The Servant's Tale

2

THE TWELVE DAYS between Christmas and Epiphany were the dark time of the year. Holidays and the cold kept folk at their own hearths, and casual travelers were few. St. Frideswide’s, even with its two guesthalls, was too removed from main roads and lacking in the wealth and luxuries that might have drawn nobility to its hospitality in the holy days.

So Dame Frevisse, the priory’s hosteler, responsible for its guesthalls and guests, was expecting no one as the afternoon drew on toward nightfall and Vespers. But, as duty required, everything was kept in readiness and she was walking through the guesthalls to be sure of it.

A small boy tumbled through the doorway of the lesser guesthall, nearly into her skirts. He recovered himself and bowed deeply before bursting out, “There’s a man hurt! We found him on the road and they’re bringing him here!”

He was a handsome little boy, perhaps all of eight years old, in need of a thorough scrubbing and more excited with his news than dismayed. Frevisse did not know him; he certainly did not belong to the priory, and his speech, his bow, and the cut of his worn clothing showed he was no villager. But she had no time to think on it.

“Where is the man? What happened to him?” she asked. And added in the same breath to a servant near at hand, “Go out and tell them to bring him in here.”

“We found him under a cart,” the boy explained. “It was overturned, in a ditch. Bassett says it looks like the horse dragged it, with him under it. He’s all bloody, and they’re being careful of him as they can. They’re just behind me.”

He pointed, and Frevisse nodded the servant on his way, then gestured to one of the women. “Bring out one of the pallets. Set it here where the light is good. And blankets. And someone go for Dame Claire.” Dame Claire was the priory’s infirmarian and saw to the hurts and sicknesses of nuns, guests, and villagers.

Well trained, the servants were laying out the straw mattress and blankets as voices warning, “Watch it, then” and “Be careful of the leg” and “Mind the door,” announced the hurt man’s arrival. Unlike the better guesthall across the courtyard, there were no steps here to climb.

Frevisse reached the outer door in time to hold it open for two men, a tall boy, and a woman, all in the heavy, drab cloaks of winter travelers. They eased past her, each holding the corner of a long, thick yellow cloth with the unconscious body of the hurt man slung in it, being careful of him despite his obvious weight.

Briskly she said, “Over here beside the fire. Who is he?”

“That we don’t know, my lady. He’s a stranger to us and hasn’t roused since we found him,” a stout older man gasped, the effort clearly telling on him.

“We’ll take care of him from here,” Frevisse said. “God’s blessing on you for your kindness in bringing him. Here, put him down here.”

An ironic look passed between the younger man and the tall boy, but she had no time to wonder about it as Dame Claire hurried in. A small woman, the infirmarian was dwarfed by her box of medicines and a bundle of bandages, but she moved briskly, their weight familiar to her. Behind her, more slowly, came young Sister Amicia, carefully balancing a steaming basin of water. Dame Claire stepped around the gathered knot of people and took charge.

The infirmarian eyed the injured man sympathetically and said in her surprisingly deep voice, “Build up the fire here. Make it large. We want to take the cold out of his wounds, and keep it out.” She bent closely over him, peering at his slack-jawed face, then lifted aside the cloak that had been tossed over him. There was a sharp intake of breath among the onlookers at the sight of his torn and bloodied clothes and body.

“I’ll need more water. And more cloths. Now,” Dame Claire said crisply.

Two of the servants hurried away. The others stayed, some staring outright, others taking flinching looks at the man’s hurts. Even Frevisse, who had a stronger stomach than most, cringed inwardly as she assessed his damage. Clearly he had been dragged under his cart. His right hand was the worst, mangled almost past looking like a hand. There was an awkward crookedness in his left shoulder; and his breathing was ragged, his face beneath its dried-blood mask deathly pale.

One of the servants crossed herself. “It’s old Barnaby from the village. Looks like he’s done for himself this time.”

“He’s one of ours?” Frevisse asked. She didn’t recognize him, but she had little to do with the village villeins, even those who did belong to the priory.

“He’s one of Lord Lovel’s.” Annie Lauder, the broad-boned priory’s laundress, was usually to hand if something interesting were happening in St. Frideswide’s. “I know him.”

“Does he have any family?”

“Wife and two sons, and this will finish the ruin of them and his holding, that’s sure.” Annie’s voice held the assurance of someone who had often said it would happen.

“What he’s surely made is a ruin of himself.” Dame Claire was cutting away the strips of bloody cloth with a slim knife. Now, seeing more of his hurts, she said, “Mercy, his ribs! Someone had best fetch his wife.”

“I’ll go,” Annie Lauder said. “I know their cottage.” With a bustle of importance and elbows, she pushed her way out from among the cluster of people and was gone.

“Who’s building up my fire?” Dame Claire demanded, not looking up.

Frevisse, knowing the man was now entirely Dame Claire’s responsibility and that her own duty was simply to serve her, said, “Jak’s here with more wood.” Frevisse gestured the man forward. “Sister Amicia, if you’re going to be sick, go outside to do it. And so long as you’re going, fetch more bandages.” Frevisse had no sympathy with Sister Amicia’s stomach; since the young nun had been eagerly taking in every word and detail, Frevisse judged that her queasiness was more choice than necessity.

The travelers who had brought the man stood clustered near the other hearth at the hall’s far end, where a priory servant was building a fire for them. As Frevisse approached, the stout older man stepped forward from the others and bowed much as the boy had done.

