The Clerk's Tale

Chapter 11

Whether because of his grandmother’s chiding-though he seemed singularly unbothered by it-or because he had not meant to be here for long, Stephen made his farewell to Lady Agnes there in the yard, giving her a kiss on her cheek that she received peaceably enough before he bowed to Frevisse, grinned at Letice, untethered his horse, swung into the saddle, and with a cheerful wave, rode out of the yard and away.

While Lady Agnes watched the few moments until he was gone, Letice hasted toward the hall door, ready to open it when Lady Agnes at last moved to go in, Frevisse following her, all of them ready to be indoors again. But as Lady Agnes paused for Frevisse to open the inner one ahead of them, Letice took the chance to say from behind her, “What with him riding in and then riding out again so soon instead of staying to dinner, rumor will be all over town the two of you have quarreled. What then?”

“Everyone knows we always quarrel and that it means nothing. Thank you,” she added to Frevisse, going into the hall ahead of her. “At most our friends will shake their heads and regret it. Everyone else will be glad of it. For what that’s worth. What matters is what I say, and I say be damned to them all. Hurry up. You’re letting the cold in.”

Letice was already hurrying into the hall after Frevisse, shutting the inner door as she came, persisting, low-voiced now they might be overheard, “And Stephen and this Lady Juliana?”

“Be damned to them, too,” Lady Agnes said, not low-voiced at all.

Caught between them, Frevisse considered her chances of escape. There was no bustle of tables being set up for dinner, only the man Lucas sweeping the floor around the hearth, though it was near to dinnertime. That meant Lady Agnes meant to dine in her chamber, Frevisse supposed, and that she’d be expected to dine with her and could find no sufficient excuse to avoid it as Letice hurried ahead to take Lady Agnes’s cloak from her. To be useful rather than merely there, Frevisse offered to take both women’s cloaks and Letice gratefully gave over Lady Agnes’s with her own, freeing her to help her lady’s labored climb up the stairs. The effort of that ceased all talk until, safe at the top, Lady Agnes said to Letice, “Tell them we’re ready to eat,” and asked past her to Frevisse, “I gathered this morning that Domina Elisabeth meant to stay all the day with her cousin?”

Climbing the stairs, awkward with her own cloak as well as the others to manage, Frevisse said, “She planned so, yes.”

“Then there will be only the two of us and I’m hungry. Go tell them so, Letice.”

“Yes, my lady,” Letice said on a heavy sigh and took herself back down the stairs.

Lady Agnes, taking for granted that Frevisse would come with herself, headed for her chamber, leaving the door for Frevisse to close and saying, sharp with annoyance as she crossed the room toward the fire, “Young fools. What did they hope for, meeting like that at this time of year? Too much risk they’d be seen and no hope of satisfying each other. Young idiots.”

Frevisse, going to lay the cloaks on the chest at the bedfoot, made no answer, nor did Lady Agnes seem to want one, going on as she poked a log further into the fire with her staff, “No sense at all. All they could hope to do, all they did, was inflame themselves to nothing but high discomfort. What were they thinking of?”

Frevisse, less and less pleased that all Lady Agnes’s anger seemed for the foolishness of it, not the wrong, said curtly, “I doubt they were thinking at all. Haven’t you found that when lust comes in, thinking goes out?”

Lady Agnes laughed. “True enough.”

Joining her at the hearth, holding out chilled hands to the warmth, Frevisse suggested with forced mildness, “You could warn your grandson more strongly about what trouble he’s heading into.”

“Best save my breath to cool my soup.” Lady Agnes prodded the log again. “It’s in his blood. His father and grandfather, God keep their souls, were the same and likely his son will be and grandson after him.”

“And Nichola?” Frevisse asked, keeping anger out of her voice with difficulty.

“She’ll learn to live with it the way other wives have learned. At least she has the comfort that her husband loves her along with his leman.”

Frevisse held back from saying that what Stephen felt for Juliana was hardly love, led by the loins as it was, rather than by the heart. What she said instead was, “Then if you mean to do nothing to stop them, why did you go out purposefully to catch them at it?”

“Ah. You’re the cunning one, aren’t you?” Lady Agnes did not sound completely pleased to be called to account. “I went because they’d best learn they’re not as clever as they think they are. And to let them know that I don’t intend to lend myself to their dalliance.”

