8 The Maiden's Tale

by Frazer, Margaret

  “If you’d care to sit?” the nun suggested to them all.

  Abbot Gilberd and Dame Perpetua cared to. Back inside the familiarity of convent walls, even one so much larger and obviously more wealthy than St. Frideswide’s, Dame Perpetua was confident again, already joining easily in the talk between Abbot Gilberd and the nun, first in more detail about the journey—long but not difficult—and then the weather—cold, wasn’t it?—and, inevitably, the poor harvest there had been this year. Frevisse, with Lady Adela still clinging to her, chose to go aside, as if to show her the tapestries more closely, giving them both excuse to turn their backs on the room so that Frevisse, gently prying Lady Adela’s fingers from her cloak but then holding the little girl’s hand between her own, was able to say to her low-voiced for no one else to hear, “Don’t be afraid. It’s going to be far better than you think.”

  Lady Adela’s lower lip thrust out, not much but dangerously; heretofore that lower lip had meant temper rather than tears. “I’m not afraid. I’m angry.”

  She was afraid, too, but Frevisse could see the anger now as well and asked, disconcerted, “Why? At what?”

  “At being here. I don’t want to be.”

  Frevisse tried to find a temperate answer to that with, “Given how things are at St. Frideswide’s now, Abbot Gilberd thought.

  “He didn’t think to ask me.”

  Matching her preemptory tone, Frevisse said back at her, “It wasn’t for you to decide.”

  Lady Adela turned her gaze from staring at the woven tuft of grass beside the hem of the virgin’s skirt in front of her to stare at Frevisse instead, demanding better answer.

  There were, of course, all the proper answers—about children and duty and respecting their elders’ decisions—but Frevisse suspected they would be useless, and said instead, though no less firmly, “There’s a very good chance you’ll be happy here. If nothing else, there’ll surely be more to do than there was in St. Frideswide’s and probably other girls to be with and…”

  “What there’ll be are more people to tell me what to do!” Lady Adela said venomously. Then some of her defiance crumpled as she added, glancing around the large, richly furnished room, “And there’s so much more of it than St. Frideswide’s.” A thing she plainly did not find comforting.

  “Then it’s more like your home, how you lived before you came to St. Frideswide’s,” Frevisse said encouragingly. “Think how poor a place St. Frideswide’s is compared to that and how much better this will be.”

  Lady Adela’s eyes widened more in her white face. “I don’t remember before St. Frideswide’s,” she whispered. “Not much. Only a little. It was too long ago.”

  Five years ago, now that Frevisse came to think on it, and Lady Adela had been only five years old and had never been back. Nor had any of her people ever come to see her. The messenger who twice yearly brought the fee for her keep saw her briefly each time so he could report back that she was well, but it was not always the same man who came, sometimes not even the same man twice in a row. The only place and the only people Lady Adela truly knew were St. Frideswide’s priory and its nuns and now she was as cast out of there as she had been from her family.

  But pity for her would be no use to her. It would change nothing, and Frevisse said more sternly than she felt, “What’s done is done for your good in fullness of time. No matter how it displeases you now, you have to trust in that.”

  Lady Adela’s face did not reflect anything remotely approaching trust, but any answer she might have made was cut off by the nun’s return with a woman who must be Dame Elisabeth. Abbot Gilberd, Dame Perpetua, and the other nun rose to their feet and even Lady Adela, to whom St. Frideswide’s new prioress would be irrelevant, swung quickly around to see her.

  She was dressed inevitably in Benedictine black, wimpled and veiled, making her age—even whether she were older or younger than her brother—difficult to tell. But, like Frevisse, she was tall for a woman and she carried herself well, moving confidently and with certainty as she first made a deep curtsy to her brother and then straightened to take his outheld hand. For a moment, hands clasped, they smiled at one another. Then she took back her hand and stepped away from him, to look around the room at Dame Perpetua, Frevisse, and Lady Adela as her brother introduced them, her pleasure opening to include them as she said warmly, “Welcome, my ladies.” And then specifically to Lady Adela, “My lady.”

  They all made curtsies to her, Lady Adela’s a little less than theirs because of her place as a lord’s daughter. Dame Elisabeth curtsied back before saying to the nun who had come with her, “Sister Clemens, I think now would be good time for Lady Adela to go to Dame Hilary. Would you take her, please you?” Smiling at Lady Adela, she explained, “Dame Hilary is our novice mistress.” And so had keeping and oversight of any girls entrusted to St. Helen’s.

  Sister Clemens advanced on Lady Adela with outheld hand, a smile, and probably goodwill; but Lady Adela was small and Sister Clemens was large and Frevisse, with an abrupt vision of being loomed over and smiled at like that by a stranger about to lead her away into the unknown all suddenly, laid a hand on Lady Adela’s rigid shoulder and said bright-voiced over her head to Dame Elisabeth, “You have a great many girls here?”

  Mercifully Sister Clemens paused and Dame Elisabeth answered mildly, “Eleven, with Lady Adela. Mostly knights’ daughters. Some of merchant families here in London.” Directly to Lady Adela she added, “You’ll find them good company, child. They’ve heard you’re to join them. They’ve readied you a place in their dormitory and chosen where you’ll sit at their table. So make your farewells and go with Sister Clemens, please.”

