9 The Reeve's Tale Page 5

  Pushing that aside, he went on to matters at hand. “There’s Alson Bonde, though. She and her son are priory villeins and there’s something come up between them you maybe should know.”

  Dame Frevisse bent her head in the way that Simon was coming to recognize meant she was ready to listen. A woman more keeping of her words he’d never met; it threw him off pace but he gathered himself and said, “Old Alson, after her husband died, was given half the holding for life, and that was well enough with young William, her son, but now she’s wanting to let her land to Martin Fisher for ten years and young William is flat against it.”

  ‘Why? Why does she want to lease it and why is he against it?“

  ‘She wants to lease it because it’s too much for him to work alone. It was well enough when it was him and old William, but it’s too much for just him, and his three boys are too small yet to be of much use. Alson wants to lease her share to Martin Fisher, who could use more land than he has, and give the money to young William, except for what she needs to live on, so he can hire help and save him working himself to death before his boys are grown.“

  ‘That seems well thought on. Why is young William against it?“

  ‘He just keeps saying his father wouldn’t have done it. He’s not quick of his wits, is young William. A good man but not quick. Lease or no lease, I think to him it’s like the land will be out of the family and he knows his father would never have wanted that and so he can’t want it either.“

  Simon hesitated over saying more but, “Yes?” Dame Frevisse asked.

  Close-mouthed and sharp-eyed. Someone was blessed she’d become a nun instead of a wife, Simon thought, but only said, “The thing is, Gilbey Dunn’s been nosing in about it. Just a little, his mind not made up to offer for it, but if he does…” Simon paused; but if Master Naylor’s trouble went on for long, these were all things she’d learn anyway, and he said, “Gilbey has a strong eye and a sure hand to his own ends, and since he married a few years ago and has sons now, he seems more set than ever on being even better off than he is. Some say as how it’s his wife that’s pushing him, she being out of Banbury and freeborn and on the young side for old Gilbey…” That was astray from what needed saying and Simon shifted ground to, “The thing is, if he decides to offer for the Bonde lease, he’ll likely offer more than Alson can bear to let pass by and then there’ll be a falling out indeed between her and young William like I don’t want to see.”

  ‘But there’ll be a falling out if she settles with Martin Fisher, too, won’t there?“

  ‘Not so bad, likely. Martin’s a good man.“

  ‘And Gilbey isn’t?“

  ‘It’s not that Gilbey’s bad,“ Simon allowed slowly. ”Naught the priest should see to.“

  ‘But?“

  ‘He’s not much liked in the village,“ Simon said, then added, to be as fair as might be, ”It’s not so much what he does.“ Though that wasn’t strictly to the truth. What Gilbey did was be richer than anyone else and not mind who knew it or care what anyone thought of it. ”He just doesn’t set well with folks. It’s how he is.“

  ‘So, all around, it would be better something was decided and settled with Martin Fisher and soon, rather than have Gilbey Dunn come in on it, and you’ve some thought on how to do that.“

  Simon had, and said more readily than he would have to her an hour ago, “Martin has a half-grown girl and young William has sons. I’ve thought that if, along with the lease, there was agreement made for Martin’s daughter to marry young William’s oldest boy when they’re old enough, then young William wouldn’t mind the lease, the land still being in the family, like. Only I didn’t want to say aught to them about it until I knew the priory would favor the lease to start with.”

  Dame Frevisse thought on that in silence for a moment, then said, “I don’t see there’d be objection to it from the priory’s side.”

  ‘Gilbey Dunn would offer better money, if he comes to it.“

  ‘It’s better to have peace in a family than money.“

  Dame Frevisse said, then added after a small pause, “so long as there’s enough to eat.”

  Simon, bypassing whether she’d meant that as a jest or no, went on to, “There’s only the bylaws, then. Seems we might want a new one, saying no one is to take hire outside the village if he can find work here for… well, we’re trying to decide how many pence a day to allow, times and need being what they are. And the rest of the bylaws need to be read out in church next Sunday or so, for those as like to forget them from one year to the next.”