Letice came in then with Emme, to set out the table with a clean white cloth embroidered in red and yellow spirals around the hem and well-polished pewter dishes and cups, and both Lady Agnes and Frevisse held silent while they did, finishing just as the other maid and Lucas brought in two cloth-covered trays and a pitcher of warm, spiced wine that Frevisse welcomed for its warmth’s sake as much as she welcomed the food.

The meal was a pleasingly simple one of rabbit cooked in a sauce of spices and raisins, followed by risshewes of figs mixed with spices fried in a fine pastry crust; and Lady Agnes kept the talk pleasingly simple, too, first with a little mild speculation on who and how many might come to Montfort’s funeral-“The curious and the required for the most part, I’d guess. Real mourners will likely be few,” was her judgment-and, her good humour restored, went on from there to talk about St. Mary’s.

“Though there’s woefully little to say about it,” Lady Agnes complained, only half in jest, Frevisse thought. “Last year Bishop Lumley made one of his visitations to learn of all the wrongs and whatever there might be. That’s when scandals and complaints come out, everybody tattling on everybody else. But there was nothing. Not a thing. Not even one nun tattling on another. No backbiting, no scandals, no reports of any sinful doings or complaints of poor managing. Nothing.”

“Whatever are they thinking of?” Frevisse said dryly.

“Their prayers, I suppose. More’s the pity. How goes it in your nunnery? Is it as dull as this one?”

Frevisse suspected that was the question Lady Agnes had been aiming at all along, undoubtedly with the hope that, with Domina Elisabeth not there, Frevisse would turn to tale-telling. But rather than giving any sign she had understood the chance she was being offered, she took her time over a last small bite of a risshewe before saying so mildly butter would have barely melted in her mouth, “Oh, it’s much the same, I’d say.”

Lady Agnes let her doubt of that show. “All honey and warmth, is it?”

“Well…” Frevisse paused as if for thought. “Dame Perpetua was upset lately over a batch of ink that didn’t turn out well. And Dame Claire was maybe a little too persevering at Domina Elisabeth about something she wanted brought from Oxford when we returned. You know how infirmarians are.”

Lady Agnes gave a sharp laugh. “I see how you are anyway, Dame. Have it your own way. Tell no tales and no tales will be told about you, you think? Well, will you read to me awhile, before Letice begins to remind me I should lie down for a time?”

Frevisse would have preferred to leave Lady Agnes to her rest but the warmth near the fire and lethargy after the meal, as much as for courtesy’s sake, brought her to say, “I’d be pleased to. What would you like?”

Lady Agnes waved a hand at Letice, waiting to clear their dishes now they were done with eating. “Bring the Lais. It’s wherever you put it in the chest last time.”

“I mind where it is,” Letice answered, already moving to fetch it.

Clear in the cold air, the nunnery bell began to call to Nones. All three women crossed themselves but that was all the heed either Lady Agnes or Letice gave it and Frevisse took the book when Letice brought it to her without comment, merely asking, “Which would you like?”

“Where the marker is,” Lady Agnes directed, settling herself against her cushions with eyes shut and hands folded over her stomach. She did not nap, though, but listened well, with occasionally a laugh and sometimes a soft snort at something more unlikely than the rest; and when there was a light scratching at the door she opened her eyes on the instant to demand at Letice, “Go and see who it is.”

Unbothered at being ordered to do what she was already doing-but if she was going to be bothered by Lady Agnes’s ways, she would have left her years ago, Frevisse supposed-Letice crossed the room and opened the door, said with pleasure, “Mistress Nichola,” and stood aside to let the girl enter as Lady Agnes wiggled up straighter in her chair and called, “Ah! Good! Come here, sweetling.”

Her cheeks prettily bright from the cold, Nichola obeyed, smiling, asking as she unfastened her dark green cloak and gave it to Letice, “Is it all right I’m here? You’re done with dinner, aren’t you?”

“Long since,” Lady Agnes said. “Nor would it matter if we weren’t. I’m always glad to have you here. You know that. Letice, has the wine kept warm? The child is chilled, surely. You didn’t walk, did you?”

