BODY AND SOUL
Frevisse overtook Dame Claire at the cloister gate. They came out into the courtyard together and crossed the yard. In the guest hall most of Lady Ermentrude’s people had sat down to supper at the trestle tables. Heads turned as Frevisse and Dame Claire passed through. Frevisse glimpsed Sir John rising from beside his wife at the head of one table as she and Dame Claire reached the door.
Dame Claire’s sharp stop in the doorway forced Frevisse to sidestep to avoid her. Then she stopped as sharply, too.
Father Henry was rising from his knees beside the bed, shaking his curly head with dazed disbelief. The patient lay propped up on her pillows, head rolled to one side, her hands still holding the crucifix, her mouth open, her harsh breathing filling the room. On the floor between her and Father Henry sprawled another woman, her legs straddled wide, her mouth agape and clogged with foam, her hands looking like claws in the rush matting, her eyes bulging, blood-suffused, in the strangled, dead purple of her face.
Dame Frevisse Medieval Mysteries by Margaret Frazer
THE NOVICE’S TALE
THE SERVANT’S TALE
THE OUTLAW’S TALE
THE BISHOP’S TALE
THE BOY’S TALE
THE MURDERER’S TALE
THE PRIORESS’ TALE
THE MAIDEN’S TALE
THE REEVE’S TALE
THE SQUIRE’S TALE
THE CLERK’S TALE
THE BASTARD’S TALE
THE HUNTER’S TALE
THE WIDOW’S TALE
THE SEMPSTER’S TALE
THE TRAITOR’S TALE
Also by Margaret Frazer
A PLAY OF ISAAC
A PLAY OF DUX MORAUD
A PLAY OF KNAVES
A PLAY OF LORDS
THE
NOVICE’S TALE
MARGARET FRAZER
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
THE NOVICE’S TALE
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Jove edition / August 1992
Berkley Prime Crime edition / September 1993
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1992 by Margaret Frazer.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.
For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-101-65144-5
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by
The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The Name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
19 18 17 16 15
Help us, Seinte Frideswyde!
A man woot litel what him shal bityde.
Geoffrey Chaucer
THE
NOVICE’S TALE
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter
1
MID-SEPTEMBER IN THE year of Our Lord’s grace 1431 had perfect weather, warm and dry. There was a drowse of autumn to the air, and in the fields beyond St. Frideswide’s priory walls the harvest went its steady pace under the clear sky. There had been rain enough and sun enough since mid-July to bring the grain full ripeness. Now most of it lay in golden swaths behind the reapers or was already gathered into shocks to dry.
All month long the days had become familiar with the calling of the men and women back and forth at their work, the cries of children scouting birds away, and the creak of carts along the tracks to bring the harvest home.
Inside St. Frideswide’s walls there was awareness of the harvest but none of its haste or noise; only, as nearly always, a settled quiet. A sway of skirts along stone floors, the muted scuff of soft leather soles on the stair; rarely a voice and then only briefly and in whispers since the rule of silence held here, except for the hour of recreation and the proper, bell-regulated hours of prayer sung and chanted in the church.
A Benedictine peace ruled there, Thomasine thought as she paused to gaze out the narrow window on the stairs to the prioress’s parlor, a plate of honey cakes in her hands, still warm from the oven. She had been told to hurry with the cakes, that they were meant for an important guest, but she could not bear to pass this view over the nunnery’s cream-pale stone walls. Framed in the narrow window was a scene of stubbled fields scattered with shocks of grain and small-with-distance figures bent to their work. Beyond them was the green edge of the forest, and over all the Virgin-blue of sky, all of it as finely detailed and remote as a miniature painted for a lady’s prayer book, precise and wonderful to look at.
And soon to be far beyond her reach.
Slender with youth and the haste of growing up, narrow-boned from many childhood illnesses, and desperately pious, Thomasine meant to be a nun before autumn was done. In two weeks and a little more, on St. Michael’s day, she would finally kneel before the altar to take her final vows. She was seventeen and had been waiting almost nine years to be granted the precious black veil and to be safe behind priory walls for all her earthly days to come.
Through each day between herself and safety, Thomasine had been hugging that certainty ever closer to herself, and now with a deep breath of contentment, she leaned forward to look down at the little nunnery orchard just outside the cloister wall. Apple and cherry trees, unburdened of their fruit but dusty and weary with bearing, waited for autumn to further rob them of their leaves. Oh, bittersweet life, to be an apple tree! thought Thomasine. She could not have said for a thousand marks how an apple tree’s life could be bittersweet, but it seemed a fine, even spiritual, notion. Soon she, like the apple tree, would be rooted in St. Frideswide’s forever.
While the cakes cooled on their plate between her hands, remarked the more practical part of her mind.
A familiar pang of guilt shot through her; while she stood there gaping, she was failing the most basic of all the vows: obedience. With a penitent frown, she hurried up the last steps to Domina Edith’s door.
