Frevisse nodded to that, would have listened to more if Sister Johane had offered it, but she did not, and Frevisse had nothing to say either and for a while the raindrops’ drip from the leaves was all there was, before Sister Johane made a small movement of her head toward the house and said, “It’s very strange in there. Among all of them. It felt like something other than grief.”
‘Yes,“ Frevisse said. ”It would.“
And maybe she would have been the one to say more but a footfall on the path gave brief warning that someone was coming before Hugh appeared outside the arbor. His look went uneasily from Frevisse to Sister Johane and returned to Frevisse before he asked, “My lady, if I might speak with you?”
‘Alone?“
His eyes flickered back and forth again. “Unless she knows, unless you’ve told her…”
Sister Johane immediately stood up. “I’ll walk the far side of the garden for the while,” she offered.
‘If you would,“ Frevisse said. ”Thank you.“
Hugh stood aside to let Sister Johane leave and Frevisse moved one hand, letting him know he should sit where Sister Johane had been. He did, and Frevisse, her hands tucked into her opposite sleeves and resting quietly on her lap, waited for whatever he had come to say.
He very obviously would rather have not been there to say anything at all and said, to have it done, “My mother sent me. She wants you to know what passed after you left.”
That was not what Frevisse had expected. A plea for her silence, or assurance she had misunderstood what she had heard, or a veiled—or even unveiled—threat against her if she ever spoke of what she more than suspected. Any of those had seemed possible. But to tell her of what had happened after she left? Unless, of course, he had come to lie to her, in hopes of deceiving her into silence.
‘Why didn’t she come herself?“
‘She said it would be too hard for her. She said it would be better for me to do it, who doesn’t know you so well.“
Frevisse slightly bent her head, accepting that, and waited, regarding him with a steady gaze while he readied himself and finally said, “We talked after you left. Miles admitted to Sir Ralph’s death. Philippa was there when it happened and knew why and helped him hide the signs he’d done it.”
‘And Sir William’s death?“
‘He admitted that, too.“
‘With Philippa there to hear him?“
‘Yes.“
‘And?“
‘She loves him.“
‘He’s twice committed murder.“
‘Any of us could have killed Sir Ralph at almost any time. The time happened to come to Miles first.“
‘And Sir William’s death?“
She heard the coldness in her voice and so must have Hugh and he held back his answer, before saying at last, slowly, “Sir William’s death was a mistake. Miles was angry at him. Rightly angry. I think Miles thought that because killing Sir Ralph came so… easily, that killing Sir William wouldn’t matter to him either. Afterwards… he found out it did.”
‘And you? Does or doesn’t it matter to you?“
Her question startled him. “Matter to me?”
‘That he killed your father. That he killed Sir William.“
Hugh paused over his answer, then said slowly, “I’d rather have him free than paying for those men’s deaths with his own.”
‘So you’ll lie for him and go on lying.“
‘Yes.“ Hugh did not hesitate over that but then paused again before adding, his eyes locked to hers, ”We’ll all lie. But not to each other anymore. And none of us, anymore, to ourselves.“
They stayed staring at one another for a long moment more before, slowly, still meeting his look, Frevisse nodded, accepting that as something better than nothing.
Hugh dropped his gaze, stood up, bowed to her. “Lady Anneys simply wanted you to know. That’s all.”
He made to leave but Frevisse asked, “Where’s Miles now?”
‘He’s gone to Father Leonel. To confess and take whatever penance he’s given.“
That was something, too. But there was one more thing and she asked it before he could leave as he so openly wanted to do. “Are you still Miles’ friend?”
She had startled him again. He stopped, eyes widened with surprise, and said, “Yes,” plainly never having thought not to be Miles’ friend. Then he left.
Sister Johane did not come immediately back to the arbor when he was gone and Frevisse stayed where she was, watching a last few rain droplets fall from leaves. Over the hall’s roof a waterish gray and yellow sunset trying to happen through the westward clouds gave some hope that tomorrow would be clear. A hope but not a certainty.
