Authors: Margaret Frazer
It was a short letter, considering what it had to say. In the days it had been his and no one else’s, Master Gruesby had wondered how many times Stephen’s mother had written it over, and with what effort and agony, to bring everything she had wanted to say down to those few sentences before she had left it to God’s will whether it would someday come to her son or not. Now it had and the son she had hardly known was reading it more than once, guessing from the time that passed until he looked up from it to Master Gruesby and asked with a quietness worse than shouting, “How long have you had this?”
Master Gruesby cleared his throat. “It came from the strong chest in the nunnery within the hour.”
With that same quietness, Master Stephen said, “I mean, how long have you known about it?”
With desperate effort Master Gruesby met his gaze and answered steadily, “Since the day we first came to Goring. Master Montfort and I. Since then.”
Master Stephen opened his mouth, shut it over whatever he had been first minded to say, paused, and finally asked, “Who else knows about it?”
‘Master Montfort did. No one else. He set me to look through the Lengley documents as soon as we arrived. While he went to see the Champyons. I gave it to him when he came back.“ Master Gruesby’s throat was so tight the words would barely come but there was relief in saying them, in not being the only one to know. ”He took it with him the next morning. I th-think he liked the power he felt, having it. Over everyone he was talking to. You see. He gave it back to me when he returned. He said to leave it where it had been. Until he asked for it again.“
Stephen’s gaze had returned to the letter. “My God and Judas’ blood,” he breathed. “Juliana wasn’t lying.” And then, accusingly, “Why give me this? Why not to the crowner or escheater?”
‘Because…“ Master Gruesby stopped and gathered himself, and went on, ”Because you should know. Because it should be your choice. Instead of someone else’s.“ And also because Master Gruesby knew something of what it was to lose out on one’s life for no other reason than one’s birth. But that was aside from Master Stephen’s trouble and he did not say it, and if the shadow of it was in his voice, Master Stephen did not hear it, eyes on the letter again. That morning, before Master Christopher’s men had taken Master Haselden away, Stephen had asked of him, ”If my mother wasn’t my father’s wife, what happened to her?“ And Master Haselden had said back with angry pleasure, ”Dead a long time ago. Your grandmother can tell you all about it. Make her.“
Now there was far less Lady Agnes would have to tell him.
But from across the room she was become aware that something more than a mere message was happening. Sharply she called, “Stephen. What is it?” And when he did not answer, she pushed herself to her feet by an arm of her chair and her staff, saying more sharply, “What is it? What have you there?”
Master Stephen looked over Master Gruesby’s shoulder at her, a long-drawn moment passing before he said, level-voiced, “A letter from my mother.”
Lady Agnes straightened, her mouth thinning to a harsh, determined line before she said, “Nonsense. There’s no such thing.” She held out a demanding hand. “Give it here.”
Master Stephen made no move toward her. “It was with the documents you gave Master Montfort leave to look at.”
‘It wasn’t. It couldn’t have been.“
Master Stephen stepped aside from Master Gruesby, as if clearing a tourney field between him and his grandmother, and read, “ T, dying with nothing of the world to leave to you, leave only this, a gift of truth, and knowing that neither your father nor your grandmother can be trusted to give it to you, nor feeling I should burden any living soul with it, I have persuaded Domina Aylenor to let me put it in the Lengley strong chest, that if it be God’s will that it come someday and somehow into your hands, it will.‘”
Lady Agnes struck her staff against the floor. “The treacherous whore!” She thrust her hand out angrily. “Give that thing to me. It’s lies and nothing but lies. Give it here.”
‘No.“
‘It’s lies! All of it!“
Master Stephen took his look from her and from near the bottom of the page, close to where the seal was attached, read, “ T, Domina Aleynor Thedmarch, prioress of the nunnery of St. Mary the Virgin in Goring, do attest and swear that I have not read what is herein written but have taken oath from Mariota Coleshill that it is true…‘ ”
‘
’Stephen,“
Lady Agnes said in a voice that utterly forbade him to read more.
