The Bishop's Tale

Chapter Three

The cold day was drawn down to a thin line ofsullen red in the west, lowering in the west below the roiling,darkening clouds. It was as much brightness as the day hadseen, but the rain had held off and the wind with its cutting edgewas at their backs now as the four riders covered the last stretchof road, down into the valley with its village and the cluster ofwalls and buildings that was Ewelme Manor and the end of theirjourney.

They were already too late. They hadlearned in the last village before this that Chaucer haddied. “Yesterday,” a man had said. “Aye,yesterday. We heard the bell tolling. Carried on thewind, it was. And then today we heard for certain sure thatit was over for him. God keep him.”

So all their haste now was to escape thebitter cold and harsh wind. After two days of winter riding thosewere reasons enough. The small lake between the village andthe manor had a froth of whitecaps, and the tall elms around itsoughed and bent their bare limbs in black, tossing patternsagainst the moving sky.

Ewelme’s outer gates still stood open, withtorches burning in the brackets to either side. As the riderscame into the courtyard, grooms ran out from the stables, and therewere many hands to hold the horses and help the riders down.

Frevisse, dismounting stiff and clumsy withcold, looked among the grooms for a face she recognized. Ewelme was where she thought of when she thought of home; she hadbeen part of her uncle’s household for the eight final years of hergirlhood.

But she had been gone too many years, itseemed. No one was familiar, including the short gentlemanwho, as the horses were led away, bobbed up under the travelers’noses, looking in each of their faces to determine who led theirparty. Even allowing for the layers of clothing and the cloakhe was bundled in, he was a round-bodied man, and he bounced andjounced on the balls of his feet like a water-filled pig’s bladderto show how eager he was to serve.

“Yes, yes, welcome! It’s going to be acruel night, indeed it is. So you’re very welcome to shelterhere. Of course you are. But you know, perhaps, we’re ahouse bereaved. We can offer shelter, certainly,but-”

“I’m Master Chaucer’s niece,” Frevisse cut incurtly. “He sent for me. Before he died,” she added, tobe spared being told again that she was too late.

“Oh. Oh.” The little manregistered true distress. He was inches shorter than she wasand cricked his neck sideways to see up to her face. “Youmust have heard on the way, then! How cruel, howdistressing! My deepest sympathy!” He looked around herat her companions. Dame Perpetua stood beside her; it wasunthinkable for a nun to travel without another nun for propriety’ssake. And beyond them were two burly men the priory stewardhad chosen from the priory’s stables to accompany them. Giventhe times and season, any traveler with sense went well guarded ifpossible.

The little man seemed about to deal with oneof the men, anticipating that the women might collapse intohysterical grief at any moment. But Frevisse was too tiredand cold, and aware that Dame Perpetua was, as well, to waste timein displays of grief. Tersely taking the situation in hand,she said, “Let my men be seen to in the stable, if that isconvenient.” The little man nodded, blinking rapidly at thisdisplay of authority. Frevisse did not give him chance tospeak his agreement, but turned to the priory men and directed,“Return to St. Frideswide’s tomorrow. We’ll be here forI don’t know how long, but if it’s to be more than a fortnight,we’ll send word. When we’re free to return, my aunt willarrange escort for us, surely.”

She looked at the little man forconfirmation. He bobbed his head emphatically. “Oh,surely, surely,” he agreed.

“Then Dame Perpetua and I would be mostgrateful to go inside.”

“Surely, surely.”

As the two priory men bowed awkwardly andbegan to follow one of the grooms toward the stables, Dame Perpetuasaid, “God grant you a good night’s rest.”

Ashamed she had forgotten that simplecourtesy, Frevisse added hastily, “And a safe journey home.”

The men bowed again, in a hurry to be away toshelter and food. Frevisse and Dame Perpetua gave themselvesover to the little man’s guidance.

