The moment of quiet ended. The few lay servants of the priory who still bothered to come to services had slipped out of the church past her and away while she stood there, and now Lady Eleanor, who always lingered a little longer for private prayers of her own, said quietly beside her, “Dame Frevisse.”
Frevisse, opening her eyes, turned to her with a smile. The Rule of silence that should have confined all idle conversation in the cloister to the hour of recreation at day’s end had long since gone slack under Domina Alys, and because it was difficult to keep to hand gestures when everyone else was chattering on like jays through a day, Frevisse had let it go, too, and now answered easily, “My lady. How is it with you?”
Lady Eleanor must always have been a small woman and now in her years beyond middle age she was smaller still, but rather than have dried and wrinkled and wearied with her years, she had faded gently to softness and rose, given as much to laughter as to prayers. As usual, she was smiling now, and equally as usual an insistent wisp of white hair had escaped from her careful wimple to curl against her cheek. Since coming to St. Frideswide’s last spring, she made a quiet, constant effort to be what she called a “shadow nun,” always dressing in simple gray gowns and plain white wimples and veils, but she admitted freely that she had no intention of ever taking a nun’s vows, and she had kept her vanity of unshorn hair, as that curl gave away more often than not. She was pushing it back into her wimple as she answered Frevisse’s courtesy, “Very well, thank you, my lady.”
“An arthritic attack in the night,” her maid Margrete muttered from behind her.
“Which has passed off and gone,” Lady Eleanor responded, not turning her head. Most conversations between herself and Margrete were carried on that way, with Margrete usually the correct three paces behind her lady but joining in the talk whenever she felt it necessary and Lady Eleanor answering her without looking back. They had been together most of their lives—“Longer than I was with either of my husbands,” Lady Eleanor had once said—and silence could go on between them comfortably for hours, or their conversations could be, like now, a mere sharp exchange that barely distracted Lady Eleanor from asking Frevisse lightly, “Standing here with your eyes closed praying for patience with my niece?”
Frevisse’s smile twisted to wryness. “Nothing so pious, I fear. I was simply enjoying the sunlight.”
“That can be piety, too, I think. Enjoying God’s gifts. Better than being rude about them, even ignoring them, surely.”
“Surely,” Frevisse agreed. She enjoyed Lady Eleanor’s directness with life and equally her kindness toward it. Had she always been so, or was it something that came with years and living? Whichever it was, it was in strong contrast to the ways of Domina Alys, her niece. That Lady Eleanor was another Godfrey had been among the reasons Frevisse had so strongly protested against her coming when her offer of a corrody had first been raised.
Accepting a set sum of money in return for keeping a lady in comfort for the rest of her life was a gamble nunneries sometimes took for the sake of having much money in hand all at once, but it was a gamble St. Frideswide’s had always, with good cause, avoided until now. Too many stories from other nunneries that had succumbed to the temptation of corrodies through need or even misplaced kindness made fearfully clear how often a lady would leave behind her worldly responsibilities but bring with her into the cloister too many servants, comforts, pets, and even quantities of visiting relatives, all disrupting what was supposed to be the cloister’s peace.
Besides that very immediate risk, there was the chance that the lady might live too long. A corrody was a set sum of money, paid when she first came. If her life ran out before her money did, then the nunnery had a profit; if she lived on, the nunnery faced uncompensated expenses that could eventually, disastrously, far outweigh any advantages there might have been in having her money at the beginning.
All that and the fact that Lady Eleanor was Domina Alys’ father’s sister had been reason enough to Frevisse’s mind for refusing her. There had even been others among the nuns who not only agreed but dared to say so. The argument over it in chapter meeting had gone on more mornings than one, but anyone who dared go against Domina Alys always found she had more ways than a few to make them feel her displeasure. She did not give in to opposition, nor forget or forgive it, and at the last, driven and drawn by that reality and by Domina Alys’ insistence that, “She’s too old to live long enough to be a trouble to us and we need the money,” most of the nuns had given way.
