The Bishop's Tale

Chapter Nine

The day had been longer and worse – inseveral ways – than Beaufort had anticipated. Seated at thetable spread with work in his chamber, daylight fading to grayhalf-light but no lamp lighted because he had not yet given orderfor it, he rubbed his forehead in what he knew was a habitualgesture. He was tired, but there were matters to see to somessages could go at first light tomorrow morning, matters thatcould not be delayed because they concerned both the government andhis bishopric, and neither of those could be left to themselves forlong.

On the whole, his bishopric was the lesserproblem – and the more profitable – since he had appointed men thathe could – not trust; trust left one too vulnerable – but men hecould depend on to see that things were done the way he wanted themdone, and to let him know if for any reason they could not.

England's government, being less under hispersonal control, was far less well-ordered. The reasons forthat were almost as numerous as the men who felt they had a claimto the right to advise young King Henry VI, men who could never bebrought to see that “claim” and “ability” were not necessarily thesame thing. His deservedly detested, much deplored nephewHumphrey, duke of Gloucester came first to mind. For thepresent the duke was as circumvented as could be managed, thoughthe complete cessation of his interference in the government wasnot even to be hoped for.

Blast Thomas! He had been one ofthe few men Gloucester respected enough to listen to. Notnecessarily heed but at least be slowed on whatever half-brainedscheme he might have at the time.

But Thomas, except for brief occasions, hadrefused to be dragged into the coil around the King. And nowhe was beyond any part in it at all.

Beaufort made a prayer for Thomas'ssoul. He had kept as emotionally distant from thinking aboutThomas as he could today; it was easier to deal with matterscompetently if emotions were kept out of them. He would payfor that restraint later, he knew, with probably a week's illtemper; but it had seen him through the day's necessity. Andnow he put Gloucester firmly out of his mind, too. Evenmerely thinking about Gloucester was a profitless, aggravatingwaste of time. What needed to be dealt with here and now wasa far lesser matter than the king's royal uncle, but at least itwas one about which something could be done, Beaufort hoped.

One of his secretaries knocked once at theopen door across the chamber. Beaufort nodded for him to comein and, seeing Dame Frevisse and the nun who had traveled with herbehind him, rose to his feet. “Dame Frevisse. Thank youfor coming so promptly.”

He held out his hand. The two womencrossed to him, curtsied, and kissed his ring. Then thesecond nun withdrew to stand near the door, head down, hands foldedinto her opposite sleeves. It would be unseemly for any nunto be alone with a man, but she was politely removing herself asmuch as might be. Beaufort glanced around at the two clerksworking at tables along the far wall; they were out of earshot ifhe and Dame Frevisse kept their voices low.

He indicated she should sit on a stool besidethe table. “I hope my summons was not too inconvenient. You are undoubtedly tired after such a day.”

“At your pleasure, my lord bishop. There is no inconvenience.” She sat containedly, straightwithout stiffness, her hands, like her companion's, tucked into hersleeves, her voice pleasant, mild in the middle range.

Beaufort studied her face in its surround ofwhite wimple and black veil and learned no more about her. She was here, obedient to his summons, as anyone would be. Whatever she felt or thought about it did not show. And thatin itself told something about her: Not many lesser people cameinto his presence without showing something of unease orover-eagerness, depending on what they feared or wanted fromhim. Did she fear nothing? Want nothing? Heremembered her sudden push for information about the availabilityof affordable grain the evening their paths had first crossed – andhow that one sign of interest in his power had, at the mildestpossible rebuke from her aunt, been withdrawn completely. Buteven in that brief exchange he had sensed her strength ofwill. Thomas had been right; she was an unusual woman,intelligent and controlled, no matter how meekly she sat herebeside him, eyes modestly downcast, waiting for him to speak. Very well.

“Your uncle charged me with a message for youas he lay dying.”

Her head came up, confronting him with a lookthat was neither meek nor modest but sharp as a huntinghawk's. But her voice was steady-voiced as she said, “Yes, mylord?”

Watching her carefully, Beaufort said, “Hesaid to tell you he would miss you.”

She bent her head too swiftly from him toread her reaction, and for perhaps a dozen heartbeats she wassilent, then said softly, her face still lowered, “Thank you, mylord.”

“I believe you will miss him?” He madeit a question, so she would have to answer.

She lifted her head. There were tearsin her eyes, but she said steadily, clearly not caring that he saw,“He was my friend. I have no other like him. And neverwill.”

Beaufort looked away, reached out and drew abundle toward him across the table. “He also left you this, abequest outside his will, to do with as you choose.”

He held it out to her. As she took it,he noticed how long and fine her fingers were, and though she wastoo strong-featured to be commonly beautiful, her face was notunattractive. Thomas had said she had freely chosen to be anun and never shown herself discontented with her choice, but stillthe bishop wondered why she had made it when certainly she couldhave married well enough. Thomas would surely have given hera dower, fond of her as he was. Beaufort had had occasion towonder about other nuns' choices through the years; choices that,like Dame Frevisse's, puzzled him.

She set the bundle on her lap and placed herhands over it. Though the gesture was quiet, her handsseemingly at ease, Beaufort had the intuition that it would cost abattle to take it back from her, should anyone be so foolish as totry.

“You're not going to open it?” he asked.

“Not now,” she said, her composure complete,her look directly into his eyes asking what concern it was ofhis. When he did not respond, she dropped her eyes, waitingto be dismissed.

Pleased to disconcert her, Beaufort leanedback in his chair and said, “Well, I have a request of my own foryou.”

He thought he detected a wary stiffening inthe pause before she looked at him again. But her voice wasas even as before. “Yes, my lord?”

