The Bishop's Tale

Chapter Eleven

Dame Perpetua left Frevisse at the door tothe parlor. “I am not needed here, nor do I want to goin. I'd rather go to bed, by your leave.” Wishing shecould go with her, Frevisse gave Dame Perpetua the small bundle totake with her, out of the way. Frevisse had guessed by itsfeel that it held a book, and was curious what Chaucer had soparticularly wanted to give her. But she meant to find abetter time and place to open the bundle than now and did not wishto draw attention to it by carrying it with her into theparlor. She drew a deep breath, then went in.

The room was even more full of people thanthe evening she had arrived and, like then, most of them werestrangers to her. Aunt Matilda and Bishop Beaufort sat nearthe fireplace, with Alice at her mother's side and her husbandSuffolk at the bishop's, all in low-voiced conversation withvarious guests. Master Gallard, hovering just inside thedoor, bowed to her and said under the general murmur ofconversation, “My lady your aunt has been asking after you. You'll go at once to join her?”

Eyes kept modestly down, Frevisse eased herway around the edge of the room and people. The conversationshe overheard as she went was mostly general, about the wet summerand the small harvest, a new cut for houppelande sleeves, afragment of an anecdote about Chaucer, an admiring comment on hisson-in-law Suffolk. Only once did someone mention death inher hearing, to be quickly cut off by his companion with a nod herway, so that she was not sure whose death he had spoken of. It seemed that here at least politeness was holding back avid talkabout Sir Clement, and she reached her aunt without being drawninto conversation with anyone.

Matilda, gray with grief, reached out to takeher hand and draw her down to kiss her cheek in greeting. “Thank you, my dear, for coming to my comfort. I know you'vehad a difficult day, too.”

Frevisse kept a warm hold on her hand. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Matilda drew her nearer to whisper in herear, “Find a way to end this soon.” She smiled wanly as shespoke, because they both knew that the evening, like the day, hadto take its course. Tomorrow all the remaining guests wouldleave, and the family could settle to finding their places in theirgrief. In the meanwhile, the present necessity of gracioushospitality had to be endured. Frevisse squeezed her hand insympathy and moved to stand behind her, next to Alice, to becomepart of the polite flow of condolence and comments of people comingto speak to the bereaved family. She avoided even a glance atBishop Beaufort.

Near the widow there were only kind wordsabout Chaucer, or mild reminiscences of happier times shared withhim. But from where she stood, Frevisse easily saw theoccasional excited hand movement or scandalized head-shaking mixedwith uneasy but avid looks quickly curtailed.

It was no more than she had expected. They had seen a man call down God's judgment on himself and thenreceive it. Because it had fallen on someone so obviouslyworthy of his terrifying death, they could afford excitement ratherthan fear, and indulge in righteous discussions of God'swonders.

Frevisse's gaze flickered sideways and downto Bishop Beaufort's profile to the left of Alice. His voiceand subdued movements were suited perfectly to the occasion, shadedto the finest degree of dignity and sorrow. To watch him wasto believe there was nothing on his mind but the comfort of thebereaved and courtesy to their guests.

Frevisse knew better. He had succeededamong the harsh realities of the royal court for most of his life;he must perceive a great deal more of what went on around him thanothers did, and understand it more deeply than most would findcomfortable to think on or to live with.

But her uncle had counted Bishop Beaufort notjust as his cousin but as his dear friend. It had not beentheir abilities that differed but their ambitions. Chaucer,knowing how much she would need them, had trusted Beaufort with hislast words to her. She had always trusted Chaucer morecompletely than she had ever trusted anyone else. And he hadtrusted Bishop Beaufort.

Assuredly the bishop was correct that SirClement’s had been an odd death. God could take life in anyway he chose, and it had become so common to see his will in anyunexplained or sudden death that churchly scholars had been obligedthrough the centuries to point out that not all such deaths camedirectly from God's hand. But even so, why had this deathbeen given this way – not simply the agony to breathe, the reddisfiguring of his face and arms, the final strangling – but thatstrange relenting before the end, as if God had given only aglancing blow at first and then, when his warning was not taken,when Sir Clement showed no sign of comprehension or repentence,struck the fatal one?

Was that the right of it? And had itbeen done here, at Ewelme, in front of so many people, to be apublic example to other sinners? But most of the people whosaw him first struck down had not seen him die, so the example hadbeen weakened, if example had been intended.

A shifting of people near the door broughther gaze around to see Sire Philip entering. He paused justinside to speak closely to Master Gallard, the little man noddingrepeatedly to whatever the priest was saying before answeringsomething back. Sire Philip shook his head, touched theusher's shoulder as if in reassurance, and went out again.

Frevisse glanced at Bishop Beaufort in timeto see his eyes shifting away from the doorway. By his blandfacade, he might have seen nothing of interest at all, except hiseyes slipped sideways to meet hers, as if wondering if she had seenthem, too; and then he was answering some comment from the earl ofSuffolk as if he had never had his attention anywhere else.

Looking over his head and across the room,Frevisse glimpsed the physician who had been at Sir Clement'sdeath. With an abrupt wish for something besides fruitlessspeculation, she slipped sideways away from Matilda and Alice andmade her way through the crowd toward him. He moved away intalk with another man as she neared him, but she followed to theroom's far end and stood a little aside from them, her headmodestly down and her hands folded into her sleeves in an attitudeof waiting, where he must surely notice she wanted to speak tohim.

