“That’s a fair trade then,” Annie grinned.
“The crowner has come to look into Sym’s death and Sister Fiacre’s murder.”
“Aye. That word was all over the priory long since.” Apparently her work did not keep her separate from whatever news might be going through St. Frideswide’s.
“Can you tell me where Gilbey Dunn was the night that Sym died?”
Annie paused just two beats in her movements, then continued. “How should I know?”
“Was he with you?”
“In here?” Annie looked around grimly. “I’ve never thought he’d be one for taking much interest in laundry.” Frevisse thought that no answer at all and her face said so. Annie said, less flippantly, “I’m not much of one for following after him, or any man. I’ve trouble enough with aprons and napkins. At least they don’t go sneaking off getting themselves dirty after I’ve washed them.”
But Frevisse did not consider that an answer, either. She continued to wait.
Finally, defiantly, Annie said, “What would I be doing with him? I know when I’m well off, and living at some man’s beck and call while he spends my good silver pence is not my notion of well off. I have what I want and I’ll keep what I have, and if this crowner says he’s found things that any fool knows aren’t there to be found, well, we all know the fool’s word never hanged nobody.”
“I have a witness who can swear you and Gilbey Dunn had sexual concourse in this very shed, and that your conversation made it clear this was a regular occupation for the two of you.”
Annie resumed scrubbing in her tub. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Annie, I think it possible that Gilbey murdered Sym, whom he considered an obstacle to his proposed marriage to Meg Shene. You should be careful of giving your affections too easily. You are breaking the law of God and man, and putting yourself in danger of a charge of helping a murderer.”
“He didn’t! He never did!”
“So you say. But can you prove it?”
Annie threw the tablecloth into the water and sat down on the wet bench beside her tub. “Lord have mercy,” she sighed.
“What has Gilbey said to you?”
“Only that he’s not unhappy Sym is dead. He told me that day before yesterday.” She sighed again. “I’ve saved almost enough to buy my freedom,” she remarked inappositely.
“All the more reason to be glad you’re not married to him.”
“Humph. He could be free if he wanted. But he’d have to give up his holding, and what’s the use of being free if you’re landless in the bargain? No, no, what breaks my heart is that to save his rotten hide I’m going to have to pay leyrwite, for we were together all night the night Sym Shene was killed.”
The bell for Sext was ringing as Frevisse came out of the laundry. After the shed’s heavy, damp heat, the January air cut crisply, and she paused to breathe it, then shivered in a sudden chill and hurried toward the warming room where they were worshipping now that the church was desecrated, with her hands thrust into her sleeves and her chin tucked down for warmth.
The lesson and gospel readings for the hours covered, in a year’s time, the whole of the Old Testament and three times through the New. Now, between Christmas and Epiphany, they were reading Daniel. Frevisse, with her basic Latin and familiarity with Wycliffe’s English translation of the Bible, was just able to understand and enjoy the psalms and readings. So it was with a touch of annoyance that she struggled to hear past the complaining coughs of her fellow nuns the complex prophesy of conquest from the man with a face like lightning and arms the color of polished brass.
“‘And he shall stir up his power and his courage against the king of the south with a great army; and the King of the south shall be stirred up to battle with a very great and mighty army; but he shall not stand: for they shall forecast devices against him.’”
Frevisse blew her own nose and wondered, lost in pronouns, which King should not stand because of the devices of the other. Was it important to understand that?
Was it important to try to understand everything?
Sister Fiacre, wrapped in the deepest of all silences in her box near the altar, might at last be understanding what was important, and have dropped what was not, like a wet and filthy robe. Was that what she, Frevisse, should do? But was it not important to understand the lessons of the Bible? And to discover who among them was a murderer?
Or was it?
Was being dead a peace beyond understanding-or an understanding that, at last, brought peace?
Sext ended, Domina Edith gave her benediction over them, her eye on Frevisse the while-a look Frevisse could not return with any steadiness-and they were released to go about their tasks. Frevisse bent her will to obedience, left the cloister, and crossed the yard to the old guesthall.
Two of Montfort’s men stood just inside the door, leaning against the wall. They glanced at her but her nun’s habit put her beyond their authority; nor did she speak to them, but stood silently between them a while, watching the players.
They were well along preparing the hall for the play. What would be their stage in front of the hearth had been swept clear of rushes. Bassett and Joliffe were nearly finished setting up a framework of poles that would support the curtains while Ellis and Hewe moved the last of the gear behind it where it would be out of sight. Piers was sitting on a large basket with a mixed expression of pain and patience while Rose evened the shaggy back of his fair hair with a pair of small shears.
Hewe was the only one who turned toward the sound of the door opening and saw her. But head down, he kept busy at one of the baskets, seeming to think that if he did not look at her, she would not see him. Perhaps she should order him to stay away, but it was clear he was being useful to them, at least at present, and so she thought perhaps she would not.
Holding two poles steady while Joliffe, standing on a stool, cord whipped the cross pole to them, Bassett said, “Thank Heaven that old prioress wants us to do this. Keeping occupied will avoid bad thoughts. Next time we see Dame Frevisse, we’ll have to ask about those candles she promised. Is there anything else we need?”
“To get out of here,” Ellis growled.
Joliffe said, “Does he work at being an idiot or does it come as easily to him as it seems?”
Nearly Frevisse spoke then, alarmed at his flippancy and worried that the players’ incorrigible lack of humility could only help convict them in Montfort’s eyes.
Ellis slammed a lid on a chest. “He’s not so much of an idiot that he can’t hang us if he chooses! I would we had never seen that fellow in the ditch, or that we’d played the Pharisee and passed him by!”
“‘O God, I thank thee that I am not like other men-’” began Joliffe, playing the Pharisee from a different parable, and was interrupted by Ellis flinging a small basket in his direction. He caught it and laughed, jumping off the stool, but there was nothing cheerful in the look on his face as he turned away.
“One of our problems is that you are so little like other men that bailiffs and sheriffs and crowners yearn to take you by the hand and make you explain yourself,” Bassett rumbled, but without rancor. “But you aren’t a murderer, nor is any of us. What worries me is getting to Oxford by Twelfth Night.”
“Hush, Thomas,” said Rose. “There’s no sense lathering yourself over that. We either make Oxford by Twelfth Night or we don’t, and likely the world won’t end if we don’t. And the rest of you, stop playing the fool and start trying to think like the holy Kings.”
Ellis growled wordlessly. Rose pointed him to a place across the hearth from her and said, “Sit. Eat something. You haven’t eaten enough today to keep a sparrow alive. And that goes for the two of you, as well,” she added to Bassett and Joliffe. “And you, Hewe, come here and share a bite with them.”