  Dame Frevisse nodded her understanding of that. “There are always those will tether their horses in the wheat stubble before Michaelmas no matter what, unless they’re told straight to their face and in front of everyone that they’re not to.”

  Simon was about to agree to that with a laugh when his man Watt came at a hurry into sight along the street and by the plank bridge over the ditch into the yard. He stopped short as he caught sight of Simon and Dame Frevisse, then came on, to bow to her without quite taking his eyes from her, because although the priory was just across East Field from Prior Byfield, the nuns were nonetheless an uncommon sight, and said to Simon, “There’s some men ridden in. They’re at the alehouse and want to talk to the reeve.”

  Forebearing to ask what Watt had been doing at the alehouse, Simon stood up and made bow to Dame Frevisse, asking, “By your leave?”

  Chapter 4

  Frevisse gave Simon Perryn leave to go without hesitation, agreed to wait to finish with the bylaws and hear some questions he had for Master Naylor about the second haying, and watched him leave, a sure-striding, square-built man of middle years and middle height in a dark blue tunic of well-woven cloth, un-mended heavy green hosen, and leathern boots that had had good wear and would last for more. There was nothing shabby about his servant either, even rough-dressed as he was for fieldwork, and that spoke as well of master as of man. In truth, everything Frevisse had so far seen of Perryn and his holding spoke well of him, everything well kept and prospering. Here in his foreyard, between the house and the shallow ditch that separated the messuage from the street and village green, the garden was laid out in neatly bordered beds with narrow paths between and crowded full of herbs and summer vegetables— garden peas and beans, summer squash, lettuce and other greens, rhubarb—for fresh eating after all the months there had been only kept food to hand. Along one side of the yard a low withy fence separated the yard from a neighbor’s, while on the other side there was a long byre, right-angled to the house because none but the poorest peasant shared house-space with their animals. Whatever cows Perryn had were long since out to pasture this morning after milking, but there were chickens scattered around the dusty stretch of yard in front of it, questing for what they could find in the way of dropped grain or roused insects; and because messuages were usually narrow-fronted to the street and long to the back, behind the house there were likely a barn, maybe another byre, sheds, probably a sty with pig and piglets for winter pork and bacon, possibly more garden, and maybe other fruit trees besides the pear tree here and, across the yard, beyond the garden, an apple tree with branches beginning to bend to the weight of its apples, its shade sheltering a patch of grass and another bench.

  That was where Sister Thomasine had betaken herself, to sit alone at her prayers while Frevisse talked with Perryn and where she was now but no longer alone or at her prayers. A while ago a small girl-child in a loose, knee-long smock had toddled out from the house, stood for a time staring at Perryn and Frevisse, then trotted off across the yard to Sister Thomasine and was there now, leaning against her knees, listening to Sister Thomasine who seemed to be explaining about the string of rosary beads she held.

  That Sister Thomasine might be good with children had never occurred to Frevisse. But neither had she thought Sister Thomasine would be so little disturbed at being out in the world. She had taken their prioress’ order with bowed head and a quiet “Yes, my lady” and not
hing more, and when the time had come this morning to go out the gateway from the priory’s inner yard as she had not gone since entering as a novice, she had done nothing more than pause, bow her head to murmur a brief prayer and make the sign of the cross over her breast, before she went on, her hands tucked into her opposite sleeves and her head down, showing as little as possible of herself and seeing as little of the world as might be while she and Frevisse crossed the priory’s outer yard with its clutter of stables, barns, byres, workshops, storage sheds and folk—mostly men—busy at their work.

  Time had been, in Sister Thomasine’s young days, that even the sound of men’s voices had been enough to shrivel her with fear but thankfully she was grown past that depth of simplicity. In truth, Frevisse had come to see that in the ways of prayer and the spirit, Sister Thomasine was very far from simple, whatever lack of interest she had in going out into the world beyond priory walls, although today as they had walked along the road sunken between low-cropped hedges toward the village, she had stopped once to bend down and touch an herb Robert’s red petals bright in the wayside grass, another time had paused, head lifted, to heed a chaffinch making merry on an upthrust hedge branch, and once, where a low field gate let them see beyond the hedges, she had stopped to watch the long grass in an unmown hayfield bend and sway with the warm wind, then turned to Frevisse and said in her soft, near-whispering voice, “It’s very beautiful, God’s world.”

