Frevisse clutched her forearms tightly inside her sleeves, not saying anything and keeping her head bent toward the floor. It took great effort just to control her breathing. He must not do this, she thought.
In her faded voice Domina Edith said, “We will pray for the truth to be quickly revealed, Master Montfort.”
Montfort grumbled his thanks and came to bend over Domina Edith’s hand. The clerk made a rustling business of gathering up pen and parchment scraps the while, and followed his master out the door. When the sound of their footfalls was gone from the stairs, Domina Edith drew a deep breath, coughed briefly, and said, “What do you think are die facts, Dame Frevisse?”
It took a moment for Frevisse to relax enough to answer. “The facts are simple and few, hardly more than I have already said, either about Sym’s death or Sister Fiacre’s. Sym was truly not much liked in the village, according to what Father Henry tells me, and most particularly disliked by the family of a girl he was paying heed to, and by his neighbor Gilbey Dunn. Sym and his father had quarreled with him. Now, with his opposition safely out of the way, Gilbey is pressing his suit on Sym’s mother.”
“Have you spoken with him?”
“Briefly. He carries a knife that is approximately the right size to be the murder weapon. His reputation is one of greed and anger when he’s thwarted.”
“What do you know of the woman?”
“She is Meg, a thin little thing who works here in the priory sometimes. She has rejected him so far. But Gilbey is not playing the love-struck fool. He talks of the value of combining her holding with his. Gilbey’s lickerous eye turns toward our Annie Lauder.”
“He’s courting two women at once?” Domina Edith was as much amused as scandalized.
“No, Annie has long surrendered her body to him, and she seems content with his promise to continue their play even after he marries Meg. Annie is a hard worker, but she has no land. His interest in her is purely carnal.”
“And my dear brother used to say there was no point in buying a cow if the milk came free.” Domina Edith had been a nun almost all her life, but she was not ignorant of the world’s ways. “But might Annie speak up to spoil Gilbey’s plan for Meg?”
“I don’t know. I mean to talk with her when there’s chance. The one who was seriously angry at what Gilbey means to do was Sym.”
“And does any of this bear on Sister Fiacre’s death?” Dame Claire asked.
“Not that I can see. What bears on Sister Fiacre’s death is a quarrel between her brother and the players, but what it was, I don’t know. The players won’t say, except that they were wronged. Sister Fiacre said it was her family that was wronged, but she died before she could tell more.”
“Was the quarrel serious enough to have made trouble for the players?” asked Domina Edith. “Trouble enough they would want to prevent it by killing her?”
“The trouble had already happened,” said Frevisse. “They lost their patron and in consequence some of their number. There was no more trouble possible than had already been made.”
“It would be more likely a murder for revenge,” said Dame Claire. “They felt her brother wronged them and if there was this sudden way to strike at him…”
Frevisse pulled out her handkerchief and blew so loudly that Dame Claire stared at her.
Domina Edith said, “A pity we did not let Sister Fiacre talk when she wanted to. I should have asked her to come to me as soon as Sister Lucy told me about it, but Sister Fiacre in a temper was ever more emotion than sense, God rest her soul, and I thought to let her settle somewhat before I did.” Domina Edith sighed, then looked to Frevisse. “What do you think of Master Montfort’s conclusion about the players?”
“I can only repeat what I said to Master Montfort, Domina. I find nothing to show that any of them had aught to do with either murder.”
“You disagree that they might conspire to protect one another?”
Forced to it, Frevisse admitted, “No, I think they very often do. But not in this matter. They had no reason to commit either murder.”
“No?” Domina Edith asked, and Dame Claire made a sound that indicated she disagreed with Frevisse. The prioress said, “If you will leave us, Dame Claire. I would speak privately with Dame Frevisse.”
“Yes, Domina. Of course, Domina.” Dame Claire curtsied and went out without looking back.
