“Nunc dimittis servum tuum, Domine, secundum verbum tuum in pace …” Now dismiss your servant, Lord, according to your word, in peace … “Salva nos, Domine… et requiescamus in pace.” Save us, Lord … and may we find rest in peace. Taking the comfort there was in knowing that these words, this hope, had outlasted the ambitions and lusts of more hundreds of men than she could count or know.
They had finished and were simply sitting, Vaughn silently watching his thumbs tap together, Joliffe holding the book without ever turning a page, when a footfall on the stairs brought them all to their feet, with Frevisse’s momentary peace gone well before the door was opened and Sir William entered and stood aside for the man following him.
Even if Frevisse had not seen Richard, duke of York before this, the broad chain of glinting gold and white-enameled roses worn wide on his shoulders, the rich sheen of his long, deeply blue surcoat, and the way he carried himself, straight-backed and with lifted head, proud with certainty of his place in the world, would have told her here was a high nobleman.
She and Sister Margrett sank in floor-deep curtsies as Joliffe and Vaughn made low bows. By the time she and Sister Margrett had risen and Joliffe and Vaughn straightened, Sir William had closed the door and York had crossed the room to the table and full into the candlelight. “Master Joliffe,” he said.
“My lord,” Joliffe returned.
“And your companions?”
“Dame Frevisse is cousin to her grace the duchess of Suffolk and here on her behalf.”
Frevisse made a curtsy, not quite so low as before, to acknowledge that and, raising her head, met York’s gaze, startling in its sharp assessment of her before he slightly bowed his head in return.
“And Sister Margrett, here to companion Dame Frevisse,”
Joliffe went on. Again the curtsy and brief bow of the head. “And Nicholas Vaughn, likewise here for the duchess of Suffolk.”
Again the sharp, assessing look and bow of the head to Vaughn’s low bow. But with courtesy served, York looked full at Joliffe again and said, “You’ve been ill, Joliffe?”
Joliffe’s surprise showed. “My lord?”
“You look worn by more than merely too much riding. Was it illness? Or were you hurt?”
“Hurt, my lord.”
“In this matter that Sir William says you say is urgent?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“But you do well enough now?”
“Yes, my lord. Well enough.”
Frevisse, watching them, thought that by rights the only thing that might have been alike about the two men was their age—both somewhere around their fortieth year—but there was more than that. Their pride, for one thing: something Frevisse had long known about Joliffe and could easily have guessed about York, he being who he was. Her surprise was at seeing the respect there was between them. She knew well that Joliffe did not readily give respect to anyone, while York could hardly be expected to give it to a hireling spy, which was, when all was said and done, what Joliffe must be. But the respect was there and shared as York said, “So you’ve come with something to tell me, and they’re necessary to the telling.”
“To tell you and to give you,” Joliffe said. “Save for Sister Margrett, who’s the one innocent in this.” He turned to her. “If you will go aside and pardon us for it, my lady?”
Sister Margrett, making no objection to being innocent and sent aside, bowed her head and silently withdrew to a corner farthest from them in the room. There, she lowered her head, crossed her hands into her opposite sleeves, and went still, as little there as she could possibly be without leaving the room.
“Dame Frevisse,” Joliffe said.
Frevisse went forward to join him in front of York. Time was come to be rid of the letter and unwillingness was on her like a weight of lead, because once it was given, once York had read it, there would be no way to unknow whatever it said. And if it said what she and Joliffe feared it did …
She paused, her hand resting on the clasp of her belt-purse. “There’s one thing first, my lord. Vaughn.”
He came forward to stand beside her, the two of them together in this for Alice’s sake; but he left the words to her, and keeping her gaze steady on York, she said, “Without the duchess of Suffolk’s aid and willingness, we would not have this thing. She believes it holds truths that could ruin her son. She also believes they are truths that should not stay hidden. What she asks in return for giving it to you is that you will do all that you may to protect her son’s rights and title and inheritance if this should prove as …” Frevisse sought for the word. “… ill a thing as she fears. Will you swear to do that?”
It was no little thing to ask a royal duke for his oath, nor did York immediately give it but regarded her steadily before saying, “Is it as dire as that?”
“We think so, yes,” Joliffe said before Frevisse could answer.
York looked at him. “Do you think this is a pledge I should make?”
“Yes, my lord.”
York returned his look to Frevisse, signed himself with the cross, and said, “Then I swear to do all I may to protect young John de la Pole’s rights and title and inheritance, to save him as much as in my power lies from the consequences of his father’s deeds.” He signed the cross again and asked of Frevisse and Vaughn together, “Enough?”
She looked at Vaughn, who nodded agreement, and she faced York again to say, “Yes. Enough.”
She had done what she could for Alice. Refusing to let her fingers fumble, she brought out the packet and held it out to York, both glad to be rid of it and nakedly afraid. She looked into his face as he took it and found he was looking at her, not the packet, as he took it; and it might have been the candlelight or else her own imagining, but her own feelings looked mirrored in his gaze. He was no fool. He had his fears and suspicions, too, and if the letter said what she thought it did, he was right to be afraid of it.
