The Novice's Tale

by Margaret Frazer

  “Here’s another body for you,” he said and chuckled. He tossed a small, brown, furry bundle at Master Montfort.

  The crowner threw up his hands, not wanting the thing. It struck his forearm, fell to the floor with a dull thump, and lay unmoving.

  “It’s dead,” Master Montfort said distastefully.

  “As old timber,” agreed the man. “One of the men found it in the chimney they’re supposed to be mending. On a ledge above the hearth. You know how they’re made.”

  “I don’t,” said Master Montfort with asperity. “Nor do I want this thing. Take it away.”

  “Sir Walter thought since it was another body, you ought to have a look at it.” The man was clearly amused.

  The crowner was not. “Take it away and dump it on the midden. I don’t deal with dead dogs.”

  “It’s the monkey,” Frevisse said.

  Master Montfort glared at her. “A monkey? In your priory?”

  “Lady Ermentrude brought one with her. It’s been missing.”

  “And like the goblet, it’s been found and no one’s the worse for it.”

  “Except the monkey.” Frevisse knelt down and prodded at it, then picked it up. It had been dead some while; it was cold and the death stiffness was gone out of it. “But its neck’s not broken. And there are no wounds.”

  “Then it died of natural causes, the stupid thing, caught up in the chimney.” Master Montfort gestured at the grinning man. “Take it out of here. I deal in human matters, not foul imitations like this.”

  The man picked it up by the long tail, dangling it head downward. Its thin arms fell loosely, limp and long, dragging on the floor. Thomasine drew in a startled breath.

  “Close the door,” Master Montfort ordered.

  Frevisse obeyed.

  “Now, Lady Thomasine. Back to the matter at hand.”

  But Thomasine turned her round eyes to him and said wonderingly, “That’s what I saw on Lady Ermentrude’s bed. It was the monkey, not a demon at all.” She smiled with deep relief.

  “How could you mistake a monkey for a demon?” Montfort rapped out.

  “Because the monkey is brown, but what I saw seemed black. And when I saw it before it was all curled up on a servant’s shoulder, and I didn’t see how a monkey is all arms and legs. The arm coming out of the shadows was long, very long, and thin, and black….” Thomasine’s breath caught with remembered terror, then she blinked the memory away. “But it was just the monkey, looking black in the shadows. It was just the monkey, not a demon coming for her soul.”

  Master Montfort’s frustration was written in large lines across his face. “So now you’re saying you saw no demons at all? You’re saying it was just a monkey coming for a visit?”

  “It was the monkey coming for the wine,” Frevisse said, with sudden realization. “Thomasine, where was the wine when you left your aunt? Was she holding it?”

  “I’ve told you you’re not to—” Master Montfort began.

  But Thomasine said, “Yes! She had been drinking it again after you left. She was holding the goblet. The monkey was after the wine!”

  “And took it and drank it and left the goblet under the bed. And then it took the bottle, ran and hid while it drank it. And died of too much drink.”

  “Yes, very well, we’re pleased to know that.” Montfort smacked his fist on the table edge to have their attention. “But that’s not the matter to hand here. You’re saying there were no demons, correct?”

  The bright relief went out of Thomasine. “There may have been. Lady Ermentrude was so frightened. She behaved so strangely when she first came.”

  “Ah yes.” That pleased Master Montfort. “Lady Ermentrude’s behavior. Her desire to take you out of the nunnery, back into the world. That frightened you, didn’t it, child?”

  Thomasine looked puzzled at his insistence. “I told you it did.”

  “Why?” he rapped.

  “I want to be here.”

  “She promised you a husband, a fine marriage.”

  “I’m to be Christ’s bride. I don’t need a worldly marriage.”

  “She said she was going to take you away, whether you wanted it or not.”

  “She couldn’t. She had no authority over me.”

  “She might have. She had powerful friends. You were afraid, your sister said you were afraid.”

  “Because my aunt was loud and hurting me.”

  “And so you hurt her back?”

  Thomasine’s face froze. Only after rigid seconds did she say, looking as if she wanted to faint, “No. I helped her come inside. I brought her warm milk and bread with honey. I prayed for her. I watched by her bed. I would never have hurt her.”

