The Widow's Tale (Sister Frevisse Medieval Mysteries Book 14)

by Frazer, Margaret

  The Widow’s Tale

  Margaret Frazer

  Berkley Prime Crime books by Margaret Frazer

  THE NOVICE’S TALE

  THE SERVANT’S TALE

  THE OUTLAW’S TALE

  THE BISHOP’S TALE

  THE BOY’S TALE

  THE MURDERER’S TALE

  THE PRIORESS’ TALE

  THE MAIDEN’S TALE

  THE REEVE’S TALE

  THE SQUIRE’S TALE

  THE CLERK’S TALE

  THE BASTARD’S TALE

  THE HUNTER’S TALE

  A PLAY OF ISAAC

  THE WIDOW’S TALE

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book

  Published by The Berkley Publishing Group

  A division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street New York, New York 10014

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  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  Copyright © 2004 by Gail Frazer.

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  The Edgar® name is a registered service trademark of the Mystery Writers of America, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  * * *

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase-only authorized editions.

  * * *

  First edition: January 2005

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  * * *

  Frazer, Margaret.

  The widow’s tale / Margaret Frazer.—1st ed. p.cm.

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  ISBN 0-425-20018-3

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  1. Frevisse, Sister (Fictitious character)—Fiction.

  2. Great Britain—History—Henry VI, 1422-1461—Fiction.

  3. Women detectives—England—Fiction.

  4. Land tenure—Fiction.

  5. Catholics—Fiction.

  6. Widows—Fiction.

  7. Nuns— Fiction. I. Title.

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  PS3556.R3586W53 2005 813'-54—dc22

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  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  10 9876543

  ISBN: 0-425-20018-3

  But wel he knew that next hymself, certayn,

  She loved hir children best in every wyse . . .

  What koude a sturdy housbounde moore devyse

  To preeve hir wyfhod and hir stedefastnesse . . .

  * * *

  —G. Chaucer

  The Clerk’s Tale

  Chapter 1

  Heads back, the bright-clad gathering of riders swung their horses around and watched the hawk’s climbing spiral into the clear sky of the warm spring noontide of this year of God’s grace 1449. At the marshy edge of the meadow a huntsman loosed three spaniels into the green reeds, the tall rustle and sway betraying their going until half a dozen ducks burst up in a clatter of flailing wings. The hawk stooped from the sky onto the rising ducks and came down with one not a bowshot away along the meadow. Edward and Gerveys cheered, Cristiana laughed, and there were satisfied shouts among the other riders while a servant ran to fetch back the hawk and add the dead bird to the dozen already in the bag.

  “You see?” Gerveys said. “Not a lot of choice between yours and mine. Have you ever seen a finer pair?”

  Edward willingly granted, “Not this side of my Lord Bourchier’s mews.”

  The friendship between her husband and her brother Gerveys was one of the pleasures of Cristiana’s life, but even as she smiled at them both, one of her least pleasures rode up on Edward’s other side—his cousin Laurence Helyngton, who said, “You’ve never seen the duke of Suffolk’s best hawks then. He has a peregrine that matches any of the king’s.”

  “He would,” said Gerveys, adjusting the hood on the hawk on his fist and not bothering to keep distain from his voice. “Suffolk matches the king in almost everything and out-matches him in the rest.”

  “Don’t start it, you two,” Edward said.

  Gerveys laughed. Laurence curled his lip and reined his horse away. His father and Edward’s had been brothers, with Edward’s father the older and therefore inheriting somewhat more of the family lands than did Laurence’s. Edward as an only child had in his turn inherited all’of his father’s properties, but Laurence had two sisters, Milisent and Ankaret, and the dowers given with their marriages had cut his inheritance down still further, leaving him in seemingly constant irk at life. Not that Laurence was left poor. He was far from poor— except in patience—Cristiana thought, while saying, “Don’t goad him, Gerveys. Let this be a pleasant day.”

  Her brother smiled at her. “He’s the one making for unpleasant, bringing up Suffolk. I’ve not brought up my lord of York, have I?”

  “Your forbearance has been beyond reproach,” Cristiana said, making faint praise of it. But her smile met his, neither of them taking the other seriously. She was too glad to have him with her this while, on leave from the duke of York’s household, to much care if he vexed Laurence. She did not like Laurence.

  But even while she smiled at Gerveys, her gaze slid to Edward with the worry she had been trying to hide ever since he last came home from court. These past ten years he had served as a gentleman of the royal household, leaving to her, for months at a time, the running of their manor here in Hertfordshire. It meant they saw too little of each other, but Edward’s homecomings were all the sweeter for that.

