The apostate's tale (11 page)

“Leaving you with control of his manor until he comes of age!” Rowcliffe accused, “
And
likely marry him to one of your daughters.”

“You know how well that manor of his suits with my other property there,” Breredon answered. “I’d have bought it outright three years ago except Guy was ahead of me.”

“So having failed to have it by fair means, you meant to have it by foul,” Rowcliffe snarled.

“Someone will have it until Edward comes of age. Why not me?” Breredon asked.

“Because Edward is ours!” Rowcliffe exclaimed.

Still keeping in check her own anger at both of them, Frevisse said, “Didn’t Edward’s father give keeping of him and this manor to someone in his will?”

“To his ‘dear wife’ the will says,” Rowcliffe said sullenly. “Since they weren’t truly married, that means nothing. Guy could be an idiot sometimes.”

“And the land isn’t held of some lord or else of the king?” Frevisse persisted. “Someone with some say over it?”

“Guy bought it from some guild in Norwich that didn’t want the bother of out-lying land anymore,” Symond said. “It’s clear of any overlord. There’s no one.”

That was a pity, because Frevise would have been more than glad to tell them to ease back their angers until someone with better authority could rule on the matter. If there was not anyone, then it would come to lawyers, she supposed. In the meantime, though, the quarrel was here, where it had no business being, and she said, “Then there’s nothing to be done but clear yourselves back to your homes and sort it out as best you may there.”

“If I can take Edward with me,” Breredon said.

“Edward comes with us!” Rowcliffe snarled.

“Edward goes nowhere,” Frevisse said sharply. “His mother and he are both staying here until…”

“You’re welcome to her,” Rowcliffe said. “She’s yours. But the boy isn’t. He’s ours!”

Frevisse turned to fully face him, near to matching him in height and even nearer to matching him in anger. It was an anger coldly in her control, though, and coldly she said, each word distinct, “Edward is under this priory’s protection. Our protection and the protection of the Church. No one lays hand on him without our prioress’ leave or that of Abbot Gilberd of Northampton. Our abbot has been sent word of Sister Cecely’s return. Whoever he sends in answer to that can deal in your matter, too. But until he comes and as things are now, Edward is going
nowhere
.”

She put all the force of Domina Elisabeth’s authority behind that final word, everything about her daring Rowcliffe or anyone else to say otherwise.

No one did. She could see Rowcliffe struggling not to burst out at her and could guess what he was probably thinking: that she was a woman and therefore—to his mind, he being that sort of man, she suspected—to be overborne. But she had invoked both the power of the Church and of an abbot against him, and while the Church might be distant and sometimes slow in its workings, an abbot could be very near and his hand immediately very heavy. Still, abbots could be brought around if need be…

“Abbot Gilberd,” she said, “is our prioress’ brother.”

Like a final weight added to a scale, the shift that gave to Rowcliffe’s decision showed so plainly on his face that Frevisse almost could have laughed. She certainly hoped he did not hear Breredon’s muffled snort behind her, and she said, turning to include Breredon, “This leaves you both with the choice of leaving here, to have news sometime of how things are decided…”

“We’re staying right here,” Rowcliffe snapped.

The other men nodded sharp agreement with that, and Breredon, too. It was very probably the only willing agreement they would ever have, and Frevisse said, still coldly, “Then you’ll do it peaceably. You’re here as the guests of God and you’ll do well to remember it at every moment. Remember, too, that there are others here, come for better reasons than either of you. If they are troubled by your troubles for even one moment beyond this present one, the priory will no longer be bound to honor your guest-right. Do you understand that?”

The men all nodded again, grudgingly this time and eyeing each other as if to see who would break the peace first.

“Unfortunately,” Frevisse went grimly on, “we have but the one best guestroom and Master Breredon is already there. Therefore, Master Rowcliffe, you and your people will have to do with either the hall itself or one of our lesser chambers, as you choose.” She did not wait for his answer to that. She did not care what his response was. Instead she pointed at Ela and went on, “There is Ela who is my voice here in the guesthall in my absence, which must be now because Vespers will be soon. You might all do well to attend the Office. I shall see you again in the morning.”

Without waiting for any response from them and somewhat more vehemently than was maybe proper, she turned from them and crossed the hall, going first to the Lawsells, to reassure them that there would be no more trouble now, silently praying she was right. Leaving them, she went to Ela, Tom, and Luce to say for only them to hear, “The ale was well-thought, Ela. And thank you, Tom, thank you, Luce, for bringing it. It came timely.”

Ela sniffed. “Seemed a good thing. I’ll see to them having plenty tonight, too.”

“Not so much as makes them quarrelsome,” Frevisse cautioned.

