“Then you were going to say it was for the pleasure of seeing me again.”
“What better reason could I give than that?”
“The true one.”
“What if I say I’ve taken to minstrelsy and my wanderings have happened to bring me this way?”
“That is a thing I’m willing to believe.”
He swept her another bow. “Your ladyship is most gracious.”
“My ladyship is also bound to find how it is with others of our guests. If you’ll pardon me?”
“Of everything and anything, my lady,” he declared, hand over his heart. “And hope you’ll do as much for me should chance arise.”
“That,” she said dryly, “is probably another matter,” and went on her way.
Chapter 8
There was an unexpected quiet to the rest of the morning and the early afternoon. Domina Alys, come back from quarreling with Master Porter, went to her chamber, gave order for the steward’s accounts to be brought to her and, when they had, closed herself in with them, sending word by Katerin that Dame Perpetua should see to the offices when they came. She did not come down to dinner either but had Katerin fetch it to her, and Katerin afterward would answer no questions of how she was except with a shake of the head that told no one anything.
The day had moved into the drowsy warmth of afternoon when Frevisse went out to the guest halls again, to see how things went and if all was well in hand for supper. As she crossed the yard she had the regretful thought that it was a pity these bright, dry days had waited for October instead of blessing them at harvest. They would have made no difference then. Now they were hardly better than illusion, their brief warmth gone as soon as the day began to fade, the cold returning with the sunset shadows that in these shortening days came ever earlier.
In the guest halls there was nothing beyond the expected.
In answer to Frevisse’s asking, Ela answered, “It’s as well as may be. Bad when they’re here, good when they go, worse when they come back.” With small hope, she asked in her turn, “Be there any sign of it ending?”
Frevisse gave no false comfort. “For all that’s been said about their leaving, they could be here for the winter.”
“Then they’ll be starving with the rest of us by Martinmas.”
It was too slight an exaggeration for Frevisse to contradict.
She was taking her discouragement back across the yard and the lengthening shadows when she was loudly hailed, “Hai! Nun!” and she jerked around, offended, to see Joliffe coming toward her from the gateway to the outer yard. She had wondered where he was when she had not seen him in the guest halls or yard. Now she wondered how angry he meant to make her, hailing her thus; but even as she wondered it she knew that whatever else Joliffe was, he was never casually ill-mannered. If he was rude, there was a purpose to it, so she kept her immediate frown but not her anger at him as she answered with rudeness equal his own, “What is it?”
Fists on his hips, irritation in his voice pitched to carry well beyond her to the hand count of men and servants scattered around the yard, he stopped in front of her and said, “The way you keep your guests here. Where am I supposed to sleep and is supper going to be as scant as dinner was?”
His arrogance was easy to respond to in kind. Her own voice sharp with apparent impatience and almost as loud as his, Frevisse answered, “If you don’t like what we offer, you’re welcome to be on your way.”
“You don’t offer much at all, leave by whether I like it or not!”
“The Rule requires us to give. Your liking it or not is never mentioned. And if you mean to go on speaking to me, you will do it in a lesser voice!” He might be able to keep this up, but she could not.
He dropped back a pace from her, one hand flying to his breast as if he had taken a blow. Then he bowed. “At your behest, my lady.”
“And courteously,” Frevisse added for good measure.
As if a little curbed, he stood with slightly bent head and said low-voiced, for only her to hear, “How long have all these men, horses, servants been here?”
“Two weeks and looking to be longer,” Frevisse answered. “Why?”
“Not for choice, surely?”
“Our prioress likes their company,” she said bitterly. “The rest of us aren’t asked.”
“And they’re all Godfreys?”
“Godfreys or their followers.”
“Can the priory afford them?”
“We can hardly afford ourselves, the way this year has gone.”
“So how do you manage them?” Joliffe asked.
“Sir Reynold has brought in something toward their keep and I gamer he’s promised more, but we’ve not seen it yet. Why so great an interest?”
