The Squire’s Tale

by Margaret Frazer

  ‘If you like,“ Blaunche said without a look at her, and all Robert could be was cravenly relieved not to have to deal with being near her through supper. He made it even better by seeing to it that Dame Frevisse was seated beside him at the high table, and though there was no help for Blaunche being seated on his other side, he left her to make what talk she would with Dame Claire and Benedict beyond her while he gave his attention to Dame Frevisse.

  They kept to merely general things—how the roads had been, the weather, the children—while the first remove was served to them, until the servants had drawn off. He had shifted some of the fish tart, thick with fruit and dark with spices, from the platter between them to her trencher of thick-cut bread and was serving himself when Dame Frevisse asked, “This arbitration I keep hearing of. I know something of the why of it but how does it happen these Allesleys are coming here rather than you to them or somewhere in between?”

  A servant came to refill their goblets, pausing their talk, but when he was gone Robert answered, “Here was near to midway for all the arbiters. It was for their convenience more than anything.” With a sideways look toward Blaunche and a bitterness he should have kept buried, he added, “Though elsewhere could well have been better.” And then, to be away from it, he said, “Has anyone told you we have a chapel here, rather than needing to go into the village to the church? It’s across the yard, near to the gateway. I’ll have Master Geoffrey show it to you tomorrow. You’re more than welcome to use it while you’re here.”

  ‘Thank you. That would be good,“ she said with a smile whose warmth changed her sometimes too-austere face to a different, younger woman’s.

  How old was she? Robert wondered for the first time. Wimples and veils and the loose-fitted habits concealed, as they were supposed to, a nun’s womanhood and made difficult any close guess at her age in the years between very young and old. As he thought that, he had a sudden vision of Katherine as nun, garbed so and shut away into a nunnery for all her days, lost to him just as his first love had been, and his heart seemed to contract as if he had taken a blow there. Afraid he was showing the pain, he grabbed his goblet and feigned a long drink of the ale until he was sure of himself. What Dame Frevisse saw or guessed he did not know, only that she took their talk away into general matters again—more questions about the children, what a fine manor Brinskep looked to be, how large a household did he have—that he doubted she cared about but were at least safe.

  Servants brought the second remove—a fish pottage and baked apple tart from last year’s dried apples—all there would be for tonight, it being Lent for one thing but also because there would be an overly fine dinner tomorrow midday when the arbitrators and the Allesleys would be here, so that overworking the cook and kitchen servants tonight would have been ill sense. But that also meant that, with supper finished, there was nothing for it but to go back up to the parlor and see the evening through. The children took up only a while of it, but when Nurse was gathering them up to go, both Dame Claire and Dame Frevisse claimed readiness for sleep, too, and left with them, Dame Claire advising Blaunche that bed for her as well would be a good thing. Mistress Dionisia put in that Katherine looked tired, too, and Benedict and Master Geoffrey accepted all that for sign to make their good nights and betake themselves away to their own rooms across the yard. Soon enough—or too soon—with the parlor left to Katherine, Emelye and Mistress Dionisia’s bed-going, Robert had nowhere else to be but in his own bedchamber. With Blaunche.

  Alone together for the little while it would take Gil and Mistress Avys to fetch the wafers and light ale that would be kept to hand should Blaunche or Robert hunger or thirst in the night, there was no reason not to say something to her at last about what she had intended between Benedict and Katherine, but Robert found that he did not want to, that he was tired and past his anger. There had been too much time for it to fade, too much time for him to realize that neither his anger nor his fear were any use now. Whatever Blaunche had purposed, Katherine was safe for the present. And besides that—and almost despite himself—he could not help seeing how tired Blaunche was as she sat on the bed edge, combing out her hair. Loosed for the night from pins and wimple and veil, swung forward over one of her shoulders, its soft, straight fairness fell nearly to her waist. In the low lamplight the gray that was beginning to weave through it was merely fairer than the rest, silver-shining, and years, too, were shadowed from her face; she might have been no older than he was, the age she had been when they married, and wearing her loose bedgown and because she always carried her babies small, hardly showing she was childing until well along, there was no sign she was bearing except, because Robert knew her, her face’s thinness.

  Instead of flourishing outward as other women did when bearing, Blaunche seemed instead to fade inward, as if she nourished her babies to life by feeding them on her own. No one else seemed troubled by that change in her—the Women merely made certain she ate strengthening foods— but Robert had always been frightened by it, wondering what it was like to give over your self so thoroughly to Mother’s need, even this one that brought another life into being. And tonight he was more troubled to see, watching her from across their bedchamber, that she was combing her hair with such a slow weariness that the comb might almost have been too heavy for her to lift. If things had been different between them, he would have gone to her, taken the comb and combed her hair himself, but as things were, he was not even sure she would accept his help and stayed standing where he was, not wanting the moment when they would have to lie tensely in their bed together, silently unfriendly.

