Staring at her, the man fumbled, “Mistress. Your husband.” He managed to gather himself. “Your husband. Is he here?”
‘I fear not, sir,“ Elena said brightly. ”Might I be of help to you?“
Her calm seemed to fluster the man the worse, but behind him his fellow said, trying for more authority, “Where is he then? We’ve come for him.”
‘My husband?“ Elena repeated.
‘Gilbey Dunn. We’ve come for him,“ the man repeated. ”Where is he?“
From somewhere across the yard Montfort yelled, “Get on with it!”
The two men swung around, the first one yelling back, “She says he’s not here, sir!”
‘Then where is he? Ask her, you fool.“
Elena unlatched the door and the two men fell back a few paces as she stepped out onto her doorstep and with the air of a puzzled housewife not understanding all the trouble, answered for herself, lifting her voice, “He’s gone to market, sir.”
Frevisse, shifting into the doorway behind her, saw Montfort on his bay horse beyond the foreyard garden, already red-faced with impatience. “Gone to market? You mean he’s run!” he snarled.
‘Sir!“ Elena’s voice scaled up in what sounded for all the world like innocent protest. ”He’s never! The green cheeses were ready, and I couldn’t take them because of the children. The mesels, you know.“
One of the two men at the door took a hasty step backward.
‘Stay where you are,“ Montfort snapped at him without shifting his glare from Elena. ”Your husband has run and you’re lying for him!“
‘I wouldn’t!“ Elena protested. She sounded far more peasant than Frevisse had ever heard her, and far less clever, as if she could not understand what Montfort was at. ”He’s only gone to market, to Banbury with the cheeses, like I said, sir.“
‘He’s run,“ Montfort declared. ”And he’s in the wrong even if he hasn’t! I gave him order yesterday, him and that reeve, not to leave the manor until I was done with them.“
‘He never said anything about any order, sir,“ Elena said with respectful puzzlement. ”He wouldn’t have gone if you’d told him not to, sir, I’m sure.“
‘He was told!“
Montfort had brought the rest of his guards with him, including Christopher, Frevisse saw, but they had stayed at the gateway, as if there might be need to keep back the handful of old men and a few women not gone out to the fields today and come to see what the crowner was about gathered beyond the ditch, bird-busy in talk and listening. They were none of them offering to come nearer except- Frevisse saw with mingled relief and worry-Perryn with Dickon behind him and both priests, circling them toward the yard’s gateway. But they were not there yet with whatever help they might have given. It was Christopher who stepped forward and said, his voice carrying maybe louder than he meant it to, “I beg your pardon greatly, sir, but I think he wasn’t.”
Montfort jerked around to look at him. “What? What d’you mean he wasn’t?”
‘He wasn’t told, sir. I mean, I was there, sir. Yesterday. They weren’t told, either he or the reeve, that they weren’t to leave the manor. Sir.“
Montfort purpled. “They were!” He pointed at Perryn, now coming into the yard with Father Edmund and Father Henry. “See. He’s still here.”
Frevisse stepped forward from behind Elena and said, deliberately loudly, “I most humbly beg your pardon, sir, but I was there, too, and nothing was said to either of them not to leave the manor.”
Montfort’s glower swung around to her. “You. What’re you here for, Dame? Go away.”
Perryn had stopped in the street, but the priests were come into the yard now, and from beside Montfort’s horse Father Edmund said, calm with the authority of his priesthood, “The Dunn children are ill. Dame Frevisse is here to comfort the mother, by right of God’s charity.”
‘And so are we,“ Father Henry rumbled behind him.
They made a strange pair, the slender, dark-haired, graceful-mannered younger man and Father Henry with his crest of yellow curls and height and muscled bulk, but they served the Church as surely as Montfort served the Crown and were therefore as much to be reckoned with as he was, and despite the crowner looked as if he would have gladly chewed them both down to gristle and spat them out if he could, he said after a short, choking silence, “Yes, well. But Gilbey Dunn is still gone and he shouldn’t be. There’s guilt in that, whatever she says.” He made a curt nod at Elena. “There’s a man dead and evidence against Dunn and by the law when there’s suspicion of guilt and the man has fled, I’m bound to see into everything he owns, how much he has, and what it’s worth, and that’s what I’m going to do now. In the king’s name.”
Elena drew a sharp, frightened breath. For all her outward calm, she was rigid, and all Frevisse could offer was a hand on her arm to steady her from showing more, because Montfort was within his rights with what he meant to do. A criminal’s goods were seized and sold to pay for the wrong he had done against the king’s law. Everything he had, though it be no more than a beggar’s bowl, was forfeit for his crime, and because Gilbey was not here when the crowner came seeking him, Montfort was free to assume he had fled until shown otherwise and to begin reckoning of his goods and lands against the time he might be found and tried. Nor would it have been different if Gilbey were there, except he would have been arrested into the bargain; and smoothly, knowing that to argue Montfort’s right in the matter would have been to put himself in the wrong, Father Edmund said, “Of course. But since the children are too ill to be moved, we’ll stay- Father Henry and I, and Dame Frevisse if she will-to give them and their mother what care and comfort we can while your men do what they must.”
For all it was mildly said, the warning was there. Father Edmund would watch that there be no rough-handling of anyone or anything, and to judge by Montfort’s glare and tight-jawed answer, “As you choose, priest,” the crowner understood him perfectly.
Heavy-handed on the reins, he pulled his horse sharply around, forcing both priests back a few quick steps, and spurred forward out of the yard, making the watching villagers scatter from his way. Low and viciously, Elena said, watching him go, “There’s a mean-minded man.”
‘All mean and no mind, I don’t doubt,“ Agnes said behind her in the doorway.
Simon Perryn said something that served to keep the onlookers in the street and came on into the yard with Dickon still on his heels, while Father Edmund with Father Henry gathered up the guards from gateway and doorstep and set to arranging how things would go. Over her shoulder to Agnes Elena said, “Bring bowls and ale for all the men.”
‘The crowner’s, too?“ Agnes protested.
‘Would you rather we had friends or foes going through our things?“ Elena answered and went forward to join the men.
Frevisse followed but kept aside, only listening while Father Edmund and Christopher Montfort shared between them the sorting out of which guards would see to the barn and byres, which to the house, which the yard and sheds. With Montfort gone and Elena standing silently by, hands clasped beseechingly at her breast, lovely, helpless, and looking hopeful of their kindness all at once, matters went quietly. And then, when Agnes had come with the ale and Elena served each of the guards herself, Frevisse was left with no least worry that the business would go far more in Elena’s favor than Montfort would have stomached if he had been there.
Simon Perryn had kept his distance, partway between villagers and priests and guards, ready to go whichever way looked best. Frevisse wanted a word with him but waited until it was settled that Father Edmund would oversee what happened with the yard and outbuildings and Father Henry keep the boys eased with stories while Elena and Agnes watched over what was done in the house. Both priests and Christopher looked then to Frevisse, she supposed in expectation she would offer to stay with Elena, but instead she said, “By your leave, then,” and with a quick bow of her head to the priests, walked away before anyone could say whether they gave her leave or not. With a small beckon of her head she gathered Perryn to her as she went, but in the street he paused to answer the onlookers’ flurry of questions with, “She knows better than I do,” leaving it to her to say tersely, “Master Montfort has accused Gilbey Dunn of Tom Hulcote’s murder.”