The men followed soon after, and settled themselves around Sym, talking of death dues to the lord and the poor harvest and of how old Austin had drunk himself to a stupor night before last and never made it home, and it was lucky he’d not frozen to death in the ditch.
“He was burrowed so deep into the leaves there, his boy Thad nearly didn’t find him even by daylight come the next morning.”
“It was his snores told me where he was,” Thad grunted. “Nearly cost me my back to haul him home, he was still so thick with ale.”
There was laughter at that. Thad, being the smith, was as well muscled as a man could be. The women shushed at the men, reminding them why they were there, and talk lapsed to murmuring again. Sometimes one woman or another would come take a turn at sitting beside Meg on the bench, to pat her hand and murmur well-worn, familiar words; but there were no tears, not from Meg or anyone else. Then four or five men addressed the others about Barnaby in words as kind as they were lying, for the sake of the widow.
And finally it was over. First one woman and then another came to say a final comfort to Meg, collected her man, and went to stand a respectful moment beside the bed before leaving. The smoky light of the rush candles set at head and foot of the bed jerked and flared to the opening and closing of the cottage door. Meg watched as the twitch of light and shadow across Barnaby’s face made his dull features seem to move. It was disquieting to see, as if somehow he had begun to breathe again. When the last guest had gone she rose stiffly from the bench and went to blow out the candles, leaving nothing but the low firelight, which did not reach his face.
Tomorrow she would have the bed to herself, but tonight it was Barnaby’s, and for an unsettled moment she did not know where she was going to sleep. But then Hewe moved close to her, the blankets rolled under his arm, took hold of her shoulder, and said with uncertain gentleness, “Come on, Mam. It’s late and tomorrow will be as hard. Come on up to the loft with us.”
She nearly said no, that she would sleep on the floor beside the fire. But it would be warmer in the loft, there in the straw, and her boys nearby.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”
The sky was a lowering dark gray. A teethed wind rattled the bare twigs of the ash tree overhanging the churchyard wall near the open grave as Barnaby was carried in his wooden coffin around the churchyard by six of the men. The bell’s flat tolling sounded like a tired housewife banging on a pot bottom as the funeral circled its way properly sunwise from the gateway to the new grave. Father Henry, shivering and hasty, began the words proper to the lowering of the coffin.
All of this was for the comfort of those left behind to earth’s gray pains and cold, but Meg was not comforted at all, only so tired that she had made Sym walk beside her from the cottage so she could lean on his arm. He had liked that, it made a show of his new place as head of the family. But she also made Hewe walk on her other side, and held his hand all the way.
So far as Meg knew, Hewe had not cried since his first tears beside his father’s body, but she was sure he was grieving. He had burrowed against her shoulder in his sleep last night and stayed near her all day today, quiet and seeming deep in thought. He was seeing the way the world went, she thought. His father’s dying might be the good thing needed to make him see his way toward the priesthood after all, without her having to fight him on it anymore.
She was distracted from her thought by Sym’s sudden tensing. She looked up at him to see that he was staring away from the grave and Father Henry toward the far edge of the little group of mourners. Meg looked, too, and saw their neighbor Gilbey Dunn standing there no differently from the rest, his hood in his hands, his head bare and bowed respectfully.
“Turd-hearted cur!” Sym snarled under his breath.
He made as if to move toward him but Meg’s fingers clamped onto his arm. “You stand fast!” she hissed. “This is your father’s funeral, not a brawl!”
“Showing his face here! After the trouble he was to Da, and all!”
Sym jerked to pull free of her but Meg’s strength was desperate. Heads were beginning to lift to look at them and she said with all the viciousness she could manage, “You stand and you be quiet! Let the sin of it fall on him and don’t go bringing more on yourself! Stand still! Think of your father, not of Gilbey Dunn!”
Sym fell silent, but Meg felt how tense his arm stayed and knew he kept glancing across to Gilbey instead of heeding what Father Henry had to say.
Afterward was the funeral feast in the cottage. There was a little more to eat than there had been last night: Domina Edith had sent down a meat pasty from the priory, and Bess from the alehouse brought a bucket of her latest brewing to warm the gathering. With Barnaby safely under ground, the talk became more cheerful.
But it came to an end soon enough and as they made their farewells and went away. Meg found she was as glad of their going as she suspected they were. She did not even mind Sym and Hewe going away with some of their friends. “For only a little,” Hewe said anxiously, but Meg only nodded at him, letting him go without complaint or bidding them come back soon.
Then there was no one else. Meg looked around the cottage, a little bemused to find there was nothing that needed doing. There was even leftover food enough that she would not have to bother with cooking supper. Nothing at all to do except rest.
She lowered herself onto one of the stools. Elbows propped on the table, she leaned her forehead into her hands and shut her eyes. It being winter and the steward elsewhere about his business with Lord Lovel’s properties, it might be weeks before they would know whether Sym was going to be allowed his inheritance. Meg guessed that he would be; the faults had all been his father’s and no matter what she saw in Sym, he had done his share in the village tithing and in the fields since he was twelve years old. He was well grown for his years. With her to help, and Hewe-
Meg shook her head to herself. There was no going away from the fact that Hewe was going to have to do a man’s share of the work from now on, no matter that he was too young for it. She was not going to give up her work at St. Frideswide’s. There had to be those pence to buy Hewe free and into the priesthood. He and Sym would both have to see that and help her do it. Hewe as a priest would then be able to help them in turn. Money for new cloth, maybe, to make a good woolen dress or cloak. A pair of boots for Sym. Another ox.
But first there was the broken cart. The only hope Meg saw of paying Gilbey Dunn for it was by persuading him to take its worth in work from one or both of the boys. And that would be hard, persuading not only Gilbey but Sym and Hewe, too. Sym especially would mightily resent it, no matter what sense it made. Why did he have to be so much like his father, so blind to what was necessary? Why was even Hewe so stubborn in such needless ways?
A confident clearing of a throat made her look up to find Gilbey Dunn standing in her doorway, as if summoned by her musing. He had had the decency not to come to the funeral feast; probably he had seen Sym’s face in the churchyard. But Sym was gone and here he was, a stocky figure bulking large in her doorway. He was scarcely taller than she was but solidly built and looking larger in his russet tunic, his bald head gleaming a little in the outdoor light, but the cottage’s shut-windowed gloom hiding whatever expression was on his blunt face.
Meg was angry that he had opened the door without first knocking, as if he had some right to be there. She said, “They’ve all gone. The feasting and funeral are done and you’ve no business here just now. We’ll pay you for the cart but I ask you for a day’s grace before we deal with it.”
As if that were an invitation, he came in, shutting the door against the cold but saying, “Why are you sitting here in the dark? Haven’t you even a candle to light? You might at least build up the fire.”