  She knows, thought Frevisse. She knows what Master Montfort is saying, and is holding against it better than I thought she ever could.

  But how long Thomasine’s nerve would last was another matter, and Frevisse desperately wanted to have her away from him before the direct accusation came.

  The unlatched door slammed suddenly open. Scarcely in time, Frevisse had her hand up to protect her face from it as Sir Walter strode forcefully into the room and without greeting, demanded, “Enough ring a ring a’ rosy, Montfort! What’s this tale I’m hearing run about my mother’s death? You gave me a song yesterday about exhaustion and drink and temper that did for her, but poison is the word I’m hearing now.”

  Master Montfort had backed away quickly at Sir Walter’s coming in. He was outranked and outtempered by Sir Walter and knew it. With hasty respect and a deep bow, he said, “My lord, we’re about the matter now. If you would be so good.” He gestured toward the room’s other chair, which he had not offered to Thomasine or Frevisse.

  “I don’t need to sit. I need answers. My mother yielded to her temper all her life, drank more wine, and exhausted more horses than any man for years without tiring herself beyond what a day’s rest would mend. Don’t expect me to believe it was otherwise here. She came to take a novice out of this hole and now she’s dead. There’s fraud at the heart of it and you’d better have found out who’s to gain from that fraud, because whoever killed my mother is going to hang!”

  “My lord, the matter is well in hand. I was just questioning—” Master Montfort started to gesture toward Thomasine, who had shrunk back toward Frevisse.

  Sir Walter cut across his words. “You’ve had a day of questioning. Where are your answers?”

  “Not fully a day, my lord….” Master Montfort tried again. He cast a desperate glance toward his clerk, who was racing his quill at full speed to keep up with their exchange. “Stop that,” he said a little shrilly. The clerk stopped, obedient but still hunched over his parchment, waiting for more. “My lord, I’ve found out things but these matters take a certain time. I’m crowner here, responsible to his grace King Henry VI for justice to be done. I must have—”

  “And I am Sir Walter Fenner, with two score men-at-arms camped in the field across the road. King Henry is nine years old and he and his government are in France and I am perfectly willing for another crowner to come and inquire about your broken neck if I don’t have a poisoner in my hands before the day is out!”

  Master Montfort was still stammering toward some sort of answer as Frevisse gathered Thomasine to her with a quick hand and pulled her backward out the door.

  Thomasine went, thankful to be away. But brown-haired Robert with the quiet voice cut across their way to the outer door. Without the bother of greeting, he said to Dame Frevisse, “Sir Walter knows.”

  “We just heard.” Dame Frevisse jerked her head toward the crowner’s room and Sir Walter’s rising voice.

  “He’s angry. And more angry for it not being Montfort who told him.” Robert spoke at Dame Frevisse, but his gaze slipped to Thomasine. “I’d not frighten you, my lady, but from what he said to me about it, he will revenge himself on someone. You’d best go into the cloister and stay there. I’ll do what I may for you here.”

  Thomasine wondered
how Sir Walter came to think of her as possibly guilty of murder. Who had put that idea in his head? And what would he do about it? She met Robert’s ardent gaze and said, “Thank you for the warning, my lord. God grant us the courage to meet this challenge, I pray.”

  She gave way then to Frevisse’s pulling on her arm and went away from him.

  The first rain was falling darkly on the cobbles as they hurriedly crossed the yard toward the cloister gate. Not until the gate was shut behind them did Dame Frevisse pause, draw a deep breath, and let loose of Thomasine’s arm.

  “Thomasine, you are not to go out of here again until this matter is settled. Do you understand? Not for any reason are you to leave.”

  Thomasine’s fear was a swollen clot in her chest, making it hard to breathe or speak. So she only nodded to Dame Frevisse’s order and, not knowing what else to do, followed her as she went on along the cloister walk.

  They were nearly to the kitchen door, but came on Dame Claire before they reached it, tying a knot in the last towel to hang on the three hooks behind the stone lavatory outside the refectory. She glanced up at their coming. When Dame Frevisse made a small sign toward the narrow passage where they could talk, she nodded, finished her task, and came into the slipe.

