When a small snick of the door’s latch falling into place told he was gone, Alice turned to seize hold of both Frevisse’s hands and ask, “You understand how necessary this is? That my lord of Orleans be kept safe? You understand? Both France and Burgundy have said they won’t deal in peace without the duke of Orleans is part of it. He has to be kept safe.”
Remembering Alice at the window this afternoon, looking out across the Thames to Winchester House where Orleans was, Frevisse was afraid that something other than peace was at stake in this for her and started to ask something, thought the better of it, and said instead, “Don’t fear. I’ll do all I can here. But you’d better go.”
Alice squeezed her hands, let her go, and was gone.
Left alone with the shadows and her thoughts, Frevisse found neither of them comfort or good company. She did not know how long she would have to wait for Orleans to come. A while and a while, she feared, and even longer if the tide was running strong, slowing the crossing. But at least she was alone, and glad of that, she sat down in one of the cushioned chairs, folded her hands in her lap, and because there was no use in thinking about what would or wouldn’t happen with Orleans coming here, resolutely turned her mind to Compline, the last office of any day, the evening prayers before bed. At St. Frideswide’s, it would be long past, the nuns asleep in their cells until midnight, when they would wake and go to the church for Matins and Lauds. For her here in Coldharbour there had been scant chance for any of the day’s offices, let be the pleasure of going to sleep with hope of waking in time for the midnight prayers. As things were, tonight she was likely to be still awake for them without sleep at all; but in compensation she had pause now for at least some of the prayers she had missed and she bowed her head to them with, “Jube, domne, benedicere. Noctem quietam etfinem perfectum concedat nobis Dominus omnipotens.”‘ Pray, lord, a blessing. May the almighty Lord give to us a quiet night and a perfect end.
A quiet night, with what they were purposing to do simply done and Orleans as safe, as hidden here, as might be managed.
She dragged her mind away from Orleans, back to where she wanted it to be. “… vigilate quia adversarius vester dia-bolus tamquam leo rugiens circuit, quaerens quern devoret.”‘ … be watchful because your adversary the devil just like a roaring lion circles seeking whom he can devour.
And the devil could take so many shapes, come prowling in to devour the soul by way of so many sins. Including the sin of loving where you should not love.
Was whatever was between Alice and this duke of Orleans more than what it should be?
Frevisse drew her mind fiercely back into the prayers. The blessed, the gladsome Nunc dimittis servum tuum… in pace… Now you dismiss your servant… in peace… Domine, exaudi orationem meant. Et clamor mens ad te veniat. Lord, heed my prayer. And let my cry come to you.
Prayer for blessing, warning to the soul, promise of peace, plea for remembrance. All that together in the briefness of Compline’s prayers, giving release from the day’s necessities into certainty that there were deeper things to care about than all the world’s foolishnesses… She was slipping into sleep and knew it and with a force of will she did not want to have, drew her head and then all her body up from a slow, slumped nodding, braced her hands on the arms of the chair, and forced herself to her feet. “Divinum auxilium maneat semper nobis-cum…” Divine aid remain always with us…
Rubbing at such of her face as her wimple left uncovered, she paced the room. How much time was past? The lamp seemed appreciably lower but that told her little. She went to the door toward the hall and opened it enough to hear there were still music and much talking out there. How much longer before she should begin to wait by the garden door? It might be well if she went to unlock it now, even if she did not wait by it all the while, so that when Orleans came there would be no chance of his being left standing even a short while outside it in the yard. And she supposed the garden’s cold would serve to startle her fully awake.
