Free The Witch's Tale (Sister Frevisse Medieval Mysteries) by Margaret Frazer Page A

failed him.  She had left herself time enough this morning, she was sure, even allowing for her dawdling along the hedgerow; but as she let herself into her garden by the back gate from the field path she saw with a familiar sick feeling that Jack was standing in the cottage's back doorway, fists on his hips and a mean grin on his fleshy mouth.  He was back early from hedging -- Margery would have sworn he was early -- and neither she nor his food was waiting and no excuse would make any difference to what he would do now.
    Wearily, Margery set down her bundle on the bench beside the door and looked up at him.  It was better to see it coming.
    "Y'know better than to be late," he accused.  "Y'know I've told you that."
    "I can have your dinner on in hardly a moment."  She said it without hope.  Nothing would help now; nothing ever did.
    "I don't want to wait!"  Jack put his hand flat between her breasts and shoved her backward.  He always began with shoving.  "I shouldn't have to wait!"
    Margery stumbled back.  Jack came after her and she turned sideways, to make a smaller target, for all the good it would do her.  He shoved her again, staggering her along the path, then caught her a heavy slap to the back of her head so that she pitched forward, her knees banging into the wooden edging of a garden bed, her hands sinking into the muddy soil.  She scrambled to be clear of him long enough to regain her feet. So long as she was on her feet he only hit.  Once she was down, he kicked.  His fists left bruises, sometimes cuts.  His feet were worse.  There were places in her that still hurt from last time, three weeks ago.  From experience she knew that if she kept on her feet until he tired, he did not kick her so long.
    But her fear made her clumsy.  He was yelling at her now, calling her things she had never been, never thought of being.  A blow along side of her head sent her stumbling to one side, into her herb bed among the straw and burlap meant to protect her best plants through the winter.  She scrambled to be out of it but Jack came in after her, crushing his feet down on anything in his way.
    Margery cried out as she had not for her own pain.  "Stop it!  Leave my plants be!"  Jack laughed and stomped one deliberately.
    "Them and you both," he said, enjoying himself.  "You'll learn to do what you're told."
    Margery fumbled in the pouch under her apron and, still scrambling to keep beyond his reach and get out from among her herbs, snatched out a small packet of folded cloth not so big as the palm of her hand.  She brandished it at him and screamed, "You stop!  You stop or I'll use this!"
    For a wonder Jack did stop, staring at her in plain surprise.  Then he scoffed, "You've nothing there, y'daft woman!" and grabbed for her.
    Margery ducked from his reach, still holding out the packet.  "It's bits of you, Jack Wilkins!" she cried.  "From when I cut your hair last month and then when you trimmed your nails.  Remember that?  It's bits of you in here and I've made a spell, Jack Wilkins, and you're going to die for it if you don't leave me alone and get out of my garden!"
    "It's not me that's going to die!" he roared, and lurched for her.
     
    After two days of sun the weather had turned back to low-trailing clouds and rain.  But it was a gentle, misting rain that promised spring after winter's raw cold, and Dame Frevisse, leaving the guest hall where everything was readied should the day bring guests to St. Frideswide's, paused at the top of the stairs down into the courtyard to look up and let the rain stroke across her face.  Very soon the cloister bell would call her into the church with the other nuns for the afternoon's service of Vespers, and she would be able to let go the necessities of her duties as the priory's hosteler to rise into the pleasure of prayer.
    But as she crossed the yard toward the cloister door, Master Naylor overtook her.  He was the priory's steward, a long-faced man