Frevisse bent her head to him slightly. “We’ll have a fire and food for you very shortly. The day is drawing on, too late for traveling much farther, and I hope you’ll accept St. Frideswide’s hospitality, both on your own behalf and as thanks for your goodness-”

She paused, aware of a wordless exchange among the group. Their leader was well past being young, his hair grayed and his face seamed with age and laughter and many years of wayfaring, as used to the open air as to walls and roof. He carried his large frame with upright dignity, and now to the question she had not yet fully asked, he pulled off his hood and bowed again, a low, dramatic one.

“Your offer is welcomed, my lady, and most happily accepted. A generous fire and good shelter in good company is a blessing from the Lord these cruel midwinter nights.”

His rich voice flowed like satin, and Frevisse felt a spasm of dismay. “You,” she said, almost accusingly, “are not simply travelers.”

“No, good lady. We’re players, on our way from one place to another. Thomas Bassett is my name and this is my company. And though you’ve offered to us your hospitality, we’ll go on our way if you say the word.”

He knew, far better than she did, how unwelcome his kind could be. Wayfaring players were travelers of no fixed place or lord, belonging nowhere, always strangers and met always with suspicion, too often well founded, since folk dependent on the tossed coins of other people frequently turned to thievery to augment their income.

Frevisse’s hesitation was barely momentary before she said, “You have done a man a service that may save his life. I have offered St. Frideswide’s hospitality to you and, as you say, midwinter nights are cruel. It would be ungrateful and unchristian of me to take back my offer. I pray you, be at ease and take what comfort we can give this night.”

She felt tension flow out of the little band at her words. They had been braced to be sent on their way, and were greatly thankful for being allowed to stay. She doubted they would give trouble for whatever little while they were there.

“You have a cart and horse that need seeing to?” she asked.

“Tisbe our horse follows to heel like a dog and should be waiting in your courtyard now, and our cart behind her. There’s only the four of us. And Piers, of course.”

At mention of his name, as if on cue-and Frevisse suspected it was-the small boy she’d seen before stepped away from the woman who had been lightly holding his shoulders, and bowed very neatly. She bent her head to him in solemn return. His sweet-faced charm had probably wooed goodly pence from doting women on more than a few occasions, Frevisse thought, and hid her own amusement behind an unsmiling face.

The flaxen-haired player whom Frevisse had taken for a tall boy said, “I’ll see to Tisbe and the cart and bring in what we need for tonight.” Now, as soon as he spoke and she looked directly at him, she realized he was fully twenty years old or more, not a boy at all despite his slender, lean-hipped build and smooth face. Since his hair was so pale, his beard did not show unless it was looked for.

“Young Joliffe,” said Thomas Bassett by way of introduction, “who plays our women’s roles.”

Meeting the young man’s bold, assessing gaze, Frevisse was ready to believe that playing the woman was a skill in him, not a trait, and suspected that he probably wooed more than pence from women when he set his mind to it. With some asperity, she said, “But you will play the gentleman here, I trust.”

Joliffe made her an elegant bow. “In such an holy place as this, humbled by your kindness, surely.”

Frevisse forebore saying that she had sincere doubts about his humility, and was spared any reply at all by a raw, strangled screech behind her, as if a cat had been tossed into the fire. She swung around. The clot of people still around Dame Claire and the man Barnaby had pulled back somewhat, making room for the newly arrived woman. She was small, no more than thin flesh sunk down onto small bones, tanned and aged with years of weather and work. Frevisse had noticed her around the priory these few months past, but from her poverty had thought her a widow. Now she stood huddled and aghast, her hands pressed over her mouth and her eyes huge with fear and horror as she stared down at the hurt man. Her husband.

Dame Claire had had him moved onto the straw-filled mattress, and been cutting away what was left of his clothing to assess his injuries. Except for a cloth draped modestly over his loins, there was nothing to hide his body’s ruin.

Unable to take her eyes from him, rocking back and forth, the woman began to keen, “Oh, God. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. He’ll never work again, he’ll never work again. Look at him. Look at him.”

A whey-faced boy, trying very hard not to look at the man, stood beside her. Awkwardly he put an arm around her and said, “Mam. Mam, it’s going to be all right. He’ll heal fine, you’ll see.” But he did not believe it any more than she did.

On Meg’s other side Annie Lauder made no pretense of her curiosity. “Will he live at all? He looks like to die, if you’re asking me.”

“There’s no one asked you,” said Dame Claire firmly. “So near as I can tell, there’s nothing broken inwardly beyond my reach, nothing here that will surely kill him, if I can keep sickness out of his hurts.”

“His hand,” Meg moaned. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, look at his hand. It’ll never heal. Look at it.”

Dame Claire ignored her. “What I want is someone here to help me set his shoulder back in place. It’s only twisted from its socket, not broken.”

“That I can do.” The third man among the players stepped forward. “I’ve seen it done a few times, and helped at it myself. But we’ll need some strength beyond our own to hold him down.”

He was a handsome man, not tall but boldly proportioned, with thick black hair and a self-assured swagger. Dame Claire eyed him dispassionately, judging his usefulness, and said, “Here, then. Best do it while he’s still unconscious. Someone take the woman away. And the boy. This will not be pleasant to see.”