‘Nor was there reason why you should. No one told you, and though a lion may know a prince by instinct, as the old belief is, there’s nothing says a nun should know a bishop thus.“
‘And most bishops make instinct in the matter unnecessary,“ said Frevisse with a sideways look toward the purple-clad one now in the middle of the room.
‘My lord bishop of Chichester,“ Bishop Pecock said. ”Indeed, one is never left unknowing he’s a bishop.“ A thoughtful frown lined his brow. ”Though I sometimes wonder if God is perhaps a little doubtful, there being so little besides the gorgeous robes to show it.“
‘Who else is here?“ Dame Perpetua asked. ”Dame Frevisse has pointed out the Speaker of Parliament and his wife and we met the duke of York as we came in. Otherwise, save for you and now the bishop of Chichester, we don’t know anyone. Except Dame Frevisse’s cousin, of course.“
‘Your cousin?“ Bishop Pecock inquired politely of Frevisse.
‘Lady Alice of Suffolk,“ Frevisse said evenly.
Bishop Pecock’s look sharpened. “Young Joliffe didn’t mention that.”
‘Joliffe?“ Dame Perpetua asked.
‘One of the players,“ Frevisse said. ”He’s particularly befriended John these past few days.“ Though probably for other reasons than kindness to a child, she added bitterly to herself. To forestall other questions, she added, ”Our priory received a grant of property and we were advised to have it as strongly confirmed as might be. Our prioress therefore sent me, with Dame Perpetua, to my cousin for her help in having it done.“
Said easily, it sounded probable. A servant threading his way through the crowd with one of the silver pitchers refilled their goblets, and as Bishop Pecock began to oblige Dame Perpetua with telling her such of the guests as he knew, they joined in the slow shift and drift of people around the room. They met Alice passing among her guests, gracefully making certain all was well. She only nodded to Bishop Pecock, Frevisse, and Dame Perpetua as she passed, going on to pause with the Treshams and the several men now in talk with them before moving on again, taking Mistress Tresham with her. Behind her, Master Tresham said something to the two men with him, there were nods all around, and he left them, moving away toward the bedchamber.
Thus far, listening aside while Bishop Pecock talked, all Frevisse had overheard was the nothing-talk usual to an evening gathering of people variously acquainted, newly acquainted, or unaquainted. The only mention of Gloucester had been someone saying he was a fool but Frevisse had not heard why. The one thing certain was that there seemed to be no alarm that he would soon be here. People seemed more taken up with a bill in Parliament to reaffirm some old statutes against certain Welsh freedoms in North Wales, and with her curiosity getting the better of her, she drifted in Master Tresham’s wake toward the one remaining room, Bishop Pecock and Dame Perpetua drifting with her.
The bedchamber proved to be the least crowded of the rooms, with half a dozen men and one woman in quiet talk among themselves. The bedcurtains were closed, the traveling chest was gone away somewhere, and tall oil lamps stood in every corner, casting warm light over the sheen of pattern-woven damasks and cut velvets and the glitter and glint of jewelried gems and gold worn around every neck and on every hand. If nothing else, that would have told Frevisse that here were people among the wealthiest and probably most powerful of the realm and that this was not somewhere she or Dame Perpetua should be nor company she wanted to keep.
Half-thinking of retreat, she stopped where she was, but Bishop Pecock went past her to where Master Tresham was standing a few paces from the doorway, looking as if he had expected some sort of greeting from someone and not received it. They exchanged bows of greeting and he asked Bishop Pecock, “Were you sent for, too, my lord?”
‘I’ve only come to breathe a little less crowded air, I fear.“
‘Well, Suffolk sent for me and I daresay he’ll notice me when he’s made his point.“
‘Made his point?“ Bishop Pecock asked, sounding as if he could not imagine what Master Tresham meant.
‘That I’m his to bid and unbid, and that I’d best remember it when the time comes he tells me which way I’m to lead the Commons. No,“ he amended quickly, ”I didn’t say that.“
‘No, you did not, sir,“ Bishop Pecock agreed. ”May I present to you Dame Perpetua and Dame Frevisse of St. Frideswide’s priory.“
Frevisse could see that Master Tresham had no memory of ever having met her, nor was there reason he should or reason to remind him of it, and she merely bowed her head to him as he bowed his to her and then to Dame Perpetua, saying, “My ladies.”
