8 The Maiden's Tale

by Frazer, Margaret

  Memory came of Domina the day she had finally been convinced Jane meant to go on refusing to take her vows, how in red-faced temper she had turned on Dame Idany, demanding, “Just what have you been teaching this girl all the years you were supposed to be turning her into a nun?” and Dame Idany answering with hand-flapping desperation, “I taught her everything! She just never listened!” Domina’s fury had been so great that Sister Felice had had to bleed her afterwards to relieve the pressure, and Dame Idany had accused, “You see what you’ve done, with your selfishness about your vows?” To which Jane had answered, “She did it to herself,” and had been put on bread and ale for three days and given one hundred paternosters to say, in punishment.

  “How long did it take you to win free?”

  All of my life, Jane did not say. But as far back as memory went, she had known she was expected to become a nun when she was old enough, and for nearly as long she had known she did not want to. Year by year she had put off her vows while pressure grew for her to take them, until finally all pretence that she would ever be willing had come to an end. But all she said now was, “There were six very bad months at the last and then I was allowed to write my uncle, to tell him I wanted out.”

  Though “allowed” had not been quite the way of it. There had been weeks into months of everyone being angry at her or, worse, grieved to the heart and telling her so while she went on refusing her vows no matter what was said or done to her, until, afraid she was near the end of her strength to hold out, she had gone uninvited into chapter meeting and in front of all the nuns demanded of Domina with an arrogance she meant to be unpardonable that she be allowed to write her uncle and make an end of all of this. Confronted, challenged, insulted, Domina had given her leave, and when the letter was gone, had put her on bread and ale again, ordered she keep on her knees in the church for most of every day, and forbidden anyone speak to her except of necessity until her uncle’s answer came. The hope being that if he refused or put her off, she would be too broken to continue obdurate.

  “And he agreed you shouldn’t take your vows if you didn’t wish to,” Dame Frevisse said.

  “Lady Alice did, at least.” The reply to her letter had come with merciful quickness and had been less her uncle’s than Lady Alice’s, her unknown aunt-by-marriage who had not trifled with questionings as to what it was all about but sent an escort to have her out of the nunnery as answer. Remembering her mingled fear, relief, and joy that day, when she had walked out of St. Osburga’s free, but knowing what she knew now, Jane said wryly, “I doubt my esteemed uncle could care a halfpenny less whether I’m a nun or not, so long as I laid claim to no more than my dowry from his earldom.”

  “When in truth,” Lady Alice said, joining them, “she wanted out so badly, she would probably have paid us for it if we’d only thought to ask.”

  That was a well-used jest between them and Jane smiled, agreeing, “Yes, I probably would have,” as she shifted herself and her sewing sideways for Lady Alice to sit beside her. “The thing was, I was so fearful the day the escort came for me and I was faced with what I’d brought on myself and all those strangers, I nearly settled after all for veil and vows and hiding inside cloister walls forever.”

  “But all inadvertently,” Lady Alice said, “I forestalled that.”

  “She’d taken thought that all I’d have to wear were nunnery clothes, and so she sent a gown and undergown and riding cloak and shoes and everything for me.”

  “All very plain,” Lady Alice said.

  “Dame Frevisse and I know your thought of plain,” Jane mocked her fondly. “The gown is green, there’s fur edging on the cloak’s hood, and the shoes had cut work. If I’d stayed in St. Osburga’s after all, I could never have had them. So I came out.”

  “Worldly child,” Lady Alice said, mocking her back. “They’re well rid of you, if they only knew.”

  “At least you were wise enough to know your own heart,” Dame Frevisse with a warm smile.

  “And brave enough to follow it,” Alice added.

  Jane, unused to so much approval of herself, ducked her head to hide her confusion, saying softly, pleased, “At least I was that.”