  Frevisse had nodded silent agreement, Sister Thomasine had watched the wind-brushed hayfield for another moment, and they had gone on, Sister Thomasine withdrawing into herself again when they entered the village, leaving questioning of where the reeve lived to Frevisse and, when they had found him, taking herself aside to sit under the apple tree with her prayers.

  Frevisse stirred out of her thoughts, considering she might after all not wait for Perryn to return. If they left now, she and Sister Thomasine might be in time for None, and she could come back tomorrow after talking over what small matters she needed to with Master Naylor about the bylaws. But before she could do more than stir, a woman said beside her, “My lady, would you and the other sister care for something to drink?”

  Frevisse turned to look up at the woman in the doorway with a green-glazed pitcher in one hand, two green-glazed cups in the other. Simon Perryn’s wife, she guessed, because although, as with most women of middle years, the wimple and veil made it difficult to judge her age, she was assuredly no servant. Though her gown was simply cut, shaped to her but loose enough for working in, it was of well-dyed, good linen, her wimple and veil of equal quality, the veil lightly starched, the wimple falling in soft folds over her throat and shoulders, only marred on the breast by a somewhat grubby handprint of a size to have come from the little girl across the yard; and though she likely had never had a nun at her doorstep before now, she was at ease, smiling, as she held out the pitcher and cups.

  Frevisse smiled back at her. “You’ll have to ask Sister Thomasine if she does but, if you’ll join me, I’ll gladly thank you for some.”

  Perryn’s wife made her a smiling curtsy and crossed the yard to where Sister Thomasine and the child were still busy together, spoke with them and was coming back when a burst of boys appeared from between house and byre. There momentarily seemed to be a great many of them but as they skidded to a halt, bumping into one another, at sight of her, Frevisse saw there were only three, the oldest maybe twelve, the youngest maybe eight, the other somewhere in between, but all of them wet and muddy. Staring at her, they jostled elbows into each other, made awkward boy-bows, and headed away along one of the paths through the garden toward Perryn’s wife, who met them where their way crossed the garden’s wide middle path and said sternly, albeit around laughter, “Nay, keep your distance. I don’t need you dripping on me nor you’re not going inside like that either.”

  ‘But Mum…“ the middle one began in protest.

  She pointed toward a shadowed corner beside the byre. “You just take yourselves over there and dry for a while before you even think of coming inside. Cisily will bring you something to eat and drink,” she added.

  Promise of food diverted them and they went, laughing and loud, where their mother had pointed while she came on, to set the jug and cups on the bench and lean through the houseplace doorway to call, “Cisily! Starving boys by the byre. Milk and buttered bread, please,” and sat down on the bench where her husband had been. Still smiling, she said, “They’ve been to the stream,” and took up the jug to pour a pale ale into one of the cups with, “Sister Thomasine wanted none but I hope you do?”

  She held the cup out to Frevisse who took it with thanks and, “You’ll join me, I pray you?”

  ‘Thank you, my lady,“ she said and added while she poured for herself, ”I’m Anne, the reeve’s wife.“

  Frevisse acknowledged that with a slight bow of her head and, “I’m Dame Frevisse.”

  They talked a little of Master Naylor’s trouble, then moved on to how grateful they were for the good weather. An older woman in simple servant’s garb and apron came out of the house bearing a tray with a plain pottery jug and wooden cups and half a loaf of sliced buttered bread. Brisk and cheerful, she crossed the yard toward the boys who leaped to their feet, the tallest taking the tray from her. She told them, “Mind you bring it in when you’re done, not just leave it sitting here,” and for what it might be worth they nodded agreement, mouths already crammed with bread. On her way back to the house she took the chance for a thorough look at Frevisse while making a quick-bobbed curtsy to her and her mistress, and was just gone inside when Anne stood quickly up, calling, “Lucy, no,” and moved to head off the little girl now making a toddle-legged run along the straightest garden path toward the boys—or, more probably, toward their food.