In truth, the need had indeed been real enough; was still real enough. Replacing the wooden bell pentise in the garth with one of carved stone had only seemed to enlarge Domina Alys’ ambitions for St. Frideswide’s. Last year she had persuaded the nuns to the bell pentise; this summer she had simply announced that she had hired men to build a tower and that Lady Eleanor’s corrody would pay for it. By then, worn down by the arguments over the corrody to begin with, almost no one had dared rouse her temper by challenging her on anything else if they could help it, even so great a matter as this. Only Frevisse had dared start a question against it, and been given a week on bread and water and one hundred aves every day of that week—“That you may learn a like humility to blessed Mary’s,” Domina Alys had snapped—for her presumption.
That had sufficed to silence the rest of the nuns, except those who enthusiastically supported whatever their prioress chose to do. Now there was nothing for it but to hope that Domina Alys was right, that Lady Eleanor’s corrody would cover the costs of stone and masons and lead for the roof when it reached that high. But that did not change the fact that the corrody should have been husbanded for the priory’s use over years, not spent all at once on a thing for which there was no need at all.
The one comfort was that Lady Eleanor had proven to be far less a trouble than Frevisse had feared. When she came just after Easter, she had brought only Margrete, very few of her household furnishings, and just two fluffy, blessedly well-behaved small dogs. Against all Frevisse’s expectations, she had settled gently into her place in the priory. She had even proven to be someone pleasant to talk with sometimes, so that now, with their ways lying the same way around the cloister walk, they went on together, neither of them hurried, Margrete following behind them, as Lady Eleanor said, “None went none so well, did it?”
Frevisse held herself to only “No,” but knew her voice’s edge gave away a great deal of what she did not say.
“The pity of it,” Lady Eleanor said, “is that Alys’ heart is in it. It’s her mind that’s not.”
Frevisse forbore to say what she thought of Domina Alys’ mind. They reached the corner of the cloister walk where they would part. Lady Eleanor’s room lay farther along while Frevisse would go by way of the shadowed passageway that led to the cloister’s outer door, beyond which normally no nun should go without especial permission and cause. But by St. Benedict’s Rule, every Benedictine house had to provide shelter and food for travelers, receiving even the poorest as guests and seeing to their needs. Frevisse, as hosteler of St. Frideswide’s, had the duty of overseeing that all of that was done, with the two guest halls that flanked the gateway to the outer yard in her charge, and she went and came from the cloister as her duties necessitated. She knew Domina Alys had made her hosteler for the sake of having her out of the cloister as much as might be, but she did not care. Better that than being cellarer and needing to deal daily and directly with Domina Alys over all the nunnery’s everyday needs, the way Dame Juliana had to.
Unfortunately, through the past two years, most of the priory’s guests were Godfreys, mostly come to see Domina Alys or to visit with Lady Eleanor or both, but always to enjoy the nunnery’s hospitality at little or no cost to themselves except in the way of such gifts as they might choose to bring. Admittedly, some had been untowardly generous, especially Lady Eleanor’s eldest son when he came at midsummer to see how his mother did, but Domina Alys too often invited whoever was visiting to spend th
eir evenings in her parlor with her, for wine and for talk and laughter that could sometimes be heard across the cloister to the nuns’ dormitory, where lately listening seemed to be too often taking the place of sleeping.
Worse, whichever nuns were currently highest in their prioress’s favor were sometimes invited to share the evening’s merriment, and their open delight and the tidbits of talk they gave out afterward had set up a rivalry among too many of them to stay in Domina Alys’ good grace, to better their chance of being chosen. Only Dame Claire, Dame Perpetua, Sister Thomasine, and Frevisse were still excluded and were a little scorned by the others for it, though Sister Thomasine was too lost in her duties and her prayers to notice. Frevisse doubted she was more than distantly aware of even the builders’ noise, let alone how Domina Alys spent her evenings or the present intrusion of her cousin Sir Reynold and his men.