  Chapter 10

  The afternoon went its way pleasantly enough after dinner. Lady Alice was drawn away to household matters, and with their lady gone, others of the women drew Dame Frevisse into their company. A new face and new talk were always welcome diversions, made more interesting because this nun-cousin might prove a way to come to Lady Alice’s particular notice, being so markedly in their lady’s favor, but by what Jane heard from her window seat where she was gone back to her sewing, Dame Frevisse’s conversation was a bland assortment of mild recollections of Lady Alice as a girl, comments on her ride from Oxfordshire, and commonplaces about the weather, as if she were bent on giving no one anything about her to remark other than how unremarkable she was. That, Jane was sure from talking with her, was a false impression, and she worried a little over how well she had actually persuaded Dame Frevisse about Robyn, or if it was more a matter that Dame Frevisse had persuaded her that she believed?

  Unhappily, the greater problem was not Dame Frevisse, who would likely be discreet whatever she did, but what could be done about Robyn, other than wait to see what he would do. Who had betrayed Lady Alice to him was a lesser matter, one that could lie by for a while. If a woman had been fool enough to give way to Robyn’s wooing, she was probably fool enough to give herself away if questioned rightly, but to stir up trouble over her just now would give away too much that shouldn’t be known. Robyn was the more immediate threat, and Jane twisted the problem of him around through much of the afternoon, unhappily coming to no answer but that he must be played for time while she tried to find out what he truly wanted and where the rest of the poems were. How to play him was unfortunately another question to which she had no good answer. The only thing of which she remained certain was that Lady Alice had to be protected from knowing the danger she was in until she had to know.

  Time for supper came, but not with its usual relief. Neither Jane nor her uncle enjoyed her being seen by strangers and having to be explained. Without need to talk of it between them—as the understanding she would marry and make no trouble over it had needed no overt agreement—so far as they cared, she would never have dined in the hall when there was much company or any great occasion; but Lady Alice had made it clear that Jane would be trained up in all the ways of a lady and treated as one while she was with them, not shuffled off into a corner, even one to which Jane would have willingly retreated, given the choice. So tonight Jane was to wait on Lady Alice at the high table, an honor to them both and practice for Jane for when she would be waited on as lady at her own high table, because how better to learn what service to expect for oneself than by serving another? But while that reconciled Jane to the necessity, it was insufficient to make her take pleasure in it through tonight’s three removes with lengthy entertainments between and a final subtlety carried in with great fanfare by escort of squires: a tall marzipan display of four English knights protecting a king—representing England—wooing a lady with France’s fleur-de-lis on her gown—representing Peace—to come down to him from atop a tower.

  Jane wondered why they called it a subtlety.

  She held the silver basin of warm, almond-scented water and the towel for Lady Alice to wash and dry her hands and then for Dame Frevisse seated beside her, and at last her part in the evening was over. Aneys and Katherine were to attend Lady Alice through the rest of it, through the talk and dancing and seeking to influence people that seemed to be the real reason for these evenings, and she was free to escape upstairs as soon as she had handed off basin and towel to a servant to take away. With all the servants presently busy with clearing away the tables, she withdrew to the dais end to wait while Lady Alice and Suffolk with their guests from the high table went down to join the some several score of other guests, thinking as she sometimes did on how she must have misse
d her chance while in the nunnery to develop a liking for so much merriment, talk, and noise.

  Her chance came and she had just handed basin and towel away to a passing servant and was about to slip away through the door to the stairs when behind her Robyn said pleasantly, “Good evening, my lady.”

  Jane turned enough to cast him a sideways look devoid of delight. He had covered his approach among the crowd and shift of servants and guests, giving her no chance to avoid him, and now she did not dare leave because he would all too probably follow her and she would be alone with him.

  Robyn came to in front of her, saying, “You should try to look more happy to see me. Otherwise people will wonder what I’ve done to displease you.”

  “If you go away there’ll be no cause for anyone to wonder anything,” Jane returned stiffly.

  “But I’m not going away. So smile on me, fair lady.”

  She gave him a smile with too many teeth in it and “There.”

  “A gift from my lady,” Robyn said and grabbed her hand.

