goods were stored, but then the priest’s place was often used for lesser manor courts and village meetings and was where Lord Loveil’s bailiff stayed when he was here and, for this while, Master Montfort, worse luck for Father Edmund.

  The crowner was seated on the far side of the broad table set in the room’s center, his beringed hands clasped on the polished tabletop, ignoring his guard’s bow, going on speaking toward his clerk at the table’s end, a drab-clad man on a stool, hunched over inkpot and papers, blinking owlishly behind thick glasses held on by loops of dark ribbon around his ears.

  Simon took a quick look around, taking in Bert, Walter, John, and Hamon as jurors, crowded together on a bench to the left end of the room, and Dickon standing between them and the table, and Father Edmund at the room’s other end beside his fireplace that Father Clement had had built, the first there had ever been in the village though of late Anne was pressing for one, too, since now Gilbey had one…

  Simon caught himself back from trying to be somewhere else by not thinking about being here as Master Montfort swung around to dismiss the guard with a wave. The man bowed, moved aside, retreated, and Master Montfort fixed his small, hard eyes on Simon who made a quick, low bow in his turn, but when he straightened, Master Montfort was looking past him, eyes narrowed with displeasure.

  ‘You, Dame?“ he snapped. ”On the gad again, are you?“

  Dame Frevisse had fallen behind as they entered. Now she came forward to Simon’s side, her eyes toward the floor, her hands tucked humbly nunwise into her opposite sleeves, and said hardly above a whisper, making a deep curtsy, “If it please you, sir.”

  ‘It doesn’t,“ Master Montfort retorted.

  ‘She’s taken Master Naylor’s place this while, sir,“ said Simon, to come between her and the crowner’s open displeasure.

  ‘Ah!“ Satisfaction glowed suddenly on Master Mont-fort’s face. He was a fox-haired man and florid-faced to match it, always in or about to be in ill humour, but Master Naylor’s trouble brought him to an open smile. ”Yes, that fool has finally come to grief, I hear, and none too soon, either. I’ve seen for years he was above his place, even if no one else could.“ And the worse fools, they, his tone said. ”You’re taking his place, is that it, Dame? Your prioress can’t do better?“

  ‘She’s asked her brother’s help,“ Dame Frevisse said so gently despite the roughness of his asking, that butter, as the saying went, would not have melted in her mouth, Simon thought. And then thought that if she had taken to talking to him that way, he would have been as wary as of the devil.

  Master Montfort seemed to like it, though. He tapped rapid fingers on the tabletop and asked a little less bale-fully, “Your prioress’ brother. He’s the abbot of St. Bartholomew’s, Northampton, yes?”

  ‘If it please you, sir,“ Dame Frevisse agreed, her eyes still downward, as subdued a picture of womanhood as could be found.

  Master Montfort tapped a little harder, thinking, then snapped, “Stay if you will, Dame. But it’s a favor to your prioress. You’re to stand aside and keep your mouth shut. You’re allowed to listen, nothing more. You understand?”

  For answer, Dame Frevisse made him another small curtsy and, head still bowed, drew well aside and back toward the wall beside the door. Master Montfort leaned to say something else, low-voiced again, to his clerk, who dipped pen tip in his inkpot, ducked low over a scrap of paper, and began to scribble. Simon used the chance to trade a nod with the priest and give Bert, Walter, John, and Hamon another look, not quite happy they were there and he was here. When he’d sought help to bring in Tom’s body, he had simply taken the first four fit men he had found, routing John Rudyng and Bert Fleccher out of the alehouse where John was hiding out from his mother-in-law and Bert just lying low from lif
e on the whole, then found Walter Hopper at his messuage and collected him and Hamon and a hurdle for carrying the body. Father Edmund, fetched by Dickon on Simon’s order, had caught up to them as they’d left Walter’s, and Dickon had shown the way to Tom’s body. They were seen as they went by the field lane, of course, and followed by folk leaving their work to see what was toward, but they reached the body well ahead of anyone else, with time for Simon to see how Tom was lying all sprawled at the bottom of the ditch, looking like he’d rolled to where he was, his arms and legs loosely out. There was something over his face, something Dickon had said he’d put there before he left him, to keep the birds off, and it had, though there were five crows gathered to the body again, glossy black against the high-summer green of hedge and grassy ditch, and two of them had been trying to pluck the cloth away. Bert had yelled at them but Dickon, steadied down until then, had given a high, furious cry and grabbed up dirt clods from the field edge and rushed at them, throwing wildly after them as they rose on their wide black wings. They’d cawed offense at him and he’d yelled after them and been crying again, and Simon had gone and caught hold of him, turned him, and taken him well aside away from Tom’s body that he’d seen more than enough of already, holding him while he sobbed it all out again.

