Authors: Margaret Frazer
The cloister bell began to clang flatly, telling it was time for Sext. Wearily, Frevisse crossed herself and rose painfully to her feet. The offices, seven times each day, from midnight through to bed again, were her comfort and refuge. She almost always could forget herself in their complex beauties of interwoven psalms and prayers, and find a momentary promise that this dryness of her heart and spirit would not last forever.
But it was not ended yet. Weary of herself, she went the little way beyond the altar to her place in the choir, knelt there and waited, her head bowed.
Quietly in their soft-soled shoes, with only a rustle of skirts, the other nuns came from whatever tasks they had been doing throughout the priory. St. Frideswide’s was a small Benedictine house; there were only ten nuns and their prioress. Frevisse could identify them all by their footfalls. Sister Thomasine first, her light, hurried steps reflecting her eagerness. To serve as a nun had been her only desire since girlhood, and, still hardly more than a girl, she cherished it with her whole heart. It had been a shock to her when Domina Edith had appointed her infirmaress in place of Dame Claire. And a shock to Dame Claire, who had been taken from her beloved herbs and potions and tending to the sick to become cellarer and kitchener, supervising the priory’s lay workers, storerooms, and kitchen. Dame Claire’s firm, even footsteps followed Sister Thomasine’s, with a mingling of two others close behind her—Sisters Emma and Juliana, neither hurried nor lagging, simply tending to another of the tasks of a nun. Behind them, with no mistaking her heavy tread, came Dame Alys. She had taken her loss of authority as cellarer with ill grace, and made a discontented sacrist. After her, by a goodly while, rushed Sister Amicia, nearly late as usual.
Domina Edith did not enter until Sister Amicia was in her place. The prioress’s dignity required she not be part of the crush and bustle of her nuns. But she was only waiting, and entered as soon as Sister Amicia had settled breathlessly into her stall. Dame Perpetua and Sister Lucy were on her either side, hands on her elbows to steady and support her as she shuffled to her place in her own elaborately carved choir stall. Domina Edith was very old, and last winter’s deep cold had dealt harshly with her. She had survived a heavy rheum in her chest but not recovered her strength. Frevisse, risen to her feet with the others, watched her slow coming and painful easing down into her seat with concern. Domina Edith had been prioress since the year Henry of Lancaster had made himself King Henry IV; Frevisse could not and did not want to imagine St. Frideswide’s without her.
The prioress had just been settled in her stall when the bell in the church tower began to ring the hour of Sext.
Sext was a brief service. Frevisse refuged in it as deeply as she could for its little while, and at its end prayed with especial longing,
“Domine, exaudi orationem meum, et clamor meus ad te veniat.”
Lord, hear my prayer, and let my cry come to you.
The prayer faded to the church’s silence. For a moment there was no stir or whisper, only a silence heavy with the holy weight of the many prayers offered in this place.
Then Domina Edith leaned forward, and Dame Perpetua and Sister Lucy came quickly to help her to her feet. The others rose respectfully, holding their places until she was gone before going their own ways, brisk now to be about their other duties. As they left, Frevisse slid forward onto her kneeler again, returning to the words of Sext’s opening hymn.
Rector potens, verax Deus… Confer salutem corporum veramque pacem cordium…
Lord of might, God of truth… Give the body health and true peace to the heart…
The health she asked for Domina Edith. Let her live, if it be your will. But for herself, peace to the heart,
pacem cordium,
peace…
A touch on her shoulder brought her back. A little dazed, Frevisse raised her head to find Dame Perpetua leaning over the choir stall in front of her to reach her.
It was difficult to judge each other’s ages in St. Frideswide’s, enveloped as they all were in the loose-fitted layers of the black Benedictine habit, only their faces showing in the surround of white wimples and black veils, with even then very little of their foreheads and nothing below the chin. But Frevisse guessed that Dame Perpetua was perhaps ten years older than herself, and so somewhere in her forties. She was a compactly built woman with a kind face and firm manner. Now, bound by the rule of silence, she smiled at Frevisse and made the hand gesture that meant the prioress, and another that asked Frevisse to come with her.
