Masques of Gold (8 page)

The child had been well named, Lissa thought—wise man in the English tongue. She smiled as she wrote his lesson on the slate. It was only a few words for him to copy and some simple sums and differences. Lissa had no intention of making Witta a scholar; she was not even certain she would try to teach him French or Danish. At present her aim was to have him learn enough reading and ciphering to be a trustworthy manager of her business when she was away or confined by childbirth. So far, both his devotion and his bright interest indicated she had chosen well.

Lissa smiled at the boy and told him to sit by the fire and work. Then she rolled up and re-tied the parchment showing the work done for the king, put it aside from the others, and took another, smaller one. She carried this to the table with her, unrolling it before she began to eat. Unfortunately, this was much the same in content as the parchment concerning the king's plate and goblet, although it was clear that this client was neither a great nor a wealthy man. The cup sketched was much simpler and was to be done in pewter with Peter providing the material as well as the labor. What disturbed Lissa was that she could find no indication on this parchment of whether the work had been completed, delivered, and paid for or whether this was just a plan for work to be done, nor did she recognize either the name of the client or the seal.

What was she to do? The disappointment drained her energy, and she felt tired and dull again. Leaving the parchment open on the table, she began to eat the stew and pick at the bread Binge had sent up. Doubtless she could discover to whom each seal belonged, but without evidence as to whether the client had paid or not or whether the work had been delivered or not, the information on the parchment rolls was useless.

“Is that a letter too?” Witta asked in a slightly accusatory voice.

Lissa turned her head from her food to find the boy standing beside her and pointing to a symbol written below the client's seal. “Oh you naughty boy,” she said. “You are not supposed to read any writing you see lying about unless you have permission to do so.”

“I'm sorry, mistress,” Witta said somewhat sullenly. “But how can I read if you don't teach me all the letters?”

“But I have—” Lissa began, and then looked again at where Witta had been pointing. “I
have
taught you all the letters, child,” she finished, now grinning from ear to ear with delight. “That is not a letter; it is a symbol for the whole name of the client.” She pointed to the name in the document. “The symbol is used to connect something with this client when there is not space enough to write the name. Now, in the chest in my bedchamber are bundles of tally sticks. Bring them out here, and bring out the other parchments, and we will match the symbols to the tally sticks.”

Even with Witta's quick-eyed help, the process of matching parchment record to tally sticks took all afternoon. However, before the light failed all of the smaller rolls of parchment had been paired with their tallies. By then Lissa was aware that there were far more tally sticks than parchments and that she and Witta must have disarranged separate lots. The extra tally sticks, she concluded, were records of Peter's moneylending. She was of two minds about that. If she was not pressed by Peter's creditors, she was quite willing to forget the moneylending debts. She would not burn the tally sticks, but she would not try to collect the debts unless there was no other way to save her dowry—always assuming she could discover a key to the symbols on the tally sticks.

Lissa then began to laugh at herself for this “holier than thou” attitude. It was true that if the debts of usury were “forgiven” she would be losing most of Peter's fortune, but there was no reason for her to feel noble, since the money was not hers. Then the soft curve of her mouth hardened. She would wait a reasonable time; then if young Peter and Edmond did not return, she would burn the tally sticks. It was bad enough for them to have abandoned her—if she had not been brought up to understand business, she would have been in a terrible state—but to have left their father lying on the floor like a used-up rag was unforgivable.

While she thought, her fingers had untied another roll, one of the largest. She had left those for last, assuming that they were all records of work for the king or great noblemen. Despite their wealth, for the most part they were the hardest to collect from. Lissa herself usually insisted that her richest and noblest clients pay when she delivered the purchase, and it was most likely that Peter also collected his full fee on delivery. There had been no tally sticks to match the parchment showing the king's plate and goblet, so there might be none for any of the most costly projects.

The parchment she had just unrolled would be useless to confirm or deny that idea. There was no client's name, which was not surprising, because it was the design for the betrothal gift Peter had bestowed upon her. Lissa gently touched the carefully drawn waves and dolphins, regretting that she could feel no real sorrow—until her eyes moved idly to the bottom of the sheet as she was about to roll it up. There her gaze fixed, and her bottom lip thrust forward in a charming pout. No client's name above, but there was a seal at the bottom and below the seal the word “Refused.” Lissa knew to whom the seal belonged too. Had she not made up dozens of doses of aphrodisiacs for him? So, the necklet had not been made for her but for one of that lecher's whores.

Lissa uttered a small resentful snort, laid that parchment aside, and briskly opened the largest roll of all. She uttered another snort, this one of contempt at herself. Here was the key to the tally records of Peter's usury. Naturally the largest of the parchments would hold the record of accounts. There were names and directions, most to clients who lived in the city but a substantial number to Canterbury and a sprinkling of other towns, too; in addition there was the symbol for the tally sticks and, most important of all, a written notation of what had been lent, at what interest, and what had been repaid. That would make it much easier for Lissa to determine what the marks on the tally sticks meant. She was certain that Peter would have used the same markings on all his records.