Ewelme was a moated manor house. Asthey crossed the bridge from the outer yard after the little man,the wind caught at them again, colder than before. But therewere servants standing ready to hold the doors open, and on thelittle man’s heels they came out of the wind and darkness into apassage where elaborate wooden screens averted the drafts that hadcome in with them. Beyond the passage was a great hall thatwas the heart and gathering place of the house. It was fullof torchlight and the sounds of trestle tables being set up. “Nearly supper time,” the man explained, as if they would not knowthis. “Now…” He hesitated. Apparently he hadnot decided what to do about them in the time from the stable tohere. Should it be food and warmth first? Or ought theybe taken to Mistress Chaucer right away? Or…

Frevisse thought he must be one of her aunt’schoices for office, her uncle had always expected quick-wittedcompetence and dignity from those who directly served him. Impatiently, and instantly displeased at herself for it, she said,“I want to see my uncle. And Dame Perpetua wants a warm fireto stand beside until it’s time to eat. I’m sure Aunt Matildawill want to know we’ve arrived.”

“Yes, yes, that seems the best way,” the managreed. “Your uncle is in the chapel, my lady. Ifyou’ll come with me…”

“I know the way. See to DamePerpetua.”

Dame Perpetua gave her a grateful, shiveringsmile and nod. She was a good traveler, not given tocomplaint and grateful for whatever comforts came her way, but shehad reached the end of her endurance and needed warmth and a placeto sit. She followed the little man away.

There was no warmth in the chapel, though themany candles around the coffin gave an illusion of it. Frevisse paused in the doorway, shivering, remembering when AuntMatilda had agitated for a fireplace in here… “There, alongthe outer wall. It would be no trouble at all to have itbuilt.” But Chaucer had answered, “We come here for the goodof our souls, not the comforting of our bodies.” And thoughhe had had no objection to comforting his body at other times andplaces with all the luxuries his considerable fortune could afford,he had held firm about the chapel. There was no fireplace,and chill seemed to breathe from its stones.

But he had been lavish in itsdecorations. The main worshipping for the household was donein the village church, where the funeral and burial would beheld. The chapel was meant solely for private familydevotions, and the household priest’s daily mass, and was asgracefully complex and elegant as a saint’s reliquary. Theceiling was painted heaven’s blue and spangled with stars, theelaborately carved and gilded wood reredos behind the altar reachedto them, and though now the altar was covered in black cloth ratherthan its usual embroidered richness, a long stretch of woven carpetin jewel-bright reds and blues and greens reached from it down thealtar step and the length of the chapel floor almost to thedoor. The side walls were painted with saints standing eachby the other in a flowery mead, smiling benignly down on those whocame to pray, while the rear wall was brilliant with the Virginbeing crowned in heaven while saints and angels joyfullywatched.

Seeing the Virgin, Frevisse could hear heruncle singing lightly, “Had the apple not been taken, taken been,Then would not Our Lady have been crowned heaven’s queen, heaven’squeen…” as he had done the day he had explained all themeanings in the picture to her, when she was small and newly cometo Ewelme and still wary of its strangeness.

Now his coffin was set on trestles in frontof the altar, with two priests and two servants of the householdkneeling among the candles around it, their prayers a small,sibilant murmur in the quiet. Until he was buried, he wouldnever be left unattended. Frevisse went forward silently until shecould see his face. The candlelight gave it a warmth it no longertruly had, and as was so usual with the peaceful dead, he lookedonly sleeping. But it would never again be any use to think,Remember this, to tell him when he comes to visitnext. Or hope, in this world, to talk and argue with him,or hear his laughter.

Frevisse found the pain of her grief stilltoo raw and unfamiliar to bear. She dropped her eyes, kneltwhere she was, and began her prayers for his soul’s safety andrest. She had prayed so much these past months, against herthick misery of doubts and a different kind of grief, that theprayers came with instinctive ease and no need to grope forwords.

Lost in her prayers and grief, she wasunaware of any movement around her until a hand briefly touched hershoulder and someone said, “You had best come to supper now. Your aunt will want to see you as soon as may be.”

She became aware that the stone under thecarpet was pressing hard on her knees, and that around her therewas a shifting and murmur as those who had been praying gave overtheir places to those come to replace them. Her face was warmand wet with tears, and she had no idea how long she had beenthere. There was no hope of hiding that she had been crying,and she did not try as she lifted her head to the man standingbeside her.

