In the cloister walk they all knelt together for Domina Edith’s blessing. She had raised her hand, had begun to speak, when the door to the courtyard slammed open, startling them all in their places. Footsteps sharp with running came, and a woman in Lady Ermentrude’s livery burst into the cloister walk’s far end.
“She’s choking!” she cried. “She’s dying! The priest said come. Come quickly.”
Frevisse caught Domina Edith’s raised eyebrows giving her leave to go. She left her place in line, but Dame Claire had not waited even for that and was already running down the cloister walk. The others started to rise, confused, but Domina Edith with a single gesture felled them and silenced them. Age had not lessened her authority.
Frevisse overtook Dame Claire at the cloister door. They came out into the courtyard together, wasting no time on anyone as they crossed the yard. In the guest hall most of Lady Ermentrude’s people had sat down to supper at the trestle tables. Heads turned as Frevisse and Dame Claire passed through, not running now but moving too fast to go unnoticed. Frevisse glimpsed Sir John rising from beside his wife at the head of the tables as she and Dame Claire reached Lady Ermentrude’s door.
Dame Claire’s sharp stop in the doorway forced Frevisse to sidestep to avoid her. Then she stopped as sharply, too.
Father Henry was rising from his knees beside the bed, shaking his curly head with dazed disbelief. Lady Ermentrude lay propped up on her pillows, head rolled to one side, her hands still holding the crucifix, her mouth open, her harsh breathing filling the room. On the floor between her and Father Henry sprawled Martha Hayward, her legs straddled wide, her mouth agape and clogged with foam, her hands looking like claws in the rush matting, her eyes bulging, blood-suffused, in the strangled, dead purple of her face.
Chapter Five
Frevisse stopped where she was, as much in disgust as horror, then crossed herself as much in penance for the disgust as for the repose of Martha’s soul. Dame Claire, recovering from her own reaction, went to kneel where Father Henry had been.
Frevisse, almost as quickly, went to stand between sight of Martha’s body and Thomasine, who was crouched too near it, whimpers crawling up from her throat and her face pressed against prayer-clasped hands. Carefully, not wanting to bring on hysterics, she took the girl by the shoulders and said as gently as she could, “Stand up out of Dame Claire’s way.”
The infirmarian was feeling for pulse and breath, looking for life where very surely there was none.
“Stand up,” Frevisse repeated, wanting to get her away from the temptation to look again at Martha.
Thomasine responded, letting herself be helped to her feet. With an arm around her shoulders, Frevisse turned her away from both Martha and Lady Ermentrude.
“It was awful,” Thomasine whispered, shaking in Frevisse’s hold. “It was horrible. She had a... fit. She–”
Firmly across her rising voice Frevisse said, “It’s over. She’s not hurting anymore. It’s finished.”
Dame Claire sat back from her fruitless search for signs of life and looked up at Father Henry still standing above her. “What happened?” she demanded.
Dumb-faced and stunned, perspiring freely, he shook his head. “We were sitting here, the women and I. The others were gone to supper. Lady Ermentrude was dozing, all quiet. Martha was at her stories again, about Lady Ermentrude and what a willful woman she was. I was, God pardon me,” he crossed himself fervently, “hard put not to be laughing at what she had to tell, until she grew too bold and Thomasine was beginning to be offended and went away to pray.” He pointed to the prie-dieu in the far corner. “I asked Martha then to speak more seemly.”
There was a growing murmur at the doorway, and they turned to see a clot of people come to gape. No more were they noticed than they were pushed aside as Sir John came through, with Lady Isobel behind him. “What is it?” he asked. “What’s happened?”
Frevisse cut across his questions, pushing Thomasine toward Lady Isobel. “My lady, please, your sister has need of you.”
“Why, what’s happened?” Lady Isobel’s question was sharper than her husband’s. “Is my aunt all right?” She came to take Thomasine’s arm as she spoke and over her sister’s shoulder saw what lay on the floor. Her face went curd-pale. In a choked voice she said, “Martha Hayward.”