“There was a death here today. You sawit, I believe.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And you were distressed by it.”

“I've seen death before, my lord. I'mnever glad of it but…” She hesitated, then said, “Butit's a part of life. It comes to us as surely as birth. To be angry at one is to be angry at the other.”

“And both come at God's will.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And this particular death, it's being said,came more directly than most from God.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I want to be certain of that.”

Dame Frevisse opened her mouth as if toprotest but remembered herself and asked instead, “How can you bemore sure than by having seen it with your own eyes? Hewished God's judgment on himself and it came.”

Beaufort knew what was being said throughoutEwelme manor house and – by this time – in the village, and whatwould be said much farther afield as guests went away to their ownhomes more full of the talk of Sir Clement's death than of Thomas’funeral. God had worked a wonder in the sight of everyonethere today, and it would be more than a nine days' wonder.

“I want to know that that is what itwas,” he said.

With some asperity behind her continuedrespectful tone, Dame Frevisse said, “Then I suggest you ask SirePhilip. He was nearer to it than I from the beginning, andwith him to the very end of it.”

“I have already spoken with Sire Philip.”

And been thoroughly unsatisfied because thepriest had seemed as willing as everyone else to accept God's handin Sir Clement's death; had seen no further, asked no further,wondered no further than that God chose that time and place to makehis power manifest. “Your uncle told me you have a way offinding out things that others do not see.”

Dame Frevisse drew a deep breath as if tospeak, but then tightened her mouth and said nothing. Instead, she bowed her head, hiding her face again.

Beaufort went on, “I want to be assured thiswas indeed an uncommon death. I want to be sure of God'swill.”

Dame Frevisse straightened to look directlyat him and asked a question he had not expected. “Why?”

He could simply require her cooperation outof obedience to his place as a prince of the Church. But withmemory of things Thomas had said about her, Beaufort leanedforward, dropped his voice to make this clearly between only thetwo of them, and said with the plain truth, “I want to know ifthere was man's hand in this, and sin. Sir Clement was ablaspheming man for many years. I doubt there's anyone couldcount now how many times he's stood up and said, ‘If I'm wrong inthis, may God strike me down within the hour,’ but it was often andoften without God ever taking notice of him. I've heard himmyself, on occasions enough when his lies were baldly apparent toall present. So I can't help wondering why God would chooseto strike him down now in particular, when there were other, moresuitable times. Unless one is inclined to think God wasasleep or busy elsewhere on the other occasions.”

Dame Frevisse's mouth twitched with an effortagainst smiling. It was a gesture Beaufort had often seen onThomas Chaucer's face. “I didn't know it was that way withhim,” she said. “Only that he seemed to enjoy creating angersaround him.”

“Oh, indeed he enjoyed that,” Beaufortagreed. “And that's what makes me wonder about hisdeath. He had a talent for garnering enemies, and made apractice of never losing one once he'd gained him. But what Iwant to know particularly… is whether or not Sire Philip had ahand in it.”

His words startled her, and she did not tryto hide it. “Sire Philip? Why do you suspect him inparticular?”

“I don't, in particular, suspect him. Isimply want to be sure I don't have to suspect him at all.” Beaufort hesitated; but she was an intelligent woman and wouldserve him better if he made himself clear. “I have had my eyeon Sire Philip Basing these few years. He, like you, hasabilities beyond the ordinary, and I'm ever in need of such men inmy service. But I need men I can be sure of before I put theminto offices where I must trust them. ‘The king ought toplace in posts of command only those of whose capacity he has madetrial.’”

“‘And not to proceed to make trial of thecapacity of those whom he has placed in posts of command,’” DameFrevisse immediately answered, completing his quotation. “Vincent de Beauvais. And very true.”

So she was as knowledgeable as Thomas had ledhim to believe. Very learned, Thomas had said, and had notadded, For a woman. Beaufort wondered what the book in herlap was that Thomas had so particularly wanted her to have.

But that was not to the point rightnow. Permitting himself a smile of appreciation for hercompletion of his quote, he said, “Exactly. So I would knowwhether Sire Philip is a murderer or not before I begin to trusthim.”

“There was… strife between him and SirClement?”

“Sire Philip is freeborn, but onlybarely. His father was still villein to Sir Clement's fatherwhen Sire Philip was born, but Sire Philip's mother was a freewoman and he was born on her freehold property and is thereforefree from birth himself, according to the law. His fatherlater bought his way out of villeinage and, with his wife'sproperty and help, became quite prosperous and provided botheducation and opportunities for his sons. Sire Philip inparticular took best advantage of the possibilities, and looks togo far in the Church. But Sir Clement has been making claimthat he has proof Sire Philip is not freeborn after all. Is still,in fact, a villein and therefore Sir Clement's property. IfSir Clement had pursued and proved such a thing, Sire Philip'sfuture would have been severely hampered.”

“But Sir Clement had not pursued it intocourt yet?”

“And curtail his sport? The torment ofthe uncertainty of his victims was among the things he mostenjoyed.”

“By your words, he had more victims than SirePhilip,” Dame Frevisse said. “Sire Philip won't be the onlyone who might be glad to have him dead. Possibly he's noteven the only enemy who was present at the funeral feast.”

“Most assuredly. Now mind this: SirePhilip does not know how much I know about him. He only knowswe both agreed Sir Clement was a pain better avoided ifpossible. So when you begin questioning people about SirClement and his death-“ Dame Frevisse raised her eyebrows atthe word “when”. Beaufort did not care. She was goingto do this thing for him, whatever she thought. “-he willhave no reason to suspect you are especially interested in him,since you cannot know there was especial reason for him to want SirClement dead. Do you understand?”