7 The Prioress' Tale Read online

  “There’s nothing of mine they can come at,” Joliffe said cheerfully. “Master Porter asked me last night if I would prefer his masons’ company to Sir Reynold’s, and the choice wasn’t hard. My lute and all are in the masons’ lodge and very safe.”

  “Then you’d do better to go out through the orchard rather than the kitchen yard,” Frevisse said, thinking aloud.

  “A quiet walk in an autumn orchard with a lovely lady,” Joliffe said. “Yes, that will do well.”

  “I’ll go so far as to take you to the gate and see you out,” Frevisse said dryly, not to be drawn again. “You’ll have to do your walking on your own.”

  They had come almost around the cloister to the slype, the narrow passage out to the walled path that ran along the gardens to the orchard gate. The other nuns’ voices were rising shrill, with Sister Johane come from somewhere to join the excited talk outside the church door, and Frevisse turned down the passage with relief. Joliffe followed her without comment or question, still a few proper paces behind her, through the slype and along the path to the gate, where she turned to face him again, saying, “The gate is locked and Domina Alys has the key, but I don’t suppose it will bother you to climb the wall.”

  “Not in the slightest,” he assured her, his face alight with silent laughter. “Only tell me before I go, are those the women you’re penned in with all the time? Is it always like this?”

  “It can’t be always like this,” Frevisse pointed out. “We’ve not had a madman in the church before and it seems to me that that was your doing.”

  “But your prioress isn’t. God’s mercy, how did you come to vote her into office?”

  “I didn’t,” Frevisse answered curtly.

  Suddenly unlaughing, Joliffe agreed, “No. I don’t suppose you did.”

  They regarded each other silently for a moment, before Frevisse said, “You’ll take word to Mistress Southgate’s people and our abbot when you leave here?”

  “Assuredly.”

  “I’ve no way to pay you for it,” she began.

  Joliffe dismissed that with a hand over his heart and a deep bow. “I’ll do it for nothing else than the pleasure of thwarting your prioress. And Sir Reynold, too, come to that.” He eyed the wall, gauging its height. “This wall must be meant only for keeping nuns in, because there’s hardly enough of it to keep anyone out.” He stretched up a hand, easily reaching its top, then turned to her again. “If you need to see me before I’ve gone…”

  “There won’t be any way for me to talk with you after this. Sister Amicia has to be with me whenever I leave the cloister, and after tomorrow I won’t be allowed out of it at all, and from now on, for a time at least, Domina Alys will surely keep the church door to the yard barred to protect her madman. You won’t be able to come in.”

  Joliffe dismissed all that with a gesture. “There’s always the tower.”

  “Yes,” Frevisse agreed. “There’s the tower. I can go to its top and call across the rooftops for you. Except there’s no way in for me.”

  For a grown man, Joliffe’s smile could take on all of a small boy’s mischief. “Secrets, my lady. There are always secrets. You know those boards covering the doorway into the choir? If you take good hold of them on one side, lift a little, and pull, they swing open just wide enough for someone not too broad to go through into the tower. Then all you need do is go up the stairs inside and down the scaffolding outside and there I am.”

  “Oh, yes,” Frevisse said, covering her alarm and sudden speculations—who else knew that, had used it, for what, and how had Joliffe come to know of it?—with mockery. “I’m likely to do that. Why isn’t there a secret door directly through the tower’s outer wall, too, and save the trouble of stairs and scaffolding?”

  “Secret doors through stone are so difficult to manage,” Joliffe said, matching her mockery. “I gather the masons aren’t being paid enough to take the trouble of making one.”

  “They weren’t paid to take the trouble of making this one!”

  “From what Master Porter says,” Joliffe returned, turning away to gauge how much a scramble he needed to reach the top of the wall, “they’re not being paid at all for anything.”

  “What?” Frevisse asked sharply.

  Surprised by her surprise, Joliffe turned back to her. “You didn’t know?”

  “That they aren’t being paid? No, I didn’t know. Surely they haven’t done all this building unpaid?”

