6 The Murderer's Tale

by Frazer, Margaret

  Dame Claire and Frevisse curtsied to him and he bowed.

  “They’re here,” Lady Lovell said, “because of a dispute over the well at Prior Byfield that our stewards could not settle.”

  Dame Claire had taken the papers out of her belt pouch and now moved forward to hand them to Lady Lovell. “This is a copy of what’s written in our customal concerning the well. Our prioress thought that if you saw it, it would clarify matters for you.”

  “Better than my own steward has?”

  It was a simple question, not a demand, and there was hint of a smile behind it. Dame Claire answered with that same hint, “Our prioress thought that perhaps your steward would represent his side more strongly than ours to you.”

  Lady Lovell took the paper and while she broke the seal on it and opened it said, “Your prioress is said to be a contentious woman.”

  Dame Claire glanced back at Frevisse, wordlessly asking for help. It would be all too easy to say too much about Domina Alys, little of it to Domina Alys’ good, in response to Lady Lovell’s comment; and while it was ill to speak against your prioress inside the priory to other nuns who knew her well, it was far worse to speak ill of her outside it and to strangers. But lying was not an honorable possibility either, and since Dame Claire by choice was straight-spoken, she was caught which way to go, and let Frevisse know she wanted her help in answering discreetly what she should not answer directly. Frevisse, who had stayed near the door, willing to keep out of whatever passed between Dame Claire and Lady Lovell in the business because she had been given no authority to do otherwise, gathered her wits and answered with almost no perceptible pause, “Our prioress is… somewhat strong in her opinions.”

  “And I’m to take her opinion over that of my own man?”

  “Not her opinion, my lady,” Frevisse said, coming forward, “but the witness of the customal where the priory’s rights and duties have been laid out since St. Frideswide’s was founded.”

  “Wasn’t this brought to my steward’s attention?”

  “It was,” Dame Claire said. She had been witness to that.

  “And he did not see it as you do? As your prioress does?” She did not ask it ungraciously. She was merely questioning on what grounds they challenged her own man.

  With equal politeness Frevisse said, “He serves your interests well, my lady, and so possibly he sees the matter with a partiality he cannot help.”

  “And won’t I be likely to look at it with the same partiality?”

  “He is answerable to you, but you’re answerable to no one except God.”

  “And my lord husband.”

  “And your lord husband,” Frevisse agreed but added with a respectful inclination of her head, “who is as one with you in all such matters.”

  Lady Lovell fought the beginning of a smile. She and Frevisse were both in earnest over the matter, but that smile told Frevisse that Lady Lovell was enjoying their play of words and wits as much as she was. Matching the respectful inclination of Frevisse’s head, Lady Lovell agreed, “We are as one.”

  “So if you defraud the priory knowingly,” Frevisse went on, “then you would be defrauding yourself—and your lord husband—of God’s esteem and that you would never willingly do. Therefore you’re more likely to judge the matter with less partiality than your steward who only serves you. And if even then it seems to you that you have the right in the matter, you may decide to take the cost of the new well on yourself anyway, out of charity to a poor and struggling house of nuns who will in gratitude make many prayers for you, your husband, and your children.”

  That last was afterthought, but in Frevisse’s opinion there was something to be said on both sides of the argument, despite Domina Alys’ refusal to see it, and an offer to balance the matter a little more the nunnery’s way made sense. But prayers were not something lightly offered on the nunnery’s behalf, nor had Domina Alys said that they could do so, and Dame Claire exclaimed in protest, “Dame Frevisse!”

  Lady Lovell laughed openly, with sympathy as much as amusement, at Dame Claire’s protest and, understanding Frevisse had overstepped in making her offer, at her boldness.

  Since she was already in further than she had meant to be, Frevisse suggested, “You might talk with John Naylor, too. The young man traveling with us. His uncle is the priory’s steward, and John works with him and very likely knows what’s passed between our man and yours in more detail than we do.”