The prioress’s parlor overlooked the inner yard and the guesthalls that flanked its gateway through three tall windows above a window seat made comfortable with brightly embroidered cushions. Because the prioress’s duties included receiving the occasional important visitors and conducting business mat could not be dealt with in the general chapter meetings, her quarters offered more comfort than the rest of the nunnery. There was a large, carved table covered by a woven Spanish tapestry, two chairs, and a fireplace, its flames crackling along a log to ward off the chill of this gray morning.
Domina Edith’s own high-backed chair had been moved close to the hearth, and she sat there, wrapped in the fur-lined cloak she wore only upon the insistence of the infirmaress. It was drawn up to her chin and she was sunk down into it, smaller, it seemed to Frevisse, with each passing month. Just now, she might have been dozing, her chin deep into the folds of her wimple; but if she was, it was the light sleep of the aged. She lifted her head at Frevisse’s entering, her faded eyes alert under the wrinkled lids.
“Dame Frevisse,” she said, and Frevisse curtsied to her. “Sit.” She gestured to the stool across the hearth from her.
Frevisse sat and was immediately aware of the fire’s warmth on her cheeks. Her urge was to hold her hands out to it, too, but they were tucked decently up her sleeves, out of sight; it would be a luxury to bring them out.
“There is a letter come for you.” Domina Edith nodded at Dame Perpetua, who had waited beside the table and now came forward with a folded, sealed piece of parchment in her hand.
Frevisse had supposed Domina Edith wished to see her about some failure in her duties or to warn her against so much time spent alone in the church. Changing her attention to the letter, she took it, not recognizing the handwriting on its outside that directed it to Dame Frevisse Barrett, St. Frideswide’s Priory, near Banbury, Oxfordshire.
“I fear it is bad news,” Domina Edith said softly.
As she said it, Frevisse turned the letter over and recognized her uncle Thomas Chaucer’s seal imprint in the wax. But if it was his letter, then why had someone else written the address? That had never been his way before. Her hands beginning to tremble, because she knew he had been ill, Frevisse freed the seal and unfolded the letter, to find it was indeed written in her uncle’s familiar hand.
“To my well-beloved niece, may this find you in health, I greet you well, with God’s blessing and mine. I am dying—”
Frevisse drew her breath in sharply. All of her tightened with pain, and she fought to keep herself steady. The letter was brief and completely to the point, without any trace of his usual dry wit.
“The disease that we hoped would draw off has indeed proved fatal after all. I would see you one more time, if God grants it and your good prioress allows your journey…” Frevisse’s tears fell down onto the paper, blotting the ink. With a harsh hand, she drove others from her eyes and read on. “If not, know I hold you dear and will remember you in heaven. Your uncle, Thomas Chaucer.”
Already blind again with tears, Frevisse held the letter out to Domina Edith, it being the prioress’s right and duty—and in this case, necessity—to read whatever came to her nuns. She waited, hands pressed to her face to control her crying, until Domina Edith said with all kindness, “You will leave within the hour. May God bring you to him in time.”
Chapter
3
The cold day was drawn down to a thin line of sullen red, lowering in the west below the roiling, darkening clouds. It was as much brightness as the day had seen, but the rain had held off, and the wind with its cutting edge was at their backs now as the four riders covered the last stretch of road, down into the valley with its village and the cluster of walls and buildings that was Ewelme Manor and the end of their journey.
They were already too late. They had learned in the last village before this that Chaucer had died. “Yesterday,” a man had said. “Aye, yesterday. We heard the bell tolling. Carried on the wind, it was. And then today we heard for certain sure that it was over for him. God keep him.”
So all their haste now was to escape the bitter cold and harsh wind; after two days of winter riding those were reasons enough. The small lake between the village and the manor house had a froth of whitecaps, and the tall elms around it soughed and bent their bare limbs in black, tossing patterns against the moving sky.
Ewelme’s outer gates still stood open, with torches burning in the brackets to either side. As the riders came into the courtyard, grooms ran out from the stables, and there were hands to hold the horses and help the riders down.