He turned toward the candles, held the packet the better to see the seal on the cord around it, and asked, “Whose seal?”
“Edward Burgate, the duke of Suffolk’s secretary,” Joliffe said.
York broke it, unwrapped the cord, set it on the table, began to fold back the oiled-cloth wrapping. Sir William began to move forward to York’s side. Joliffe put out a hand toward York, saying, “It might be best if only you read it first, my lord. It may not be for anyone else to know.”
Sir William stopped, outrage and uncertainty unsteady across his face. York looked from Joliffe to him and back again.
“Have you read this?” he asked Joliffe.
“No, but I have a strong suspicion what it says, and if I’m right, the fewer who know it for certain the better, my lord.”
“Suspicion,” York echoed grimly. “After my greeting in Wales, I’m willing to listen to suspicions. Sir William.”
With a discontent near to anger and not hiding it very well, Sir William stayed where he was.
They all stayed where they were while York finished unwrapping the packet and laid the cloth on the table. York looked at the imprinted wax holding closed the several-times-folded papers that had been inside the cloth. “Suffolk’s,” he said, broke it, and unfolded the papers. In the silence of their waiting, he began to read, and while he did, no one shifted or stirred.
For her part, Frevisse tried to hold her gaze to the floor but found herself watching York; and although the candles still burned strongly, keeping the shadows at bay, she saw a darkness grow on him as he read. And when he looked up from the last page there was the bleakness to him, as if he had aged years in the few minutes he had taken to read the thing. For a long moment his gaze did not see any of them. He might have been alone in some far and empty place, and Frevisse had the shivered feeling that alone was what he mostly was, no matter how many others were around him.
Then he came back from whatever far place in his mind he had gone; was folding the papers closed and saying with forced lightness, “Suffolk always did say more than n
eed be. Joliffe, tell me about this. Who else has read this? Where has it been?”
“To the best of our knowledge no one has read it but Suffolk and his secretary who wrote it for him and saw to its safekeeping.”
Sir William put in sharply, “Where’s this secretary?”
York held up a hand. “Let’s have it from something like the beginning. Tell me, among the three of you, how this came into your hands and here.”
Most of that telling fell to Vaughn and Joliffe. For her part, Frevisse told why she had been with Lady Alice at all and what had passed at Kenilworth while she was there and, in its turn, of Joliffe coming hurt to St. Frideswide’s. “Nor is he altogether healed,” she said firmly. “Rest is what will presently serve him best.”
“I’ll remember,” York said with the smallest possibility of a smile that was more at Joliffe’s open discomfiture than at her, Frevisse thought.
There was little left to tell then, except what had happened yesterday, with Frevisse having to hide her alarm at what she had not heard before now. When that was done, York stood silent a time, looking downward, then raised his gaze to them all, his face quiet, his voice merely courteous, as he said, “Vaughn, I’ll want to talk with you in the morning concerning Lady Alice. She’s more than earned my gratitude and any help that I can give her. Dame Frevisse, I think your part in this is done. I hope you can return to your cloister with clear mind and heart. Joliffe and Sir William, I want you to stay a time longer, but Dame Frevisse, Vaughn …” He slightly lifted his voice. “… Sister Margrett, I give you all leave to go to your belated beds.”
Vaughn made a low bow and Frevisse and Sister Margrett deep curtsies and then they … escaped, was the word that came to Frevisse’s mind as they went down the stairs and into the abbot’s cobbled yard again. The hour was late. Some of the lanterns beside doorways had gone out and there were few men about and no women. If there were stars, Frevisse did not see them, concerned more with her feet and reaching the stairs to the nuns’ dorter. There Vaughn left them with a bow and no more than a murmured, “My ladies,” before going his own way to the men’s dorter, but Frevisse paused Sister Margrett by a brief hold on her sleeve and asked, “How much did you hear?”
“Nearly nothing. You all spoke low, and I hummed psalms to myself to stop my ears.”
That was more discretion than Frevisse had hoped for and she said, “Thank you. That was well done.”
But curiosity could only be curbed so far, and Sister Margrett asked, “Did it go badly?”
“It went … as well as it could. Worse for his grace of York than anyone, I think.” Remembering York’s stark look when he had finished reading Suffolk’s damning letter. Who the letter damned had never been said aloud, and for that she was half-thankful, half-raw with wondering if she and Joliffe had guessed rightly. She might never know. Did not know if she wanted to know. Did not know if she could live unknowing …
She wrenched her mind away from that and said, “It’s done for us anyway, and that’s what must matter. Tomorrow we can start home.”
Chapter 29
Frevisse’s hope in the morning was that she would chance to talk at least once more with Joliffe, but it was Vaughn who came up to her and Sister Margrett as they left the church after Prime, to ask, “Do you plan to leave today, my ladies?”
“After Tierce. We mean to make an easier journey of it than the one here,” Frevisse said. “And you?”
“I’ve planned much the same.”
Frevisse had awoken with a thought that his answer gave her chance to follow, and she asked, “Then may we beg a boon of you? A final favor from my Lady Alice? Given how unsettled all the countryside is, would you and your man join ours and see us safely back to St. Frideswide’s? It will hardly be out of your way, if you’re going to Lady Alice at Kenilworth.”