  Lady Lovell nodded. “I’ll do that, too. And then we can talk again. Tomorrow probably, given what I have left to do today.” She moved her hand to indicate the rolls across the table. “With my husband gone, these are all mine to deal with.” It was plainly something she was used to and did not in the slightest mind. “Pray you, enjoy yourselves here the while and welcome.”

  That was gracious dismissal and they took it as such, curtsying to her with thanks and withdrawing. The squire had waited by the door and as he stood aside to see them out, Lady Lovell said to him, “I’d like to talk with Master Knyvet next. He’s likely in his chamber or the garden.”

  The squire bowed, followed them out, and saw them back to the great hall. After he had left them, they stood uncertain what they should do next, and Dame Claire said tentatively, feeling out the thought, “I think I should like to go lie down and rest awhile.”

  Frevisse could see no reason why she should not. Weariness was showing in her face again, the benefit of last night’s rest already worn thin, and since they would probably be on the road again tomorrow’s morrow, Dame Claire should rest as much as might be now while she had the chance.

  Frevisse saw her up the stairs but parted from her in the solar, leaving her to go into the bedchamber on her own while she went on to the chapel. Her purpose was not so much for prayer this time as somewhere to be alone. One was rarely alone in St. Frideswide’s, but one was not required to be in continual talk there and Frevisse was tired of talk. A while of silence would do as much for her mind as lying down would hopefully do for Dame Claire’s body.

  It was briefly a disappointment to find, here as in the church, Lionel yet again before her, kneeling in front of the altar. This time Martyn was with him, kneeling, too, both in prayer. Neither heeded her approach. Only Fidelitas, curled in the folds of Lionel’s houpelande where it spread on the floor around him, lifted her head in notice of Frevisse. But Frevisse, mindful that the squire was somewhere, looking for Lionel, went forward, careful to scruff her feet a little to let them know she was there, and briefly touched Lionel’s shoulder. He turned his head to look at her and she said, “Lady Lovell has sent someone to seek you, but it will likely be a while before he thinks to come here. She wants to talk with you.”

  Lionel nodded. “Thank you.” He pulled at his gown to urge Fidelitas off it and stood up, Martyn with him.

  Frevisse wanted to ask, “How is it with you?” because there drawn faces told that their prayers had not eased them the way her own so often did her, but she held her curiosity in check, made a small curtsy to Lionel’s slight bow and Martyn’s deeper one, and as they left, knelt herself before the altar.

  The departing quick click of Fidelitas’ nails marked their going. Frevisse prayed briefly, but God knew as surely as she did that the real reason she had come here was to be alone.

  But even alone, with time to look at her thoughts, she could not immediately identify the discomfort that had been increasing in her. She had been aware of it but without time to think about it enough to give it a name. Now she had the time to think about it and in a while discovered—disconcertingly—that she had to call it homesickness.

  She shied from that, wanting it to be something else. She did not know what else, but not that, not after all her eagerness to be away from Domina Alys and the disharmony growing in St. Frideswide’s. How could she be aching for somewhere she had so wanted to leave, especially when she was here in so lovely and peaceful a place as Minster Lovell?

  She hesitated over the question, probin
g at it from different ways. St. Frideswide’s was changed since Domina Edith’s death, but in all fairness Frevisse had long since had to admit that was not merely Domina Alys’ doing. No matter who had become prioress after Domina Edith, it would have been different, simply because so much of what a priory was depended on its prioress. Frevisse had made herself face that truth early on, when first trying to come to terms with the need for her obedience to Domina Alys. A few times she had thought she had come to those terms and each time found she had not and had gladly taken Dame Claire’s reason to be out of Domina Alys’ eye and the priory’s discomfort because of it. Nor was there any hope the priory would ever change back to the way it had been. Domina Edith was gone.

  Frevisse paused to say a prayer for the late prioress’ soul. A strong, good, loving soul whose leaving still ached in Frevisse when she was not careful to keep her mind away from the thought.