She recognized him as one of the priests whohad been praying beside the coffin when she entered. He hadthe drawn look of someone who had been praying for an uncomfortablylong while, but there was the sheen behind his weariness that toldhow rich his praying had been.

She let him take her elbow and help her rise,not questioning how he knew who she was. Chaucer’s niece, thenun, had been expected. And she was hungry. Broken out of her prayers, she was suddenly aware of all her body’sdiscomforts, with hunger for food and warmth very strong amongthem.

“Thank you,” she said. With her handstucked into her sleeves and her head down, she followed him notback to the great hall where most of the household would dine, butaside and up the stairs to her aunt’s parlor.

Frevisse had spent countless uncomfortablehours there in her girlhood, learning and working the intricate,eternal embroidery and stitchery considered a suitable occupationfor a lady, and listening to her aunt talk. Aunt Matildaalways talked – to Frevisse, to her women, sometimes to the emptyair. Aunt Matilda was fond of talk, and that had been theoriginal reason Frevisse had sought the refuge of her uncle’srelatively quiet company, among his work and books. Later,love of what those books held had been the stronger motive. Her uncle had been far better company than her aunt; he listened asmuch as he talked, and his mind ranged through all the learning andlessons he had gathered into his library and his life. AuntMatilda had thought Frevisse’s choice very unladylike, of course,but since dear Thomas allowed it, she had been willing to let itbe.

Aside from her boredom, Frevisse rememberedher aunt’s parlor as a lovely room, well-proportioned andhigh-ceilinged, with ample windows to fill it with light even oncloudy days. It looked out on the moat with its swans and, insummer, the green reaches of the park. With her owninherited wealth and her husband’s constantly growing fortune, AuntMatilda had furnished it with every comfort. And though tonight theshutters were closed across the windows, top and bottom, shadowswere banished to the lowest, farthest corners by lamps burning onevery flat surface, all around the room. Their rich, steadylight gleamed on the painted patterns of the shutters and ceilingbeams, and caught among the bright threads of the wall-hungtapestries. Braziers glowed in the corners, warming the room,and it was so crowded with people that in the first moment of herarrival, Frevisse failed to recognize anyone.

Then she saw her aunt. Richly gownedand veiled in black, she was seated at the room’s far end, in frontof the brightest tapestry. On her right, in another chair,sat a younger woman in equally rich black whom Frevisse guessed washer daughter Alice, so that the man seated beyond her wasundoubtedly Alice’s latest husband, William de la Pole, the earl ofSuffolk.

The identity of the man seated on AuntMatilda’s left was more problematical. For a moment, unableto have clear view of him among the crowded shift of people in theroom, Frevisse could not even guess who he might be. But thenshe saw him clearly. A churchman by the severe cut of hisfloor-length black gown and the priest’s cap he wore to cover histonsure. But even the length of the room away, she knew hewas anything but a plain churchman; he held himself like a prince,and quite abruptly she realized who he was, though she had seen himno more than twice in her girlhood. Cardinal Bishop Beaufortof Winchester. A prince of the Church indeed, and doing thefamily great honor by his presence.

Then Aunt Matilda, whose eye was ever as busyas her tongue, saw her, broke off whatever condolences she had beenreceiving, and, rising from her chair with an exclamation, surgedtoward her, arms extended. “Frevisse, my dear! Myprecious dear!” She was a tall woman, comfortably plump inher middle age. Her black veiling, enough for half a dozenwomen, drifted and fell about them both as she wrapped herarms around Frevisse and held her close. “I knew you would betoo late; he went so suddenly at the end, almost as soon as theletter was sent. I don’t know what I shall do without him,what any of us shall do without him. But you’re here. Bless you, my dear.”

Enveloped in her aunt’s embrace and overflowof words, Frevisse murmured only, “Dear aunt,” which seemed to besufficient.

