15 The Sempster's Tale

by Frazer, Margaret

  ‘That he might outshine his fellows when saying Mass,“ Frevisse suggested.

  Mistress Blakhall laughed. “Without doubt. But we loved doing lesser commissions, too, for poorer priests and less wealthy folk. Matthew would tell me to work some gold thread into a halo and not charge. ‘It will be our gift to the saint,’ he’d say. He was a very good man, was Matthew.”

  And his wife had loved him dearly. Was that why she had not married again, Frevisse wondered.

  But maybe thinking she had gone too far from business, Mistress Blakhall said more crisply, “I was the more able to carry on the work after he died because I was already a femme sole and in the Broiderers Guild.” Not one of the great guilds of London nor wielding any power worth mention in the city’s government, but giving her place and rights in the city and some warrant of her work, because like other guilds, the Broiderers protected its members by overseeing the quality of work done under their name.

  Frevisse nodded, understanding all of that, but asked, “If you work almost alone, this commission from her grace of Suffolk will take a lengthy time, won’t it?”

  ‘If done well, yes. But then this is work over which time may be taken.“

  ‘There being no great haste, I suppose,“ Frevisse said. Since his grace the duke was going to be dead for some time to come.

  But that brought thought of why else Frevisse was here and she added quietly, “There’s the other matter, too.”

  Mistress Blakhall immediately rose, left her cup and plate on the table, and went to a chest standing against the wall beside the door while taking a key from the small purse hung from her narrow belt. Frevisse rose to her feet, too, went to set down her own cup and plate on the table, then waited there while Mistress Blakhall unlocked the chest, opened the lid, took something out, and came back to the table carrying a leather pouch in a close-fitted net bag hung from a long loop of stout cord. The pouch was not large but large enough that Frevisse wondered with dismay how she was supposed to hide it on herself between now and giving it to Alice. Her dismay deepened when she took the pouch from Mistress Blakhall. It was heavy, and weighing it in her hand, she asked, “Do you know what this is?”

  Mistress Blakhall hesitated, then said, “I was told it’s gold coins that you’re to take secretly to her grace of Suffolk. The rest will be here later. That’s all I know.”

  Sharply, too surprised to hide her surprise, Frevisse said, “What rest?”

  ‘He didn’t want to risk bringing all of it at once.“ Mistress Blakhall sounded as suddenly doubtful as Frevisse was surprised. ”You didn’t know there was going to be more?“

  ‘I didn’t, no.“

  They stared at each other, and Frevisse sensed that Mistress Blakhall was no happier than she was at the business. They were both being used to other people’s purposes, and Frevisse decided that whomever she was angry at, it was not Mistress Blakhall, who now said hesitantly, “I put the pouch in that net bag and added the cord so you could wear it around your neck and hidden down your gown. I thought it would help.”

  No, she was not angry at Mistress Blakhall at all, Frevisse decided. Her plain, practical help was welcome in the midst of this nonsense of someone else’s making; and Frevisse smiled and said, “Will you help me, so I needn’t unwimple altogether?”

  Between them, they got the cord around Frevisse’s neck, under her wimple, and the pouch slipped inside her gowns, hidden by the heavy layers of cloth. Mistress Blakhall stepped back, studied her, and said, “There’s no sign of it. No one will wonder anything.”

  How she would keep it concealed at St. Helen’s Frevisse did not know, but sufficient unto the moment was the trouble thereof and she only said, “You have patterns to show me, I think?”

  They spent a pleasant while then with a gathering of patterns Mistress Blakhall kept. All were of the expected angels and saints, various beasts and birds, twining vines with leaves and flowers or fruit. Most were usual, but some had a grace the others lacked—a turn of a head, a body’s curve, the lift of an angel’s wing that just a little more pleased the eye. At Frevisse’s question, Mistress Blakhall said those were her own, and Frevisse’s opinion of her as a craftswoman rose more.