  But Domina Edith had not been all of St. Frideswide’s, and neither was Domina Alys. Even under Domina Alys, prayers were still the center of each day there and the rule of silence mostly held. And the prayers and the silence in which to grow nearer to God had been part of why Frevisse had chosen a nun’s life in the beginning. She had chosen to come on this pilgrimage with Dame Claire to be out and away from Domina Alys, not to escape St. Frideswide’s itself, and now she was finding that she wanted to be back there more than she wanted to be away from her prioress.

  The realization startled her. She pushed at it but could not make it change. It was the truth. A truth, she told herself mockingly, that she had best remember when she was indeed back in St. Frideswide’s and faced again with Domina Alys.

  Chapter 9

  The morning’s hunt had been good pastime, but the afternoon had dawdled away in idle talk and nothing much to do. Now they were come to evening, with supper finished. Lady Lovell had chosen to spend the last while of daylight in the garden. Her untoward amount of influence with her husband made worthwhile the effort to have her good opinion, and so Giles was come out with the rest, to make show of enjoying himself over the hidden writhe of his impatience. Sharing a cushion with Edeyn on the grass under the trees among those who had chosen to sit with Lady Lovell rather than walk around the garden, he joined in the talk as much as need be. It was mostly idle chat about this morning’s hunt, the perfect weather, the evening’s beauty, but he made shift to be part of it, and for good measure paid Edeyn particular heed, holding her hand, occasionally sharing a smile with her, even troubling to seem to care what she said, enough to show how much affection there was between them, because Lady Lovell was fond of her and would think the better of him for it.

  But it was actually Lionel whom he was most carefully noticing. So far it was going well. The day was this far gone and he had not yet given any sign the next attack was near. It would be soon but had not happened yet, and that was exactly as Giles needed it to be.

  That need had ridden him all day. Every hour Lionel passed untouched meant his demon’s return was that much nearer, and every hour of waiting meant the chance was greater that it would come where and when Giles wanted it. He had gone on the hunt this morning because if the attack had come then, it would not have served his purpose, and he might as well enjoy himself otherwise. And likewise through the afternoon, he had forced himself to keep clear of Lionel because the attack coming then would have been no use to him either. He had spent the time in the mews discussing hawks, in the stable discussing horses, in the yard watching the builders at their work and considering what changes he would make at Knyvet when it was his; and all the while he had been at pains not to show he was on edge with constantly wondering how Lionel did. He had even prayed to St. Michael in his need, because who was more likely to be against whatever demon came to Lionel than the archangel who had fought the Devil himself out of heaven?

  For good measure he had thrown in promise of a gift rich enough to turn even an archangel’s head if this went the way he wanted it to, but he had still been hugely relieved to see Lionel still upright and competent at supper.

  Since then, with time now running close, it was difficult not to watch him obviously, and damn him, he was making it no easier with his pacing around the garden instead of sitting decently still somewhere. Not that it mattered. There was no way he could leave the garden without Giles seeing him go, or someone else who would then undoubtedly comment on it. Most likely Edeyn.

  Giles was finding that watching her watch Lionel while trying to seem that she was not was somewhat less amusing than usual. Her glance went Lionel’s way rather too often. It was no more than her idiot sympathy for every sick, hurt thing that came her way, and Lionel was the most deeply sick, hurt thing she was ever likely to encounter. Besides, she knew as well as Giles did that another attack was near. But her concern was annoying anyway. Fondling her hand, Giles twisted a little hard at her smallest finger, making her gaze flinch around from Lionel standing at the arched way into the rose garden with the nuns to him instead.

  She was always somewhat startled when he hurt her; it added to her charm. He kissed the offended finger, smiling to show he had not meant it. She smiled back, believing him, and he regretted he would have to postpone the pleasure of her tonight until after his other—he considered the word and decided it was the right one—pleasures.

  Edeyn turned to answer a question from Lady Lovell. Giles turned back to watching Lionel act out his pretense that he had a life beyond his disease. Even now he kept it up, when he was waiting in sure knowledge of how near his demon was.

