The Bishop's Tale

Chapter Twelve

Wrung out, Frevisse had thought her sleepthat night would be heavy, but it was shallow and broken, rarelydeep enough for dreams or long enough for any rest. DamePerpetua slept through her uneasy stirring, but they had promisedeach other that if either woke near the time, she would awake theother for the prayers of Matins. Among all the otherwakenings there was no way to tell when one was midnight, but atlast, wakening yet again, she guessed the time was nearly right andgently roused Dame Perpetua. Together, in whispers, they saidthe office's many psalms, the soft sound of their praying almostlost in the general murmur of other people's breathing and Joan'ssnoring.

When they finished, Dame Perpetua lay down,rolled on her side, and was shortly asleep again. Frevisse,still uneasy with her own thoughts, took longer, and in the morningwas no nearer to satisfaction or answers – and felt less rested -than when she had gone to bed.

And Aunt Matilda had finally given way to hergrief. She awoke and, as was always her way, rose and went tokneel at her prie dieu for first prayer. But there, wherecomfort should have been greatest, she bent forward over her prayerbook, shaken by sobs. At first the other women left her tocry; she was past due and surely needed the tears. But itwent on, and worsened, until she was clinging to the prie dieu,helplessly wracked and unable to stop.

As Frevisse hovered uncertainly, Alice leftthe gown her maid held ready to put on her and went to hermother. Taking her gently by the shoulders, she helpedMatilda to her feet and, not bothering with words, led her backtoward the bed. Aunt Matilda, her face collapsed andsplotched, clung sideways to her daughter and went on sobbinghelplessly.

It took so long to calm her that it was awhile before Frevisse was free to leave the bedchamber. Therehad been some thought that she would accompany her aunt and Alicein standing in the hall to bid farewell to the departing guests,but word had been sent to Suffolk that he must take that duty,which was acceptable, he now being lord of Ewelme, and since Alicemeant to remain with her mother, there was no seemly reason forFrevisse to join him.

No one questioned when she and Dame Perpetuawithdrew as they had done yesterday, to say Prime in theparlor. And when they had finished, she asked Dame Perpetua,“Will you help me with something?”

Dame Perpetua looked up from shaking straightthe folds of her skirts. “If I can,” she said. “What isit?”

“About Sir Clement's death.”

Dame Perpetua's expression showed herdiscomfort with the doubts which Bishop Beaufort had expressed, andshe said with less confidence, “What do you want me to do?”

“If it wasn't God who killed Sir Clement,then it had to have been poison. I need to know what kind itcould have been.”

“But Sir Clement shared every dish, just aswe all did. And his goblet, too.” Dame Perpetua movedimmediately to the same objections Frevisse had to theproblem. “How could he have been poisoned and no oneelse?”

“If we can learn what poison it was, perhapswe'll know. There may be something among my uncle's very manybooks that would help. Would you help me look?”

The frown drawn between Dame Perpetua's eyesdisappeared. Books were her worldly passion and there werevery few of them at St. Frideswide's priory; but she subdued herobvious eagerness and despite a sudden shine in her eyes said withquiet agreement, “Yes, surely, I'll help you all I can.”

Chaucer had found he could deal with hisbusiness better the farther he was from his wife's domesticconcerns, and so the room from which he had run his merchantventures and other dealings was at the far end of Ewelme's range ofbuildings. While they went, Frevisse explained what shewanted. “I talked with the physician who was with Sir Clementat the end. He says Sir Clement died of a cramping of histhroat and an effusion of fluids. His throat constricted andstrangled him.”

Dame Perpetua made a small, distressedsound. It was expected she would be upset by the very thoughtof such a death, but she was also a clearheaded woman; she would beof more help the more she knew, rather than cosseted inignorance.

Frevisse went on, “But he didn't just simplydie. You saw him choking in the hall, but when I saw him awhile later, in Sire Philip's room, he was so much better I thoughthe was going to live.”

“What?” Dame Perpetua askedincredulously.

“The strangling had subsided to the pointwhere he was sitting up, able to talk a little, even drink somewine.”

“He was that much improved?”

“Except that he had broken out in red weltsover his face and neck and arms, and their itching was tormentinghim.” Frevisse deliberately did not mention Dr. Broun'sassertion that the welts were patterned like an open hand. She wanted someone else's observation on that and did not want todistract Dame Perpetua with something she was not sure of. “Then, soon after he drank the wine, the choking came back and hedied, with barely time for the last sacrament.”

“God have mercy on him. You think therewas poison in the wine?”

