The outlaw's tale (7 page)

“Still," one man noted, “It's not like you'd aught there to be getting wet.  Excepting floorboards.  Unless you've more set away than the rest of us."

“I've as much in my loft as you've in your head.  So it's empty enough."

Laughter grumbled around the circle.  In a corner
,
obscured in the haze of smoke swirled down from the smokehole and the rushlights set here and there around the room, Nicholas sat with his hands wrapped around a second pot of ale.  “Poor old gabbers, their brains reach no higher than their weeds or farther than their hedgerows."

“It's life or death to them, after all," Evan, his first pot of ale hardly tasted.  “And to us, for that matter.  We eat the bread their grain grows for.  Or don't eat if it doesn't grow."

“There's always bread for the rich.  And so long as the rich have bread, so do the likes of us.  We've better ways to life and death, and a more certain profit at the end of it than these poor fools.  Here's to our pardons."

The men touched the rims of their mugs together.  The Wheatsheaf did not run to better than cheap pottery, but the alewife never watered her brew, and no one ever asked much about Nicholas or any of his men when they came there.  Otherwise, it was no more than a small and dirty village alehouse, with nothing else to recommend it – except Beatrice.  She had come that way a few years back and stayed on because she had nowhere better to go, and Old Nan the alewife needed a sturdy serving wench now that she was not so young herself.  The two women got on well enough with each other, and Beatrice got on with any of the village men who fancied her and had the pence to pay for it.

Now she came carrying a jug toward Nicholas and Evan out of the fug of ale and smoke.  She was a wide-hipped, ample-breasted woman with a froth of fair hair that hazed around her uncovered head.  Her age was hard to tell, but her first youth was gone; a sag was overtaking her softness and there were lines in her fair skin that had not been there a while ago.  But she was still a woman worth the holding, and good humored in the bargain; and while she took pence from the other men, she was always Nicholas' for the asking.  Not that he did not gift her handsomely from time to time, as fortune favored him.

He wrapped an arm around her rump, grinning up at her as she bent to pour his ale.  She smiled back, leaning into his hold, resting a soft breast against his shoulder.

“You here for the night?" she asked.  “I know where there's a dry bed you're welcome to warm."

“And no bed I'd rather," Nicholas answered.  “But Evan is of a mind the men will take it ill if they're left to the rain while I lie easy so I'd best be back.  We've something afoot and I need them happy."

“You need me happy, too."  Beatrice leaned nearer, smelling warm and womanly.  Nicholas ran his hand down to her hem and under the edge of her dress to her ankle and began to work his way up.

Evan reached past him to take the ale jug and pour his own mug full.  “What's Will Colfoot doing here?  That's him in the corner, isn't it, with the other fellow I don't know?"

Not bothering to look around, Beatrice said, “That's him, and his yeoman.  Doesn't bother with the likes of this place often, but happen he's making his monthly circuit and tired of the rain."

While his hand went on with its business, Nicholas was looking past her to the other corner.  “Will Colfoot?  I don't know him, do I?  Who is he?"

“A franklin from along toward Burford and other places round about."

“A franklin?"  Nicholas looked at Evan with roused interest.  “One of ours?"

“No.  He's not safe.  He has a temper, and a nasty way with anyone who crosses him so much as the breadth of a nailhead," Evan answered.

Nicholas returned his attention to Colfoot.  “But if he's a franklin, the inside of his purse knows what coins look like, sure as sinning.  What do you know about him, Beatrice?  How much does he carry when he travels, and how many servants are with him?"

Evan stirred uneasily, but Beatrice leaned more heavily into Nicholas, still trying to hold his attention while she answered, “He carries enough to keep him comfortable, and he likes his comforts.  He has a single yeoman with him always.  That's the fellow at the table with him.  They're both armed, and don't you be thinking of making trouble here.  Old Nan values her reputation."

“And Lord knows she's had one in her day," Nicholas jibed.  “From what tales I've heard tell–"

Beatrice poked him warmly in the ribs and sat down on his thigh.  “I'd not be mentioning those tales where she could hear you.  She still has an arm that can set a man's ear to ringing if she gets a clear swing."  She settled in closer, her softness pressing against him.  “Now you kiss me and not be looking at a fat old franklin or I'll think your fancy's straying."

