10 The Squire's Tale

by Frazer, Margaret

  ‘Then I’m taking the children and going. I won’t be here for this.“

  ‘You’re staying here and so are the children,“ Robert said, so flatly certain of it that for a moment Blaunche was brought to a full halt, something he rarely managed to accomplish.

  But only briefly. She rallied, flushed with anger, and said, “I’m at least sending Benedict away. He shouldn’t be here for—”

  ‘Benedict stays. I won’t have him on the loose while this goes on.“ To make who knew what kind of mother-inspired trouble.

  ‘He’s not going to be here while you give away his lands!“

  Robert was sick to death of going that way and said angrily back at her, “They’re not his lands. They’re not even your lands.”

  ‘They’ve been my lands for nearly twenty years!“

  ‘And shouldn’t have been for even one!“

  Blaunche ignored that as deftly as she always ignored it, saying instead, “You’re giving away a third of our lands. You’re going to leave us hardly above yeomen. There’s going to be next to nothing to leave our children. How can you want to do that? Can’t you see what you’re doing?”

  Robert saw clearly enough but saw other things, too, and said back at her with weary anger, “What I see is that if the Allesleys aren’t given back what’s rightfully theirs, they’re going to use force to have it.”

  ‘Let them. We’ll meet and match them any way they want to go. Northend is mine!“

  ‘It’s not yours!“ Robert flared back at her, for the first time between them giving up all hold on patience. ”It’s mine. Because when you married me everything that was yours became mine, to do with as I will.“

  ‘And well that was for you,“ Blaunche blazed in return, ’because you had nothing, nothing, until I…”

  Too late she heard herself, caught back the rest with an inward gasp, and left them staring at one another, the unsaid thing hanging in the air between them, the thing there had always been between them but never said aloud until now. And Robert, finally, with his belly clenched around hollow-ness, said into the silence, “Yes. I had nothing until you married me. But once you did, then by the law I hold everything. And equally by the law Northend belongs to the Allesleys, and has ever since your first husband’s mother died twenty-seven years ago. And by law they’re going to have it back. And the best we can hope for is that what they ask in compensation for the wrong we’ve done them doesn’t cost us more than we’ve ever made from it.”

  ‘If we don’t give it back—“

  ‘If we don’t give it back, the Allesleys are going to use force to have it, and when they do, the ones who’ll have the worst of it are our manor folk caught in the middle, and not just at Northend. There’ll be people hurt who had no part in either the wrong we’ve done or the profits we’ve had, and I won’t have that if I can stop it happening.“

  ‘But there’s going to be so little left! Benedict will have Wystead from his father and all the saints know that’s little enough but with Northend gone, there’ll be only Brinskep to go to Robin, with some sort of provision to be made for John out of that, let be how we’ll ever provide a dower for Tacine. And this child.“ She laid a hand over her belly, her voice gone suddenly tender, the anger turned to worry and soft persuasion as she added, ”All that would change if Benedict marries Katherine. Northend or no, there’d be money enough then and he’s fond of her…“

  ‘I doubt the thought of marrying Katherine would ever have entered his head except for you,“ Robert said coldly.

  ‘Better Benedict than some Allesley brat!“ Blaunche flared. ”Can’t you see—“

  Robert had suddenly had enough and demanded, “Come to that, madam, where was your son yesterday and today?”

  The change of attack caught Blaunche unready. She paused, visibly regrouped, and said, trying for defiance, “He’s man-grown. I don’t know everything he does or where he goes.”

  ‘But you knew this time, didn’t you?“ Robert flung at her.

  Blaunche glared at him, both fierce and cornered, not ready to lie but equally unready to admit the truth. Instead, she swung aside from either, turned on the instant back to soft pleading, holding her hands out to Robert with, “Think what it means if you marry her off to an Allesley. We’ll likely never see her again.”

  It was Robert’s turn to be caught unready. “I know,” he said and shouldn’t have, because the words caught in his throat.

  Blaunche stood up from the bed edge, back to fierce. “But maybe I shouldn’t mind that, should I? Maybe that you never see her again is exactly what I should be wanting!”

