The apostate's tale (19 page)

“She’s gone to see how her patients do,” Frevisse said.

“Do we know yet what it is they have?” Abbot Gilberd asked. “Or ate?”

Frevisse paused, brought herself to look at him straightly, and answered, “We think they were poisoned. Purposely.”

Both Abbot Gilberd and Domina Elisabeth stared at her as if what she had said did not make sense to them. Dame Thomasine crossed herself. A moment later both the abbot and Domina Elisabeth did, too, Domina Elisabeth saying, “God forbid,” and Abbot Gilberd demanding, “By whom? With what?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“Then you will have to find out,” he ordered. “You have a marked skill at doing such. Do it.”

The sharpness of his order startled her into momentary silence. She did have a skill at finding things out, and Abbot Gilberd knew it. Besides, whether he had bade her do so or not, she would have tried, and so she lowered her head, her eyes, and her voice, and said most meekly, “Yes, my lord.” Then said, without raising her head, eyes, or voice, “I would ask, though, that nothing be said of poison, that people may go on thinking it’s disease.”

That silenced Abbot Gilberd a moment in his turn, before he asked, “Why?”

“So that I may ask questions without the poisoner knows he is suspected. Also, if we claim contagion, we can insist no one leaves, to take it with them. If poison is thought of, then there will be those who will want to go, claiming they want to escape it happening to them.”

“Or to escape detection, if they’re the guilty one.” Abbot Gilberd said. “Yes. We’ll keep silence on it. You, too, Dame—”

He broke off. Domina Elisabeth supplied, “Thomasine.”

“Dame Thomasine. You will say nothing of what you heard just now.”

Dame Thomasine bowed her head a little lower in assent.

From the cloister the bell began to call to…Sext, Frevisse reminded herself. To have slept straight through Tierce meant she was disordered in the day, but she gratefully accepted the summons and the silence it enjoined on them all, made quick curtsy to Abbot Gilberd and Domina Elisabeth, and all but fled the room for the stairs. They would have to follow in more seemly wise and Dame Thomasine come after them, but Frevisse made full use of the excuse to be away and in the sanctuary of her choir stall lost herself gratefully in the prayers and psalms of the Office. She had missed not only Tierce, but Matins and Lauds and Prime today. There was no blame to her in that, except maybe for sleeping through Tierce, but being guiltless did not lessen her relief as she joined in the opening, “
Deus, in adjutorium
.”—God, come to help.—And for the while of the Office she was able to keep her mind only there, in that
now
that was at the same time a freeing of the heart and mind to join the soul’s reaching out into the Forever beyond the world’s bounds.

It was very hard, at the Office’s end, to come back into the day and its troubles, but by the time Frevisse left the church with the others and received Domina Elisabeth’s benediction in the cloister walk, her thoughts were already slipped away from her momentary peace to questions again.

She would set aside for now the matter of what had been used against both men and from where had it come. It was sufficient that Dame Claire was certain something had been used. And since she had no way yet to know the
why
of the poisoning, asking
how
it had been done seemed presently the best way to go.

The plainest answer, of course, was by something put into the men’s food or drink, and she instantly did not like that answer. Their food and drink had come from the guesthall’s kitchen, been served by the guesthall’s servants.

But that might not be entirely true, she told herself. Both Breredon and the Rowcliffes had servants with them. She would have to find out who served them and where. If Breredon had indeed been keeping entirely to his room, that limited who could have come at his food or drink. She hoped.

She found she was standing alone in the cloister walk, looking at a soft fall of rain into the garth.

When had the day turned to rain? she wondered. She wondered, too, how long she had been standing there, finding that after all she was not so willing as she had thought she would be to do what came next—to return to the guesthall and ask questions.

Not that her willingness or unwillingness mattered. Bound as she was by her vow of obedience, her duty was to obey, willing or unwilling. So long as a duty was neither a sin nor dishonorable, once it was given it had to be done, and the guesthall and its guests were presently her duty. Even without Abbot Gilberd’s order, she must go back and, once there, would ask the questions that were gathering in her mind. Never mind that what she
truly
wanted to do was go to sleep again and awaken to find everything was answered, all troubles ended.

