Sins of the Blood

by Margaret Frazer

  "Margery," Dame Claire said, "You can't wish a man dead. Or rather, you can wish it, but it won't happen, not that simply."

  "But it did," Margery said.

  And there would probably be no convincing anyone otherwise. But for Dame Claire's sake, Frevisse asked, "What was it you said to him? A spell?"

  Margery nodded. "The one for–"

  Master Naylor interrupted her with a firm rap on the door frame. He inclined his head respectfully to Frevisse and Dame Claire, and said, "The crowner wants to see her now."

  "So late?" Dame Claire protested.

  "He hopes to finish the matter tonight so he can be on his way at earliest tomorrow. He has other matters to see to," Master Naylor explained.

  Matters more important than a village woman who was surely guilty, Frevisse thought. A woman who was the more inconvenient because she would have to be sent for examination before a bishop before she could be duly hanged.

  "We'll come with her," said Dame Claire.

  Master Montfort had been given the guesthall's best chamber, with its large bed and plain but sufficient furnishings. The shutters had been closed against the rainy dusk, the lamps lighted, and at a table against the farther wall his clerk was hunched over a parchment, quill in hand and inkwell ready.

  The crowner himself stood by the brazier in the corner, his hands over its low warmth. He was short in the leg for the length of his body, and had begun to go fat in his middle, but to his own mind any shortcomings he might have – and he was not convinced that he had any – were amply compensated for by the dignity of his office; he no more than glanced over his shoulder as Master Naylor brought Margery in, then sharpened his look on Frevisse and Dame Claire following her. A flush spread up his florid face and over the curve of his balding head.

  "You can stay, Naylor," he said. "But the rest of you may go." Belatedly, ungraciously, he added, "My ladies."

  With eyes modestly downcast and her hands tucked up either sleeve of her habit, Frevisse said, "Thank you, but we'll stay. It would not be seemly that Margery be here unattended."

  She had used that excuse in another matter with Master Montfort. He had lost the argument then, and apparently chose not to renew it now. His flush merely darkened to a deeper red as he said tersely, "Then stand to one side and don't interfere while I question her."

  They did so. Master Montfort squared up in front of Margery and announced in his never subtle way, "I've questioned some several of your neighbors already and mean to see more of them before I'm to bed tonight so you may as well tell what you have to tell straight out and no avoiding it. Can you understand that?"

  Margery did not lift her humbly bowed head. "Yes, m'lord."

  "You killed your husband? Now, mind you, you were heard and seen so there's no avoiding it."

  Margery clearly had no thought of avoiding anything. While the clerk's pen scratched busily at his parchment, recording her words, she repeated what she had already told Frevisse and Dame Claire. When she had finished, Master Montfort rocked back on his heels, smiling grimly with great satisfaction. "Very well said, and all agreeing with your neighbors' tales. I think there's no need for more."

  "Except," Dame Claire said briskly, knowing Master Montfort would order her to silence if she gave him a chance, "I doubt her husband died of anything more than apoplexy."

  The crowner turned on her. In a tone intended to quell, he said, "I beg your pardon, my lady?"

  Dame Claire hesitated. Frevisse, more used to the crowner's bullying, said helpfully, "Apoplexy. It's a congestion of the blood–"

  Master Montfort's tongue caught up with his indignation. "I know what it is!"

  Frevisse turned to Master Naylor. As steward of the priory's properties he had far better knowledge of the villeins than she did. "What sort of humour was this Jack Wilkins? Hot tempered or not?"

  "Hot enough it's a wonder he was in so little trouble as he was," Master Naylor said. "He knocked a tooth out of one of his neighbors last week because he thought the man was laughing at him. The man wasn't, being no fool, but Jack Wilkins in a temper didn't care about particulars. It wasn't the first time he's made trouble with his temper. And he was known to beat his wife."

  "Choleric," said Dame Claire. "Easily given to temper. People of that sort are very likely to be struck as Jack Wilkins was, especially in the midst of one of their furies. He was beating his wife–"

  "As he had every right to do!" Master Montfort declared.

  As if musing on his own, Master Naylor said, "There's a feeling in the village that he did it more often and worse than need be."