Shaking out the skirts of her simple, dark red gown before curtsying to Lady Agnes and Frevisse together, Nichola said with a small, breathless laugh, “No. I rode. See.”

She had kept her gloves when she gave up her cloak and now held them out. Lady Agnes gave a sharp, approving nod. “Good. Show them to Dame Frevisse.”

Nichola obediently did and Frevisse duly looked at them. They were lovely, made of pale, soft doeskin, with long cuffs meant to protect a rider’s forearms, the back of each hand intricately patterned with embroidery and beads in greens and blues.

“Father said I wasn’t to wear them except when I ride,” Nichola offered shyly. “That’s why he gave them to me. So I’d ride.”

“Nichola is afraid of horses,” Lady Agnes grumbled.

“I’m not,” Nichola protested. “I like horses. I just don’t like to ride them.”

“You’ll make no miles by looking at them,” Lady Agnes pointed out crisply.

Apparently used to being scoffed at for it, Nichola said easily, “But I don’t need to make miles to visit you,” and added, smiling, to Frevisse, “We only live a little beyond the top of High Street. No long way to walk at all.”

“Or to ride,” Lady Agnes said. “You’ll come to no harm over that short stretch of road. Letice…”

But Letice had already brought a stool, was setting it down behind Nichola and offering to take her gloves. Nichola gave them to her and sat, while Lady Agnes left off jibing at her and said, smiling, too, “Now, child, what brings you here besides simply the pleasure of my company? Our company,” she amended with a slight bend of her head to Frevisse. “Are they fretting at home and you decided to escape for a time?”

“Oh, Godmother.” An unwilling smile tugged at Nichola’s mouth. “They’re always fretting, you know that. Mother…”

She stopped, to take the cup of wine Letice had poured for her, and Lady Agnes asked, “How is your mother?”

“Fretting.” But Nichola smiled as she said it. “You know how she is.”

“Is she done with that rheum she had at Twelfth Night yet?”

“Nearly.”

“You tell her from me to drink a strong brew of peppermint with honey thick in it. That will clear it.” Lady Agnes turned to Frevisse. “She’s a narrow-chested woman so these things always take her hard. The sweetest of women but not strong. Bearing four sons and two daughters was too much for her, I think. But they all lived and so did she and that’s more blessing than God sometimes gives…”

She seemed likely to go on that way, but Nichola, having probably heard it too often to more than be half-listening now, asked, “Godmother, was Stephen here today?”

Without change of countenance or pace, Lady Agnes turned from procreation to husbands, answering easily, “He was indeed. For a pleasant while I had both him and Dame Frevisse for company.”

Nichola glanced at Frevisse who, wary of where this might be going, nodded very slight agreement that she had been here. Looking back to Lady Agnes, Nichola said with obviously forced boldness, “It’s being said you quarreled.”

“Fools say a great many things. Whether you heed them or not is your choice.” Lady Agnes dismissed them all with a wave of one hand, then leaned forward to tap Nichola firmly on the shoulder. “And on the whole you’ll find that any word that runs as fast as that one did is usually false.”

“You didn’t quarrel, then?” Nichola persisted.

Lady Agnes sat back in her chair. “Of course we quarreled. We always quarrel. It’s what we do for sport. You know that by now and that there’s never harm in it.”

Nichola smiled, again as if unwillingly. “That’s what Stephen said, too.”

“You asked Stephen?” Lady Agnes sounded both surprised and pleased.

“Just before I came. Mother said I shouldn’t, but who else should I ask first if not him?”

“Quite right,” Lady Agnes approved. “Sensible girl. Keep him that bit off balance.”

“Oh, no…”

“Oh, yes, my child. If you let husbands keep their balance all the time, they become impossible to govern, and Stephen will be worse than most if you let him. What did he answer?”

“He said I shouldn’t be a ninny.”

“There then. You listen to him. He’s your husband after all. Just don’t always heed him, mind you. But do listen.”

Nichola laughed.

“Now drink your wine while it’s still warm and will do you some good,” Lady Agnes ordered.

