The Bishop's Tale

Chapter Ten

Frevisse found that on closer acquaintanceshe did not much like Bishop Beaufort. Nor the way that hewas watching her across the little distance between them with theremote calculation he would probably give to a property he wasthinking to invest in. And she doubted he cared that she waswatching him as warily as she would an adversary about to make athreatening move. He did not care, she thought, whether aperson liked or disliked him, so long as they did what heasked. And did it well.

What had Chaucer told him about her? Why would such a powerful man ask this of her? In a cool,level voice that she hoped matched his own, she said, “I understandand will try to do as you wish, my lord bishop.”

Bishop Beaufort nodded, then made a gracefulgesture of dismissal. He would always be graceful in success,Frevisse thought, and wondered how he was in defeat. Sherose, made low curtsy to him again, and left. Dame Perpetuasilently followed.

Interested and speculative looks were turnedon them by people in the outer room, but Frevisse walked throughwithout raising her head, the cloth-wrapped bundle pressed againsther middle by her folded hands, her veil swung forward on eitherside of her face in appearance of holy modesty.

In truth she was feeling nothing remotelylike holy, and just then modesty was the least of herconcerns. But she wanted no one to speak to her; she did nottrust her ability to answer well or even politely. She wantedto be alone, to think about what Bishop Beaufort was asking. With the instinct of her years in St. Frideswide's and herknowledge that with Ewelme crowded with guests tonight there was noprivate place to go to, she retreated to the chapel.

In its antechamber, as Frevisse reached forthe door handle, Dame Perpetua touched her arm, stopping her. “Dame Frevisse, how is it with you?” she asked gently.

Frevisse turned to her. “How much didyou hear of what he asked of me?”

“All of it, I think. Will you be ableto do what he wants of you?”

It had been for her commonsense and goodmanners that Dame Perpetua had been chosen to come with her, nordid Frevisse have any doubt of her discretion. But this wasnot something she thought she could share. “I don't know,”she said, her voice sharpened with her own desire not to beburdened with the problem. “I don't even know if I know howto try.” She reached for the door again. “I need topray awhile.”

Behind her, Dame Perpetua said quietly,“Prayer is meant to be a strength and guidance, not a hidingplace.”

Frevisse paused as the justice of thatwarning struck to the soft core of her conscience. She had noreply. Her darkness was her own, and God had not yet shownher the way out of it. Until he did, prayer was her onlyease. And her only guidance. She did herself that muchjustice: She was searching for a way out of the darkness of herregret, a way through forgiveness – God's and her own – intoacceptance of her deeds, not into escape from them, ordenial. And prayer was the only way she had. Prayer wasnot her hiding place but her hope.

But that was not something to be put intowords here and now. After a moment, not answering DamePerpetua, she went on into the chapel.

Sir Clement's body was laid out whereChaucer's body had been yesterday. There was no coffin yet;the body, completely enveloped in its white shroud, rested onboards set on trestles covered with black cloth, seemly enoughuntil a coffin could be made. His relatives would depart withthe body tomorrow, Frevisse supposed. No, the crowner stillhad to come, as he always did, to investigate any uncertain orviolent death. Neither Sir Clement's body nor his familywould be able to leave until then, and there was no way to know yetwhen the crowner would arrive.

She crossed to the far side of the chapel,Dame Perpetua behind her. It was dim here, well away from thedoor and from the light of the few candles set around Sir Clement'sbier. She recognized Jevan kneeling at the head of thecorpse, his face above his clasped hands touched with the warm goldcandlelight. Three others, one of them Master Gallard theusher by his shape (but subdued and motionless for once), knelt ina row beside the coffin, facing the altar, their backs toher. In a hush of skirts, Dame Perpetua sank down to herknees beside her. Frevisse followed her onto the familiarhardness of stone floor, bowed her head, folded her hands together- and found that instead of going readily into the comfort ofprayer, she was staring blindly at the floor in front of her,thinking of the problem she had been set.

There was no question but that she had to doas Bishop Beaufort had asked. He was her religious superior,and there was nothing immoral or illegal about his request. Though St. Frideswide's Priory was in the bishopric of Lincoln, nothis of Winchester, he was still a bishop and moreover a cardinal,and his power and influence stretched where he wanted them to inEngland. If she failed to obey him, she might suffer for itin some way. But if she tried and honestly failed, shethought he would accept her failure without blame.

But the problem remained of how to attemptwhat he had asked.