  But Dame Claire, refusing to leave her point, went on over his words, "–and that's heavy work, no matter how you go about it. Then she defied him, maybe even frightened him when she said her spell–"

  "And down he fell dead!" the crowner said, triumphant. "That's what I'm saying. It was her doing and that's the end of it."

  "What was the spell she said?" Frevisse interjected. "Has anyone asked her that?"

  Master Montfort shot her an angry look; determined to assert himself, he swung back on Margery. "That was my next question, woman. What did you actually say to him? No, don't look at anyone while you say it! And say it slow so my clerk can write it down."

  Eyes turned to the floor, voice trembling a little, Margery began to recite, "Come you forth and get you gone...."

  If Master Montfort was expecting a roaring spell that named devils and summoned demons, he was disappointed. The clerk scratched away busily as Margery went through a short verse that was nevertheless quite apparently meant to call the spirit out of the body and cast it away. Part way through, Dame Claire looked startled.

  In the pause after Margery finished speaking, the clerk's pen scritched on. Master Montfort, ever impatient, went to hover at his shoulder and, as soon as he had done, snatched the parchment away. While he read it over, Frevisse leaned toward Dame Claire, who whispered briefly but urgently in her ear. Before Frevisse could respond, Master Montfort demanded at Margery, "That's it? Just that?" Margery nodded. Master Montfort glared at his clerk and recited loudly, "Come you forth.... "

  The man's head jerked up to stare with near-sighted alarm at his master. The crowner went on through the spell unheeding either his clerk's dismay or Master Naylor's movement of protest. Margery opened her mouth to say something, but Frevisse silenced her with a shake of her head, while Dame Claire pressed a hand over her own mouth to keep quiet.

  When Master Montfort had finished, a tense waiting held them all still, most especially the clerk. When nothing happened after an impatient minute, Master Montfort rounded on Margery. "How long is this supposed to take?"

  Margery fumbled under his glare. "My husband – he – almost on the instant, sir. But–"

  "Spare me your excuses. If it worked for you, why didn't it work for me? Because I didn't have clippings of his hair or what?"

  Keeping her voice very neutral, Frevisse suggested, "According to Robert Mannying in his Handling Sin, a spell has no power if said by someone who doesn't believe in it. Margery uses herbs and spells to help the villagers. She believes in what she does. You don't. Do you believe in your charm, Margery? This one that you said at your husband?"

  "Yes, but–"

  "She's a witch," Master Montfort interrupted. "And whatever good you claim she's done, she's used a spell to kill a man this time, and her husband at that. Who knows what else she's tried." He rounded on Margery again and said in her face, "There's a question for you, woman. Have you ever used this spell before?"

  Margery shrank away from him but answered, "Surely. Often and often. But–"

  "God's blood!" Master Montfort exclaimed. "You admit you've murdered other men?"

  "Margery!" Frevisse said urgently, "What is the spell for?"

  Driven by both of them, Margery cried out, "It's for opening the bowels!"

  A great quiet deepened in the room. Margery looked anxiously from face to face. Frevisse and Dame Claire looked c
arefully at the floor. Red darkened and mounted over Master Montfort's countenance again. Master Naylor seemed to struggle against choking. The clerk ducked his head low over his parchment. Nervously Margery tried to explain. "I make a decoction with gill-go-on-the-ground, and say the spell over it while its brewing, to make it stronger. It provokes urine, too, and... and..." She stopped, not understanding their reactions, then finished apologetically, "They were the first words that came into my head, that's all. I just wanted to fright Jack off me, and those were the first words that came. I didn't mean for them to kill him."

  Master Montfort, trying to recover lost ground, strangled out, "But they did kill him, didn't they? That's the long and short of it, isn't it?"

  Margery started to nod, but Frevisse put a stilling hand on her arm; and Dame Claire said, "It's a better judgement that her husband died not from her words but from his own choler, like many another man before him. It wasn't Margery but his temper that did for him at the last."