  Only this last one, a little over a month ago in mid-March had been not so well. Edward had been far more tired than he should have been from the one day’s ride from court and much too pale, even allowing for winter pallor. He had taken to his bed and wanted nothing more to eat than strong beef broth. Cristiana, hovering and tending to him, had been relieved beyond measure when finally he said that was enough of lying about and, well wrapped in his furred robe, had moved to his chair beside the fire and asked for his daughters. When Cristiana brought them, he had taken eight-yearold Jane on his lap while Mary—twelve years old and grown too big for laps—had sat on a low stool, leaning against his knees where he could stroke her hair. Jane had showed him how well she could read now and her embroidery of a bright yellow popinjay perched on a green branch against a red sky, and he had admired Mary’s newly won skill at reckoning sums. “So I can help Mother with the household accounts now,” she had said proudly.

  Edward had leaned over to kiss her and said, “I could not be more proud of my two bright girls. They’re worthy of their mother.”

  He had smiled across the hearth at Cristiana then, and she had smiled back; and that night she and Edward had made slow and most satisfying love, the first time since he had come home; and afterward they had lain in each other’s arms and she had known he was going to be well.

  But he was not, and lately she had gone more than once to St. Augustine’s church in nearby Broxbourne to give a candle and pray before the Virgin’s statue for him, as yet to no avail. He was still pale and his appetite still failed; he was losing weight and strength, and today had ridden his older, quieter palfrey to the hawking rather than the gold chestnut gelding he had bought for himself last autumn and was so proud of, giving it to Gerveys instead, saying, �
��Let your horse have a rest,” although Gerveys had come all of two days ago and only from Clare, not far enough to tire any horse.

  But if Edward was determined to keep the shadows at bay, then so would she, for today and tomorrow anyway, because this was May Eve and by long Helyngton family tradition, family and friends gathered to the Helyngton family manor of Highmeade to hawk in the river meadows below the green rise of hills along the River Lea and afterward to feast before most of them went home to their own manors’ May Eve bonfires. Cristiana’s secret hope had been that this year Laurence and his sisters and their families would not come but come they had, husbands and children and all, leaving her to make the best of it. Worse, they would all be staying the night, but at least Edward was enjoying himself, and Mary and Jane seemed happy enough, kept with their six cousins at the river meadows’ edge where servants were watching over the tables set out with food and drink for when the hawking ended. Even Laurence, Milisent, and Ankaret were, for them, on good behavior. Ankaret would ignore her husband and ride too close to Gerveys and cast dove-eyes at him whenever there was chance, but Gerveys mostly ignored her and Master Petyt either did not notice or did not mind. A wealthy clothier from Waltham Cross, he was older enough that he should have known better than to fall for a pretty face and well-breasted body and not be over surprised if she led him in the old dance of cuckoldry. Their son looked neither like him nor at all like Ankaret.

  On the other hand, Milisent’s boy and girl looked very much like their father, Master Colles, and in its way that was a pity, he being blunt faced and fleshy, with hard little eyes. Not that taking after sharp-faced Milisent would have been better. There were no dove-eyes or winning ways about her. She and Laurence were much alike—and much like the hawks they were flying today, come to that—the both of them constantly on the watch for prey, Cristiana had often thought.

  She had pitied Laurence’s wife, a colorless woman who had grown more colorless as the years went by. After she had had provided him with three sons, Laurence had mostly seemed to forget she was there, until a few years ago when a fever had carried her off and she was truly no longer there he was able to forget her entirely. Cristiana had once said something to Gerveys about Laurence’s neglect and Gerveys had answered cheerily, “At a guess, I’d say being forgotten by Laurence is better than being remembered by him, wouldn’t you?”

  There was, as the saying went, no love lost between Laurence and Gerveys. As long ago as Cristiana’s wedding, Gerveys had said, “I’d not trust him or Milisent so far as they’d fall if they tripped.”

  Nor Edward did trust them. “But they’re family,” he always said. “We won’t be rid of them by wishing.”

  Laurence’s hawk was on the rise now. It had barely reached its pitch when the dogs set up a heron from the reeds, and like a plummeting stone, the hawk dropped and brought the heron cleanly down. With triumphant cheers, most of the company set heels to horses and cantered away to admire the kill. The servant bringing back Edward’s hawk reached him just then. With that for an excuse, he stayed where he was, and Cristiana and Gerveys stayed with him, and holding up his arm while his hawk sidled and settled on his thick-gloved hand, he said, “This is as fine a lannier as I’ve ever seen, Gerveys. Thank you yet again. The wonder is you were able to bring them both back in such good form all the way from France.” Where Gerveys had lately been about business for the duke of York.

  “That was Pers’ doing.” Gerveys’ squire since they were boys in training together. “He said that if I’d tend to myself on the crossing, he’d tend to the hawks. I did and he did and here we are. Though I’m not likely to hear the end of it any time soon, ‘Very full of himself for it, is Pers,’ “ he mockgrumbled, stroking his own hawk, blind in its red-plumed hood but turning its head side to side, alert to what might be happening around it.

  Slipping on his own hawk’s hood, Edward laughed at him and he joined in and Cristiana’s heart rose. Edward’s ready laughter surely meant he was more well than she feared and that her greatest worry need be only how soon tomorrow Laurence, Milisent, and Ankaret would go away.

