Kelmstowe carried away, only to let him return? If someone wanted to be rid of him, why stick at simply killing him, especially if they had not stuck at killing Barnsley? Supposing, of course, that Barnsley’s murder and Kelmstowe’s disappearance had anything at all to do with one another. But they must. And if they did, then rather than a welter of jarring pieces having nothing to do with one another, she could begin to see a fine-woven plan under it all.
One of the guesthall servants approached at a hesitant sideway shuffle, clearly uncertain if she should interrupt. Margery saved her the trouble by asking, “Is Anneys Barnsley coming round, then?”
“She be. You said to tell you,” the woman said, bobbing a curtsey.
Frevisse said thanks on Margery’s behalf and her own and stood up, bringing Master Naylor and Margery to their feet with her. “I want to hear what she has to say,” she said. “Best you hear, too.”
They found Anneys Barnsley rolling her head fretfully from side to side on the pillow, making small sounds of awakening and distress, as if she was trying to awaken and could not – or was being shoved out of sleep against her will. There was a stool beside the bed. Frevisse sat on it to bring her near the woman’s ear, and began persuading her toward wakening, but after a moment Margery touched her shoulder and said softly, “Asking your pardon, my lady, but you don’t have a soothing kind of voice. Not for this, leastwise. Mayhap I should do it?”
Frevisse stood up and stepped out of the way, joining Master Naylor in the doorway of the small chamber, aware Sister Elianor was as close behind them as she dared to be, craning to see over their shoulders. Frevisse shifted a little, to give her easier view as Margery sat down on the stool, took Anneys Barnsley’s near hand, and began to talk to her softly, soothingly, saying her name, assuring her that she was safe, that she need not be afraid. The woman’s eyelids flickered and even briefly opened, but she continued to twist her head restlessly on the pillow.
“Anneys,” Margery said, still gently but insisting now. “Anneys, it’s all right. You’re safe. I’m here. I won’t leave you.”
Anneys Barnsley seemed to hear her, rolled her head sideways, moaned, “John... You said... John...”
Whatever John had said slipped away along with her brief almost-consciousness. Giving up the struggle, she went slack, back into sleep. Margery patted her hand, tucked it under the blanket, looked up at Frevisse and Master Naylor, and said softly, “It’s a more natural sleep now. It will last a while and then she’ll properly awake.”
Since Margery seemed inclined to stay with the woman, Frevisse simply nodded and withdrew across the hall to the hearth again, taking Master Naylor with her, Sister Elianor trailing behind. There, before Frevisse could say it, Master Naylor said grimly, “That’s not her husband’s name. He’s Henry. Never John.”
“Then which John in the village might it be?”
“There’s the question, isn’t it?” All of Master Naylor’s displeasure at the business showed in his voice, not helped by the name being altogether too common a one. “There’s John atte Bush, but his wife is the village alewife and never lets him carry enough coin for more than a few rolls of the dice and rarely beyond reach of her ladle. There’s John Wryght who’s said he’ll see to the Barnsleys’ cow and all, but he’s a straight lad with no eyes for any but his Jonet. John Smith at the forge. He could have split Barnsley’s skull right enough, and he’s been without a wife these past two years. John Adirton, but he’s so lately widowed it’s hard to think he’s already looking again. His wife died not long after–” Master Naylor stopped, an odd look on his face, then finished slowly, “–not long after Kelmstowe came back.”
A small quiet came
One of the guesthall servants approached at a hesitant sideway shuffle, clearly uncertain if she should interrupt. Margery saved her the trouble by asking, “Is Anneys Barnsley coming round, then?”
“She be. You said to tell you,” the woman said, bobbing a curtsey.
Frevisse said thanks on Margery’s behalf and her own and stood up, bringing Master Naylor and Margery to their feet with her. “I want to hear what she has to say,” she said. “Best you hear, too.”
They found Anneys Barnsley rolling her head fretfully from side to side on the pillow, making small sounds of awakening and distress, as if she was trying to awaken and could not – or was being shoved out of sleep against her will. There was a stool beside the bed. Frevisse sat on it to bring her near the woman’s ear, and began persuading her toward wakening, but after a moment Margery touched her shoulder and said softly, “Asking your pardon, my lady, but you don’t have a soothing kind of voice. Not for this, leastwise. Mayhap I should do it?”
Frevisse stood up and stepped out of the way, joining Master Naylor in the doorway of the small chamber, aware Sister Elianor was as close behind them as she dared to be, craning to see over their shoulders. Frevisse shifted a little, to give her easier view as Margery sat down on the stool, took Anneys Barnsley’s near hand, and began to talk to her softly, soothingly, saying her name, assuring her that she was safe, that she need not be afraid. The woman’s eyelids flickered and even briefly opened, but she continued to twist her head restlessly on the pillow.
“Anneys,” Margery said, still gently but insisting now. “Anneys, it’s all right. You’re safe. I’m here. I won’t leave you.”
Anneys Barnsley seemed to hear her, rolled her head sideways, moaned, “John... You said... John...”
Whatever John had said slipped away along with her brief almost-consciousness. Giving up the struggle, she went slack, back into sleep. Margery patted her hand, tucked it under the blanket, looked up at Frevisse and Master Naylor, and said softly, “It’s a more natural sleep now. It will last a while and then she’ll properly awake.”
Since Margery seemed inclined to stay with the woman, Frevisse simply nodded and withdrew across the hall to the hearth again, taking Master Naylor with her, Sister Elianor trailing behind. There, before Frevisse could say it, Master Naylor said grimly, “That’s not her husband’s name. He’s Henry. Never John.”
“Then which John in the village might it be?”
“There’s the question, isn’t it?” All of Master Naylor’s displeasure at the business showed in his voice, not helped by the name being altogether too common a one. “There’s John atte Bush, but his wife is the village alewife and never lets him carry enough coin for more than a few rolls of the dice and rarely beyond reach of her ladle. There’s John Wryght who’s said he’ll see to the Barnsleys’ cow and all, but he’s a straight lad with no eyes for any but his Jonet. John Smith at the forge. He could have split Barnsley’s skull right enough, and he’s been without a wife these past two years. John Adirton, but he’s so lately widowed it’s hard to think he’s already looking again. His wife died not long after–” Master Naylor stopped, an odd look on his face, then finished slowly, “–not long after Kelmstowe came back.”
A small quiet came
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