“Enough to make them sleep both soon and late, the lot of them,” Ela said. “If they take it otherwise, there’s Tom to see to them.”

“And you’re welcome to,” Frevisse told him. Tom’s weak chest was one reason he was a guesthall servant, rather than at fieldwork, but he both looked and was strong-armed enough to give someone pause if he stepped forward and told them to stop whatever they were doing. Frevisse glanced back and saw that Breredon had withdrawn into his room and shut the door, while the three Rowcliffes—whoever Symond was, he was plainly some manner of family with them—were gathered head to head in talk.

“Serving Master Breredon and his people their supper in their room tonight might be best,” Frevisse said. “I doubt he’ll object, and the Rowcliffes will likely stay more quiet if he isn’t in sight.”

“They’ll stay quiet,” Ela promised.

Frevisse had a sudden vision of the little, bent-backed woman standing toe-to-toe with Rowcliffe, shaking a finger at his nose and telling him to behave himself.

“Invoke Abbot Gilberd if you have to,” Frevisse said and left. She was almost to the outer door when a question she wanted to ask Breredon came to her and she almost turned back, but the bell began to ring for Vespers, enjoining silence and obedience on her, and she went on, more than ready for the peace of her choir stall and prayers.

U
nhappily, there was little peace to be had either during Vespers or afterward. During the Office, questions beyond those already asked kept coming into Frevisse’s mind, pulling her away from where she wanted to be, and although at supper Domina Elisabeth’s stern eye from the table’s head kept them all in proper silence, those nuns who could barely wait for the recreation hour ate with unseemly haste, then had to sit restlessly while the others—Frevisse, Dame Claire, Dame Thomasine, and Domina Elisabeth—finished more deliberately, giving the blessing of food the honor it deserved. Only finally did Domina Elisabeth say grace and nod that they were free to go. “Slowly,” she added and more sternly, “
Seemly
,” at particularly Dame Amicia.

That got them from the refectory and into the cloister walk with no one tripping over anyone else, but from there, with Domina Elisabeth momentarily out of sight, there was a scurrying of the younger nuns away to the slype on their way to the garden, their voices rising in talk as they went. Dame Perpetua and Dame Juliana followed almost as quickly, only a little more aware of dignity, leaving Frevisse, Dame Claire, and Dame Thomasine behind with their prioress, who said as they all moved toward the refectory door together, “Dame Frevisse, would you keep watch on them, please, and as much ward as you can on their tongues? Dame Claire…”

“My lady,” Frevisse said, “there’s something else you have to know.”

Domina Elisabeth looked at her. “Please, not more trouble.”

“I fear so, yes,” Frevisse said and told what had passed between Rowcliffe and Breredon in the guesthall.

Domina Elisabeth heard her out in increasingly stern, strained silence and at the end said, “Then she never meant anything except to use us.”

“It seems so, my lady,” Frevisse agreed.

Domina Elisabeth stood considering that, weariness etched on her face, then said, “Dame Claire, I’d have you come with me. Dame Thomasine—”

Dame Thomasine lifted her head, her face pale and quiet in the white surround of her wimple. She did not speak, only looked at her prioress from whatever place she lived in, aside from them all.

“Dame Thomasine,” Domina Elisabeth said as quietly as Dame Thomasine’s look, “I’d have you pray for all of us, if you would.”

Dame Thomasine bowed her head in a small accepting nod and without raising her head again went quiet-footed away toward the church.

Domina Elisabeth watched her for a moment, then said, “Dame Claire, if you would,” and would have started away except Frevisse said, “By your leave, what’s been done with her?”

There was no question which “her” was meant. Domina Elisabeth gave a sharp glance away across the cloister garth. “She’s in the guest parlor. It’s where she can be kept and guarded with least trouble in the cloister. I’ve set Malde to guard the door for now, but we’ll all have to take turns at it until Abbot Gilberd says what else is to be done with her.”

She spoke crisply, with open anger that it had come to this, then walked away. Dame Claire followed her and, alone, Frevisse went slowly out to the garden.

The clear weather that had blessed Easter Day and most of the day was gone under a thickening overcast, but there was no rain yet and certainly the lowering sky had not lowered the nuns’ readiness to talk. They were all standing in an eager cluster just inside the garden, words whipping among them, and Dame Perpetua shifted to let Frevisse join them, with immediately more than one of them asking what had passed with Master Rowcliffe in the prioress’ parlor and then in the guesthall.

Frevisse told them something of it all, and an appalled silence fell among them briefly, before Sister Margrett said, almost whispering, “Then she’s lied to us.”