Frevisse, thus encouraged to speak openly, said, “By the very needs of their life, folk such as they have to protect themselves in a variety of ways!” The words came out more strongly than Frevisse had intended. She looked away and forced her voice to ease. “Among other things, they have surely long since learned not to strike back at every fool who goads them. Better to move out of a fool’s way than get into fights with whole towns.”
Domina Edith nodded, her old eyes keen. “You speak from direct experience, I suppose. Your own parents were often on the road, and must have faced similar problems.”
The statement was without censure, but Frevisse stiffened, then resorted again to her handkerchief, wiping long and thoroughly at her nose while she tried to think of a reply that was both courteous and truthful.
But Domina Edith asked, “Is Rose very like your mother, then?”
“No, of course not. My mother was…” Frevisse paused. And said, despite the Rule and Domina Edith and her own controlled, controlling self, “… less likely to walk upon her hands!” And laughed until tears came. The shock of them sobered her into composure again. “I beg your pardon,” she murmured, wiping now at her eyes and keeping her face down, ashamed.
“Are you happy here?” Domina Edith asked gently.
Surprised at the question, Frevisse looked up. “Of course.”
“But you were also happy traveling with your parents.”
“Yes,” Frevisse said without hesitation. Then, less swiftly, “Yes. Yes, I was.”
“And no matter your happiness here, you must sometimes miss that freedom of the road. We all miss parts of our life beyond the cloister, else it would be no sacrifice worthy of the giving. And yours is greater than some, perhaps, because you enjoyed the changes that came with each day, new places and new people. It would be harder, I think, for someone like you to be here than for some gentle lady who never traveled beyond her parents’ own lands. Not because you lack the discipline, or desire, but because you had to learn later in life to accept what those of us more bound to homes grew up knowing—that the same faces will meet you day to day, sharing your yesterdays, tying themselves always into your tomorrows.”
Frevisse, no longer hiding in her handkerchief, met Domina Edith’s gaze and nodded, answering the prioress’s honesty in kind. “You are very wise.”
Domina Edith smiled. “And I think you had forgotten a great deal of the rules of your old life until the players came and reminded you of what it can be like to travel an endless road.”
Almost unwillingly Frevisse smiled back. “But I wanted most sincerely to come here, nonetheless,” she said.
“I believe you,” Domina Edith said. “And your travels have made you particularly valuable as our hosteler. But that does not mean that you must deny the joy you experienced in your youth. Is it possible you do not want the players to be guilty because it would be a betrayal of a part of your life you still love?”
Frevisse opened her mourn to deny it. But the words did not come. Instead she said with forced honesty, “That’s possible. But I still don’t think they’re guilty of either murder.”
“So long as your heart and mind are working together to that answer—not one without the other—I will accept your saying so. But on pain of breaking your vow of obedience, I command you: Learn what you can about all of this and prove their innocence, or their guilt. Not only to Master Montfort’s satisfaction, but mine. And your own.”
That was a challenge as well as command. Domina Edith’s direct gaze made that clear. She would accept that part of Frevisse that still loved the life she had left; but in
return Frevisse must give herself over to learning the truth, whatever it was, regardless of love or old loyalties.
And understanding all of that, Frevisse nodded her acceptance.
Domina Edith’s smile was small, but glowed warm in her eyes. “Then let us discuss this matter something more. For a certainty, you must see that the players are the only ones linked with both the deaths.”
Her face warming, Frevisse looked down. It was easier to agree to impartiality than practice it. “Yes,” she admitted. “Of everyone, they’re the most possible. But even at that, there’s nothing but likelihood to show it’s them. There’s nothing real.” She let her frustration show on the last word and met Domina Edith’s gaze. “All other matters aside, I simply can’t make anyone likely to have killed Sym. The villagers were used to his quarrelsomeness, and Gilbey seemed able to press his suit with or without his consent. And Sister Fiacre’s death seems even less probable. She was dying in great pain, so why, if someone hated her, cut short her suffering? Except for the players, there is no link between Sym and Sister Fiacre. But why commit a murder when you are certain to be suspected of it? That would be stupid, and the players aren’t stupid!”
