Keeping to herself both her surprise at such wise advice from Domina Elisabeth and the wry thought that she did not know since she was not holy yet, Frevisse had answered, “Having seen Dame Thomasine over the years, I would say, yes, holiness is a thing we grow into, not simply get. Although in another way”—She had paused, trying for outward words for what she inwardly felt—“what’s needed is a lessening of our selves, because if we’re too bound up with worry over this, desire for that, pleasure in things too apart from God so that we can’t see him for looking at them, then there’s no place in us for holiness to come. It’s as if our hands were too full of earthen tableware to take a golden platter someone is holding out to us. He can’t give us what we aren’t able to take.”
“He gave it to St. Paul on the road to Damascus,” Dame Margrett had ventured uncertainly.
“He did, and at a time when it was probably the last thing St. Paul thought he wanted. So we know it can happen that way to a soul already great enough. But,” Frevisse had said dryly, “first, I know quite surely I’m far from being that great a soul, and secondly, I’m not sure I want to be blasted into holiness.”
That had made Dame Margrett laugh, which was to the good. The Rule was firmly against unseemly laughter but Frevisse had found that laughter rightly made could clear thickened thought and let it flow again.
She wondered if her congested feelings about Sister Cecely would clear if she could find something about her at which to laugh. But she could see nothing even slightly worth laughter where Sister Cecely was concerned. Moreover, as Dame Claire had said on an aggravated sigh this afternoon, “If she stayed away this long, why couldn’t she have stayed away until after Easter?”
Why not indeed?
But here she was again, coming down from the necessarium. She had been there over-long for someone who gave no sign of being ill, and Frevisse suspected she had used it for an excuse to be away from them all for a while, which Frevisse did not mind, being all too willing to be likewise away from Sister Cecely, but as Sister Cecely joined her at the garden’s gate, the clacker made its sharp summons to Compline, ending recreation and turning them both back toward the cloister.
Cecely had been enduring everything these women forced on her, but having that hard-faced Dame Frevisse keep watch on her was nearly too much. Along with all else, it meant that when, just after Lauds, Dame Frevisse took her turn at keeping vigil in the church, Cecely had to keep it with her, and that meant no going to the kitchen for warmth and something to drink. Instead, here she was, kneeling in the pitch-black church behind Dame Frevisse and Dame Amicia, cold and hungry and with nothing to do but think. Of course she was supposed to be praying and she kept her head bent to that seeming, although how anyone would know in the darkness whether she did even that much, she didn’t know. How did these women find so much to say to God? She remembered that her own prayers in Holy Week had been mostly, simply, for Lent to be over. The weeks of fasting, hard enough in the usual way of things, had been almost impossible to bear in the nunnery. Why did women with so few chances to sin think they had to be more penitent than anyone else?
Now, besides the discomfort of it all, she hated having the time to think. All thinking brought was chance to hurt with missing Guy. He had been everything she ever wanted. He and their life together. Now everything was gone except Neddie, and she was hungry and cold and could not stop the fear that she might fail at what she meant to do, nor hold back the tears that brimmed over and slid down her cheeks there in the darkened church. A sob came with them, and she let it. If she could not help crying, there was no use in wasting it. Dame Frevisse and Dame Amicia would likely take her sob for an outward sign of penitence, a sign that her broken heart was seeking to mend itself in Christ.
Let them think whatever they wanted.
Lord of mercy, she hated it here.
Still, the night finally ended, Prime and Tierce were endured, her time with Neddie came, and with it came reward for all her “humility” since coming here. This was the hour when the nuns were either nodding over their Lenten reading in the cloister walk or else kneeling at the altar, intent on being as pious as possible these last hours before Easter. Yesterday Dame Claire had felt no need to keep absolute watch on her while she was with Neddie, had instead been satisfied to join the nuns kneeling in yet more prayer at the altar. Today, Dame Frevisse saw fit to do the same, leaving her and Neddie to go alone into the nave.
Or as alone as they could hope to be.
