Alice looked back to her. “You’ve heard nothing? Not anything?”
‘Nothing about anything,“ Frevisse said. ”Not from“— she cast a glance at Joliffe—”Master Noreys. Not from your men while we rode together.“
Alice looked down at her hands gripping each other in her lap. “I told them they weren’t to say anything. I never thought they’d hold so well to it.” She lifted her eyes to Frevisse, took a deep, unsteady breath, and said, “I sent for you because I was afraid of what Suffolk was going to do. Now he’s done it. He’s going to murder five men tomorrow, including Gloucester’s son.”
For a long moment Frevisse sat utterly still, until with rigid effort she could hold her voice level before she asked, “Where? How?”
‘At Tyburn. They’re to be executed. As traitors.“
Meaning they would be hung by the neck until insensible but not dead, then be taken down, brought conscious, and gutted—sliced open by the executioner’s knife and their entrails lifted out—alive long enough to know what was being done to them before they died in pain, ugliness, stench, and blood.
Sickened, Frevisse was barely able to breathe to ask, “How… did this happen?”
Alice turned her gaze helplessly to Joliffe who said, “Yesterday Suffolk, in the king’s name, sat in judgment on them as traitors complicit in Gloucester’s alleged plot against the king. The lawyers pretended to trade arguments. The accused were found guilty and sentenced to death.”
‘On what proof?“
‘Proof?“ Joliffe returned, as if dismayed at the thought of it. ”Suffolk named the charge against them, was their judge, and gave the sentence. What did proof have to do with it?“
Alice softly moaned. Frevisse pressed a hand over hers without looking away from Joliffe and asked, “Who besides Arteys is to die?”
‘Two of Gloucester’s knights and two of his squires, all arrested at Bury.“
‘The others that were arrested there?“
‘Quietly let go.“
‘Then might there be mercy for Arteys and the others?“ she asked and followed Joliffe’s gaze as he shifted it to Alice, who whispered, ”No.“
‘Suffolk needs them guilty,“ Joliffe said. ”There’s been constant outcry and talk against him ever since Gloucester’s death, especially here in London. People refuse to believe Gloucester was a traitor. They say he was murdered and that it was Suffolk’s doing. Suffolk means to show he’s in the right by claiming that Gloucester was treasonous because, look, five of his men are going to die for it.“
Frevisse turned her look to Alice, wanting her denial.
‘Yes,“ said Alice. ”I think that’s what he’s thinking.“
‘But I think he also wants, more particularly, to be rid of Arteys, who—besides being of royal blood and don’t think that doesn’t enter into Suffolk’s consideration—knows too much,“ Joliffe said. At Frevisse’s glance at Alice, he added, ”She knows. Bishop Peacock told her.“
That was who was missing in this. “Where is he? Hasn’t he been able to do anything?” Though what, she did not know.
As if it were a particularly bitter jest, Joliffe answered, “Our good bishop is in disgrace for a sermon he shouldn’t have preached at St. Paul’s Cross”—London’s most public place for sermons and other speaking out— “and has been sent to his bishopric in Wales to think things over. Or at least wait out the outrage.”
‘What did he preach that could bring on all that?“
‘About other bishops and some points of theology he wanted to make clear. Unfortunately, he made them clear enough for people to be angry about it and the archbishop suggested he should leave for a time. Hence, he’s not here.“
‘Even if he was, he couldn’t help,“ Alice said. ”Suffolk means for Arteys to be dead to keep him from ever telling about the murder attempt.“
“Why didn’t Arteys tell it at the trial?” Frevisse asked. “What was there to lose then?”
‘Tell what?“ Joliffe asked back. ”That he’d killed a man who was trying to kill Gloucester? There’s the dead man to prove Arteys killed him, but where’s proof the man tried to kill Gloucester? We believe Arteys because we tracked down some proofs to what he said, but do you think Suffolk would ever allow those proofs? He’d deny everything and Arteys would be left with a confession of murder and die for that if not the other.“
‘But—“
‘Personally,“ Joliffe went on, ”rather than be dishonestly killed for something I’d done, I’d rather go to the gallows honestly declaring I was innocent of what I was being executed for.“ In the same level voice he added, ”We’ve been trading letters with Bishop Pecock, though. It’s useful to be the lady of Suffolk with messengers to send to bishops and for nuns.“
‘And because Bishop Pecock can’t come, you’ve brought me instead?“ Frevisse asked sharply. ”For what? To be here when Arteys is killed?“
‘No.“ Joliffe met her anger quietly. ”To stop him being killed. Him and the others.“
‘How?“ She turned on Alice. ”Just how am I supposed to do that? If anyone can change Suffolk’s mind, it would be you.“
Alice moved her head stiffly from side to side, denying that. “He won’t hear me. He won’t heed me. There’s been far more trouble than he thought there’d be for Gloucester’s death. Far more anger than he expected and all of it at him. He’s…” She paused over the word, then said it. “… frightened.”