After a little silence, Domina Edith said, “Maybe the deaths aren’t linked, so that you must look for two murderers with two motives. Or maybe there isn’t a motive in either; maybe they were killed by someone only wanting to be killing someone, he didn’t care whom. If that’s true, we’re looking for a madman, and all your search for the logic of motive is useless.”
A slow horror seeped through Frevisse as she considered that possibility. Someone purely evil living nearby, who would strike again and again until caught in the act… She shook her head more in denial than with reason. “No. I can’t think that. There has to be reason behind these deaths. It’s only a matter of finding it. I wish this rheum were out of my head so I could think clearly. I wish…” That none of the past few days had happened and she were going to spend the rest of the day asleep in bed.
Light footsteps on the stairs warned that someone was coming. At the quick rap on the door, Domina Edith said, “Benedicite,” and Eda entered and curtsied.
“A woman from the guesthall, my lady, is wanting to see you. One of the player folk.”
“Bring her up,” Domina Edith directed. When the servant was gone, she looked at Frevisse, who shook her head, unable to imagine what Rose might want there.
They had not long to wait before the woman returned, ushered Rose in, and withdrew. Left standing inside the door, her tawny gown a rich complement to the bright colors in the embroidered cushions on the window bench, Rose gave no sign of discomfort at being in a place so far removed from her usual ways. Nor did she stare around. Instead she came with the grace Frevisse had seen in her before, to kneel in front of Domina Edith and say humbly, “My lady, it being more seemly for me than the others of our company to come within your holy walls, I’ve come from them to ask a boon, if it be your will to grant us one.”
Her voice was as rich and charming as Thomas Bassett’s, doubtless honed from years of announcing the plays and craving pennies for her own display of acrobatic skills. Domina Edith gave no sign that she was unused to being confronted in her private quarters by landless beggars, but inclined her head and said as gracefully back, “So gracious an asking deserves a gracious giving if it is seemly and within my power.”
“The crowner has come, my lady, and we’re wondering if that means an end to our hope of performing for your priory.” Her eyes flickered from face to face as she said that, trying to see an answer to that and other things. Frevisse at least tried very hard to betray nothing. Rose looked back to Domina Edith. “So by your leave we ask if we are to perform the play as we agreed or not, to repay the goodness you’ve given us here before we depart. We would otherwise be on our way.”
Domina Edith inclined her head and said, “This holy season has lacked much of its accustomed cheer within our walls this year. A play reflecting joyfully on the season might be welcome indeed. But not in the church, where Sister Fiacre lies. It would be wrong, knowing how she felt about players”—Domina Edith was too much a diplomat to say “especially yourselves”—“to allow their mummery within her hearing.”
“I doubt she listens much to what goes on hereabouts anymore,” said Frevisse before she could stop herself.
Domina Edith quelled her with a glance, and said, “But the guesthall will do, I think. That should offend no one. Would that be suitable to your needs?” she asked.
Rose said, “I am sure it will be most suitable.”
Domina Edith looked to Frevisse. “What think you, Dame Frevisse?”‘
“I should think a play about the Three Kings would be edifying for us all,” Frevisse agreed. And she thought she knew what was in Domina Edith’s mind. A diversion from Sister Fiacre’s death and its fears would be good for all the nuns.
“Would this afternoon then suit you? Between Vespers and Compline as we meant it before? Could it be readied by then, Dame Frevisse?”
“If I may have the candlestands moved from the church to the guesthall, there’s little else needs doing. But we’ll need those, the hall has no western windows for the late light.”
Domina Edith inclined her head in agreement and returned her attention to Rose. “Our permission is given. And our thanks.”
Rose stood up and curtsied low.
“Your child,” Domina Edith said. “He’s better?”
Rose’s face bloomed with quiet pleasure. “With every day he’s been allowed to stay here, his strength has been returning to him. My thanks for allowing us to stay, my lady.”
