The Prioress' Tale

Chapter 9

Alys leaned her head against the high, carved back of her chair, her eyes closed, her fingertips pressed to the sides of her forehead where the pain seemed trying to break through her skull. “Are they finished yet?”

Reynold answered without turning from the window, “Your nun is coming back toward the cloister. The minstrel is leading the madman off somewhere.”

“Good.” Everything hurt the worse when she moved in one of these headaches; she had been afraid she would be needed in the yard. “Why does everything have to be trouble? Why can’t it all be simple?”

“Because no one lets it be.” Reynold turned from the window and crossed to the table. “So there’s no use your worrying on everything the way you do.”

Her head gave a throb of greater pain. “I have to worry on everything. Nothing is done if I don’t worry on it.” He was pouring some of the wine he had brought; she could hear him and said without opening her eyes, “I don’t need wine. My head hurts enough as it is.”

“I’m not giving you the bottle, only a gobletful. You try too hard, my girl. That’s what makes your head to ache. This will ease you.”

Alys opened her eyes to find him standing beside her, smiling down and holding out the goblet.

“Drink,” he urged. “It’ll help.”

She took the goblet blindly, shutting her eyes against the unexpected bite of tears, not wanting Reynold to see how near she was to crying because of his kindness. When was the last time anyone had bothered to be kind to her simply for kindness’ sake? She could not remember. All they ever seemed to want was for her to give and give and give so they could take and take and take. And she gave! God knew she gave. She was all but giving her sanity, come to that. Today, for the nunnery’s need, she had worked over those crab-handed accounts until she was sick with this headache as well as sick with being unable to make the foul things give her the answers she wanted.

“They fight me on everything,” she whispered, more to herself than Reynold. “They all fight me.” Her nuns, her erstwhile steward, the master Mason, even those miserable accounts that went on lying, went on saying there was not enough money when there had to be. That was why she had sent Katerin to fetch Reynold to her. He was the only hope and help she had, and her nuns grudged her even him. She knew they did and talked about her behind her back. They grudged her everything. So she had sent Katerin for him while they were at dinner so they would not know he was here. And she had only Katerin companioning them so there would be no tattletales of what they said; and she meant to have him leave while they were closed away at Vespers. That would serve them as they deserved.

She pressed her eyes desperately tighter. Tears were no good. They were a weakness and she could not afford weakness, not with everything she wanted to do, hoped to do, for St. Frideswide’s. She had no time for weakness, her own or anyone else’s. Reynold was the same. He understood demands, not tears, and to show she was not weak, she said fiercely, eyes still closed, “I want my tower done. That will do more for me and my headaches than wine will.”

Reynold had gone back to the table to pour wine for himself. Not looking full around, he answered over his shoulder, laughing a little, “Wine is just to help see you through. Don’t worry over your tower, girl. You’ll have it.”

“Not according to Master Porter.” She had the urge to cry under control now, out of her way, and she took a deep draught of the wine, savored it before swallowing, then said resentfully, “I had to fight with him again today.”

“As if all the priory didn’t hear you.” Reynold sat opposite her in the other chair with his own wine and leaned forward to nudge her hand. “Drink. It won’t do you any good in the goblet.”

She drank. Ale was what they mostly had in St. Frideswide’s, wine only with Communion or when someone thought to give it as a gift. That was another of the things she meant to change when she had made St. Frideswide’s into what it ought to be. There would be wine every feast day then. Good wine. Bordeaux wine. Wine like this.

But that solved no present problems, and she reached her free hand out to grasp Reynold’s wrist to make him hear her. “You have to make Master Porter finish my tower. He’ll listen to you where he won’t listen to me.”

“He’ll finish it or he won’t leave here,” Reynold said simply. “I’ve told you that.”

“Have you told him?” Alys demanded.

Reynold turned his hand over in her hold to grasp hers in return, warmly smiling while he did and lightly laughing at her. “He’ll hear reason better if he’s not in a foaming fury. I keep waiting for a day when you haven’t driven him into a rage before I try to talk to him. So far you haven’t given me one.”

There was no one else but Reynold she would let laugh at her, but she pulled free her hand and slapped at his arm anyway. “You just tell him, that’s all. You make promises, but so far I’ve seen small return on them.”

Reynold leaned back in his chair, unoffended. “Little? Isn’t there food and wine here that wasn’t here two days ago?”

“And a girl who wasn’t here two days ago either.” Reynold snorted dismissively. “That will all come right. Benet says it went well this morning. She’s coming around. Prickly but persuadable. Drink. It’s not a sin.”

Alys drank. It was easeful to be able to obey sometimes, instead of always having to be the one who thought things through and gave the orders. Reynold was in the right of it; she gave herself these headaches by trying too hard. Her elbow propped on the chair’s arm, she rested her chin on her free hand and stared down into the goblet, thinking about the possibility that the pain was a little less. She prayed it was and prayed to St. Pancras to take it from her completely. A throb between her eyes was the only answer. She cringed, closed her eyes, and leaned her head back against the chair again.

“Hasn’t your infirmarian anything to kill that for you?” Reynold asked.

Her eyes still shut, hardly moving her mouth for fear of jarring the pain to worse, she answered, “Dame Claire is one of the ones who thought to be prioress instead of me. I’m not giving her the satisfaction of knowing I’m in pain.” No weakness in front of any of her nuns: that was how to keep control.

“Then I’d find me a different infirmarian.”

“It keeps her out of my way and that’s what I want.”

“Find a different way to keep her out of your way.” As if she had not thought of that. “The only other office that would do for that is hosteler, and that’s keeping Dame Frevisse out of my way.”

Reynold made a disgusted sound. “That one. She sours the whole hall when she comes in. Never a friendly look, never a smile. Long-faced as a dying dog. Don’t you have a kennel you could put her in?”

“I wish I did,” Alys said bitterly. Then, despite the pain, she smiled. “But I’ve finally caught her out at something.”

There had been one other good thing today, besides Reynold.

“Have you?” Reynold roused to a mild interest. “What?”

“She was seen talking with Benet in the cloister this morning…”

“Oh, a great offense,” Reynold mocked.

Alys barked a laugh back at him, ignoring the pain it cost her. “After I’d forbidden anyone to notice him when he was here.” But leave it to Sister Amicia to be watching out to see him and then tell what she saw. “So tomorrow in chapter meeting Dame Frevisse is in my hand, to punish as I choose.”

“And you’ll surely choose to give her something she’ll remember,” Reynold said.

“Oh yes.” Alys nodded with grim satisfaction. “Now she’s given me the chance, I mean to give her something to remember.”