  The rain had thickened into a steady patter on the roof. Dame Claire glanced toward the sound and said, “That won’t be good for the harvest.”

  “Most of it is in, I think,” said Dame Frevisse. “And if this lasts only a little and the weather clears, the rest will dry. The monkey has been found.”

  Dame Claire followed the shift of topic poorly. “The monkey? Was it missing?”

  “Since about the time Lady Ermentrude died. And now it’s dead, too, and has been for quite a while. I think, from what Thomasine has told me, it drank the same wine as Lady Ermentrude did and died of it.”

  Dame Claire’s reaction was complete stillness. She went on looking at Dame Frevisse, but her mind was clearly elsewhere. It was a thinking quiet that Thomasine had often admired.

  “Then we can be sure it was the wine and not the sops,” Dame Claire said finally.

  “Nearly sure. From what I know of the little brute, it would not have bothered with anything so bland as milk and bread, but it surely would have taken to the wine.”

  “Does this change what you think about Martha’s death?”

  “No, I still think it was an accident. Like the monkey’s. No, it was Lady Ermentrude who was meant to die.”

  “Has Master Montfort found the reason for it yet?”

  “I think he thinks he has. And if he isn’t certain sure, I’m afraid he’s going to let Sir Walter tell him, and point out the murderer for him, too.”

  Thomasine did not flinch as they both looked at her then. But fear tightened her throat.

  Very gently, Dame Claire said, “You’re not the only one he can suspect, child. I mixed the medicine both times. And the wine was from Sir John and Lady Isobel. And there were others in the room who could have done it. You’re not the only possibility.”

  But the unsaid words “Only the best one” were in Dame Frevisse’s face, where Thomasine could read them as clearly as she had read them in Master Montfort’s.

  Chapter

  10

  THUNDER GRUMBLED. DAME Claire looked up as if it were reminding her of something. “I must go.”

  “One other thing,” Frevisse said. “Sir John has the toothache. Have you anything to help it until he can find an honest surgeon to draw it?”

  Dame Claire was always ready to talk of remedies; she brightened, thought for a moment, and said, “My oil of cloves is nearly gone but I’ll have more from the Michaelmas fair. He’s surely welcome to what I have left. Has he been troubled long?”

  “Long enough that he bought a cure from a passing mountebank some time of late. He described it as all froth and little help.”

  Dame Claire made a ladylike snort of contempt. “I know of that false cure. All smoke and dwale and fancy words. Then they show you the gnawing worm they’ve driven from your tooth, but it’s come out of their sleeve, not your mouth.” Thunder muttered in the clouds. “If he’s hurting, this weather will make it hurt the worse. Tell him to send to me for the oil of cloves when he wants it. Where are you bound for?”

  “The kitchen, I’m afraid.”

  Dame Claire nodded her sympathy and went away. Frevisse, drawn by duty and against her own inclination, went to see how matters were coming between Dame Alys and her unfortunate staff. Thomasine, as ordered, hung in her wake. There should have been no need of that within the cloister, but Frevisse felt uncomfortable unless she actually had the girl in sight.

  The kitchen was crowded. Frevisse paused in the doorway, waiting to sort out what was happening, and saw that besides the priory’s usual lay workers, there were three of St. Frideswide’s nuns and a half dozen Fenner servants hurrying under Dame Alys’s full-voiced orders.

  The dame was presently declaring that the next hand besides her own that touched the pastry would be ground up and added to the meat for the pies, but her usual fury lacked full conviction.

  “Here now, here now!” She poked one of the servants in the ribs with her bent spoon but scarcely hard enough to make the woman wince. “Do that chicken neck again! There’s a fistful of meat on those bones! Pick it all off, pick it all! We’ve too many hungry mouths waiting to waste a morsel!”

  She saw Frevisse, and turned on her, exclaiming, “So let’s have a new chimney built if the other can’t be repaired! It will take less time, I swear you. And now I’m feeding a troop of Fenners because one wasn’t enough, and that one stupid enough to drink herself to death at our priory! Ah, I see you’re bringing me Thomasine back, that’s one good thing, because surely I’ve need of the girl. And you, too, if you’ve a while to spare.”