  Master Montfort glared at her. "That's women's logic!" he snapped. "His wife warns him she has bits of him to use against him, and cries a spell in his face, and he drops down dead, and it's his fault? Where's the sense of that? No! She's admitted her guilt. She was seen doing it. There's no more questioning needed. Naylor, keep her until morning. Then I'll take her in charge."

  The twilight had darkened to deep dusk but the rain had stopped as they came out of the guest hall. Master Naylor steadied Margery by her elbow as they went down the steps to the yard. No matter how much she had expected her fate, she seemed dazed by the crowner's pronouncement, and walked numbly where she was taken. Frevisse and Dame Claire followed with nothing to say, though Frevisse at least seethed with frustration at their helplessness and Montfort's stupidity. Even the acknowledgement of the possibility of doubt from him would have been something.

  Margery's two guards were waiting at the foot of the steps in the spread of light from the lantern hung by the guest hall door. They stood aside, then followed as the silent group made their way around the rain-puddles among the cobbles to the gateway to the outer yard. Beyond it was the mud and deeper darkness of the outer yard where the lamplight showing around the ill-fitted door of Margery's prison shed was the only brightness. Busy with her feet and anger, Frevisse did not see the knot of people there until one of them swung the shed door open to give them more light, and Master Naylor said in surprise, "Tom, what brings you out? And the rest of you?"

  Frevisse could see now that there were seven of them, four women and three men, all from the village. The women curtseyed quickly to her, Dame Claire, and Master Naylor as they came forward to Margery. Crooning to her like mothers over a hurt child, they enveloped her with their kindness; and one of them, with an arm around her waist, soothed, "There now, Margery-girl, we can see it didn't go well. You come in-by. We've something warm for you to eat." Together they drew her into the shed, leaving the men to front the priory-folk.

  Tom, the village reeve and apparently their leader in this, ducked his head to her and Dame Claire, and again to Master Naylor before he said, "She's to go then? No help for it?"

  "No help for it," Master Naylor agreed. "The crowner means to take her with him when he goes in the morning."

  The men nodded as if they had expected no less. But Tom said, "It makes no difference that there's not a body in the village but's glad to have Jack gone? He was a terror and no mistake and she didn't do more than many of us have wanted to."

  "I can't argue that, but it changes nothing," Master Naylor said. "Margery goes with the crowner in the morning, to be taken before the bishop for what she's done."

  "She didn't do anything!" Dame Claire said with the impatience she had had to curb in Master Montfort's presence.

  Frevisse agreed. "This Jack died from his own temper, not from Margery's silly words!"

  "It was apoplexy," said Dame Claire. "People who indulge in ill temper the way Jack Wilkins did are like to die the way Jack Wilkins did."

  "If you say so, m'lady," Tom said in a respectful voice. "But Margery cried something out at him, and Jack went down better than a poled ox. God keep his soul," he added as an after-thought, and everyone crossed themselves. Jack Wilkins was unburied yet; best to say the right things for he would make a wicked ghost.

  "It wasn't even a spell to kill a man. Margery says so herself."

  "Well, that's all right then," Tom said agreeably. "And a comfort to Margery to know it wasn't her doing that killed Jack, no matter what the crowner says. But what we've come for is to ask if some of us can stand Margery's guard tonight, for friendship's sake, like, before she goes."

  Dim with distance and the mist-heavy dusk, the bell began to call to Compline, the nuns' last prayers before bed. Frevisse laid a hand on Dame Claire's arm, drawing her away. Master Naylor could handle this matter. There was nothing more for the two of them to do here. Better they go to pray for Margery's soul. And Jack Wilkins', she thought belatedly.

  Watery sunshine was laying thin shadows across the cloister walk next morning as Frevisse went from chapter meeting toward her duties. She expected Master Montfort and his men and Margery would be gone by now, ridden away at first light; and she regretted there had been nothing that could be done to convince anyone but herself and Dame Claire that Margery had not killed her lout of a husband with her poor little spell and desperation. But even Margery had believed it, and would do penance for it as if her guilt were real, and go to her death for it.

  Frevisse was distracted from her anger as she neared the door into the courtyard by the noise of Master Montfort's raised voice, the words unclear but his passion plain. She glanced again at the morning shadows. He was supposed to be miles on his way by this time. She opened the door from the cloister to the courtyard.

