He tried to make it sound as if he were frequently so honored, but his stretch to include the fact in this conversation made it clear that he was honored to the point of astonishment. It made Frevisse wonder if he would not have taken his time arriving, or even sent his decision by messenger-it seeming to be so small a matter-had he not wished to show his host his own importance. So here he was, having come at speed despite the season and weather, and was equally impatient to be gone again, doubtless to regale his host with tales of his skill.
“But now I hear that this first death was deliberate murder, and another murder has followed it. Two murders, one in your very church.” His tone made it clear that such a thing was a personal attack on God, on the King’s peace-and himself. He paused. Frevisse wondered if he was expecting them to apologize, but no one did, so he went on. “And another thing is abundantly clear.” He glared at Frevisse. “Someone is interfering in what is not their business. Again.”
Domina Edith looked mildly toward Frevisse. “Are you interfering with Master Montfort, Dame?”
Her hands folded into her sleeves, her eyes and voice downcast, Frevisse said, “I have asked questions, my lady. There seemed a need to make an early record of what had happened, as we were not sure how swiftly Master Montfort could arrive.”
Someone began scratching on the door to the parlor. Domina Edith seemed not to hear it-her servants knocked firmly-but then the door opened and a balding man put in his head.
Montfort gestured for him to come in, and by the gesture reminded Frevisse that the crowner had a clerk, so much in Montfort’s shadow that he usually went as unnoticed as one. He wore a loose gown cinched around his skinny middle with a broad leather belt. Hanging from the belt were an ink pot, a fat, shabby purse stuffed with parchment squares, a small knife, and a leather cord holding a bundle of raven feathers.
“I most humbly beg your pardon,” he said in a thin voice, addressing not the mistress of the room but his own master. “I heard voices, and thought if you were taking testimony you would require me to make a record of it.” Indeed, he held a thin packet of parchment at the ready in one hand and a feather already carved into a quill in the other. Frevisse drew an angry breath; his ignoring Domina Edith was rude past forgiving.
But the prioress forestalled her. “Do come in,” she said. “Master Montfort can review for your record anything of importance.”
“Collecting gossip from a priory nun is hardly likely to prove valuable,” Montfort said, gesturing the clerk to a place in a corner even while he returned to the topic at hand.
Frevisse, not wanting to quarrel, or to lie by seeming to agree with him, bowed her head again and tucked her hands even further up her sleeves.
“So,” Montfort said, “I can assume that now I have arrived, you will stop interfering in my work?”
“I would never knowingly interfere in the Crown’s business,” replied Frevisse, putting a hint of shock in her reply.
Domina Edith agreed, “We have the highest respect for the Crown of England.”
Montfort shifted his ill temper to the rear and said, almost graciously, “That is well said, my lady. There should be no more trouble then.” He cleared his throat and turned again to Frevisse. “I would require you to tell me what has been said to you, Dame.”
Frevisse bit the inside of her lip. He scolded her for interfering, but had wit to remember she was right the last time their paths crossed and might on this occasion again have learned something of value. Taking firm hold on her temper, not daring to let him see her face, she said, “I have discovered that while Sym was being killed, the man he had fought with in the tavern was with a girl. And it appears that a great many people disliked Sym. There’s a neighbor who wants to marry Sym’s mother for the sake of their holding and Sym was furious about it.”
“And?”
Frevisse looked at him. “And what?”
“The other players. They quarreled with both the man and Sister…” His set frown sank a little deeper as he looked for a name.
“Sister Fiacre,” Domina Edith murmured.
“Sister Fiacre, Sister Fiacre,” Montfort grumbled. “The villein and the nun quarreled with the players and now they’re both dead. What about that?”
“I know nothing to indicate any one player could be involved in both murders. Three quarreled with Sister Fiacre, but two of them had no reason to murder Sym, and the other has a witness who says he was with her when Sym was murdered.”
Montfort scowled. “So they conspired to do it. The one who quarreled with Sym killed the nun, one of the others killing Sym.” He turned his attention to Domina Edith. “They’re a shameless lot, these lordless players, a menace to honest folk. The matter may lie in which two of them shared the task, but they are all equally to hang for it.” Montfort was fond of prompt, straightforward decisions. They enhanced his reputation, and kept his expenses low. “It should be easy enough to break whatever story they have concocted among themselves. These kind of folk are clever but not loyal, especially when one can save his neck by informing on the others. I’ll have the truth out of them soon enough, by questioning them separately.”
Frevisse clutched her forearms tightly inside her sleeves, not saying anything and keeping her head bent toward the floor. It took great effort just to control her breathing. He must not do this, she thought.
In her faded voice Domina Edith said, “We will pray for the truth to be quickly revealed, Master Montfort.”
Montfort grumbled his thanks and came to bend over Domina Edith’s hand. The clerk made a rustling business of gathering up pen and parchment scraps the while, and followed his master out the door. When the sound of their footfalls was gone from the stairs, Domina Edith drew a deep breath, coughed briefly, and said, “What do you think are the facts, Dame Frevisse?”
It took a moment for Frevisse to relax enough to answer. “The facts are simple and few, hardly more than I have already said, either about Sym’s death or Sister Fiacre’s. Sym was truly not much liked in the village, according to what Father Henry tells me, and most particularly disliked by the family of a girl he was paying heed to, and by his neighbor Gilbey Dunn. Sym and his father had quarreled with him. Now, with his opposition safely out of the way, Gilbey is pressing his suit on Sym’s mother.”
“Have you spoken with him?”
“Briefly. He carries a knife that is approximately the right size to be the murder weapon. His reputation is one of greed and anger when he’s thwarted.”
“What do you know of the woman?”
“She is Meg, a thin little thing who works here in the priory sometimes. She has rejected him so far. But Gilbey is not playing the love-struck fool. He talks of the value of combining her holding with his. Gilbey’s lickerous eye turns toward our our Annie Lauder.”
“He’s courting two women at once?” Domina Edith was as much amused as scandalized.
“No, Annie has long surrendered her body to him, and she seems content with his promise to continue their play even after he marries Meg. Annie is a hard worker, but she has no land. His interest in her is purely carnal.”
“And my dear brother used to say there was no point in buying a cow if the milk came free.” Domina Edith had been a nun almost all her life, but she was not ignorant of the world’s ways. “But might Annie speak up to spoil Gilbey’s plan for Meg?”
“I don’t know. I mean to talk with her when there’s chance. The one who was seriously angry at what Gilbey means to do was Sym.”
“And does any of this bear on Sister Fiacre’s death?” Dame Claire asked.