“Help your sister,” ordered Frevisse, shifting the girl into Lady Isobel’s arms. “Take her away from here.” Lady Isobel nodded distracted agreement, her sickened gaze still on Martha’s body.
“She’d dead?” Sir John croaked the word disbelievingly, his gaze averted.
Frevisse thought dryly that he must not have received his knighthood for skill in battle if he were squeamish over so bloodless a death; she firmly pushed both Thomasine and Lady Isobel away to the side of the room, turning back as Dame Claire told Father Henry, “Go on.”
The priest, uneasy at his growing audience and still shocked, obeyed. “She said she was thirsty, all dry from so much talking, and missing her supper in the bargain, and the sops were going to waste and,” he gestured helplessly toward the empty bowl on the table, “she just ate them. She said she’d have a taste and then she ate them all.”
“I dare say,” Frevisse said with subdued irony.
Father Henry nodded vigorously. “She ate the sops, talking all the while, and then without my having any chance to stop her, she drank a great draught of the wine. I told her then it was meant for Lady Ermentrude and had medicine in it, so she made a face and stopped and went to talking again. In a while she said she was hot and opened the window, though I told her not to, and took to walking up and down the room. She was drunk then, I think, taking so much wine at once, for she wasn’t making much sense. I tried to have her sit down lest she rouse Lady Ermentrude but–”
Father Henry stopped, embarrassment and uncertainty on his face.
“She pushed him,” Thomasine said a little shrilly. “She laid hands on him and pushed him aside and kept on walking back and forth and Maryon said we’d best do something.”
“Maryon?” Dame Claire asked.
The dark-haired lady-in-waiting stepped forward from beside the door. Frevisse realized she had been there all the while but so still she had gone unnoticed. “I’m Maryon,” she said.
“And you were here the while?”
Maryon bent her head in acknowledgment. “I thought to be of service, if my lady should need me.”
“What seemed the matter with Martha to you?”
“Too much drink,” said Maryon succinctly. “I went to the door to send someone for some of my lady’s men to have her out of here but while I was speaking to the woman, Martha started making... sounds.”
“Awful sounds!” Thomasine cried, and they turned to stare at her. “And... and clawing at herself.” She made a feeble gesture at her chest and throat.
Her calm a decided contrast to Thomasine’s edge of hysteria, Maryon said, “I told the woman at the door to run and find the infirmarian, that she would be in the church somewhere. When she was gone, Martha fell down and we couldn’t help her.”
“She was lying on the floor, kicking, thrashing...” Thomasine’s eyes were full of desperate misery. “Father Henry went to help her, and I tried to pray, but it didn’t help. It didn’t help.”
Father Henry said, “There was nothing I could do but give her the Last Sacrament. There was time, barely. Just a general absolution and the anointing.” He held out the small wad of bread that he had correctly used to wipe the last of the chrism from his fingers. His hand was trembling. He looked at it with surprise and then put it behind his back.
“But she just went on and on, kicking and choking!” Thomasine cried. “She couldn’t stop. Until she... died.”
“A fit,” Lady Isobel said quickly, firmly, hugging Thomasine close. “A fit. Her heart, I would think. So fleshly a person easily might die like that. Here.”
She moved her sister toward the table where a goblet sat beside the empty bo
wl of milksops. She pushed the goblet toward Thomasine’s hands. “Drink this. It will steady you, child.”
Thomasine’s hands fluttered back, warding it off. “No. That’s the wine with Great-aunt’s medicine in it.”
“Yes, but medicine for quieting nerves,” said Frevisse, remembering. Which would do Thomasine no harm just now. “It’s all right,” she said reassuringly. “Dame Claire can mix more. Go on.”
Obediently Thomasine reached to take the goblet from Lady Isobel. But her hands were shaking far worse than Father Henry’s; there was an instant’s mistiming and the goblet fell, spattering the edge of Lady Isobel’s gown and splashing the wine across the rush matting in a bright stain. Lady Isobel exclaimed in annoyance and backed away, shaking out her dress as Thomasine, wringing her hands, began a shaky litany. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry, I’m sorry–”
“Enough!” Frevisse said sternly. “The dress will wash and there was hardly any wine in the cup. Crying over spilled wine is as useless as crying over milk.” She shifted her attention to Lady Isobel.