The question remained whether she should try to collect the loans now that she had all the information. Her instinct was to roll up that long sheet and forget it, but she had not quite decided when she heard the guard's voice and, a moment later, soft footsteps on the stair. A hope she had forgotten while she was immersed in Peter's records sprang up. Lissa quickly rolled the long parchment tight and eagerly rose to her feet. Then it took all her self-control to mask her disappointment when Father Denis, not Justin FitzAilwin, paused at the open door of the chamber.

“You seem busy, my daughter,” the priest said.

“Yes, Father,” Lissa replied somewhat warily. “My father came to warn me that because of the manner of his death, my husband's creditors might demand immediate payment of what he owed. Since Peter's sons went off with his strongboxes, I—”

“Went off with his strongboxes!” Father Denis repeated. “What do you mean they went off with his strongboxes? Have you any other resources? How will you honor the terms of Master Peter's will? Who will pay for his burial? For masses for his soul? Who will pay the brothers of Saint Bartholomew for fetching the body and preparing it for the grave?”

“London will pay the brothers of Saint Bartholomew.”

Just as they had done earlier in the day, the priest started with surprise and Lissa sighed with relief. Both turned toward the doorway, where Sir Justin stood. He nodded curtly to Lissa but continued speaking to the priest. “Their examination of the body was at my request to determine the cause of death. That was part of my official duty. The preparation for burial was incidental, and the only cost will be for the shroud. Li—Madame Heloise can repay me for that when it is convenient for her.”

“But what of Master Peter's other obligations? What of the offerings promised in his will?”

“I know nothing of his will,” Lissa said. Her eyes flashed once toward Justin, but she dared not let them linger and she set them steadily on Father Denis. “I do not believe I am mentioned in my husband's will. There is no reason that I should be because my affairs were arranged by my father to be completely separate from Peter's. I am not one of Peter's heirs, you see; his sons are his heirs.”

The priest's lips turned down and his eyes narrowed. “I will not refuse decent burial to Master Peter de Flael, but neither can I promise to arrange the chanting of masses for the ease of his soul without some token of sacrifice on the part of those he succored and protected in life. It is you, madam, not I who will condemn your husband to many, many years of purgatory.” He turned away from her so sharply that the skirt of his habit smacked against the leg of the chair and tangled on it, aborting his stride toward the door.

“One moment, Father,” Lissa said, and had to stop speaking. Already amused by the notion that a few years in purgatory for the great sin of usury might do Peter some good and prepare him for heaven much better than prayers sung on earth would, she was nearly overset into laughter at the abruptness with which Father Denis had been stopped. The alacrity with which he turned toward her when she spoke did nothing to sober her, nor did his expression, which was again benign—benign and hopeful.

Lissa stared at her own toes for a moment, fighting for control, but her voice was still choked and quivering when she said, “I have something Peter gave to me, my betrothal gift. I am perfectly willing to part with it to ensure the ease of Peter's soul. However, I have almost nothing else, except the few coins in my purse, and I greatly fear that Peter made other promises. Thus, I will give you my necklet, if you will sign a statement that you will share the proceeds from the piece with any other church or house of religion to which Peter promised a contribution.”

“Do you bargain with God, daughter?” Father Denis asked. Lissa choked back the remark that she had better do so or she would be left without so much as a shift to cover her. What she did say instead was, “Father, what ease will my poor husband have if you bless him while those at Saint Matthew's curse him for cheating them? Not that I think he made equal promises to Saint Matthew's. I do not know what Peter promised. It may well be that he endowed only you.”

Father Denis considered that, weighing his knowledge of Peter de Flael's care for his purse against the goldsmith's fear of being damned for the many sins he had committed. It was indeed possible, he thought, that in the interests of economy, Peter had promised nothing to any other church. If he offered only small amounts, he would be accused of niggardliness; if he offered amounts equal to what he had promised Saint Peter's, there might be severe enough inroads into his fortune that his sons would have refused to pay anyone at all, leaving him to languish in purgatory perhaps forever; the best solution was to give what he wanted during his lifetime to other churches and to tell them that his death benefices were going to the place where he was to be buried.

Having come to that conclusion, Father Denis added in the fact that soon Flael's wife might begin to wonder what good masses would do a soul that was damned for lacking the final rites. He cast a sidelong glance at her and saw what he felt was a growing hardness in her expression. That decided him, and he agreed as graciously as he could to sign the statement Lissa wanted.