  It was never good, seeing a man’s face that birds had been at, and worse when it was someone you’d known.

  Meanwhile, the other men had seen to lifting Tom’s body onto the hurdle. Father Edmund had covered it with a blanket he’d thought to bring, and then with Bert, Walter, John, and Hamon doing the carrying and Father Edmund the praying, they’d headed back, Simon and Dickon trailing behind, Simon’s arm around Dickon’s shoulders.

  By then all those who should have been doing something better had caught up to them and seen them all the way back the village, to Tom’s house, but when all was said and done, there were only the seven of them who had “found” it and brought it in; and with Dickon too young to be a juror and Father Edmund a priest, that had left Simon, Bert, Walter, John, and Hamon to be jurors when the time came, like it or not.

  Simon hadn’t liked it. But he liked being left out of it even less, and his unease grew as he watched Bert and John shifting their bottoms on the bench and their feet on the floor, looking everywhere except at him, while Hamon gave him a short glance and snatched it away. Only Walter met his eyes but with a frowning worry that told Simon nothing except that there looked to be something to worry over, and that much he had begun to guess already.

  He looked away to Dickon standing with his half-grown boy’s awkwardness between the jurors’ bench and the table and found the boy’s eyes fixed on him much like Walter’s, save that instead of only worry, there was fear.

  At what? Simon wondered but just then Gilbey Dunn came in, brought by another of Master Montfort’s men and looking none too pleased about it. As the crowner’s man made his bow and stood aside, Gilbey gave a quick, assessing look at everyone, then stalked forward to Simon’s side, gave Master Montfort an ungracious bow, and demanded, “Yes? So? I’m here.”

  ‘And good thing, too,“ Master Montfort returned as ungraciously. ”Otherwise I’d have had you dragged in by your heels.“

  Cockerel meeting cockerel, Simon thought, and no sense to it, just matching dislikes, left over from when they had last dealt together, once though it had been and years ago, Simon recalled.

  He braced himself for whatever was next, ready when Master Montfort spread his glare and bristling displeasure to include him. “You’re both here because I have evidence that says you had to do with this Tom Hulcote’s death. This is your chance to confess and be done with it. Do you?”

  Simon felt his mouth drop open, snapped it shut on a gulp, and said hotly, “What?” as Gilbey after an equally startled pause exclaimed angrily, “Are you crazed? We’re not confessing to anything. I’m not, anyway. Are you. Perryn?”

  ‘Of course not!“

  ‘You may as well. The evidence says you were both there when this fellow was killed and so either you killed him yourselves or you know who did.“

  ‘Says we were there when he was killed?“ Simon said. ”No one knows where he was killed!“

  ‘Don’t play cunning with me,“ Master Montfort snapped.

  ‘What’s cunning about that?“ Simon demanded. ”He…“

  Quietly from where she stood aside, Dame Frevisse said, “If it please you, master crowner.”

  ‘I said you weren’t to speak, Dame,“ Master Montfort snarled.

  Dame Frevisse bowed her head, acknowledging that with all possible outward humility but said anyway, “Mightn’t they be better willing to admit their guilt if they knew the evidence?”

  Master Montfort glared at her. “I’m crowner here, not you. This business is mine and you’ll keep quiet or you’ll not be here. Do you understand?”

  Dame Frevisse made a small curtsy and a slight backward step, and Master Montfort faced Simon and Gilbey again, ready to go on, but Gilbey said, “She’s right, though. What’s this evidence you’re claiming?”

  Master Montfort sneered at him. “First, you both quarreled with him more than once and the latest time was not long before he died.”