“An idle brain invites the devil.”
“And curiosity has killed more than cats.”
Joliffe smiled warmly and leaned toward her. “I’m trying to convey the impression that I’m charming you. Could you look slightly more charmed?”
“This is as charmed as I become.”
“I feared as much. What about this girl?”
“Why are we feigning an argument?”
“Because anyone friendly with you is unlikely to be friended by the Godfreys and it’s the Godfreys who are likely to pay me something, not you. What about the girl? She’s not here willingly, I take it?”
“No.” It was difficult to force questions on him when he was shoving them at her, and now mention of Joice diverted her to a sudden hope. Holding out an eager hand toward him, she asked, “Joliffe, could you take word to her people in Banbury that she’s here? And to our abbot in Northampton of what Domina Alys is letting happen with us? If you could…”
He seized her hand in an apparently ardent grip, as if she had bestowed a favor on him. “Gladly but not soon.”
Frevisse pulled her hand free. “Stop that!”
Joliffe bent his head with a tremulous sigh but went on evenly, “I’ve already said to people I’d stay two nights and maybe more.” He lifted his head enough to look at her with what she supposed he meant to be a melting gaze. The laughter behind it spoiled the effect. “It’s not often a minstrel can find so great an audience in a country priory. All the Godfreys, a herd of masons, and I’m bid tonight to play for your prioress.” He came a step nearer to her, playing his part out for anyone who was watching. “If I go too soon, there might be suspicions I don’t want to risk rousing.”
Frevisse had opened her mouth to ask, “What suspicions?” when a rabble of noise from the gateway distracted them both to look around to where a clot of Sir Reynold’s servants were shoving at what Frevisse first took to be a heap of dirty clothing on the cobbles, until it scrambled onto hands and feet and tried to scuttle away from them, almost succeeding but only because they let him before someone kicked his legs from under him and he went heavily down again.
“Ah,” Joliffe said. “One of the few things we’ve been lacking. A scabrous beggar or a madman.”
Frevisse supposed it was the latter; even beggars were in better condition than that poor creature looked to be. Mostly the mad were poor, harmless creatures, kept and cared for, if not by their relatives, then by the church out of charity. But there were always those who were not kept, either deliberately turned out or else wandering off, making their way—usually a brief way for the most witless ones—by chance and happenstance through a world that could be cruel or kind as fortune and people’s humors took them. Some of them were hardly worse than vague, like strayed dogs in need of feeding and an occasional friendly pat to keep them going. Others lived with their bodies in this world but their minds in places strange and often horrible. Frevisse had encountered enough of both kinds in her childhood on the road with her parents to want nothing to do with any of them, ever. They frightened her, all of them, the greatly mad and the lesser, because madness was a black reft in the reason of God’s world, an all-too-clear reminder of how near hell was to mankind’s soul.
Unfortunately, what she wanted had nothing to do with her duty in the matter, and she and Joliffe moved in the same moment toward the men and their sport. Whomever they had, madman or not, he was in St. Frideswide’s now, and if they thought they had some right to be tormenting him, she knew she had a greater one to stop them.
How she would do it was the problem. The half dozen or so men were well into it now. The open-handed blows at his head, so poorly shielded by his tangled arms, and the kicks at his undefended backside as they tried to make him run again so they could pull him down, would shortly turn more vicious. He was a new game to be played and they were bored enough not to give him up easily, to her or anyone.
Joliffe, laughing, shoved in among them, some of their blows and kicks finding him instead of the madman as he fended them off, exclaiming, “Here now! What are you doing to my servant?”
The men fell back. “Your servant?” one of them protested. Another pointed disbelievingly at the dirty, crouching thing at their feet. “That?”
“My servant,” Joliffe insisted, and laid a proprietary hand on the madman’s filthy head. “I pay him good wages for the privilege of beating him. Why should you do it for free?”
