Margrete had taken the pan from the brazier back to the aumbry and was pouring the wine into goblets. Frevisse crossed to the window that overlooked the yard. Whatever came next would have much to do with how things had gone—or were going—between Domina Alys and Sir Reynold, and from here she could see them, Sir Reynold dismounted now, standing on the guest-hall steps in gesturing talk with Domina Alys who looked to be returning as good as whatever he was giving her, with Sir Hugh and Benet, both dismounted now, standing close below them. The rest of the men had all dismounted, too, and were drifted away or standing about at discreet distances from the steps in talk of their own but undoubtedly listening, while servants led off the last of the horses to the stable. There was nothing to be told from all that except that neither Domina Alys nor Sir Reynold seemed in a rage at each other now, and Frevisse found herself wary at the thought that they must be coming to some manner of agreement. Given Domina Alys’ willingness to indulge her relatives, she might even be coming around to Sir Reynold’s view of matters, ready to take his side against the girl. But then again, she rarely changed her mind on any matter, so mayhap she had brought him around to her way of seeing it and so to peace between them.
Margrete served the wine. The rich savor of mixed spices wafting from it was warming in itself as Lady Eleanor laid a kind hand on Joice’s shoulder and urged, “Drink now. While it’s warm. You’ll be the better for it.”
Drawing a deep, shaken breath, Joice raised her head. The worst of the crying had passed and she wiped her eyes with the edge of one sleeve, took the goblet Margrete held out to her with an unsteady smile, and said, “Thank you.”
She drank a little while Margrete brought Lady Eleanor and Frevisse their goblets, and then leaned back in her chair, nursing the goblet’s warmth between her hands and against her breast. Even with her face marred by the crying, she had a simple loveliness that made clear how easily young Benet could have been drawn to her, low birth or not; and because of its simplicity, it was a loveliness likely to last through the years, not fade with youth, although just now, with her hair still fallen loose and the tears and anger at least momentarily gone from her face, she looked even younger than she was, as if she were a small, exhausted child in need of her supper and bed. And with a child’s simplicity she said, “I’m sorry for the crying. I won’t do it again.”
“Unless you need to,” Lady Eleanor answered. “Tears are as good for easing the heart as warmed, spiced wine is for easing the mind, and you may want the comfort these next few days. Cry if you need it.”
Joice smiled a little unsteadily and looked down into her goblet as if the remaining wine might have answers for her. “It would help,” she said, “if I at least knew that my people knew where I was, that they knew what had happened to me.
“What did happen?” Frevisse asked.
Joice looked briefly bewildered at the question. Exhaustion was beginning to overtake her, making her thoughts hard to draw together, but she said, when she had had chance to think about how to say it, “I was coming home from the market. It’s market day in Banbury and I’d gone to the market, of course, and was coming home.”
“You live in Banbury, then.”
“No. In Northampton. My father is Nicholas Southgate, a draper there. I’m in Banbury these few months because my aunt is ill and her children small and I’m seeing to her household.”
“How did Benet know to find you in Banbury?” Frevisse said.
“He saw me there a week ago, at last market. We were both surprised. I didn’t even remember him until he spoke to me and then like a fool I told him why I was there and for how long.”
“But how does he know you at all?” Frevisse asked.
“My father has partners in London and goes there a few times a year. Last spring Sir Lewis Fenner was going to be in London with his cousin Lord Fenner, so Father took me with him so Sir Lewis could have chance to see what he was bargaining for.”
Lady Eleanor and Frevisse exchanged looks. Between the Fenners and the Godfreys there was a long-ongoing quarrel, entangled for years now in legalities and angers, over some piece of land. So Joice Southgate was more than simply someone young Benet wanted—she was a prize snatched from a Fenner. For Frevisse, that explained Sir Reynold’s interest in the matter, let be that the girl was wealthy in the bargain; and unfortunately for both reasons he would be loath to give her up, easily or otherwise.
