The Outlaw's Tale

by Margaret Frazer

  “Faugh. You know them better than that. Most of them haven't the wit for anything better. Left to their own, they'll be back where they are before the year turns, pardon or no pardon. Without my brains to see them along, they'll be pudding for crows by Christmas. Unless you take them on."

  Evan shook his head. “I'm done. We each of us have enough money put by to set ourselves up decently. Now's the time to do it, before our luck runs out."

  “Luck?" Nicholas scoffed. “A man makes his own luck, and I'm the best at making it there is. Was any of this with Frevisse luck? It was planning that did it, and my wit in handling her. And look how I've handled Payne. We'd not be where we are now if it wasn't for my wit in that."

  Evan looked at him soberly. He had drunk far less than Nicholas; he always did. His soberness was among the things Nicholas found hard to abide. Evan was useful, worth keeping friends with, but dog-dull in more ways than one. And hard to fathom. He kept too many of his thoughts shut up behind his crooked face. And now, when Nicholas was expecting him to say something else, he said instead, “We'd best be off if we're to be back at camp by dark. Even afoot, Hal will be there by now."

  “Then let Hal tell them we've not gone astray. I've a mind to that warm bed Beatrice offered me after all. You go on if you've a mind to, but I'm staying."

  Evan rose. “You said you'd be coming back."

  “And I will. Just not so soon. I’ll be there by dark."

  Evan glanced across the room and said, as if it followed naturally, “You let the franklin be."

  “Soul's honor!" Nicholas exclaimed. “He's not for my touching. Now get along with you. I can find my way from here to there without you old-maid fussing at me."

  * * * * *

  Master Payne's house was in the new fashion. Frevisse, even burdened with Sister Emma, saw that much as they were brought into the great hall – a long, broad room meant to be the gathering place of the household. Time had been when every hall had been tall, open to the high peak of the roof, but this one was ceilinged. It made the room less grand but warmer; and instead of an open hearth in the midst of the floor there was a wide fireplace on the farther wall, built up with a goodly fire. Stools had been set there for them and Sister Emma sank down on one gratefully, hiccuping a few sobs of relief as she held out her hands, white with cold, to the heat.

  Mistress Payne had clearly had some thought of playing hostess to them, but Sister Emma's condition was clearly too poor. She asked, worry in her voice, “Do you think it might be better if you went straight to the room we're readying for you? I think she's more than merely chilled. She's sickening for something, isn't she?"

  Watching Sister Emma shiver and huddle nearer the fire, Frevisse nodded. “I fear so. Is the room warm?"

  “Oh, very warm, yes. It's private, too, with its own fireplace and a fire already going." There was more worry than pride in that, as if Mistress Payne feared Frevisse might disapprove of the extravagance.

  Far from disapproval, Frevisse said, “That will be wonderful. Thank you." At St. Frideswide's only the prioress' parlor and the warming room had fireplaces, and their use was very limited. A private room with a fireplace was luxury, and just now she was in no mood to consider how far from the Rule it might be for her even here. She took Sister Emma around the shoulders and by the arm and urged her to her feet. “Come, Sister. We have some place better for you."

  Coughing heavily against her sleeve, Sister Emma resisted, still keeping her free hand out to the fire. “But I like it here," she protested. “This feels so wonderful."

  “We have some place more wonderful," Frevisse insisted. “With a fireplace just as warm. Where you can be rid of your wet clothes and have dry ones." She glanced at Mistress Payne, who nodded agreement. “And a bed, too. So come. It’s only a little farther."

  “H—he that was b—born to be hanged sh—shall never be drowned," Sister Emma chattered. But she let Frevisse, with Mistress Payne on her other side, manage her to her feet. She was shivering uncontrollably now. “I'm n—never going to be w—warm again, I know it," she whispered, leaning more heavily on Frevisse with every step.

  “You're going to be warm again very soon. And dry. You just have to go a little way."

  “Hope long deferred makes the heart sick," Sister Emma offered.

  “This won't take long," Frevisse said curtly. So long as Sister Emma could still drag out proverbs she was not beyond hope. “But you have to walk. There's no one here can carry you."