There, not meaning to, she paused again. Her hand was raised to knock, but the sound of voices in the room beyond held her. Dame Frevisse’s she knew—strong and very distinct from Domina Edith’s age-dimmed, murmuring tones, which faintly followed it. Both of their voices were familiar, as everything in St. Frideswide’s was blessedly familiar. It was the man’s voice answering theirs, deep and amused, that froze her hand. In her year and barely more at St. Frideswide’s, she had grown unused to men’s voices; they had no place in a nunnery, where even the voices of women were supposed to sound only rarely, according to the Rule. She had been warned about their guest, but that had not been enough to ready her.
Her raised hand drew back from the door, going instead to make sure her hair was all pushed safely out of sight under her dingy white veil. Then she tugged at her faded gown, to be sure it hung loose enough around her and gave no h
int of her shape under its shabbiness. Although she had come to St. Frideswide’s well provisioned by her sister and brother-in-law, she had chosen to trade her goodly clothes for the most worn garments in the nunnery’s chests. Intent on proving how worthy she was, and despite her sister’s disappointment and a suspicion that the prioress did not completely approve, she had clung to the habit of poverty. Now she was truly uncomfortable wearing anything remotely fine.
Sure that nothing was amiss with her appearance, that she was sufficiently uncomely, she tapped with mouse quiet at the door.
Too quietly. Dame Frevisse continued speaking, her words unclear but her voice strong and certain, doing nothing to ease Thomasine’s reluctance. Before she had come to St. Frideswide’s, she had expected there would be no differences among the nuns, that vows and a life lived together would make them somehow all alike, and she had been unsettled to discover, despite being blended all together in a sea of black gowns and veils, their faces framed in white wimples, they were still individual. Especially Dame Frevisse.
From the very first she had caused Thomasine unease. The plainness of her habit made her age uncertain, but her face was too strongly shaped for mildness, her eyes too clever under their dark brows, seeing much and remarking on everything with subtle mockery. The only nun whose scrutiny Thomasine felt more sharply was the prioress herself, who, despite all her years and age-weakness, seemed to see more of Thomasine than Thomasine presently wanted seen.
The man’s voice came again, answering Dame Frevisse’s. Thomasine’s hand trembled. But obedience was still pressing at her back and the plate of cakes still cooling in her hands. She tapped again, more definitely than before.
Domina Edith’s faint blessing answered her. “Benedicte.”
Holding the plate in front of her as shield, Thomasine opened the door and entered.
St. Frideswide’s was not poor, but neither was it rich. The prioress’s parlor was only by contrast not so stark a room as the rest of the nunnery. Among her duties were the receiving of important visitors and the conducting of such nunnery business as needed more privity than the general gathering at daily chapter, or required the regrettable presence of men within the cloister. For the dignity of St. Frideswide’s, the parlor had the luxury of a fireplace, and actual glass in the three tall, narrow windows overlooking the inner yard. Bright embroidered cushions lay scattered along the bench below them, and a fringed carpet woven in a Spanish pattern covered a table set with a silver ewer and bowl. Because Domina Edith had been prioress for thirty-two years—coming to the office the same year that the Duke of Lancaster had seized the throne from Richard II and made himself King Henry IV—other matters more privately hers had crept in, too, including her own embroidery frame and the tiny, elegant, elderly greyhound curled in its basket by the hearth.
As the priory’s only novice, Thomasine was often sent to fetch or carry this or that between places in the cloister; the prioress’s parlor was too familiar to her to need her attention, and she paused correctly just inside the door, head bowed, waiting to be acknowledged. Yet she could not resist, now that she was there, the urge to peep sideways around the swung-forward edge of her veil, at the man seated not five paces from her on the window bench.
In men as men of course she took no interest, no heed if at all possible. But today an important man was visiting. Word had run along with the order for the honey cakes that it was Thomas Chaucer who was come to Frideswide’s today, and even Thomasine in her determined unworldliness knew of Thomas Chaucer. Like the weather, he was a common topic of conversation in Oxfordshire, both because of who he was and how he had come to it His father had been a poet and a customs officer, his mother the daughter of a very minor knight, but Thomas Chaucer, so the rumors insisted, was one of the richest and most powerful commoners in England. So powerful he could resign of his own will from the King’s Council though he had been asked to stay; rich enough, it was said, that his purse-proud, wool-merchanting cousin, the Cardinal Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester, was pleased to ask his advice.
So it was vaguely unsettling to see him sitting at ease in Domina Edith’s familiar parlor, looking hardly different from the way Thomasine remembered her father: a middle-aged gentleman with well-grayed hair and pleasant face, tanned with sun, moderately lined around the eyes and across the forehead; dressed in a green wool houpelande to his knees, split front and back for ease of riding, with lamb’s wool budge at its cuffs and collar, his hood with its trailing liripipe laid to one side out of respect for Domina Edith and the warmth of the day. He wore a large ring on either hand but no gold chains or other jewels, and his high riding boots were only boots so far as Thomasine could tell, knowing nothing of cordovan leather or how much effort it might have taken to fit them so skillfully to the curve of his leg.