  For a perilous moment it seemed Lady Adela might refuse. But there was no hope in that. She was too young and too outnumbered and was clever enough to know it. Frevisse felt her give rebellion up but was not ready for Lady Adela to turn and suddenly fling desperate arms around her in an embrace that Frevisse, surprised, only belatedly and awkwardly started to return. But Lady Adela was already gone from her, crossing quickly to Dame Perpetua to embrace her even more briefly before, with her head proudly up and not even a look at anyone else there, pointedly ignoring both Abbot Gilberd and Dame Elisabeth, she followed Sister Clemens out of the room.

  A little silence held after she was gone, before Abbot Gilberd said, “Well.” And might have said more but Dame Elisabeth efficiently closed the matter with, “Shall we all sit down again? Sister Clemens will be bringing something to eat and drink shortly.”

  She moved to follow her own recommendation; and going to join them as they took seats again, Frevisse thought that at least Abbot Gilberd had not fobbed off a fool on them. Whatever else Dame Elisabeth might turn out to be, at least she was not that, and she proved it further in passing by discussion of the weather and how the roads had been to say to Frevisse and Dame Perpetua both, “Tell me about St. Frideswide’s.”

  “Your brother—um, Abbot Gilberd hasn’t told you everything?” Dame Perpetua asked, to cover the unexpectedness of the question.

  Dame Elisabeth gave her brother a glance and smile. “He’s told me abbot-things. How many properties you hold and your yearly income. That your buildings are in good repair. That there are nine of you. But not your names or if the priory is comfortable or what the countryside is like. So tell me, please.” Together, Dame Perpetua leading, they did, or at least began the telling, starting simply with such things as the other nuns’ names and how long they had been professed and something of what the countryside was like. Frevisse suspected Dame Elisabeth would make a deeper questioning later, when Abbot Gilberd was not there to hear it, and she raised her opinion of their new prioress slightly higher, cautiously beginning to hope that, abbatial brother or no, Dame Elisabeth intended St. Frideswide’s to come first in her considerations.

  Sister Clemens returned with wine and sugar wafers and the talk veered a little, into how long they would stay in London. Dame Elisabeth had various duties in St. Helen�
��s she could not simply leave but she had already begun to give them over to others and said, “A week. Surely not more than that.” She smiled at her brother. “We’ll have to leave you behind. Parliament will only be warming into its arguing by then. Subsidies and taxes and what else this time?”

  “The French war probably,” Abbot Gilberd said. “I fear this matter of the duke of Orleans isn’t going to go away.”

  “Ah.” Dame Elisabeth nodded, seeming to understand more from that than Frevisse did.

  What everyone presently knew of the war was that of late it had been no more than profitless skirmishing by the English and French into each other’s territories, with neither side sensible enough to quit or strong enough to win. That latter was the duke of Burgundy’s fault. He had been England’s great ally in the war until four years ago when he had turned his coat—though that was not how he put it—to the French. After over a dozen years of alliance with England, of calling the French dauphin, their shared enemy, nothing more respectful than “the king of England’s uncle,” Burgundy had of a sudden decided that the dauphin was after all Charles VII, rightful king of France, and had broken with the English when they would not agree with him.

  Since then talks to bring about a peace were constantly being proposed but never happening, or else happening but accomplishing nothing. There had actually been one at Calais this autumn that had involved the duke of Orleans, but no one at St. Frideswide’s had heard more of it than that or what had come of it so probably nothing had, and Frevisse asked, “The duke of Orleans? Is there trouble over him?”

  “Trouble, or maybe the end of trouble,” Abbot Gilberd said. “It seems that the talks at Calais went well but the French—pushed by the duke of Burgundy apparently—have decided to insist that peace hangs on Orleans going free.”

  “Oh my,” said Dame Perpetua. “The duke of Orleans. I’d forgotten about him.”

  A royal duke of France, the French king’s cousin and a prisoner here in England for more than twenty years, ever since he had been captured in Agincourt battle. The many other French lords taken prisoner then had long since been ransomed or died. Only Orleans remained still prisoner after all these years, never offered for ransom and so with no apparent hope of going free. And now the duke of Burgundy was saying peace hinged on him?

  “Some in the government are willing to consider it, if it means peace,” Abbot Gilberd was going on. “I gather the king himself leans heavily toward it. But it’s said the duke of Gloucester does not, that he’s throwing all his weight against letting it be even considered.”

  Frevisse knew something more of the duke of Gloucester than she did of the duke of Orleans—more than she wanted to know, that was certain—and if what Abbot Gilberd said was true, then things did not bode well for either peace or Orleans.

  “But that makes me think,” Abbot Gilberd said and turned to her. “You’re cousin to my lady of Suffolk, are you not?”‘

  It was a question but one to which Frevisse was instantly certain he had the answer—and just as instantly understood why he had chosen her instead of someone else to come to London. Her cousin Alice was countess of Suffolk and wealthy. St. