12 The Bastard's Tale

by Frazer, Margaret

  ‘Yes,“ Bishop Pecock said. ”That would serve very well to be rid of the thing. Arteys, could you describe this carpet in some detail to Master Orle? He can go tomorrow morning to such shops as seem likely. It’s too late today.“

  Indeed, the library was so in shadows that Dame Perpetua had no business still to be writing, though it seemed she was because the young monk was saying to her, “It’s time to stop, Dame. I’m not instructed to allow lamps. It’s nearly time for Vespers anyway.”

  ‘We are about to be discovered,“ Bishop Pecock said, sat down at the desk, raised a magisterial hand with pointing forefinger, and launched into, ”But if you grant that this is true, then you must also see the difficulty in disobeying them…“

  The young monk came into sight at the corner of the stall, hesitated, and finally said, “My lord?”

  ‘… though they are in error.“ Bishop Pecock broke off and asked, not unkindly, ”Yes?“ Then said, before the monk could answer, ”Ah, the hour. Of course. We know your charge and will obey, brother.“ He stood up as if dismissing a class. ”Until tomorrow, shall we say? About eleven of the clock? You raised an interesting point, dame, and I’d like to discuss it further.“ Adding to Arteys, as Frevisse made a slight, accepting curtsy to that, ”Would you care to come to dinner with me, sir?“

  Faintly, Arteys said he would and Bishop Pecock took him by the arm and walked him away. Hoping that meant Arteys was seen to for the night, Frevisse bent her head slightly to the monk and went to Dame Perpetua, just finished with tidying away her ink and pen, as the bells began to ring to Vespers.

  Chapter 21

  That night was too short on sleep for Frevisse. Not even able to toss and turn in bed because Dame Perpetua was sleeping soundly beside her, she lay staring into the dorter’s darkness, listening to the even breathing and soft snoring of everyone around her, broken only by an occasional snort and shift of some sleeper, and wishing she was sleeping, too. She told her mind that although she could weave what facts she so far had into some sort of sense, nothing could be done with them until she knew more and therefore she might as well sleep as lie there pointlessly thinking. Not impressed, her thoughts went on, turning around and around on themselves, circling through worry for Alice, her life tied to Suffolk who very probably had ordered murder, to curiosity at how Joliffe had come to be Bishop Beaufort’s man, to worry at what would become of Arteys at the end of all of this. Come to that, what would become of all of them, including her? Because whatever they learned about the dead man and who had ordered Gloucester’s death, there was almost surely nothing they would be able to do except live with the knowledge, and what good would that be to anyone?

  Finally, aching with tiredness and the annoy of being here and part of it at all, she opened her eyes to the darkness and silently, defiantly told herself she was going to stay awake as long as she possibly could and not close her eyes while she did.

  She shortly thereafter went deeply to sleep.

  But her thoughts were waiting for her in the morning, like a patient dog waiting at his mistress’ bedside. Distracted in them, she was up and dressed and adjusting her wimple around her face before she noted that the usual morning groans and murmurs of the other awakening and rising women were laced with laughter and gay talk so at variance with her own feelings that she almost asked Dame Perpetua why everyone was so happy out of the ordinary. Then she remembered and felt foolish and a little angry that with all that was happening she had let the knowing slip to a side part of her mind. It was Shrove Tuesday, with its burst of last great feasting and merriment before tomorrow when Lent began its fasting and penance through winter’s end and spring’s beginning to Easter.

  Contrite at so grievous a neglect, she crossed herself and said aloud, remembering something else, “Confession. We have to make confession today.”

  Dame Perpetua, pinning on her veil, sighed. “Along with all the royal court and parliament. The lines will go on forever. I won’t go far with Boethius today, I fear.”

  ‘Bishop Pecock,“ Frevisse said. ”He means to be in the library again today. He might take our confessions.“

  Dame Perpetua brightened. “He might indeed. He’s very kind.”

  Together, they pulled up and straightened the bedding, and were bent over, smoothing it, when Dame Perpetua said, low-voiced and not looking at her, “If you need me to know what’s going on, I suppose you’ll tell me. Please know I’ll help. If I can. Even if it’s only by going on pretending I don’t know anything is going on.”