  That undesire was maybe what Blaunche saw on his face that moment when she looked up at him, because her own face, that had been softened, harshened and, tossing the comb down on the chest beside the bed, she demanded, “So. Are you going to draw back from this Allesley matter while there’s time or not?”

  That was to be the way of it, then: attack him on the Allesleys before he could attack her on Benedict, Robert thought wearily. He should have been ready for it but he was not, taken up with too much else, and his own weariness came down on him so heavily that instead of answer he let his head fall back, looking up at the painted ceiling beams among the lamplight’s shadows instead of at her, with no answer to hand nor any desire for one, only for quiet.

  But, “You’re going through with this, aren’t you?” Blaunche demanded at his silence. “Robert, look at me!”

  He looked. She had shoved her hair back over her shoulders, out of her way, was staring at him with the harsh glint of anger in her eyes, and because there was no use in trying to go sideways from it, Robert said with answering harshness, “Yes, I’m going through with it.”

  ‘Then I’m taking the children and going. I won’t be here for this.“

  ‘You’re staying here and so are the children,“ Robert said, so flatly certain of it that for a moment Blaunche was brought to a full halt, something he rarely managed to accomplish.

  But only briefly. She rallied, flushed with anger, and said, “I’m at least sending Benedict away. He shouldn’t be here for—”

  ‘Benedict stays. I won’t have him on the loose while this goes on.“ To make who knew what kind of mother-inspired trouble.

  ‘He’s not going to be here while you give away his lands!“

  Robert was sick to death of going that way and said angrily back at her, “They’re not his lands. They’re not even your lands.”

  ‘They’ve been my lands for nearly twenty years!“

  ‘And shouldn’t have been for even one!“

  Blaunche ignored that as deftly as she always ignored it, saying instead, “You’re giving away a third of our lands. You’re going to leave us hardly above yeomen. There’s going to be next to nothing to leave our children. How can you want to do that? Can’t you see what you’re doing?”

  Robert saw clearly enough but saw other things, too, and said back at her with weary anger, “What I see is that if the Allesleys aren’t
given back what’s rightfully theirs, they’re going to use force to have it.”

  ‘Let them. We’ll meet and match them any way they want to go. Northend is mine!“

  ‘It’s not yours!“ Robert flared back at her, for the first time between them giving up all hold on patience. ”It’s mine. Because when you married me everything that was yours became mine, to do with as I will.“

  ‘And well that was for you,“ Blaunche blazed in return, ’because you had nothing, nothing, until I…”

  Too late she heard herself, caught back the rest with an inward gasp, and left them staring at one another, the unsaid thing hanging in the air between them, the thing there had always been between them but never said aloud until now. And Robert, finally, with his belly clenched around hollow-ness, said into the silence, “Yes. I had nothing until you married me. But once you did, then by the law I hold everything. And equally by the law Northend belongs to the Allesleys, and has ever since your first husband’s mother died twenty-seven years ago. And by law they’re going to have it back. And the best we can hope for is that what they ask in compensation for the wrong we’ve done them doesn’t cost us more than we’ve ever made from it.”

  ‘If we don’t give it back—“

  ‘If we don’t give it back, the Allesleys are going to use force to have it, and when they do, the ones who’ll have the worst of it are our manor folk caught in the middle, and not just at Northend. There’ll be people hurt who had no part in either the wrong we’ve done or the profits we’ve had, and I won’t have that if I can stop it happening.“

  ‘But there’s going to be so little left! Benedict will have Wystead from his father and all the saints know that’s little enough but with Northend gone, there’ll be only Brinskep to go to Robin, with some sort of provision to be made for John out of that, let be how we’ll ever provide a dower for Tacine. And this child.“ She laid a hand over her belly, her voice gone suddenly tender, the anger turned to worry and soft persuasion as she added, ”All that would change if Benedict marries Katherine. Northend or no, there’d be money enough then and he’s fond of her…“

  ‘I doubt the thought of marrying Katherine would ever have entered his head except for you,“ Robert said coldly.

  ‘Better Benedict than some Allesley brat!“ Blaunche flared. ”Can’t you see—“

  Robert had suddenly had enough and demanded, “Come to that, madam, where was your son yesterday and today?”

  The change of attack caught Blaunche unready. She paused, visibly regrouped, and said, trying for defiance, “He’s man-grown. I don’t know everything he does or where he goes.”

  ‘But you knew this time, didn’t you?“ Robert flung at her.

  Blaunche glared at him, both fierce and cornered, not ready to lie but equally unready to admit the truth. Instead, she swung aside from either, turned on the instant back to soft pleading, holding her hands out to Robert with, “Think what it means if you marry her off to an Allesley. We’ll likely never see her again.”

  It was Robert’s turn to be caught unready. “I know,” he said and shouldn’t have, because the words caught in his throat.

  Blaunche stood up from the bed edge, back to fierce. “But maybe I shouldn’t mind that, should I? Maybe that you never see her again is exactly what I should be wanting!”

