Authors: Margaret Frazer
‘But…“ Dickon paused, trying to hold down the smile that wanted to be broad across his face.
‘But?“ Frevisse asked.
‘From the other side of the ditch, looking across, I could see something.“
He was drawing it out, pleased with himself, and patiently Frevisse asked, “What could you see?”
‘Below that withy fence, in the grass on the bank where it goes down into the water, there’s stones sticking out.“
‘Stones,“ Frevisse repeated, failing to see how that mattered.
‘Worked stones. Big ones. Like from a wall that had fallen.“ He was open about his excitement now. ”Not a lot of them. At least not a lot that show. The ones I could see look to be mostly buried in the bank, with the grass grown up and nearly hiding them.“
Frevisse caught up to what he was saying. “You mean someone could have used them to climb up the bank that’s otherwise too steep to climb. They would have been hand and foot holds.”
‘Yes!“
Her own rising excitement faded. “There’s still the matter of how he reached them across the ditch.”
‘A rope,“ Dickon said promptly. ”If he had a rope, he could have stood on the meadow side of the ditch, tossed a loop of it over the top of one of the posts the fence is tied to, they’re heavy things, by the look of them, and held on to it to keep from being swept away while he crossed over. He could have gone back the same way and pulled the rope free, and just walked off.“
‘It’s possible,“ Frevisse granted, slowly. ”How well can that part of the bank along the ditch be seen from anywhere? Did you think to notice?“
‘Of course I thought to notice.“ He sounded a little offended and somewhat scornful that she thought he might not. ”Upstream, there’s an upstairs window in the mill looks that way and another one in the gable end of whatever cloister building it is that overlooks the garden and two more in the same building where it runs along the bank. Downstream towards the ferry there’s the only blank back of barns. You’d have to be on their roof to see anything. Then the ditch curves back to the river, keeping this side of Ferry Road, and you’d think you could see from there but you can’t because everything is all grown with willows that way. To hold the banks there,“ he added kindly, as if she could not be expected to know something like that. ”They’re pollarded and so thick that even with the leaves off you can’t see beyond them very well. You’d have to be standing right in among them to tell much about what’s on the other side.“
‘And toward the river?“
‘There’s a wide meadow that doesn’t look to even be grazed lately. Probably resting for the winter, to be used for milch cows come the spring.“ There spoke the well-taught son of a steward. Frevisse could almost hear Master Naylor’s voice, but it was with a boy’s eagerness that Dickon went on, ”There’s alders and more willows and such like all along the river’s bank, of course, and there’s a bank diked up against flooding, that anybody on the path there is along the river would have to climb to see the nunnery.“
Frevisse saw fairly clearly what he was describing. If everything was as Dickon said, the murderer had run some risk of being seen coming and going from the garden but a limited one and apparently worth it to him.
‘The thing is,“ Dickon said, having thought along the same way she was going, ”with the steep banks of the ditch nobody would be seen, unless from the mill maybe and those nunnery windows, except when he was right at the fence and he wouldn’t have had to be there long, cutting his way in or coming out. And coming out, anyway, he could have taken time to be certain no one was in sight in the open at least.“
And that lessened his risk by a great deal. But there was still the going to where he crossed the ditch, when he would have been in the open for a long way, and although anyone seeing him there might not have thought about it at the time, once word of the murder had spread, they would have said something about it to someone, wouldn’t they? Frevisse was not easy yet, either, with how he had crossed the ditch—a rope was a bulky thing to carry—and thinking aloud, she said, “It seems he could have done it with no one seeing him. But would anyone, when he was doing murder, be willing to trust so much to chance?”
Dickon scrunched his forehead into a frown before reluctantly admitting, “If it was me, I wouldn’t.”