  Frevisse kept steadily at the bedmaking for a silent moment before saying, very quietly, “Thank you.”

  In that quiet they went to Prime. The church was fuller than usual for the dawn Office and murmurs ran that the king was present though Frevisse did not see him. For the while of Prime she kept her mind to the psalms and prayers, taking most deeply to her heart today, “Et sit splendor Domini Dei nostri super nos… et opus manuum nostrarum dirige.” And let the brightness of our Lord God be over us… and guide the work of our hands. Because she was much in need of being guided.

  At breakfast in the guesthall refectory there was laughter and talk and readiness all around for pleasure; and when she and Dame Perpetua went out of doors on their way back to the church for Mass, they caught through the gateway into the Great Court a brief view of the busy setting-up of food stalls and over the wall heard the rattle of a drum and happily roused voices already about the day’s pastimes. Nor did everyone who left the guesthall turn toward the church for Mass.

  Because the Mass—that sacred gathering of power where the Divine and Man met most closely together— was one of the great pleasures and treasure of her life, Frevisse took her mind away from everything else, set herself to lose herself in its mystery and wonder, and succeeded. Only when the last prayer had risen toward the high roof and faded to silence did she stir, to find her body had weight, her mind had thoughts, and her heart wished it could go back into that wonder and away from here. But one of life’s more unyielding lessons was that back was not possible. There was only forward, and all around her people were surging into talk and movement. Unused to crowds, Dame Perpetua moved to put her back against the wide base of the pillar beside her rather than be swept along. Frevisse joined her, willing to wait for the nave’s emptying before trying to go anywhere else.

  The question was, where should she go? To Alice, who would be taken up with whatever merrymaking was Queen Margaret’s pleasure today? She hardly had excuse to do that. Nor was she minded to spend time with the holidaying crowds in the Great Court in the vastly unlikely hope of overhearing or seeing something useful. Better she actually be useful, while waiting to see if anything had been found out by Bishop Pecock, Arteys, or Joliffe.

  When she and Dame Perpetua left the church and passed through the gateway into the Great Court, they found a loud, colorful array of food and ale stalls, food-sellers crying their wares of pies or cakes or roasted meat, jugglers, tumblers, bearwards, minstrels, games of chance, and a great many people openly set on having a good time among it all. Helping everyone’s high spirits were the eased weather and mild sunshine though they were edged with a wind that flapped cloaks and women’s veils and the canvas sides and roofs of the booths and snapped the many-colored pennons flying over some of them.

  Dame Perpetua stopped, staring. She probably had not seen the like since she became a nun even longer ago than Frevisse had. In St. Frideswide’s, Shrovetide was nothing more than a day of ease and somewhat better eating, and Frevisse asked, kindly, “Do you want to wander awhile and look?”

  ‘Oh, my,“ said Dame Perpetua; and then, ”Oh, no. I think I’d rather not.“

  ‘Not?“ Frevisse asked, surprised.

  ‘No.“ Dame Perpetua made a small move of her hands at everything. ”All these people and the noise and busyness and crowding. No, I don’t like it. Unless you want to stay awhile,“ she added.

  ‘No,“ Frevisse answered. ”I’ve no great urge to it.“r />
  ‘To the library and Boethius then?“

  ‘To the library and Boethius.“

  ‘And please,“ said Dame Perpetua, ”do you think we could forgo at least Sext and Tierce today, instead of coming back through all of this? We can pray at our desks instead?“

  ‘I think that would be well,“ Frevisse said and Dame Perpetua sighed with relief.

  The elderly monk was on duty again and traded no words with them as they passed. Through the morning, bursts of jollity were sometimes carried on the wind for them to hear but never enough to disturb Frevisse’s copying once she was set to the work. Arteys had made good progress yesterday; there was little left to do, and interrupted only by praying the brief Offices allowed when necessary, she was writing the book’s final words—“… you work and do before the eye of the judge that sees and knows all things.”—when the monk said, “Your grace,” to someone coming in.