She looked and was, without admitting it to herself, disappointed; while he did not look at her at all but went on listening with concentrated politeness to Domina Edith insisting in her old and worried voice, “I’ve always been afraid they would want silk for him when he’s still too young. Young bodies, even royal ones, need to be kept warm, you know. You’re certain that he has good woolen undershirts?”
“I’ve seen the royal inventory and joined in the discussion of His Grace’s clothing in Council myself,” Chaucer said, reassuringly and with good humor. “He has goodly store of woolen shirts and wears them. And he’s a strong young lad. At nine years old he can be taken for twelve easily. Nor has he ever sickened a single day I know of since he was a baby with colic.”
Domina Edith nodded. “Just so he doesn’t outgrow his strength, God save His Grace. That’s always a peril in the young, outgrowing their strength.”
She went on nodding as if agreeing with herself, but the focus of her eyes had begun to fade.
Thomasine with a flare of embarrassment realized that her prioress, here and now, in front of Master Thomas Chaucer, was falling asleep. Everyone in St. Frideswide’s knew that in her seventy-ninth year, a fabulous age, Domina Edith came to sleep easily at almost any time.
“Always a peril,” she murmured. “I remember my brother as a boy….”
But age was stronger than memory. Her eyelids fluttered briefly and then drifted down with her voice. Her slow nodding subsided; her chin sank into the folds of the wimple below her throat, and silence filled the room, until after a few moments she drew a deep breath, far back in her throat and very nearly a snore.
Thomasine dared not move. She could only stand, embarrassed, her anguished gaze fixed on her prioress, until Master Chaucer leaned back where he sat, stretched his legs out comfortably, and said, his voice warm with amusement, “It’s God’s blessing to come to sleep so easily.”
“She deserves God’s blessing. She’s a good, kind woman.” Standing behind Domina Edith’s chair, Dame Frevisse smiled at him, a smile so casual and familiar that Thomasine, shocked by it, let her dismay show on her face. Dame Frevisse, glancing her way, caught the look and said with a touch of asperity, “You may put the cakes on the table, Thomasine. And then surely you must stay, to keep matters proper between Master Chaucer and myself.”
Thomasine, dropping her gaze back to the floor, obeyed, setting the plate on the Spanish cloth and stepping back with her eyes still down, to fold her hands out of sight, into her sleeves in front of her, mortified to hear Dame Frevisse explaining to Master Chaucer, “Thomasine is a trifle scrupulous, as befits a novice. She is nearly ready to take her final vows.”
To Thomasine’s dismay Master Chaucer’s attention turned to her. In his steady, mild voice he asked, “Are you liking the life well, child?”
Thomasine was appalled to find her head lifting and her eyes coming around to meet his, drawn by his voice. Catching herself, she hastily returned her gaze to her toes and said, “Very well, if it please you, Master Chaucer.”
“And when do you take your vows?”
“At Michaelmas, if it please you.”
“If it pleases God,” Chau
cer corrected mildly.
Thomasine felt scarlet warmth flow over her cheeks and drew her head down, turtling back into her dress, not knowing how, or whether, to reply. He had to know that unnecessary conversation was forbidden to her. Or was it necessary now, to show him she knew perfectly well that everything was according to the will of God, that she had only been being polite? Or would that be a prideful display of knowledge? Tears of helpless confusion welled into her eyes, worsened by the fear he would speak to her again.
Casually rescuing her, Dame Frevisse said, “It should please God very well to take a bride like Thomasine. She’s shown a true vocation for our life. Only she finds it somewhat difficult to talk to men. Which is as it should be.”
Her tears stifled by surprise and gratitude, Thomasine looked up again, ready to face whatever came next. But their attention was gone away from her as simply as it had come, leaving her only an onlooker again.
“And you, Frevisse,” Master Chaucer asked. “How goes it with you? You weren’t hosteler when last I was here.”
Thomasine wondered at the familiarity of his tone, but Dame Frevisse answered back as casually, “I came to it last quarter-day when we changed offices all around. It means less time in cloister, more time busy with outside matters, but I like it well enough for the while. Otherwise everything is as always, including the fact that I’m very glad to see you again. Are you missing yet your place on the King’s Council?”
“Except that Matilda reminds me daily how much the decision lowers me in important men’s esteem, I don’t seem to find myself grieving for it.”
“Poor Matilda.”
Thomasine had been scandalized at the obvious ease between them, and her spine stiffened further at the note of laughter in Dame Frevisse’s voice. Her eyes were still resolutely down and she did not think she had moved, but Dame Frevisse, with her discomfiting skill at knowing what someone else was thinking, said, still amused, “It’s all right, Thomasine. Master Chaucer’s lady wife is my aunt and I spent eight years of my growing up in her household. We’re kin and have known each other for as long as you’ve been alive. Our laughter is simply because we both of us know that ‘the esteem of noble men’ ranks almost as high with poor Aunt Matilda as her hope of salvation.”
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