12 The Bastard's Tale

by Frazer, Margaret

  ‘That would serve very well,“ said Bishop Pecock, ”and occupy your mind with other than worries.“

  Doubtful, Arteys said, “I don’t write a good hand.”

  ‘It’s only a rough copy,“ Frevisse said. ”It won’t matter.“

  ‘Shall we plan to meet here again not long ere Vespers?“ Bishop Pecock asked. ”To share what we’ve all learned?“

  With that agreed on, he and Joliffe left together. Frevisse gave over her work and workplace to Arteys, paused to tell Dame Perpetua she had left a young man of Bishop Pecock’s to do her work, and with a silent nod to the monk, went out of the library in her turn.

  Joliffe was waiting for her on the stairs.

  Somewhat curtly she asked, “What is it?”

  He made one of his half-mocking bows. “Our good bishop asked me to stay and give you a message.”

  ‘Yes?“

  ‘He says to be careful to make no one suspicious of you.“ Joliffe paused, then added, ”I say it, too.“

  It was Frevisse’s turn to pause, before she said, all edge gone from her voice, “I hope you’ll take your own advice.”

  ‘Oh, I always take my own advice.“

  ‘Ever anyone else’s?“

  ‘Oddly enough, no. Well, Bishop Pecock’s sometimes. And Bishop Beaufort’s when he chooses to give it.“

  ‘You keep exalted company.“

  ‘Or they do, as it may be.“

  His mockery was back and to it she said, “Bishop Pecock’s bishopric isn’t a powerful one but it’s a bishopric nonetheless. If he slides into trouble with this, he can’t retreat into a monastery the way I will into St. Frideswide’s, or disappear the way I suppose you will-He won’t be able to either hide or run, and much though he likes to think and sharp though his mind is, I wonder if he’s thought of a saying my mother was fond of.”

  ‘You mean,“ said Joliffe, catching up to her in the disturbing way he sometimes had, ’”don’t be so sharp you cut yourself?“

  ‘That one, yes.“

  ‘I don’t know about his mother…“ Joliffe started away from her, down the stairs. ”… but I warrant your mother said it often enough.“

  Chapter 20

  The sun, fiercely red-orange, was sliding from sight, the day draining after it out of a sky still clear of clouds, when Frevisse returned to the library. A younger monk was on watch this time, ready to challenge her anew, but Bishop Pecock said from a nearby table spread with books, “I’m expecting her.”

  The monk did not seem pleased about that but let her pass on a bishop’s word. For his part, Bishop Pecock greeted her with merely a nod, picked up one of the books from the table, and led her toward his stall at the room’s far end. Dame Perpetua was still at her desk, scribbling rapidly, bent closer to the paper as the light failed, not looking up as they passed.

  Piled papers on the desk where Frevisse had left Arteys showed he had made use of his time but he was waiting in Bishop Pecock’s study stall and stood up abruptly from the chair there, tense with a patience that must be wearing galls in him, Frevisse thought as she asked, “Where’s Joliffe?”

  ‘He’s been and gone, Master Arteys says, but said he will find me out later to hear what we’ve learned. It seems Brother Lydgate is being very troublesome over his play. A petty man who seems to have confused ’prolixity‘ with ’competent,‘ from what I’ve read of his work.“

  To be difficult, Frevisse said, “He’s very highly thought of.”

  ‘And by no one more highly than himself,“ Bishop Pecock returned.

  To be tart over someone else’s failings was relief at the end of a day such as today had been but, “Did you learn anything new?” Arteys asked.

  ‘On my own part,“ said Bishop Pecock, ”mostly only what rumors are running, but those can be useful, the source sometimes revealing more than the rumor itself.“

  ‘What’s being said?“ Arteys demanded.

  ‘Of Gloucester, a number of things. That he cried out horribly in the night and then was found insensible in his bed. Or on the floor. Or in a chair. Or everything was silent as the grave all through the night and he was found in the morning, quiet in his bed but unwakable. Or he was found—either in the night or in the morning, depending on the story—sprawled among his twisted bedclothes as if he had writhed in agony.“

  ‘If he awoke after I left and…“ Arteys said with pain.