Lissa nodded and went to get the necklet immediately, catching up the open roll of parchment from the table. She was eager to get rid of the priest before Justin grew impatient. In the bedchamber, she quickly cut off the seal of the client, leaving only the description, price, and drawing of the necklet. Then she opened her clothing chest and picked up the beautiful box in which Peter had sent his gift. The sweet scent and satin finish of the woods made her hesitate. The box
had
been made for her; Peter had told her he had made it himself. Her lips twisted wryly. When she thought of it she realized he had never said the necklet had been made for her. She replaced the box in the chest, opened it, and removed the necklet.

Returning to the solar, Lissa picked up a quill and an inkhorn from the shelves and brought them to the table where she laid the necklet. While Father Denis feasted his eyes on the emerald-eyed dolphins leaping through the foam of pearls, she quickly wrote the statement committing Father Denis to share with other beneficiaries and freeing her from further obligation.

“Will you serve as witness, Sir Justin?” she asked.

“A witness to a priest's word, my child?” Father Denis protested mildly.

“I must ask it,” Lissa said, wide-eyed. “My father would scold me terribly if I did not have a witness. I—”

The look of wide-eyed innocence, and the statement that was literally true while implying a situation that was totally false, amused Justin but also made him uneasy. He did not like reminders of how good an actress Lissa was. They made him wonder, despite Goscelin's opinion that Lissa and Flael's sons were innocent, if he was really doing all he should to check up on them.

“Very well,” he said, interrupting her sharply and preventing any further exchange.

He was still standing in the doorway and came forward rather slowly, as if he was reluctant, Lissa thought. She laid down the pen and went to take his cloak. He hesitated when she reached for it, then pulled the pin from the broach that held it and gave her the garment. When he had read the few lines, he glanced at the necklet. Meanwhile, Lissa had hung the cloak on a hook near the door and turned back toward him just in time to see him raise his brows at her in surprise. Swiftly she touched a finger to her lips, which were curved upward in a slight, reassuring smile.

Having lifted the necklet and examined it closely, Father Denis laid it down on the table and glanced at Lissa just once in a troubled way. She stared back at him blankly, and he folded his lips tightly together and signed. Justin also glanced at Lissa, but she had turned away from them and was taking from the chest below the shelves one of the napkins used for drying the hands during a formal dinner. Frowning, Justin wrote his name followed by the words “as witnessed by me” and the date below the priest's signature. While they were writing, Lissa had wrapped the necklet in the napkin.

“You can carry it more safely in that wrapping than in its box,” she said. “The box is rather large and might draw eyes. It is not valuable. I believe Peter made it himself.”

“Quite right, dear daughter,” Father Denis replied. “You show a most proper spirit in sacrificing your worldly goods to gain the pearl of salvation for your husband.” He looked a trifle uneasy as he spoke and glanced sidelong at Justin, whose thin face seemed carved, like the box Flael's wife mentioned, of wood. “You will not suffer for it,” he said, shifting his eyes under Justin's cold stare.

“I am sure I will not suffer for it,” Lissa agreed softly.

“Then I have troubled you long enough, daughter. Unless I can perform some service for you? If not, I will go and leave you to eat your evening meal in peace.”

“Thank you, Father, I need nothing,” Lissa assured him, keeping her voice calm with some difficulty because of her urgent desire to push him out of the room. “Is there light enough to see the stair?” She turned around, looking carefully into each dark corner for Witta, who loved to make himself inconspicuous and watch and listen. When she found him, she said, “Ah, there you are, Witta. Light a candle and see that Father Denis does not trip on the stair. After that, find out what Binge has made ready for the evening meal.”

There, Lissa thought, I am rid of both of them, but she had congratulated herself too quickly.

Justin stopped Father Denis before he reached the door, saying, “Just a moment, Father. Actually I came here from the church. I was seeking you, not Li—Madame Heloise. I wished to tell you that I had been to Saint Bartholomew's Hospital and spoken to the brothers there. All is ready. Flael can be encoffined and buried tomorrow. I assume”—he looked pointedly at a corner of the folded napkin that had escaped the priest's hurried effort to stuff his prize into the sleeve of his gown—“that you will make
all
the arrangements for Madame Heloise.”

“Yes, yes,” Father Denis said hastily. “If there is no reason for delay—”

“None at all.”

A brief look of surprise passed over the priest's features. Lissa saw it but was too disappointed by the fact that Justin had not come back to see her to think what it might mean. She held her breath, silent and unmoving, understanding now why Justin had hesitated to give her his cloak and expecting him to ask for it and follow Father Denis out of the room. But he did not; he stood as still as she, with his head a little cocked, listening. By the time Father Denis had made his way down the stairs, Lissa's disappointment had changed to hope. If Justin had come only to tell Father Denis that he could go ahead with Peter's burial, why had he not simply left word at the church?