  Robert stared at her, knowing his mouth was open but not knowing what to say—denial was too cheap, admittance too dear—and instead of either, he said desperately, “Blaunche, what do you want of me?” And realized as he said it that she had only been flinging words at him, did not believe what she had come near to accusing him of, because at his desperate question her face crumpled toward tears and she cried back at him, “I want you to love me!”

  ‘I do!“ They were both keeping their voices low, aware of the thin wall between them and the parlor and that Gil and Mistress Avys would be back at any moment, but his cry matched hers for desperation. ”God be my witness, Blaunche, I love you!“ And the terrible thing was that he did. How could he not? She had given him everything—a better life than he had ever had hope of, his children. The trouble was that he loved her but not the way she wanted to be loved—not with passion, not simply for herself. That he could not give her. But he gave her what he could and said again, ”I do love you.“

  And Blaunche with the suddenness that came too often on her when she was childing burst into tears, was suddenly, simply a tired, frightened woman in need of comforting and held her arms out to him, saying, “I know you do. Forgive me, Robert. Please. I love you, too. I love you so much. Please.”

  Because it would bring at least temporary peace, he crossed the room to her, into her outheld arms and put his own around her, saying to the top of her head as she pressed against him, “I know, Blaunche, I know.”

  ‘It’s the baby,“ she whispered against his shoulder, past her sobs. ”You know how it is with me when I’m childing. But I love you. I truly, truly do.“

  ‘I know.“ He was holding and rocking her much as he would have held and rocked Tacine in a fit of weeping grief, repeating like a lullaby, ”I know.“

  Gil rapped his foot against the doorframe to let them know he was here and pushed the door open with his hip, needing both hands for the pitcher and goblets he carried. Behind him, Mistress Avys was bringing the covered dish of wafers and dried fruit, and beyond her Robert had glimpse of Katherine, Emelye and Mistress Dionisia making up their beds across the parlor, before Blaunche gave a great, trembling sob and went weak against him, forcing him to lose heed of all else in the need to lift her off her feet, one arm around her shoulders, the other under her knees, cradling her against him, while Mistress Avys put down her plate and hurried toward them; but Blaunche, her arms tightly around Robert’s neck, said wearily but firmly, “No need, Avys. There’s nothing wrong. I’m tired is all.”

  ‘Tired and with no sense,“ Mistress Avys grumbled. ”Gil, help me here and be quick at it.“

  Together they folded the heavy woven bedcover to the bedfoot and turned back the blankets and sheet while Robert held Blaunche, quiet in his arms, then clinging to him when he set her on her feet, letting go of him only long enough for Mistress Avys to take her bedgown off, then briefly squeezing his hand again before she lay down and moved away across the bed, making room for him beside her as always; and as always he slipped free of his own bedgown and in beside her.

  Sometimes that was the end of it and sometimes she wanted more. Tonight, when Gil and Mistress Avys had drawn the covers over them and closed the curtains around the bed, leaving them alone together in the bed-shadows, she shifted to be close against him again, nestling into the curve of his arm with a small child’s whimper
, her head resting on his chest. Robert waited and was thankful when he understood she would want no more than holding from him tonight; waited and was more thankful when she was safely gone to sleep, leaving him to the loneliness of his bed and thoughts, his own sleep taking far longer to come.

  Chapter 9

  In the pleasure of escaping from too long a time among too many people not saying too many things all through the evening, Frevisse momentarily cared only for being away as she left the parlor, following Dame Claire down the stairs into the solar. But the certainty that “away” was something neither of them could really be so long as they were here came hard on the heels of her relief and darkened it. Whatever was wrong between Robert and his wife, it was more than the trouble of the moment and present angers. Added to that, Katherine’s place here was difficult to judge. She had been almost a daughter, Frevisse guessed, but now she was become something to be used to someone’s best profit, the question seeming to be whether the profit would be Robert’s or Lady Blaunche’s. Nor was young Benedict to be envied either, caught between his mother’s wishes and his stepfather’s and whatever his own might be. He had kept too thoroughly apart from everyone except young Emelye for Frevisse to judge much about him. Did he want Katherine for herself or because he was told he ought to have her? Was it truly to Benedict himself that Katherine objected, or to being forced into a marriage, any marriage, the way Lady Blaunche had meant to force her? If the complication of the Allesleys had not happened, where would her affections naturally have gone except to the boy— young man, Frevisse amended, but they all seemed so young, even Robert; sure sign she was growing old, she supposed—who she had grown up with and knew best of anyone she might be likely to marry?