  Jane curbed her urge to snatch it back and slap his face, instead removed it from him with outward seeming of graciousness, and said, “What do you want of me?”

  “To talk. Simply to talk. Is that so hard?”

  “If I believed you, it might be easier.”

  “Sweet lady, how can you not believe?”

  “How can I?” she said curtly. “You can’t find me fair to look on. I’ve given you no cause to think my conversation pleasant or that I wanted yours. Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I want your company, your sweet words, for you to show a little kindness toward me. That’s all.”

  “For now,” she said coldly.

  “For always.” He leaned toward her, warming the words with insinuation as he added, “Or until you choose to give me more.”

  “I’m to be married.” She was fighting to recover her resolve to play him along but could not stop her refusal. “I’m past making any such choice. I’m betrothed.”

  “All the more reason,” Robyn answered, unoffended, leaning nearer, “to find your pleasures while you may, before a ring and your vows come between you and them. And there’s always the poems to give you excuse. The poems and Lady Alice’s honor. Think of those.” He lifted a hand as if he were thinking of touching the marred side of her face and murmured, watching her, “I wonder what it feels like to the touch. Has it ever been kissed?”

  Sickened, Jane drew back from him.

  Robyn smiled and let his hand fall. “Have sport with me,” he murmured, “and you’ll have the poems. One by one. There’s how many of them? Enough to see us through the holidays, don’t you think? To fill up the time before you wed?”

  She still believed she was only part of what he wanted and asked between shut teeth, “And what else will you want?”

  Robyn feigned surprise. “Aren’t you enough for me to want?”

  “The poems are worth more than that. What else will you want?”

  Robyn straightened from the wall, giving up the game she would not play, to say as tersely, “I want to know how and to whom Lady Alice sends messages. And who she has them from. And what’s in them. Anything it’s possible for you to learn.”

  Jane did not ask why. She could guess. He wanted things he could sell to someone and she was merely sport along the way. But with whom did he deal? The duke of Gloucester was the first and worst possibility but Lady Alice had warned her there were others. Not that it actually mattered who it was; anyone who had the poems would be able to do damage with them.

  “Besides,” Robyn said, leaning toward her again, lowering his voice, “I find you interesting. So marred and yet most of your face so fair and your body promising.”

  She had to silence him or escape him without offending him and she looked around for excuse of some kind to be away from him. The minstrels in their gallery above the screens passage were readying to play again and people were gathering to dance in the hall’s center or were busy in talk, no one close to hand or heeding her and Robyn. Except William Chesman just below the dais.

  He was looking doubtful between coming nearer and staying where he was, but whatever he was thinking, watching her in such close talk with Robyn, he was an excuse that Robyn could not hold against her, and with more warmth than she had ever used, Jane held out her hand toward him, saying “Master Chesman,” eagerly, and to her relief, in the moment it took Robyn to look around at him, William started toward them, so that to Robyn it had to look as if she had been greeting, not summoning him.

  On his own part, William gave no sign it was otherwise, bowed to her with “My lady” and to Robyn before asking, “By your leave, my lady, may we talk alone together?”

  “Of course.” She bent her head to Robyn in outwardly courteous dismissal. “By your leave?”

  It not being something he could well refuse, Robyn bowed acceptance but took her hand before she could refuse it, kissed it lingeringly, and held it a moment too long afterwards, saying warmly, “Until later then, my lady.”

  He let her go, smiled at William Chesman a shade too pleasantly, and strolled away, leaving Jane to face William’s questioning look that made nothing easier. But all he said was, with what seemed actual concern, “Are you well? You’re pale.”

  Her hands gripped together to keep from raising one to cover the marred side of her face in the old gesture she had worked so hard to conquer, Jane answered with what she intended to be calm, “The better that you please to ask, Master Chesman.”

  “You’re certain? You look… not altogether yourself.”

  “Truly, I’m well.” And truly, now that Robyn was gone, she was far better.