‘Nor I. But we’re not murderers.“
Dickon laughed at that, as she meant him to. They were nearly to the guesthall steps; she thanked him and they parted, he to wait for whatever would be left of the funeral feast, she going up the stairs behind two men in warm talk about the embassy come last month from France— “So do we call the Dauphin king of France now or don’t we? That’s what I don’t see yet”—and ahead of three women intently sharing their ways of dealing with winter rheums—“If it’s an old cough, I favor hazel milk in honeyed water, with a good dose of pepper to clear the head. That’s what I’ve found best.”
Once through the door, she slipped aside, out of the flow of people to stand for a moment and look about her. Mistress Montfort was still on display, seated at the near end of the hall in a high-backed chair probably brought from the prioress’s parlor for her, to judge by its size and carving, keeping widow’s court with her children ranged on either side of her, her daughters less tearful now, only sometime having recourse to their handkerchiefs, her younger son rather openly copying his two older brothers in solemn dignity to the people doing their duty to the widow, giving her and her children consolations on their loss before moving on to the food and drink laid out in generous array along several trestle tables down the middle of the hall.
No attempt was being made at seating anyone. People helped themselves and, except for those who had found a place on the benches rowed against the walls and looked unlikely to shift anytime soon, stood around in talk with food and drink in hand, voices beginning to rise and laughter breaking out here and there now that duty to both the dead and the living was done and the shift started away from death’s ceremonies to everyday life again. Except for the saints and greatest mystics, turned as they already were in life to the wonders and joys that could come when they were done with the flesh, awareness of the body’s mortality did not linger long in the forefront of men’s thoughts. It might be better for them if it did, but it was maybe more merciful it did not. Surely here it seemed that Montfort buried was Montfort forgotten.
Coming behindhand as she was, almost last of those to reach Mistress Montfort after a few pointless words to her daughters, Frevisse expected to find her worn down by the difficult day, but she was sitting straightly upright, dealing with people’s murmured consolations with quiet assurance and no particular care to look the downcast widow, only a deep-willed intent to see it through and have it done. And when they were face to face, Frevisse instead of false words about the sorrow of her loss said, “Only a little longer and then you’re free.”
In the same level, low voice with which she must have been answering one comment and another all through this, Mistress Montfort said, “Yes. Thank you.” But into her eyes, meeting Frevisse’s just for a moment, a gleam of delight danced.
Frevisse, reassured that all was as well with her as it might be, moved on to her sons, leaving her to a swag-bellied man who, to guess by the crumbs on two of his chins, had been to the tables before bringing his consolations to the family.
This was neither time nor place to talk to Christopher, but although he was shadowed under his eyes with weariness, he gave her somewhat better greeting than either of his brothers did, not knowing her at all, and she said the only thing she could truthfully as well as courteously offer, “It was a very seemly funeral.”
He bent his head to her in acknowledgment and said, “Thank you,” but as he raised his head, he met her gaze and then very deliberately shifted his eyes to the side, drawing hers away to Master Gruesby hovering uneasily on the edge of a cluster of other Montfort household folk further down the hall, aside from the shifting crowd around the tables. Frevisse, with another slight bow of her head, moved away.
Chapter 15
Neither hungry nor feeling like hiding behind food or drink, Frevisse circled somewhat wide from the tables and through the crowd toward Master Gruesby, masking her purpose, she hoped, by going slowly, taking time to look about her and pleased to find Master and Mistress Champyon not far off from her, without Rowland or Juliana near them this time but again standing apart and ignored, each with something to eat in one hand, a cup in the other, and sour looks on their faces, no longer waiting to be noticed, it seemed, only waiting to be out of here. A small shift in her way through the crowd brought Frevisse to them. There was unlikely to be better chance than this to meet them but, unable to think of any clever reason whatsoever she could give for pausing to talk, she simply stopped in front of them and said with the bright voice useful for such moments, “You’re as much out-comers here as I am, aren’t you? First that inquest and now this. With all of it and everything, how has your stay in Goring been?”