He doubted Sir Clement had been struck downby God. Why? And why did he believe it possible thatSire Philip had murdered him? He wanted to know what hadhappened because he had plans for Sire Philip and wanted to be sureof him. Sure that he had not committed a murder – or surethat he had? her mind treacherously suggested. She was notsure Bishop Beaufort had made that distinction clear when he askedher to learn the truth.

But at least he had given her the priest'spossible motive. The threat of villeinage was a heavy thingto hold over a man. And yet Sire Philip had been singularlyundisturbed by the insults Sir Clement had thrown at him yesterday,as if neither they nor Sir Clement particularly mattered tohim.

Or had he been hiding his true reaction withexceptional skill?

And if he or someone else had killed SirClement, how had it been done?

Poison was the obvious answer. Thephysician would have spoken out about any wound, and there had beenthe strange struggle to breathe, as if Sir Clement were beingthrottled by an invisible foe, and the swollen face, the rash, andred welts.

But how could he have been poisoned? Sir Clement, like everyone else, had shared his food anddrink. Lady Anne and Guy had shared his food; she and SirClement had shared a goblet; yet only Sir Clement had sickened.

Even if some way it had been poison, SirePhilip had been well down the table from Sir Clement at the feast.But perhaps, if it was poison, it had been given earlier. What elsehad Sir Clement eaten or drunk? Breakfast, surely. Was there apoison that was so slow to act?

Or perhaps the poison had come later. Sir Clement had been the only one to drink the wine in SirePhilip's chamber, just at that point where he had appeared to berecovering. What if God's hand had touched him but not closedon him, only leaving him with warning of his sinful mortality andan opportunity to change? Had Sire Philip – or someone else,Frevisse added conscientiously – taken the chance of what was meantto be God's warning on Sir Clement to kill him?

The poison had worked swiftly there in SirePhilip's room, with symptoms seemingly identical to those that hadstruck Sir Clement in the hall. And since no one could haveforeseen God's action, how would they have had a poison so readilyto hand, and one that matched so well?

She would need to talk to the people whomight know or have seen more. And ask the physician his ideason the nature of Sir Clement's death. Physicians always hadideas; ever insecure in their inevitably lost battle againstmortality, they generated theories as readily as a master smithmade weapons.

But whatever she did, whatever she asked, thematter came back to the question of whether Sir Clement had died ofGod's holy will or man's sinful intent.

A darkness came between her and the candles,and she looked up to find Sire Philip an arm's length away, lookingdown at her.

She glanced toward the bier, and saw theempty place where he had been kneeling. She had been sodistracted with her problem when she entered that she had notrealized the taller man beside the usher Master Gallard had beenSire Philip.

Now he bowed his head to her slightly, inacknowledgment of her noticing him, then tilted it to one side,asking her to come with him.

She would have to talk to him some time; atleast this way he had sought her out, and so might be less guardedwith his answers. With a sense of duplicity, because she hadnot been praying, Frevisse briefly bent her head and crossedherself, then rose to go with him from the chapel. DamePerpetua followed her and in the antechamber, as they drew to a farcorner, she stopped by the door, her hands quietly in her sleeves,her head bowed, just as she had been with Bishop Beaufort.

With no waste of words over any greeting, andnot even a look at Dame Perpetua, Sire Philip said, “His grace thebishop wished to speak with you.”

“And did,” Frevisse answered, sure he alreadyknew it. What he probably wanted to know was why, but she hadher answer ready. “He had a message for me from myuncle. My uncle charged him with it on his death bed, and hewished to give it to me personally.”

“God keep your uncle's soul,” Sire Philipsaid. “And that was all?” His gaze dropped deliberatelyto the bundle she still held against herself and returned to herface.

Her expression bland, Frevisse said, “Whatelse should there be?”

Matching her tone, he said, “Your uncle spokeof you upon occasion. He was fond of you. More, hevalued your intelligence.”

Frevisse bent her head humbly, as if todisparage the compliment, and said nothing.

“And I think he spoke of it to BishopBeaufort, too.”

“That would have been very kind of him,”Frevisse said.

“His grace the bishop is not content that SirClement's death was God's will.”

Frevisse could not help a start ofsurprise. “He isn't?”

“Didn't he say so to you?”

“Did he to you?”

“He questioned me about every particular Iobserved of Sir Clement's attack and death, and I don't think hewas satisfied with my answers.”

“Why? What did you tell him?”

“You saw it, along with everyone else in thehall and then in my room.”

“But you were closer. And I didn't seewhat happened in your room until I came at almost the end.”

Sire Philip gestured impatiently. “Yousaw enough. He was better, able to breathe with less effortand talking lucidly. And then he was struck again anddied. You saw that.”

