3 The Outlaw's Tale Page 16

“So we could only talk while he was in the house, trying to sell his wares, with others all around us. In the kitchen, usually.”

  “At least I was well fed those days.”

  They laughed softly, their heads close together. They had had very little, but given all their hearts to it.

  “But that’s no help now,” Frevisse said.

  The brief gladness went out of them. Magdalen straightened, still holding his hand, and asked, “How do you know about him? And about this Nicholas and his dealings with my brother?”

  “Nicholas is my cousin, though I’ve not seen him in sixteen years. Evan helped him seize me a few days ago so they could persuade me to write my uncle about a pardon for Nicholas and all his men.”

  “Pardon?” Magdalen looked from her to Evan and back again with quickened hope. “He could be pardoned?”

  “My uncle has the power to obtain pardons, yes. I wrote him about it the morning after I arrived here. Your brother knows about this.”

  “But if Evan is to be pardoned–“

  “For his outlawry,” Frevisse interrupted. “I never wrote anything about murder.”

  “He didn’t murder Colfoot!”

  “I don’t think your brother means for him to live long enough to prove that one way or the other. If he’s found here, he’s dead and pardon won’t even be a question to be raised.”

  The night’s silence closed around her words. Magdalen closed her eyes and looked ill, but she did not deny it. Evan turned his head away. Frevisse gazed toward a shadowed corner with no idea at all what they should do next. The silence drew on until, not looking up, Magdalen said, “We must find a way to force Oliver to let Evan go.”

  Frevisse and Evan both looked toward her. “Evan, you’ve told me Oliver invests the money that Nicholas brings him. The money you ‘gather’ from other people.”

  “My share of it and Nicholas’s,” Evan agreed. “Though Oliver thinks it’s only Nicholas’s.”

  “And he keeps record of it,” said Magdalen. “Oliver keeps record of everything.”

  “Nicholas says he’s seen a roll with our profits on it, yes,” Evan agreed.

  But Frevisse protested, “Your brother wouldn’t keep a record of his dealings with outlaws, would he?”

  “This Nicholas is known around here as a forester,” Magdalen answered. “People suspect otherwise but no one’s challenged the tale. So long as Oliver claims he thought he was dealing with an honest man over honest money he can’t be in trouble because of it.” She stopped, opened her mouth to speak, stopped again, then finally said in a strained voice, “Oliver is not always honest. And if he were ever going to cheat someone, it would be Nicholas, an outlaw likely to be killed or caught before he could call Oliver to account. Someone unable to make claim against him.”

  Evan stared at her. “He wouldn’t dare cheat Nicholas!”

  “If ever he cheated anyone, it would be Nicholas,” Magdalen countered. “Oliver detests him. He thinks Nicholas is a fool. I think he thinks worse things about him, too, but has never said them.”

  “But when Nicholas has his pardon and comes for his money, what will Payne say?” Evan asked. “That he’s sorry but there isn’t any?”

  “That there have been losses. That there’s not as much as Nicholas had hoped for.”

  “And what will Nicholas do even if he disbelieves him?” Frevisse put in. “Harm Payne and forfeit his pardon? Take him to court to sue for money had through extortions and robbery? If only we had something we could use, something that might put Master Payne in Nicholas’s mercy…” Frevisse abruptly realized what she had been saying – and thinking – about Nicholas. He was a liar, she knew, a thief, an extortionist, and some part of her doubted deeply he had had any change of heart. Did she truly want to put Master Payne in his power?

  “But we don’t have anything,” Evan said flatly.

  “Yes, we do,” Magdalen answered quietly. Her face was bleak with the knowledge that she was betraying her brother. “I didn’t know you had hope of a pardon, but you’d told me about the money that Oliver was supposed to be investing for you. I knew you hoped to use it for us to have a life together, so that you’d not be dependent on what I have – though there’s sufficient.”

  Evan began to answer her but she cupped her hand against his cheek, stopping his protest. “I know,” she said softly. “You wanted more for us. You’ve said it before. So I worried and I…” She drew a deep, trembling breath. “…stole the key that Oliver leaves with Iseult when he’s gone beyond a day. I opened the chest and took the roll that has to do with Nicholas.”

