The apostate's tale (17 page)

“There was nothing different for him,” Tom said, looking scared while she questioned him and Luce in the guesthall kitchen.

“He didn’t even come out of his room,” Luce added. “He had his supper taken in to him. He didn’t come out all the evening.”

“And no one went in?” Frevisse asked.

“Just his own folk,” Luce said. “At least so far as I know. Tom?”

“I wasn’t up there,” Tom said. “It’s old Ela you’d have to ask.”

But Ela was sleeping, making hardly a heap under her blanket on her pallet in a corner of the kitchen, and Frevisse, not minded to wake her, said, “That I’ll do later. Luce, come with me. I need to see the chamber is ready for Abbot Gilberd.”

It was, and Frevisse commended Luce for it, then faced the necessity of questioning the Rowcliffes, no matter how little she wanted to.

This time it was Jack and his father who were playing chess, with Symond leaning on the table, looking on. As Frevisse approached them, Symond was shaking his head and clicking his tongue at the move Rowcliffe was in the midst of making, and Rowcliffe snapped, “Will you stop doing that?” but there was laughter under his protest and Symond was grinning.

Only young Jack, protesting on his side, “Don’t help him! I’m winning,” sounded halfway to serious, and while he stood up with his father and cousin to give Frevisse a slight bow, he did it without taking his eyes from the chessboard and sat down again while Rowcliffe and Symond stayed standing and Rowcliffe said, “We saw your infirmarian leave, and your priest come and go. Breredon
was
feigning it, then?”

“He was not and is not,” Frevisse said. “He was very ill, apparently with something he ate or drank. Did any of you go into his room last night?”

“We haven’t bothered with him,” said Rowcliffe, sounding surprised. “There’s nothing more to say between us until your abbot comes, so we’ve kept away from him and he’s kept away from us.”

“I don’t think it’s what we might have
said
to him that she’s wondering about,” said Symond. “It’s what we might have
done
she’s asking about.”

“What?” said Rowcliffe, not seeming to follow his cousin’s thought.

“She’s wondering,” said Jack without looking up from the chessboard, his hand poised over a bishop, “if one of us poisoned him.”

“What?” Rowcliffe repeated, now more indignantly than questioningly, then added with pure indignation, “Hai!” as his son slid the bishop along the board to take the knight that Rowcliffe had just moved.

“I warned you,” Symond said.

“I had plans for that knight,” Rowcliffe grumbled.

“What you failed to think of was that Jack might have plans of his own,” Symond said. “He’ll have your queen in three more moves.”

This time both Jack and Rowcliffe protested, “Hai!” albeit for different reasons.

Rowcliffe glared at the board for a moment more, gave a shrug as if giving the whole business up, and looked back to Frevisse. “No,” he said. “None of us poisoned Breredon. Right is on our side. We’ve no need to poison him or anyone. Except Cecely maybe. Have you done anything about getting those deeds back from her?”

“We’re leaving everything until Abbot Gilberd arrives.”

“She’s still closely kept though, isn’t she?”

“She’s still closely kept and under guard,” Frevisse assured him. “Now if you’ll pardon me, I’ve other things to see to.”

“Besides accusing us of poisoning people, you mean,” Rowcliffe grumbled, low enough she chose to pretend she did not hear as she went away, while behind her Symond cheerfully pointed out, “She didn’t accuse us. She only asked.”

She had already decided against asking any questions of Mistress Lawsell, partly because there seemed little point—the Lawsells had nothing to do with Breredon, no reason to want him ill or dead—but also because she did not want to chance stirring up Mistress Lawsell to no purpose. With no other questions to ask of anyone in the guesthall and expecting the bell to Tierce at any moment, she returned to the cloister, a little unsatisfied that she knew no more about what had made Breredon ill than she had when she started her questions but satisfied his illness was by chance, not of someone’s doing. Jack Rowcliffe had been right: she had kept a thought of poison to the side of her mind, but the only people with possibly an interest in harming Breredon were the Rowcliffes—counting Symond Hewet as one with his kin—and as Rowcliffe had said, right was on their side. Unless Sister Cecely escaped with Edward and their deeds, they had little to worry about, and there was no one else here with any quarrel at all against Breredon. So he had not been purposely poisoned, and Dame Claire was certain it was not disease, and therefore so long as no one else fell ill of whatever had sickened him, there was nothing more that needed to be asked or done.

There was relief in that certainty, and it was with lighter mind that she went to ask Dame Johane sitting beside the guest parlor door with the promised herbal open on her lap, “Have you found anything useful?”

