Father Edmund crossed himself. “Blessed be God and the Virgin. We’ve prayed long and hard for him and the others.”
Montfort echoed his gesture with his usual impatience at everything that was not to his purpose and said, “Why are you here, Dame?”
There being no point in coming to it subtly, she said, “About Matthew Woderove’s death. Is everything about it sure?”
‘Matthew Woderove?“ For a moment Montfort looked as if he could not place who that was, then remembered and said disgustedly, ”Of course it’s sure. We boxed what there was of him. His folk here buried him. There’s no more sure than that. He’s dead.“
Frevisse bypassed wondering if Montfort meant that for a jest and asked, “Is it sure he was killed where he was found? That he wasn’t killed elsewhere and moved?”
Montfort’s small eyes narrowed with displeasure. “Shouldn’t you be at your prayers, Dame?” And aside to Father Edmund, “She does this. Makes trouble where there isn’t any.” And back to her, “Leave these matters to those whose business they are, Dame. Go back to your prayers and stay there after this.”
It was utter dismissal. Frevisse managed a curt curtsy and to say without strangling on it, “Pray, pardon me,” and to Father Edmund, “By your leave.”
Looking as if he regretted what had passed, Father Edmund made a sign of the cross in silent blessing toward her, and to him she gave another curtsy, more graciously, before she retreated.
She was across the yard and to the street again before she realized there was someone behind her, and because she meant to go to the church anyway, she swung leftward, to be out of the way of whichever of Montfort’s men was going to the alehouse, but behind her someone said, “Dame Frevisse,” and she stopped and turned to find the guard who had been at Father Edmund’s door bowing to her with hurried awkwardness.
‘My lady. If you please. A word.“
‘Of course, sir,“ Frevisse answered, puzzled but matching his courtesy.
‘About what just passed. In there.“
‘Yes?“ Wary now as well as puzzled.
‘This Matthew Woderove’s death. I was the one who inquired about it. After he’d been identified.“
That meant he was one of the crowner’s Sergeants instead of merely a guard, and suddenly he had all Frevisse’s attention. “You made investigation? You learned something?” she asked, trying but knowing she failed to hide her eagerness.
He failed as badly to hide his pride. “A little, yes.”
‘What?“
It was abrupt but all the encouragement he needed. “I found out he went from here to Banbury. He sold the horse there.”
‘You found Gilbey Dunn’s horse?“
‘The dealer had sold it again. It’s gone. But he admitted he’d had it. From the description.“
‘He’s a more forthcoming horse dealer than most I’ve known,“ Frevisse observed wryly.
The youth, whether or not he wondered how she had come to know horse dealers that well, answered, “He sees that if he helps us in a matter where he’s not at fault, it’ll go better for him if ever he is. At fault. And we find out he is.”
Frevisse wondered who had pointed that out to the man but only asked, “He was certain it was the same horse?”
‘A dark chestnut with an off hind white stocking and a finger-long scar above the near hock.“
That was certain enough, at any rate. “And it’s certain it was Matthew Woderove sold it?”
‘The man described him and what he was wearing. It was how the widow described him and what he was wearing when he left here.“
‘When was he in Banbury?“
‘The day after he left here.“
Frevisse paused, feeling her way along the wrongness of that before she said slowly, “He sold the horse the day after he left here, then set away on foot to somewhere west and was robbed and killed not many miles out of Banbury.”
‘It seems so. Yes.“
She liked the caution in his answer. Moreover, she was starting to like him and asked more openly than she might have otherwise, “Why sell the horse? Why walk when he could have gone on riding?”
‘Come to that,“ the youth said back, ”why did he go north from here instead of simply west? Horses sell as well in Worcester as in Banbury.“
So he was dissatisfied with it, too; but Frevisse had had time now to notice more about him-his hair’s color, for one thing-and she asked at a guess, “Are you kin to Master Montfort?”
The youth flushed a dark red, close to his hair’s shade, but answered steadily enough, straightly meeting her gaze, “I’m his son.”
And was well-witted enough to know that was not necessarily to his advantage, so that, at a loss for better comment, Frevisse offered, “I didn’t know he had a son.”
‘Three of us, actually. And two daughters. I’m Christopher.“
Frevisse slightly inclined her head to him. “Master Christopher.”
He slightly bowed in return. “My lady.”
And for no good outward reason they smiled at one another, unwarrently at ease on apparently no more than the basis of good manners. Another thing in which he differed from his father. And he asked, turning the questioning around, “Why your interest in this man?”
Frevisse hesitated, then said, “It’s that I keep thinking how he and Tom Hulcote died much the same way. By blows to the head and stabbing. And…” She trailed off, not knowing to where the “and” should lead.
‘And they’re both from here and… interested in the same woman,“ Christopher offered. To her questioning look, he added, ”There’s always talk in plenty in a village alehouse.“
She was coming to approve of him more by the moment but, looking past him, had to say, “You may need to go back. The jurors are coming.”
Christopher glanced down the green toward the four village men going toward the priest’s house and agreed, “I’ll be wanted.” He began to back away, saying as he did, “It’s just that I thought there was no reason you shouldn’t know what’s known about this Matthew Woderove’s death. If you wanted it.”
‘Thank you.“
He gave her a brief bow, hesitated as if inclined to say more, but did not, only bowed again and left her.
Frevisse went her way, too, but not back to the church. Head down and hands in her opposite sleeves again, crossing the green to Gilbey Dunn’s, she considered what Christopher Montfort had given her about Matthew Woderove. More than she had had but still very little, and the very little made no sense. Why had he sold the horse so soon? He had to know that on the whole Lord Lovell was not one to let his villeins simply leave. Why hadn’t he sought to put as much distance as might be between him and possible pursuit before being rid of the horse since he’d gone to the trouble of stealing it?
She needed to know more.
But what?
About Tom Hulcote, she supposed. Matthew Woderove had died elsewhere but Tom Hulcote had died here and here was where she had the only hope of learning anything of use. The trouble was that Montfort’s impatience was as much a threat as his stupidity and might leave her too little time to learn enough. If she could learn enough. Because she was guessing at what she needed to know.
But since guesses were all she had, they would have to do.
Elena Dunn was gathering chives from the herb bed beside her door among a scattering of hens. She straightened when she saw Frevisse coming toward her and wished her good morrow, and when Frevisse returned the greeting and asked after her sons, smiled a tired smile, answering, “They’re recovering far faster than Agnes and I will. She’s told them already today that if they don’t stay quiet, she’ll take to her bed and leave them to look after her instead. How is it with the others?”
‘Adam Perryn’s fever broke at dawn. We think that means the worst is altogether past.“
Elena gave thanks and crossed herself but was watching Frevisse’s face while she did and asked, “What else? More from the crowner?”