It did, and she made her way along the path to the garden door, found the unseen key easily enough, and turned it so that now Orleans could come in whether she was there or not, and wrapping her arms around herself, she set to walking the path to the solar door, back to the arbor, back to the solar door, to keep her awake until he came. But her walking was not enough to keep her warm and she was about to give way and go inside, if only for a while, when behind her there were voices near on the other side of the wall and she froze with more than the cold and stood still, listening. She had heard voices beyond the wall before now, while she was walking. Servants’ voices mostly, happy with the ale and food that always managed to overflow from feast to serving folk, but all of them further away in the yard than these and none of them lingering, hasting from hall to stables or stables to hall or anywhere warmer than the yard. These voices were nearer, lower, and when they paused she heard the small snick and rattle of the door handle and latch before there was a momentary slit of yellow torchlight between the door and doorframe as the door was barely opened. The black shape of a man slid through, the light went with the soft thud of the door being shut, and everything was still, as if those outside were waiting to hear something while the man inside waited, unmoving, for his eyes to be used to the garden’s darkness, listening, too, like the men beyond the door. And in the moment Frevisse took to decide what to say to least startle him, he asked, low, without fear, “Who else is here?”
He spoke in English, only slightly French on “here,” and Frevisse answered quickly, her voice as low as his, “Lady Alice’s cousin, my lord. She set me to wait for you.”
Someone beyond the wall said something. Orleans answered, “It’s well. Go.”
Frevisse moved toward him, saying, to let him be sure of her, “I need to lock the door again and then I’ll take you in,” aware it could not be pleasant for him to be in a night-black garden with someone he did not know, could barely see, so soon after someone had tried to kill him.
He moved silently aside, out of her way but not far, close to her as she found the key, turned it, and decided to leave it where it was rather than try returning it to its hiding place, something that could be better done in daylight tomorrow.
“If you’ll come this way, my lord,” she said.
Asking no questions, he followed her. At the solar she went in and stood aside for him, then closed and locked the door, so that on this side there were now two solid, locked doors between him and whatever danger might have followed or be seeking him, and her own sharp relief at that let her guess what his feeling must be, as she turned toward him with her eyes lowered and sank in a deep curtsy as befitted his royalty and dukedom, only to find as she rose from it that he was holding out a hand to her, saying, “I think between rescued and rescuer we can forgo some of the courtesies, my lady.” He slightly bent his head to her. “Charles, duke of Orleans. And you are?”
They were much of a height and standing close to one another, and as he took her hand, Orleans looked directly into her eyes, using what little lamplight there was to see what else might lie behind them besides courtesy. That was a useful boldness for a man whose safety might lie in being able to judge the quality of those who had the keeping of him, and Frevisse met his look, taking the chance to judge him in return as she said in answer, “Dame Frevisse of St. Frideswide’s nunnery, my lord.”
“And Lady Alice’s cousin, you said.” Orleans let go of her hand and moved away toward the lamp, circling the table so that it was between them, holding his hands out over the warmth, still looking at her across its light. “She and my lord of Suffolk have entrusted me to you for this night?”
“Only until she or my lord of Suffolk can come to you.”
“Yes,” Orleans agreed, though Frevisse was not sure to what. The light cast up his face made him starker featured than he would be by daylight, his cheeks a little darkened, roughened with day’s-end beard, his eyes hidden in the shadows above his cheekbones and under his wide brow that was
marked with the deep creases of a man who had not gone easily through life. He was dressed in black more deeply than she was, with no relieving white or other color anywhere about him except for a large-linked collar of probably gold over his shoulders, with an enameled badge dependent from it on his chest whose device she did not know. Whether he was handsome or not was difficult to tell in the low, uncertain light, but he was surely worth the looking on, and she moved nearer to help him see whatever he might want to look for in her as well as to see him better, saying, “I’m afraid there’s neither food nor drink to hand.”
“I will not perish between now and dawn.” He smiled. “Of hunger at least.”
The jest showed what she had already judged: that he had not used his years of captivity as excuse to grow slack of body or of mind, the way some did when taken out of freedom for too long. He looked to be lean of mind and body both, careful not only of where he was but of how and who he was, despite—or was it because?—he had been a prisoner for so long.
“His grace of Winchester said you weren’t hurt,” Frevisse offered for conversation. “Did he have the right of it?”