  Mistress Payne, looking all worry edged with nervousness, led them back into the screens passage at the end of the hall where the tall, carved wooden screen sheltered the hall from the drafts of main and back doors. They had entered from its left end, where the main door opened to the foreyard of the manor. Now they turned right, went past the door to the kitchen where a drift of good smells gave hope of supper to come, to another doorway and the narrow darkness of a spiral staircase upward to another floor.

  “I'm so c—cold," Sister Emma chattered.

  “So am I," Frevisse said. “But if you keep walking, we'll be warm soon enough. Up now."

  Even if there had been someone to carry her, they could not have done it up those stairs, except over the shoulder like a bag of grain. With difficulty, and despite Sister Emma’s insistent helplessness, Frevisse and Mistress Payne managed her, emerging at the top into a long, narrow room that ran from where they were to the front of the house. Its further end was curtained off into a small chamber where Frevisse glimpsed a bed and writing desk. There were also doors to either side; Mistress Payne, panting with nervousness and exertion, led them right, to the door nearest the stairhead.

  “My sister-in-law's chamber," she said. “Poor Magdalen was widowed three years ago and came to live with us and her room's the most private we have. All her own. None of the rest of the family sleeps here. You'll be very comfortable. And when I can't see to you myself, Magdalen will. She's very sweet."

  From Mistress Payne's hurried explanation, Frevisse was picturing a widow sunk well into middle age, her children grown, and herself so worn that she was willing to live with her brother rather than manage her life herself. But at the word 'sweet' she imagined instead a very young woman unfit to live on her own.

  The reality was a woman perhaps in her thirties who, as they entered, straightened from helping a servant spread a sheet across the curtained bed whose curtains were tied open. She looked at them from where she stood at the far end of the room with a long, clear gaze before coming to meet them. There was no way to tell the color of her hair under the encompassing wimple and veil she wore, but her brows were dark and her eyes rain-gray. Her dress was modest – a dark green gown with plain high neckline and straight sleeves, unwaisted but quietly shaped to her hips before flaring to full skirts. She was tall for a woman, though not quite Frevisse's height, and she moved with grace and reserve together as she came to take the weight of Sister Emma's other side from Mistress Payne.

  “These are the nuns, Magdalen," Mistress Payne said in haste. “Dame Frevisse..." Frevisse and Magdalen exchanged a quick, acknowledging look over Sister Emma's sinking head. “...and Sister Emma, who's ill I'm afraid. Can you – there's still supper to see to and I don't know when Oliver will be here or what he'll say - I want to be the one to tell him. Could you...?"

  “I'll see to them, gladly," Magdalen said. Her voice was low-pitched and even. The house was Mistress Payne's, and Magdalen was younger, but she spoke with the kind, amused firmness of an older sister. “The bed is near to ready, you can see; and Maud has found dry gowns for them; and there's spiced wine heating on the hearth. You can be at ease about it all. Leave them to me and go to your duties."

  “It's Oliver - he doesn't know yet, and when he does..."

  “He'll be startled. And then he'll be glad of this chance to do these ladies courtesy. His heart is as good as yours, Iseult, and he understands necessity as well as you do. There'll be no trouble. Now go on."

  Magdalen smi
led reassuringly; and after an uncertain moment Mistress Payne took a deep breath, and with a quick curtsy to Frevisse and at Sister Emma, left.

  Chapter Seven

  The rainy dark had drawn in early, and the shutters were closed against the chill. Most of the room was in shadow, save for the firelight and the small golden glow of the lamp set near the tall bed where Sister Emma now lay, breathing heavily in her sleep. It was a large chamber, the width of the house at its gabled end. There were a standing loom near the window, a single chair close to the hearth, chests along the walls, and a few short stools.