  Anne caught her where the garden paths crossed, saying as she scooped her up, “There now, if you get dirty with them you’ll have to be washed now and at bedtime, too, and you don’t want that, do you?”

  ‘Food!“ Lucy declared, her determination undeterred by being carried toward the house tucked under her mother’s arm like a kindling bundle.

  Setting her down on the houseplace’s door sill, Anne said, “Cisily will give you your own bread and milk inside,” straightened the child’s gown and gave her a gentle push. Lucy, as biddable as her brothers if food was promised, went in and Anne sat down again with a great sigh and an apology.

  ‘She’s a pretty child,“ Frevisse ventured, that usually something safe to say to a parent and this time true.

  ‘Pretty is as pretty does, and sometimes she’s none too pretty, I promise you,“ Anne returned, smiling. ”We named her for my husband’s grandmother and she looks like to be as set to her ways as she was.“ Anne did not add ”more’s the pity,“ but it was there in her rueful tone.

  ‘And you’ve Master Naylor’s son on your hands, too,“ Frevisse remembered somewhat belatedly. ”How does he?“

  ‘Dickon? Very well.“ Anne nodded across the yard toward the boys, sitting with their backs to the byre wall now, each with a cup in one hand and a large slice of bread in the other, the two older boys kicking lazily at each other’s bare feet lest things be too peaceful. ”He’s the brown-haired one.“ The other two were fair-haired like their sister and younger than Dickon, guessing by their look. ”It helps he was already friends with most of the village boys before this trouble and here as often as not, so nothing is strange to him.“

  ‘Is he bothered by what’s happening?“

  ‘If he is, he keeps it to himself. He says he doesn’t mind being away from his sisters and baby brother because, according to him, they all stink. Mind you, when someone—not Adam or Colyn, they know better—teased him the other day over his father being a villein instead of a free man, Dickon took him down, rubbed his face in the dirt, and told him, ’My father never lies and if he says he’s not a villein, then he’s not a villein, there!‘ “

  Anne told it laughingly but her laughter stopped and her
face clouded as she looked away toward the street and a woman coming along it, a napkin-covered plate in her hands. “Gilbey Dunn’s wife,” she said, not welcomingly, but brought up a smile and rose to greet her as the woman started across the plank bridge into the yard.

  Frevisse stayed seated, watching the woman come. She had had brief dealing with Gilbey Dunn years ago and was curious as to what sort of woman had married him. She was younger than Anne and, Frevisse was startled to see, lovely out of the ordinary. Her face was heart-shaped from wide forehead to perfect chin, and she was so fair skinned and pale browed she was surely golden-haired beneath her veil and wimple. Beyond that, her rose-colored dress was of a finer sort than most village women would have, better even than Anne’s for cut and cloth, but it was the way she wore it, with a light-hipped grace, that made the greatest difference.

  By then, Anne had met her, was bringing her back toward the bench with a creditable display of welcome, saying, “Dame Frevisse, this is Elena, Gilbey Dunn’s wife. Elena, Dame Frevisse is doing what can be done to take Master Naylor’s place this while.”

  Elena curtsyed deeply, with practiced grace, Frevisse slightly bowed her head, and they briefly exchanged comments on Master Naylor before Elena turned to Anne, taking the napkin from the plate to show small cakes and said, “They’re honey-raisin, new-baked, that I thought the boys might like. And Lucy, too,” she added to the little girl come to stand in the doorway staring at her and bent to hold the plate out to her.

  ‘Only one,“ Anne said.

  ‘There’s enough for two apiece,“ Elena said.

  ‘Two,“ Anne said. ”And say thank you.“

  Lucy, a cake in either hand, said clearly, loudly, “Thank you,” and disappeared inside again.