‘ ’… and because she is near to death and has repented of her sins and made confession, I do believe her.‘ “ Stephen raised his eyes to his grandmother. ”It’s sealed with the nunnery’s seal.“
‘Mariota as always a liar. She was lying to Domina Aylenor. She’s lying to you through that letter. Let me burn it.“
‘It isn’t her lies I’ve been living by,“ Stephen said, coldly calm. ”It’s been your lies. And my father’s and Master Haselden’s. Her only lie was in letting you have your own way against her and she did that for my sake.“
‘Everything was done for your sake,“ Lady Agnes said back at him, angry but also, Master Gruesby thought, afraid.
‘But for your sake and my father’s and Master Haselden’s first,“ Stephen answered. ”I was simply the means to your ends.“
For the first time Lady Agnes showed desperation. “Your father loved you, Stephen. I love you…”
And gently Stephen answered her, “I know you do, and I love you and ever will. But the lying has to stop. I want to take my own course instead of one set for me by others.”
‘Not this course. This is the wrong course.“ Lady Agnes turned to Domina Elisabeth. ”She was an apostate nun. Utterly damned. She fled out of St. Mary’s with a man. Not my son. Someone else. It was only after the first man deserted her that my son took her and then at the last she deserted him, went crawling back to the nuns begging forgiveness. How can anyone believe anything she ever wrote or said?“
‘Grandmother,“ Stephen said, dangerous in his quietness. ”Listen. She confesses she fled her vows and was later taken up by my father. Then she writes, ’We loved each other carnally but more than carnally. We loved with our hearts as well as our bodies and when the time came that I bore you, his second son, and knew even while my happiness was at the height, holding you in my arms, that I was dying without hope, I gave your father and grandmother their wish and let them have you in return for being allowed, weary of the world as I was become, to return to St. Mary’s, to pray for the nuns’ forgiveness and God’s in my last days.‘ “
He stopped and, grim with remembrance, Lady Agnes said, “Your father was so bitter over that. His little bitch-wife had been sickly for years but wouldn’t die, while his paramour who had been so full of life died in a bare few months of lung rot. Only then and at almost the same time did his wife finally die, the useless woman.” Lady Agnes jerked her staff toward the letter. “But that doesn’t mean that has to be the truth there!”
‘ ’Dying,‘ “ Stephen remorselessly read, ” ’I leave you what I can of my love and the truth, and hope it comes to you. They say God’s will is over all. That being so, I wonder why he willed this life, this death on me, but that is not the manner of question we are taught to ask. May God be with you, as I know he is now with me. Written by my own hand this seventh day of…‘ “
Now, finally, Stephen’s voice twisted toward the tears he had been holding in and he stopped until he had them at bay, not shamed by them but in need of dealing with other things first, lowering the letter and saying to his grandmother when he had steadied his voice again, “There’s been enough of lying. I’d rather live by the truth from here on.”
‘The ’truth‘ will cost you your legitimacy and your lands,“ Lady Agnes said back at him.
‘Your lies cost Nichola her life! And have helped to ruin Master Haselden and Mistress Haselden. And Juliana come to that. And even Montfort. I think that’s enough. Don’t you?“
Tears filled Lady Agnes’s eyes. “We didn’t think your brother would live, and to lose all because there was no other heir…” Her tears flowed over, down the long lines of her face. “It isn’t only the Bower manor that you’ll lose by this. It’s everything. You’ll be left with nothing, Stephen. Don’t you see? You’ll have nothing.”
Stephen went to her, three long strides, and put his arms around her, taller than she was though she was tall, and held her to him, her face against his shoulder, and said to the top of her head, “Grandmother, Grandmother. I’m not a fool and I’m not a weakling. I’d rather make a life for myself that wasn’t come from lies and people dying for it. Besides…” He set Lady Agnes back at arm’s length from him and said with a smile for her sake and something like laughter, broken though it was on his own tears, “Besides, don’t I remember that you have a manor in your own name, to will to whom you wish, and who better than your well-loved grandson?”