“That’s not your servant,” someone scoffed.
“It is!” Joliffe sounded immensely offended anyone could doubt it. “I sent him on ahead of me to ready my lodgings.”
“But you were here first!”
“Ah.” Joliffe held up an admonitory hand. “Do you expect things to make sense between a madman and a fool?”
“Not when it’s so hard to tell one from the other,” Frevisse said, cold-voiced with apparently offended authority. “Are you all quite finished cluttering up this gateway?”
Her fear just then was not for the madman but for Joliffe. He had come between the men and their game and they could as easily turn on him as not. Some of them looked already near to doing it, preferring their own kind of jest to his, and what she would do then she did not know.
Behind her, curious, Benet asked, “So why are they cluttering your gateway?”
“For this!” Joliffe made a dramatic gesture toward the huddled madman.
“For that?” Benet came nearer to take a closer look, first at the madman, then, apparently deeply puzzled, around at the men. “No, I don’t think they’d be cluttering a gateway for that. I think they were just going by and it was in their way.”
“Oh!” Joliffe swept off his cap and bowed while spinning around on one foot, making apology to them all. “I’m sorry. I mistook your purposes. I’m sorry she mistook your purposes.” He pointed at Frevisse as if the whole thing, if they really thought about it, were probably her fault.
“Then since that’s straightened out, we’ll be going and leave that”—Benet nodded dismissively at the madman— “to you.” He dropped an arm across the shoulders of the man nearest him and strolled away, taking the man with him, the others following, some a little confusedly as if not sure what had happened to their sport, others sauntering to show they’d finished there anyway and did not care, others grumbling below their breath and with an unfriendly glance or two, until Joliffe called after them, “How, if for more apology, I sing you a song at supper tonight? About the madman and the nun!”
That brought laughter and a shout that they would see he kept his promise.
Watching them scatter across the yard, some of them crowding around Benet, poking at him friendly-wise and him jabbing good-humoredly back at them, Joliffe said quietly, “He did that very well. Clever boy.”
“That clever boy is the reason we have a stolen girl on our hands,” Frevisse said. “But yes, out of the lot of them, he’s probably the best.”
“So he’s the thwarted lover, is he?” Joliffe said with interest. “Any hope for him?”
“Not at present. Joice would rather see him hanged. A song about a madman and a nun? You have one like that?”
Joliffe shrugged. “Not until I’ve changed a word here and there in ‘The Priest and the Nun.” Probably you’d best not hear it when I have, though,“ he added thoughtfully.
“I suspect I probably shouldn’t even before you do. Now, what about him?”
They looked down at the madman, crouched on his heels with his arms wrapped around his legs and his face buried against his knees, rocking a little and making no sound. He wore a dirt-thickened shirt, filthy leggings, and rough-wrapped cloth for shoes, and smelled most particularly of pig manure.
“Fellow,” said Joliffe and touched his shoulder.
The man flinched violently, lost balance, and sprawled sideways onto the cobbles, then scrambled back into his huddled heap, but now an eye gleamed out from the tangle of hair, shifting uneasily from Joliffe to Frevisse to Joliffe to Frevisse again.
Partly because of the smell of him and partly not to frighten him, Frevisse made no move to come closer but asked, because food seemed the most likely way to reach him, “Are you hungry?” She patted her stomach to help the thought go through to him. “Are you hungry? Food?”
The man made no answer except to shift his eye to Joliffe again. Joliffe knelt down and said very gently, “We’re not going to hurt you. Are you hungry? Do you want food?”
The man’s eye was wary but not wildly afraid now, and Joliffe said without changing his voice or position, “I think two of us are too many for him. Maybe you should leave him to me.”
Frevisse drew back a willing step. “Take him around to the kitchen. Not inside but to the kitchen yard. I’ll go through the cloister and tell someone to bring out food for him and a cloak or doublet, whatever is to hand in the alms clothing.”