  On the last of the papers were drawings of the duke of Suffolk’s heraldic arms—a shield with a bar across its middle, two leopards’ heads above and one leopard’s head below. On the paper around the shield Mistress Blakhall had been trying variations of the leopards’ heads. By the laws of heraldry they could be presented only one way: a neckless head facing straight outward. Although there was no choice about that, she had been planning with pen and ink how to lay the stitches when the time came and trying different shapes for their eyes. There were pairs of eyes narrowed, pairs of eyes wide; pairs of eyes very round; pairs of eyes half-shut; and in a lower corner, eyes very crossed.

  ‘I made a start on the arms,“ Mistress Blakhall said, ”on the chance my lady of Suffolk wants them on the cope.“

  ‘She does, but not boldly.“ Not for humility’s sake, Frevisse suspected, but because it would be safer, given the general hatred there was for Suffolk, even dead. ”The choice of saints has been left to me, though. I was thinking, in keeping with Suffolk’s death, they should maybe be saints who had been beheaded.“ She had also been thinking how they would look across the great curve of the cope: an array of saints all holding their particular symbol in one hand— St. Paul with the sword that had beheaded him; St. Denis with his stake; St. Winifred with her pastoral staff, St. Urban with a scourge, St. Osyth with her crown and keys… while their other hand held their head in the crook of their other arm.

  The thought was only a jest and a poor one at that, and before Mistress Blakhall might start to take her seriously, she said, “Perhaps one beheaded saint, anyway. St. Denis, I think, since Suffolk had such ties with France. But since I must needs come see you again, perhaps we’d best not decide everything this time.”

  ‘There’s still much deciding to do,“ Mistress Blakhall assured her. ”We’ve hardly made a beginning. Not least will be choosing the cloth, though Master Grene can help with that, if you like. Would you care for something more to eat and drink before you leave? Bette will have something ready in the garden. It’s cooler there than here by now in the afternoon.“

  ‘Something to drink would be welcome,“ Frevisse said, and they went downstairs and through the kitchen, into the garden where it was indeed cooler. Like the house, the garden was long and narrow, with a board fence down either side and across the end to give some privacy from its neighbors. Its beds looked to be mostly herbs and vegetables—the peas were in full flourish, ready to be picked—but an iris grew in a blue-glazed pot the other side of the doorway and something boldly yellow was flowering in one corner.

  A small roof built out from the house wall beside the kitchen door gave sheltered sitting, and Master Naylor rose to his feet from one of the kitchen stools set in its shade.

  Bette was there, too, and the pottery cup in Master Naylor’s hand showed he had not been neglected. By the time Frevisse and Mistress Blakhall had sat down on other stools and Frevisse had bade Master Naylor sit again, Bette had hobbled into the kitchen and out again with more cups and a loaf of bread on a cutting board to set on the little table there. The bread surprised Frevisse. Rather than a plain loaf, it was made of several thick strands of dough—four, she counted—braided over and under one another in a complicated way she had only ever seen…

  She looked across the table at Mistress Blakhall and found her staring at the loaf as if startled to see it. The next moment Mistress Blakhall’s look flashed up, first at Frevisse, then to Master Naylor, with worry and question in her eyes. Master Naylor seemed to have no especial thought about it, or if he did, he had it as hidden as Frevisse had hers; and Mistress Blakhall looked to Bette and asked lightly about butter.

  Frevisse was still left wondering. In her childhood travels with her wide-wandering parents she had seen such oddly made bread in only on
e place, a Jew’s house where her parents had sheltered during a bad stretch of winter weather. She had been too young to understand much, only that her father had sometime befriended Master Ezra and now was being befriended in return, and that for some reason their stay with him had to be kept almost secret, as if being there were something wrong. Later, when she was older, she had understood that Christians were not supposed to mix with Jews or Jews with Christians, each supposed to look on the other as unclean and damned. But of Master Ezra and his household she had only good memories, and few though those were, they included watching Master Ezra’s wife make the Shabbat bread.

