The Hunter’s Tale (22 page)

The silence along the table was complete and stunned, until Lady Anneys breathed, “Sir Ralph would have all but killed you if he’d found out.”

The priest smiled at her. “I trusted to God’s mercy that he’d not find out.” He sobered. “But likewise I was willing to pay the price if he did.”

‘But why?“ Hugh asked. Then answered for himself. ”So there would be money for such things as spare sickle blades.“

Father Leonel smiled the way he had when Hugh had been especially apt at some lesson. “For such things as that, yes, and sometimes we’d write that someone had paid a fine when they had not, if Tom and I thought the fine unjust or someone was unable to pay it for good reason. Things like that. Never much. We only did it because there were always needs but Sir Ralph never cared for anything but himself and…”

Father Leonel stopped, not because his courage failed him there, Hugh saw, but out of pity. That pity hurt worse than anger could have and Hugh finished for him, not able to keep bitterness out of the words, “For anything but himself and his hounds and hunting. It was always everything for his hounds and hunting.”

‘And to hell with the rest of us,“ said Miles.

Hugh shoved his chair roughly back from the table— careful not to hit Baude lying there—and stood up. “And you’re afraid I’ll be the same,” he said. It was a struggle to speak evenly but somehow he did. “Tomorrow morning you can show me what you and Tom have done. After that we’ll make it so there’s no more need for deceiving anymore. No,” he said as everyone started to rise with him, and ordered Baude struggling to pull herself to her feet, “Stay,” before swinging around, away from his chair and through the nearest doorway, into the parlor, shutting the door hard behind him.

But that was not far enough away and he crossed to the room’s one window, its shutters standing open to the warm evening, and swung himself over the sill and out. If he had been younger, there were places enough where he could have gone
to
hide, but he was too old for that and only went to his usual refuge, the kennel. Degory was scrubbing out the dogs’ feeding dishes after their supper and welcomed him much the same way the hounds did—without surprise or need to talk. He went on with his work and Hugh squatted on his heels just inside the gate, welcoming one hound after another as they ambled over to snuffle at him and be briefly petted. Only the lymer Somer stayed with him, flopping down with a hearty sigh in front of him, and Hugh was absently fondling her ears when Miles appeared, leaned on the gate with deliberant ease, and said nothing.

Neither did Hugh. Degory finished with the dishes, judged their silence with a wary look, and slipped out through the kennel door, away on some business of his own. The silence drew out until Hugh gave way and said, half-bitterly, half-bewildered,
“If
it’s been secret all this long, why did Lucas set me on to Father Leonel like that?”

Miles did not answer for an uncomfortably long time. Though the west was still ablaze with orange from the vanished sun, the shadows were gathered deeply blue in the kennel-yard and Hugh could read Miles’ face no better than Miles could probably read his; he had to wait for answer until finally Miles said with the gentleness that— coming from him—was always surprising, “Maybe the folk are as tired of walking wary as the rest of us are. Maybe Lucas wanted it settled what kind of lord you’re going to be.”

Hugh stood up, startling Somer. “Walking wary?”

“e protested fiercely. ”You know me. You know I’m not Sir Ralph.“

‘You’re not Tom either,“ Miles pointed out kindly. ”What you’ve been is Sir Ralph’s huntsman. Hounds, hunting, Sir Ralph, and you. That’s what the folk here have known. What are Lucas and everyone else to think but that they’ll matter less to you than the hounds and hunting? Just like with Sir Ralph.“

‘What do
you
think?“ Hugh asked harshly.

Slowly, seeming to make sure of the words as he went, Miles said, “Sir Ralph used every spare penny—and sometimes pennies that weren’t to spare—for his hounds and hunting and be-damned to the rest
of
us. I don’t see you ever be-damning.”

Somer had left, offended. Bounder, one of the younger hounds, wandered to Hugh, tail swaying behind him, and Hugh absently took his great head between his hands, stroking the broad forehead while saying slowly to Miles, “No. I don’t think I’m any good at be-damning.”