  “What’s in it?” Frevisse asked. “You still have it?”

  For answer, Magdalen rose and went to one of her own chests along the wall. She reached deeply under the clothing folded there and brought out a tightly rolled scroll.

  As Magdalen handed her the scroll, Frevisse asked, “Are you sure about the cheating?”

  Magdalen picked up the lamp to cast its light down on them for better reading. “There are two sheets together. Look at them both.”

  At first perusal, the accounts were straightforward enough. A listing of dates alongside of sums received from Nicholas and sums invested in various ventures, with an occasional comment on a specific return from a particular effort. In fact there was a steady increment of money all through the first sheet. But on the second one there began to be steep losses, and the comments next to them terser. Frevisse did not take time for a careful assessment but gathered the impression that as of the first of this month Nicholas’ money was reduced to hardly more than what he had put into Master Payne’s hands over the period of several years; almost all his profits had vanished in less than five months.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Oh indeed,” Evan agreed drily. She had held the scrolls up for the light. Now she realized he had been reading them with her. Her face must have betrayed her surprise as she looked at him, for he said, “I told you I came of good family. As a younger son, I was trained to be of use around my father’s manor. Stuck in a room to keep the records, as it happened, and it didn’t suit me, but I learned to read. Nicholas will not like those figures.”

  “What Nicholas truly won’t like is this.” Frevisse ran her finger down the length of the second sheet. “Is this what you meant?” she asked Magdalen.

  Magdalen nodded. “The ink is all the same. All the entries from January on were written at once.”

  Evan sucked in his breath sharply through his teeth. “Ah! I’d missed that! Let me see.”

  He took the first sheet. On it the darkness of the ink was different from one entry to the next because Master Payne had written one entry at a time, dried it, and not written another until some other day, with another pen and often a noticeably different ink since it was difficult to make one batch of ink identical to another. But the second page was uniform in ink and pen from the first entry to nearly the last. Only the final two entries were varied. Except for those, the page had been done all at once. And that page recorded all the losses.

  Frevisse looked at the paper assessingly. Payne was a cheat. Could he perhaps also be a murderer? Was that why he was so determined to cast Evan as the criminal? Slowly, she told herself. She must go through these facts slowly.

  “When did Nicholas begin to want a pardon?” she asked.

  “I began trying to move him to it last autumn,” Evan said. “But it took the harsh winter to decide him. He first spoke of it as his own idea around February, I’d guess.”

  “And about then he probably told Master Payne,” Frevisse said, “Who didn’t like the thought of losing all the money he had been earning for someone he despised. So he changed the roll. And I doubt Nicholas would have noticed. He’s ever more interested in final amounts than details. He would have raged but accepted it. What happens if we send these to him with a letter explaining you need rescuing and here’s the threat he needs to hold over Master Payne’s head to do it?”

  “He’ll come
,” Evan said certainly. “He likes the notion of himself as a gallant leader, ready to dare all for his men – so long as we don’t too greatly inconvenience him at it, for then his interest wanes. Taking me out of here will be inconvenient but since he will come to rage at Payne, rescuing me will be hardly more effort. He’ll come and he’ll enjoy bullying Payne, and carrying me off from under his nose will be an added insult. But we have to put this into his hands first.”

  “I can take a horse from the stable,” Magdalen said, “and go wherever you tell me.”

  “You will not!” said Evan, startled.

  “You’re watched,” said Frevisse. “It would raise too much alarm and risk Evan being found.”

  “Then you go,” Magdalen urged Frevisse.

  But as Frevisse hesitated at the danger and impropriety, Evan said, “It doesn’t have to go to the camp. Odds are one of our men will be at The Wheatsheaf, the alehouse in the village, sometime tomorrow – today. In this weather, they tire of the woods and want some pleasure. Old Nan is to be trusted. She’s the alewife. If she’s given something to hand on to Nicholas she’ll do it. If you could take this to her, Dame Frevisse–“

  But Frevisse liked the idea of traveling alone to an alehouse only a little better than going in search of the outlaw camp alone.