Frevisse nodded. She had seenthat. She wished she could more clearly remember where theothers had been around the room, what they were doing before thesecond attack, what their faces had betrayed of theirfeelings. She crossed herself. “As if God had begun toremove his hand from him, and then struck him down afterall.” She shivered with memory. “Did he say anythingbefore then that I didn't hear? Anything so unrepentent,or…” She hesitated. “…so blasphemous there was nosalvation for him?”

“There was no repentance or fear of God inhim at all. He was himself, ill-tempered and demanding asalways.” Sire Philip paused, then added, “Perhaps that waswhat brought God's final anger down on him. That even soplainly warned, he saw no error in his ways.”

Drawn along that path of thought, Frevissequoted, “‘What, do you think your life was given to you forever,and the world's goods with it?’”

“‘Nay, nay, they were only loaned to you, andin awhile will go to another,’” Sire Philip answered.

It was a game Frevisse loved, and she wasgood at it; but this time she had to admit, “I know the quotationbut don't remember the source.”

“It's from Everyman,” Sire Philipsaid. “I've never seen it performed, but your uncle had acopy of it.”

The chapel door opened quietly on itswell-oiled hinges, and Jevan Dey came out. He paused at sightof them, then closed the door and bowed. The lamplight in theantechamber was as dim as yesterday, but where its shadows obscuredSire Philip's ruined face, they deepened the tense, exhausted linesaround Jevan's mouth and eyes, making him look more nearly hisuncle's age than his own. “My lady,” he said to Frevisse,then turned to Sire Philip. “I thank you for giving my unclehis final absolution. We were all too… stunned to ask forthat. For his soul's sake, my thanks. If he comes topeace at last, it's by your hand.”

“And God's will,” Sire Philip said. “But for your kind words, thanks.” He gestured toward thechapel. “I'll pray for him whenever I can.”

Jevan's smile was taut. “There'll befew others who'll come willingly. He made himselfdisliked. And his death has made people afraid even to benear his corpse.”

“At least there's someone with him now,”Frevisse said.

Jevan shrugged. “I doubt prayers willaid his soul now. If ever any man was damned directly tohell, it was Sir Clement. But he appreciated the forms. When it suited him. My own presence beside him this while isthe last thing he can require of me.”

He chopped his sentences as if following athought all the way through were difficult for him. It wasweariness rather than grief lining his face so deeply, Frevissedecided.

Sire Philip said, “But you can go rest now,can't you? You've done enough for this day, I think.”

“I want to find Guy. He should be here,too. For form's sake, if nothing else. He's SirClement's heir.”

“And you?” Frevisse asked. Jevan wasSir Clement's nephew, too, and surely heir to something.

Jevan's attempt at a smile made sharp,unamused angles in the lines around his mouth. “I'm SirClement's dog. If he had his will in this, I'd have my throatcut and be buried at his feet. That would have pleased himmore than my prayers.”

He was too tired for any pretence, Frevissethought, or for clear thinking. Food and rest and the wearingoff of shock would be the best things for him now. As hebowed and moved to leave, she said, “If you see Robert Fennerwithout Sir Walter near-” Jevan would understand that. “-please tell him I'd be glad of a chance to talk with him oncemore before he leaves.”

“Certainly, my lady. My lord.” Hebowed to them again, and left.

“If you'll pardon me,” Sire Philip said witha bow of his own, “I'll go with him, I think, to be sure he eatsand does indeed sleep tonight, rather than coming back here to prayagain.”

“He had no fondness for Sir Clement, so it'sdoubly to his credit to do what he's doing,” Frevisse said.

“But that makes it no less tiring. Doing right from a sense of duty is more wearing than doing it fromaffection.”

“And so has greater merit.”

“Truly,” Sire Philip agreed. “By yourleave, my ladies.” He bowed and left them.

To Dame Perpetua, still silently standing toone side, Frevisse said, “I suppose we should go to Aunt Matildanow.” For her, in this, affection and duty together weregoing to be equally wearing; she wished someone was going to bidher have her supper, then go to bed and be done with theday.

But no one was likely to. Resigned tothat, she led the way toward her aunt's parlor.

Robert Fenner met them at the foot of thestairs. “Jevan said you wanted to see me,” he said withoutmore greeting than a quick bow and a glance over his shouldertoward the hall. “Sir Walter is not pleased to be among thoseleft to each other's company in the hall. He hoped for achance to talk with his worship, the earl of Suffolk.” Histone caught both Sir Walter's arrogance and his own ridicule ofit.

“And lacking that pleasure, he's spreadinghis discontent wherever he best can,” Frevisse said.

“As ever,” Robert agreed. “So I can'tbe gone long.”

