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Authors: Margaret Frazer
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manslaughter more than murder,” Basset said. “And Nicholas was over-young to be tried, yes? He must have got his pardon,” it being usual for a child who killed someone to be arrested but afterward to have the king’s pardon, being below the years of discretion when a person could be held to account for their acts. Unless deliberate malice could be proven, of course.
“He was pardoned surely and no trouble about it,” Ellis said. “He ran for help as soon as he saw what he’d done. No one thought there was intent about it. Hasn’t made for friendlihood between the Ashewells and Medcotes, though.” Ellis gave a short snort. “Should have, you’d think. It was by way of the cousin dying that Medcote’s wife inherited the manor here, being the nearest heir. Before then, Medcote kept a butchering place in Wantage. Had no land at all. Now he holds a manor. Not that he and his are much liked. There’s those that still call him Butcher John behind his back.”
This was the kind of talk that could help in finding out the things for which Lady Lovell had sent them here, and Basset prompted, “He’s not liked?”
“Not him or his wife or their son or their daughter,” Ellis said, pleased with himself. “Medcote takes a high hand with everything, and like we’ve heard, he and that priest tend to work as one in most things, with Father Hewgo no better liked than he is, from what Titha says. She says all that makes it odd that . . .” Realizing he should have named no names, he stopped short, too late, as Rose snapped the long-handled toasting fork toward him, flipping the trencher at him so that he had to catch it or be hit in the chest. He did catch it but had to juggle it, hot and greasy, from hand to hand, protesting while he did, “Hai! What’s that for?”
That was another stupid thing to say, Joliffe thought, but fortunately for Ellis, Rose did not trouble to answer as Basset hurriedly asked, “Makes it odd what?”
With the bread now in one hand, Ellis left off sucking the sore, greasy fingers of his other one to say sullenly, “That maybe Medcote wants to marry his daughter to Nicholas Ashewell, and Master Ashewell is maybe thinking to do it.”
From what he had seen yesterday, Joliffe would not have thought there was that kind of liking between the men, but it was Basset who said doubtfully, “That’s several ‘maybes’ there.”
Ellis shrugged. “Ashewell’s been heard saying something about it to his wife, and she’s been downcast of late, and Nicholas, too, as if maybe he’s been told and doesn’t like it either.”
“It’s servant-talk then, this maybe-marriage?” Basset asked, not disparaging it for that. Servant-talk was often the surest way for the players to learn what was likely to sit well in a household they were to play for and, as importantly, what might not sit well.
“Servant-talk,” Ellis agreed, “and not meant for them or anyone to know, seems like. That’s the feel I had from . . .” Far too late he saw the peril in what he had been about to say and shifted to, “. . . it,” with a wary sideways look at Rose.
Rose, still giving him no look at all, left the fire, picked up the water bucket, and walked away toward the stream, eloquently leaving them all behind her in a shared silence of guilt.
Which wasn’t fair, Joliffe wanted to protest— he hadn’t done anything. But likely at this moment just being men was enough to damn them all in Rose’s eyes.
“Go help your mother,” Basset said to Piers.
Throwing a baleful look at Ellis, Piers scrambled to his feet and went, making clear on whose side he was, and it wasn’t Ellis’.
For his part, Ellis looked ready to take refuge in sullenness, probably beginning to feel as wronged as Rose did. In hope of heading that off, Joliffe said to Basset, “You think this could be the trouble the bailiff hasn’t been able to put his finger on?”
“I’d guess it’s likely,” Basset granted. “It’s
“He was pardoned surely and no trouble about it,” Ellis said. “He ran for help as soon as he saw what he’d done. No one thought there was intent about it. Hasn’t made for friendlihood between the Ashewells and Medcotes, though.” Ellis gave a short snort. “Should have, you’d think. It was by way of the cousin dying that Medcote’s wife inherited the manor here, being the nearest heir. Before then, Medcote kept a butchering place in Wantage. Had no land at all. Now he holds a manor. Not that he and his are much liked. There’s those that still call him Butcher John behind his back.”
This was the kind of talk that could help in finding out the things for which Lady Lovell had sent them here, and Basset prompted, “He’s not liked?”
“Not him or his wife or their son or their daughter,” Ellis said, pleased with himself. “Medcote takes a high hand with everything, and like we’ve heard, he and that priest tend to work as one in most things, with Father Hewgo no better liked than he is, from what Titha says. She says all that makes it odd that . . .” Realizing he should have named no names, he stopped short, too late, as Rose snapped the long-handled toasting fork toward him, flipping the trencher at him so that he had to catch it or be hit in the chest. He did catch it but had to juggle it, hot and greasy, from hand to hand, protesting while he did, “Hai! What’s that for?”
That was another stupid thing to say, Joliffe thought, but fortunately for Ellis, Rose did not trouble to answer as Basset hurriedly asked, “Makes it odd what?”
With the bread now in one hand, Ellis left off sucking the sore, greasy fingers of his other one to say sullenly, “That maybe Medcote wants to marry his daughter to Nicholas Ashewell, and Master Ashewell is maybe thinking to do it.”
From what he had seen yesterday, Joliffe would not have thought there was that kind of liking between the men, but it was Basset who said doubtfully, “That’s several ‘maybes’ there.”
Ellis shrugged. “Ashewell’s been heard saying something about it to his wife, and she’s been downcast of late, and Nicholas, too, as if maybe he’s been told and doesn’t like it either.”
“It’s servant-talk then, this maybe-marriage?” Basset asked, not disparaging it for that. Servant-talk was often the surest way for the players to learn what was likely to sit well in a household they were to play for and, as importantly, what might not sit well.
“Servant-talk,” Ellis agreed, “and not meant for them or anyone to know, seems like. That’s the feel I had from . . .” Far too late he saw the peril in what he had been about to say and shifted to, “. . . it,” with a wary sideways look at Rose.
Rose, still giving him no look at all, left the fire, picked up the water bucket, and walked away toward the stream, eloquently leaving them all behind her in a shared silence of guilt.
Which wasn’t fair, Joliffe wanted to protest— he hadn’t done anything. But likely at this moment just being men was enough to damn them all in Rose’s eyes.
“Go help your mother,” Basset said to Piers.
Throwing a baleful look at Ellis, Piers scrambled to his feet and went, making clear on whose side he was, and it wasn’t Ellis’.
For his part, Ellis looked ready to take refuge in sullenness, probably beginning to feel as wronged as Rose did. In hope of heading that off, Joliffe said to Basset, “You think this could be the trouble the bailiff hasn’t been able to put his finger on?”
“I’d guess it’s likely,” Basset granted. “It’s
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