  “Bess can do it!” Magdalen exclaimed. “No one will question her going.”

  She had set the lamp down and now reached out to clasp Evan’s pale hand lying on the blankets. A warmth of hope shone in her eyes strongly enough it seemed to kindle a little in him. Here was a somewhat better hope, dependent on keeping Evan hidden only until Nicholas came for him.

  The lamp flickered in the last of its oil. The rain was loud again in their silence, and after a moment Frevisse said, “We should sleep if we may. Magdalen, will you come into the bed beside Sister Emma?”

  Magdalen tightened her hand around Evan’s. “No. I’ll sleep here.”

  With forced lightness, Evan said, “I’ve no sword to put between us, to assure your virtue.”

  “I think your wound does that sufficiently,” Magdalen answered, matching his lightness. And then with no lightness at all but her whole heart in her eyes, she said, “Evan, I want to be nowhere tonight except as near you as I may. This one night. Please.”

  Evan’s answer was in his eyes as clearly as her longing was in hers; he shifted as best he awkwardly could to the farther side of the narrow bed, and held up the blankets for her. With a simplicity beyond modesty, Magdalen slipped in beside him. Careful of his hurt, she nestled against him, her head on his shoulder, her arm across his chest. Eyes closing, he let his cheek sink against her dark hair, and they settled into what rest there could be for them that night.

  Quietly Frevisse put out the light and rose to make her way into bed beside Sister Emma.

  There had been a time, when she was very young, when she had thought to love and be loved much as they loved now. But realities and a greater love had come between her and then. She was long passed regretting it; could not even remember if she had regretted it for very long – her decision now seemed so inevitable.

  But seeing Magdalen with Evan in the small happiness they had made for themselves, she wished there could be more for them than the little they had had; more than the little that was likely to be all they would ever have.

  The room’s darkness wrapped around her as she felt her way silently between the sheets. There was nothing more that could be done until the morning. She could only let everything go until then. Everything except her prayers.

  Almost without thinking about it, she drifted into the prayers of Matins and Lauds, chanting them silently in her mind. Her need was suddenly overwhelming. She wanted to be in St. Frideswide’s church, secure among the other nuns, her voice rising with theirs among the familiar shadows and the smells of incense, oil, candles, and herb-strewed rushes.

  Improperium exspectavit Cor meum et miseriam … consolantem me quaesivi, et non inveni. I feared my heart would break with shame and sorrow… I begged someone to comfort me, and found no one.

  Where had that Psalm come from? Not part of Matins or Lauds, but very much to the point after all. She finished with the Paternoster; and its ending, sed libera nos a malo, caught and repeated itself in her mind, over and over. But deliver us from evil, from evil, from evil. Amen, amen.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Frevisse was drawn from unsatisfying sleep by Sister Emma’s stir and snuffle into wakefulness beside her. Trying to avoid both Sister Emma and her own thoughts, she buried herself deeper into the bed and blankets. But it was no use. Sister Emma groaned and flung her hand out sideways, slapping into Frevisse’s back.

  “Willo birdie sush,” she murmured. “Uh, oh, fursh!”

  Frevisse sat up and turned to her. “Sister Emma, wake up. You’re dreaming.” She laid a hand on her shoulder; the sheet and blanket were wet. Quickly she felt Sister Emma’s forehead and called out, “Bess, come! Her fever has broken!”

  Sister Emma stretched, coming more awake, shoving the blankets away from her. Frevisse pulled them back up to her neck. “No, you must stay covered, you’re all damp,” she urged. Among the things they did not need right now was for Sister Emma to take another chill.

  Bess, already dressed and neat for the day that was no more yet than a gray glooming between the shutters, drew open the curtains on Sister Emma’s side of the bed. She felt Sister Emma’s forehead as Frevisse had and said, “It’s broken indeed. She’ll be much better now, poor lady.”

  “Ohhhh,” Sister Emma said, more fully awaked. “I’m so wet. What’s happened?”

