Sins of the Blood

by Margaret Frazer

  There, in a privacy St. Benedict had never intended, each nun had her own bed, a chest for belongings, often even a carpet, and assuredly more small comforts than the Rule even at its laxest allowed. In Frevisse’s, one wall was hung with a tapestry come from her grandmother’s mother, its figures stiff, their clothing strange, but the colors rich and the picture a rose garden with the Lover seeking his Holy Love. Across from it, beside her bed, there was a small but silver crucifix her father had brought from Rome.

  It was all lost in near-darkness now. Through each night the only light for all the dorter was a single small-burning lamp at the head of the stairs down to the church, and sometimes moonlight slanting through the gable window.

  As a novice, Frevisse had slept badly. She had been uncomfortable with the hard mattress and with sleeping in her undergown as the Rule required, had been disturbed by the water gurgling through the necessarium at the dorter’s other end, and at being roused at midnight to go to the church for Matins and Lauds.

  Finally, over the years, she had learned to use her lying awake for prayer, or meditation, or remembering, or simply thinking. Now, waking in the night was no longer a burden but a gift for which she was often grateful.

  With the last whisper of the dream drifted out of her mind, she lay looking at the high gable window, trying to judge the time, but there was no familiar star or any moonlight, only the rich darkness of sky, so different in its satin gleam from the dead black of the dorter’s night. She pulled herself more closely into her blankets’ warmth, settling into her mattress’s familiar lumps. And found she could not settle. Whatever hour of the night it was, not only sleep but quietness had left her.

  She stirred restlessly, realizing she was fully awake. Why? She roamed through her mind and found she was wanting – for no good reason – to go and see how Lady Ermentrude was doing. And Thomasine.

  Not Thomasine, her mind protested wearily.

  Ever since the girl had come to St. Frideswide’s, the talk had been of how near to sainthood she already seemed to be; even Domina Edith felt the child’s holiness enough to be in awe of it. And surely it was a rare enough thing, especially in this less-than-holy time when women came all too often into the nunnery more because they were unfit for life outside it than because they longed for God’s life within it.

  For Thomasine, pretty and well-dowered, the nunnery was no necessity. She was here by her own plain choice, and there was no denying – no way to avoid seeing – how she flung herself at her devotions and duties with utter earnestness.

  The fact that so much earnestness wore on Frevisse’s nerves was her own failing, not Thomasine’s. But that did not change the fact that she had avoided the girl as much as might be this past year. Now her conscience was telling her that she was awake and not likely to sleep again and so ought to go and see how Lady Ermentrude and, yes, Thomasine were faring in these low-ebb hours before dawn.

  Clinging to her bed’s warmth a few moments more, Frevisse thought regretfully of how very rarely a sense of responsibility was convenient. Her own devotion to it came from her rarely convenient childhood. Carried along by her parents on their wanderings, she had learned responsibility as a kind of defense against their habitual lack of it, until now it had long since become a habit too strong to break. With a sigh for a virtue she often wished she did not have, she pushed her blankets away and rose into the darkness.

  By touch she dressed herself: Outer dress over the undergown she had worn to bed, feet into her damply cold shoes set in their prescribed place beside the bed, wimple and veil managed without need of a mirror after doing them so often in the dark of winter mornings. Then, doubting she would be back before breakfast, she folded her blankets neatly down to the foot of her bed as the rules required.

  The wooden curtain rings were nearly soundless as she left her cell. By the dormitory lamp and the one at the foot of the stairs she made her way into the cloister walk. There in the starlight, with no need for lamps, Frevisse paused, listening to the silence. The air was sweet with cold and the promise of a dawn not yet begun but near. The night seemed to breathe gently of its own where there was no harsher breeze to stir it. Around her the quiet stroked down the edge of nerves with which she had wakened. In her mind, to the silence, she breathed a prayer from one of the St. Gregorys.

  “Let me yield you today in its wholeness, no deed of darkness or shame to allow or to do, keeper of my own passions in service to you.”

  The guest hall was dark except for the low glow of coals on the hearth. By it Frevisse could make out a few sleeping forms humped on their pallets near what had been its warmth. Carefully she circled away from them, but someone raised his head to mumble at her questioningly.