That being impossible, she went on her way along the cloister walk, only to have Dame Margrett, sitting on guard again, say with a nod toward the open doorway beside her, “She wants to talk to you.”

C
ecely now mostly sat on the bench, keeping what watch she could on the cloister through the narrow doorway. Twice she had caught glimpse of Neddie passing along the far side of the walk with that woman they had keeping him, but plainly they were not going to let him near her. Nor did anyone come near her who did not have to. All she had seen of even Abbot Gilberd today was when he paused in passing the doorway and looked in. She had immediately bowed her head and gone into the necessary low curtsy, expecting him to say something at her, but by the time she had straightened and looked up, he was gone, not a word spoken.

They were trying to drive her mad. That was it and she knew it. To keep from satisfying them, she had finally been reduced to finding the breviary among the rushes, to try passing the hours with reading. If nothing else, the psalms praising God for the striking down of enemies were to the good. Her Latin had never been much, but she could read it well enough in the psalms, and curses in Latin did seem stronger, as if using Christ’s own language gave them greater weight. “
Qui autem perdere quaerunt animam meam, introibunt in profunda terrae. Tradentur in manus gladii, portio vulpium erunt
.”—Whoever seeks to ruin my life, they’ll go into the depths of the earth. They’ll be given to the sword, foxes will eat them!

Yes. That was how it ought to be.

Without Alson she would have known nothing that was happening. As it was, all she knew was what little Alson knew, and she only heard it when Alson had her turn at sitting guard, meaning she knew very little and not very often. Still, Alson had had one of her turns during Sext just now, and goaded by what Alson had told her, Cecely made bold to ask the nun outside her door if she might speak to Dame Frevisse—no matter that “asking” anything of these women stuck in her throat, the more especially because she had to sound “humble” while she did it.

“Humble” seemed to work, though. Far sooner than she had hoped, the long-nosed, stiff-spined woman was standing in the doorway, looking as if Cecely was a bad smell; and Cecely, forgetting to be either humble or courteous, demanded, “Is it true Symond Hewet is dying?”

“No,” Dame Frevisse snapped back. “How did you hear he was?”

Not about to betray Alson, Cecely said, “Women talk. In the walk. I can hear them. The abbot is here. When is he going to see me again?” Not that she wanted to see him again, but this waiting, with nothing going one way or other, was wearing at her.

“I suppose he and Domina Elisabeth have other matters to talk of beyond you.”

What matters? Cecely wanted to demand. Because they kept busy with something besides her for long enough, her chance might come after all…

Doubting Dame Frevisse would tell her anything even if she knew it, she asked instead, “How ill is Master Breredon?”

“He’s mending.”

“It was John Rowcliffe did it, you know.”

“Did what?”

“Poisoned him,” Cecely snapped, impatient at having to say it again. How often would she have to say it before someone got it into their head? “He’s dangerous! They all are, the Rowcliffes. I told you that. They want me dead. They want Neddie dead. Your abbot should make them go away!”

With no sign of being moved in the slightest, Dame Frevisse asked, “What of Symond Hewet?”

Cecely felt herself blink with surprise and wariness. “Symond?”

“Why was he poisoned?”

“Why was he poisoned?” Cecely echoed.

“Supposing John Rowcliffe poisoned Master Breredon, why would he then poison his cousin?”

“To throw suspicion away from himself. Or—” Cecely leaped to a better reason. “Or because Symond was going to finally tell the truth. Or threatened to tell the truth. Then Neddie would get the manors he’s supposed to have and John would lose them, and so he wanted to stop Symond saying anything and he poisoned him!”

Her triumph at that cooled under Dame Frevisse’s level stare in the long moment before Dame Frevisse asked, “What has Symond Hewet been lying about? How would John Rowcliffe lose these manors if Symond Hewet told the truth?”

Glad of the chance to tell someone, Cecely said eagerly, “He’s the last living of three brothers. He…”

“John Rowcliffe?”