  Silence started to stretch out between them while Jane sought something else to say, but William found it first with, unsurely, “I thought you looked as if you wanted Master Robyn to go away. I pray your pardon if I was wrong in that.”

  “No!” Jane caught herself back from vehemence. “No, I’m very grateful he’s gone, Master Chesman.”

  “If it please you, my lady, would you call me my given name? William.”

  “William,” she said, and then hesitantly, not sure how right she was to make the offer, “May I be Jane to you?”

  “It would be my honor.” His smile left as he asked, “Was he bothering you? Should I warn him to leave you alone?”

  Jane wanted greatly to cry out, “Yes!” but Robyn, thwarted, might waste no time in selling the poems to his profit and Lady Alice’s hurt, and she snatched her wits together to say lightly, “It would only make him think himself more than he is. Let him be. The fault more probably lies with me. It’s having been so long in the nunnery. Around so many people, with all this at once…” She moved a hand toward the dancing, music, laughter, talk all mingled into solid sound all through the hall. “… my wits go feeble, I’m so unused to it, you see.”

  “Do you miss the nunnery?”

  No one else had asked her that in the months since she had come into her uncle’s household. Too busy with the complicated consequences of having succeeded to spend time thinking how she felt about it, she had not even asked herself, and now she was surprised at how readily the answer came as she said. “I think the only thing I miss from there is the quiet.”

  “The quiet?” William asked, curious, rather than disbelieving.

  “The quiet,” Jane repeated, finding out how deeply she meant it, going on slowly, “There was a fountain in the cloister. A very small one, given by a grieving family to the memory of a daughter who died while a novice there, oh, years ago. Long before I was born, I think. No one is quite sure of her name anymore but her fountain still plays into its stone basin from the warm days of spring through summer into every autumn. Sometimes when I sat reading there the only sound was of the water plashing and the bees among the cloister flowers when the days were warm enough.”

  William seemed to consider, then said as if carefully giving her something back, “It’s like that at Bruesham.�
� The manor where they would live after they were married. “Sometimes it will be so quiet you can hear the fish jumping in the pond below the house, at dawn and in the evenings.”

  He was offering something of himself in return for what she had told him, and matching his carefulness, she said, “Tell me about Bruesham.”

  “You know,” William said, a little surprised.

  She supposed she did. She had read the parchment rolls that detailed the properties she would be marrying into. Bruesham manor first, with so many acres in demesne, worth so much an acre, and so many more acres otherwise, in arable and pasture, also worth so much; with one manor house in good repair; farm buildings, equally in good repair; an orchard; a wood large enough for fuel and pannage but not hunting; rents from a windmill and various other properties; a village of thirty households; fees from the manor court; and a fish pond. All listed in detail: properties, fees, rights, costs. And other parchment rolls detailing everything the Chesman family held, everything that would be William’s when he inherited after his father’s death, though Lady Alice had had her most particularly note Bruesham because not only would she and William live there at first, it was what she would have for her dower manor should William die before she did. So, yes, as far as what could be learned from legal descriptions of its buildings, furlongs, dues, fees, and pleas, she knew all about Bruesham manor. But, “Tell me what it’s like, what you see when you’re there.”

  And after a moment William did. First of how the land there lay, the plowed fields curving around the flanks of the long, low hills, the pasture lands lying in the softer ground along the stream. Then how the orchard of pear and apple trees behind the manor house foamed white in spring with a wealth of blossoms and in the autumn glowed gold and red with the ripened fruit for perry and cider and dried apples through the winter. The manor house itself—“It was where my grandmother lived. I used to visit, stay with her there. It’s not a grand house but…” But he had been happy there. And he had loved his grandmother. He did not say it but Jane heard it in his voice and thought how strange it was she had not thought before about him being happy or having loved someone. She had thought about William being willing to marry her; about William tolerating how she looked; about how things might be between them once they were wed if all went well, but never about William as simply William, as someone who had sadnesses and gladnesses and… loved his grandmother.