Nichola obeyed, raising the cup with both hands like a child, but to Frevisse the look in her eyes looking at Lady Agnes over the cup’s rim said she was not yet altogether reassured, and when she had lowered the cup to her lap and was gazing down at it, Nichola asked, “You had other company this morning, too.” She hesitated. “Mistress Champyon’s daughter?”

“Ah. Lady Juliana.” Lady Agnes took a long sip of her own wine. “Yes. She came to pay her respect because I was her late husband’s godmother. She said. What she really wanted was to see if I was as witless with age as her mother hopes I am and, if I was, to judge how much to her mother’s advantage it would be.”

“She didn’t!” Nichola protested.

“She did indeed. I was a disappointment to her, I fear.”

It was a neat bit of lying, Frevisse granted, and all the better for not being quite altogether a lie, but Nichola asked with a lightness not quite light enough, “Was she here when Stephen was?”

“She was going out as he was coming in, I think.” Lady Agnes’s lightness was much better done. “They probably passed each other in the yard. Letice.” She held up her cup to be refilled and, while Letice fetched the pitcher, asked in her turn, “What do you hear about your brothers, Nichola?” as if moving on to something more interesting.

Left with the choice of answering or being rude, Nichola settled to telling they’d heard that both her two older brothers and their wives were well, that Robin at Westminster was complaining of his law studies being too long, and that Ned had written from Oxford just after Twelfth Night to say he was short of money.

“Young Ned would be short of money if he were the archbishop of Canterbury,” Lady Agnes said. “He’s no sense that way. Wherever he becomes priest, they’d best look to their altar plate, that’s all I can say, or they’ll find it pawned.”

“Oh, Grandmother!” Nichola laughed. She had given over being the worried wife, was again simply the cheerful girl she had been at dinner yesterday.

“And your sister?” Lady Agnes asked.

“The baby is expected to come about Ladymass day. Mother and I mean to be there for it, if the.weather holds good for riding.”

Lady Agnes nodded approvingly. “Very good. And you?” She leaned to pat Nichola’s stomach. “What about you?”

A duskier red than what the cold had brought to her cheeks flooded Nichola’s face. She looked quickly down into her lap, her hands suddenly tight around her wine cup as she murmured, “Nothing yet. You know that.”

“I just wanted to be certain Stephen is still behaving himself. Put your head up, child. You’re not a servant.”

Nichola raised her head, face still flamed. “If he… if I… he might not need then-”

Lady Agnes cut her off with another tap on her shoulder, saying firmly, “You put those thoughts right out of your head, child. Stephen loves you best of anyone and that’s all you need to think on. Now, we’ve left Dame Frevisse out of our talk too long. Tell her about your plans for your manor when you and Stephen finally move there.”

Obedient, Nichola swallowed down whatever she was hurting to say but stood up and said instead of Lady Agnes’s bidding, “Another time, please you. Mother will be wanting me and I’d best go.”

“Off you go then. Give me a kiss.”

Lady Agnes tilted her head and Nichola affectionately kissed her cheek, then turned to make curtsy to Frevisse with, like the well-bred child she was, “It was good to see you again, my lady.”

“And you, Mistress Lengley,” Frevisse answered with a bow of her head.

“Mind you come again to see me soon,” Lady Agnes said. “Mind, too, that you ride the long way around to home. Up Mill Street, if nothing more. The more you ride, the easier you’ll feel at it.”

“Yes, Grandmother,” Nichola agreed but whether to the longer ride or not wasn’t clear.

“Letice,” Lady Agnes said, and with Nichola’s cloak over her arm and gloves in hand, Letice went to open the door, letting Nichola pass through ahead of her, then following after, shutting the door as she went, probably to see the girl all the way across the hall to the yard, and with them safely gone, Lady Agnes slumped back in her chair with a deep sigh of relief and, “There. That’s trouble done.”

Or at least fended aside for a while, Frevisse thought, because to her mind Nichola had been turned aside from worry rather than talked out of it; and despite she knew she should leave it lying, she said, “She knows about Juliana. Or suspects.”

Lady Agnes straightened. “Very likely. People talk where they shouldn’t, and wives hear what they wouldn’t. But hopefully she has wit enough to realize how much better it is not to know. She’s not too young to learn that not-knowing and not-seeing are two of life’s most desirable skills.”

“What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve at?” Frevisse said dryly.