‘They’ve come to see our various and sundry lords, so they’ll have tales to tell when they return to their nunnery,“ Bishop Pecock said.
‘If that’s what you want, we’ve lords in plenty here,“ Master Tresham said.
Dame Perpetua had been looking quickly all around the room and now made bold to half-whisper, “I know my lord of Suffolk and the duke of York but nobody else.”
‘To begin,“ Bishop Pecock promptly answered, ”in talk with my lord of Suffolk is Edmund Beaufort, marquis of Dorset and nephew to Bishop Beaufort of Winchester.“
Frevisse, hiding her interest, asked, “I suppose the bishop favors him?”
‘The bishop of Winchester,“ Bishop Pecock blandly observed, ”has been heard to say that his great-nephew is among the greatest asses of Christendom.“ He paused, then added thoughtfully, ”Of course his grace was angry at the time.“
Master Tresham passed a hand downward over his mouth, wiping out a smile.
Suffolk was the older, somewhere in his early fifties, Frevisse knew, but his figure still trim as a youth’s, suiting well his present sable-black velvet doublet drawn tightly in at his waist, the sleeves puffed widely out at the shoulders, the thickly pleated skirts coming down to only his midthigh, to show a great length of smooth-hosened legs, the left one circled below the knee by the blue and gold band of the Order of Knights of the Garter. A gold chain in the double S pattern of the king’s House of Lancaster heavily circled his shoulders, matched by a gold-linked belt around his waist, hung with a thin, sheathed, gold-pommeled dagger. He looked entirely what he was: the most powerful man in the realm after the king.
The marquis of Dorset was younger, possibly forty, and dressed likewise in black velvet with likewise the gold double-S chain, and stood with the somewhat arrogant assurance of a man possessed of wealth and power and the certainty that he knew how to use them well. Unfortunately he was a more thickly made man than Suffolk and sallow-skinned. Neither the tight-waisted shape of the doublet nor black velvet suited him but he did not look like a man who would take well to being told so—or to anything else he did not want to hear.
‘That’s my lord of Dorset’s lady in talk with the bishop of Salisbury near the window,“ Bishop Pecock went on, ”and Lord Saye talking with his grace of York. Except he and York now seem to be coming our way. Or more likely, your way, Master Tresham.“
‘Very possibly,“ Master Tresham said. ”If you’ll pardon me?“
As he moved away, Frevisse took the chance to say, with what she hoped sounded like innocent curiosity, “My lord bishop, I’ve heard my lord of York and Suffolk were at odds. Is that ended?”
Bishop Pecock regarded her with a benevolent mildness that she was coming to regard as warily as she did Joliffe’s mockeries. “Not unless one of them or the other completely changes from the man he is.”
‘Then why is York here?“
‘He was invited, I daresay.“
Frevisse fixed the bishop with a hard stare and, smiling, he gave way and said seriously enough, “Very possibly York is here so Suffolk knows he’s not elsewhere, such as with the king while Suffolk is not. Or they may be feeling their way toward a marriage alliance between one of York’s sons and a Suffolk daughter. Suffolk has the wardship of the young Beaufort heiress and intends, so it’s said, to marry her to his son and heir. If so, a marriage with
York would—”
Alice had said nothing about a marriage for John, and Frevisse interrupted, “What Beaufort heiress?”
‘Little Margaret Beaufort. The only child of the late duke of Somerset, my lord of Dorset’s older brother.“
‘The Beauforts are related to King Henry,“ she said.
‘They are,“ Bishop Pecock agreed. ”And never think they have forgotten it.“
‘Could it be argued then,“ Frevisse said slowly, sorting the pieces around in her mind as she spoke, ”that they have some claim to the throne? After the dukes of Gloucester and York? Or before York, if things are looked at a certain way.“
Bishop Pecock beamed on her. “Concisely and precisely put.”
‘But the Beaufort line is illegitimate,“ Dame Perpetua protested.