  While she closed her ink, Bishop Pecock followed by Arteys passed her without a word. When her pen was clean, she left her desk and joined them in the last stall and was relieved to see that neither of them looked as if anything desperate had happened since yesterday. If anything, Bishop Pecock had something of the cat in the cream about him that made her ask instantly, with hope, “What is it?”

  ‘Master Orle found the carpet. As we thought, it was sold as used goods.“

  ‘You’re certain it’s the same one?“ Frevisse asked.

  ‘Certain,“ said Arteys.

  ‘Master Orle outdid himself, I think. We planned he was to say he wanted to buy a carpet but not one that had been sitting around forever, growing moldy. That way he would be shown only what had lately come in.“

  ‘There can’t be that many carpets going used, can there?“ Frevisse asked.

  ‘Not ones worth having on one’s floor, I should imagine, unless bought from needy heirs selling off an estate or suchlike. This shop had only the one, anyway, and just come in yesterday, the shopkeeper assured him. Master Orle said doubtfully he’d look at it, and when it was unrolled for him, he ran his hands all over it and found…“ Bishop Pecock paused, beaming.

  ‘A wet place as if something had been recently cleaned from it?“ Frevisse said.

  ‘Exactly so. I suspect that if we examine it deeply, we’ll find blood still in the threads, blood not being something easily removed, especially by someone in haste. With it in hand, we can show, if nothing else, that something violent happened in the duke of Gloucester’s bedchamber.“

  ‘Suffolk can claim that it was only a spill of blood from a basin when Gloucester was bled.“ A common way of balancing an ill man’s humours.

  ‘Gloucester has not been bled. That was among the things that came out of my talk with Master Grene, who was unhappy about it.“

  Frevisse passed over the thought that a poor man in St. Saviour’s hospital hall would have had more done for him than Gloucester had and said, “Now, more than ever, we need to know without doubt the body in the river is the man you killed, Arteys.”

  ‘And then?“ Arteys asked bleakly. ”If I accuse Suffolk, my word that the man was trying to kill my father will be set against Suffolk’s protest that I’m lying. It won’t be Suffolk who’ll find the weight of law going against him then, that’s sure.“

  ‘Before we come to that,“ Bishop Pecock said, ”remember we don’t know he was Suffolk’s man. For all we’re certain of, we may be aimed at the wrong lord. He might have been Dorset’s man. Or Viscount Beaumont could have sent him, acting under orders from someone else.“

  ‘Or he could have been York’s,“ Frevisse said.

  Bishop Pecock’s eyebrows rose. “Why his grace of York?”

  ‘Why not? He has more wealth and more possibility of power than anyone in the kingdom except for the king himself.“

  Bishop Pecock shifted his eyebrows upward again and waited.

  Frevisse listened over to what she had said, and said, “Oh.”

  Bishop Pecock nodded. “You see. He has wealth. He has power. He’s close in blood to the king. Just like Gloucester, whom those about the king are in the process of destroying. Would you, if you had any wits at all about you and things being as they are, want to remove the one man there is between you and their attentions?”

  ‘Rather than remove him, I’d keep very still, with my back to the nearest wall, and hope nobody remembered I was alive.“

  Bishop Pecock beamed with approval. “You have it in full. And yet, because of his wealth and power and place, York must attend on the king, must show himself to the world, hopefully in such a way that lies and rumors against him won’t stick, while dealing with men who would just as soon he were dead and he knows it. Not, on the whole, a goodly way to live.”

  ‘Suffolk,“ Arteys said bitterly. ”It has to be Suffolk.“

  ‘He remains most likely, yes,“ Bishop Pecock granted. ”The problem remains how do we find out beyond doubt. No one has come forward to name the dead man. In fact, he has somewhat disappeared. I was unable to learn where the body presently is and that is suspicious in itself.“

  ‘My cousin will know or can find out,“ Frevisse said. ”She might help us put name to him, too.“

  ‘She’d help in this?“ Arteys asked.

  Frevisse hesitated over how much of Alice’s fears to give away, before saying, “She’s worried over what’s been happening and angry at being told nothing by Suffolk. She wants the truth of it.”

  ‘Does she?“ Bishop Pecock asked gently. ”Or does she only think she does?“

  ‘She’s openly afraid of the truth but wants it anyway.“

  Bishop Pecock accepted that with a sober nod. “How would you proceed, then?”