“I don't know. That's thetrouble. I don't know anything that would kill the way SirClement died. That's what I hope to find in my uncle'slibrary – something about poisons that cause those symptoms. The strangling and welts and unbearable itching.”

After a moment of considering that, DamePerpetua said very quietly, “Oh my.” And after another momentof thought: “Then you think his worship may be right and SirePhilip did murder Sir Clement?”

“I don't know clearly yet what tothink. But I've begun to wonder why God would kill a man inso elaborate a way, instead of more directly, simply, there in thehall as example to all.”

“Dame Frevisse! You're trulyquestioning God's will? Even at the orders of a cardinalbishop that's so perilous! How can you-” Dame Perpetuagestured in wordless distress at the plight of being caught betweenGod and the order of a prince of the Church.

“I know. But what if it wasn'tGod's will? What if Bishop Beaufort is right and it was aman's will in this? Or if God did indeed strike at SirClement, there in the hall, not to kill him but only to warn, andsomeone took advantage of it to poison him?”

“Surely God would strike down in his turnanyone who dared do such a thing! It would be blasphemy!”

Frevisse refrained from saying God neverseemed overly prompt in striking down blasphemers in thesedays. Like other sinners they seemed to flourish far longerthan their deserving. Instead she said, “I'd be more thanglad to leave the matter to him. But Bishop Beaufort hasdirected otherwise. Dame Perpetua, this is my burden, notyours. If you would rather be left clear of it, it's yourchoice and I'll understand.”

Dame Perpetua straightened, her face firm,her hands tucked purposefully up her sleeves. “No. Youasked for my help and I'll gladly give it, along with my prayers tokeep us safe. And I don't suppose there's actual blasphemy inwhat we're doing, since we only seek to understand God's will moreclearly, to his greater glory and our salvation. Besides, Iwant to see your uncle's books.”

Frevisse had feared the chamber might belocked, but the door handle gave to her touch and the door swungeasily open. With a mixture of emotions she did not try tosort out, she faced the place that, for her, had been Ewelme'sheart.

The room was narrow but long, and despite theyears since she had last been there all its furnishings werefamiliar – she remembered Chaucer saying with amusement at hiswife's everlasting desire for change, “I bought what I wanted andneeded at the start. Why should I change when they are stillsufficient to me? Let my room be.”

His desk was set where the light would bebest over his shoulder from the windows with their wide seats,where Frevisse had sat reading for many an hour, lost to her properduties and deeply happy. Chaucer had gathered books allthrough his life, beyond the considerable number he had inheritedfrom his father. They had long since passed the bounds ofbeing neatly closed away in a chest. He had given over onewall of his room to aumbrys for them, where they were safe behindclosed doors but easily reached. Even then, they had alwaysoverflowed through the room, and Frevisse had been free to readwhat she chose, and Chaucer had gladly discussed or explained orargued at length anything that had puzzled her or caught herinterest.

In this room, in her uncle's company, she hadhad a freedom she had had nowhere else in all her life, except inher love of God.

A remembered figure straightened from hisbent posture over an open chest across the room. MasterLionel, her uncle's clerk. Frevisse was glad she had seen himseveral times in the past few days so there was no surprise at hiswhite hair, stooped shoulders, and wrinkled face. He had beenonly in late middle age when she lived here; now he was old. He peered at her across the room through magnifying lenses held onhis nose by leather thongs looped around his ears before saying,“Frevisse. Come again,” as if it had been only hours sinceshe had last been in his way and he was no more pleased now than hehad been then. He had never approved of the time Chaucer hadspent on her, to the neglect of business that was the heart and allof Master Lionel's existence.

“Dame Frevisse,” he correctedhimself. And added, “He's gone, you know. He isn'there.”

“I know.” Startled, Frevisse respondedwith instinctive gentleness. Her uncle had not particularlymentioned Master Lionel during his last few visits to her. She wished now that he had, because more than Master Lionel'sappearance was changed. “But may I come in? He alwayswelcomed me here.”

Master Lionel looked around the room as ifsearching for a reason to refuse her, as if certain there was onethere. “What do you want? He's gone.”

“My friend has never seen his books. Iwanted to show them to her.”

“It's all right, Master Lionel. I'msure she's welcome here.”

Intent on the elderly clerk, Frevisse had notnoticed Sire Philip standing in the contrast of shadow at theroom's farther end and partly obscured by an open aumbrydoor. He came away from the bookshelves now, still speakingto the old clerk. “You can go on with your work. I'llsee to them. Master Chaucer would welcome her, youknow. So shouldn't we, also, in his name?”