  “Assuredly they’ve been paid something or you’d not have as much of a tower as you do. But you’re not going to have much more. Wages aside, they’re nearly out of stone and your prioress doesn’t seem inclined to pay for more.”

  Inclined—or able to? It was two Sundays since Domina Alys had allowed them their weekly afternoon walk in the orchard to admire how the tower went. It had been nearly to the church’s eaves then, a bulk of stone crowned by a network of scaffolding, and Frevisse had understood the plan was for it to be finished and roofed before freezing weather could bring an end to the work. But they had not been allowed near it that day or out to see it since; and now that Frevisse came to think about it, Domina Alys no longer said anything about the work except when forced to it.

  “If they’re nearly out of stone and they haven’t been paid,” she said, inadvertently thinking aloud, “then—” She heard herself and stopped.

  “Then you’re going to end up with an unfinished tower and some very angry masons,” Joliffe finished for her.

  They regarded each other silently a moment, both of them considering what could come of that, before she said, subdued, “You’d best go.”

  He nodded, made a small leap to grab the top of the wall, and with a deft-footed scramble was over and gone.

  Frevisse stayed where she was, trying to sort into sense what Joliffe had told her and what had happened in the church and everything else she was becoming afraid of in St. Frideswide’s. But it would not sort to sense and finally, no nearer to quiet of mind, she walked slowly back along the garden wall and through the slype, into the cloister walk just as Katerin began to clang the bell for Vespers.

  The day was almost finished. Vespers, supper, an hour’s recreation, Compline prayers, and it was done.

  It was a day she was desperately ready to have end, and her impatience stirred at finding her way into the church blocked by other nuns clustered just inside the door, apparently more interested in being in her way than going to their places in the choir. But beyond them Domina Alys’ voice was raised, sorting them out in no uncertain terms, so that abruptly they were shifting aside, and Dame Claire and Bess from the kitchen were coming out, holding up the shambling madman between them, on their way to somewhere with him.

  Moving out of their way, Frevisse asked, “Where are you taking him? Has Domina Alys given up on him? He can’t just be turned loose again.”

  The madman raised his loosely hanging head and looked at her, the first time she had ever had chance to see his face clearly. Its lack of the unnatural childness so many of the wandering mad carried with them startled her. Instead, it was the face of a man who had had some sort of life worth living before the madness came on him; a young man’s face but marked by years lived, rather than wandered through unthinkingly. And there was more sanity in the eyes that looked out at her from under the strong-boned line of his brows than could have been there an hour ago; but only for an instant. Then they lost focus again, the brief sense in them blurring, and his head fell loosely forward as Dame Claire said, “Domina Alys has ordered he’s to have a bath, be fed, and cleanly clothed.”

  “And then?” Frevisse asked.

  “Then he’s to be brought back into the church.”

  She and Bess had kept him moving, were past Frevisse by then, and she turned to go into the church. If he was to be brought back here to stay, it had to mean that Domina Alys was seriously thinking there had been a miracle. Frevisse wished she could feel some warmth of pleasure at that possibility, but just now all
that rose up in her was a weary contemplation of the complications there could be from it. A miracle was not something simply to be accepted and exclaimed over. A seeming miracle had to be judged, considered, proven. There would have to be explanations to the abbot, even to the bishop, if it went that far, and then intense investigations by churchmen from outside St. Frideswide’s. Was Domina Alys seriously considering opening them up to all of that, particularly given everything else that was presently so wrong?

  She was following the other nuns toward the choir when a smother of noise from the yard warned that Sir Reynold and his men were returned. She shut her mind to it as another thing she could do nothing about. Mercifully she was done with them for today, and after tomorrow she would not have to deal with them again. But as she passed Lady Eleanor, Lady Adela, and Joice, standing together with Margrete a little behind them in the nave waiting for Vespers, a heavy-handed pounding started on the west door and everyone swung in confusion to face it, with small shrieks among the nuns and Joice shrinking a wild step backward, except Domina Alys who stormed down from her choir stall, ordering, “Margrete, go open it!”