If he hesitated, it was so briefly she could not be sure of it before he slightly bowed and said, “Gladly. I’ll find your men and tell them so.”
She thanked him and they parted with courtesy on both sides, Frevisse watching him away toward the abbey’s outer gateway until, behind her, making both her and Sister Margrett startle, Joliffe said, “Good morrow, my ladies. I trust you slept well.”
“Better than you, by the look of you,” Frevisse said, eyeing with disfavor the dark smears of weariness under his eyes.
He was freshly shaven, though, and there was a glint in his eyes that was more mischief than weariness, lessening her worry for him as he ignored her jibe and said, “I’ve been given permission for us to talk in the abbot’s garden this morning after breakfast. I’ll send someone to bring you there. By your leave, of course.”
“Of course,” she said, feeling anything but “of course” about it. “But …”
“My thanks,” he said, bowed, and slipped away among the people still spreading outward from the abbey doorway, leaving her question unfinished behind him.
Since she wanted to talk with him and they could hardly have talked here, she knew her irk at him was unreasonable but that did not ease it.
Sister Margrett made no murmur over the matter. They broke their fast, then asked the way to the abbot’s garden. It lay high-walled behind his house, on the slope toward the river at the valley bottom, and was reached by a narrow passage between buildings. The way in from this wide was by a door in the wall, and a man with York’s falcon badge on his doublet was standing there, openly a guard. Without need for them to say anything, he opened the door for them to go in, then shut it behind them, and Frevisse did not doubt he would stay there all the while they did and be there to let them out when they were ready to leave.
The garden was as such gardens were. With walks between beds bright with the last of autumn flowers and flowering herbs; a long arbored walk; a square of lawn with a fountain gently plashing in its middle, it had all the usual graces of a great lord’s garden, except for Joliffe standing beside the fountain, watching the water play.
Sister Margrett went to sit on a bench where the morning sun was falling warmly. Frevisse went forward to Joliffe, who turned at her approach but stayed where he was, greeting her with a courteous bow to which she returned a bending of her head before she said, “I hope this isn’t to ask anything more of me. Sister Margrett and I are bound for St. Frideswide’s this morning, come what may.”
“Go freely and with my good wishes,” Joliffe said, smiling. “No, I’ve only asked you here because I thought you might like to have your curiosity satisfied before you leave.”
“You know I would,” she said. She was afraid to know for certain that what she feared was true, and at the same time knew herself too well to think she would choose ignorance if she were given any choice. “York told you what was in Suffolk’s letter, then?”
“He let me read it. Let both Oldhall and me. We feared rightly, you and I.”
Frevisse drew a short, uneven breath and had to steady before she could ask, so low the words were almost lost under the soft sound of the fountain, “The king?”
As grim-faced as she had ever seen him, Joliffe said what she did not want to hear. “The king. As Suffolk tells it in that letter, France was lost, Normandy given up to French, the war forfeited not simply by Suffolk’s and Somerset’s choice and treachery, but with King Henry’s willing agreement.”
“He … couldn’t have known what he was doing. He’s simple. Men say so. He doesn’t know what he does. Everyone …”
“There are men say the world is flat, too, when it’s been known for a thousand years and more that it isn’t. I think— though Suffolk doesn’t say it—that maybe our King Henry simply hates being king.”
“He … That isn’t possible.”
“Why not?” Joliffe asked with mocking lightness; but this was a thing he had thought dark and deep about. “He was, what, nine months old when he became king? He spent all his childhood being forced and ordered about by lords who knew what kind of king they wanted him to be, never mind who he might be in himself. Th
en he came of age and they handed his power to him and went on telling him who he was supposed to be and what he was supposed to do. For him it’s been nearly thirty years of that. His whole life. For myself, I doubt I’d have much love for anyone—and certainly not for my much-urged ‘duty’—after all of that. Would you?”
But he was the king, Frevisse wanted to protest. The king.
And at the same time she could understand what Joliffe had said and she choked her protest down and said evenly, “Did Suffolk say all of that?”
“Suffolk did not. I think that much grasp of another person was beyond our shallow duke of Suffolk, wrapped with love for himself as he was. But I think he had sensed enough that he’d begun to be afraid of his king, if only at the last. Hence the letter, written against the bitter possibility he would be betrayed. Which he was.”
“He was murdered on King Henry’s order?”
“We can suppose he was, from what we otherwise know.”
“And all the murders that followed?”
“There’s no proof King Henry ordered them. That’s the trouble with all of this. There’s no proof of anything. Only Suffolk’s accusations about Normandy and our own suspicion that somewhere behind all of these deaths there has to be someone with power enough to order outright murders and afterward stop any true seeking for the guilty.”
“Someone not the duke of Somerset.” For reasons on which they had long since agreed.
“Not Somerset. Nor is there any other lord who’s shown they have that kind of power. Until we find that one of them secretly does, I think we have to more than suspect the murders were done by King Henry’s orders, by men in his service. Or maybe only the one man. The one who nearly did for me in Hedingham. He surely gave every sign of sufficiency that way.”
16 The Traitor's Tale Page 33