‘And pleased the manor folk will be to learn it,“ Miles said. ”But they’ll have to learn it. You’re going to have to show them.“

‘Can I show them?“ Hugh had never said it aloud, never even let himself clearly think it until now. ”How good am I going to be at this? I won’t be-damn like Sir Ralph, but I’m not Tom. There’s nothing to say I won’t be damned bad no matter howl try.“

Offensively cheerful, Miles said, “We’ll find out, won’t we?”

Even knowing that the cheerfulness was meant deliberately to goad him into cheerfulness himself, Hugh wanted to throw something at him. Unfortunately, a clean-kept kennel-yard offered little to throw besides straw and dogs, and before Hugh came up with at least some words to throw, Miles shifted aside for Degory to lean on the gate, too, carrying a slice of the fish tart in one hand and a thick piece of bread folded around other things for the rest of his supper in the other. The hounds gathered to the fence, too well trained to grab and snatch but assuring him of their coming gratitude if he cared to share with them.

‘I don’t eat your suppers,“ Degory told them, then said to Hugh over their backs and waving tails, ”That Master Selenger is here again. He’ll be going home by moonlight, won’t he?“

Chapter 13

It was that evening Frevisse could no longer hide from knowing how wrong things were at Woodrim. After Hugh’s leaving, supper finished in a stiff silence and eyes kept to bowls and tabletop until Lady Anneys asked Father Leonel to give the final grace. That done, Ursula hurriedly slid off the bench and went to open the parlor door too quickly for her mother to say more than “Leave him be…” before Ursula said from the doorway, “He’s gone,” all disappointment and worry.

‘He’s gone to the kennel then,“ said Lady Anneys. ”Miles.“ Miles rose quickly, gave her a slight smile, a brief bow, and left.

Calmly, Lady Anneys invited Father Leonel to join her in the garden for a while but he declined. “Not because I don’t want to talk about…” He made a vague gesture of distress, to include all there might be to talk—or not to talk— about.

Lady Anneys caught his hand and held it, saying affectionately, “I wasn’t going to ask you anything. I only wanted your company.”

He clasped her hand in both of his. “Bless you, my lady. But I’m promised this evening to Roberd and Mariote. He’s Lucas’ younger son, you remember? They’re planning to marry just after Michaelmas. We’re to set when the banns will be and decide other things tonight.”

‘That I’ll not keep you from,“ Lady Anneys said. ”Be sure to let me know with what I can best gift them when the time comes.“

‘I will, my lady.“

Father Leonel blessed her with a quickly sketched cross in the air between them. He was making another in a general way at Frevisse, Sister Johane, Lucy, and Ursula scattered along the table, when Lucy exclaimed, “Someone is coming,” and dashed to the window, looked out, and swung around to say with a glowing look at her mother, “It’s Master Selenger!” She dashed back to catch Ursula by the hand. “Come on. Let’s walk Father Leonel to the village. Are you coming, Father? Sister Johane, Dame Frevisse, you’ll come with us, too?”

Even if she had wanted a different choice, Ursula was given no chance for it. Lucy was already dragging her toward the outer door, Father Leonel following, smiling, and after the barest hesitation and a look at Frevisse, who refused with a small shake of her head, Sister Johane went, too.

‘Dame Frevisse!“ Lucy insisted from the hall’s far end.

‘No,“ Lady Anneys said, too low for anyone but Frevisse to hear, all her smiling ease of a few moments ago gone.

Frevisse waved the others onward. They met Master Selenger at the door, their brief exchange of greetings among them all giving her chance to say to Lady Anneys, “It might go easier if your daughters knew you didn’t want to be left alone with him.”

‘They’re the least burdened by everything that’s happened,“ Lady Anneys said. ”I’d like to keep them that way as long as possible. Ursula is still so young.“

Remembering how Ursula had taken the news of her father’s death with relief rather than grief, Frevisse doubted Ursula was so young as her mother thought her. Grief had come only with her brother’s death and surely left her even less young than she had been before it. But this was hardly the time to take that up with Lady Anneys, who was moving from behind the table, down from the dais to meet Master Selenger coming up the hall toward her. Frevisse, tucking her hands into her opposite sleeves, followed her, eyes lowered in the seeming of quiet nunhood but not so far she could not see Master Selenger meet Lady Anneys with, “Good evening, my lady,” and a bow and a hand held out to take one of hers.