“We welcome guests in obedience to God’s command,” Domina Edith answered. “And gladly, for it is written that oft shall we entertain angels unaware.” She sketched a cross in blessing to Rose, who crossed herself in return and bowed herself out of the room.
Chapter 20
Dame Alys’s cold had begun to clear. Still croaking but her energy returned, she was taking up the slack that had crept into the kitchen during her illness. Roaming among the tables, she spent the morning harassing her workers, her large, bent spoon at the ready as she surveyed and expounded on their inadequacies.
“That’s bread dough, not pastry, you’re handling, girl! You put more muscle into your kneading, or I’ll muscle your head! We’ve eleven extra mouths now because there’s hardly a thing in the guesthall kitchen to feed them—so much for the ‘we never get guests at Christmastide’ opinion. Meg! That’s a slicing knife, not an ax. The chickens have already been butchered. You only need dice them up, not kill them all over again.”
She banged her spoon on the table beside Meg, making her jump and grow busier still, cutting the flesh of five boiled chickens into small pieces for pies. It was Sister Amicia, taking her turn helping in the kitchen by cutting up vegetables to be mixed with the chicken pieces, who burst into tears. Dame Alys stopped, hands hard on hips, to glare at her.
“And why your tears, Sister? Those are carrots, not onions, you’re slicing. And I’ve not even told you yet you’re slicing them so thin they’ll cook to nothing in the pies. Use your wits, and your time, more wisely, and stop that blubbing.”
Sister Amicia dug for a handkerchief up her sleeve. “It was your talk of butchery,” she sobbed. “It made me think of Sister Fiacre.”
Quiet spread across the kitchen. Even Dame Alys fell silent. She had never much cared for Sister Fiacre, who had flared into hysteria or crumpled into despair whenever her fumbling ways in the kitchen were pointed out to her. The nunnery had agreed long before she fell seriously ill that everyone would live more peaceably if her path no longer crossed Dame Alys’s. But not even so unhappy a spirit as Sister Fiacre deserved so ugly a death.
Sister Emma reached out to pat Sister Amicia’s arm. “Well it is to mourn her passing, but remember, she’s gone to Heaven now and everything is better for her.”
“Not Heaven yet, I’d say,” Dame Alys rumb
led. “She’s her time in Purgatory to serve first and that may take her a while.”
“Oh, surely not,” Sister Emma protested. “Prepared as she was for death, and dying as she did, praying at the altar. Surely her soul is as pure as it could be.”
Dame Alys glowered. “I’ll ask your leave to doubt it. Remember, God had laid a trial on her…” Dame Alys placed a hand on her bosom with a meaningful grimace. “He’d laid a trial on her and she’d not completed it. So there’s that to answer for, at least. My guess would be she’s gone to Purgatory and her time there will be the longer, to make up for not living out her trial here on earth. And the harder maybe, too, because of it.”
“Oh, no—” Sister Emma began, but swallowed further protest quickly; Dame Alys did not bear contradiction calmly.
But beside her Meg made a protesting sound. Dame Alys swung around on her, demanding, “Now what’s your problem? If you’re about to faint, just get yourself away from that bowl so you don’t pull it over with you. And put that knife down so you don’t cut someone.”
Meg put the knife down. She was not near to fainting but trembling all through herself with a kind of fiercely suppressed anger. Through stiff lips, not quite daring to look at Dame Alys, she said, “She’s gone straight to Heaven as truly as any soul could go. She was pure in her serving God in His church, and purely praying to Him when she died, and so surely she has gone straight to Heaven to be happy and out of her pain forever. You’re the one who’s sinful—sinful to be saying otherwise!”
If one of the chicken carcasses had risen off the table and spoken to her, Dame Alys could not have been more surprised. To that moment Meg had never spoken out of turn, rarely spoken at all. They all gaped, then Dame Alys’s jaw began to work, and there was a general cringing at what was surely coming next.
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