  ‘He didn’t,“ Frevisse said quickly. ”Not from what’s being said by those most likely to know.“

  ‘And they would be?“ Bishop Pecock immediately asked.

  Frevisse had known this would come but liked it none the better for that. Too many people were presently trusting her, all for different reasons and to different ends. At what point did serving one person’s trust betray another’s? She didn’t know but she was too far in for going back, saw nowhere yet to turn aside, and said firmly, hiding her reluctance, “My cousin. And the queen.”

  Arteys drew a deep, startled breath. More steadily Bishop Pecock asked, “How did that come about?”

  ‘My cousin was attendant on her grace today. I went to the queen’s hall and asked to see my cousin, pretending I was in distress over finding the body in the river.“

  ‘As well you might be,“ Bishop Pecock said. His voice was mild but his eyes sharp, watching her.

  ‘Not as much as I claimed to be. My hope was Alice would come talk to me and I might learn what she had heard about Gloucester, but my lie served better than I thought it would. I’d given my excuse to the servant who went for her. Lady Alice came out almost immediately, told me she had had to tell the queen why she was leaving, and Queen Margaret had bade her bring me to her.“

  ‘She wants to hear about it from someone who was there,“ Alice had said. ”Instead of only tittle-tattle. She says everything happens around her and she never knows anything. It will divert her.“

  Repelled at the thought of using a man’s death for someone else’s diversion, Frevisse had momentarily pulled back. “Nothing happened. We found him and he was dead, that’s all.”

  Alice had already been turning to go back past the guards flanking the doorway, saying as she went, “There’s always more to it than that. Come.”

  Frevisse had gone, following Alice into the queen’s bedchamber. The room looked to have been the abbot’s; the walls were hung with tapestries of St. Edmund’s crown of kingship and the arrows of his martyrdom worked in gold on bright blue, alternating with other tapestries of green woven with a pattern of vines. The wide bed with its elaborately carved posts was hung with curtains that matched the green tapestries. A tall window with traceried stonework and painted shutters set open from the glass that was clear below but painted above with doves and white lilies looked out over the abbot’s garden, with bright-embroidered cushions on the seat below it. Underfoot was a thick carpet woven in Flemish patterns of bold reds and greens and blues.

  Queen Margaret had sat as if enthroned on the padded top of a chest at the foot of the bed, with her half-dozen ladies gathered around the room on floor cushions or the window seat, and when Frevisse had sunk into a deep curtsy to the queen, Alice had gracefully made Frevisse known to her, and Queen Margaret had gestured one of the women to bring forward the room’s only chair for her, her smile girlishly eager as she leaned forward to say, her English words lightened by her French accent, “I pray you, tell me all. How you saw the body and what happened after that. Everything.”

  Frevisse could speak French and Alice knew it, but Queen Margaret had spoken in English, so she did, too, telling not all but enough about finding the dead man to draw murmurs and soft exclaims from the women. The queen had been disappointed to hear there was no blood because it had been washed away in the river, as if Frevisse had failed to give her something she wanted to have, and Frevisse had offered, “His doublet, though, was terribly stained with his blood. It was soaked through, all over his side.” It had also been so darkened as to have been almost anything but she had not
said so. Queen Margaret had been too pleased at being horrified and afterward had made some slight talk with her about why she was at Bury St. Edmunds and promised to have her charter shortly sealed. “As soon as this present unpleasantness is done, you shall have it.”

  Frevisse had taken her chance then, saying with the same light eagerness as Queen Margaret had asked after the dead man’s blood, “If it please your grace, there are so many things being said about the duke of Gloucester and how he is. What’s the truth of it?”

  Queen Margaret had thrown her hands up. “Pah! The duke of Gloucester. I shall like it when he’s dead and we don’t talk about him again. My Lady Alice, what did my lord of Buckingham say when he was here? When I had him tell me all?”