Master Lionel swung his head from Frevisse tothe priest, then to Frevisse again and back to Sire Philip. The effort seemed to confuse him. He shrugged. “As youthink best.” He turned back to the chest, and Sire Philipmotioned for Frevisse and Dame Perpetua to come in.

He faced the shelves and pointed at variousvolumes as if they were what he spoke of, as he said, low andbrisk, “He's outlived his wits.” It started about two yearsago, but Master Chaucer wished him happy and found things for himto do, since he's happy here.”

“He still works?” Frevisse asked.

“No, but he thinks he does. He'ssupposed to be putting the papers in that chest in order andlisting all the ventures they pertain to. They're all onlydraft copies, so it doesn't matter if he shifts and shuffles allday, everyday, and scribbles nonsense on that great roll behind himand never gets any forwarder. Can I help you?”

“It's only as I said. Dame Perpetuawould be glad of a chance to see my uncle's books, to spend timehere if she could.”

“And you would not mind seeing them againeither.”

“This was my best place to be, before Ientered St. Frideswide's,” she answered, for the first timewondering what he knew of her from her uncle and, more to theimmediate point, how they would look for what they needed with himat hand. There were far more books here than she remembered;of course Chaucer had gone on adding to his collection after sheleft. Nor did she have any idea where any particular booksmight be. Chaucer had loved to rearrange and reclassify histreasures; she had helped him do it often enough to know that, sothere was no telling where anything might be now. A greatmany of them were spread and stacked in no order at all around theroom, used at some time and not put back. That had also beenher uncle's way, and one of her chosen tasks had been to sort andput volumes away when the chamber finally became toodisordered. There was no guessing where to find what shewanted, and she dared not ask Sire Philip.

Dame Perpetua had already drifted away,opening aumbry doors and drawing volumes from the shelves,murmuring like a mother to beloved children as she went. Thiswas a feast for her after the nine books that were all the prioryhad to offer. Given enough time, Dame Perpetua would gladlygo through every book in the room. Somewhere among them werebooks of health, medicine, physic, surgery even, that might havewhat they sought. The problem was Sire Philip. He wouldhave to be diverted, so they, or at least Dame Perpetua, couldsearch unbothered.

Taking a book at random from the shelf besidethem, she asked him, “You're a lover of books, too?”

“I doubt his worship the bishop would haverecommended me to Master Chaucer if I were not.”

Frevisse looked suitably impressed. “Myuncle mentioned he had a new priest for the manor, but said nothingin particular about you. Have you been here long?”

“Three years. Your uncle was a pleasantman to serve.”

“But challenging upon occasion.” Casually, Frevisse moved away from the shelves. “He enjoyedideas, and discussing them with other knowledgeable people.”

Sire Philip moved with her. “That'strue enough. I had to make good use of his library here tokeep even near to pace with him.” He smiled at the memory; itwas the warmest expression Frevisse had yet seen on him. “Hewas not given to quiet acceptance of anything.”

“He had questions about most things, andwanted answers,” Frevisse agreed.

“‘To know wisdom and discipline, tounderstand the words of prudence, and to undertake the formation ofdoctrine, righteousness, fate and…’” Sire Philip hesitatedover what came next.

“‘…equity,’” Frevisse supplied, “‘thatsubtlety be given to little children and to those waxing in years,cunning and understanding.’ From the first chapter ofProverbs.” Caught up again in the game she had so oftenplayed with Chaucer, one of them citing an authority, to see if theother could identify the source and, even better, complete thequotation. Without considering the propriety of saying so insuch company, she said, “So the wise collect proverbs, saithSolomon. But my uncle and I – and you, I think? – wouldcollect whole books instead.”

Sire Philip nodded his appreciation. “You're quite right, and widely read, I gather. All the booksin Master Chaucer's library?”

“As many as I could of the ones that he hadwhen I lived here. But so many of these I've neverseen. No one seems to feel books would be a benefit to thenunnery, though ‘Saint Paul says that all that is written iswritten to our learning…’” Deliberately she stopped shortof the quotation's end.

“‘So take the grain and let the chaff bestill’,” Sire Philip said, gravely carrying it through. “Thatis from Geoffrey Chaucer's tales and ‘Now, good God, if it be yourwill as says my lord, so make us all good men, and bring us to hishigh bliss, amen.’”