‘Too long.“ Master Champyon’s answer was terse with displeasure, at life in general rather than at her, Frevisse judged; and when his wife twitched an elbow sideways against his arm, he managed to add with somewhat better grace, ”At least the weather hasn’t been too bad. Mostly.“
Frevisse agreed, aware that Mistress Champyon was studying her, sharp-eyed, and therefore not surprised when the woman said, “You’re a friend of the Lengleys, aren’t you?”
Without hesitation Frevisse said, “Praying your pardon, no. My prioress and I met Lady Agnes when we first came to Goring and had just found there was no place for us at the nunnery. When she offered to take us in, my prioress accepted, thinking an honorable widow’s house better than an inn for us.”
‘ ’Honorable,‘ “ Master Champyon scoffed.
Mistress Champyon’s elbow pushed against him again while she said at Frevisse, “But you’ve heard since then what’s going on between us?”
Glad to be saved the trouble of bringing the talk around to that, Frevisse said mildly, “Between you and her grandson, you mean?”
‘Between us and the old malkin herself, more like,“ growled Master Champyon. ”Her and that lying bastard Haselden are the ones…“
‘We think,“ Mistress Champyon put in moderately, ”that young Stephen is maybe unknowing of what wrongs they’ve done.“
‘In a pig’s ear,“ Master Champyon grunted.
Like his wife, Frevisse ignored him, merely granting to Mistress Champyon, “I’ve heard a little about it all.”
‘A little?“ Master Champyon seemed to take that as some sort of offense, too. ”Only a little?“
Mistress Champyon balanced her nibbled piece of cake on top of her cup, freeing a hand to lay on her husband’s arm. “It’s hardly something to be talked of much in front of guests, my dear. Is it?” she added to Frevisse with what she probably meant to be subtle prompting toward telling more.
Choosing not to be prompted, Frevisse said with a smile as false as Mistress Champyon’s own, “No.” Added, “By your leave,” and moved away, having judged Mistress Champyon was too intent on learning what she could for there to be much chance of learning anything from her in return.
But if the woman had gained nothing by their talk, Frevisse took away an increased dislike of both her and her husband that now she would have to work against in judging anything she learned, either to their favor or not. And worse, at the moment, was that her way to Master Gruesby was going to take her past Juliana and her brother standing in talk with another woman farther along the hall. A careful steering among other people would keep her well clear of them but the woman with them had been among the Goring couples in talk with Lady Agnes and the others outside the church before the funeral, and curiosity made Frevisse curve her way to pass behind them.
She did not slow her going, for fear of being noticed, but as she eased around a broad woman complaining to a narrow one that whoever had made these honey cakes had stinted on the honey, she was near enough to hear Rowland say, “Let it go, Juliana,” as if he had said it before.
‘You let it go, Rowland,“ Juliana mocked back at him impatiently.
Frevisse was able to see between them now to where they were looking across the hall and table to Stephen and Nichola standing with another girl and young man, food and drink in their hands and laughter a-light in all their faces.
‘You have to grant, they’re very sweet together,“ the Goring woman offered, nothing sweet in how she said it.
She was much about Juliana’s age, a well-gowned, amply-wimpled wife of a prospering townsman by the look of her, with no plain reason for her voice’s venom edge. A venom Juliana matched in, “That much sweetness makes my teeth ache.”
‘Juliana,“ Rowland said wearily. ”He’s not yours.“
Past them, Frevisse looked again toward Stephen, so guilty in this, and Nichola who at that moment turned her head to look, as if she had felt the burn of eyes on her, directly back at Juliana with a stare that betrayed, to Frevisse if no one else, that the girl knew far more than Stephen or Lady Agnes thought she did. Then Stephen said something that brought laughter from the others and Nichola turned back to them, laughing, too.
Juliana must have said something because Rowland said again, “Let it go, Juliana,” not as if he thought it would do any good this time either.
Then Frevisse was beyond hearing anything else said among them, but not beyond wondering how much how many other people knew of what was between Juliana and Stephen. And how long it would be before Nichola was certain of it, if she was not already.