  A few more hours, Giles promised silently. Wait it out a few more hours and then there’ll be an end to the pretending and everything made better.

  The spring day’s mild warmth was turning toward coolness even before the sun was gone. The women and men not sitting with Lady Lovell among the birch trees walked along the paths among the formal garden beds, or in and out the arbor along the rose garden, and sometimes across the grass to join in the talk there, familiar among themselves, their voices were light and drifting on the evening air. At garden’s end the manor house rose up, its cream-gold walls and stone-traceried windows glowing in the long slant of setting sunlight.

  Frevisse and Dame Claire walked together with nothing in particular to say to anyone or even to each other, aware how their quietness and black habits and plain, heavy veils so obviously put them apart from everyone around them. The bright-gowned women, the older ones with their soft veils lifting, drifting, floating lightly as they moved, the young girls with their soft hair falling loose almost always to at least their waists; the men so sure in their laughter and their talk.

  Watching them, Frevisse found she was smiling at how completely they belonged here, now, in this garden, set jewel-like in the surround of sun-warmed manor walls, gracious with laughter and light talk.

  “Do you ever wish—” Dame Claire began, and stopped, which was unlike her, usually so certain of words, or else, with equal certainty, silent. Frevisse looked at her questioningly. Dame Claire met her look, smiled, and remade the question. “Have you ever thought this—or something like it—could have been our life if we had chosen differently?”

  Frevisse had thought it. Though there would have been nothing so grand as this for her, her birth and dowry both insufficient for her to marry so high or richly, there could have been something like this, something her own as nothing was or now ever would be, her nun’s vows long since taken. Assuredly she had thought of it. But she had also thought of how it was a loveliness that would pass, as all the world’s loveliness passed, and though its beauty was in some ways the more precious for its brevity, it was not more precious than what she had chosen in its stead, and she said with a certainty too great to need emphasis, “No. I made the choice I should have made. And so did you.”

  Dame Claire answered her with an unshadowed smile. “I know. I only wondered if you did.”

  Briefly intent on their own conversation, they had paused beside the arched way into the arbored walk.
Now behind Frevisse, Lionel said, “My ladies, may I join you?” She turned to find him coming toward them, Fidelitas beside him but no one else.

  “Join us and be welcome,” Dame Claire said readily. “We were going into the rose garden.”

  Frevisse had not known they were but went willingly, saying, “I’m having little luck with my Rose allegory,” referring to their yesterday’s talk of the poem and its possible meanings. “Despite myself, worldly ways creep into my mind whenever I’m in the garden.”

  “The same trouble Adam and Eve had, I believe,” Lionel said.

  They laughed, and Dame Claire bent to stroke Fidelitas’ pretty head. “We thought we might say Compline while we walked, but I fear Dame Frevisse keeps humming the cuckoo song.”

  “Once!” Frevisse protested.

  “The cuckoo song?” Lionel asked.

  Frevisse hummed the bright, glad notes of “Summer is a-coming in/ Loudly sing, cuckoo. Grows the seed and blows the mead/ And springs the wood anew—”

  Lionel grinned. The smile warmed his long-jawed face, and Frevisse realized he had been worried how they would be with him. He confessed, still smiling, “I meant to say Compline, too, but what has been in my head instead is—” He sang, his voice surprisingly light and sure, “When spray begins to spring/ Little bird has her will on her branch to sing.”

  “And I live in love longing/ For the fairest of all things,” Dame Claire went on, sure of words and tune.

  “You are neither of you to be commended for your piety,” Frevisse said in mock horror.

  “But doesn’t God accept a merry heart rejoicing in the beauty of his world as worship?” Lionel asked.

  “And after all,” Dame Claire added, “what everyone means when they sing that is that Christ is the fairest of all things and they’re longing for Him.”

  “Oh, yes, of course that’s what everyone means,” Frevisse agreed with overearnest solemnity, and they all three laughed together.