“Yes.” Lady Agnes thrust her staff fiercely at the crumbling coals at the fire’s edge. “Besides, whatever Stephen does, she’s no call to complain of him. She’s had her rights of him. Her father made certain of that. She’s fully married, fully his wife. There’s nothing can change that, even if he’s taken care not to get her with child while she’s still so young.” She poked ferociously at the coals again. “That’s kinder than most husbands would be.”

And the more surprising, given the open affection Frevisse had seen between them yesterday. Stephen’s forbearance spoke better of him than his lust for Juliana did, but Lady Agnes rubbed at her forehead as if there were an ache there and said, “Mind you, if Philip ever finds out, there’ll be trouble. Until Nichola has a child, he can’t be sure of the Lengley lands.”

“Sure of them?” Frevisse asked. Whether Nichola had a child or not, Stephen’s lands were Stephen’s lands, not Philip Haselden’s. Unless, Frevisse amended, Nichola had a child and then Stephen died. Then, very likely, her father would be given wardship of the child and its lands-and their profits-until the child came of age.

There, if for some reason Stephen did not fully trust his father-in-law, was another reason he might hold back from getting his wife with child.

And there, Frevisse thought uncomfortably, was one of the corruptions caused by murder: until the murderer was known, suspicion spread out poisonous roots into places where it would never have gone without being fed by the certainty that someone unknown had killed and could kill again.

But Lady Agnes was saying easily, with no trace of troubled thoughts, “What Philip wants is to be sure of them staying in Lengley hands. There’s been alliance between the Lengleys and Haseldens for three generations and more. My husband and Philip’s father were like brothers, and before Philip and my son went off to the French war together, the young fools, they swore in St. Thomas’s church here that if either of them died, the other would see to his family like his own. Philip feels still bound by that oath, I think, just as my Henry would, did he still live instead of Philip. Stephen is the last Lengley heir, and until he has sons, Philip won’t feel he’s kept all as safe as he would have had my son keep things for his sons, if things were different.”

“Was it for that Lord Lovell gave him Stephen’s marriage?”

“Partly, but also because Philip has long been Lord Lovell’s man and had earned it.”

With assurance, too, of his continued faithful service, Frevisse guessed. That was the purpose of lordship and service after all-to bind lord and man to each other to their mutual benefit and the general good, because not only could a lord well served by others better serve the king, but a man in good service to a lord was less likely to make troubles where he should not. It was a power that could be likewise turned to ill-purpose in the hands of an ill-skilled lord or ill-intentioned, but that she had never heard ill of Lord Lovell meant he was likely a lord who used and governed his power and his people well.

Unlike the earl-no, marquis, now-of Suffolk, who seemed ever at the edge of ripples of rumor and trouble.

But Lady Agnes was still going her own way. “Not that the right to the marriage didn’t come to Philip in good time. What with buying good marriages for two of his sons and setting the other two up in the world and managing a sufficient dowry for his older girl, paying out for another marriage would likely have been too much for him. It would have to have been the nunnery for Nichola for certain. Not that Stephen looked to be all that good a take. Until his brother died, he only stood to inherit the least of the Lengley manors. But when young Henry died, well, there, Philip couldn’t have done better for the girl, and Stephen is no loser by it either.”

His grandmother’s casual mention of her grandson Henry’s death made Frevisse wonder how much less loved than Stephen he had been. He had never been strong, she remembered someone saying, and Christopher had had no doubts about his death, but still…

But shame on her, sitting here as Lady Agnes’s guest and thinking again of murder, especially when the likelihood was so little. Heirs often died and their deaths were usually convenient to someone without there being more to it than that mortality was the lot of every man.

But Montfort was dead. Was murdered. Very probably because of the Lengley inheritance. By someone familiar enough with Goring to make use of the infirmary garden. Someone…

Lady Agnes shifted, resettled herself discontentedly in her chair, and said, “I’d best tell Stephen to take better care in his dealings with this Juliana woman, I suppose. Being a man, he’ll doubtless never suppose Nichola has guessed at it. Nor he won’t have thought past a glimmer of how badly she may take it when she’s certain. Her mother is a mouse, sweet but a mouse nonetheless, and I don’t think Nichola will be the same, St. Waldetrudis be thanked. Stephen doesn’t need a mouse. Though why she thought I’d tell her anything…” Lady Agnes broke off with an impatient shrug.

