Anne caught her where the garden paths crossed, saying as she scooped her up, “There now, if you get dirty with them you’ll have to be washed now and at bedtime, too, and you don’t want that, do you?”
‘Food!“ Lucy declared, her determination undeterred by being carried toward the house tucked under her mother’s arm like a kindling bundle.
Setting her down on the houseplace’s door sill, Anne said, “Cisily will give you your own bread and milk inside,” straightened the child’s gown and gave her a gentle push. Lucy, as biddable as her brothers if food was promised, went in and Anne sat down again with a great sigh and an apology.
‘She’s a pretty child,“ Frevisse ventured, that usually something safe to say to a parent and this time true.
‘Pretty is as pretty does, and sometimes she’s none too pretty, I promise you,“ Anne returned, smiling. ”We named her for my husband’s grandmother and she looks like to be as set to her ways as she was.“ Anne did not add ”more’s the pity,“ but it was there in her rueful tone.
‘And you’ve Master Naylor’s son on your hands, too,“ Frevisse remembered somewhat belatedly. ”How does he?“
‘Dickon? Very well.“ Anne nodded across the yard toward the boys, sitting with their backs to the byre wall now, each with a cup in one hand and a large slice of bread in the other, the two older boys kicking lazily at each other’s bare feet lest things be too peaceful. ”He’s the brown-haired one.“ The other two were fair-haired like their sister and younger than Dickon, guessing by their look. ”It helps he was already friends with most of the village boys before this trouble and here as often as not, so nothing is strange to him.“
‘Is he bothered by what’s happening?“
‘If he is, he keeps it to himself. He says he doesn’t mind being away from his sisters and baby brother because, according to him, they all stink. Mind you, when someone-not Adam or Colyn, they know better-teased him the other day over his father being a villein instead of a free man, Dickon took him down, rubbed his face in the dirt, and told him, ’My father never lies and if he says he’s not a villein, then he’s not a villein, there!‘ “
Anne told it laughingly but her laughter stopped and her face clouded as she looked away toward the street and a woman coming along it, a napkin-covered plate in her hands. “Gilbey Dunn’s wife,” she said, not welcomingly, but brought up a smile and rose to greet her as the woman started across the plank bridge into the yard.
Frevisse stayed seated, watching the woman come. She had had brief dealing with Gilbey Dunn years ago and was curious as to what sort of woman had married him. She was younger than Anne and, Frevisse was startled to see, lovely out of the ordinary. Her face was heart-shaped from wide forehead to perfect chin, and she was so fair skinned and pale browed she was surely golden-haired beneath her veil and wimple. Beyond that, her rose-colored dress was of a finer sort than most village women would have, better even than Anne’s for cut and cloth, but it was the way she wore it, with a light-hipped grace, that made the greatest difference.
By then, Anne had met her, was bringing her back toward the bench with a creditable display of welcome, saying, “Dame Frevisse, this is Elena, Gilbey Dunn’s wife. Elena, Dame Frevisse is doing what can be done to take Master Naylor’s place this while.”
Elena curtsyed deeply, with practiced grace, Frevisse slightly bowed her head, and they briefly exchanged comments on Master Naylor before Elena turned to Anne, taking the napkin from the plate to show small cakes and said, “They’re honey-raisin, new-baked, that I thought the boys might like. And Lucy, too,” she added to the little girl come to stand in the doorway staring at her and bent to hold the plate out to her.
‘Only one,“ Anne said.
‘There’s enough for two apiece,“ Elena said.
‘Two,“ Anne said. ”And say thank you.“
Lucy, a cake in either hand, said clearly, loudly, “Thank you,” and disappeared inside again.
Meanwhile, the boys had begun to sidle across the yard as soon as the plate had been uncovered, coming faster when they saw Lucy claiming cakes, and now the taller of the fair-haired boys, with his brother and Dickon Naylor crowded close at his back, said, “Thank you, too,” with earnest hope behind Elena, and she turned and held the plate out to them all. Hands flashed and with chorused thanks the boys retreated toward the byre as Elena turned back to Anne and Frevisse, holding the plate out to them, too, laughing silently.
Frevisse said thanks but shook her head. Anne said, “Keep mine a moment while I bring a cup for you and see to a pot I left on the fire. Please, sit.”
She gestured to the bench and left them, and Elena sat, holding the plate toward Frevisse again, asking, “You’re sure?”
Frevisse assured her she was. Elena looked briefly across the yard to Sister Thomasine beneath the apple tree, her head bowed over the rosary in her hands and made no offer that way but settled with the plate and its remaining cakes on her lap. “It’s a warm day,” she observed.
‘You wanted to talk to me?“ Frevisse said in return.
The neat arch of Elena’s eyebrows curved higher and her smile suddenly warmed past mere good manners. “Yes, I do indeed, if you please, my lady. About my husband.”
How had so well-spoken a woman come to be a villein’s wife in Prior Byfield, Frevisse wondered. But only asked cautiously, “Yes?” Because from what she knew of Gilbey Dunn, caution seemed best.
‘You’ll be talked to about him this while that village matters are in your hands. I wanted to talk to you about him first.“
That it was already so widely known that she was taking Master Naylor’s place came as no surprise to Frevisse, knowledgeable of village ways. To show she, too, knew more than might be expected of her, she said, “I understand he’s interested in acquiring more land.”
‘That’s not a fault,“ Elena said quickly, a little too carefully.
‘It’s not a fault,“ Frevisse agreed. ”Most men want to better themselves.“ She hesitated, then added, deliberately to see Elena’s response, ”The fault only comes if they do it with harm to others.“
‘Gilbey has harmed no one.“
That might be strictly true, if harm direct was meant, but there was harm indirect, and she asked, “Didn’t he lately bid a lease away from a man who’s now run off because of it?”
‘It’s more likely Matthew Woderove left because of his wife than because of Gilbey,“ Elena answered calmly. And raised herself in Frevisse’s opinion by saying nothing else of Matthew Woderove’s wife, though surely there was more that could have been. Instead she said, ”He’s a good man, my husband. He does well by all he holds, whether from Lord Lovell or your priory, and pays well for it, too. Better than most could or would. Any of the accounts you look at will show you that. There’s some who hold it against him that he does so well, but that’s all they have to hold against him. What I’ve come to ask is that you don’t, that’s all.“
Frevisse could hear Anne inside, telling Cisily what to do with the stew on the fire and moving toward the door while she did, and quickly she asked Elena, “Why does your husband pay the fine to keep from ever being reeve here?”
Elena paused at the shift of direction, then answered openly enough, “He isn’t liked.”
‘That isn’t needed for the office,“ Frevisse returned. Years and experience and a degree of wealth grown out of both were what were looked for, whether the office was appointed by the lord, as in Prior Byfield, or elected, as in other places. By that, Gilbey was as likely to the office as Simon Perryn was. ”There’s money to be made in it,“ she added bluntly.