  Challah. That had been what Master Ezra’s wife had called it, and said, “So we have made it for every Shabbat since the days of Moses and maybe longer. Longer than Rome was, or Pharaoh in Egypt.” Her name was gone from Frevisse’s memory, but her words had stayed, along with the opening out of time they had given her. Time as a vast thing longer than Frevisse’s life, longer than more lives than she could imagine, back past the stories of Rome her father sometimes told her, back to all the stories from the Bible that she knew had taken hundreds of years to happen.

  Because of that she had remembered challah.

  But why was it here, on Mistress Blakhall’s table? To judge by her startlement, she surely had not meant it to be seen. Which meant it was indeed something more to her than merely bread. But she couldn’t be Jewish, not here in England where there were no Jews. Could she?

  Chapter 6

  Relieved to be rid of the gold, Anne had been enjoying the nun’s company until sight of the challah jarred her out of all pleasure. She had forgotten to ask Daved if challah could be treated the same as other bread after the Shabbat; had put it away in a stone crock in a corner of the kitchen only to forget about it yesterday, too, when he was here. What had prompted Bette to remember it and set it out for a guest? But of course it was only bread to Bette, and to Anne’s relief neither Dame Frevisse nor her man gave sign it was anything else to them, either. And anyway, how could it be?

  Still, keeping up a quiet courtesy was become an effort, and Anne made no demur when Dame Frevisse said, “Pleasant though your garden and company are, I fear we should return to St. Helen’s before the day is later. When would be best for me to come back?”

  Her man said, displeased, “You didn’t finish today?”

  ‘No,“ Dame Frevisse said calmly, untouched by his displeasure, keeping her questioning look at Anne.

  ‘Tomorrow in the afternoon should do well, if you will,“ Anne said, because Daved would likely bring more of the gold when he came tonight.

  ‘Tomorrow then,“ Dame Frevisse agreed and stood up, and Anne willingly saw her through the house to the front door and stayed on the doorstep after their farewells, watching her, followed by her man, to the corner.

  Only as she turned to go back inside did she see Mistress Upton waving for her to come join her in a cluster of other women from along the lane. Expecting to be asked who her visitors had been, she went to join them, but Mistress Upton burst out, short-breathed with excitement, “Have you heard? About the bishop of Salisbury?”

  ‘No. What of him?“ Anne asked, trying to put a face to the name. Bishop Ayscough of Salisbury was King Henry’s confessor, a royal councilor, and among those around the king much disliked for their greed and ill-governing but not someone much seen in London.

  ‘He’s been murdered!“ Mistress Smith exclaimed almost triumphantly. ”Pulled from the altar while saying Mass and murdered by his own people!“

  Anne gasped. “In the cathedral? When?”

  ‘This Sunday just past. Not in his cathedral, no. Just off in Wiltshire somewhere.“ Mistress Upton waved a vague hand at the wide, strange world beyond London. ”Brother Michael was preaching in Grey Friars yard today. I was just coming away from there when the word came spreading. It will be to the other end of London by now.“

  ‘It’s not just some rumor?“

  ‘No! It’s certain! It’s straight from Westminster. It’s put the cat into the dovecote there, for certain! That’s two bishops murdered this year. And the duke of Suffolk. Two bishops and a duke. Has there ever been the like? Where’s it to end? You have to wonder.“

  Anne shook her head, in disbelief more than answer. Angry troops at Portsmouth, tired of being told there was no money for their pay, had killed the much-hated bishop of Chichester in January. Then there had been the duke of Suffolk. And now the bishop of Salisbury. And the rebels were returned to Black Heath. Mistress Upton’s question was only too apt. Where was it to end?

  ‘You should come again to hear Brother Michael,“ Mistress Upton was urging. ”He’s saying it’s the Lollards. That it’s them profaning against God and not enough being done to stop them that’s bringing all this on us.“

  ‘I shouldn’t wonder it was some of them killed Bishop Ayscough,“ Mistress Hopton put in.