“Only my doublet suffered.” Orleans pushed the side of his cloak back over his right shoulder, shifting so the lamplight showed how his hand slid into a rend in the side of his doublet, below his ribs. “Good wool ruined, but it can be mended more easily than I would have if it had been a better blow.”
“Or worse one. Depending on how you look at it,” Frevisse suggested.
“Depending on how you look at it,” he agreed. “You make no fuss or flutter over it, my lady. Are you so used to daggers?”
“It’s hardly for me to be upset, when you take it so calmly.”
The lamplight sufficed to show the twist of bitterness and jest in his smile. “Calm is a thing one learns, if one outlives the lessoning.” He looked down into the lamp’s flame as he spoke, rather than at her as he went on. “ T expected to be dead when I went down into the dark in Agincourt battle. Instead I awoke to being dragged out of a pile of bodies, mostly of men I knew. Since then, dying—having been there once—has never seemed so terrible a thing. Not worth the effort of fearing it too greatly.” His gaze came up from the flame to her face. “Not when there is so much about being alive to frighten one.”
Frevisse met his look, felt no need to look away from it, and for a moment, as she watched him watch her, it occurred to her to wonder what he saw.
Then Orleans drew himself straight, took a deep breath as if recovering from something, and said in a lighter voice, “Though some say that talking too much is a sign of an unquiet mind and I seem to be doing that, do I not?”
While Frevisse was thinking how to answer that—or if he expected her to answer it—there were footfalls beyond the door lost in shadows at the far end of the room, and she and Orleans both turned toward it, Orleans laying hand on the dagger he wore at his right hip. Prisoner he might be, but also a king’s cousin and a royal duke; he was not expected to go unarmed; but it was the earl of Suffolk who came in, alone, still in his feast finery and carrying a lighted lamp, leaving the door open behind him as he crossed to Orleans, his free hand out, exclaiming, “My good lord! I’ve come as soon as might be. How is it with you? You’re unhurt? You’re sure? You’ve been well taken care of?”
They clasped hands, with Orleans giving the required assurances that all was well with him, no hurt done, and, no, he was in need of nothing but a place to sleep, while Frevisse went and shut the door Suffolk had left open, returning to the table and the lamplight as Suffolk was saying, “Never fear that. My lady wife said she’d send someone with bedding and whatever else was needed as soon as she’d finished with her ladies, dismissed them for the night, all that. We thought we’d never be rid of our guests, though. It’s what comes of giving too fine a time. You’re sure you’re unhurt?” • Orleans repeated his assurances while Frevisse, standing aside from them, head bowed, hands tucked in opposite sleeves for warmth and to negate her presence there as much as possible, found that now she no longer needed to keep her wits about her, her aching tiredness was rushing in on her and was relieved when finally there was a slight scratching at the hallward door. Suffolk glanced at her as if to give order but she was already moving to open it, not wide at first, only enough to see Lady Jane was there, her arms full of blankets, sheets, a pillow; and with no need to say anything between them, Frevisse let her in, closing the door behind her as Suffolk said, “Here on the settle by the fire. He’ll sleep warmest there, I think. The fire needs lighting, though.”
Keeping the marred side of her face as much to the shadows as might subtly be done, Lady Jane set down the bedding on the long, backed bench in front of the hearth and said, “My lady thought of that,” pulling out the small ember box she had carried between pillow and topmost blanket.
“She would,” Suffolk said with satisfaction.
Frevisse took the ember box and saw to lighting the carefully laid wood already waiting on the hearth while Lady Jane made up what would serve for Orleans’ bed on the settle. It took very few minutes for bed and fire to be made, and when they were, Suffolk said, “That’s well, that’s very well. You both may go now.”
Frevisse had fully intended to, given permission or not, and readily made courtesy to him and Orleans, but Lady Jane, head bent and angled to the shadows, paused to hold out a small, cloth-wrapped bundle to Orleans, saying, “Her grace sent this, on chance you’re hungry before we bring food in the morning.”