  Frevisse sat there on the chair, dressed now in the plain, dark blue gown of one of Magdalen's serving women and enjoying being warm, dry, and well-fed. She had dined on saffron rice with figs and her hands were wrapped around a mug of spiced, hot wine, her second from the pitcher keeping warm near the fire. But her mind was not completely at rest. The unfamiliarity was unsettling. To sit at ease, warm with wine, in a comfortable chair, at an hour when she would normally have been in her bed in St. Frideswide's dormitory sleeping toward midnight Matins and Lauds. To be wearing undergarments and a gown that despite their plainness revealed her body far more than the enveloping, unvarying familiarity of her Benedictine habit. And to have her short-cropped hair uncovered to finish drying in the fire's warmth. Except for when the nunnery had hair washing and hair cutting, her head had been covered by wimple and veil all day, every day, since she entered St. Frideswide's as a novice in her young womanhood. Now she felt vaguely indecent because of her head's nakedness. And uneasily pleasured at such unfamiliar comfort and ease.

  Across the hearth from her, seated on a stool, Magdalen had uncovered her own head and was combing down her waist-long hair in readiness for bed. The firelight caught and glittered on her silver comb and found pale strands among the dark brown of her hair. Her hair would be beautiful all her life, Frevisse thought; it would not dull or fade but turn white with the years and still be beautiful, as would her face whose fine bones would hold their beauty too with passing time. Frevisse wondered why she had not married again. Had she been so much in love with her first husband that three years of widowhood had not dimmed the pain of losing him?

  Or had he been so harsh that she dreaded taking a second husband?

  She did not want to ask, though she and Magdalen had been easy with each other from the very first, Magdalen's quiet competence setting so well with Frevisse's own bolder way that they had worked almost wordlessly together in stripping Sister Emma of her wet clothing, dressing her in a linen shift for extra warmth and putting her to bed under many blankets. Then Magdalen had had one of her women brew an herbal posset, and Frevisse and she had forced Sister Emma to drink it, and under its influence Sister Emma had subsided to murmuring drowsiness and then sleep.

  Darkness had come while they were about it; and then supper had been brought; and now they were sitting together by the hearth in the companionable silence of shared tasks well done and a friendship begun.

  Concentrating on a small tangle resisting her comb, Magdalen asked in her gentle way, “Is there anything else you want or need?"

  “Nothing else at all except bed and I'll go there shortly." When Sister Emma was deep enough asleep not to rouse when Frevisse crawled in beside her. “I've been most marvelously seen to. But we're taking your bed. Where will you sleep?"

  “There," Magdalen said, nodding across the room toward the two truckle beds already drawn out from under the foot of her own. “My maidservant Maud is going to join the other servants in the hall and I shall have her bed. Bess will stay, to be at hand if we have need of her in the night."

  “We're giving you a great deal of trouble."

  “It's trouble well-bestowed to a good end," Magdalen answered with a smile. “And more an honor than trouble, come to that. Truly, I'm glad to have you here."

  “You've lived her with your brother's family three years, I think Mistress Payne said."

  “Three years almost to the month," Magdalen agreed. “They've been very kind to me."

  “But you've no mind to have your own home again?"

  “Or to marry?" Magdalen completed the thought with only the slightest of smiles. She turned her head sideways, bringing her hair forward, to curtain her face and reach nearly to the floor as she went on combing it. “No. I was married full many years to John Dow, beginning when I was fourteen. I enjoyed being a wife, but I've found I also enjoy being unmarried. And there's a certain pleasure in being responsible for very little, as I am here under my brother's roof. And by my brother's advice, I've given most of my properties to rent. He manages them for me, at a pleasant profit to us both, and I live here, sometimes a help to Iseult and always a fond aunt to her little ones."

  Earlier, before full dark, Frevisse had several times heard the scurry of children's feet in the other room; and once she had seen the door open ever so slightly and two small heads - a boy and a girl, she thought but it was difficult to tell in the shadows - had peered around the edge. She had said nothing, and they had quickly withdrawn as silently as they had come.

  “How many Payne children are there?"

  “Five." Magdalen straightened and threw her hair back over her shoulder. “Though Edward would be wrathful to hear himself described as a child. He's all of fifteen and has been at university this year and a half past. He's to be a lawyer at the Inns of Court when he's finished at Oxford. He's home now for a month, and except he's gone with his father, he would have greeted you at the door as man of the house."