“Yes!” Cecely said impatiently. How slow-witted was the woman? “There were the three brothers. And a sister. She was oldest. She was Symond’s mother. Then there was the oldest brother. He died a long time ago. George was his son. It was George that drowned with Guy. Then there was John, and then Neddie’s grandfather, Guy’s father. The father of all of them had been a merchant in Norwich. After he was rich, he bought manors and moved away from Norwich. You see? His lands weren’t entailed. He could will them any way he wanted to. They didn’t have to go to only the eldest son. They were supposed to be divided between his sons, but John took them all!”

“How?” Dame Frevisse’s voice matched her stare—level and bare of any feeling.

“How?” Cecely echoed.

“How did John Rowcliffe take the manors without his brothers made protest against him?”

“They were dead!” How
could
this woman be so slow? “They were dead and Guy and George were too young. Neddie’s age, maybe. John had their wardships. There wasn’t anything they could do, and when they were old enough to do something, John had brought them to think there was nothing wrong.”

“How did you find all this out?”

“I asked questions. He’d raised them to have no questions. They just believed him. But I found out the truth. Now they’re both dead, and he wants to do the same thing to Neddie! To steal his manor like he stole the others! But Symond must have decided enough was enough, and he was going to tell the truth, and so John poisoned him!”

“You’re growing too loud,” Dame Frevisse said. “Lower your voice. Why would Symond have kept quiet all these years about the wrongs done his nephews?”

“Cousins,” Cecely snapped but with her voice down. She had not meant to share this with the whole nunnery. It was just that the injustice of it and that no one
cared
made her so angry! “None of it was skin off his nose, was it? He had what he had from his mother, so he wasn’t out anything. John probably bribed him some way, too. I don’t know! But since he’s the only one who can give John the lie, that’s why John wants to be rid of him!”

“Except you have the deeds to the manors you claim aren’t his. Won’t those deeds give John Rowcliffe the lie as well as anything Symond Hewet might say?”

“What? Yes! That’s why he wants them so badly! That’s what I tried to tell Abbot Gilberd. That if Neddie becomes a monk, the manors will go his abbey!”

Dame Frevisse went on staring at her. Cecely barely kept from stamping her foot with impatience. The woman was so
slow
! But at last, Dame Frevisse nodded, said, “Yes. That interests him against the Rowcliffes, surely,” turned, and left the room.

Cecely took two angry steps after her, wanting more from her than that. Then common sense caught up to her and she sank down wearily on the bench again. Demanding anything from a woman like Dame Frevisse—a woman who had never
been
a woman—was useless. She was as narrow as the cloister she lived in.

Still, something of what Cecely had said seemed to have struck through to her. If nothing else, it might get the Rowcliffes sent away, or maybe John arrested. That would make everything easier.
Something
had to turn her way soon.

Frevisse
made effort, while crossing the yard to the guesthall, to subdue her angry impatience at Sister Cecely and somewhat succeeded. If not rid of it by the time she entered the hall, she at least had it controlled as she went to talk to Ela where she sat on a low stool in her usual morning place at the head of the stairs to the guesthall’s kitchen, watching what went on.

With her head crooked sideways to look up past her shoulders’ increasingly rounded stoop, Ela said, “Good morning, lady,” and made a slight attempt to rise, knowing Frevisse would gesture for her to stay seated.

Frevisse did, brought another stool, and sat down close to Ela, to say quietly, just between the two of them, “I have questions for you.”

The hall servants had finished with their morning cleaning of the hall. The Rowcliffes were at their now-usual place in a far corner, a few men who must be of the abbot’s entourage with them. Frevisse and Ela had their end of the hall to themselves, and Ela said, “Ask. I daresay I can make a good guess at answers.”

“The evening Master Breredon fell ill, he was served in his chamber on a tray his servant took to him, yes?”

“That’s so, as best as I recall. Nobody wanted him and the Rowcliffes meeting up if we could help it. Him no more than the rest of us.”