But she was already recovered, her dress forgotten as she came back to her sister’s side. “It’s all right. Come sit down. You’re trembling so.” She led her away to the bench at the window. Sir John followed them and put his arm around his wife’s shoulders, holding her close while she held Thomasine. They were not moved so much by a servant’s death, Frevisse thought, as by the bare fact of Death itself, and a dreadful one, unexpected, a hard thing to face so young as they were. Thomasine, apparently recovering a little, began to draw slightly away from her sister and averted her eyes. Frevisse, reassured by so typical a gesture and feeling the girl would do well enough for the time being, turned her attention back to Dame Claire, who had closed Martha’s eyes and was straightening her limbs.
“It would seem it was her heart,” Dame Claire pronounced, gazing on Martha’s face. She crossed herself and rose to her feet.
“How does my lady aunt?” asked Lady Isobel.
Dame Claire turned and felt Lady Ermentrude’s face and hands, and listened to her breathing before answering, “She seems to be doing well enough.”
Coming near, Frevisse asked in a quiet voice, “Is it the medicine you gave her makes her sleep so deeply?” She was thinking that perhaps it was as well Thomasine had spilled it.
“She never had any of the medicine. I wanted the food in her, to act against the drunkenness, and managed to make her eat a little, but by the time she’d finished being fed she was nearly stupored into sleep already and wouldn’t drink. She just went to sleep without it.”
“What should we do?”
Dame Claire stood still, thinking, after a moment giving a tiny nod of decision. “Domina Edith must be told at once. Father Henry, will you do that? And Martha’s body had best be taken into the cloister, away from here. Can you find men to do it?”
Frevisse turned to the door and pointed at four gawkers, who proved less willing to bear Martha’s bulk than they had been to stare at it. But they were even less willing to cross Frevisse and managed to take the body away with a semblance of respect.
With an audible sigh, Lady Isobel moved from her husband’s arms, going to pick up the goblet from where it had fallen and partly rolled under the table. As she bent over and her fingers closed around it, she made a small sound of surprise and reached further under the table, then cried out sharply, “It bit me!” She jerked her hand back and clasped the fingers with her other hand. Blood welled and spilled over.
“What is it? What bit you?” asked her husband, coming immediately to swing his foot under the table.
“That stupid monkey!” she said, fierce with pain. “That stupid monkey bit me!”
Sir John kicked again, hard enough to hurt, but the monkey, untouched, skittered out of hiding and scaled the bed curtains to sit on top, chittering in fright.
“I’ll kill it!” Sir John said. His gaze and hands moved, looking for a weapon, but Frevisse said firmly, “We’ll have it down later. You’ll rouse Lady Ermentrude. Be quiet!”
He stopped, confused, as if uncertain whether to glare at her or at the monkey. The animal stared down at them silently, his tail wrapped up across his chest and around his shoulders in comfort.
“Please, John,” Lady Isobel said softly, holding out her injured hand to him. His anger vanished like mist wiped off a mirror, and he went to her again.
“I’ll take her to the infirmary,” Dame Claire said. “To clean it and bandage it. Will you come, my lady?”
“Lady Ermentrude?” Lady Isobel asked. “Who will stay with her?”
“There’s no worry about that,” said the woman Maryon. “I’ll remain with her.”
“And so will I.” Thomasine still stood beside the window, a slender child in her dark gown, solemn as if years of age were on her, her voice steady. “I need to make up for failing Martha.”
“There was nothing you could have done, child,” Dame Claire said. “Dame Frevisse, will you see to what needs doing? And Lady Isobel, if you’ll come with me. When we have finished, doubtless Domina Edith will be wanting to hear from me about what’s happened. By your leave.”
Frevisse nodded her agreement. As Dame Claire left, taking Lady Isobel and Sir John with her, Maryon closed the chamber door against the remaining staring faces. Thomasine turned, her hands clasped imploringly, to Frevisse. “Please give me leave to stay. I’ve been angry at Lady Ermentrude. And at Martha. My staying will be penance for all of that.”