  Unless knowing someone best of anyone was grounds for not wanting to be married to them. Frevisse could readily suppose it was, but then…

  Turning around short of the tapestry over the door to their chamber, Dame Claire said, “Lady Blaunche told me there’s a chapel here that we’re welcome to use. Should we, do you think?”

  ‘For Compline?“ Frevisse’s heart rose. She had put by thought of the chapel as something for later but to go there would be very welcome just now. ”Do we know where it is?“

  ‘We’ll ask. Someone else is coming.“ Dame Claire took a step back toward the stairs as Benedict, followed by Master Geoffrey, entered from them, both men pausing for a slightly startled moment at being confronted by two nuns, before Benedict bowed and said, ”Do you need something, my ladies?“

  It was the first time Frevisse had heard him speak more than a sullen word or two in answer to questions from his mother, and was surprised to see that on his own he was simply a well-mannered, pleasant-faced young man; but Dame Claire had been beside him at supper and was maybe not so surprised, answering him easily, “We’re wondering if someone could tell us where the chapel is. We’d like to make our evening prayers there.”

  Benedict started to point. “It’s across…”

  But Master Geoffrey said with a smile and a bow, “I’ll gladly take them to it, if they please.”

  Not of a mind to see if they could lose their way if left to themselves, they accepted his offer willingly and Benedict bowed and went on to wherever he had been going while Master Geoffrey said in answer to Dame Claire’s thanks, “It’s my pleasure.”

  Because Dame Claire had been in his company through the evening, diverting Lady Blaunche, Frevisse easily left them to walk together while she fell half a pace to the side and behind them, following into the hall and taking the chance to have clearer look at the clerk who was likely Dame Claire’s best ally in dealing with Lady Blaunche, judging by how deftly he had managed her too-obvious ill humour both before and after supper, even bringing her to smiling a few times. He was near to Robert’s age, his face smooth and open, his manner warm and easy, his plain black clerk’s gown neither too rich nor too poor to his place in a squire’s household and as neatly kept as his manners. He had no tonsure to go with it, though, and among the casual talk he made while leading them through the hall among the household servants beginning to bed down there for the night, he mentioned he was only in minor orders and doubted he would ever take greater.

  ‘The urge simply isn’t in me,“ he said as if both puzzled and regretful over that, going now into the screens passage, turning toward the outer door. ”I simply have to hope that what I’m doing is sufficiently to God’s will.“

  Beginning to feel her tiredness to the full, Frevisse wanted to tell him she did not care whether he was in greater, minor, or any orders at all; all she wanted was to be at her prayers; but that was mean-spirited and, knowing it, she chided herself that Master Geoffrey was making talk for courtesy’s sake, used to it as part of his duties here, not understanding that to her and Dame Claire silence was not only perfectly acceptable but even welcome.

  Dame Claire, doing better than she at courtesy, murmured in answer to him, “All anyone can hope is that we’re doing God’s will.”

  Outside, the clear, early evening sky was still full of light from the sunset’s afterglow, shaded from shining green above the roof of the buildings enclosing the courtyard’s west side to a deepening blue pricked out with the first silver glint of a star overhead. The evening’s damp chill as much as the hour had probably driven most people indoors; there were thin yellow bands of candle-, lamp-, and rushlights around shutters’ edges at some of the closed windows overlooking the yard but in the yard itself there were only two men talking at the gate and one of them was on his way out, the other closing the gate after him. For the night, Frevisse thought.

  Pointing as he started down the stone steps to the yard, Master Geoffrey said, “The chapel is there, between the gatehouse and my own chamber. I’ll see you to it, then find a lantern and come back to light your way to your chamber, if you will.”