‘A small manor,“ she protested. ”Not worth a quarter of all you’re giving up!“
Smile and laughter gone, Stephen looked into her eyes. “But without Nichola’s death because of it,” he said.
Chapter 24
The next morning, to Frevisse’s relief, she and Domina Elisabeth parted early from Lady Agnes, moving with their few things into the nunnery’s guesthall at last, with thanks and reasonable farewells and no protest from Lady Agnes at their leaving. With all else she had in hand at present, they were probably forgotten by now, Frevisse thought as she stood in front of the church’s rood screen not much afterward, waiting for Christopher and a last chance to talk with him before he left Goring, to ask the things there had been no chance for yesterday. This early in the day, with the nuns at Chapter meeting and most other people about their day’s business, she and Christopher would likely have the church to themselves except for the nunnery servant she had brought with her for seemliness’ sake because this time she was here with Domina Elisabeth’s knowledge and leave; but the woman was sitting on a bench along the wall near the rood screen, hands wrapped in her apron for warmth and her head bowed in what her heavy, even-rhythmed breathing told was sleep, not watchfulness.
That suited Frevisse well enough. To have the church’s quiet and beauty to herself this while, with the long slant of the lately risen sun through the windows streaming colors down into the nave—ruby, azure, saffron gold. They were warmer to see than to feel, though, and shivering slightly in her furred gown, she thought wryly that she must be growing old, the cold came nearer her bones than it had used to. Or maybe it was the coldheartedness of these past few days that had chilled her so deeply she was not sure when she’d be warm again. Montfort’s death and all the rest had come not of any hot passion of love but out of the cold passion of greed. Greed for power, greed for land, greed for flesh. Montfort’s greed, Philip Haselden’s greed, Juliana’s greed. Greeds that had left Montfort and Juliana and Nichola dead and the Haseldens ruined and Stephen…
For Stephen at least she had hope. There were people who despite anything that happened to them, stayed small and shut without thought into the same endlessly repeating pattern of their feelings all of their lives. Come what might to them, they never grew. But there were also those who, besides feeling what happened to them, thought about it and thereby had chance to change, to grow. Stephen looked to be one of those. Whoever he had been a few days ago, he was someone else now, someone more than he had been before, and she would be ever thankful she had been there to see him make his choice to live by truths instead of lies.
It had been a costly choice in more ways than one and the price paid to bring him to it was a price no one would have chosen to pay; but having been paid, at least it was not gone to waste. As his mother’s life had not, after all, gone to waste. There was no way to know whether trusting her letter to such chance as might come to it had been a foolish thing to do or an act of deepest faith but Frevisse preferred to believe that the woman had given the letter over to God’s will in recompense for having so badly failed to give her life to him, and if it had been done out of faith, then her faith had been fulfilled. If anyone had bothered with those papers over the years—and very possibly no one had, there being no need until there was quarrel over the inheritance—that one paper had gone unnoticed, shuffled past because it was not what anyone was looking for, until Master Gruesby, of all unlikely people, had read it.
Or maybe, rather than unlikely, he was the likeliest of all, preferring words to people as she thought he did and probably reading everything that ever came his way.
The heavy iron latch on the nave door rattled as it was raised and she turned from the rood screen, expecting it would be Christopher coming in and not surprised to see Master Gruesby silent-footed behind him, head down as usual, turning back to pull the heavy door shut with a soft thud before he followed Christopher up the nave toward her. As they approached, she saw that Christopher’s weariness looked to be as heavy on him as his dark mourning clothes and said to him, “May we sit?” as if she were in need of it instead of him.
‘Of course,“ he granted and they went to the bench where they had sat together before, Master Gruesby following, and again Christopher had to tell him to sit.
As Master Gruesby did, Frevisse asked, not to waste what probably small time they had, “The question of Stephen’s inheritance goes to whoever is now escheator, I know, but besides that, what’s toward?”
Christopher leaned tiredly back against the wall and sighed. “I’ve sent a messenger to the sheriff. To tell him he’s needed here. When he comes, everything goes into his hands.”