Servant’s Tale

by Margaret Frazer

  Sister Fiacre had been a dangerous chance-taking. But Meg had watched a woman die of a cancerous breast and knew how long the dying went on. Sister Fiacre was a holy woman, dealing with holy objects every day and saying how sometimes when praying she could feel herself surrounded by the love of God and His holy saints. She had never hurt anyone or sinned very deeply; surely God had not meant for her to suffer so hard for very long. And by showing herself holy and kind to Meg, God’s plan for her dying was made clear to Meg. Surely God would not have put Sister Fiacre so plainly in her path if He hadn’t meant her to ease her dying.

  It had been no difficulty getting the ax. It was there in the kitchen, and she had been using it for killing chickens for the priory’s pies—she had never learned the knack of wringing their necks, she had always had need of the ax. A single stunning blow with the blunt end, and then two with the sharp, to make sure. No one had thought a thing when they had seen her washing it off, after.

  And Hewe. She was sorry he had been so afraid. She hadn’t wanted him afraid but her fear for him had been greater. If he had gone away with the players, they would have corrupted him and he would have ended damned forever. She knew God wanted him for a priest, but he seemed set on wandering from his appointed path into sinfulness. There had been only the one way to save him, to make him safe despite himself.

  She had taken him to his brother and left him there to pray, and gone to the kitchen for the knife and to the church for the priest things. Hewe had not understood, not even when he saw the altar things and vestments. Not understood until she had explained it to him, and made him kneel and swear he was God’s servant before anyone else’s, and pray in contrition for absolution, there at the altar she had made. She had brought all the proper things to make it a true altar. He had understood then that she was saving him. He had understood and was glad of it. She knew he was glad, because she had seen his repenting tears falling when she bent to be sure of her stroke across his throat.

  So much worrying about her family, for so very long. And now, so simply, it was done and they were safe.

  Meg looked up at the sky, tilting her head to feel the soft snow fall on her cheek. It was odd to be so warm out in the cold, but they had given her a cloak, heavy wool and double weight, because it was a long ride to Banbury, Dame Frevisse had said.

  Meg had never been there, of course, but it did not seem to matter now that she was going. She knew why she had to go, and that she would not be coming back. She was quite clear on that, but it hardly mattered. She had done what needed doing. She was tired; they could take her where they wanted, it no longer mattered. Everything was settled and there would be a priest there for her. The angry, fox-faced man, the crowner, had promised her that. So, with one thing and another, it would not be so very long, she thought, until she was safe, too.

  Hoofbeats of Montfort’s departing horse were muffled by the thin snow lying on the yard. Arms wrapped about herself as if for warmth, though Domina Edith’s parlor was as warm as might be, Frevisse stood watching from the window as they went out through the gateway, dark shapes formless in cloaks, only Meg’s white headcloth making her different from the men around her, and then all of them gone and the yard empty.

  Everyone was gone now. The players had left at daybreak, with hope of making Oxford tomorrow in time for the Twelfth Night revels. The guesthalls were empty and she had no duties there until more guests came. Frevisse felt hollow and cold, and no thoughts or fire seemed likely to fill or warm her anytime soon.

  “But how did she get those things out of the church without being seen?” asked Dame Claire.

  “Who notices servants?” asked Domina Edith.

  Dame Frevisse nodded. “And the only people in the church were Dame Perpetua and Sister Amicia, concentrating on their prayers over Sister Fiacre. At most, they noticed it was Meg, not what she was doing.”

  Domina Edith, standing beside her, turned away shaking her head. “All that happening inside the woman and we never knew it.”

  “Until too late,” Frevisse said. Her words sounded dull in her ears, hollow like the rest of her. “I was too late.”

  Domina Edith had accepted Dame Claire’s arm and begun moving toward her chair, but she paused and reached out to lay her thin, veined hand on Frevisse’s arm. “You were sooner than any of us,” she said gently.

  “I should have—” Known something. Seen something. Guessed something. Not been so involved with proving one man innocent or in scoring against Montfort that she did not see the pattern behind it all. “I should have known,” she insisted.

  “That’s pride, Dame, and a sin. How would you have known?”

  Frevisse met Domina Edith’s aged eyes and was held silent by them, trying to see into herself the way the prioress seemed to. She finally said, “I don’t know.”

  “Nor does anyone else but God. What’s in your hand?”

  Frevisse had forgotten she was holding anything. Now at Domina Edith’s gentle question she brought her hand in front of her and opened her fingers to show a few pieces of dried orange peel. “Father Henry found them on the hearthstones by Meg’s fire when he went to her cottage to bring what few things she might need in Banbury. He wasn’t sure what they were but brought them to her, and she gave some to me when I last spoke with her. She said—”

  Domina Edith and Dame Claire waited but Frevisse shook her head. Later she might be able to repeat Meg’s saying, “Take some for a remembrance of me.” But not now.

  Domina Edith moved away to her chair, leaning on Dame Claire’s arm. “She spoke with Father Henry, too?” she asked.

  Dame Claire answered that. “She confessed to him last night. She was very insistent that she must.”

  “I would suppose so,” Domina Edith sighed, sinking down into her chair.

  “But not about the deaths,” Dame Claire said.

  “And how would you be knowing that?” Domina Edith asked.

  “Because she told me when I took her the sleeping draught to give her one night’s rest before we gave her over into Master Montfort’s keeping.”

  “She seemed to want everyone to be very sure no trouble came from her one sin,” Frevisse said. “She told me, too.”

  “Her one sin?” Disbelief and questioning were in Domina Edith’s voice.

  Frevisse nodded. “She lied about seeing Joliffe near the church the day Sister Fiacre died. She said it because she wanted him to suffer something for hurting Sym. But lying is a sin and she wished to confess it. Father Henry refused her absolution, of course, because she is not penitent over the murders.”

  Domina Edith sighed and looked down at her lap. “They’ll hang her in Banbury, shriven or not.”

  “They will,” Frevisse agreed, looking down at her own folded hands.

  Meg’s holding would probably go to Gilbey Dunn, her cottage and goods to someone in the village.

  And the only words Frevisse had had with the players before they left for Oxford were of cheerful thanks and farewells and half a promise to come this way again sometime.

  Meanwhile… She raised her head and said, “Sister Thomasine was coughing in the cloister walk this morning. I think she’s taken the rheum.”