It was, being sprung from the lust of a royal duke of Lancaster and his mistress more than seventy years ago, with Bishop Beaufort the last living of their children and the present marquis of Dorset their grandson, but, “King Richard the Second, God assoil his soul, legitimated the Beauforts fifty years or so ago,” Bishop Pecock said.
‘But their half-brother King Henry the Fourth directly barred them from inheriting in the royal line by an act of Parliament,“ Frevisse responded.
‘He did, but of course acts of Parliament can be reversed if a man with sufficient power is interested in so doing.“
Frevisse looked toward Suffolk. He had, she supposed, that kind of power. Therefore, if he married John to this Margaret Beaufort who could possibly be made heir to the throne should King Henry and the duke of Gloucester die as childless as they presently were, and also married a daughter to a son of York, then he would have a foot on both branches of the royal tree. The possibilities of power that would come from that were frightening, and quietly Frevisse asked, “Is his grace of York interested in an alliance with Suffolk?”
‘Unfortunately for Suffolk,“ Bishop Pecock said, ”the duke of York is not an ass.“
Chapter 9
Suffolk and Dorset were moving, with no obvious haste but open intent, toward York and Master Tresham now, and Dame Perpetua whispered with both eagerness and unease, “They’re coming this way.”
Bishop Pecock murmured, “Probably because they don’t want York in much private talk with Master Tresham. It’s always better that like-minded men be kept apart if you don’t like the like of their minds. And here comes the bishop of Salisbury to join the fray. My, my. Perhaps I should go and annoy him. Pardon me.”
With a small bow of his head to them, he moved away, into Salisbury’s course, leaving Frevisse somewhat discomfited by how much alike his mind ran to Joliffe’s. That their wry, slightly awry way of seeing things was much like her own only discomfited her the more.
‘I think we should go,“ Dame Perpetua whispered. ”We don’t belong here.“ She began to ease away but Frevisse held where she was, agreeing with her but watching Bishop Pecock talk at the scowling bishop of Salisbury, who openly lacked interest in what he was saying and the grace to hide it, while Suffolk said to York by way of greeting, ”You’ll have a cold ride back to the friary tonight.“
York answered smilingly, “There’ll be a warm bed at the end of it. Better than those men on Henow Heath have.”
Dorset, looking as if he disliked York’s smile, said irritably, “It’s Gloucester’s fault they’re there and let them remember it. He was supposed to be here before now. If he’d come when we thought he would…”
Across that, Suffolk said smoothly to Master Tresham, “You’re staying at that man Baret’s place, aren’t you? I wanted to ask you…”
Frevisse saw Dorset’s wife was headed toward her. Not wanting to explain herself and why she was there, she faded through the doorway into the crowd and noise of talk in the other room, catching up to Dame Perpetua, who asked, “Why was it so unpleasant in there?”
‘Because too many people disliked each other.“
‘They did that. Did you see Suffolk look at the duke of York when York went to talk to Master Tresham? If a look could strike a man down, York would be dead. My head is beginning to ache. Can we go?“
The heavy warmth, unaccustomed wine, and too much talk around her were making Frevisse’s head ache, too. She had promised to be here and she was, and had had enough and said, “We can go, surely. There’s just the matter of making our way out. You go on and find our cloaks and I’ll give our thanks and farewell to Lady Alice.”
Dame Perpetua immediately headed away, threading her way around people toward the doorway. Frevisse, after pausing to be sure Alice was not in this room, followed her into the next and immediately met Alice in an eddy between one swirl of people and another. In what would have to pass for privacy, Alice said quickly, “You’re leaving. I saw Dame Perpetua go out. Did you learn anything?”
‘Nothing. But doesn’t anyone believe that Gloucester is coming with an army against the king?“
Alice’s smile neither wavered nor reached her eyes. “Not anyone around the king, anyway. Not anyone here.”
‘Then why…“ Why was word that he was being spread all over Bury St. Edmunds and some several thousand men freezing on Henow Heath?
She didn’t finish the question but Alice answered it. “Because the common people favor Gloucester. They always have. The only person they care for more is King Henry. The rest of us…” She made a dismissing gesture.
And therefore Suffolk hoped to turn the people against Gloucester by saying Gloucester was become a danger to the king. Did Suffolk also hope that if the people turned against Gloucester, they would turn toward him?