Frevisse, dismounting stiff and clumsy with cold, looked among the grooms for a face she recognized. Ewelme was where she thought of when she thought of home; she had been part of her uncle’s household for the eight final years of her girlhood.
But she had been gone too many years, it seemed. No one was familiar, including the short gentleman who, as the horses were led away, bobbed up under the travelers’ noses, looking in each of their faces to determine who led their party. Even allowing for the layers of clothing and the cloak he was bundled in, he was a round-bodied man, and he bounced and jounced on the balls of his feet like a water-filled pig’s bladder to show how eager he was to serve.
“Yes, yes, welcome! It’s going to be a cruel night, indeed it is. So you’re very welcome to shelter here. Of course you are. But you know, perhaps, we’re a house bereaved. We can offer shelter, certainly, but—”
“I’m Master Chaucer’s niece,” Frevisse cut in curtly. “He sent for me. Before he died,” she added, to be spared being told again that she was too late.
“Oh. Oh.” The little man registered true distress. He was inches shorter than she was and cricked his neck sideways to see up to her face. “You heard on the way, then! How cruel, how distressing! My deepest sympathy!” He looked around at her companions. Dame Perpetua stood beside her; it was unthinkable a nun would travel without another nun for propriety’s sake. And beyond them were the two burly men the priory steward had chosen from the priory’s stables to accompany them. Given the times and season, any traveler with sense went well guarded if possible.
The little man seemed about to deal with one of the men, anticipating that the women might collapse into hysterical grief at any moment. But Frevisse was too tired and cold, and aware that Dame Perpetua was, as well, to waste time in displays of grief. Tersely, taking the situation in hand, she said, “Let my men be seen to in the stables, if that is convenient.” The little man nodded, blinking rapidly at this display of authority. Frevisse did not give him a chance to speak his agreement, but turned to the priory men and directed, “Return to St. Frideswide’s tomorrow. We’ll be here for I don’t know how long, but if it’s to be more than a fortnight, we’ll send word. When we’re free to return, my aunt will arrange escort for us, surely.”
She looked at the little man for confirmation. He bobbed his head emphatically. “Oh, surely, surely,” he agreed.
“Then Dame Perpetua and I would be most grateful to go inside.”
“Surely, surely.”
As the two priory men bowed awkwardly and began to follow one of the grooms toward the stables, Dame Perpetua said, “God grant you a good night’s rest.”
Ashamed she had forgotten that simple courtesy, Frevisse added hastily, “And a safe journey home.”
The men bowed again, in a hurry to be away to shelter and food. Frevisse and Dame Perpetua gave themselves over to the little man’s guidance.
Ewelme was a moated manor house. As they crossed the bridge from the outer yard after the little man, the wind caught at them again, colder than before. But there were servants standing ready to hold the doors open, and on the little man’s heels they came out of the wind and darkness into a passage where elaborate wooden screens averted the drafts that had come in with them. Beyond the passage was the great hall that was the heart and gathering place of the house. It was full of torchlight and the sounds of trestle tables being set up. “Nearly supper time,” the man explained, as if they would not know this. “Now…” He hesitated. Apparently he had not decided what to do about them in the time from the stable yard to here. Should it be food and warmth first? Or ought they to be taken to Mistress Chaucer right away? Or…
Frevisse thought he must be one of her aunt’s choices for office; her uncle had always expected quick-witted competence and dignity from those who directly served him. Impatiently, and instantly displeased at herself for it, she said, “I want to see my uncle. And Dame Perpetua wants a warm fire to sit beside until it’s time to eat. I’m sure Aunt Matilda will want to know that we’ve arrived.”
“Yes, yes, that seems the best way,” the man agreed. “Your uncle is in the chapel, my lady. If you’ll come with me…
“I know the way. See to Dame Perpetua.”
Dame Perpetua gave her a grateful, shivering smile and nod. She was a good traveler, not given to complaint and grateful for whatever comforts came her way, but she had reached the end of her endurance and needed warmth and a place to sit. She followed the little man away.