“Because she trusts you?” Frevisse asked, with a sharper edge to the words than she had meant to show.

Lady Agnes eyed her a moment before answering, “You’ve a shrewd edge to your tongue when you choose, don’t you? Yes, she trusts me, and that’s to the good because it makes her more likely to believe me when I lie to her.”

“The question then is, Should you lie to her?”

“Most surely, yes. I know from all the lies there were between my husband and me that there’s often far more comfort in them than in the truth.”

“A false comfort.”

“Better false comfort than none,” Lady Agnes snapped. With her staff she broke the nearest burning log down to glowing bits in the fire’s heart, scattering sparks. “Haven’t you found that most things of the world are false and the best to be hoped for is to deceive yourself into thinking you’re happy for as long as may be before having to face that you’re not?”

Frevisse’s first urge was to anger at such a cruel view of the world, but even as the anger rose in her, she saw the bleakness of Lady Agnes’s stare into the fire and the strained, tired downturn of her mouth and her anger slipped sideways into pity, because whether Lady Agnes truly believed or not in what she said, it gave her a shield against a hurt so long a part of her she would probably, in life, never be rid of it.

But in the moment Frevisse thought that, Lady Agnes put her pain away, back to wherever she kept it, and said with a sudden, sharp look at her, “What I said about Stephen not meaning to get Nichola with child yet, that’s not to be said outside this room to anyone. You understand? Philip would be furious at them both and they don’t need that while living under his roof. There’ll be children in good time, not before, Stephen says.”

“What does Nichola say?”

Lady Agnes waved a dismissive hand at that. “It’s not for her to say anything, any more than it’s her business to say anything about any other women he may have. That’s simply a man’s way. Let her be satisfied with knowing he loves her and she loves him. That’s more than many women have and St. Anne knows she won’t be the first wife and she won’t be the last who’s loved her husband despite he’s indiscreet.” She pointed a finger at Frevisse. “Nor don’t try to tell me where I’m wrong in this. I know things about men you’ll never know because you’ve been Christ’s bride all your life and he’s a far easier husband to have than one of flesh and blood, let me tell you.”

Frevisse was so taken by surprise at the thought that being wed to Christ was easy that for a moment she simply stared, then gave up and laughed aloud in open merriment. Christ was, beyond doubt, to be preferred to a spouse of flesh and blood, but as for it being easy to be wed to him… it was and it wasn‘t, and there were days when “wasn’t” was very strong.

Except that, unlike with earthly husbands, she could be ever sure of his unfailing love and faithfulness.

But hopeless of making an answer Lady Agnes, probably already offended by her laughter, would believe, Frevisse stood up, saying, “I’m sorry, my lady. I didn’t mean to be rude. I must be more tired than I knew. I pray you, pardon me. By your leave, I’ll withdraw for a while.”

Lady Agnes made a dismissing movement of one hand. “As you say, my lady. We’re likely both tired or I’d not have been so free of speech.”

“It’s more than likely you’re tired,” Letice put in, come back into the chamber without their noticing her. “You’re past time for your afternoon rest by more than a little.”

“I am, I am,” Lady Agnes agreed and was making to rise from her chair as Frevisse took her cloak from the chest and left with a nod and a smile to Letice.

The smile faded as she crossed the gallery. She doubted Lady Agnes was judging Nichola rightly and very possibly so were Stephen and even her father. They all of them apparently presumed she could be shaped as each of them chose, but it had taken daring all her own to come to Lady Agnes today, and she had tried with more a woman’s need than child’s to have answers from her. That made Lady Agnes’s deceiving of her all the worse, because whatever amendment Stephen might make would have to come by his own choice and will, but if Lady Agnes were sensible-and although she was not wise, she was not a fool and could be sensible if so she chose-she would help Nichola toward becoming the woman Nichola needed to be by giving her truths, not thwarting her with lies under the guise of calling them necessary.

Angry on Nichola’s behalf and at the troubles people made for themselves, she shoved shut the bedchamber door somewhat more forcibly than need be and was finally fully alone for the first time all that day.