‘And if we’re to stop what he means to do to Arteys and the others,“ Joliffe said, ”he has to be made more frightened.“
Wariness overtook Frevisse’s anger as she looked back and forth between him and Alice. “That’s what you’ve brought me here to do?”
‘I can’t let my husband do this to himself,“ said Alice. ”If he executes those men like this, it’s murder. I can’t let him put that sin on his soul.“
Suffolk’s soul was not high among Frevisse’s concerns just now but Arteys and the men condemned with him were. She looked back to Joliffe. “What is it I’m going to do?”
Joliffe smiled for the first time she had seen today. A wide, warm smile of deepest pleasure as he said, “What you’re going to do is lie as you’ve never lied before.”
Chapter 25
The day’s long end was a warm rose across the western sky above the vanished sun’s fading trail of gold. The gardens of Suffolk Place were already softening in a blue twilight that would be darkness soon, and the couples and few other people who had gone out to walk in them were drifting back toward the house as the evening damp came on. Standing high above them, at the window in the solar off Alice’s bedchamber, Frevisse watched them and the sunset’s fading and thought how far in more than miles she was from the winter-bare gardens at St. Edmund’s Abbey.
She had gone to Bury St. Edmunds to serve Bishop Beaufort’s purposes because, even dying, he could not let go of worldly matters. Now, because of Suffolk’s worldly ambitions, she was here to keep five men alive. If she failed, Arteys would die. If she fell into trouble, there was no one who could help her in her turn. Not Joliffe, surely. He could be smashed by Suffolk as easily as Arteys had been. Nor Bishop Pecock. What slight place and power his bishopric gave were forfeit for the present and had never been enough for him to go openly against Suffolk anyway, in this or any other matter.
And Alice? She was as bound to helplessness as any of them. She was married to Suffolk and, come good or ill, would go on being married to him, with too much to be lost—including her children—if she crossed him too openly, too deeply.
Waiting there at the window, watching the day’s end, Frevisse looked straight at the plain fact that there was no one but herself to do what needed to be done and no one to save Arteys—or her—if she failed. For her it would be a powerful man’s displeasure and probably being shut away into an unfamiliar nunnery under strict discipline among strangers for the rest of her life. For Arteys it would be death.
She was praying for courage and strength whe
n, behind her, the door across the room opened. Folding her hands with feigned quiet into her opposite sleeves and settling her face deliberately to show rather than hide her strain and deep-grown unease, she turned around.
The hope had been that Alice could persuade Suffolk to see her cousin the nun alone and Alice had succeeded. He stood in the doorway with no one in sight behind him as he looked around the chamber and said, “There’s no light. I’ll send for one.”
He started to turn away to whoever was in the other room but Frevisse said quickly, pitching her voice a little high and unsteady, “Please, no. I’d rather…” She let her voice falter. “Please… it’s better this way.”
Suffolk hesitated, shrugged, and came in, only half-closing the door as courtesy to her, that no one be able to say she had been shut away alone with a man. Still unsteadily, Frevisse said, “It would be better closed. Please.”
Suffolk’s look at her was harder this time. There was still sunset light enough through the window for her to see he did not like that. But he probably disliked being here at all. Alice had said, “I’ll persuade him to it by saying it’s for no more than a quarter hour. I’ll ask it as a favor to me, for my cousin who’s distressed at something, I don’t know what. He’ll give me a quarter hour.” Now here he was and impatient to have it done with, whatever it was. In the shorter doublet that was coming into fashion, high on the leg, with wide-puffed shoulders but tightly nipped in at wrists and waist—his present one in saffron yellow velvet trimmed with black at throat and hem—he was a goodly-looking man in his full prime of life but somewhat gone to flesh in the few months since Frevisse had last seen him. From gorging on ambitions and power, Frevisse thought, and oddly that made her fear slip aside, not leaving her but letting her anger come to the fore.
Carried by her anger, she sank toward the floor in a deep curtsy and stayed there, her head bowed in seemingly utter humility.
Suffolk crossed the room, took her by the elbow, and raised her up, saying, “There’s hardly need for that, dame. We’re kin by marriage, after all.”
But he liked her humility before him. His voice showed how much he liked it and the chance it gave him to show his graciousness and Frevisse kept her eyes down as she said, trying to sound overwhelmed by his goodness, “You’re very kind, my lord.”
‘If you will remember me in your prayers, then all is even between us.“
‘You are remembered in them, my lord.“ And that was true; she always prayed for Alice ”and all those dear to her,“ which Suffolk was or Alice would not be in such pain for him.
‘Then there we are. What is it you’d ask of me?“
His graciousness had not reached to asking her to sit. She supposed he saw it was enough he was a great lord condescending to her humble need and probably remained on his feet to remind her to be quick about her business, that he had more important matters in hand than her. That suited Frevisse very well and she raised her head, looked him directly in the face, and said, “I’ve come about the late duke of Gloucester’s will.”
His momentary silence betrayed he had not been ready for anything like that. She watched a quick shifting in his eyes before he said evenly, “I’m afraid the duke left no will, dame. I promise you it’s been a source of trouble to us all.”