Through the past half year Sir Reynold had come more and more frequently, usually with only a few men and servants and usually for no more than a few days at a time, but two weeks’ end ago, with no word sent ahead, he had ridden in with half a score of his knights and squires, and their servants for good measure, and so far had given no sign of when he meant to leave. It left scant room in the guest halls for anyone else who might chance to come, even casual travelers for a single night, and stores that should have served through Christmastide at very least were being used up far too quickly.
This morning, as they sometimes did, Sir Reynold and his men had ridden out during Tierce’s prayers, with laughter and shouting and the clatter of their horses’ hooves on the cobbles of the yard, and though they would be back, Frevisse had taken the chance to have the disorder made by too many men living idle too many days cleared and cleaned before their return. She was going now to see if everything had been done as she had ordered, with the hope she would be back inside the cloister before they rode in. The less she had to see of Sir Reynold or any of his men, the better she was pleased.
Because there was no use in complaining, she had said nothing outside of chapter meeting of what was happening, but as she and Lady Eleanor paused together Lady Eleanor asked, “How much trouble have my nephew and his men made for you?”
Frevisse tried to answer lightly, as if there were no need to take much heed, “Enough.”
Quietly smiling—she had known her nephew Sir Reynold far longer than Frevisse had had the misfortune to—Lady Eleanor said, “If I were you, I’d see to there being a sleeping potion in his ale and all his men’s at supper every night. And mornings, too, come to that, until they grow so bored with being here they leave.”
“It would be a comfort if we had some notion of when they were going to go,” Frevisse said, and did not try to hide how much she meant it.
Lady Eleanor nodded. “I know. The only comfort I can offer, my dear, is that nothing goes on forever.” Her smile deepened, warm with sympathy as she added, “It only seems to, sometimes.”
Frevisse smiled back, agreeing there was comfort in perspective—not necessarily the comfort she wanted, but comfort nonetheless.
They parted, Lady Eleanor away to her room, Frevisse along the short length of the chill, shadowed passageway to the heavy outer door. Made of two thicknesses of wood, it was kept barred at night but during the day was only shut on the latch, and though according to the Rule, someone was supposed to watch at it all the day and through the night, St. Frideswide’s was too small for that to be worth the while. Someone was always near to hear if anyone came knocking, and with the inner yard and its gateway and then the outer yard with its clutter of buildings and workers to notice and question the coming of any stranger, and finally the gateway to the road all lying between the cloister door and the outer world, with the other way into the inner yard only through the busy kitchen yard and a small side gate, no one unwanted was likely to come so far as the cloister door unnoticed.
Some of Sir Reynold’s servants were passing the afternoon’s time at ease in the courtyard between the cloister and guest halls, stretched out on the steps up to the new guest hall or gathered around the well where the sunlight was presently warmest. Frevisse crossed to the older of the two guest halls without seeming to heed them, her head bowed enough to swing her veil forward to hide her face on either side, showing she was willing to ignore them if they would return the courtesy by ignoring her and they did.
Knowing she was hosteler only to keep her out of Domina Alys’ way did not give her any leave to slack her duties; nor did it mean she had any right to draw her work out beyond necessity. She went about what needed seeing to now as quickly as care made possible, pleased to find that the guest-hall servants had managed to put more to rights than she had hoped but finding, now that she had chance to check more carefully the guest-hall stores, that even more had been eaten and drunk away than she had guessed.
When Frevisse spoke of it to Ela, head of the guesthall servants, while poking at the few remaining bundles of onions hanging from the storeroom ceiling to be sure there was no rot, Ela said, “There was talk they’d bring something back with them today, like they’ve done those other two times. Nothing clear, mind you, so I’ll not be surprised if nothing comes of it, but that’s what some of them were saying, because what we have isn’t good enough for them, that’s why. They’re wanting better.”
“If they bring it, they’re welcome to it,” Frevisse answered shortly.
