The Widow's Tale (Sister Frevisse Medieval Mysteries Book 14) (2 page)

Sitting at the bench’s other end, Cristiana agreed, “It does,” looking not out but at him.

With the evening light giving his face warm color, he looked himself, her well-beloved husband, and she let herself believe that in a moment he would turn his head and smile at her and they would talk about how well the day had gone and enjoy each other’s company for the little while until time to gather up the girls and deal with Laurence and the others and go out to the bonfire piled and waiting in the pasture for darkness to come.

Then Edward turned to look at her, and Cristiana knew that for him there would be no going out to the bonfire tonight and on the beginning of anguish, she said, “Edward …”

He put out a hand, stopping her. She took his hand in both of hers and they looked at each other long and deeply and in silence before she said, “I love you,” so quietly it hardly stirred the stillness between them.

As quietly back, Edward said, “You are my heart.”

There was no need for more. Still holding each other’s hands, they sat in silence, for the little while until a faint knock at the room’s door was followed by Gerveys putting in his head to ask, “May I come in?”

Without loosing Cristiana’s hand, Edward said, “Of course. No one could be more welcome.”

“It was either Laurence or I,” Gerveys said. He shut the door behind himself. “I thought I would be better.”

“By miles and miles,” Edward said. “I’ll have to see him, though. I told him we’d talk before the bonfire.”

“Talk?” Cristiana asked quickly. “About what?”

“He didn’t say.” Edward let go of her hand, laced his fingers behind his neck, and leaned his head back into them, easing some weary ache.

“It need not be now,” Cristiana protested.

“If I talk with him now, I won’t have to talk with him later.”

“Then I’m going to be here,” said Cristiana, ready to argue over it if need be.

But Edward said, “That might be best.”

“And Gerveys, too,” Cristiana pressed.

Edward considered that a moment before asking, “If you would?” of Gerveys who answered, “If you want me to, then gladly.”

Edward pulled himself around to face the room, drew himself up straight, and said, “Let’s be done with it, then.” Cristiana rose and moved aside to her chair as Gerveys opened the door and called in Laurence, who frowned with displeasure when Gerveys closed the door behind him without first going out of it. By his look he was unpleased to have Cristiana there, too, but said nothing about it, only took his stand in front of Edward and said with the firmness of a man sure of his ground, “Well, Edward, it’s time we talked, don’t you think?”

From where she now sat, Cristiana could guess why Edward had chosen to stay with his back to the window: with the light behind him, his face was shadowed, less easy to read than Laurence’s. Not that Laurence was ever difficult to read; just now he looked and sounded ready to argue something he was sure of winning.

“Talk about what, Laurence?” Edward asked in a level voice.

“You. What’s going to happen. Your daughters.” Cristiana tensed at mention of Mary and Jane. Come to stand beside her, Gerveys laid a hand lightly on her shoulder in unspoken reassurance while Edward said evenly, “I don’t see any need to talk about anything between us.”

“Oh, come, Ned. You’re not a well man. Everyone can see it. It’s time to talk about what happens if you die.”

Except he meant “when”, not “if”, and Cristiana wanted him dead instead—there and then, for preference. But Edward only said, still evenly, “What happens when I die doesn’t concern you, Laurence. My will is made. Everything and everyone is seen to. Let you content yourself with your own business.”

“What happens to our family’s lands
is
my business.”

“
Your
lands are your business.
My
lands are not.”

“They
are.
It’s bad enough the Helyngton lands were divided once, between your father and mine. Dividing them again between your two girls will only diminish them the more. We—“

“My lands are no concern of yours.”

“They
are.
Look at the way the world is going. The little man hasn’t a chance. It’s all big fish in the world today. Little fish are no more than a meal to them. Even you can surely see it’s better to be a big fish than someone else’s meal.”

With less patience than he usually had for his cousin, Edward said, “Laurence, come what may, you’ll never be a big fish.”

Cristiana felt Gerveys’ small twitch of contained laughter but she did not see the jest, nor did Laurence, who insisted, “With your lands added to mine—“

“Which they will not be. I have two heirs.”

Laurence dragged Edward’s tall-backed chair around and closer to Edward, sat down impatiently, and said, “That’s the point. As it stands, your lands and all will be split between them. What I’m trying to make you see is that they don’t have to be. Put Jane into a nunnery with the least dowry they’ll take, and let everything else go with Mary to whomever she marries.”