  Used to being given orders, Margrete hurried to obey, with Lady Adela following her, as Lady Eleanor put a steadying hand on Joice’s arm, and Domina Alys snapped, “The rest of you, into your places! Whoever’s doing that had better pray he has a good reason or he’ll still be sorry a week from now!”

  The nuns were still sorting out their exclamations and not yet in their stalls as Margrete swung the bar aside and Lady Adela pulled open the door. A wide swathe of golden afternoon light swept down the nave, startling the church’s shadows, then was broken as a man burst into the doorway, a dark shape against the light, crying out before Domina Alys could yell at him, “There’s a man hurt! Sir Reynold wants your infirmarian!”

  “Is it Sir Reynold?” Domina Alys demanded, starting for him.

  “Sir Hugh?” Lady Eleanor asked with equal urgency.

  “Not them, no.” The man was short of breath with urgency. “It’s Godard. They’re taking him into the guest hall. He’s bad hurt.”

  “Sister Amicia.” Domina Alys chose the nun nearest her. “Go tell Dame Claire she’s wanted.” She swung to find Frevisse. “You, hie to the guest hall and see to what needs doing there. You.” She pointed at the man. “Tell Sir Reynold we’re coming.”

  The man was hurriedly bowing as he retreated. Frevisse, following him, heard Domina Alys say behind her, “There’s still Vespers to do, the rest of you. Dame Juliana, see to it. And no scanting!”

  There were fewer men and horses in the yard than Frevisse had expected, but the servants, crowded at the top of the guest-hall stairs, trying to see in or go in all at the same time, slowed her. She gave orders that cleared them out of her way, sending some for hot water and to be sure the kitchen fire was kept up for more, another for towels, another for rags, the rest simply to stand aside, and all the while she was hoping this was not as bad as the man had made it sound.

  It was.

  Inside the hall, near the hearth, a half dozen of Sir Reynold’s men were gathered apart from Sir Reynold and Sir Hugh who were supporting a man between them more as if he were a deadweight than a live one. There was blood on the man’s right side and on Sir Hugh holding him there, and as a hall servant dragged one of the straw-filled pallets that served as beds for the servants and lesser guests on the hall floor at night to lay it in front of them, Sir Reynold and Sir Hugh looked at each other over Godard’s head, made silent agreement, and in a single concerted motion shifted their holds, Sir Reynold loosing him to bend and take him behind the knees and lift while Sir Hugh caught him by both shoulders from behind, so that together they swung him sideways and down onto the mattress. Godard cried out and his body spasmed with pain, but he was down and Sir Reynold let him go and stepped back, wiping sweat from his own face. Sir Hugh stayed where he was, kneeling with Godard leaning back against him, saying, “We have to have your doublet off. It’s better we do it now before we lay you down than have to lift you up again.”

  Godard, his eyes shut, his face clay gray, groaned acceptance, and Frevisse turned away to find something, anything, that needed her across the hall.

  Beyond telling Ela to have wine ready—“Dame Claire will want it to mix with what she’ll give him for the pain”—there was nothing except shifting the servants with naught to do clear of the doorways and well aside from Sir Reynold’s men and back from what was happening. There was no point in sending them away, but they did not need to crowd in on it.

  By then Domina Alys was come, was standing with Sir Reynold away from his own men and the servants both, and Godard, with Sir Hugh holding his head, was stretched out flat on the pallet, the bloody leather doublet thrown aside but the wound still hidden by a wad of blood-bright cloth that had maybe been someone’s shirt. Sir Hugh was bent over him, saying something that was lost under Godard’s racked breathing, but Godard was still conscious enough to twitch his head in slight answer to it.

  “Where’s Dame Claire?” Domina Alys said at no one in particular, then looked around, saw Frevisse, and demanded, “Where is she?”

  Frevisse went forward, about to answer pointlessly that Dame Claire was surely coming, when Dame Claire was there, flushed and short-breathed with haste, carrying her box of medicines. With heed for nothing else, she passed servants, Frevisse, and Domina Alys to kneel beside Godard who opened his eyes and turned his head toward her with a desperate look. She laid a hand on his shoulder as if in reassurance she was truly there, spoke to him, then to Sir Hugh, asking questions. As she began, still questioning Sir Hugh, to loose the wadded cloth from his side, Godard shut his eyes and turned his head away.

