The Bishop’s Tale

by Margaret Frazer

  Frevisse nodded. She had seen that. She wished she could more clearly remember where the others had been around the room, what they were doing before the second attack, what their faces had betrayed of their feelings. She crossed herself. “As if God had begun to remove his hand from him, and then struck him down after all.” She shivered with memory. “Did he say anything before then that I didn’t hear? Anything so unrepentant, or…” She hesitated. “… so blasphemous there was no salvation for him?”

  “There was no repentance or fear of God in him at all. He was himself, ill-tempered and demanding as always.” Sir Philip paused, then added, “Perhaps that was what brought God’s final anger down on him. That even so plainly warned, he saw no error in his ways.”

  Drawn along that path of thought, Frevisse quoted, “ ‘What, do you think your life was given to you forever, and the world’s goods with it?”“

  “ ‘Nay, nay, they were only loaned to you, and in a while will go to another,”“ Sir Philip answered.

  It was a game Frevisse loved, and she was good at it; but this time she had to admit, “I know the quotation but don’t remember the source.”

  “It’s from Everyman” Sir Philip said. “I’ve never seen it performed, but your uncle had a copy of it.”

  The chapel door opened quietly on its well-oiled hinges, and Jevan Dey came out. He paused at the sight of them, then closed the door and bowed. The lamplight in the antechamber was as dim as yesterday, but where its shadows obscured Sir Philip’s ruined face, they deepened the tense, exhausted lines around Jevan’s mouth and eyes, making him look more nearly his uncle’s age than his own. “My lady,” he said to Frevisse, then turned to Sir Philip. “I thank you for giving my uncle his final absolution. We were all too… stunned to ask for that. For his soul’s sake, my thanks. If he comes to peace at last, it’s by your hand.”

  “And God’s will,” Sir Philip said. “But for your kind words, thanks.” He gestured toward the chapel. “I’ll pray for him whenever I can.”

  Jevan’s smile was taut. “There’ll be few others who’ll come willingly. He made himself disliked. And his death has made people afraid even to be near his corpse.”

  “At least there’s someone with him now,” Frevisse said.

  Jevan shrugged. “I doubt prayers will aid his soul. If ever any man was damned directly to hell, it was Sir Clement. But he appreciated the forms. When it suited him. My own presence beside him this while is the last thing he can require of me.”

  He chopped his sentences as if following a thought all the way through were difficult for him. It was weariness rather than grief lining his face so deeply, Frevisse decided.

  Sir Philip said, “But you can go rest now, can’t you? You’ve done enough for this day, I think.”

  “I want to find Guy. He should be here, too. For form’s sake, if nothing else. He’s Sir Clement’s heir.”

  “And you?” Frevisse asked. Jevan was Sir Clement’s nephew, too, and surely heir to something.

  Jevan’s attempt at a smile made sharp, unamused angles in the lines around his mouth. “I’m Sir Clement’s dog. If he had his will in this, I’d have my throat cut and be buried at his feet. That would have pleased him more than my prayers.”

  He was too tired for any pretense, Frevisse thought, or for clear thinking. Food and rest and the wearing off of shock would be the best things for him now. As he bowed and moved to leave, she said, “If you see Robert Fenner without Sir Walter near”—Jevan would understand—“please tell him I’d be glad of a chance to talk with him once more before he leaves.”

  “Certainly, my lady. My lord.” He bowed to them again, and left.

  “If you’ll pardon me,” Sir Philip said with a bow of his own, “I’ll go with him, I think, to be sure he eats and does indeed sleep tonight, rather than coming back here to pray again.”

  “He had no fondness for Sir Clement, so it’s doubly to his credit to do what he’s doing,” Frevisse said.

  “But that makes it no less tiring. Doing right from a sense of duty is more wearing than doing it from affection.”

  “And so has greater merit.”

  “Truly,” Sir Philip agreed. “By your leave, my ladies.” He bowed and left them.

  To Dame Perpetua, still silently standing to one side, Frevisse said, “I suppose we should go to Aunt Matilda now.” For her, in this, affection and duty together were going to be equally wearing; she wished someone was going to bid her have her supper, then go to bed and be done with the day.

  But no one was likely to. Resigned to that, she led the way toward her aunt’s parlor.

  Robert Fenner met them at the foot of the stairs. “Jevan said you wanted to see me,” he said, with no more greeting than a quick bow and a glance over his shoulder toward the hall. “Sir Walter is not pleased to be among those left to each other’s company in the hall. He hoped for a chance to talk with his worship, the earl of Suffolk.” His tone caught both Sir Walter’s arrogance and his own ridicule of it.

  “And lacking that pleasure, he’s spreading his discontent wherever he best can,” Frevisse said.

  “As ever,” Robert agreed. “So I can’t be gone long.”

  Understanding the hint, Frevisse asked directly, “What do you know about Sir Philip’s relationship to Sir Clement?”

  “The priest? Your uncle’s household priest? Nothing.”