She proceeded then - with Nicholas willing – to make sure she was the only thing he was noticing, until Old Nan squealed at her from the kitchen doorway to shift herself, that there were others that paid more and needed waiting on.  With a final smothering kiss, Beatrice obliged.  Nicholas' attention went back to Will Colfoot.

“One yeoman, a fat franklin, and a fatter purse.  That's easy pluckings."

“That's a fool's wishful thinking," Evan retorted, but softly.  “They're both armed.  The yeoman is taller than you and younger than either of us.  And that bulk across Colfoot's shoulders looks more muscle than fat to me."

“Then one hale yeoman and a not-so-fat franklin," Nicholas returned.  “The point is, his purse is fat, for a surety.  You don't dress in burgundy wool if you're pressed for coin, and that's as fine a stretch of cloth he's wearing as I've seen this many a day."

“These are our home roads.  You'd not be such a fool as to stir trouble on them.  We need no hue and cry after us, nor to risk our pardons at this near date."

Nicholas valued Evan's cleverness.  But cleverness that interfered with sport was boring.  Nicholas jammed his elbow into Evan's arm.  “Why don't you ever have a go at Beatrice?  She's a willing armful.  Take some of that stiffness out of your backbone and put it lower, where it'll do you some good."

Evan glanced aside at him.  His expression was edged with a variety of answers, but he made none of them.  After a moment staring away down into the darkness of his ale, he asked, “Your cousin will still write the letter to Chaucer, now she's out from under your hand?"

Nicholas made a dismissive sound.  “She'll write it.  She's given her word, and her neck is as stiff as yours when she's pledged herself to something.  I remember that much about her.  Lord!"  Nicholas snorted with laughter.  “A nun.  That suits her."

“How do you mean?"

“Because when I knew her the little while I was in Chaucer's household – and a duller place you wouldn't want to be abandoned in – she and her uncle were enough of a matched set to curdle your blood.  So fond of their own wits that nobody else could abide their cleverness.  No, she'll keep her word now she's given it.  She's too proud to do otherwise.  They're as proud a pair as you'll find this side of the king's court, she and her uncle."  Nicholas' voice had a bitter edge.

“So maybe she went to God because she couldn't stomach orders from anyone less," Evan suggested with a grin.

Nicholas laughed out loud.  “Aye.  You've probably the right of it there."  He fixed Evan with a look.  “What do you care about her anyway?

“She's our way to Chaucer and out of here.  I want to know how sure we can be of her."

“If the thing can be done, she'll do it."  NIcholas took a long quaff of the ale.  “By Christmas I'll be an honest man, with the greenwood and my merry men far behind me.  You certain sure you don't want to be leader after me?  You've a knack for the life."

“I've a knack for other things, too, and most of them safer.  Besides, the pardon is for all the band.  There'll be no more ‘merry men’."

“Faugh.  You know them better than that.  Most of them haven't the wit for anything better.  Left to their own, they'll be back where they are before the year turns, pardon or no pardon.  Without my brains to see them along, they'll be pudding for crows by Christmas.  Unless you take them on."

Evan shook his head.  “I'm done.  We each of us have enough money put by to set ourselves up decently.  Now's the time to do it, before our luck runs out."

“Luck?" Nicholas scoffed.  “A man makes his own luck, and I'm the best at making it there is.  Was any of this with Frevisse luck?  It was planning that did it, and my wit in handling her.  And look how I've handled Payne.  We'd not be where we are now if it wasn't for my wit in that."

Evan looked at him soberly.  He had drunk far less than Nicholas; he always did.  His soberness was among the things Nicholas found hard to abide.  Evan was useful, worth keeping friends with, but dog-dull in more ways than one.  And hard to fathom.  He kept too many of his thoughts shut up behind his crooked face.  And now, when Nicholas was expecting him to say something else, he said instead, “We'd best be off if we're to be back at camp by dark.  Even afoot, Hal will be there by now."

“Then let Hal tell them we've not gone astray.  I've a mind to that warm bed Beatrice offered me after all.  You go on if you've a mind to, but I'm staying."

Evan rose.  “You said you'd be coming back."

“And I will.  Just not so soon.  I’ll be there by dark."

Evan glanced across the room and said, as if it followed naturally, “You let the franklin be."