“Meaning one of your sons,” Edward said.

“Meaning Clement. Yes,” Laurence said, triumphant that Edward understood.

Only Gerveys’ hand heavy on her shoulder and her trust in Edward kept Cristiana quiet at thought of bright and laughing Jane put into a nunnery and Mary given to Clement, that Laurence-faced lout.

“No,” said Edward.

Ignoring or not hearing the flat refusal in that, Laurence said, “If you think Mary would be better for the nunnery, well enough. It will be a few years longer before Jane is ready to bear but—“

“No,” Edward said again. “Give over, Laurence. If nothing else, they’re cousins.”

“A dispensation will take care of that. I’ll see to it. I’ll even pay for it.”

“Neither Mary nor Jane are going to marry Clement or any other of your sons, Laurence. Let it go.”

“Don’t be a fool, Ned,” Laurence snapped. “You’re going to die soon. What’s going to happen then, do you think?” Cristiana jammed a fist against her mouth to stop her outcry. Edward without wavering said, “What happens is that Cristiana will have keeping of our daughters. That’s settled in my will.”

Laurence’s face darkened with displeasure. “Your will,” he scoffed. “You …”

Before he could say more, Edward added, “Moreover, I’ve made Sir Gerveys overseer of my will.”

“And I have my lord Richard, duke of York, to back me in it, if it comes to trouble,” Gerveys said.

Laurence sent him a poisonous look. “Within these two months your duke of York will finally be gone to Ireland with bag, baggage, wife, and all his whelps, well out of everyone’s way. Not that his lordship is worth all that much these days anyway, he’s so far out of favor with the king.”

“Meaning with Suffolk,” Gerveys returned. “Whose power can’t last forever.”

“Meaning your York will not be coming back any time soon,” Laurence snapped and turned back to Edward.

Gerveys’ fingers tightened into Cristiana’s shoulder but he made no answer. Laurence had only said what everyone, including York, well knew—that he had been given Ireland to govern for the sake of having him out of England and because he could not be sent back to France. He had governed too well there, in sorry comparison with the present mess Suffolk and his ally the duke of Somerset were making of it.

Besides that, York was too royal-blooded, was arguably heir to the crown until such time as King Henry had a son and meanwhile openly no friend to Suffolk and the other court favorites around the king.

None of which mattered here and now as Edward said, before Laurence could go on, “Laurence, you don’t need this marriage. You’re well off and comfortable. Forget—“

“I’m talking more than only comfortable! I’m talking about making us strong enough to matter in things!”

With laughter under his words, Edward said, “Somehow that doesn’t much interest me at present.”

“It’s never much interested you,” Laurence complained. “But it does me. With the Helyngton lands joined again—“

“No,” Edward said flatly.

Laurence started to answer that.

Edward cut him off with, “I’m not selling my daughters’ lives for the sake of your ambition, Laurence. You’re not likely to be anything more than one of the little men around the duke of Suffolk. With my lands or without them. And as it happens,” Edward’s voice hardened, “it’s going to be without them.”

Laurence stood up. “If you’re depending on Cristiana or Sir Gerveys, you’re a fool. She’s a woman and he’s away to Ireland with York, who’s worth nothing to anyone anymore.”

“I doubt you’re wise to discount my lord of York, Laurence,” Edward said.

“York is finished. Don’t threaten me with York.”

“That wasn’t a threat, only something that ‘little fish’ like ourselves would do well to remember.”

Laurence made a disgusted sound and started for the door, but as he reached it, he swung around, pointed at Edward, and said angrily. “You’re dying. When you’re dead, I’ll still be here. Just you think on that.”

Gerveys. took an angry step toward him, but Laurence wrenched open the door and went out, slamming it behind him. Cristiana, more quickly than her tears could come, rose from her chair and went to Edward, sat beside him and put her arms around him. He wrapped his around her, too, and they held tightly to each other, Cristiana not knowing whether the tears on her cheek pressed to his were all her own or not.

Only when Gerveys made quietly to leave them, Edward drew back from Cristiana without letting go of her and said, “Stay, please. There’s something I must tell you both.” Gerveys’s answer was forestalled by an eager knocking at the door and Mary calling, “It’s time to go for the bonfire!” Cristiana straightened farther out of Edward’s arms, wiping her face dry as Gerveys went to open the door. Smiling, he said to his niece, “The bonfire? Surely you don’t want to go to that old thing, do you?”