  “It’s said his father was a villein of Sir Clement’s father. Basing, I think the name was.”

  “Ah!” Robert nodded. “I know the common gossip there. Basing bought his freedom with his wife’s money, and then went on to increase her small fortune to a larger one and set the sons he had by her in places well above villeinage.”

  “Sons?” Frevisse asked.

  “Two of them, if I remember rightly. The priest and another one. I don’t know about the second one. But I do remember talk that Sir Clement liked to claim the purchase from villeinage had not been valid and that father and sons were both still his property.”

  “The father is still alive?”

  “I think not.”

  “But both sons are alive.”

  “I suppose so. I haven’t heard otherwise.”

  “And how valid is this claim of Sir Clement’s?”

  “Probably not at all or he would have pursued it, I suppose. Or maybe he had more pleasure in holding the claim over the sons’ heads, threatening to bring it down on them whenever he chose and meanwhile enjoying drawing out the torture?”

  “Not a pleasant man.”

  “You’ve only to know what he’s done to Jevan to be sure of that.”

  “What has he done to Jevan?”

  “Everything where he should have left him alone, and nothing where he should have done something. Sir Clement’s sister married less well than Sir Clement thought she should have and completely against his wishes. It might have been all right if her husband had lived long enough to make good on his small inheritance. By all accounts he was clever and capable enough, and he looked to be becoming a competent wool merchant. But he died with his affairs all tangled in investments that needed his close eye, and without him, when all was said and done, there was little left. His wife barely outlived him, and Sir Clement seized on Jevan. There were relatives on the father’s side who would have taken him and been glad of it, but Sir Clement had rank and power, and he’s used Jevan like a servant ever since, to punish him for his mother’s ‘sin’ in going against Sir Clement’s wishes in her marriage.”

  “But he’s still Sir Clement’s nephew. He’ll inherit something now, surely.”

  Robert shook his head. “The properties are all entailed in the male line. Everything goes to Guy because his grandfather was Sir Clement’s father’s brother, if I remember it rightly. Sir Clement reminded Jevan of his lack of expectation frequently and with pleasure.”

  “God is too merciful; he waited too long to strike Sir Clement down,” Frevisse said, then quickly crossed herself. “God forgive m
e.”

  Dame Perpetua crossed herself, too; but Robert said, “You’re not the only one who’s said that, nor do I doubt you’ll be the last.”

  “I saw him die,” Frevisse said. “I at least should be more careful of my words.” But at the same time her mind was beginning to trace a path among the things she had been learning. “Then Guy is some sort of cousin to Sir Clement, not a nephew. And he’s cousin to Jevan, too. Will he deal more justly with him than Sir Clement did?”

  “I gather that Guy despises him for a lickspittle, never mind Jevan had small choice in the matter. Jevan has no hopes from him. Or from the other way, either.”

  “The other way?”

  Robert smiled sadly, with memories of his own. “Lady Anne, Sir Clement’s ward. Jevan has never said it directly, but you have only to watch him to see he cares for her. I doubt she knows. Between her love for Guy and her fear that Sir Clement might take her for himself, she’s had little time to think of other loves. But that’s over now, God be thanked, and she and Guy will be free to marry, I suppose. Poor Jevan is out of everything, but it’s a suitable enough marriage, all ways—in rank and fortune and affection.”

  Remembering what she had overheard and seen among the three of them yesterday, Frevisse said with some gentleness, “So Sir Clement’s death is boon to Lady Anne and Guy at least.”

  “And to a great many others,” Robert said. “He dearly loved trouble for its own sake. Good my lady, I have to go back or there’ll be trouble for me and not of Sir Clement’s making.”

  “Go quickly. I’m sorry I kept you so long. And thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome.” He smiled again; Frevisse could remember when there had been real joy in his smile, not this pretense he made of it now. “Pray for me, my lady.”

  Frevisse, who rarely touched anyone, took hold of his arm for a moment, her eyes on his to make her words go more deeply. “Always. Go with God, Robert, whatever happens.”

  He bowed too quickly for her to read his expression, caught her hand in his own and kissed it, then turned and left without lifting his gaze to her again.

  “I’ll pray for him, too,” Dame Perpetua said in the silence after he was gone.

  Frevisse nodded. “He’s in need.”

  “As are we all.” Dame Perpetua’s simple certainty let what seemed too easily a mindless platitude be the plain truth that it was.

  Frevisse felt suddenly grateful for Dame Perpetua’s quiet, steady presence.

  Chapter 11

  Dame Perpetua left Frevisse at the door to the parlor. “I am not needed here, nor do I want to go in. I’d rather go to bed, by your leave.” Wishing she could go with her, Frevisse gave Dame Perpetua the small bundle to take with her, out of the way. Frevisse had guessed by its feel that it held a book and was curious what Chaucer had so particularly wanted to give her. But she meant to find a better time and place to open the bundle than now and did not wish to draw attention to it by carrying it with her into the parlor. She drew a deep breath, then went in.