“Did he fear them, do you think?”

“My thought was just he’s a man who’ll step aside from trouble if he can, rather than run at it head on.”

“Who set the tray? In the kitchen, who put the food and drink on it?”

Ela held silent a moment, shrewdly eyeing Frevisse while thinking, before answering with a question of her own, “You’re thinking, aren’t you—you and Dame Claire—that it was poison that took both Master Breredon and Master Hewet?”

There being no point in denial, Frevisse answered, “We are, yes, and I want to know how it came to them.”

Ela made the small bobbing of her head that had to pass for a nod on her age-stiffened neck, then considered a while before saying, “Well, I’m feared I can’t say for certain about Master Breredon’s tray. Likely it was Luce set the tray, but it might have been Tom. I know it wasn’t me. Nor I don’t remember as it was carried up to him directly, or if his man came down for it. It would be Tom or Luce or his man you’d have to ask. As for Master Hewet, he’s been served at table with the others, his kinfolk, every time. That would have been Tom. When it’s this many menfolk all together, I keep Luce to the kitchen when I can. Not that they’ve been anything but well-mannered, except toward Master Breredon. But less tempted, less trouble, as they say.”

“What about Mistress Lawsell and her daughter?”

Ela softly chuckled. “There’s a problem. Mistress Lawsell doesn’t know whether to keep her and her girl to their chamber, so they won’t take ill—” Ela broke off to ask, “You want everyone to go on thinking it’s maybe a contagion, do you?”

“Dame Claire and I think that would be best.”

“Good, then. Less trouble than if they think there’s someone poisoning them,” Ela agreed and returned to answering Frevisse’s last question. “But since the young Rowcliffe started taking heed of her girl, Mistress Lawsell is torn between keeping her closed up and loosing her to him.”

“What does Elianor do?”

“Comes out. Stays in. Whatever her mother says. Butter-not-melt-in-her-mouth-obedient to her mother, she is, but she doesn’t encourage him that I can see.”

Frevisse wondered if Elianor’s mother was deceived into thinking she was winning against Elianor’s desire for nunhood. Or was Elianor slipping away from it herself, despite all she had said and maybe not even knowing that she was? Without talking with Elianor, there was no way to know, and there was no time now to wonder much about it. Frevisse thanked Ela and crossed the hall to Rowcliffe and the abbot’s men. They all stood up to bow to her. Young Jack had briefly disappeared into their chamber but was just coming out. He joined their bows and she bent her head to them all in return, then asked Jack, “How does he?” supposing he had been to see his cousin.

“Asleep,” Jack said. “But it’s a quiet sleep. He’s likely past the worst.”

“How do you feel?”

Jack traded startled looks with his father, before saying, “Well, thank you,” and his father echoed him.

“That’s good to hear.” Then to Rowcliffe, “If I might speak with you aside, please.”

He rose and left the table, going with her to the end of the hall where he said, before she said anything, “We’re not leaving while he’s so ill. Whatever it is, we’ll see it out here, him and—God forbid—whoever else comes down with whatever it is.”

“We do pray God forbids more of whatever it is, and I promise you there’s no thought of asking you to leave. What I hope instead is that you’ll tell me what the line of inheritance is in your family.”

Rowcliffe looked somewhat a-back at that. “For what?” he demanded.

“It’s about the manors Sister Cecely claims are Edward’s.”

“The lecherous-tailed, thieving bitch. They’re no more his than the moon is. I’m going nowhere until I have my deeds back.”

“What I wonder,” Frevisse said coolly, “is why she thinks Edward has claim to these manors.”

“Because she’s a fool!”

Frevisse raised her eyebrows at him. She watched while he throttled his anger into his control until finally he was able to say civilly enough, “It goes this way, no matter what she says. My father, God keep his soul, married twice. By his first wife he had my sister, my brother Robert, and me. Then my mother died, and a while after that he married again, God knows why, and had another son. When my father died, he left her—his second wife—with her dower lands to live on and her son Edward with moiety in a manor and an apprenticeship with a Norwich merchant.”