“In everything she’s done and almost everything she’s said, she’s been lying to us, yes,” Frevisse agreed.

Dame Perpetua said with horrified wonder, “It makes me feel so…unclean, just having been near her.”

Some heads nodded at that, but Frevisse did not feel unclean, only angry. Angry at Sister Cecely for her deceits. Angry at Breredon for his. Angry at the Rowcliffes for less reason but just as surely. Wanting to keep her anger from the other nuns, needing time to work through her own clutter of thoughts and feelings and questions, knowing there would be no keeping curb on their tongues, no matter what Domina Elisabeth had charged her to do, she walked away. With all the new fodder for talk she had given them, the others let her go, their voices rising behind her, and she did not know that Dame Johane had followed her until at the path’s turn at the garden’s far end the younger nun said behind her, uncertainly, “Dame Frevisse?”

Surprised, Frevisse stopped and turned around. Dame Johane stopped, too, still several yards away, as if unsure she should be there but so openly troubled that Frevisse said with an effort at kindliness, “Yes?”

Still uncertainly, Dame Johane came forward a few steps, stopped again, and said, “Please, may I talk to you?”

“Assuredly,” Frevisse said.

“It’s Cecely.”

“There’s little you can do for her now except pray she amends in her soul.”

“I have been. Ever since she left. It’s just…” Dame Johane dropped her voice to barely a hush. “It’s just…is she a heretic?”

In her surprise, Frevisse said somewhat curtly, “No. A heretic is someone who’s troubled to think about his faith. Has come to wrong conclusions but at least has thought about it. Sister Cecely—” She stopped short. What she had been about to say was maybe too unkind to say straight out to Sister Cecely’s own cousin. Then she decided she did not care and finished bluntly, “I doubt Sister Cecely thinks much about anything at all. She just ‘feels,’ and lets what she feels serve her in place of thought.”

“I feel, too,” Dame Johane said in a half-whisper, with enough torment in her voice that Frevisse paused over answering her, before finally saying carefully, “We all feel. There’s never a way not to feel. Nor should there be. We were given hearts for a reason. But when our judgment of what’s good or bad comes down to what we ‘feel’ about it, with no thought behind it, then that’s wrong and weak.” She paused again, to be sure of her thought, then went on, “It’s even, possibly, evil. If not in its beginnings, then in what grows from it. Because something grows from everything we do, and we were given minds as well as hearts, that we could judge what we do as well as merely feel it.”

She was not aware of ever having thought that through before now. Her own surprise at it kept her silent when she had done, and Dame Johane was silent, too, before finally saying softly, “She’s so changed. Cecely. She’s older.”

Despite that seemed to be away from what they had been saying, Frevisse knew it was not and answered, softly, too, “Her feelings have cost her dearly these past years.”

Dame Johane gave a sudden, despairing sigh. “What troubles me is that I don’t know how much better I am than she is. Even after my years here, I’m so very far from being holy, and now there’s Cecely come back, and despite how very wrong she’s been, she’s making me look at how far from grace I am, too.”

“No one is ever far from grace,” Frevisse said quickly. Long years ago she had had very much this same talk with Domina Edith of blessed memory, except she had been the one tormented by her failures and Domina Edith offering answer to her—answer that had stayed a comfort to her in even the driest of spiritual times through all these years afterward. Now she offered it readily to Dame Johane, saying, “What we’re too often far from is willingness to open our self to grace. From willingness to let grace come to us. We keep our minds between it and our hearts.”

“But it’s giving way to her heart that’s ruined Cecely,” Dame Johane protested.

“Was it her heart she gave way to, or her lusts?” Frevisse returned. “There
is
a difference.”

Dame Johane stared past her with a gaze turned inward, looking at that thought.

Frevisse found herself going on, “As for our becoming holy—” and stopped, wishing she had not started; but Dame Johane’s look had come back to her, expectant, and so she went on slowly, “I don’t think we have to become ‘holy’ to succeed in our life here. I’m not even certain what ‘holy’ would be for us.”

“Dame Thomasine.”

“Yes,” Frevisse granted, still slowly. “But it seems more a gift given to her than something she ‘became.’ I haven’t been given it. I know that. My hope isn’t for holiness, only that I grow enough—can set my roots of faith and belief and love deep enough—that like a deep-rooted plant growing taller than a shallow-rooted one, I finally come as near to God in my mind and soul and heart as I can, no matter how much in the world my body has to be.”

She stopped. There should have been more to say than that. From the way Dame Johane went on looking at her there was surely need of more, but Frevisse did not know what it was and ducked her head as low as Dame Thomasine so often did, said rather desperately, “Benedicite,” and feeling very insufficient, walked away.