But then there was the necessity of beingintroduced, first to the room at large: “My very dear niece,Dame Frevisse of St. Frideswide’s Priory. Dear Thomas was sofond of her, and she’s come too late to bid him farewell, but she’shere to my comfort, and I’m so glad.” Then to the threepeople still seated in front of the tapestry on the room’s onlychairs: “My lord of Winchester, may I present my dear nieceDame Frevisse.” Aunt Matilda drew Frevisse directly in frontof him. “Frevisse, this is the Cardinal Bishop HenryBeaufort. He came all the way from Winchester – imagine that- to be with Thomas at the end. He and Thomas arecousins. You remember him, surely.”

Frevisse sank in a deep curtsy. “Mylord bishop,” she said, and took the hand he held out to her, tokiss the proper ring among the many that he wore. All of themwere ornate, most set with red stones shaded from ruby togarnet. To go with his cardinal’s robes, she supposed, notingthat his gown was of the richest wool and lined with blackfur. The jewels and sable showed he was undoubtedly aswealthy as rumor said. And that was only one of the manythings rumor said about him.

But apart from what little Chaucer had saidof him to her, rumor was all she knew about him. She wasdisconcerted, as she straightened and met his gaze, to find himregarding her with a speculative assessment deeper than thecommonplace nature of their meeting.

But all he said, in most formal wise, was,“Your loss is as mine in this.”

So it was sufficient for her to answer, withan acknowledging bow of her head, “A great loss and a deep grief tous both.” Than she was free to move away from him to meet hercousin Alice.

She had seen her uncle fairly often and heraunt occasionally since she had entered St. Frideswide’s. Butshe had last seen Alice seventeen years ago, when Alice had beenthirteen and already two years widowed from her firsthusband. Since then she had grown into womanhood, married theearl of Salisbury, been widowed again by his death at the siege ofOrleans, and a few years ago married the earl of Suffolk.

When Frevisse had known her, she had been aquiet-mannered child, neither unsatisfactorily plain nor noticeablylovely, and much better at her sewing than Frevisse had ever hopedto be. Remembering her then, Frevisse was disconcerted now tobe confronted by a woman as tall as herself and quite lovely, herblue eyes perfect almond shape and brilliant with warmth andintelligence as she rose form her chair and took Frevisse’shand. “It’s been a long while cousin, and now a sad occasionto meet again,” she said, her voice as gracious as hermovement.

Frevisse murmured a reply, trying toreconcile her memories of her little cousin to this poised, grownwoman. She was not perfectly beautiful; her face and nose andupper lip were all somewhat long, but they were in proportion toeach other; and to judge by her eyebrows and rose-sweet complexion,she was still pale-fair. It was not difficult to see how shehad married twice into the high nobility, even putting her father’swealth aside.

Alice’s husband, William, the earl ofSuffolk, had also risen to be introduced. He was taller thanAlice, his brown hair attractively graying at the temples, hisdemeanor suitably grave. But he had a merry mouth, given tolaughter at other times, Frevisse supposed. He was handsomein the expected ways – his strong features even, his jaw firm, hisbrow broad, his nose well-shaped. He made a striking mate toAlice; their children should be good to look on. But hepatted Frevisse’s hand with condescending comfort after he hadbowed to kiss it, and as he spoke a few sentences perfectly suitedto the occasion, he was more aware of how well he said them thanwhether they were a comfort to her. Frevisse decided shewould avoid him as much as possible.

The arrival of servants with supper freedFrevisse from receiving other condolences. Alice and Suffolkand most of the others were going down to dine in the hall with thehousehold, but Aunt Matilda was to dine in the parlor with BishopBeaufort. “And I’d have you dine here, too, my dear. With your – Dame Perpetua? You’re both exhausted, I’m sure,and this will be so much easier than the hall.”

Frevisse readily agreed. As the smalltable was set up, she went aside to where Dame Perpetua had falleninto quiet conversation with the priest who had brought Frevissefrom the chapel. He was apparently staying to dine, too, andacknowledged her approach with a slight inclination of hishead.

Dame Perpetua made the introductions. “This is Sire Philip. He’s been priest here-” Shelooked at him questioningly. “Three years now?”