  Frevisse had spent her own apprenticeship in the kitchen and knew how much of that she could ignore. She said, “Thomasine is to be my help today. I’ve come to see how supper is going on. Will there be enough?”

  “Enough. And maybe a little more.” Dame Alys admitted it grudgingly. “Sir Walter didn’t come empty-handed. He’s given us a moldy cheese, one sack of flour, and a sick old ox.” She jerked her spoon at the immense carcass turning on the great spit in the far fireplace. “I can make do.”

  The growth of mold on the cheese was smaller than the palm of a hand and the cheese itself was the size of a cartwheel. The spit in the fireplace was in danger of bending under the weight of the beef roasting on it. The single sack of flour was a very large one. It appeared from what Frevisse could see that there was more than sufficient food to satisfy all their enforced guests. And it would be delicious. Despite her tongue, Dame Alys would supervise the making of a meal for even an enemy to perfection. It would be as coals of fire on their heads for her to feed the Fenners well enough so they could have no complaints about St. Frideswide’s hospitality.

  But it must have been hard on her to be brought to this pass. Burdened with food enough and help enough and no more Lady Ermentrude to plague her, Dame Alys was woefully short of things to complain of.

  “Have you people enough for serving the supper?” Frevisse asked.

  “I’m having nothing to do with serving Fenners!” snapped Dame Alys. Then she conceded unwillingly, “Sir Walter has said that if we bring the food to the cloister gate, he will have people to take it to the guest halls, so that’s settled. But there’s more than enough to do, we’ll be sore wearied doing our work in here. Sister Amicia, when I said I wanted those parsnips cut to finger size, I didn’t mean a giant’s fingers. Smaller, girl, or they won’t cook till Hallowmas.”

  Because Frevisse was responsible for the feeding of the guests, she took a purely formal walk between the tables, looking at the cheese flans, meat pies, sauces, and other things prepared or in the making. There was a sweet, spicy odor of cakes baking. Dame Alys, carrying her warp-handled spoon like a baton of office, rumbled at her heels, pointing out that the Fen
ners’ flour was over-ground to almost useless fineness and their beef hung too heavy on the spit, and the cheese they had brought was aged, which she declared made it evil to digest.

  With Dame Alys distracted by Frevisse, the women set up small spates of talking among themselves, with one of the Fenner servants going so far as to giggle at something someone said. Dame Alys stopped her with a fuming look, but behind her back the murmured talk went on. Only Thomasine, standing at the edge of it all where Frevisse had left her, kept silent, her head down, hands folded into her sleeves.

  Frevisse, under the burden of Dame Alys’s complaints, forgot her. It was Sister Amicia who exclaimed in shrill tones easily heard across the kitchen, “Well, crying all over the floor like a rag gone sopping. It’s not like you cared for her, is it? Goodness!”

  Frevisse’s quick glance told her that Thomasine was indeed crying, shaking from shoulders to feet with her arms pulled tight against her to hold in the sobs. Not wanting her to lose the fight, Frevisse put down the spoonful of frumenty she had been about to taste, and swept between the tables to take Thomasine briskly by the arm and out of the kitchen before anyone could find anything else to say.

  The slipe would be too chill after the kitchen’s warmth; Frevisse took Thomasine around the cloister to the church, entering by the small side door the nuns used to come and go for their services. It let into the choir, an arrangement of stepped pews facing one another across the tiled floor. The altar of polished stone was to their right, raised on a dais three steps up from the floor, gleaming with white linen, gold, and brass. Frevisse firmly stopped Thomasine’s instinctive turn toward it, led her instead through the choir, past the two nuns praying at the coffins, to the church’s farther end, near the great western door that led into the courtyard and was rarely used except for processions on high feast days. There was a stone bench built from the wall on the great door’s left side, on which the sick or weary guest could rest during services.

  “Sit,” ordered Frevisse.

  Thomasine obeyed. Frevisse sat beside her.

  “Now,” Frevisse said, “if you need to cry, get on with it.”