  ‘Better to say he quarreled with us,“ Simon returned.

  ‘There was quarrel and threats were made,“ Master Montfort declared.

  ‘He made the threats,“ Gilbey said.

  ‘Threats were made,“ Master Montfort repeated stubbornly. ”Now the fellow is dead, and a belt of yours, Gilbey Dunn, and a hood of yours, Simon Perryn, were found with the body.“

  ‘You said they were found where he was killed,“ Simon cut it. ”He wasn’t killed where his body was found.“

  ‘Ahha!“ The crowner pointed a triumphant finger at him. ”How do you know that if you didn’t kill him?“

  ‘Because there wasn’t any blood where the body was found,“ Simon returned angrily. ”If he’d been killed there, there would have been blood from those stab wounds he had. Any fool can reckon that well enough.“

  ‘This belt,“ Gilbey bulled in. ”Who says it’s mine?“

  The crowner jerked his head toward the jurors. “They do.”

  ‘Oh, aye,“ Gilbey scoffed, with a scorning look at them. ”Like that lot would know one strip of leather from another.“

  ‘Here!“ Bert Fleccher stood up, definite as always in his dislike of Gilbey, despite one of his own sons working for him. Or maybe because of that. ”It don’t take much to know that gilt buckle like no one else around here has except you, let be your belt is all stamped and patterned and painted and twice as long as a man rightfully needs except he’s prideful as sin and that’s you right enough, Gilbey Dunn!“

  ‘If it’s sin you’re talking of, you might have a look at yourself before starting in on others, Bert Fleccher,“ Gilbey shot back.

  With no need to hear what he had heard often enough before, Simon put in, “Belt or not, how do you go about knowing it’s my hood? There’s no telling one piece of cloth from another that easily.”

  ‘It’s green,“ Hamon said. ”Yours is green.“

  ‘So are a few other men’s hereabouts,“ Simon retorted.

  ‘But not so new, or near to, as yours,“ Bert said, sitting down.

  For the first time, Simon began to be alarmed at more than being stupidly accused. Anne had indeed made him a green hood for his New Year’s gift this winter just past, from her last year’s weaving. But as discomfiting as that was his sudden feeling that Bert, John, and Hamon at least were going to this like terriers to a hunt, seeming to enjoy he was the quarry.

  That they could so much dislike him jarred him out of swift use of his wits, but Gilbey—probably too used to being disliked to be put off—shoved in with, “Let’s see this belt and hood, eh? Do you have them? Or are you just making will-o‘-the-wisps to see who you can lose in the bog?”

  ‘You want to see them?“ Master Montfort slapped the table with an open hand in front of his clerk’s nose be
nt low over paper and scratching pen. ”Show him!“

  The clerk straightened, laid down his pen, bent over to take a bag from the floor beside his chair, and with great care—as if the things might break unless he went slow about it—took out first a green hood and laid it on the table beyond his inkpot, then brought out and laid beside it a long, embossed, painted leather belt with gilded buckle. Still with great care, he set the bag back onto the floor and took up his pen again, all without raising his head, while Simon stared glumly at both belt and hood. The belt was beyond doubt Gilbey’s; most days he wore one like everyone else, enough to keep his tunic cinched in and hang purse and dagger from when need be, but a few years back, for his marriage, he’d bought a “gentleman’s” belt such as no one else in the village had—trust Gilbey to that—and wore it holidays and holydays and to Sunday church, and there was no question but that this was it. Nor could Simon deny the hood, either, worse luck. It was his own, dyed a particular dark green from a dye batch Anne had made last fall for the summer’s wool-weave; Adam and Colyn had tunics and Lucy a dress all the same green, there would be no trouble matching the hood to any of those even if he denied it was his. And belatedly, too late to make a difference, he realized that what he had seen laid over Tom’s face in the ditch and paid no heed, taken up with Dickon’s need, and forgotten ever since had been his hood. How had it come to be there? And why had no one said aught to him about it until now? Or about Gilbey’s belt, come to that, since it had to have been there, too, from what was being said.

  ‘How likely is it, I wonder,“ Dame Frevisse murmured, seemingly to no one in particular, ”that they’d both be so careless to leave belt and hood there with a man they’d killed?“