Seeming not to see his hand, keeping her own folded at her waist, one over the other, Lady Anneys said with no particular feeling to the words, “Good evening to you, too, Master Selenger. What brings you here?”

By then Frevisse was beside her, and Master Selenger, his hand returned to his side, made her a bow while answering, “Hope for the pleasure of your company and to ask about Lady Elyn.”

Alarm sharpened Lady Anneys’ voice. “She left here hours ago. Isn’t she home yet?”

‘Yes! Oh, yes,“ Master Selenger said with instant, matching alarm. ”I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fright you. She’s home and safe. But…“

He cast a meaningful look at the servants now coming to clear supper’s remains from the table. “We’ll be cooler in the garden, don’t you think?” he asked.

Lady Anneys murmured unwilling agreement but added, “Dame Frevisse, you’ll come, too?”

Frevisse accepted with a slight bow of her head.

What Master Selenger thought he kept to himself nor, when they were in the garden, did he offer his hand to Lady Anneys again even while they walked side by side along the path. He could take an unspoken suggestion when it was given, Frevisse thought, following behind them. Except he as yet refused to understand that Lady Anneys did not want his company.

The garden was in deepening twilight but not much cooled by the slight wind beginning to stir the evening air. The day’s warm scents of flowers and herbs still lingered and a last few bees were bumbling in the bee-flowers, late at going hive-ward. Lady Anneys paused near the door to break off stems of fern-leaved tansy for herself and Frevisse to keep off whatever evening midges might seek them out, but left Master Selenger to pluck his own, which he did. Since leaving the hall, none of them had spoken. Lady Anneys led the way to the long, wood-sided, turf-topped bench along one side of the garden’s wall and sat down, leaving room for Frevisse between herself and one end of the bench and nodding Master Selenger toward the bench’s far end, well away from her.

He somewhat took the hint, sitting not altogether to the bench’s end but an arm’s length and a little more away as Lady Anneys demanded, “What about Lady Elyn, then?”

‘She came to see you this afternoon.“

‘She did.“ Lady Anneys said the words flatly and let them lie there, leaving it to Master Selenger to make of them what he would. She was looking not at him but across the path and down at a cluster of red gillyflowers so that the soft fall of her veil on either side of her face served to hide her from him and Frevisse both.

‘Why?“ he asked.

‘To see me. Isn’t that reason enough?“

‘She seemed unhappy when she returned.“

‘Sir William sent you to find out why from me, rather than ask her himself?“

‘He asked. She said she wanted to see her mother.“

‘Why wasn’t that enough?“

Master Selenger very slightly smiled. “Because of the way she sniffled while she did it and wouldn’t look at him. He’s worried there’s something wrong that he should know.” Master Selenger paused, then added, subdued and apologizing, “Besides what’s obviously wrong, of course. He would have come himself but won’t until he’s asked. Besides, he knew I”—Master Selenger’s voice was very low—“would not mind the chance.”

Lady Anneys still had not looked at him, nor did her voice give anything away as she said mildly, “I’m grateful for Sir William’s concern and consideration, but since she was unhappy when she came here, the reason for it would be better sought there than here.”

‘Save that she might have spoken to you more freely than she would to Sir William and you could advise him of what best he might do.“

Lady Anneys drew a long breath and sat up straighter, still without looking at him. “That would be somewhat betraying my daughter’s trust.”

‘If, truly, it’s something Sir William can’t help, then of course you won’t tell it,“ Master Selenger said.

Such as ‘women’s problems,’“ Lady Anneys said, still mildly but probably fully aware that Master Selenger instantly shitted uneasily. There were few things so sure as ”women’s problems“ to set a man back.

‘Um,“ he said. ”Yes.“

‘Or,“ said Lady Anneys, still mildly and toward the gillyflowers across the path, ”Sir William may be worried that I’m trying to turn her against him because of her brother’s death.“