  Usually empty except for a passing servant and the doves around the well, the yard was half full of villagers crowded to the foot of the guest hall steps. Master Montfort stood above them there, dressed for riding and in a rage.

  "You're still saying there's no trace of her?" he ranted. Frevisse stopped where she was with a sudden hopeful lift of her spirits. "You've been searching the wretched place since dawn! My men have scoured the fields for miles! Someone has to know where she is! Or if she's truly bolted, we have to set the hounds to her trail!"

  Even from where she was, Frevisse could see the sullen set of every villein's shoulders. But it was clear that the main thrust of his words was at Master Naylor, standing straight-backed at the head of the villeins, deliberately between them and the crowner's rage. With a hard-edged patience that told Frevisse he had been over this already more than once, he answered in his strong, carrying voice, "We have no hounds to set to her trail. This is a priory of nuns. They're not monks; they don't ride to hunt here."

  Standing close behind the steward, Tom the reeve growled so everyone could hear, "And where she went, you wouldn't care to follow!"

  Master Montfort pointed at him, furious. "You! You're one of the fools who slept when you were supposed to be guarding her! Dreaming your way to perdition while she walks off free as you please! What do you mean, `where she went'? Hai, man, what do you mean?"

  "I mean it wasn't a natural sleep we had last night!" Tom answered loudly enough to send his words to the outer yard, to Master Montfort's entourage and a number of priory servants clustered just beyond the gateway. Frevisse saw them stir as he spoke. "Aye, it wasn't a natural sleep and there's not one of us will say it was. We fell to sleep all at once and together, between one word and another. That's not natural! No more than Jack Wilkins falling down dead was natural. We're lucky it was only sleep she did to us! That's what I say! And anybody who tries to follow her is asking for what happens to him!"

  Behind and around him the other villeins glanced at each other and nodded. One of the bolder men even spoke up, "Tom has the right of it!"

  A woman – Frevisse thought she was one of four who had come to Margery last night – said shrilly, "You can't ask any decent
man to follow where she's gone!"

  Master Montfort pointed at her. "You know where she's gone? You admit you know?"

  "I can make a fair guess!" the woman flung back. "Flown off to her master the devil, very like, and you'll find no hound to go that trail!"

  "Flown off?" Master Montfort raged. "Flown off? I'm supposed to believe that? Naylor, most of these folk are the priory's villeins! Warn them there's penalties for lying to the king's crowner and hiding murderers. She's around here somewhere!"

  "If she is, we haven't found her yet for all our searching," Master Naylor said back. "Twice through the village is enough for one day, and there's no sign where she might have gone across country. As you say, these are our villeins and I can say I've never known them given to such lying as this. Maybe they've the right of it. You said yourself last night she was a witch, and now she seems to have proved it!"

  Master Montfort stared at him, speechless with rage.

  "What we say," shouted another of the men, "is you're welcome to come search us house to house yourself, you being so much smarter than the rest of us. But if you find her, you'd better hope she doesn't treat you like she did her husband!"

  There was general angry laughter among all the villeins at that; and some from beyond the gateway. For just a moment Master Montfort lost the stride of his anger, paused by the man's words. Then he gathered himself together and rounded on Master Naylor. With a scorn that he meant to be withering, he said, "I've greater matters to see to than hunting down some petty village witch. She was in your charge, Naylor, and the loss is to you, not to me. There'll be an amercement to pay for losing the king's prisoner, and be assured I'll see the priory is charged it to the full!"

  "I'm assured you will," Master Naylor returned tersely, his scorn stronger than Master Montfort's.

  For a balanced moment he and the crowner held each other's eyes. Then Master Naylor gestured sharply for the villeins to move back from the foot of the steps. Crowding among themselves, they gave ground. Master Montfort's mouth opened, then closed, and with great, stiff dignity he descended, passed in front of them to his horse being held for him beyond the gateway, and mounted. He glared around at them one final time and, for good measure, across the courtyard at Frevisse still standing in the doorway, then jerked his horse around and went.