  Only too briefly was she quit of her fear. Toward the afternoon’s end, with the feast done but only a few guests yet departed, all the rest were still standing about in talk in Highmeade’s great hall—a dozen and more friends and neighbors besides the Helyngton cousins, with half a score of children busy among them and servants passing out wine and small cakes to stave off whatever hunger pangs might still be possible. Because Cristiana would not be able to avoid Laurence, Milisent, Ankaret, and their families later, she was avoiding them now, moving among her other guests— asking after Beth Say’s little daughter who had been ailing lately; discussing this year’s probable wool prices with Master Tendale; promising Mistress Norbury word when they would sell some of their timber; laying a quieting hand on Mary’s shoulder when things began to be too loud among the children. She saw several of the young unmarried women had gathered to Gerveys—a thing not unexpected, he being young and unmarried and comely. To judge by his smiling talk he did not mind in the least, but his luck in avoiding Ankaret had run out. She was there, too, standing too close to him, plainly determined that he notice her, despite how he was plainly refusing to see her.

  He could rescue himself if need be, Cristiana supposed. In more need of help was Beth Say’s husband John, cornered near the dais by Laurence and Milisent. When John had come into the king’s household as a yeoman a few years ago, Edward had befriended him. It had turned into a mutual liking, but with more ambition to rise than Edward had, John was since then become an esquire of the king’s chamber, now held various royal offices, and in the present session of Parliament been chosen Speaker of the Commons. It made his friendship a valuable thing to have, which was surely where Laurence and Milisent’s interest lay, but his friendship with Edward remained as it had been, and last year when John had acquired the nearby manor of Baas, Cristiana had found in his wife Beth a good friend for herself.

  The only thing about John that somewhat ill-eased Cristiana was that his rapid rise in royal favor was much because of the duke of Suffolk. There was too much being said—and said not only by people like Gerveys who served Suffolk’s rival the duke of York—against Suffolk and how he used, or misused, his place of power close to the king. Even Edward, usually silent on such matters, had begun to speak against him.

  That did not mean John should be left to Laurence, though, and Cristiana looked around for Edward to rescue him. He was in talk with old Sir Andrew from Hoddesdon at the hall’s far end, near the door to the parlor, and she threaded her way toward them with smiles and brief words among her guests, pausing to share Master Foxton’s hope for a fine summer and rapping Laurence’s middle son James on the head with her knuckles to make him let go of the long plait of a little girl who looked about to cry. “Trouble someone your own size,” she told him, with the silent hope he’d try it with Mary. When his older brother Clement would not leave off poking her in the arm on the Helyngtons’ last visit, she had stomped on his foot. Mary’s boldness sometimes worried Cristiana, but sometimes boldness was needed and certainly against the Helyngton cousins.

  She joined Edward and Sir Andrew as Edward was saying something about how Suffolk continued to encourage the queen in her grand spending of wealth King Henry no longer had.

  “And Suffolk is among the reasons he no longer has it,” Sir Andrew grumbled.

  If Suffolk sank into the sea tomorrow and never rose again, Cristiana would not mind, she was so weary of hearing about him; and she instantly forgot him at sight of Edward’s face. Whatever strength he had called on today was gone. He was frighteningly gray around his eyes and mouth, and Cristiana interrupted his talk with, “Edward, you must rest.”

  Sir Andrew immediately said, “I was thinking that myself. You don’t look well, man.”

  With effort, Edward made a smile. “When everyone is gone, I’ll—“

  “Now would be better than then,” Sir
Andrew said. “I’ll see you into the parlor to sit while your good lady sees to your guests.”

  Cristiana would rather have seen to Edward herself, but he said, “That might be best,” with such sudden weakness that she did not argue but thanked Sir Andrew and turned away to see what else needed doing. John Say had rescued himself from Laurence and Milisent. He and Beth and others were readying to leave, and Cristiana went, smiling, to make Edward’s apologies, saying to everyone what she wanted to believe—that he had come home somewhat ill this last time, was much better. “Just not so much better as he tries to believe he is,” she smiled, making light of it until even Sir Andrew had gone and only family was left. On them she turned her back and went to Edward in the parlor.

  It was a southward-facing room and the one most used by her and Edward and the girls together. The walls were plastered a warm red. The square table in the middle was covered by a Bruges-woven cloth patterned in intertwining yellows and blues and greens, her gift from Edward when Mary was born. There was Edward’s tall-backed chair and a plain chair for her and short stools for the girls; and a long bench under the window with embroidered cushions where she usually sat with the girls to work at their sewing; and another chest along one wall where various things were kept, from the household’s few books to various accounts and records to the gameboard and pieces for merels. Edward was seated at the window, leaning against the sill, gazing out toward the fresh green of the rye and barley fields in the light gathering gold toward sunset. Without turning his head, he said quietly, “The harvest looks to be good this year.”