But overhearing their conversation about theweather and their relief that the chance of plague was gone nowthat the weather had turned cold, she remembered his name and wasable, when he turned from the other man to her, to say, “MasterBroun, I was wondering if I might speak to you about-”

His gesture of recognition interruptedher. “You're Master Chaucer's niece! My pardon, lady,for not knowing you sooner. Of course. Of course. You couldn't ask your aunt about it, could you? Pardon us,please,” he added to the other man, who bowed his head and movedaway, leaving them in what would pass for privacy in thatgathering. Master Broun leaned his head nearer to her anddropped his voice to consultation level. “You're wonderinghow it was with your uncle, of course. It came onslowly. He had time to prepare himself while we tried allthat could be done but, alas-” He spread his white,well-tended hands in resignation. “-it was not God's will helive. But the end was peaceful. Very peaceful.”

He was an echo of Aunt Matilda. She hadrepeated and repeated that his end was peaceful, as if forreassurance to herself more than anyone, so that Frevisse hadresisted asking for details that might mar her aunt'scomfort. Now, with this unexpected chance, she asked, “Was hepainfully ill?”

“Not painfully. Never painfully, no,except for a while when the starvation became marked, but thatabated as his decline progressed. You know he fell ill earlyin the summer? The first indication of trouble was that helost flesh with no cause. He seemed in good health but nomatter what he ate, he lessened. We began to do all manner ofthings that should have helped.” He shook his head, hisexpression puckered with professional regret. “But nothing wedid realigned his humours.”

If he were like others of his kind Frevissehad known, he would go on now to lengthy and detailed discourse onbile and sanguinity and the courses of the stars before he cameback to the plain fact that Chaucer had died despite all hisphysicians' knowledge and care. To forestall him, she said,“So it was a wasting disease, not painful in the main but with nohope.”

“Not by late autumn. From then it wasmerely a matter of time.” He spread his hands again in tokenof helplessness in the face of fate. “An unusual case, butnot unheard of.”

“And the man who died today, Sir ClementSharpe. What happened to him?”

The physician stared at her blankly for amoment, then remembered to shut his mouth, only to open it and sayrather severely, “You were in the hall, I believe? Yes, thenyou saw him. He called on God to witness his truth, and Godsmote him in his lie. And you were there in the priest'schamber when he died. My lady, you saw how he died.”

“But he didn't simply stop living,” Frevissepressed. “It wasn't that simple. I saw what agonies hewas in-”

“Certainly.” Master Broun was beginningto be offended.

Frevisse moderated her tone to humbleinquiry. “It was so terrible to see. I couldn'twatch. He didn't choke on a bite of food, or the wine hedrank go down the wrong way? It's so terrible to think of Godstriking him down that manner. I just keep hoping it wassomething else, and if it was, you would be the one who knew.”

Her double appeal to his learning and hismanhood flattered the physician enough to consider her question. “I of course checked him immediately for some cause of hisdistress,” he replied with suitable gravity, “but there was no signof what it might be. It was as if all his humours had turnedviolently against him all at once.”

“There seemed to be something in histhroat.”

“I looked there first, of course, but it wasnot something in his throat, it was his throat itself. A severe and prolonged spasm of all the flesh in there, that causedan effusion of fluid and brought on a swelling that inhibited hisbreathing.”

Inhibited his breathing to the point ofdeath, Frevisse thought drily, but she kept her tone mild andwondering as she said, “What about those terrible welts all overhis face, and that redness, and the itching that seemed to tormenthim almost as much as his breathing? They had nothing to dowith his throat constricting, did they?”

Master Broun shifted uneasily, then said,“They were no part of his throat's affliction. They weresomething else altogether, brought on, I believe, by his generaldistress and the imminence of death.”

“His death agonies brought on welts anditching?” In all the deaths she had seen or ever heard of,there had been nothing like that.

Master Broun held silent a moment, uneasyrather than offended, and then said in a much lower voice, “Theywere no direct part of his throat's affliction. Of that I'msure. But did you see the pattern of welts on his face, as ifhe had been struck by an open hand? A hand of more than humansize, one that struck and made those marks on him.”

Frevisse hesitated. She could notremember any pattern to the marks on Sir Clement's face, but shehad been farther away than Master Broun. Had anyone else seenit? Letting that go for now, she asked, “Why do you supposehis breathing eased the way it did? His breathing was mucheasier when I came in.”

The physician was clearly on more comfortableground with that issue. “There you have further proof ofGod's work in this. There was no reason for theabatement of Sir Clement's agony for that little while except God'smercy, that he have time to repent. When he did not, his lifeand soul were wrenched from him as you saw.”

Master Broun crossed himself, and so didFrevisse, but as she did, she said, “He drank something just beforethat final attack.”

“Wine. A little wine.”

“He didn't choke on it? His throatwasn't still too constricted for it?”

“I would not have allowed him to drink if ithad been.” Master Broun grew haughty again. “No, SirClement did not choke on wine or anything else. It was simplyGod's will and beyond our comprehension.” He spread hishands, indicating even he was helpless before such power. “God's ways are strange to man.”