Dame Johane looked up from a page that was half words, half a picture of some plant, its stem and leaves drawn in plain ink but the flower of it painted red. Frowning a little with thought, she said, “The trouble is there seem to be any number of things that will bring on such vomiting and purging. I’d want to ask what color was…”

Sister Cecely came out of the parlor’s shadows, almost into the doorway but not quite, surely remembering Domina Elisabeth’s warning even while she pleaded at Frevisse, “It was the Rowcliffes. Can’t you see that? They poisoned him. You have to make them leave here before they do more, before they do worse!”

Frevisse looked at Dame Johane and said dryly, “She’s heard, then.”

“She’s heard,” Dame Johane agreed grimly. “While we were in chapter.”

“Listen to me!” Sister Cecely cried. “You have to send them away! You can’t let the Rowcliffes stay here and poison the rest of us!”

Frevisse looked at her coldly and said in a voice to match, “Abbot Gilberd will be here soon. The matter will be his to determine.”

“We could be dead by then, Neddie and I!”

From the far side of the cloister walk, Dame Amicia was going toward the bell in its pentice in the middle of the cloister garth. In the moment before the call to Tierce would enjoin silence on her, Frevisse returned, “I truly doubt that,” and turned away toward the church.

Behind her, Sister Cecely gave a smothered cry that might have been of despair or fear but to Frevisse sounded only angry.

T
ierce went its brief, quiet way. Mistress Petham was there with Edward. So were Elianor Lawsell and her mother, but none of the Rowcliffes nor any of the nunnery’s servants, the latter being all too busy readying for Abbot Gilberd’s arrival. That he would be here soon was surely first in Domina Elisabeth’s thoughts, because at the Office’s end she made short work of the final prayer and response and afterward hurried the nuns from the church to give them her benediction quickly at the door before she hurried toward the kitchen. Abbot Gilberd would be staying in the guesthall, but at least his first meal would be taken with her in her parlor, and Dame Amicia said wearily, to no one in particular, “She wants it all to be as fine as may be for him. I’m already looking forward to him leaving,” before she gathered herself and hurried after her.

Frevisse, not so hurried, overtook Dame Claire just at the infirmary, in the outer room where her medicines and all the means by which she made them were kept. Bunches of dried herbs hung from a roof beam, waiting for use, and Dame Claire crossed toward a clay pot on a low tripod over a small fire in a brazier in the room’s middle where something was warming, asking as she went, “What have you learned?”

“Nothing. He ate alone in his chamber, and he ate what everyone ate. Dame Johane says any number of things could have caused the vomiting and purging, but I’ve found no way Master Breredon could have had anything that no one else did, nor any way the Rowcliffes could have come at his food.”

“Maybe he did it to himself,” Dame Claire mused, taking up a narrow wooden spoon.

“You mean he made himself ill?”

Dame Claire began to stir whatever was in the pot. “He could have.”

“To make trouble for the Rowcliffes,” Frevisse said. “Yes, I can see he might. But why would he have something like that with him? He didn’t expect to encounter them.”

“For some other reason?” Dame Claire ventured.

“But to make himself that ill would be mad.”

“He might have misjudged his dose. An amount that barely touches one person can make another very ill. Or kill them.”

“Sister Cecely claims the Rowcliffes did it, and that she and Neddie will be next.”

“Sister Cecely is an idiot,” Dame Claire said without looking up from whatever she was delicately stirring.

The sweet smell wafted from the pot, and Frevisse drew a deep breath of pleasure, then asked, “What are you making?”

“An essence of costmary. For the water when Abbot Gilberd dines with Domina Elisabeth.”

“To drink?”

“To wash his hands. As you well know. I’ve also made a cordial of borage and betony that I hope will ease her mind somewhat. Worry as much as anything else is wearing on her. It’s making me worried for her.”

“But she’s otherwise well?” Frevisse asked quickly.

Instead of the instant reassurance Frevisse wanted, Dame Claire paused in slightly frowning thought before saying only slowly, “I don’t know that she’s ill.”

Frevisse waited until sure Dame Claire was not going to say more, then asked, “But you don’t know that she’s not?”

Somewhere still in thought, Dame Claire nodded before saying, still slowly. “I’ve thought that it isn’t that she’s ill but that, like Mistress Petham, she’s tired. That may be all it is.”

“Lent seems longer some years than others,” Frevisse offered.

But, “This began before Lent. Before Advent even. That’s when I first saw sign of it anyway.”

“That she was tired?”

“‘Worn’ might be the better word. She’s not young, you know.”

Frevisse almost protested that Domina Elisabeth had to be much about Dame Claire’s own age and not that many years older than herself; but the thought came to her that, after all, neither she nor Dame Claire was likely to be thought “young.”