“Otherwise you’ll spend the night in church on your knees,” Frevisse said dryly. Thomasine looked surprised and a little abashed at being so well understood. She nodded, and Frevisse granted, “Then you might as well pray here as there and be of some use in the bargain. Maryon, can you find some of Lady Ermentrude’s ladies to keep the watch in turns with you?”
“I can do it alone. I don’t mean to sleep!” Thomasine cried out earnestly as Maryon nodded.
“I did not think you did. But I doubt Maryon or any other of your aunt’s ladies will make the same sacrifice. They’ll take their turns while you keep your watch. And your silence,” she added as Thomasine opened her mouth to protest. “Go to your praying.”
Frevisse ate her belated supper alone in the refectory. The servants’ silence and long looks as they served her told they knew all there was to know about Martha’s death and were feeling it, even if they knew better than to ask her questions.
When she had finished, Frevisse went to the church in search of Dame Claire. Martha’s body, already washed, wrapped in its shroud, and placed in a plain coffin, was resting on a bier before the altar, candled at head and feet, with Father Henry too deep in prayer beside it to notice her. At Compline Domina Edith would divide the night into watches and set the nuns in turn in pairs to praying in the choir for the salvation of Martha’s soul. But Dame Claire was not there, and after a brief prayer for Martha’s repose, Frevisse went out to the garden, where the nuns would be taking the last of their evening recreation before Compline and bed.
Dame Claire was not among them. Frevisse, pausing in the gateway to look for her, supposed she must be with Domina Edith and was thinking of going to join them when she noticed that the other nuns were not walking or sitting as usual but standing in little groups along the paths, their low talking – allowed during this one time of the day – underrun with excitement and pleasurable agitation. She knew Martha had never mattered enough to any of them for there to be much grieving for her loss. It was simply that so sudden a dying provided eager gossip for an evening, even better than Lady Ermentrude’s regrettable behavior. Better that they gossip about someone beyond caring what they said, than about someone still able to be offended, she supposed.
Then, before she could withdraw, Sister Amicia, among the nearest cluster of nuns, saw her and called out excitedly, “Dame Frevisse!”
Heads turned, and they all began to move toward her eagerly, Sister Amicia first. With resignation, Frevisse waited wh
ere she was.
Sister Amicia, still the most eager, exclaimed, “Dame Frevisse, you were there! Nobody knows anything except she’s dead. Tell us please, was it awful?”
With a quelling edge to her voice, Frevisse answered, “She was already dead when Dame Claire and I came in. Her struggle was over. She was only lying there. It was her heart, Dame Claire thinks. Have you seen her?”
“No, she hasn’t been into the garden yet today.”
The nuns crowding behind Sister Amicia nodded, making the expected murmurs of sympathy. Martha had been a fine cook, but fat, and not young, they agreed. A greedy stomach was bad for the heart. But Sister Amicia, with widened eyes, leaned nearer to Frevisse and whispered in awed, carrying tones, the question they all wanted answered. “She saw demons, didn’t she, come to torment Lady Ermentrude? Isn’t that what stopped her heart, truly?”
Aware that everyone around them had heard that “whisper,” Frevisse let her impatience show. “I doubt it,” she said crisply. “There was distinctly no smell of brimstone in the room.”
Irony was lost on Sister Amicia. She only blinked, a little disappointed. “But maybe there isn’t always. Brimstone, I mean. Do you think?”
“Thomasine was there,” Frevisse said shortly, “and said nothing about seeing demons.”
“Oh, but she did,” one of the other young nuns exclaimed gladly. “She said she saw them dancing all around Lady Ermentrude. She said that.”
If talk of Lady Ermentrude’s demons was already this far into the priory, there was no hope of stopping it, Frevisse thought angrily. Curbing the rumors was all that was left. “That was this afternoon when Lady Ermentrude first came,” she said briskly. “Not when Martha was dying. And Thomasine never said she saw demons, only that she thought Lady Ermentrude was seeing them.”
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