Understanding the hint, Frevisse askeddirectly, “What do you know about Sire Philip's relationship to SirClement?”

“The priest? Your uncle's householdpriest? Nothing.”

“It's said his father was a villein of SirClement's father. Basing, I think the name was.”

“Ah!” Robert nodded. “I know thecommon gossip there. Basing bought his freedom with hiswife's money, and then went on to increase her small fortune to alarger one and set the sons he had by her in places well abovevilleinage.”

“Sons?” Frevisse asked.

“Two of them, if I remember rightly. The priest and another one. I don't know about the secondone. But I do remember talk that Sir Clement liked to claimthe purchase from villeinage had not been valid and that father andsons were both still his property.”

“The father is still alive?”

“I think not.”

“But both sons are alive.”

“I suppose so. I haven't heardotherwise.”

“And how valid is this claim of SirClement's?”

“Probably not at all or he would have pursuedit, I suppose. Or maybe he had more pleasure in holding theclaim over the sons' heads, threatening to bring it down on themwhenever he chose and meanwhile enjoying drawing the tortureout.”

“Not a pleasant man.”

“You've only to know what he's done to Jevanto be sure of that.”

“What has he done to Jevan?”

“Everything where he should have left himalone, and nothing where he should have done something. SirClement's sister married less well than Sir Clement thought sheshould have and completely against his wishes. It might havebeen all right if her husband had lived long enough to make good onhis small inheritance. By all accounts he was clever andcapable enough, and he looked like becoming a competent woolmerchant. But he died with his affairs all tangled ininvestments that needed his close eye, and without him, when allwas said and done, there was very little left. His wifebarely outlived him, and Sir Clement seized on Jevan. Therewere relatives on the father's side who would have taken him andbeen glad of it, but Sir Clement had rank and power, and he's usedJevan like a servant ever since, to punish him for his mother's‘sin’ in going against Sir Clement's wishes in her marriage.”

“But he's still Sir Clement's nephew. He'll inherit something now, surely.”

Robert shook his head. “The propertiesare all entailed in the male line. Everything goes to Guybecause his grandfather was Sir Clement's father's brother, if Iremember it rightly. Sir Clement reminded Jevan of his lackof expectation frequently and with pleasure.”

“God is too merciful; he waited too long tostrike Sir Clement down,” Frevisse said, then quickly crossedherself. “God forgive me.”

Dame Perpetua crossed herself, too; butRobert said, “You're not the only one who's said that, nor I doubtyou'll be the last.”

“I saw him die,” Frevisse said. “I atleast should be more careful of my words.” But at the sametime her mind was beginning to trace a path among the things shehad been learning. “Then Guy is some sort of cousin to SirClement, not a nephew. And he's cousin to Jevan, too. Will he deal more justly with him than Sir Clement did?”

“I gather that Guy despises him for alickspittle, never mind Jevan had small choice in the matter. Jevan has no hopes from him. Or from the other way,either.”

“The other way?”

Robert smiled sadly, with memories of hisown. “Lady Anne, Sir Clement's ward. Jevan hasnever said it directly, but you have only to watch him to see hecares for her. I doubt she knows it. Between her lovefor Guy and her fear that Sir Clement might take her for himself,she's had little time to think of other loves. But that'sover now, God be thanked, and she and Guy will be free to marry, Isuppose. Poor Jevan is out of everything, but it's a suitableenough marriage, all ways – in rank and fortune and affection.”

Remembering what she had overheard and seenamong the three of them yesterday, Frevisse said with somegentleness, “So Sir Clement's death is boon to Lady Anne and Guy atleast.”

“And to a great many others,” Robertsaid. “He dearly loved trouble for its own sake. Goodmy lady, I have to go back or there'll be trouble for me and not ofSir Clement's making.”

“Go quickly. I'm sorry I kept you solong. And thank you.”

“You're very welcome.” He smiled again;Frevisse could remember when there had been real joy in his smile,not this pretence he made of it now. “Pray for me, mylady.”

Frevisse, who rarely touched anyone, tookhold of his arm for a moment, her eyes on his to make her words gomore deeply. “Always. Go with God, Robert, whateverhappens.”

He bowed too quickly for her to read hisexpression, caught her hand in his own and kissed it, then turnedand left without lifting his gaze to her again.

“I'll pray for him, too,” Dame Perpetua saidin the silence after he was gone.

Frevisse nodded. “He's in need.”

“As are we all.” Dame Perpetua’s simplecertainty let what seemed too easily a mindless platitude be theplain truth that it was.

Frevisse felt suddenly grateful for DamePerpetua's quiet, steady presence.