  ‘I’ll tell her the dead man might be someone of her household and ask her to view the body and take me and Arteys with her when she does.“

  ‘She may know me,“ Arteys said.

  ‘That shouldn’t matter,“ Frevisse replied. ”No more moves have been made against any of Gloucester’s men, no orders for arrests or anything. There’s no reason she can’t have dealings with you. If the dead man was in Suffolk’s employ, she may well know him. If nothing else, you’ll have chance to see him.“

  ‘If he is the man I killed, what can we do with the knowing?“

  ‘I don’t know,“ Frevisse said with level honesty.

  ‘But knowledge is ever a better weapon to wield than ignorance,“ Bishop Pecock offered, ”having the sharper edge and therefore able to cut more deeply to the heart of things.“

  ‘A weapon has to hit your foe to have effect,“ Frevisse returned. ”We’re hardly close to hitting Suffolk. Or anyone else.“

  ‘A point well made. But even with weapon in hand, a warrior can only advance step by step toward the battle.“ He laid a hand on Arteys’ shoulder. ”We have our weapon and are taking our steps. When can you speak with your cousin?“

  Chapter 22

  An abbey bell began to call for some Office. Arteys realized he did not know which one, the past few days had become so disjointed, but Dame Frevisse stood still a moment, her head raised to the sound, before she gave herself a small shake and said, “Abbot Babington is feasting the king and some of the royal court today, with the players’ farce to come at its end. Lady Alice will be with the queen now and then at the abbot’s feast. At its end will be my soonest chance to reach her.”

  ‘Haste may make waste,“ Bishop Pecock said. ”This might better be done later, rather than in the midst of everything today.“

  ‘The longer we wait, the more chance there is we’ll lose the chance altogether.“

  ‘Too true,“ he granted. ”Arteys, best you wait here until Dame Frevisse sends for you then.“

  ‘No.“ Arteys had had enough of waiting these past days to last him the rest of his life. ”I’ll go with her.“

  ‘You risk being seen and known,“ Bishop Pecock warned.

  ‘She said the sooner done the better. Besides, who would she send for me?“

  �
�Points well taken.“ Though Bishop Pecock looked as if he would rather not take them.

  The other nun appeared at the stall’s open end, gave them all a quick look, but asked of Dame Frevisse, “Nones?”

  ‘Dame Perpetua.“ Dame Frevisse sounded as if she had forgotten her, then said, ”Bishop Pecock, we wondered if you’d hear our confessions.“

  Confession. Arteys had not been thinking of this as Shrove Tuesday but, yes, he wanted confession, to purge his soul and be given penance for his sins before Lent began, and maybe Bishop Pecock, looking at him just then, saw that in his face because his momentary hesitation at Dame Frevisse’s request went away and he said, “Of course. If you wish it. And here is as good a confessional as any.”

  He heard Dame Perpetua first, then Dame Frevisse, while Arteys waited, seated at one of the tables, gathering up his sins, as it were, to have them ready. When his turn came, he went willingly to kneel in front of Bishop Pecock seated at his desk, put his hands between the bishop’s, and with bowed head and closed eyes said the ritual words, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  He first confessed things that, four days ago, would have seemed heavy to him—that since he last confessed he had fallen into anger, been sometimes slothful at his duties, once been envious, once been gluttonous over candied ginger…

  He trailed to silence.

  Bishop Pecock waited a moment, then asked, “And?”, knowing as well as Arteys did what else there was to say.

  Softly Arteys said, “I killed a man.”

  ‘Of purpose and in anger?“

  ‘Of purpose. But not in anger.“ Arteys stopped. Could that be right? Slowly, working his way through the thought, he said, ”There wasn’t time for anger. I wanted to stop him, that was all.“

  ‘Tell me about it.“

  Arteys almost said, “I already did.” But Bishop Pecock was plainly not one of those priests who simply took a confession as it came and gave penance by rote. He was one of those who probed, wanting to know what the sinner understood about his sin, the better to help him clear his soul, and with head still lowered and eyes still shut, Arteys obediently told the killing over again, careful at the words, wanting them right both in his head and aloud.