“We went other places, too, my father and I. He had some very fine brocades and Italian silks to show around to ladies he thought best likely to be interested—and he took me with him so I could see what sort of life he’s going to marry me into. One of the places was a Lady Joanne Godfrey—”
“Sir Reynold’s mother,” Lady Eleanor said, and added with a careful eye on Joice, “My sister.”
Joice snapped her head around to face her. “You’re one of them?” Accusation, wariness, and regret were all in the question together.
Lady Eleanor smiled at her.“It’s why Sir Reynold listened to me in the yard. It’s why he may listen to me better than he does anyone else as this goes on.”
Impulsively, Joice reached out to clasp her wrist. “Thank you.”
Lady Eleanor patted her hand. “It’s only right. Simply because he’s of my family doesn’t mean I have to back him in his greater stupidities. So young Benet saw you in London last spring. And any other time?”
“No, and it was only for a little while then. He came and talked to me while Father was showing the cloth to Lady Joanne. I hardly noticed him. It was already expected I’d be betrothed to Sir Lewis, so what would be the point in my noticing anyone? I never thought of him again until we met in Banbury market last week.”
“But he thought of you,” Lady Eleanor said. “Thought very well of you, apparently.”
“To my grief,” Joice said bitterly. “He had them grab me up from the street as I was going home! I didn’t even know they were there until suddenly there were horsemen all around me and one of them flung me onto Benet’s saddle, and when I tried to fight him, he wrapped me into my cloak so I couldn’t even move and—and—” She gestured helplessly. “I’m here and nobody knows what happened to me or where I am.”
“But people saw what happened to you in Banbury,” Frevisse said. A town was always full with people on a market day; mounted men snatching a resisting girl would not have gone unnoticed. “And it won’t be secret long where you are. Even if Sir Reynold and his men went unrecognized in Banbury, word will be out that there’s been a girl stolen and people will have seen them riding this way with you. Nor there’s no way to stop our own servants here that go back to the village every night from talking about you. By suppertime the whole village will know you’re here and the rest of the countryside will have it tomorrow this time.”
“Then my father will come for me!” Joice said gladly. “He’ll ransom me if he has to. Or Sir Lewis, for honor’s sake, will force them to give me up. He has men enough to make them do it!”
“Has your betrothal been made?” Lady Eleanor asked quickly.
Betrothal vows were as binding as those of marriage. If Joice were actually betrothed to Sir Lewis, any marriage forced on her otherwise, to Benet or anyone else, would be worthless.
Knowing that as well as Frevisse and Lady Eleanor did, Joice was abruptly close to tears again. “No. They’re still drawing up the agreement. It isn’t signed yet. He won’t come. What he wants is my dowry. If I look like being too much trouble—and this is very much trouble—he’ll simply drop it altogether. And it would have been a good marriage for me! He’s cousin to Lord Fenner and has lands in three counties!”
“But if your dowry is very great,” Lady Eleanor said gently, “you may still be worth the trouble to him.”
“So what it comes down to,” Joice said bitterly, “is whether my dowry makes me worth fighting over or not. Whether I’m worth what it might cost to have me out of here.”
“Yes,” Lady Eleanor said simply.
/> Joice’s eyes widened with another thought. “It might even come to Father agreeing I marry this Benet if everything else is too costly and the marriage is good enough. You said he had lands to inherit. If Sir Lewis fails me, this is something Father could agree to.”
“Yes,” Lady Eleanor said again and left it at that, for Joice to think on. Joice did, staring at the wall in front of her in full-eyed shock.
Frevisse finished her wine and handed the goblet aside to Margrete. Very regrettably, this was not a matter that would be sorted out in a day. For now it would have to be enough that Joice was under the nunnery’s protection—and perhaps more importantly, in Lady Eleanor’s. “I have to go,” she said. “It’s nearly time for Vespers.”