  Dame Claire gave him thanks and Frevisse added her own, because by the time they had finished their prayers, full darkness would have filled the yard except for the islands of light around the lantern burning for the night beside the gateway and the other at the head of the hall steps, now behind them and confusing their feet with shadows as they followed Master Geoffrey down; a light of their own in an unfamiliar place would be welcome.

  But just where the hall lantern’s light was altogether lost to the thickening dusk Master Geoffrey stopped and turned to Dame Claire, his easy manner dropped as he asked with concern in his voice, “Now that there’s no chance we’ll be heard, can you tell me how well or ill it truly is with Lady Blaunche? Is it what she says? That she’s only over-tired and will be well enough by and by? Is that all there is to it or is she hiding worse and we should be afraid for her?”

  Dame Claire paused, probably considering how much he could be told, then seemingly decided to take him for the ally he had been so far and said, “It’s true she’s overtired, more than she should be from merely childbearing, but I gather from what I’ve been told that it’s always that way with her.”

  ‘Yes,“ Master Geoffrey agreed. ”Always.“

  ‘I gather, too, she too much tends to make it the worse by pushing herself beyond her strength.“

  ‘She goes at everything with her full heart,“ Master Geoffrey said. ”It’s both her boon and bane. Nor is Master Fenner, in all truth, as kind to her over it as he might be, I must needs say.“

  He need say no such thing, it wasn’t his place to, Frevisse thought but kept the thought to herself while Dame Claire asked, “You don’t think he can be appealed to for much help with her?”

  Master Geoffrey hesitated, then said, “No.”

  Dame Claire bent her head, considered that, looked up and went on, “This Allesley business isn’t helping, either. She’s wrought herself too high over it when what she needs is quiet, both for her own sake and the child’s.”

  ‘That’s Master Fenner’s doing again,“ Master Geoffrey said, ”and I don’t know what’s to be done to keep her from taking it all too deeply to heart the wa
y she is.“

  ‘For her own sake and the child’s, she has to stop it,“ Dame Claire said. ”I’m giving her as strong doses of valerian as I dare and a borage cordial to soothe and cheer her some but she agitates herself out of their quieting sooner than I like. You know her better than I do. Is there anything that would serve to divert her even a little from fretting herself so continually?“

  ‘I read to her,“ Master Geoffrey said. ”That helps sometimes. Or I keep her in talk about anything except what worries her. I’ve done that often and often. She enjoys my talk. Say the word and I’ll keep her as much company as I can, divert her as much as may be. Once this Allesley matter is done and over with and past undoing, she’ll maybe let it go and be herself again and quieter, I can only pray.“

  ‘We all pray so,“ Dame Claire said. ”Yes, any distraction you can give would be to the good. I’ll set her woman to it with you, and Dame Frevisse and I will do what we can that way, too.“

  Frevisse had no pleasure at hearing herself pledged to helping with Lady Blaunche, but Lent was a time for penance and helping see to Lady Blaunche would serve as well as other things toward humility of spirit, she supposed as they crossed the darkening yard to the chapel. Master Geoffrey left them at the door, promising to return with a lantern, and Frevisse followed Dame Claire into the chapel’s hush, leaving the heavy wooden door ajar behind them.

  The silence of sanctified places always seemed different, deeper, to her than the silence of other places and here was no different. A quieting of spirit came on her as she made obeisance, then went forward to kneel at the altar. By the little ruby glow of the altar light, it was plain this was a cherished place. Gold thread gleamed in the embroidery of the altar frontal and although she understood that the household made do with the village priest rather than one of their 0wn, the pleasant smell of well-polished wood told that someone saw to more than merely the daily replenishing of the altar light’s oil. With a deepening ease of spirit, she set to Compline’s prayers, both she and Dame Claire knowing them well enough to have no need of their breviaries that they could not have read anyway by the slight light there was, intertwining antiphon and response and psalms through to the quieting petition Divinum auxilium maneat semper nobiscum. Divine aid remain always with us.