Yesterday, to the sorrowful chanting of the nuns, Father Henry had carefully removed the Host in its silver and crystal pyx from the altar and put it in the Easter sepulchre, set into the church’s wall and closed with a pair of wooden doors carved with the crown of thorns and whip and nails of Christ’s suffering. There the Host would stay until Easter, shut away as Christ had been shut away in the tomb. In token of mourning, all lights in the church were out, the altar cloth was black, the church altogether gloom-laden, making it a place Cecely would have avoided if she’d had any choice, but besides the nuns kneeling at the altar beyond the rood screen, there were common people kneeling here and there about the nave. Not many but some. Here to share in the holiness of the day, Cecely supposed. And God bless you all, she thought, so long as you stay away from me. For one thing, since they were gathered closer to the rood screen than not, they gave her reason to take Neddie farther down the nave, closer to the west door, and aside to the stone bench that ran along the nave’s wall for such folk as were too aged or ill to stand through an Office or the Mass.
The nuns, of course, sat in their stalls beyond the rood screen, where “lesser folk” were not allowed. As if nuns, by being nuns, had made themselves better than other folk, Cecely thought. She knew for a truth they were just women without the courage to be women, and she sat herself and Neddie down on the cold stone and pulled him tightly against her with an arm around his shoulders. He was her proof that she had dared not to waste her life away inside nunnery walls, and she lightly kissed his smooth hair and said, “Talk to me, Neddie. Tell me what you’ve been doing.”
He was clinging to her free hand with both his own, his head burrowed against her, his face hidden and his answer muffled so that she had to bend closer over him and ask, “What, dearling? I didn’t hear you. You’ve been doing what?”
With his face still hidden against her, he said, a little louder, “Nothing.”
“You’ve been doing nothing? Surely you’ve been doing something.”
He held quiet a moment, then said, still muffled, “Reading.”
“Reading?” She freed her hand from his, slipped a finger under his chin, and pried his head up so she could see his face. “What have you been reading, dearling?”
“A book. To Mistress Petham.”
“You’ve been reading to Mistress Petham?” Jealousy stabbed at Cecely. She had never thought of having Neddie read to her. How dare the woman make such use of her son?
But, no, it was maybe just as well. It meant the nuns weren’t watching him, were leaving him to Mistress Petham, who had yet to leave her chamber. And very comfortable that must be—to come to a nunnery and never have to go to prayers, just lie about and be waited on.
Cecely kept that sharp thought tucked under her tongue, instead kissed Neddie on the forehead and said, “That’s lovely. What a good boy you are.”
But thank the saints for Alson. Cecely had supposed she would have to use Neddie, but with Alson here there was no need yet for that. With a servant’s usual sharp ways, she had slipped away from whatever duty she should have had last evening and been waiting in the necessarium when Cecely came. Not to waste any of the little time they probably had, Cecely had caught tight hold on her hands and said, “I may need your help. Will you help me?”
Alson’s eyes had widened. “To do what?”
“I can’t stay here.”
“But you came back.”
“Not to stay.”
Alson’s eyes had widened fart
her and her mouth opened in silent “Oh.” Much about Cecely’s age, she seemed never to have married: she had no ring, still wore only a plain headkerchief of the sort suited to a servant but not to a wife. With what pale prettiness she had once all faded from her, she was unlikely ever to marry now, poor thing, Cecely thought. But the merriment that Cecely remembered was still in her and with her surprise turning to mischievousness, she had asked, “What are you going to do?”
Cecely had squeezed her hands in thanks. “Can you take a message to someone in the guesthall without anyone suspicious of you?”
“To who?”
“Can you?” Cecely insisted.
“My brother is still there. I go to see him sometimes.”
Cecely had forgotten Alson had a brother, he had not figured in anything she had needed all those years ago. He would be useful now, though, and she had thrown her arms around Alson in a quick hug, then told her what she needed, making Alson’s eyes go wide again.
“Can you do that?” Cecely had demanded.