Lady Eleanor nodded, understanding, and began a polite reply, but Joice rose quickly to her feet, recovered enough to hold out a hand that Frevisse, in surprise, took as the girl said in a rush, “Thank you for helping me there in the yard. I’m sorry for what I said about my never being a nun. It was rude of me. But,” she added firmly, “I never will be, come what may.”
For which they could all very likely be much grateful, Frevisse did not say, and left.
Chapter 4
Vespers was a welter of inattention and whispering, betraying how many of the nuns knew at least something about what had happened this afternoon. With more on her own mind than prayers, Alys made no attempt to hold them. Arguing had given an edge to her appetite and the sooner they were to supper and done with it the better, not least because she was supposed to see Reynold afterward. The matter of this girl was not settled between them, not by a long way, but they had both judged it best to finish their arguing somewhere besides in the yard for everyone to hear. Her nuns seemed to have heard enough about it as it was. Their minds were no more on the office than hers was, and the final “amen” was as much a relief as a conclusion. Released by it, Alys surged to her feet and out of the choir, headed for the refectory with the others crowding at her heels, but she turned at the door into the cloister to glare over her shoulder, warning them back and to less talk. She did not mean to listen to their chatter all through supper, either. Magpies and crows, the lot of them. Sister Thomasine was the only holy one in the lot. And if Dame Frevisse and Dame Claire thought she had not noticed them back there behind the others, their heads together, talking her down, they were wrong.
She knew what they were saying, too, and ill thanks to Reynold for it. What had he been thinking of, snatching mat girl and then bringing her here?
For that matter, what had the girl been thinking of, to let herself be carried off like that?
Nor was there any use in pretending that it would be enough, when her people came for her, to show, even on Aunt Eleanor’s witness, that no harm had come to her. They would want more recompense than words, and if they wanted it from both Reynold and St. Frideswide’s, then she would have the priory’s share out of Reynold’s hide.
More problems. More expenses.
She took her place at the head of the long refectory table and bleakly watched her nuns, still jay-jabbering among themselves, ease into their places along benches down both sides. The dull ache that seemed to be always at the back of her skull of late had a noticeable throb to it now, and not wanting their voices keeping it company through supper, she impatiently whacked her spoon on the tabletop, startling them to silence.
According to the Rule, they were supposed to be read aloud to at meals, something holy, to better their souls when they might otherwise be too concentrated on their bodies, with each of them taking a week’s turn at it, turn and turn around. No one much listed anymore. They had all heard the priory’s few books too many times already, could have recited them without looking if they put their minds to it, probably, but tonight, for a change, they could actually pay heed and keep their mouths for chewing instead of talking.
“Dame Perpetua,” she said. “Read.” Making it both an order to Dame Perpetua and a warning to the rest.
Sister Cecely, already leaning toward Sister Emma, mouth open to speak, jerked upright in her place, startled. The others cast warning glances at each other and held silent, even Dame Perpetua, until Alys jerked a hand at her to get on with it. Nervously, with an uneasy glance at the silent faces turned her way, Dame Perpetua did, taking up the Life of St. Katherine where she had left off at dinner’s end, with yet another of the emperor’s threats against her life if she did not marry him. Alys, satisfied, rang the small bell at her place to tell the serving women to bring in the meal.
The first of them to come, apparently disconcerted by the sound of only Dame Perpetua’s voice, hesitated uncertainly on the threshold. Alys gestured sharply to set her in motion again and the rest followed quickly enough, some setting the bowls of white pottage and the last third of each nun’s daily bread loaf at their places, others pouring warmed ale into the waiting goblets.
As they began to eat, Dame Perpetua reached the saint’s defiance of the emperor’s last offer to let her live. “ ‘No! Do not delay my dying further, king, but command it speedily! It is not appalling to see a thing fall that will rise a thousand times fairer, ascend from sorrow to everlasting laughter, from grief to every joy, from death to undying life!”“
Mopping a piece of bread into the pottage, Alys nodded in full agreement. St. Katherine had been a woman able to show men up for the fools they were and refuse their stupidities to their faces. The end had been what could be expected—they had killed her to stop her because nothing else would. But that was how martyrs were made, and by St. Katherine’s blessed bones, it was a better way to go than giving in to them and all their kind—the folly-ridden cousins and pushing abbots and bullying master masons.