  ‘He said there were many stories running but he had questioned people at St. Saviour’s—from the servant who found Gloucester last night, to the doctor and priest who came to see him then, to the master himself and on down to scullions from the kitchen—and from all they said, it seems Gloucester simply slipped from sleep into his present deep senselessness. The bedclothes were smooth over him. There was no outcry nor any sign he had been distressed in any way.“

  ‘A blessing from merciful God.“ Queen Margaret had crossed herself and, while everyone around her did likewise, added, ”You will have much to tell at your nunnery when you go home, madam, will you not?“

  She had dismissed Frevisse to Alice’s care after that and called one of her ladies to play at dice with her. Drawn aside with Alice, Frevisse had asked, “How likely is the duke of Buckingham’s report to be true, rather than convenient?”

  ‘Buckingham’s best quality as a royal councilor is that he doesn’t have the wit to be convenient. He’s thorough at what he does and you can be certain he believes what he says. His report of Gloucester is as true as he can make it.“ Alice had paused before adding, ”In other words, it’s true so far as he sees anything.“

  For Arteys and Bishop Pecock, Frevisse told only what the queen had said about Gloucester and Alice’s judgment of Buckingham, to which Bishop Pecock nodded agreement before asking, “But there was nothing about a man found dead in the duke of Gloucester’s chamber?”

  ‘Nothing.“ Frevisse hesitated before adding, ”My cousin says Suffolk is badly unsettled over something other than Gloucester. She doesn’t know what but it’s grievous enough she’s worried over his worry.“

  ‘Then, unless there are more troubles in hand than we have even glimmer of, very probably Suffolk’s worry is about how the man sent to kill Gloucester came to be killed instead,“ said Bishop Pecock.

  ‘Because it means someone else was there,“ Frevisse agreed. ”That someone else knows Gloucester was meant to be murdered.“

  ‘And Suffolk does not know who it is or to whom this person may speak about it.“

  Fiercely Arteys put in, “It also means it was Suffolk who ordered my father’s murder.”

  Bishop Pecock looked at him with kind sadness. “I’m afraid it does suggest that.” He raised a warning hand. “Mind you, it doesn’t prove. It may be that Suffolk knows who did order it and fears he will be involved if they are accused. Or he may not know at all why the man was there or anything else about him. The mere fact he was there and dead, without Suffolk knew why, Would be troubling enough. There are always other possibilities to be considered in any matter.”

  ‘It was Suffolk,“ Arteys said. ”Nobody else would dare.“

  With unwonted brevity, Bishop Pecock granted, “I fear so.”

  ‘What I wish,“ said Frevisse, ”is that we knew for a certainty what happened when the man was found dead. Rather than raising an outcry, whoever found him either went to someone for instructions or else made decisions themselves. But someone had to have helped move the body, whatever was done with it then.“

  ‘The cart has been found,“ Bishop Pecock said. ”Or a cart has been found with the hospital’s badge painted on the side and much where Joliffe thought it would be if it had been used to the purpose we’ve supposed.“

  ‘That’s good!“ Arteys said.

  ‘It’s a small cart, meant for a single horse to pull. Runman pulled it himself back to St. Saviour’s. He was given twopence reward for his trouble.“

  ‘No one wondered why a bishop’s servant was troubling with a cart?“ Frevisse asked.

  ‘I didn’t send him out wearing my livery or badge,“ Bishop Pecock said reproachfully. ”Particularly since I told him to return the cart if he found it and was able to do so, and to find what would be said about it being gone, such as when and how long and so forth. It might have been a cart innocent of any wrong use, after all, merely gone astray.“

  ‘Was it?“ Frevisse asked.

  ‘Innocent? I think not. The steward at St. Saviour’s complained at length about the business. The cart was indeed taken last night and by someone of the hospital itself, because there’s no question but that the gates into St. Saviour’s yard were properly barred this morning when someone went to unbar them for the day.“

  ‘Which means whoever took the cart returned to St. Saviour’s,“ Frevisse said, ”and barred the gates after coming in.“

  ‘So it would seem.“

  ‘Unless it was someone who knew the same way in and out that I used,“ Arteys said. ”They could have taken the cart out, gone back in, barred the gate, and gone around and out the way I did.“

  ‘Possibly,“ Bishop Pecock agreed. ”But that begins to confuse the matter past any hope of solving it. I think we should hold to the hope that whoever saw to moving the body is someone who stayed at St. Saviour’s last night.“

  He looked to Frevisse, who nodded agreement but said, “Which nonetheless solves nothing since we have no way to find them out.”