For a long moment Frevisse and Alice looked into each other’s eyes, neither speaking what they were both thinking. Then Alice broke away, said openly, cheerful to anyone who heard her, “Thank you for coming, dear cousin. Good night and, again, my thanks.”
Frevisse said courteous things back to her and, thankfully, left.
* * *
The next day went, outwardly, much the way of others lately. Frevisse and Dame Perpetua attended Prime’s prayers as usual, shivering in St. Nicholas’ chapel, went to a crowded, hurried breakfast in the guesthall refectory, and after that to Mass in the abbey church before Dame Perpetua went off happily to the library and Frevisse, far less eagerly, went to fulfill a promise made to help Mistress Wilde with the sewing this morning. The day was too early yet for the players to be at work, but when Frevisse entered the hall Mistress Wilde, Joane still with Lady Soul’s gown, and the wife of one of the Mights were already seated around a lighted brazier, stitching rapidly. They welcomed her with hardly a pause from their sewing. Frevisse, given a yellow gown to hem, briefly warmed her fingers at the brazier and joined them.
The other women’s talk was of how comfortable or not were the places they were staying and that there was a cookshop in Bernewell Street where a good but uncostly supper was to be had but the ale was better at a tavern near Risbygate. Not part of that, Frevisse would have been content to let her mind go quiet over the sewing, but found her thoughts ranging back to last night and ahead to when she would next speak with Joliffe.
What else besides a headache had she brought away from that gathering of supposed greatness? A continued dislike of Suffolk, unfortunately. Some grasp of the politic games he was playing with his children’s hoped-for marriages. The knowledge that Bishop Beaufort thought his great-nephew the marquis of Dorset was an ass. A curiosity about the duke of York, who had quietly stood there goading Suffolk and was not an ass, according to Bishop Pecock.
None of that looked likely to be particularly useful.
What about the blunt fact that no one among those positioned to know best had any fear that Gloucester was bringing an army? Indeed, rather than any fear, Suffolk and Dorset had seemed to be both very pleased and sure of themselves. Which might mean nothing; most of the other times she had seen Suffolk, he had seemed pleased with himself.
So she was nowhere. She had not helped Alice. She had nothing of any
worth to tell Joliffe. She doubted she would ever get anything of any worth to anybody, and she was tired of people hoping she would. She wanted to be done with this nonsense and go back to St. Frideswide’s in peace.
When dinnertime brought the sewing to a pause, Joane had finished at last with Lady Soul’s gown and among them Frevisse, Mistress Wilde, and the other woman had everything else nearly done. Thread, needles, and scissors were tidied away and the four of them rose to go their separate ways, but Mistress Wilde drew Frevisse a little aside, letting the other women go ahead while she said with mild concern, “One thing. I’ve seen Joliffe Noreys talking at you. Much though I like him, I doubt he’s above plaguing a nun for a pastime when he’s in one of his fey humours. If he’s a bother, just tell me and I’ll see to him.”
‘He’s been no bother,“ Frevisse answered. At least not in the way Mistress Wilde meant. ”And Master John likes him.“
‘Children always like Joliffe and he likes them. He has a good heart under his jesting ways,“ Mistress Wilde said warmly. ”Until this afternoon, then.“
With the comfort that maybe Joliffe’s friendship to John had not been merely expedient after all, Frevisse went off to dinner and after it fetched John, relieved when a maidservant told her that Lady Alice was, as usual, gone to companion the queen. No message had been left either and Frevisse chose to think that meant Alice had no new trouble to share with her.
That was as well, because John proved to be trouble enough. Crossing the Great Court, he pulled loose from her hand and galloped around her like a colt freed to pasture, into her way and other people’s until she caught hard hold on him, ordering him to walk beside her, whereon he turned gloomy and outside the hall pulled loose from her again and ran inside by himself, past Master Wilde and Toller talking together at the door. With nothing more than sewing and probably Joliffe awaiting her, Frevisse made no such haste and as she approached heard Master Wilde say, “I’ve avoided Lydgate all day so far. If he shows up…” He paused to give Frevisse a quick bow of his head. “My lady.”
12 The Bastard's Tale Page 8