  “Only Dame Frevisse,” she murmured back. “Benedicite.”

  He mumbled again and subsided. Frevisse scratched at Lady Ermentrude’s door and entered without waiting for an answer. Two lamps were burning there, one to either side of the bed, giving good light to watch the patient by while the partly drawn bed curtains kept it from her eyes. On a pallet beside the bed one of Lady Ermentrude’s women lay sleeping, softly snoring.

  Thomasine, at the prie-dieu in a corner, had turned as the door opened and was now rising from her knees. In the lamplight her young eyes were blurred with a need for sleep, but plainly she had been awake for a long while past. Frevisse noticed that she had not given herself even the comfort of a cushion under her knees and, with a small prayer for patience with her, went to the bedside.

  Thomasine joined her beside the bed; together, in silence, they stood looking at Lady Ermentrude.

  As nearly as Frevisse could judge in the lamplight and shadows, her color had faded to normal and her breathing was easy, as if she were merely sleeping instead of sunk in unconsciousness.

  “How long has she been this way?”

  “Since a little after Matins. She’s never wakened but I’ve thought her sleep was less deep.”

  “Thanks be to God.”

  Thomasine crossed herself. “Maryon didn’t think we needed to tell Dame Claire,” she added doubtfully.

  “No, I should think not, so long as her sleep is quiet and her breathing even.” Her assurance seemed to ease some worry in Thomasine. Frevisse moved away from the bed and Thomasine followed her. “Do you want to be here when she wakes or would you rather leave?” Frevisse asked softly. “Her mind may not be changed at all about taking you away. You can have a little sleep and I can watch until Dame Claire comes.”‘

  Thomasine shrank inside her habit. She whispered, “I want to be here when she wakens.”

  “I’ll tell her you kept watch by her most of the night, if that’s what you want her to know.”

  Thomasine shook her head. “I want to tell her I prayed for her life. Then surely she’ll see my prayers are worth far more to her than my marrying would be.”

  Frevisse privately doubted that Lady Ermentrude believed God would presume to thwart her own notions, but only said, “She may. It’s very possible.” And added to herself that in any case Lady Ermentrude, waking sober and feeling the worse for it, was unlikely to want to argue over anything very soon.

  “I’m going to pray some more,” Thomasine said doubtfully, as if asking permission. Frevisse nodded, but before Thomasine could turn away, Lady Ermentrude made a sudden, spasmed movement, half rolling to her side. The crucifix, dislodged from her pillow, slid to the floor with a clatter that in the nighttime quiet might as well have been a cannonade. Frevisse started at the noise; Maryon sat up on her pallet exclaiming and crossing herself. Thomasine stooped to snatch the crucifix up from the floor and kiss it, and as she straightened, she came level with the pillows and Lady Ermentrude’s protuberant eyes staring directly back into her own.

  Thomasine’s eyes widened with a kind of terror, and she jerked upright, crying, “Heaven bless me!”

  “Not so long as you disobey your elders, girl,” Lady Ermentrude croaked. But her gaze was uncertain, confused.


  She lost focus on Thomasine, her head moving feebly on the pillow as if she were trying to decide where she was. Maryon had risen from the pallet now but, while showing no eagerness to come near her, kept a steady eye on the proceedings. Thomasine, rooted in speechlessness, simply stood holding the crucifix out to her aunt. It was Frevisse who leaned over the bed to say gently, trying to draw her attention, “It’s all right, my lady. You’ve been ill but you’re better now. You’re safe in St. Frideswide’s.”

  Lady Ermentrude drew further in from the vague edge of consciousness and focused on her, blinking heavily. “Why are you all red? Why’s that thing all red?” She twitched one hand in feeble indication of the crucifix.

  Thomasine turned it toward herself, staring at it, bewildered. Frevisse, glancing at it, saw only its wood and the painted figure on it. “You mean His wounds?” she guessed.

  “No, I mean... I mean...” Lady Ermentrude licked dryly at her lips and lost the words.