Stifling a laugh with a hand over her mouth, Alson had nodded that she could. Cecely had given her another quick embrace and said, “I can’t linger. That dragon Dame Frevisse is waiting for me.”
“Oh, her.” Alson had shrugged. “Stiff as a stick, that one.”
Cecely entirely agreed, but this morning she would forgive Dame Frevisse that and much else, just so long as she stayed there at the altar with her back to the nave.
The nave’s west door, used by anyone not of the cloister, opened, letting in a slant of sunlight across the nave’s stone floor and then a man. The sunlight slid away as he closed the door behind him, before Cecely had seen his face, but she had never lost her keen eye regarding men. She had met Master Breredon only a few times, but with the urgency of waiting she was certain of him and stood up, pulling Neddie with her. The next moment she thought better of that and sat again, pulling Neddie down and drawing him firmly to her side with an arm around his shoulders. Both she and Master Breredon should make this seem an unexpected meeting, and she bent her head over Neddie, murmuring to him about nothing in particular while watching Master Breredon come up the nave.
In the “holy gloom” she still did not clearly see his face, but this had to be him. The stocky body, not particularly tall but carried well. The steady, centered tread. It was him. Except he did not come to her. No. He went past her, to the rood screen where he bowed toward the altar in the shadows beyond it, then knelt and bowed his head.
After her first flare of disappointment, Cecely realized that was good. The less there was for anyone to note about him, the better.
Even so, she could not help her impatience as she waited for him to finish the show he was putting on. Neddie moved his head restlessly away from her hand. She realized she was stroking his hair back from his forehead somewhat too hard and stopped, bent to quickly kiss the top of his head, and said, still watching Master Breredon, “There’s a good boy. Just be quiet.” Then, “Here’s someone I want you to meet,” as Master Breredon stood up with the ease of a man with no aches in his bones, bowed again toward the altar, backed away several paces and bowed once more before turning away, looking as if he would leave the church now. After a few steps, though, he turned aside as if on a chance-come thought and came toward her.
Good, thought Cecely. If anyone was watching, it would not look her fault he stopped to talk with her.
Better yet, no one bustled forward to interfere, so chance was they were as unnoted as she hoped. She stood up, drawing Neddie up with her, and curtsied. Master Breredon gave her somewhat of a bow in return, and said quietly, to suit where they were, “Mistress Rowcliffe.”
“Sir.” She pulled Neddie from where he was half hidden behind her skirts, still clinging to one of her hands with both of his. He had always been such a bold little boy that she did not know what to make of all this hiding and clinging, but she wasn’t having it from him just now. Just now she needed him to be as presentable as possible, and she turned him by his shoulders to face forward, saying bracingly, “Neddie, this is Master Breredon. You remember Master Breredon, don’t you?”
Stupidly, Neddie shook his head that he did not, but at least he kept his head up, looking Master Breredon in the face; and Master Breredon all unexpectedly sat down on his heels, bringing him more to Neddie’s height, and said, “It’s unlikely that he would. There’s been too much happening to remember everything, hasn’t there…Neddie?”
Neddie nodded, then whispered, “Edward.”
“Edward? That’s your name?” Master Breredon asked. “That’s what you want to be called?”
Neddie nodded again.
“Edward it is then,” Master Breredon said, as solemnly as if they were making a pact between them. He stood up, lightly touched one of Neddie’s shoulders, and said to Cecely, “You still hold to your purpose?”
“If you hold to yours,” Cecely said. Master Breredon’s dark green surcoat over a deeply brown tunic was trimmed around collar and arm-slits with beaver fur. She had always admired his furs and now had to resist the urge to reach out and stroke these, their rich softness so contrasted to all the nunnery’s stale harshness. He had wealth and used it well. That was one reason she had chosen to deal with him, and keeping to business, she said, “I’m too closely watched today for anything, but tomorrow…”
“Tomorrow is Easter,” Master Breredon said quickly.