“She’s borne the burden of being prioress for twelve years, after all,” Dame Claire went on. “It’s not been a light burden.”

“And now this,” said Frevisse, meaning Sister Cecely and Abbot Gilberd and all the rest.

“And now this,” Dame Claire agreed. She stirred delicately at the costmary. “So I’m doing what I can to ease her. Sadly, there’s very little.”

The cloister bell gave a sudden single clang. Both women raised and turned their heads, as if they could see it from where they were and Frevisse said, “And I would guess that’s sign you’re out of time anyway.”

Dame Claire sighed. “Yes.” She moved the clay pot from the fire. “You go on. I’ll be there shortly.”

Frevisse went, joining the other nuns in the cloister walk in time to see Domina Elisabeth come from her stairs, going toward the outer door to greet her brother in the yard and welcome him in. Dame Perpetua and Dame Margrett, as the eldest and youngest of the nuns, went with her while the rest of them lined together along the cloister walk in readiness for their own greeting. Elbows jostled as they placed themselves, straightening veils and shaking out skirts, Dame Amicia giggling a little, before they tucked hands into opposite sleeves and went still, a place left for Dame Claire who hurried into it, twitched at her skirts and veil, and joined them in stillness.

The outer door had been left open. Whoever had been set to watch for Abbot Gilberd’s arrival had given good forewarning: for a few moments all was as still in the guesthall yard as in the cloister now. Then came the clatter of hooves on cobbles that would be the abbot on his mule and his men on their horses riding through the gateway. When that stopped, Domina Elisabeth’s voice and then a man’s could be heard giving greeting to each other, although the words were lost along the passageway. Then it was not words but Abbot Gilberd and Domina Elisabeth themselves coming along the passageway and into the cloister walk, and at sight of Abbot Gilberd, the nuns all together and with bowed heads sank in low curtsy to him, holding there a short moment until he said, “Rise, my good women.”

They all rose together, and he raised his right hand and said a blessing over them. He was a large man, both in height and width, and made larger by the amply pleated long gown and surcoat he wore. They were correctly Benedictine black but their wool was closely woven and richly sheened, with black velvet edging the lower hems and the hanging sleeves of the surcoat, while black budge—lambs’ wool—circled his throat.

All of that added to the authority of his blessing that Domina Elisabeth, Dame Perpetua, Dame Margrett, and Father Henry had probably received in the yard, because they simply waited behind him until he had done, Domina Elisabeth only then coming forward to say, “If you would please to come this way, my lord,” with a small beckon toward the stairs to her rooms.

“I would, my lady,” he returned and swept up the stairs and out of sight, leaving her and Father Henry to follow him, Dame Margrett trailing in their wake.

In the cloister walk straight spines went slack, heads lifted, and there were sighs of relief heaved before—like birds startled apart—the nuns all scattered to their next tasks. Dame Claire said at Dame Amicia, “I have the costmary for the water,” while Dame Amicia said to Dame Juliana, “Are the cakes ready to go up?”

“The cakes and the wine both,” Dame Juliana replied. “We’ll fetch them. Sister Helen, come.”

Dame Perpetua and Dame Thomasine were starting away toward the church, to make certain one more time that everything would be perfect to Abbot Gilberd’s eye when he attended the next Office. Frevisse asked, “How many men came with him?”

“Six,” Dame Perpetua answered without pause in her going.

Six was not as bad as it might have been, Frevisse thought. In truth, it was quite moderate for an abbot. Had he taken some thought for this being just after Lent? Or perhaps Domina Elisabeth had been bold enough to say something in her message to him.

Frevisse paused in her going to say to Dame Johane, “Are you grateful now you only have to watch Sister Cecely, instead of scurry with the rest of us?”

Bent over to pull from the shadows the stool she had pushed out of sight into the guest parlor, Dame Johane replied, “Grateful until I have to see her up to face the abbot.”

“I won’t go!” Sister Cecely declared from beyond the doorway.

“Then you’ll be dragged,” said Frevisse coldly. “Abbot Gilberd brought men enough for that.”

Leaving Sister Cecely to think on that, Frevisse went yet again to the guesthall, as uneasy as everyone else that all be well for the abbot and happy to find that Luce had everything well in hand. Ela was awake, Luce said, but content to stay in the kitchen if she was not needed otherwhere. Even better, Luce said that one of the abbot’s men had told her that there was a cart coming, on Abbot Gilberd’s orders, bringing supplies of both food and drink. “The fellow said it should be here this afternoon some time.”