Mary seized his arm and tugged. “Yes, I do, and so does Jane. It’s time.”

From the shadows stretched long outside the window, the sun must be sunk well toward sunset. Everywhere around the manor all the hearth and kitchen fires would be out by now and folk be gathering to the high-piled wood waiting unlighted in the pasture beyond the orchard. From all the other years, Cristiana knew there would be merriment there now, talk and laughter, but a hush would come as the darkness deepened until everyone was waiting, silent, while this year’s chosen man set to work with flint and steel to make the year’s new fire out of nothing, silence and darkness deepening around him until the struck sparks finally caught in the waiting tinder. The flames would creep then along twigs, growing until it leaped into the larger branches and burst crackling among the piled logs. Then there would be cheering, followed by dancing and drinking well into the night.

Everywhere it would be the same, in manors, villages, and towns: the breathless wait in the darkness, as if this year maybe the needfire would not happen and all the cold hearths and kitchen fires stay unlighted. That the fire always came never changed that almost fearful waiting. Without that brief fear, the triumph and merriment afterwards would have been less, and Cristiana, like Mary, had never willingly missed a May

Eve bonfire. But this year Edward would not go to it. And next year he . . .

She shivered the thought away before it had fully formed. “Mary, come here,” Edward said, beckoning.

Reluctantly she gave up her hold on her uncle and crossed the parlor. “It’s time,” she pleaded.

Edward put an arm around her waist and drew her to his other side from Cristiana. “I know,” he said gently. “But I fear I’m not feeling well enough to go.”

Mary burrowed her head against his shoulder. “We thought you were feeling better, Jane and I.”

“I am, but I still tire too easily.” He lifted her head by her chin and kissed the tip of her nose. “I’d hoped to hold together until after the bonfire, but I have to rest instead. Even worse, I need to talk with your mother and Uncle Gerveys a while longer. They’ll come later but it will have to be Ivetta who takes you and Jane.”

“Ivetta?” Mary protested. Ivetta had been both girls’ nurse since they were small and lately Mary had begun a revolt against having a nurse at all. “Oh, please, not Ivetta.”

“What about Pers?” Gerveys asked, offering his squire. “How if Pers takes you and Jane, with Ivetta merely along?” He lowered his voice to conspiracy level. “She and Pers like each other, you know.”

Mary’s dismay sparkled into delight. “I know! If he comes, she won’t heed us much at all!”

“Off you go then.” Gerveys opened the door for her as she gave her parents each quick kisses. “And no pushing anybody into the fire. Including your cousins,” he added as she went happily to kiss him, too. When she was gone and the door shut, Gerveys looked to Edward and Cristiana. “Well enough?”

“Very well,” said Edward. “Now come sit here.”

He pointed to the chair Laurence had left. Cristiana wanted to tell him that he should go to bed, not talk more, but contented herself with taking one of his hands to hold in her lap while Gerveys came to sit. He looked ready to protest, too, except Edward forestalled him with, “Don’t say it. I know. But I need to tell you and Cristiana something, not leave it any longer.” He smiled at them both, squee2ed Cristiana’s hand, and said to Gerveys, “Laurence is, alas, right about things on the whole. Suffolk is riding with a high hand these days and there’s nearly no one left to stand out against him. I wish from the heart that York wasn’t going to Ireland just now, or else that you weren’t going with him.”

“So do I,” said Gerveys.

“But since you are, I mean to change my will. At present, Cristiana and Sir Andrew are my executors, with you as overseer. I’m going to change that, make you an executor with Cristiana, with John Say as overseer in your stead. How does that seem to you?”

Gerveys was slow to answer, but finally said, “I can see the point of not having me as overseer, but why Say? I like him in himself well enough, but he’s Suffolk’s man much deeper than Laurence is.” Which was a way of saying Gerveys did not trust him.

“He’s not Suffolk’s man in the way you mean it. Suffolk has made thorough use of his abilities, and if it comes to trouble with Laurence, he’ll have Suffolk’s backing far more than Laurence ever could. But John is first and foremost the king’s man and therein is the difference. You see?”