  She said it with such a combination of amusement and warm sympathy that Frevisse asked, “Is he your favorite?"

  Magdalen shook her head. “I know better than to have a favorite. I like each for who each is. They're all too different from one another. And poor Edward is in a difficult time just now, so aware that he's the eldest and the heir, since Edmund died. But he's only fifteen and not a man yet, for all he thinks he should be. There was some talk he should give up the law, after his older brother died, but Edward's too good at his studies to settle for less than what the law can bring him. He'll find his balance in a little while. But meanwhile he can be..."

  She paused, looking for the word.

  “Prickly?" Frevisse offered.

  Magdalen smiled. “I mustn't say so. But his brother Richard is surely an easier person to be with. He's always been the quiet one, but his judgement's steady. He's twelve and shares Edward's room if not Edward's love of learning. And then there's Katherine. She's nine, and much the young image of her mother and a darling."

  Darling was not a word Frevisse would have chosen for Mistress Payne but Magdalen's fondness for both her sister-in-law and niece was plain.

  “And then there's Kate - another Katherine because her sister was sickly when Kate was born and Oliver wanted to be sure to keep our mother's name among his children. She's a darling, too, in her own way. And then there's Bartholomew. He and Kate are rascals both. They work together to their own ends more often than not, and God save the rest of us when they do. They seem to take especial pleasure in tormenting Edward because he's just at the age to feel his dignity most tenderly." She smiled again. “Last week they-"

  A tapping at the door interrupted her. She called, “Come," and Mistress Payne opened the door barely enough to slip through. She pushed it closed behind her, then hurried over to bob a curtsey to Frevisse and say earnestly, “My husband has returned and begs the favor of seeing you, to assure you of his welcome. Is it possible? Are you...?" She gestured vaguely to cover the myriad possible reasons Frevisse might have for refusing.

  To Frevisse's mind it would be discourtesy to refuse to meet her host when he proposed it. And she was curious, too, to meet someone who had supposedly honest dealings with Nicholas. She quickly said, “I'd be very pleased to see him. To thank him and- " She broke off, her hand going to her bare head and then to her gown. She was not dressed for being seen by any man.

  But Magdalen had already risen and gone to one
of the chests along the wall to bring back a wimple and veil of her own. “Here," she said. “They're not like your own but they might do." She went to another chest and brought out a dark cloak. “And this will cover your gown."

  The wimple and veil were most assuredly not like Frevisse's own; the linen was woven far finer than any they wore in St. Frideswide's, and she had not worn a white veil since she was a novice.

  “Pins," said Magdalen and went to fetch them, then arranged the wimple to cover Frevisse's forehead, throat and chin. She pinned it in place and the veil over it. “There! And here's the cloak."

  As Magdalen draped the cloak around her shoulders. Frevisse felt its sumptuous soft wool and its squirrel-fur lining. Trying to ignore how elegant it felt, she glanced across the room at Sister Emma, still soundly sleeping. Iseult, following her thought, went to close the bed curtains. Magdalen stepped back from making sure the cloak covered her down to her toes and said, “Yes, you'll do very well. I doubt even your prioress could object. Let him come in now, Iseult."

  Frevisse rose, and her hands moved to tuck themselves up either sleeve in a familiar gesture. But the gown fitted too close to her wrists. Feeling the lack of her habit's dignity more than she would have expected, she made do with folding her hands in front of her as Mistress Payne hastened out the door.

  The man who entered a few moments later had Magdalen's height and her rich dark hair. But he was older, with the solid build of a man going into successful middle age, and with more gray in his hair. He had done his guests the honor of washing and changing before he came to see them; he wore a rich, wide-belted gown of soft crimson wool, well-fitted hosen and red leather shoes in which he clearly had not traveled.

  Although there was correct courtesy in his bearing as he crossed to Frevisse and bowed to her, there was also assured pride as he said in a deep, even, pleasant voice, “My lady, my greetings and my gladness that you're here."