Alys’ head gave a deeper throb. In her rage at Reynold she had managed to forget that Master Porter, the master mason, had been at her again this afternoon about when his men would have their money, but he would not stay forgot, unfortunately.
Or stay unpaid. Unfortunately.
She had set his ears back flat against his head right enough this time, demanding back at him what use had he and his men for money out here at the priory, away from everywhere, anyway? Pay them now and they would likely be off to Banbury and into trouble. Let them finish what they had started and then they would have their money in hand and be off to wherever they wanted and welcome riddance to them, but she’d have the work done first, by blessed St. Frideswide she would! And if he did not think so, let him remember she had her cousin and his men to change his mind for him.
He had backed off right enough then, and well for him that he had, but she doubted he would stay backed off, and most certainly he would not if she lost Reynold.
For that reason and several more she could not afford to lose Reynold, but he was making it difficult, with his half-kept promises and now this girl. What she truly needed was more money. With money enough, every problem would give way, from Master Porter right down to her silly women. The trouble was that there was not more money.
And even if there had been, she had no true wish to be rid of Reynold.
Grimly she chewed her way through the rest of the meal. While St. Katherine went to her joyful martyrdom, a bowl of apples, still crisp from the harvest, was passed down the table; and while a soldier was severing her holy neck, Alys watched Sister Cecely take open pleasure in peeling her apple in one long strip. Since waste was unallowed, she always ate the peel afterward, so why did she bother? But at least she ate it, unlike Sister Thomasine, who, when she bothered to come to meals at all, left half of whatever she was given to be handed off as alms to whoever showed up at the priory gate for it. That was piety but one that Alys understood no better than she did Sister Cecely’s apple peeling. Food was for eating, and how did it help if two went hungry when one of them had no need to? But that was how it was with saints. Pious but impractical, every one of them, and where were they then?
“ ‘And so the blessed maiden Katherine went crowned to Christ,”“ Dame Perpetua read revere
ntly, ” ’in the month of November, on the twenty-fifth day, a Friday, near the hour our Lord gave up his life on the cross for her and for us all. Amen.“”
That was the familiar end. Dame Perpetua fell silent, then sighed, closed the book, and rose from her place with it clasped to her breast, to curtsy to Alys and then go away to the kitchen for her own meal. Alys, having contained impatience that long, rose to her own feet, the rest of the nuns with her. She ran them through grace, then stood eyeing them unfavorably, knowing what they wanted.
There was an hour’s recreation now, between supper and the day’s last prayers at Compline, and they were all eager to be off to make the most of it, to crowd around the fire in the warming room and let their tongues run away from their wits over everything they thought they knew about this afternoon, with Dame Frevisse to lead them on.
Briefly, bitterly, Alys considered ordering them to silence for the evening—or forbidding them their fire. That would curb their ways a little, give them something else to think on.
But suddenly they were not worth the bother. What she really wanted, besides to be rid of her throbbing head, was to not be looking at their foolish faces anymore and that was easily managed.
“Tell Dame Perpetua she’s to lead you in prayers at Compline,” she said curtly, and ignoring everything but the need to hide how much her head was hurting, left them with stiff dignity.
Outside, in the almost dark of the cloister walk, she let her shoulders slump and increased her stride so that she was well away toward her rooms before they came out of the refectory behind her, heading the other way for the warming room, already in low-voiced, eager talk.
Alys paused at the foot of her stairs, listening but not able to make out the words across the darkening cloister. She supposed she did not need to. They would be on about her and none of it to the good, likely.
Discouraged by the thought, she climbed the stairs to her rooms with heavy-legged weariness and the relief of escape.
7 The Prioress' Tale Page 4