Ela saw to guesthall matters when Frevisse was not there, and neither of them made pretense to each other of how little they wanted Sir Reynold and his men on their hands, but neither did they bother to talk of it at length. There was no need; they had worked together long enough to understand each other’s mind.
The stores were the last thing Frevisse needed to see. That done, she was free to make her escape back into the cloister without having to deal with Sir Reynold, just as she had hoped. But the hope was blighted by the too familiar sound of Domina Alys’ voice railing at someone at the far end of the guest hall’s great hall as Frevisse came up the stairs from the kitchen. The words were unclear but the irk was plain, telling that someone had come under the prioress’ displeasure, and Frevisse flinched to a stop, then drew a deep breath and went on out into the high-roofed hall where meals were shared and most of their guests and servants slept. The trestle tables had not been set up yet for supper, so except for benches, the hall stretched open to its far end and the outer door, a generous space for Domina Alys to rant in, and she was taking full advantage of it, standing over Nell, one of the kitchen servants, declaring at full pitch of ire, “And don’t think I don’t know what you’re all at here! Helping yourselves to food and ale beyond what you’re given and then my folk blamed for eating us out! Fool who you can, I know better! And don’t think…”
Nell was taking the battering of words with bowed head and hunched shoulders, probably thinking of nothing except the likelihood that a blow would come with the words before they were over. Domina Alys had been hosteler in her time; the guest-hall servants knew as well as anybody else that she believed a hard slap would drive words into a thick head better than anything—and to Domina Alys all heads were thick but her own.
Frevisse, as afraid for Nell as Nell was and knowing the surest way to draw Domina Alys off one anger was to give her another, started up the hall toward them, saying far too loudly for respectful, “My lady, is there something I can help you with?”
As expected, Domina Alys turned on her. “Dame! Where were you when I was looking for you? I’ve seen what’s toward here, don’t think I haven’t.”
Frevisse made a small flick of one hand toward Nell, telling her to escape while she was forgotten. Hands knotted in her apron, shoulders still hunched, Nell slid away toward the kitchen stairs as Domina Alys closed on Frevisse, declaring, “I’ve seen enough to warn you here and now that your accounts had best be better than I expect them to be or you’ll be answering for it from now to Lent. And where’s my cousin gone to? Why’s he not back yet?”
F
orcing her voice to hold level, lowering her eyes for some semblance of humility, Frevisse said, “I don’t know, my lady.”
“Well, he ought to be back by now!”
Frevisse was saved from finding a reply by the clatter of horses and a burst of men’s voices and laughter and shouting in the yard outside. Domina Alys swung toward the doorway. “And there he is!” she declared as triumphantly as if she had just proved some point on which Frevisse had been willfully troublesome.
With no other way to go, Frevisse followed her out of the hall to the head of the stairs and down to the yard, where the afternoon’s sun-warmed doze had turned to a loud crowding of mounted men and a scurry of servants among shifting horses, a confusion of movement and laughing exclaims, raucous as a roost of rooks. Domina Alys stopped at the top of the stairs and, hands on her hips, glared out at it all until she found whom she wanted and yelled to him across the seethe of men and voices, “Reynold, you dullard, hereafter leave your horses in the outer yard, thank you!”
“Cousin!” Sir Reynold yelled back at her, unoffended, taking off his riding hat and tossing it toward her over the heads of the men between them. Domina Alys caught it and flung it back at him, less true, but he reached out a long arm and caught it under the face of the man beside him while she shouted, “You heard me, Reynold! The outer yard after this!”
“Ever yours to command!” Sir Reynold called back, laughing, sweeping her a bow from his saddle. He was large-built, heavy-boned, well-muscled—so like Domina Alys, except that he was tall above the average, that he could as easily have been taken for her brother as her cousin. They were matched in tempers, too, Frevisse had found; she would not care to be near at hand if they should ever turn ill-tempered against someone at the same time or, probably worse, against each other.
7 The Prioress' Tale Page 2