Frevisse breathed a prayer of thanks and relief and said, “Be certain to tell Ela. She’ll rest the better knowing it.”

Luce gave a wide smile. “Already did.” She gave a twitch of her head toward the best chamber’s door. “They’ve already shifted in whatever was on the pack mule that came with them. Making themselves quite to home, they are.”

“Good. So long as they do the work themselves,” Frevisse said, her tartness not entirely in jest; but when she went to see what was toward in the room, she spoke mildly enough to the servant overseeing his fellows’ work. The pack mule must have been well-laden. A finely woven red and yellow carpet was on the floor beside the bed and another one was laid over the otherwise plain table where the nunnery’s pewter pitcher and goblets, brought especially from the cloister, had been removed in favor of Abbot Gilberd’s silver ones. Frevisse did not wait to see what else might come out of the two small chests sitting open on the floor. Having ascertained that the abbot’s men were content at what they were doing, she crossed the hall to where Rowcliffe and his cousin Symond had drawn themselves well aside from the abbot-bustle.

They were too near to Breredon’s door for her liking, but there was only so much space in the hall; she could hardly ask them to sit in the kitchen or on the roof, but she did ask them where the men were who had come with them, not having seen them today.

“Told them they could stay in the stable,” Rowcliffe said. “You’ve enough going on here without them underfoot, too.”

She thanked him for that, and he offered, “You can have the rest of us out of your way if your abbot will hand over Edward and the deeds. Let him do that and we’ll be gone. Is he dealing with the…” He thought better of whatever he had been going to call Sister Cecely and changed to, “When can we talk with him?”

“That’s for him to say, not me. He’s with our prioress at present.” And although perhaps she should not, she added, “Soon can’t be too soon for me, as well as for you.”

Rowcliffe gave an appreciative grunt at her bluntness, Symond openly chuckled, and she went on to see how Breredon did.

The best that could be said was that he was better, but given how bad he had been, “better” was not anywhere near to “well.” At least he was lying on his back, stretched out the length of his bed, instead of huddled in sickness and pain, but because he looked to be sleeping and his man Coll
was
asleep on a pallet beyond the foot of the bed, Frevisse saw him only from the doorway while asking Ida very quietly how he did.

“Whatever it was, he’s at last resting quietly,” the woman said. “He’s kept a little broth down, too.”

Contented with that, Frevisse left her, going to see what Mistress Lawsell’s present complaint might be and found the woman very mellow, watching her daughter and Jack Rowcliffe sitting on the bed playing chess on the hall’s battered board. He and Elianor made to stand up when they saw Frevisse, but she put out a hand to stop them, saying, “If you jostle the board, she’ll say you did it because you’re losing.”

“I’m not losing,” Jack said with easy confidence.

“Yes, he is,” said Elianor pleasantly.

“Now, Elianor,” her mother chided in soft warning, but whether against boasting or against winning a game from a young man, Frevisse could not tell. She guessed the latter and guessed, too, that it would make no difference to Elianor.

Leaving them, she had just time to tell Luce to collect the pewter pitcher and goblets from the abbot’s chamber and bring them back to the cloister at her first chance. Then the cloister bell summoned her to Sext. The Office was sparsely attended. Neither Domina Elisabeth nor Abbot Gilberd nor Dame Margrett came. The nuns in their stalls looked at each other, made uncertain by the lack of their prioress, until Dame Juliana drew a steadying breath and began the Office.

The day continued disjointed from there. No reason for Domina Elisabeth’s absence came down from the parlor. Nor did Abbot Gilberd or Father Henry or Dame Margrett, and neither did any of them come to Nones either. Afterward, dinner’s food and drink went up, but Malde and Alson coming down could only say, “They’re sitting there. Been talking, I’d guess,” which was no more than anyone could have guessed on their own and therefore no help to curiosity at all.

It was early in the afternoon that Dame Margrett came briefly down, to tell Dame Johane to take Sister Cecely up. Somehow every other nun was in the cloister walk just then and watched the three women go from the parlor and up the stairs, Sister Cecely quietly between the other two with no sign of her earlier protests. Frevisse, at her desk in one of the several stalls along the walk beside the church where the nuns worked who copied the books that made some of the priory’s income, had been trying to pretend to herself that she was working, but when they had gone, she admitted her pretence and did nothing more than sharpen several quills and count how many pages of the Festial she had left to copy, aware while she wasted that time of the other nuns likewise finding reasons to linger here and there in the walk, or if they went away, soon coming back, so that all of them—and several servants for good measure—were there when Dame Margrett brought Sister Cecely down from the prioress’ parlor