Frevisse had been haunted after she left the parlor by the thought of the reckoning that had come—a reckoning as vile as everything that had gone before it, however long it took to come—if Lady Anneys, Miles, Hugh, and Philippa refused to face the depth of wrongs there had been done here. If they tried to ignore what they all knew, the corruption of it would destroy them, heart and soul. Of that she had been sure, and that fear, at least, Hugh had taken from her. They had ended their lies to themselves and to each other.
For the world’s authorities to know—crowner and sheriff and all—Sir Ralph’s death would go unsolved and Sir William’s be seen only as a fearsome mistake. For Miles there was the hope that penance might finally cleanse his heart and spirit of hatred’s ugly dross and bring, in God’s eyes, absolution for his sin of murder. And Frevisse found she could live with the law’s justice not being done if a deeper justice was being answered, if payment was being made—payment of maybe a deeper and more healing kind than the law’s justice would have exacted. Penance and love might well save Miles: the others’ love for him and, as important, his love for them.
Sister Johane came hesitantly back and sat again, watching her for a silent while before saying, “Something is better?”
‘Something is better.“
‘But not well?“
‘Not well. Not yet. But now there’s hope.“ Where, before, there had been none.
‘It has to do with the deaths, doesn’t it?“
‘Yes.“
‘But you can’t tell me?“
‘No.“
Sister Johane thought on that, then said, “But I should pray for all of them because of it, shouldn’t I? For Hugh and Miles and Lady Anneys.”
‘And Philippa,“ said Frevisse. ”Yes. For all of them.“
Sister Johane accepted that in silence, before saying, sad with longing, “May we go home soon?”
Something tight-coiled around Frevisse’s heart began to ease at simply the thought of that. “Yes,” she said. “Soon we’ll go home. For now, though, shall we say vespers?”
Author’s Note
As always, so many sources studied over so many years have been drawn on for this book that there is no way to detail most of them, but very specifically used this time were John Cummins’ marvelous The Hound and the Hawk—a gathering in and explaining of a number of medieval hunting treatises— and The Master of Game by Edward, second duke of York (died 1415 in the Battle of Agincourt)—a Middle English rendering and extension of Gaston Phoebus, count of Foix’s famous The Book of Hunting from the 1300s—and The Hunting Book by Gabriel Bise for its reproductions of full-color pictures from a 1400s manuscript of Gaston Phoebus’ work. For a discourse on modern open-field coursing, Gazehounds and Coursing by M.H. Dutch Salmon was invaluable.
Medieval breeds of dogs were not necessarily the same as modern ones, and terms from then may have different meanings now or be totally unfamiliar. Rather than explain the differences and specifics of lymers, raches, alauntes, kenets, harriers, spaniels, mastiffs, greyhounds, and more, I have kept, for the most part, simply to “hound,” lest I end up writing my own treatise on medieval hounds instead of a novel.
The time of grace—when some animals could be hunted but not others—mentioned here differs from dates given in some s
ources because times of grace differ from one medieval source to another, dependent on author and place. I used what seemed most likely for where the story is set.
The “picnic” in Chapter 3 is not an anachronism but so much a part of medieval hunting that Chapter XXXIII of The Master of Game is given over to describing how it should be done, including, “And the place where the gathering shall be made should be in a fair mead… beside some running brook.”
The story of the herdboy shifting the cows with a slingshot was my father’s story from his own boyhood—though, almost needless to say, the type of slingshot differed.
Specific and particular thanks must go to Cheryl Tregillis of Wyndfal Irish Wolfhounds for urging me to write a book with hounds and hunting in it and then providing me not only with information on wolfhounds but several chances to spend time with some of her own gentle, beautiful, charming Irish wolfhounds, successful in the show ring and fleet of foot in the field.
Thanks are likewise due Dr. Carol Manning, who advised on how a small wound in the throat could be sufficient to kill. An author has ideas but needs authorities to tell her what’s possible.
Now I pray unto every creature that hath heard or read this little treatise… that where there is too little of good language that of their benignity and grace they will add more, and there where there is too much superfluity they will also abridge it as may seem best by their good and wise discretion.
[from the end of The Master of Game]
The Hunter’s Tale Page 30