“Soul's honor!" Nicholas exclaimed.  “He's not for my touching.  Now get along with you.  I can find my way from here to there without you old-maid fussing at me."

Master Payne's house was in the new fashion.  Frevisse, even burdened with Sister Emma, saw that much as they were brought into the great hall – a long, broad room meant to be the gathering place of the household.  Time had been when every hall had been tall, open to the high peak of the roof, but this one was ceilinged.  It made the room less grand but warmer; and instead of an open hearth in the midst of the floor there was a wide fireplace on the farther wall, built up with a goodly fire.  Stools had been set there for them and Sister Emma sank down on one gratefully, hiccuping a few sobs of relief as she held out her hands, white with cold, to the heat.

Mistress Payne had clearly had some thought of playing hostess to them, but Sister Emma's condition was clearly too poor.  She asked, worry in her voice, “Do you think it might be better if you went straight to the room we're readying for you?  I think she's more than merely chilled.  She's sickening for something, isn't she?"

Watching Sister Emma shiver and huddle nearer the fire, Frevisse nodded.  “I fear so.  Is the room warm?"

“Oh, very warm, yes.  It's private, too, with its own fireplace and a fire already going."  There was more worry than pride in that, as if Mistress Payne feared Frevisse might disapprove of the extravagance.

Far from disapproval, Frevisse said, “That will be wonderful.  Thank you."  At St. Frideswide's only the prioress' parlor and the warming room had fireplaces, and their use was very limited.  A private room with a fireplace was luxury, and just now she was in no mood to consider how far from the Rule it might be for her even here.  She took Sister Emma around the shoulders and by the arm and urged her to her feet.  “Come, Sister.  We have some place better for you."

Coughing heavily against her sleeve, Sister Emma resisted, still keeping her free hand out to the fire.  “But I like it here," she protested.  “This feels so
wonderful
."

“We have some place more wonderful," Frevisse insisted.  “With a fireplace just as warm.  Where you can be rid of your wet clothes and have dry ones."  She glanced at Mistress Payne, who nodded agreement.  “And a bed, too.  So come.  It’s only a little farther."

“H—he that was b—born to be hanged sh—shall never be drowned," Sister Emma chattered.  But she let Frevisse, with Mistress Payne on her other side, manage her to her feet.  She was shivering uncontrollably now.  “I'm n—never going to be w—warm again, I know it," she whispered, leaning more heavily on Frevisse with every step.

“You're going to be warm again very soon.  And dry.  You just have to go a little way."

“Hope long deferred makes the heart sick," Sister Emma offered.

“This won't take long," Frevisse said curtly.  So long as Sister Emma could still drag out proverbs she was not beyond hope.  “But you have to walk.  There's no one here can carry you."

Mistress Payne, looking all worry edged with nervousness, led them back into the screens passage at the end of the hall where the tall, carved wooden screen sheltered the hall from the drafts of main and back doors.  They had entered from its left end, where the main door opened to the foreyard of the manor.  Now they turned right, went past the door to the kitchen where a drift of good smells gave hope of supper to come, to another doorway and the narrow darkness of a spiral staircase upward to another floor.

“I'm so c—cold," Sister Emma chattered.

“So am I," Frevisse said.  “But if you keep walking, we'll be warm soon enough.  Up now."

Even if there had been someone to carry her, they could not have done it up those stairs, except over the shoulder like a bag of grain.  With difficulty, and despite Sister Emma’s insistent helplessness, Frevisse and Mistress Payne managed her, emerging at the top into a long, narrow room that ran from where they were to the front of the house.  Its further end was curtained off into a small chamber where Frevisse glimpsed a bed and writing desk.  There were also  doors to either side; Mistress Payne, panting with nervousness and exertion, led them right, to the door nearest the stairhead.

“My sister-in-law's chamber," she said.  “Poor Magdalen was widowed three years ago and came to live with us and her room's the most private we have.  All her own.  None of the rest of the family sleeps here.  You'll be very comfortable.  And when I can't see to you myself, Magdalen will.  She's very sweet."

From Mistress Payne's hurried explanation, Frevisse was picturing a widow sunk well into middle age, her children grown, and herself so worn that she was willing to live with her brother rather than manage her life herself.  But at the word 'sweet' she imagined instead a very young woman unfit to live on her own.