The first part of that was probably a lie. The second part surely was. Without a will and with no legitimate heir of his body, everything that had been Gloucester’s— his fine manor at Eltham, every castle and piece of property he owned, all his offices from greatest to least, and any other wealth he had had, in whatever form—was left fair game for the taking by king, queen, lords, and anyone else able to jam a hand into the feeding trough before it emptied. The lack of a will had been no trouble.
The claim was that there never had been a will but Alice said there surely had. She had heard Gloucester speak of it herself a few years back at some court gathering when there had been talk of books and he had said his many, well-loved books were mostly willed to the university at Oxford. Closer yet, the abbot of St. Albans Abbey, where Gloucester’s body had been taken for burial, was asking for the money he claimed Gloucester had willed for his chantry there, for prayers and Masses for his soul forever.
‘There was a will someplace, at some time,“ Alice had said this afternoon in the garden.
‘But there isn’t one now,“ said Joliffe, ”and Suffolk doubtless wants to keep it that way. That’s what brought Bishop Pecock to think of this chance.“
And in the room’s deepening twilight, with her back to the window so she could see Suffolk’s face better than he could see hers, Frevisse said stiffly, “Of course the duke left a will and I know where there’s a copy of it.”
Suffolk started what looked to be a sharp denial but stopped himself, paused, then said very gracefully, very firmly, “That seems unlikely, dame.”
Looking straight into his eyes, she said, “I know there is because I have it. Signed by his grace’s own hand and sealed with his own seal.”
Suffolk gave a short, ungracious bark of laughter. “There are easier ways to persuade me to give your nunnery a gift than by extortion.”
That his first thought was of extortion betrayed a great deal about him, but evenly—surprisingly evenly, considering how tightly she was holding in her anger— Frevisse said back at him, “This isn’t for my nunnery. It’s for me.”
Suffolk looked less gracious now. “Why would you have a copy of the duke of Gloucester’s will?”
‘Because his grace knew no one would look for it in my keeping.“
‘It’s at your nunnery?“
‘It’s elsewhere, of course.“ Let him understand she was not stupid, that he was not the only well-witted one here. ”And there are papers with it that explain everything, should anything unexpected happen to me.“
An old bluff, Joliffe had said, but ever a good one. She could see Suffolk assessing it before he said, “That doesn’t explain why you have it.”
Meeting his angry gaze with feigned defiance mingled with equally feigned shame, Frevisse gave the lie on which everything depended. “I have Gloucester’s will because I was his mistress. And mother of his son.”
She had the satisfaction of seeing Suffolk’s jaw fall, and just as Joliffe had schooled her, she waited three beats before going on, hardening her voice a little, “My lord wanted me to be assured our son was well provided for. Arteys. One of the men you mean to kill tomorrow.”
Suffolk sputtered into laughter, choked on it, and shook his head, protesting, “You? My wife’s most-holy cousin? The blessed nun? You’re the bastard’s mother?”
For a heart-dropping moment Frevisse thought the lie had failed but, laughing, Suffolk demanded, “Does she know? Does Alice know what you are?”
‘What I was,“ Frevisse said stiffly. ”Years ago.“
‘Yes.“ Suffolk eyed her assessingly. ”I’d suppose so.“ He laughed again. ”Gloucester’s mistress. A nun. Who would have thought it?“
His scorn was hardly suitable, considering he had never made secret his own bastard daughter was by a nun he had seduced in France. Coldly Frevisse said, “About the will. And about a pardon for my son in exchange for my keeping it secret.”
Suffolk’s laughter vanished, a dark anger taking its place. “Yes,” he said coldly back at her. “About this will.”
Chapter 26
Brought last out of the prison into the walled yard, with time to wait while they finished strapping down Sir Roger, Arteys turned his face up to the sunlight, wanting to feel its warmth against his flesh rather than the cold terror cramped in his stomach or the weight of the wide iron manacles at his wrists and ankles, the drag of chains, and the screaming at the back of his mind that this wasn’t happening, wasn’t happening, wasn’t…
Eyes desperately closed against the courtyard full of staring people, he tilted his head back to the summer-morning sky and willed himself to feel only the sunlight, think only the sunlight.
The clop of ho
ofs and the scrape of wood on cobbles told him Sir Roger was being dragged forward and he opened his eyes as the guards on either side of him took him by the upper arms and pushed him the little distance to the hurdle being horse-drawn to place in front of him. Everything was come down to that, he thought. To little and to last. To a last summer’s morning. A last few steps. A little while until he was dead.
He pulled his mind off from that. Think of something else, he told himself. Think of here and now and what. Not the guard fumbling at the manacles around his ankles. The horse-drawn hurdle waiting in front of him. See it. Think about it. A willow-woven piece of fencing a few feet wide and a little longer than a man was tall. Hurdles were made that way, light-weight for easy shifting around pastures but this one had a wood frame under it to give somewhere to attach the horse’s harness and to give it strength, to keep it from falling apart while being dragged through London. With him on it.
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