“Amen.” Frevisse picked up a book lyingon the window seat beside them and idly opened it. It was inLatin verse, and scanning a few lines, she recognized it forOvid. Her uncle and – he had said – his father had both lovedOvid's work. She had occasionally regretted her own Latin wastoo weak to share their pleasure in it. She closed the bookand laid it down again, wondering who had had it out. SirePhilip? Carefully, beginning to want to know more about him,she said, “My uncle was forever asking his priest to find out atlength about one thing or another. Had he asked you forsomething in particular in the while you've been here?”

“Lately he had me copying various books hewanted for his own. I finished a new work of Boccacio's atMichaelmas.”

“New?” Frevisse asked ironically. TheItalian writer had died well back in the last century.

“Newly in English at any rate.” Thecorners of his mouth twitched. If Frevisse had thought himgiven to amusement, she would have suspected he was suppressing asmile. He said, “It's a very traditional tirade againstwomen. Quite passionate actually.”

Aware that he was watching for her reactionwhile he spoke, Frevisse asked with unfeigned amusement, “Did he doa matching treatise equally fair to men?”

Sire Philip laughed aloud, deep and full andso surprising that Dame Perpetua looked up from the book she held,and Master Lionel broke his concentration on a handful of paperslong enough to stare offended at them before returning to hiswork.

“The translator assures us,” Sire Philipsaid, “that the work is put into English for its literary form, notits sentiments.”

“How very comforting,” Frevisse respondeddrily. “How did my uncle come by it?”

“He borrowed it from his grace the duke ofGloucester with permission to make copy of it.”

“The duke of Gloucester? The duke ofGloucester loaned one of his precious books to a relative of BishopBeaufort?”

Besides creating scandals and upheaval in theroyal government, principally against Bishop Beaufort, the king'suncle Gloucester's great passion was a devoted – and expensive -pursuit of books not readily had in England.

“A precious book of which I daresay theduke's and your uncle's may be presently the only copies. Hisgrace of Gloucester commissioned the translation. It seemsthe love of books is stronger than the hatreds of politics.”

“It must be.” But then her uncle hadnever been particularly good at hatreds. He had said, “Theytake too much energy and concentration. I have better thingsto do.”

Sire Philip looked across the room toward thedesks beside the window. He hesitated, then said, “LatelyMaster Chaucer had set me to copying out a book of the deeds ofArthur that I'd never seen before. Or to be more precise, thedeeds of Sir Gawain. Would you care to see it?”

“Yes! Assuredly!”

“It's here.” Sire Philip crossed to thesmaller desk, behind Chaucer's but placed the same way, left end tothe window for better light for the writer's work. Frevissefollowed him as he folded back the cloth covering the desk'sslanted top to reveal a sheet written half-over in fine, blackitalic script next to a thin book held open by a copyist's usualsmall lead bars laid across the top of its pages. With carethat told how much he valued the book, Sire Philip put aside thebars and inserted a paper scrap in his place before picking it upand handing it to her.

It was bound in green leather, soft to hertouch. Frevisse stroked it, delaying the pleasure of openinga work she did not know. But only briefly; her eagerness wastoo much.

“It's in English,” she said insurprise. Most stories of King Arthur that she hadencountered were in French. Not all, but most.

“And verse, for good measure,” Sire Philipsaid.

“‘Since the siege and the assault was ceasedat Troy,

The burgh broken and burned to brands andashes,

The man that the trammels of treason therewrought…’” Frevisse read. “Oh, this has a goodly way toit!”

Forgetful of any other purpose, she sank downon the window seat, intent on the wonder of having somethingentirely new to read. “‘If you'll listen this lay but alittle while…’”

“Here's where you've all gone to!”

Startled, Frevisse looked up, along with DamePerpetua. Sire Philip turned sharply. Only MasterLionel kept on with his business; no one ever came looking forhim. One of Aunt Matilda's maidservants followed her wordsinto the room. “Can you come?” she asked with a quick curtsydirected at both Frevisse and Sire Philip. “My lady thecountess prays it. My lady her mother has taken to cryingagain and can't stop. My lady the countess feels one or theother or both of you might be able to help her.”

Frevisse was already rising and putting thebook back on the desk as Sire Philip said, “Assuredly.”

“Dame Perpetua, will you stay here?” Frevisseasked, wanting her to. There would be no fear of improprietyin Master Lionel's presence, and this was the chance theyneeded.

“If I may,” Dame Perpetua said. She hadmade no move to relinquish the book she was holding. “I doubtI'd serve more than small purpose in going.”

Frevisse nodded briskly and followed SirePhilip and the maid servant out of the room.