  ‘At least there’ll be no talk of making him a martyr,“ her daughter laughed. ”He was no Becket, the greedy-guts.“

  ‘It’s what the world is coming to, I have to ask,“ Mistress Upton insisted. ”And why isn’t the king doing something to mend it all? That’s what I ask.“

  Anne began to retreat, saying, “I must go help Bette with supper now.”

  ‘So who was the nun?“ Mistress Smith asked. ”More business for you?“

  Still retreating, Anne said something about a new commission for vestments from a lady in Oxfordshire, avoiding mention of the duke of Suffolk and smiling as if she felt like smiling, but when her door was shut behind her the smile disappeared, and she went into kitchen where Bette was washing the dishes from their guests and the challah sat cloth-covered on the table. With no word to Bette, whose back was turned, Anne took up the challah, went out into the garden, broke it into small bits, and scattered it along the path between the garden beds. The sparrows were swooping down for it before she turned away.

  That done, and leaving Bette to the kitchen, Anne went upstairs, meaning to work on the St. Mark lion while the afternoon light held, hoping the needlework would keep her from other thoughts. From dead bishops and challah and the time to wait until Daved would be here tonight. Surely one of needlework’s comforts was that work as fine as for the lion kept her from too much thought, even of Daved. The underside couching she was using needed high skill, while to lay the gold to the lion’s shape so the beast did not simply lie flatly on the cloth but seemed about to move out from it with life of its own was another skill all of its own, and both of them requiring care rather than hurry.

  She had made good progress, was pleased with her work when time for supper came, and afterwards she and Bette sat together in the garden, talking a little about their day’s visitors and the Suffolk vestments and Bishop Ayscough’s death, before Bette asked, “What of Mistress Grene’s boy? Has he shown himself yet?”

  ‘Not that I’ve heard, no,“ Anne said, with the guilty thought that tomorrow she would have to go and see Pernell. ”But surely he’s back by now,“ she added hopefully.

  ‘Otherwise he’s been gone too long, even for a boy’s jape,“ Bette said. ”And his mother so near her time, too.“

  Anne’s guilt grew. Too taken up with Daved, she’d given neither Hal nor Pernell enough thought.

  ‘You don’t think maybe he’s gone to join the rebels, do you?“ Bette asked.

  ‘Hal?“ Anne laughed. ”Not Hal.“

  ‘Um,“ Bette said, unconvinced.

  They sat then in silence for a while longer until, with the blue evening shadows deep around them and St. Paul’s spire gold against the sky with setting sunlight, Bette said she’d go bedward now. Anne helped her lay out her mattress and blanket on the kitchen floor, undid her headkerchief for her and helped her out of her over-gown and to lie down, Bette grumbling all the way about stiff fingers and stiffer knees. Anne knew the grumbling was to cover the arthritic’s pain; knew, too, that Bette feared what would become of her when she could no longer work at all, despit
e Anne had promised more than once she’d always have a home with her. Bette had been part of Matthew’s life, and Anne meant never to dishonor his memory by failing Bette in her need, but she also knew how fears could be stronger than assurances and likewise knew she was failing Bette in a different way by not bringing in a girl to help her—someone young enough for Bette to train but too young to be a threat of soon succeeding her. The trouble was that someone else here would be someone else to know about Daved, and Anne did not want that. Daved. Even his name was like the beating of her own heart. She would never make more chance-ridden the little they had. Not for Bette or anyone.

  With the hearthfire covered and Bette still mumble-grumbling, Anne closed and barred the kitchen door and window, shutting the kitchen into night-darkness, and went into the equal darkness of the shut and shuttered shop, needing no light to find her way to the long-legged stool set beside the door where she could wait in quick reach of the latch. She had dressed well for the nun’s visit, had no need to change for Daved, and so was left with only the waiting. And thinking. What she most wanted to think on was Daved— to close all else but him out of her thoughts—but instead found herself thinking about the waiting.

  Waiting now made up so much of her life. But there had been other waiting, too, and in the way thoughts had of going where they would, she found herself remembering the hours of waiting and praying beside Matthew’s bed through his last illness. Praying first that he be healed, and then— when that was past hope—for his easy passing out of pain.