  ‘Yet,“ said Bishop Pecock.

  ‘Did you see the duke of Gloucester as you purposed?“ Frevisse asked.

  ‘I did, with no trouble.“ He glanced at Arteys. ”I told Arteys of him already but you’d like to hear, too?“

  ‘If it please you, my lord.“ Lest she become so drawn into the tangle of questions and seeking out of answers that she forgot there was a yet-living man at the heart of it all.

  ‘There’s little to tell. He still sleeps and seems at ease in it. Or ease enough, though his breathing is labored. I prayed by him a goodly while and noted no change. He never stirred, save for his breathing.“

  ‘Everything else was as it should be? No sign of blood on the floor, so slight it could be overlooked if not looked for directly?“ Frevisse asked.

  ‘None. I made careful note of the floor beside the bed while I knelt there. Nor, curiously, was there even sign it had been particularly scrubbed within the day. The man must not have bled much.“ The bishop frowned slightly over that. ”Given the wound, I should think he would have. Perhaps he fell face upward. Did he, Master Arteys?“

  ‘He didn’t. He…“ Arteys stopped. ”The floor? There was a carpet there. He fell on a carpet.“

  Bishop Pecock’s look sharpened. “There was no carpet in the room. There were bare, albeit well-polished, floorboards. Nothing else.”

  ‘There was a carpet. Patterned in mostly red, with greens and cream.“

  ‘And he fell on it downward, bleeding, you say? Blood would be difficult to clean out of a carpet sufficient to their need of there being nothing suspicious in that room.“ He turned a look nigh to triumphant on Frevisse. ”And the carpet that should be there is gone.“

  With equally rising hope, Frevisse asked, “How large was the carpet?”

  ‘About three feet by five?“ Arteys said uncertainly. ”I’m not certain.“

  ‘But a large one, as such things go?“ Frevisse asked.

  ‘Yes.“

  ‘Not something to be merely thrown out,“ Bishop Pecock said, ”because if found, there might be questions why something of such worth was cast away.“

  ‘Especially if it had a large bloodstain on it,“ Frevisse said dryly.

  Bishop Pecock dismissed that bri
skly. “They would have scrubbed the blood away as much as might be, enough that it would serve elsewhere but not there, where they can afford no suspicions of any kind to arise.”

  ‘They could have carried it away with the body,“ Frevisse said. ”On the cart.“

  ‘And thrown it in the river, too,“ Arteys said in despair. ”Rolled and tied, it would sink.“

  ‘That wouldn’t serve,“ Bishop Pecock protested. ”It might still be found. That’s not an idle river. It’s constantly in use. A fishing line or some other thing might all too easily snag it, and a carpet in a river would be too suspicious a thing to be ignored, nor do I doubt but that Master Grene or someone else of St. Saviour’s would be able to identify it if questions were asked widely enough.“

  ‘It had to disappear,“ Frevisse said, more to herself than either of them. ”Burying wouldn’t suit. It would take too much time and the digging would leave plain signs. Nor would burning it be possible. They had neither time nor place to do it. Not drown, bury, or burn. Hide in some way, then.“

  ‘Not in St. Saviour’s,“ Bishop Pecock said. ”Just getting the body out must have been difficult enough without then wandering about seeking somewhere to hide a carpet.“

  ‘Under the bed?“ Arteys suggested. ”For a while at least?“

  ‘Possibly,“ Bishop Pecock granted, ”but I think they were moving in hurried fear and would want anything that linked violence and the duke of Gloucester far apart from one another. If they were shifting the body out, why not take the carpet, too? But do what with it?“

  ‘Sell it,“ said Frevisse. ”Scrub the blood out as best they could, roll it up, take it with the body out of St. Saviour’s, dispose of the body last night, and this morning someone take the carpet to a regrater who sells used goods.“

  ‘With a large wet spot still on it?“ Arteys asked.

  ‘It’s the sort of thing that makes something into used goods, nor are some regraters known for asking close questions. I could make a tale right now that would satisfy. A displeased housewife wanting the thing out of her house for one furious reason or another and sending a servant to get rid of it, or—“