“Better that than anywhere around the guest halls,” Joliffe agreed. “I’ll see him fed, then put him out the back gate, maybe find someone to take him to the village. Away from here for certain.”
“It would probably be better for you if you were away, too,” Frevisse said.
“And leave behind what I’m likely to make here? No thank you. But when I’ve seen him on his way, I think I’ll spend my time until supper trying my luck with your masons, safely on the other side of that wall.” He jerked his head toward the wall that closed off the far end of the yard and the priory buildings from the orchard beyond the church, where the masons had set up their lodge for stoneworking and now were mostly living, since the crowding of the guest halls by Sir Reynold’s men. It crossed Frevisse’s mind that Joliffe had learned a great deal of how things were in the few hours he had been here; but the quick movement of his head had made the madman cringe and begin to shiver. “You’d best go,” Joliffe said. “It will make this simpler for me, and she went.”
Chapter 9
Alys leaned her head against the high, carved back of her chair, her eyes closed, her fingertips pressed to the sides of her forehead where the pain seemed trying to break through her skull. “Are they finished yet?”
Reynold answered without turning from the window, “Your nun is coming back toward the cloister. The minstrel is leading the madman off somewhere.”
“Good.” Everything hurt the worse when she moved in one of these headaches; she had been afraid she would be needed in the yard. “Why does everything have to be trouble? Why can’t it all be simple?”
“Because no one lets it be.” Reynold turned from the window and crossed to the table. “So there’s no use your worrying on everything the way you do.”
Her head gave a throb of greater pain. “I have to worry on everything. Nothing is done if I don’t worry on it.” He was pouring some of the wine he had brought; she could hear him and said without opening her eyes, “I don’t need wine. My head hurts enough as it is.”
“I’m not giving you the bottle, only a gobletful. You try too hard, my girl. That’s what makes your head to ache. This will ease you.”
Alys opened her eyes to find him standing beside her, smiling down and holding out the goblet.
“Drink,” he urged. “It’ll help.”
She took the goblet blindly, shutti
ng her eyes against the unexpected bite of tears, not wanting Reynold to see how near she was to crying because of his kindness. When was the last time anyone had bothered to be kind to her simply for kindness’ sake? She could not remember. All they ever seemed to want was for her to give and give and give so they could take and take and take. And she gave! God knew she gave. She was all but giving her sanity, come to that. Today, for the nunnery’s need, she had worked over those crab-handed accounts until she was sick with this headache as well as sick with being unable to make the foul things give her the answers she wanted.
“They fight me on everything,” she whispered, more to herself than Reynold. “They all fight me.” Her nuns, her erstwhile steward, the master Mason, even those miserable accounts that went on lying, went on saying there was not enough money when there had to be. That was why she had sent Katerin to fetch Reynold to her. He was the only hope and help she had, and her nuns grudged her even him. She knew they did and talked about her behind her back. They grudged her everything. So she had sent Katerin for him while they were at dinner so they would not know he was here. And she had only Katerin companioning them so there would be no tattletales of what they said; and she meant to have him leave while they were closed away at Vespers. That would serve them as they deserved.
She pressed her eyes desperately tighter. Tears were no good. They were a weakness and she could not afford weakness, not with everything she wanted to do, hoped to do, for St. Frideswide’s. She had no time for weakness, her own or anyone else’s. Reynold was the same. He understood demands, not tears, and to show she was not weak, she said fiercely, eyes still closed, “I want my tower done. That will do more for me and my headaches than wine will.”
Reynold had gone back to the table to pour wine for himself. Not looking full around, he answered over his shoulder, laughing a little, “Wine is just to help see you through. Don’t worry over your tower, girl. You’ll have it.”
“Not according to Master Porter.” She had the urge to cry under control now, out of her way, and she took a deep draught of the wine, savored it before swallowing, then said resentfully, “I had to fight with him again today.”
7 The Prioress' Tale Page 9
