The Servant’s Tale (12 page)

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.”

“The spare candles went for last night’s wake. Sym’s gone for more firewood and I’m well enough till he comes back. What is it you’re wanting, Gilbey?” He wouldn’t be there if he did not want something; his complaining was meant to make her feel small so he could get the better of her. Though his wife had been her friend and they had hoped Sym would marry his girl, Meg had never liked Gilbey.

He sat down across the table from her. “You’re in deep trouble, my girl.”

Meg frowned, misliking his familiar tone. “You needn’t have come out of your way to tell me that. And there’s ways out of our trouble, so you needn’t be troubling yourself over it, thank you.”

“”Tis not out of my way at all but very much in my way,“ he said. ”That’s why I’m here.“

Meg straightened and for the first time looked directly at him. He wasn’t there to talk about the cart, but something more serious.

“Go away, Gilbey Dunn. For pity’s sake if nothing else. I’ve griefs enough to deal with. I don’t need arguing today.”

“It’s to end the arguing I’ve come. And a bettering for both of us in the bargain.”

Meg’s tired brain could not see what he was aiming at. “There’s no use in talking to me about the lands. I’d not part with them if I could. They’re Sym’s.”

“That’s as may be, and there may be more said on that before it’s done, but no, ”tis you who must answer what I’ve come to ask, Meg.“

“And what would that be?”

“That you marry me.”

Meg stared at him.

Gilbey leaned across the table toward her. “Think on it, Meg. You’d not have to live in this half barn anymore. Think on my house and how you’d live there. I’d keep on the woman I’ve hired. She’d help you see to the place. You’d not need to wear yourself so close to the bone as you do now.”

Meg kept on staring, wondering just how befuddled her wits had gone. He could not be saying what she thought she heard.

Gilbey put a hand out toward her, but she pulled her own back. His voice warm with persuasion, he went on, “Look you, it would serve us both well. Better than maybe you’ve thought. How can you hope to keep up, all alone, with what you couldn’t even with Barnaby alive?”

“My sons…”

Gilbey dismissed that possibility with a wave of his hand. “You know them better than that. Even if Sym is let to take the holding—and that’s not certain, mind you. Bailiff and steward both know things about him and have their own mind on the matter—it’s still like as not that he’ll lose it all anyway, even faster than his father would have. Marry me and there’ll be someone to see to you and your land both.”

“The lands aren’t mine,” Meg insisted.

“There’s nothing says a widow can’t inherit her husband’s property. A strong word from me to the steward would do it. He’d be willing.”

His certainty about that made Meg suspect that Gilbey had asked him a long while ago. She rose to Sym’s defense. “It goes to the eldest son if there’s one. That’s where it goes.”

“And Sym will lose it. You have to know him well enough to see that, even with a mother’s eye. Both your boys will be the better for a firm hand directing them the way Barnaby never could. I’ll swear to find them both good marriages if you’re wanting that.

“Hewe—” Meg began feebly.

“I’ll help him to the priesthood if that’s what you’re wanting. Your marrying me would make things come right for you, and both the boys as well.”

“What are you doing, talking of marriage?” Sym snarled from the doorway. “She’s barely a widow and sure not for the likes of you!” He shoved the door back hard enough to crash it against the wall and strode toward the table. “Take your scheming, miserly self out of here, Gilbey Dunn, away from my mother and out of my house!”

Gilbey rose to his feet, not apparently offended or frightened. “Your house? I think not, boy. You’re not of age. Even if the steward gives you seisin of it and your land, someone will have the keeping of it—and of you, God help them— these few years more. Maybe your mother. Maybe someone else. But not you yet. And from the smell of ale on you, the day you take it for your own will be the worst day for the holding since your father took it.”

“Better that than your having it!”

“It Meg marries me, then you can have the house at least. Let that satisfy you for the while, boy. Let your mother come live where the animals are kept in the barn instead of the kitchen!”

“She’d rather live with animals than you!”

“Sym!” Meg rose to her feet between them. She did not want the quarrel to freshen, not when they were so in debt to Gilbey, not until that was settled and the quarrel could be faced on open grounds, not the hidden ones of debts unpaid, or unpayable. And not with Sym just drunk enough to not think what he was saying. Gilbey had the kind of temper that simmered long and deep.

But Sym was past heeding. “My mother’s not marrying anyone. And never you, no matter what! Rather we all starve here than take a thing from you! Don’t go trying to lay your hands on anything of ours or you’ll find I’m man enough to put you where you ought to be!”

“Sym!” Meg came around the table to grab his arm and shake it. “Sym, you mind your tongue! There’s no need for words like that! You stop it!” Still holding on to him, she said to Gilbey, “You’d best go. It’s too soon for me to be hearing things like you’ve been saying. Best you go.”

Gilbey nodded, his gaze on Sym speculative. “Aye,” he agreed, moving toward the door, keeping wide of Sym’s reach though he was the boy’s match and better. “I’m going. But you think on what I’ve said. You’re a clever girl, Meg, and you can see the possibilities in our joining.”

“There’s devilment in it, that’s what there is!” Sym shouted at his back and the closing door. He turned his temper on his mother. “What are you thinking of to listen to him like that? And Da not cold in his grave yet!”

“Barnaby’s cold enough,” Meg said. “It’s a winter grave.” She sighed. “Sym, there was no need to say those things. Listening does no harm. We need to know what’s in his mind. It doesn’t hurt to listen.”

“But you’re not thinking of doing it!” It was no question, only a flat demand, and he sounded like his father as he made it.

As she had learned to do with Barnaby, Meg only looked back at him flatly, until he twitched his eyes away. Then she said, “I’m tired. You go help Hewe find some wood or there’ll be no fire by morning. I’m going to bed.”

Not even much caring if he obeyed her, she left him standing there and went to crawl under the ragged covers of her cold bed in its corner.

Chapter
11

Meg slept heavily. She awoke once in the dark to hear the tick of sleet against the wall and eastward shutters, but slept again, and next woke to know by the slant of pale light through the crack around the window and under the door that the morning was well along and the day sunny.

It was the thought of sunshine more than anything that drew her from bed. There was a full fire on the hearth and evidence by way of dirty dishes that both Sym and Hewe had managed to feed themselves. She went to stand close to the warmth, taking a bread crust from the table to chew. The coarse weave of her gown shook out its own wrinkles and except for needing to pad her shoes with fresh straw against the cold ground before she put them on, she was ready for the day. She checked the chickens and found they had been fed, too, and the floor under their roost cleaned. That would be Hewe’s doing, because Sym scorned to have anything to do with “the clacking things,” saying that was women’s business—though he ate the eggs readily enough when they could be had. And the goat was gone, probably staked out to graze what winter grass there was behind the house. Maybe Sym had done that, Meg thought.