  The room was even more full of people than the evening she had arrived and, like then, most of them were strangers to her. Aunt Matilda and Bishop Beaufort sat near the fireplace, with Alice at her mother’s side and her husband Suffolk at the bishop’s, all in low-voiced conversation with various guests. Master Gallard, hovering just inside the door, bowed to her and said under the general murmur of conversation, “My lady your aunt has been asking after you. You’ll go at once to join her?”

  Eyes kept modestly down, Frevisse eased her way around the edge of the room and people. The conversation she overheard as she went was mostly general, about the wet summer and the small harvest, a new cut for houppelande sleeves, a fragment of an anecdote about Chaucer, an admiring comment on his son-in-law Suffolk. Only once did someone mention death in her hearing, to be quickly cut off by his companion with a nod her way, so that she was not sure whose death he had spoken of. It seemed that here at least politeness was holding back avid talk within her hearing about Sir Clement, and she reached her aunt without being drawn into conversation with anyone.

  Matilda, gray with grief, reached out to take her hand and draw her down to kiss her cheek in greeting. “Thank you, my dear, for coming to my comfort. I know you’ve had a difficult day, too.”

  Frevisse kept a warm hold on her hand. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Matilda drew her nearer to whisper in her ear, “Find a way to end this soon.” She smiled wanly as she spoke, because they both knew that the evening, like the day, had to take its course. Tomorrow all the remaining guests would leave, and the family could settle to finding their places in their grief. In the meanwhile, the present necessity of gracious hospitality had to be endured. Frevisse squeezed her hand in sympathy and moved to stand behind her, next to Alice, to become part of the polite flow of condolence and comments of people coming to speak to the bereaved family. She avoided even a glance at Bishop Beaufort.

  Near the widow there were only kind words about Chaucer or mild reminiscences of happier times shared with him. But from where she stood, Frevisse easily saw the occasional excited hand movement or scandalized head-shaking mixed with uneasy but avid looks quickly curtailed.

  It was no more than she had expected. They had seen a man call down God’s judgment on himself and then receive it. Because it had fallen on someone so obviously worthy of his terrifying death, they could afford excitement rather than fear, and indulge in righteous discussions of God’s wonders.

  Frevisse’s gaze flickered sideways and down to Bishop Beaufort’s profile to the left of Alice. His voice and subdued movements were perfectly suited to the occasion, shaded to the finest degree of dignity and sorrow. To watch him was to believe there was nothing on his mind but the comfort of the bereaved and courtesy to their guests.

  Frevisse knew better. He had succeeded among the harsh realities of the royal court for most of his life; he must perceive a great deal more of what went on around him than others did, and understand it more deeply than most would find comfortable to think on or to live with.

  But her uncle had counted Bishop Beaufort not just as his cousin but as his dear friend. It had not been their abilities that differed but their ambitions. Chaucer, knowing how much she would need them, had trusted Beaufort with his last words to her. She had always trusted Chaucer more completely than she had ever trusted anyone else. And he had trusted Bishop Beaufort.

  Assuredly the bishop was correct that Sir Clement’s had been an odd death. God could take life in any way he chose, and it had become so common to see his will in any unexplained or sudden death that churchly scholars had been obliged through the centuries to point out that not all such deaths came directly from God’s hand. But even so, why had this death been given this way—not simply the agony to breathe, the red disfiguring of his face and arms, the final strangling—but that strange relenting before the end, as if God had given only a glancing blow at first and then, when his warning was not taken, when Sir Clement showed no sign of comprehension or repentance, struck the fatal one?

  Was that the right of it? And had it been done here, at Ewelme, in front of so many people, to be a public example to other sinners? But most of the people who saw him first struck down had not seen him die, so the example had been weakened, if example had been intended.

  A shifting of people near the door brought her gaze around to see Sir Philip entering. He paused just inside to speak closely to Master Gallard, the little man nodding repeatedly to whatever the priest was saying before answering something back. Sir Philip shook his head, touched the usher’s shoulder as if in reassurance, and went out again.

  Frevisse glanced at Bishop Beaufort to see his eyes shifting away from the doorway. By his bland facade, he might have seen nothing of interest, except his eyes slipped sideways to meet hers, as if wondering if she had seen them, too; then he was answering some comment from the earl of Suffolk as if he had never had his attention anywhere else.


  Looking over his head and across the room, Frevisse glimpsed the physician who had attended Sir Clement’s death. With an abrupt wish for something besides fruitless speculation, she slipped sideways away from Matilda and Alice and made her way through the crowd toward him. He moved away to talk with another man as she neared him, but she followed to the room’s far end and stood a little aside from them, her head modestly down and her hands folded into her sleeves in an attitude of waiting, where he must surely notice she wanted to speak to him.

  But overhearing their conversation about the weather and their relief that the chance of plague was gone now that the weather had turned cold, she remembered his name and was able, when he turned from the other man to her, to say, “Master Broun, I was wondering if I might speak to you about—”