  Frevisse quickly took up the goblet waiting to hand on the table. Careful not to jar her, she lifted Lady Ermentrude’s head slightly and held the cup to her lips. Lady Ermentrude drank, and when Frevisse had lowered her head to the pillow, her eyes went back to roaming the room. “It’s the light,” she croaked. “What are you burning in the lamp to make everything so red?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with the light. It must be your eyes. You’ve been ill and this must be some last effect. You’ll be all right when you’ve slept again.” Frevisse tried to make her guessing sound confident.

  Lady Ermentrude let her eyes close. Her lips worked at words that did not come, and then she was still. Not sleeping yet, though. Her fingers pulled restlessly at the bedcover, and Frevisse had the impression that rather than sleep she was working to gather her strength and wits back to herself.

  Carefully Frevisse looked at the waiting woman and whispered, “Please find someone to go for Dame Claire. And tell Lady Isobel her aunt has awakened. She’ll want to know.“

  Maryon nodded and left. Lady Ermentrude opened her eyes again and said faintly, “Where’s Thomasine?”

  “She’s nearby,” Frevisse said gently. “But never mind, you should try to rest.”

  “Rest.” Lady Ermentrude’s voice was a croaking whisper. “Where’s Thomasine? All’s lost in redness here. Whatever you burn in your lamps, you shouldn’t. Where’s Thomasine?”‘

  Frevisse surrendered and gestured at the girl.

  “Here, Aunt.” Thomasine moved closer, to where Lady Ermentrude could see her. “I’m here and I’ve been praying for you to recover.”

  Lady Ermentrude focused on her, blinking owlishly as if her eyes were tender. “Praying. Yes, praying is good.”

  “Would you care for something to eat?” Thomasine took up a bowl from beside the bed. “I have milk and bread with honey for you. It will soothe your throat.”

  Lady Ermentrude appeared to wander through her mind in pursuit of the words before saying, “Milk and honey. Yes.”

  Frevisse helped lift her a little higher on her pillows, then left Thomasine the task of feeding small spoonfuls into her great-aunt’s waiting mouth. For a few minutes there was only the sound of spoon on bowl, until Lady Ermentrude said, stronger, steadier, “Ah. That’s better.” She looked around herself as if seeing the room for the first time. “What is this place?”

  “Our guest hall’s best guest room,” Frevisse said.

  “St. Frideswide’s guest hall?” Lady Ermentrude’s voice scaled up with outraged disbelief. Her hand clawed down around Thomasine’s nearest wrist, nearly upsetting the bowl. “Have they made you a nun yet?”

  Thomasine’s mouth opened, but no sound came. Frevisse, against the girl’s panic, said soothingly, “There are days and days yet before Thomasine is to take her vows. You’ve time to rest, to sleep a little more.”

  “No, I will not sleep! I will not stay here! Neither of us will stay! I’ll have us both away from here!” She moved as if to push herself up on her pillows, letting go of Thomasine to do it. Thomasine stood quickly up out of her way and Frevisse moved between them.

  “You shouldn’t try to rise yet. You should rest awhile, I think–”

  “I want out of here! And I’m taking the girl with me, don’t try to stop us! That bitch Isobel and her dog of a husband tried to make a fool of me. They’re here, aren’t they? Don’t deny it, I saw them!”

  Frevisse said lightly, wishing she understood what the matter was, “They came directly after you, afraid something might happen to you.”

  “Afraid? By God’s great toe, I’ll show them how to be afraid! Where’s Thomasine gone now?”

  “I’m here, Great-aunt.” Thomasine, apparently recovering a little of her nerve, moved past Frevisse to where Lady Ermentrude could see her again.

  Lady Ermentrude gestured for the goblet again, took it for herself from Frevisse, and this time drank without help. But her gaze remained on Thomasine, her eyes unblinking. “They shall not make a nun of you,” she began. Then she frowned and seemed to lose the trail of her thinking. She sat peering into the depths of her goblet before pronouncing, “If this is supposed to be malmsey, the vintage is truly vile.”

  Frevisse said, “There’s medicine in it, to ease you.”

  Lady Ermentrude cocked a wary and increasingly alert eye at her. “I’ve been sick.”

  Frevisse refrained from saying, “You’ve been drunk as your own monkey.” She merely nodded.

