There was nothing beautiful about Mary now. Eyes hating, she strained forward against Father Edmund’s hold, snarling, “You dirt-mouthed bitch!”
Frevisse leaned toward her in return, not caring what her own face showed, demanding, “Was it you he went for in his anger, and Father Edmund struck him down? Or did he go for Father Edmund first, and you did for him? The way you did for your husband. Did Tom have time to know it was you killing him? Did he have time to know just what your ‘love’ is worth?”
Mary screamed then, wrenching against Father Edmund’s hold, too furious even for words, wanting only to come at her. Hamon shifted hurriedly off the bench and away while Father Edmund, struggling to hold her, said, “Mary, no! She’s guessing. It doesn’t matter what she says! She doesn’t know anything!”
Frevisse, ignoring him, leaned farther forward, tauntingly near to Mary’s reach, and sick though the words made her, said goadingly, “And when you’d clubbed him down, Mary, was it you who stabbed him twice over to be sure he was dead? Or was that something you managed to leave to your other lover to do?”
‘Dame!“ Father Edmund said with a fury that brought Mary to sudden stillness in his hold. ”Enough! On your obedience, Dame, be silent!“
Frevisse straightened, slowly, her eyes locked to his, letting him see everything she thought of him and what he could do with his priestly “obedience” before she said, cold and deliberate, “And then you hid his body while you remade your plans to cover what you’d done. It took you Sunday to think it out, Monday to accomplish it, and that night, finally, you were able to take him-how? by wheelbarrow, its wheel well greased to go unheard in the night?-out by the back way to dump him in a ditch the way that he’d dumped Matthew.”
‘Guessing,“ Father Edmund said.
‘The pieces fit,“ Frevisse returned. ”Every one of them. Down to Gilbey Dunn’s belt and Simon Perryn’s hood.“
‘What…“ Father Edmund faltered on that, not shifting swiftly enough to follow where she had gone.
‘The belt and hood you told these men to say nothing about,“ Frevisse said. ”The belt and hood stolen from Gilbey’s house and here.“
Mary gave a vicious, desperate laugh at that. “There! There’s your lie! I’ve never been at Gilbey’s house this half year and more, and anyone will say so!”
‘No one says you’ve been at Gilbey’s house,“ Frevisse said sharply back at her. ”You came here and took your brother’s hood. It was Father Edmund who went to Gilbey’s and took the belt.“
Mary stared, while Father Edmund’s face went tightly shut, with thoughts racing behind it, but Frevisse gave him no time to sort them out, saying quickly at them both, “I’ve asked. The belt and hood were where they should have been on Monday morning. After that they were gone. Someone took them. The only person both here and at Gilbey’s that day is Esota Emmet, and there’s nothing against her in any of this. The only others possible are Walter Hopper and Hamon Otale. Walter came here, and Hamon as his man was at Gilbey’s.”
‘There then!“ Mary cried. ”It could have been them!“ And at Perryn, ”It could have been! Make her admit it could have been them!“
‘Save that there’s nothing-nothing“ Frevisse said in sudden, open, blazing anger, ”to tie them to either Matthew’s death or Tom’s, but everything to tie you and Father Edmund. Beginning with your lust.“
Chapter 22
There had been no other way to do it.
Or if there was, she still did not see it.
With head bowed and arms wrapped tightly across herself, Frevisse went on pacing back and forth the length of the path between Anne Perryn’s garden beds with the same measured tread she would have paced St. Frideswide’s cloister walk if she could have been there. And she deeply wished she was. Or, better yet, on her knees before St. Frideswide’s altar, praying herself toward quietness.
But it would be days more before she could be there, and when the men had taken Mary Woderove and Father Edmund off to Master Montfort, with Dickon following along for curiosity’s sake, she had stayed here, to be alone until the trembling stopped; until she could undo the sickened ugliness left in her by the deliberate, cold rage she had summoned up to deal with Mary Woderove and then with Father Edmund because she could see no other way. She had come to understand, that little while she had questioned Mary on the green, that Mary’s anger was a cunning one-real enough but used like a weapon to have her own way. What no one had ever done before was use anger purposeful as her own back at her, until Frevisse did, and it had worked where maybe nothing else would have, just as proof he had never thought to see set up against him had brought down Father Edmund, had held him silent as Simon Perryn had risen to his feet at the head of the table and, looking at his sister and his priest with a face dark not so much with anger but the soul-deep misery of betrayal, said, “Aye, priest. It wasn’t enough to kill Matthew. To kill Tom. To whore my sister and break your vows. You had to try to make innocent men look guilty in your stead.”
Stiffly, as if it made a great difference, Father Edmund had answered, “I had no hand in Matthew Woderove’s death.”
Mary had cried out at that, pulling away from him, turning to face him. “No hand? No! You only urged me on to it, planned it with me. How I’d bring Tom to do it and everything and then how we’d be rid of Tom afterwards!”
‘I never meant Tom’s death,“ Father Edmund had answered sharply. ”I only meant for him to leave.“
‘And so did I!“
‘But when he wouldn’t,“ Perryn said, ”you killed him. Both of you.“
‘He found us together,“ Mary had said, sullen against the wrong he had done them. ”He would have killed us both, he was that mad. Would have killed you first,“ she added savagely at Father Edmund. ”It was you he was going for!“
‘And so you hit him from behind with what?“ Christopher had asked.
‘A piece of firewood, like you said, you clot! It was what was to hand.“ She had pointed accusingly at Father Edmund. ”And even then I had to tell you to stab him! That he wasn’t dead and he had to be!“
Frevisse went on walking, not regretting what she had done, only wishing the anger’s sickened residue, still curdled like churned lead in her stomach, would go away. It would, she knew. If not today, then later. Given time and prayers enough, she would finally cleanse its ugliness out of her.
Unlike Mary, who would almost surely take her ugliness to the grave with her, still seeing no reason she should not have killed two men to let her have a third unhindered.
And Father Edmund?
At thought of him the little quiet Frevisse had so far won back shredded away. There were priests in plenty like St. Frideswide’s Father Henry, men who held to God’s way as closely as they could despite the sins of the flesh that called to them as readily as to anyone else. There were, less often, priests who gave way to those sins. Priests fat with gluttony or corrupt with avarice or damned with pride or lost to lust. But to be a priest and murder a man… To take a man’s life without giving him chance to save his soul…
Frevisse found she was standing at the far end of one of the garden paths, staring down into a cabbage plant, noting with rather desperate care the particular cabbage-shade of its green, the fine patterning of its heavy leaves…