“Come Advent,” he agreed.

Frevisse bowed her head slightly inreturn. “Sire Philip.”

“Dame Frevisse.”

His voice was pleasant, even and wellmodulated, matching the good bones of his face that would have beenhandsome except for the deep pitting and white webbing of smallpoxfrom chin to cheeks to temples. His black hair was a smoothcap clipped fashionably short above the ears, and his blackpriest’s gown, like the bishop’s, was of rich wool despite itsconservative cut. Unlike Bishop Beaufort, he wore no jewelsexcept a single, deeply etched gold ring, but it was plain he wasno poor priest eking out a living on the margins of the Church; hismanners were as smooth as any courtier’s. The three of themmade polite talk concerning the weather and the discomforts oftravel until they were called to the table.

Conversation at the meal was strange in itsnormalcy, as if they had come together for the pleasure of eachother’s company. It began predictably with Aunt Matilda’scomments on the bad weather. She was kind to include DamePerpetua in her questions and comments; and Dame Perpetua wascareful never to presume too much familiarity in her answers. She had been brought up in a home much like this, had learned to beboth gentle and detailed in her manners. That was one of thereasons Domina Edith had chosen her for Dame Frevisse’scompanion. “She will not add to your troubles, nor disgracethe nunnery with forward ways,” the prioress had said.

Indeed, Dame Perpetua replied quietly andgracefully to anything said to her, and when the conversation wentaway from her, she let it go. She might have been totallyunaware of the importance of Bishop Beaufort seated imposingly toher right at one end of the table, so perfect was her demeanor.

For Frevisse it was less easy to be sogracious. Her aunt’s bright, familiar chatter was strainedover a real and lacerating grief. And beyond that, Frevissewas uncomfortably aware that Bishop Beaufort was still watching herbeyond the social needs of the moment. Frevisse did not wanthis interest. She wanted the evening to be over and to bealone in bed with her thoughts and grieving until tomorrow had tobe faced. But first there was this super to be endured, andnow, amid the talk of the poor harvest, he asked her directly, “Howare matters at your nunnery? Were you able to save any of theharvest?”

Careful to keep her voice neutral, revealingnothing but information and politeness, Frevisse answered, “Perhapsenough to see us through until next year if we’re very spare withit.” She should have stopped there, but honesty made her add,“And perhaps not if we need to give to the villagers, as we didlast year.” Then, betrayed by the need to know, she asked,“Will there be any wheat brought in from abroad? How were theFrench harvests?”

“France went much the way we did, except inthe extreme south, which is no use to us,” Bishop Beaufort answeredreadily. Below the Loire was French-held territory, whereEnglish rule did not run. “There is some dealing with theHanse at present to bring wheat in from the Baltic east where theharvests have been good, we hear.”

In the urgency of the matter – life or deathfor those who lacked money to buy wheat at inflated prices inflatedby scarcity – Frevisse forgot her resolve to speak sparingly. If anyone present knew these things, it would be BishopBeaufort. Leaning toward him, she asked, “And in the meantimewill there be efforts to hold prices down here in England?”

The bishop paused in spooning up his nextmouthful. “Word has gone out from the Council to every townto do as much as they can to that end.”

That was a politician’s answer. Frevisse’s politeness slipped a little. She demanded ratherthan asked, “How much to that end do you think they’ll do?”

“Frevisse dear, have you tried one of thesecakes?” Aunt Matilda gestured for a servant to hold out toher a plate with small white cakes studded with raisins.

Frevisse began to shake her head, recognizinga tactic her aunt had employed frequently when Frevisse and Chaucerwould fall into one of their cheerful, complex arguments over somematter that Aunt Matilda had thought unseemly for theoccasion. With abrupt meekness, and anger at herself forbeing more bold than she should have, Frevisse said, “Thank you,aunt,” and turned her attention to one of the cakes. Theconversation shifted to the question of how many and who would cometo the funeral, set for the day after tomorrow.

But when she glanced up toward BishopBeaufort a while later, he was gazing at her with even more of anassessing look than he had had before.