Orleans unfolded the cloth to find the sugared nuts and candied fruits that Lady Alice liked at her bedtime, the only edible things she could likely lay hand to tonight, it being hardly an evening she could believably claim hunger and ask for something more.
“I pray you, tell her grace I send my very deep thanks for her kindness and thought of me,” Orleans said.
Lady Jane made courtesy to him and together she and Frevisse left, with pause only for Lady Jane to lock the solar door with a key taken from her sleeve before Frevisse thankfully led the way upstairs to let Alice know that all was as well as it could be for tonight and then go blessedly to bed.
Chapter 18
On the morrow the household stirred to awake somewhat later than its wont. No one presumed to disturb her grace the countess and her chamber companions until she sent to be dressed for the day, and that she did not do until it was almost full light outside. But she was awake well before then, and Frevisse and Lady Jane with her, gathered on her bed, Lady Alice speaking so low the bedposts would have been hard put to hear her as she told them what she purposed for the day.
She had questioned them last night about Orleans—that he was unhurt, how he had seemed, would he be comfortable enough for the night—been hardly satisfied with Frevisse’s sleep-ridden answers but finally let them all go to bed. How much Alice had then slept seemed problematical to Frevisse this morning, because although she was collected into herself, given over to the day’s practicalities rather than last night’s questions, she must have thought long in the night to have made her plans so completely.
“To keep secret where Orleans is, everything here has to be outwardly as usual. I’m expected to be at Parliament’s opening with the other wives, to watch our lord husbands and all proceed into Westminster. I’ve seen that enough times to forgo it but there are always those who need to be impressed all over again and it’s somewhat late for me to plead ill. I have to go and it will have to be the two of you who see to his grace of Orleans today. He can’t be simply left locked in the solar because there has to be reason for food and firewood to be taken in without anyone remarking on it, but here’s how I think it can be managed. Yesterday was St. Martin’s day, and out of my need for you, you both forwent your particular devotions to him. Now you’ve asked for chance to make up the loss by spending the day withdrawn to prayer in the solar and I’ve given you leave.”
Frevisse exchanged looks with Lady Jane, neither of them presuming to say that St. Martin was at best
an unlikely saint for either of them to have particular devotion to, a soldiers’ saint more than a nun’s or a betrothed young woman’s. But it was usefulness, not likelihood, that Alice was interested in just now and she went on, “That way no one will wonder why the solar is kept locked or why food is brought there.”
“We’re not to fast then?” Frevisse asked dryly.
Alice twitched a small smile in answer. “No. But since there’ll be only food brought for two and there’s three to be fed, you’ll perforce not eat so well as might be.”
So far as Frevisse was concerned that would be welcome after last night’s feasting, but, “Rather than all this, why can’t Lady Jane and I take turns at taking in what he might need and leave the solar otherwise locked?”‘
“Because why should you and Jane be taking food or wood into the solar? You’d be noticed. Spies,” Alice said. “Every lord has spies in every other lord’s household. Or at least the great ones do. We have our watcher in Gloucester’s household, that’s certain. It’s equally certain he has someone in ours and in Bishop Beaufort’s and others. A spy’s whole purpose is to find out things out of the ordinary, and therefore nothing must seem out of the ordinary while his grace of Orleans is here. You see?”
Frevisse saw and with a small nod accepted it.
Alice gave her a warm, grateful smile. “Thank you.” And was to business again. “His grace will want occupation. Jane, you’ll take your sewing with you. Pen, paper, ink for him can be hidden in it. Frevisse, you’ll be carrying breviary and such-like. Another book or two for him among them should go unnoticed even if you’re seen on your way to the solar. Jane, you’ll see to that?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“When the rest of us go down to breakfast, you two will stay behind, then go to the solar when there’ll be least folk to heed you. I’ll speak to my lord Suffolk at breakfast or Mass to give order for William to be the one who brings firewood and your meals. He attended on Orleans when his grace was in our keeping, and his interests are too bound up with us because of you, Jane, for him to go against them or talk where he shouldn’t over this.”
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