  “But I’m better now. It’s Thomasine I must take care of. You’re not keeping her, you know. I’ve told you that.”

  “I will pray for you, Great-aunt, if I stay,” Thomasine offered.

  Against the vastness of Lady Ermentrude’s certainty and the wandering of her mind, it was a feeble attempt at argument, and Lady Ermentrude, even weak and lying back against her pillows, swept over it, saying, “We’re past the time for praying. It’s doing that’s needed. A great deal of doing.”

  “But not just yet, Great-aunt, while you’re still so ill.” Lady Isobel stood in the doorway, dressed only in her loose and flowing bedgown. Her fair hair spreading over her shoulders made her look hardly older than Thomasine. Only a tired grayness around her eyes showed she too had had little sleep.

  She spoke mildly, but Lady Ermentrude stiffened. She was one of the few people Frevisse had ever seen whose nostrils actually flared with anger; they flared now, and her breast heaved as she gathered force for her mounting anger. “I need no words from you, whore! Nor your presence. You lost your chance and it’s Thomasine’s now. When I have her out of here–”

  But anger was no substitute for strength. In an effort to raise herself on her elbows, the better to rage at Lady Isobel, she lost breath to finish and fell back gasping, ashen, against her pillows. Frevisse moved quickly, rescuing the tilting goblet from her loosened fingers as Thomasine sank to her knees, crying prayers beside the bed. Lady Isobel started forward but Frevisse moved more quickly, intercepting her and turning her back through the doorway, out of her great-aunt’s sight.

  * * * * *

  Thomasine suddenly found she was alone with the person she least wanted to face by herself. But she had seen enough to know that for now at least Lady Ermentrude could do nothing more than say words at her, and uncertainly she reached out with some idea of feeling for her pulse the way she had seen Dame Claire sometimes do with others. Lady Ermentrude, drawing deep breaths and steadying a little, jerked her hand away and gestured in feeble demand at the goblet.

  “Thirsty,” she croaked.

  Thomasine, in hope of the medicine sending her to sleep again, held the goblet to her lips. Lady Ermentrude gulped at it, seemed to revive a little, but did not try to rise again, only asked with a bitter edge of anger, “Your sister – where did she go?”

  Thomasine said, “Dame Frevisse took her away.”

  “That’s good. You stay away from her. She’s vile. She wouldn’t listen. You stay away from her.” Lady Ermentrude kicked feebly at the sheet. “I
want to go. Help me get up.”

  “No, Aunt, you’re supposed to stay here!”

  “God’s eyes! Don’t be telling me what I can do and not do! Help me up! Go fetch my women and tell them what I want. We’ll be out of here by dawn and halfway to Lincoln and the bishop before sunset. Go fetch my women!”

  Her hand had closed in a convulsive claw around Thomasine’s wrist, dragging her close to drive the words and wine smell into her face, but with her last order she flung her loose. Thomasine backed quickly out of reach and scurried for the door.

  But in the last instant she turned back to look and saw, to her horror, a small dark shapelessness flow from the shadows between the bed curtains and Lady Ermentrude’s pillows. As she watched, a narrow black stick came out of it, and suddenly there was a small, almost-human hand at the end of it, stretching, reaching, for Lady Ermentrude’s head. Thomasine gave a cry of terror and fled.

  * * * * *

  Frevisse patiently said again, to Sir John this time, come out in his bed robe to be sure all was well with his wife, “No, truly, she seems better. Muddled still, and weak, but very likely to live, I think. Unfortunately her temper is no better than it was.”

  “It is a shame, but very like her,” Lady Isobel said sadly. She was leaning wearily against her husband’s shoulder, his arm around her waist in support. “All this started before her drinking did yesterday. No, the day before yesterday now. But she drank all her medicine?”

  “She drank much of it and should sleep. Now if you’ll pardon me...”

  She meant to return to Thomasine, but Thomasine was suddenly there, catching urgently hold of her arm. “I saw,” the girl gasped. “I saw–” The word caught in her throat, then was cut off completely by a strangled, inarticulate cry from the room behind her, that scaled toward a wail and broke into a less-than-human caw of pain.