Rose handed him a cup of water while Ellis patiently untangled him and said, “Nobody. I just sat this villein down on the ground to think about the error of his ways. It’s Joliffe I’m going to fight with if he doesn’t stop stealing my girls.”
“I can’t steal what isn’t yours,” Joliffe said. He had taken the bread from Bassett and was slicing it into five equal pieces. His dagger sliced through the thick crust and tough brown bread effortlessly, Frevisse noticed; and when Ellis drew his own to reach across the distance and spear his share, Frevisse said in surprise, “Your knives match, yours and Joliffe’s.”
Bassett drew his own and held it out for her to see. “And mine, as well,” he said.
The blades were an identical shape and the handles, of wood with copper wire inserts, also matched.
“And my mother’s,” Piers added around a mouthful of bread. “And mine, too. Only they won’t let me have it yet. They say I’m too young.” His tone scorned that notion.
“We played at a wedding up Sheffield way,” Bassett said. “We were a little larger company then and did one of our better plays-”
“Not,” said Joliffe, pressing a hand over his face and shaking his head in mock shame, “The Statue of St. Nicholas.”
“Don’t be complaining,” Rose said. “St. Nicholas brought in a pretty number of pence.” She dumped the coins into her lap and tossed the hat at Ellis. “I’d not have thought there were so many to be had from the place. A whole penny,” she added in admiration. She looked at it close up.
“From Henry the Fifth. Probably in the peasant’s pouch these twelve years and more since his grace died, I’d not be surprised.”
“They’d not seen players in a while. And it’s the holidays so they were ready for a bit of sport,” Bassett said. He had dropped wearily onto a bench and was surveying his group with fulfilled pleasure. “All in all a good morning’s work.” He looked at Frevisse. “I don’t suppose there are any more villages near to hand?”
“The nearest is two hours’ walk away,” Frevisse said.
“And two hours back. Too far for a short winter’s day,” Bassett said regretfully. “But as to the wedding that brought us our daggers, we did so well that the bridegroom-he’d made his fortune forging steel-gave us these, being his specialty, beyond our agreed fee. A gentleman, and generous. Somewhere there’s three more like these loose in the world, but they went when our company broke.” He brooded into some distant thought, his mouth grim. “But that’s another story.”
“And not for here and now,” Rose added. “Is anyone going to cook that bacon, or are we going to sit here staring at it until it rots?”
“It’s not likely to rot in this cold,” Joliffe said. “What happened to mild winters? I don’t suppose anyone could arrange for spring to come next week and warm the world for a while?”
“I don’t suppose you could arrange for me to warm that girl you filched today?” Ellis returned.
“It’s not my fault she prefers my charm to your brawn.”
Frevisse, smiling inwardly, left them to what were clearly their familiar ways and went about her own.
Meg’s tasks kept her at the priory until the sun was going down. It was New Year’s Eve and there were special little things to be cooked, not just for tomorrow but for afterward because the day after New Year’s was going to be given over to killing and readying the chickens meant for the pies Domina Edith had said the nunnery would have for Twelfth Night.
“So there’s more than enough that has to be done if we’re having holiday tomorrow and there’s going to be dead chickens all over here afterward,” Dame Alys had declared. “Nasty, messy business, and I hope there’s sage enough to see us through-someone’s been wanton fisted with it again-or the pies won’t be worth eating. Don’t thump that pan down like that, you’ll kill the pudding and then I’ll thump you.” Narrow-eyed with hostility but still tired from her cold, she did not rise from her stool but contented herself with pointing her spoon like a sword at the offender, who out of habit ducked. Anyone who worked in her kitchen quickly learned to keep clear of her if possible. But there was no keeping clear of her temper and when the day was over, Meg dragged herself out of the kitchen into the quiet of the back passage from the cloister in a weariness too deep even for thankfulness.
Out of the kitchen’s heat of ovens and cooking, the air bit deeply into her thin flesh. From habit, not from any hope of it doing any good, Meg huddled her cloak more tightly around her and let herself out the back way into the side yard that ran between the nunnery and its outer wall and opened by another gateway into the courtyard at the front, from where she could take the road until she reached the field path again.
The sun was a deepening gold, swollen in the cloud-clear sky as it dropped to setting. Across the fields under the sweep of sunset light, darkness was already gathered in the grass and along the hedge line, waiting to take the world as soon as the sun slipped away; and Meg hurried, driven as much by the coming darkness as the cold, wanting to be home and close to her own fire.
If someone had bothered to bring in wood. If someone had bothered to feed it to the fire.
There was no one in sight as she came past the church and along the frozen ruts to her house. The sun was gone and everything in twilight shadows. Yellow light showed here and there at cottages where a window’s shutter did not fit close enough; but there was only darkness at her own, she saw as she came to it, and her faint hope of a fire and warmth sank lower.
But after all, as she opened the door, there was a glow on the hearth from wood burned down to coals but still alive. Warmth, and familiar smells of woodsmoke and animals wrapped around her as she closed the door at her back. Hewe was there. He turned from laying hay in front of the goat. In the half darkness she could not see his face clearly but his voice was cheerful. “I made the fire, Mam. Only I’ve waited to build it up again so it wouldn’t be gone before you came.”
“And brought in Nankin,” Meg said, letting approval come into her voice. “You’re a good son, Hewe. And the chickens?”
“They’re fed and watered.” His voice fell, waiting for her to be angry as he added, “But I’ve not cleaned their mess yet.”
Meg was too glad of the fire to care. “That can bide. Come to the warmth now.”
“And one of them’s dead,” Hewe added in almost a whisper.
Meg sighed and sank down on one of the three-legged stools close to the hearth, opening her cloak to the warmth, holding her hands out over the coals. “That can’t be helped,” she said wearily. “Maybe I’ll set it to boiling tonight and we’ll have a New Year’s feast of it. Come lay wood on the fire for me. My hands are that stiff with cold I don’t know if I could.”
Hewe came and with great care built up the fire until it danced, throwing shadows and light around the room and over his face. Meg fondly watched him watching the flames, and after a while said, “Where’s your brother? Why isn’t he here helping you?”
Hewe did not look around from the fire. “He’s at the alehouse, or near it, I’d guess.” Sym was willing to do for others the chores he neglected at home, because of the few coins he could earn to drink away at the alehouse. “And like to be out for a while.”
The shabby cottage that served as gathering place for idle men and dishonest women had been his father’s place and he looked like making it his own, too. Then, like his father, let him take the consequences. “There’s something in the flour kist,” Meg said. “You bring it to me.”
“Something besides flour?” Hewe asked in surprise.
“Besides flour.” Though precious little of that there was. She must be making some deal with the miller, or finding a way to buy or barter some from Dame Alys.