  Domina Alys, not heeding or else not minding that Frevisse and probably the hall servants were near enough to hear, asked at Sir Reynold, “What happened? Was it a fall? His horse went down on him?”

  Sir Reynold made a disgusted sound. “It was some fool of a villein with a shovel. His side is all smashed in.”

  “One of our people?” Domina Alys asked, sounding somewhere between disbelief and anger. “One of our villeins? Why? If it was one of ours, I’ll make the fool sorry…”

  “There’s no making him more sorry than I have,” Sir Reynold said grimly. “I left him dead on his doorstep.”

  Frevisse’s gasp was covered by Domina Alys‘, before, too disbelieving for anger yet, Domina Alys demanded, “You killed him? You killed him?”

  Sir Reynold shrugged. “He struck Godard and I struck him. He’s dead.”

  Disbelief was going to anger now. “You’ll have the crowner and the sheriff on your neck before you can turn around, if that’s what you’ve done! You’ll have them on my neck! And if he isn’t one of ours, he’ll have to be paid for!”

  “No one is paying anything for his filthy carcass,” Sir Reynold answered harshly. “I gave him what he had coming.”

  “He’s maybe not dead.” That Domina Alys was searching for a better side to it betrayed she knew exactly how much trouble this could be.

  “He’s dead. I laid his guts open.”

  Domina Alys tried a different way at it. “Why did he attack Godard? What was he doing? Where was this?”

  “Some village. I don’t know.” Sir Reynold shrugged off the questions.

  “One of our villages?” Domina Alys persisted.

  Frevisse knew what she was trying for. St. Frideswide’s had property in more than one place. If the dead villein belonged to the priory, the whole thing could maybe be handled without the worst that could come of it, so far as Domina Alys was concerned.

  “Not one of yours,” Sir Reynold answered impatiently. “Why would we be taking from one of yours? Where would be the sense of that?”

  “Taking?” Dame Alys repeated blankly.

  Sir Reynold flung a hand toward the outer door. “The carts are somewhere. They’re coming. That’s where most of the men are, guarding them. We brought Godard on ahead but they’ll be here. Fo
od. Fodder. What you’ve been asking for. What I promised.”

  Domina Alys grabbed his arm and jerked him around to face her. “What do you mean ‘taking’?”

  Sir Reynold jerked loose from her hold. “They’re not likely to give it, are they?”

  “Nor sell it,” said Master Porter from their other side, “because what good is money if there’s no food to buy with it once yours is sold?”

  Frevisse had seen the master mason come in, sidling behind the gathered servants near the door and joining Sir Reynold’s men without drawing anyone’s particular notice. He was a short man, squared and solid as one of his own stone blocks and looking the shorter among the tall Godfreys around him, still wearing his coarse workman’s apron and with stone dust graying his hands, hair, and clothing to set him more apart, but he showed no sense that he was less than anyone there as he looked assessingly at Sir Reynold and added with what came perilously near contempt, “Not that you likely offered to pay.”

  “There’d have been no point in my offering, would there?” Sir Reynold returned. Frevisse guessed that they had confronted each other before and not enjoyed the encounter. “And why pay when they give readily enough if they’re left no choice? Besides, it was only the one fool that gave trouble. Fifteen armed men in his yard and he tells us no. What did he think was going to happen when he did for Godard?”

  “Eh, well,” Master Porter said, cocking his head, “people tend to take it badly when you go stealing from them when they don’t have enough to start with.”

  “If they can’t hold on to it, why should they keep it?” Sir Reynold asked back sharply.

  “So they can be alive come next spring to grow you some more! The starved dead won’t work. Or the unpaid,” he added at Domina Alys.

  She started to answer, chewed air a moment, bit down on whatever she had been about to say, and turned on Sir Reynold instead, snapping at him, “That’s none of it to the point now. There’s no way we can keep the crowner and the sheriff out of this, and once they’re in it, the abbot will know and then the bishop, and what am I supposed to say about you being here and that girl and everything else?”