“So the nuns will be over busy with prayers and things. Tomorrow is when they’re most likely to forget me.” She wondered how he could be slow to see the good chance that gave them.
“But it’s Easter,” he insisted. “That’s not a day for doing this manner of thing.”
Cecely was held speechless for a moment. St. William! She had not counted on him being that narrow! But too much depended on his willingness, and she swallowed down her anger that he could be so stupid—she had chosen him because she thought him well-witted—and said, smiling in a way meant to warm him to her, “Monday then, yes?”
“Monday,” he agreed. “Your man will bring me word of when and how, the way he did this?”
“Yes,” Cecely said, wondering, What man? He must mean Alson’s brother. Why had Alson told him? Damnation and the devil! The more people who knew, the more chance someone would say something they should not! But she and Master Breredon were out of their time. A nun was moving beyond the rood screen, easily able to see them if she looked this way, and Cecely said quickly, “He’ll bring word, yes. I must go.”
She made him a quick curtsy, and before Master Breredon had finished his return bow, was pulling Neddie away with her, back toward the choir, seeing now that the nun was that unblessed Dame Frevisse and she was surely looking their way. Distrustful, prying woman. Why wasn’t she still at her praying?
There was only time to snap in a sideways whisper at Neddie, “Tell her nothing,” squeezing his hand hard to be sure he understood, before they were to the rood screen where Cecely gained a little time by pausing to curtsy toward the altar before going aside to where Dame Frevisse stood, her face hard with suspicion, devils take her.
Chapter 9
Frevisse did not know why she had left off her praying and turned to see what Sister Cecely was doing. Holy Week’s little sleep and Lent’s last fasting had her light-headed with weariness and hunger; it was maybe simple restlessness rather than suspicion that paused her praying, rather than the wave of unease that seemed to flow around even mere thought of Sister Cecely. Sister Cecely had been a trouble to St. Frideswide’s from her first coming here—trouble enough that, in truth, St. Frideswide’s had been the better, in some ways, for her being gone. She and her cousin had been there only because their aunt, prioress for a time and ambitious for the priory, had persuaded her family to send the girls to be novices. By force of her will and unwise indulgences, she had seen the two of them through to taking the final vows that made them fully nuns, but when Domina Elisabeth succeeded her as prioress, the full measure of Sis
ter Cecely’s ill-suitedness had begun to show itself. Always careless of the Offices, she had become resentful of all her duties and skilled at drawing not only her cousin Sister Johane into her slackness but several of the lighter nuns.
And then one spring day she had disappeared.
Fear that some manner of mischance had come to her had vanished when Domina Elisabeth’s stern questioning had brought the servant-girl Alson to tearfully admit she had taken Sister Cecely’s place in the kitchen so that Sister Cecely could meet someone in the orchard. No, Alson did not know who. Well, maybe a man. Yes, all right. A man. She was going to meet a man. No, Alson did not know what man. No, truly she didn’t. And no, no, and no, she didn’t think Sister Cecely was gone off with him. Sister Cecely had said she would be back before anyone but Alson knew anything about it!
Suspicion had of course turned on the well-featured young man who had left the priory the same day she had, but since it was not the guesthall servants’ business nor the hosteler’s, then, to deeply question those who stayed there, there had been uncertainty about even his name—Ratcliffe, maybe?—and no thought about where he had come from or where he was bound. He had not had much talk to any nunnery folk, and while he might have spoken more to his fellow guests, the few there had been were as gone on their ways as he was. There had been search made for him and her of course, at first nearby and then with questions farther afield with help from Abbot Gilberd when he was appealed to. One report of a woman who might be Sister Cecely was had from a village miles east of St. Frideswide’s, along with word that she had been riding pillion behind a man, looking glad to be there. If that was her, it had been the last that was known. Not much beyond there, she and this man would have reached Watling Street, the great north-south road that could have taken them to London in one direction, to almost the border of Wales in the other, and in the great flow of travelers along it no report of them had been found, and that was the end of that.
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