  Robert stared at her, knowing his mouth was open but not knowing what to say—denial was too cheap, admittance too dear—and instead of either, he said desperately, “Blaunche, what do you want of me?” And realized as he said it that she had only been flinging words at him, did not believe what she had come near to accusing him of, because at his desperate question her face crumpled toward tears and she cried back at him, “I want you to love me!”

  ‘I do!“ They were both keeping their voices low, aware of the thin wall between them and the parlor and that Gil and Mistress Avys would be back at any moment, but his cry matched hers for desperation. ”God be my witness, Blaunche, I love you!“ And the terrible thing was that he did. How could he not? She had given him everything—a better life than he had ever had hope of, his children. The trouble was that he loved her but not the way she wanted to be loved—not with passion, not simply for herself. That he could not give her. But he gave her what he could and said again, ”I do love you.“

  And Blaunche with the suddenness that came too often on her when she was childing burst into tears, was suddenly, simply a tired, frightened woman in need of comforting and held her arms out to him, saying, “I know you do. Forgive me, Robert. Please. I love you, too. I love you so much. Please.”

  Because it would bring at least temporary peace, he crossed the room to her, into her outheld arms and put his own around her, saying to the top of her head as she pressed against him, “I know, Blaunche, I know.”

  ‘It’s the baby,“ she whispered against his shoulder, past her sobs. ”You know how it is with me when I’m childing. But I love you. I truly, truly do.“

  ‘I know.“ He was holding and rocking her much as he would have held and rocked Tacine in a fit of weeping grief, repeating like a lullaby, ”I know.“

  Gil rapped his foot against the doorframe to let them know he was here and pushed the door open with his hip, needing both hands for the pitcher and goblets he carried. Behind him, Mistress Avys was bringing the covered dish of wafers and dried fruit, and beyond her Robert had glimpse of Katherine, Emelye and Mistress Dionisia making up their beds across the parlor, before Blaunche gave a great, trembling sob and went weak against him, forcing him to lose heed of all else in the need to lift her off her feet, one arm around her shoulders, the other under her knees, cradling her against him, while Mistress Avys put down her plate and hurried toward them; but Blaunche, her arms tightly around Robert’s neck, said wearily but firmly, “No need, Avys. There’s nothing wrong. I’m tired is all.”

  ‘Tired and with no sense,“ Mistress Avys grumbled. ”Gil, help me here and be quick at it.“

  Together they folded the heavy woven bedcover to the bedfoot and turned back the blankets and sheet while Robert held Blaunche, quiet in his arms, then clinging to him when he set her on her feet, letting go of him only long enough for Mistress Avys to take her bedgown off, then briefly squeezing his hand again before she lay down and moved away across the bed, making room for him beside her as always; and as always he slipped free of his own bedgown and in beside her.

  Sometimes that was the end of it and sometimes she wanted more. Tonight, when Gil and Mistress Avys had drawn the covers over them and closed the curtains around the bed, leaving them alone together in the bed-shadows, she shifted to be close against him again, nestling into the curve of his arm with a small child’s whimper, her head resting on his chest. Robert waited and was thankful when he understood she would want no more than holding from him tonight; waited and was more thankful when she was safely gone to sleep, leaving him to the loneliness of his bed and thoughts, his own sleep taking far longer to come.

  Chapter 9

  In the pleasure of escaping from too long a time among too many people not saying too many things all through the evening, Frevisse momentarily cared only for being away as she left the parlor, following Dame Claire down the stairs into the solar. But the certainty that “away” was something neither of them could really be so long as they were here came hard on the heels of her relief and darkened it. Whatever was wrong between Robert and his wife, it was more than the trouble of the moment and present angers. Added to that, Katherine’s place here was difficult to judge. She had been almost a daughter, Frevisse guessed, but now she was become something to be used to someone’s best profit, the question seeming to be whether the profit would be Robert’s or Lady Blaunche’s. Nor was young Benedict to be envied either, caught between his mother’s wishes and his stepfather’s and whatever his own might be. He had kept too thoroughly apart from everyone except young Emelye for Frevisse to judge much about him. Did he want Katherine for herself or because he was told he ought to have her? W
as it truly to Benedict himself that Katherine objected, or to being forced into a marriage, any marriage, the way Lady Blaunche had meant to force her? If the complication of the Allesleys had not happened, where would her affections naturally have gone except to the boy— young man, Frevisse amended, but they all seemed so young, even Robert; sure sign she was growing old, she supposed—who she had grown up with and knew best of anyone she might be likely to marry?

  Unless knowing someone best of anyone was grounds for not wanting to be married to them. Frevisse could readily suppose it was, but then…

  Turning around short of the tapestry over the door to their chamber, Dame Claire said, “Lady Blaunche told me there’s a chapel here that we’re welcome to use. Should we, do you think?”

  ‘For Compline?“ Frevisse’s heart rose. She had put by thought of the chapel as something for later but to go there would be very welcome just now. ”Do we know where it is?“