  “Your fever has broken, my lady,” Bess repeated. “You’ll be better now.”

  Out of sight below Frevisse’s side of the bed, Magdalen stirred. There was rustling and then the rumble of the truckle bed being rolled under the higher bed. Frevisse hoped Evan could bear cramped spaces.

  “I don’t feel better,” Sister Emma complained. Her breathing was short, her voice clogged.

  “You want something to drink,” Bess assured her. “You’re sweating like–” She thought better of whatever comparison had come to her. “Your body is exhausting itself. You must lie quietly and drink as much as you can. Here.”

  She deftly pulled up the covers Sister Emma was trying to push away and held a cup to her mouth, distracting her.

  “What is it?” Sister Emma demanded. “I don’t want any more medicine. I’ve had such dreams…“

  “It’s just ale, my lady. Not even spices in it. See? Taste it.”

  Bess seemed to have the matter well in hand. Relieved, Frevisse sat up as Magdalen straightened from beside the bed. Their eyes met briefly, acknowledging what they faced today, before Sister Emma burbled, “Yes, that does feel better. You’re right. I need more to drink. I’m perishing of thirst.”

  Her face was shining pink with perspiration, and her short hair stood up in damp golden ringlets. But she was definitely in better health than yesterday. As she lowered the cup from another deep drink, she said, “Good morning, Mistress Dow! I’m so much better today, it’s quite exceptional! I seem to have slept forever. They say that a night’s good sleep is worth a week of rest. Oh, I do want out of this bed for a while.”

  “No!” Frevisse and Magdalen chorused.

  “No,” Frevisse repeated. “For nothing except necessity. You still have congestion.”

  “But it’s much improved,” Sister Emma protested, and coughed to demonstrate how much.

  “We want it to improve even more,” Frevisse persisted. “I really think you’ll have to have more medicine.” She did not see how they would survive the day with Sister Emma conscious and talking the entire time. Aside from all else, they needed her asleep again so that Evan could be fed, his wound seen to, and nature answered.

  She turned to Magdalen. “Do you suppose Mistress Payne would allow us just a little more of her syrup?”

  “I really don’t want…” Sister Emma began.


  “Here’s more ale, my lady,” Bess interrupted. As she held the cup for Sister Emma to drink again, she looked across the bed at Frevisse and shook her head.

  Frevisse suddenly understood she should let the matter rest. “I had best dress,” she said and rose to do so. Her gown had been cleaned as well it could be by Bess last night, and she had slept in her chemise as St. Benedict’s holy Rule required. Now she dressed and pinned her veil into place while Bess – leaving Sister Emma with the cup refilled with ale – helped Magdalen dress and then put up her hair and veil it.

  In every outward way it was simply a usual morning; and that was how they had to make it appear to Sister Emma. Sipping her ale, she chattered and occasionally coughed, and sank lower on the pillows moment by moment. Watching her closely, Bess plucked the cup from her hands just before she subsided completely into sleep. Between one moment and the next she was oblivious, her mouth a little open, her eyes heavily shut, her head sagged sideways on the pillow.

  “How did you manage that?” Magdalen whispered at Bess.

  “Good drink often takes a body that way after a fever has broken,” Bess whispered back, plainly pleased with herself.

  “Did you have any of the poppy syrup in the ale?” Frevisse asked.

  Bess looked guilty. “I didn’t dare. There’s only a little left from yesterday and I stole that.”

  “Bess!” Magdalen exclaimed.

  “I didn’t dare ask Mistress Payne for more! She said when she gave me some the first day that there should be only one dose at a time and days and days before there was another one. If she knew we wanted more, she’d want to come see Sister Emma for herself, and then maybe refuse the syrup after all.”

  Magdalen patted her arm. “Then you did right. We’ll save what little syrup there is in case of dire need.”

  There was a rap at the door, and without opening it Adam called, “The family’s gathering for prayers and breakfast! Mistress is asking if Dame Frevisse is coming?”

  Frevisse drew in her breath impatiently. “The letter to Nicholas isn’t written yet,” she said in a low voice to Magdalen.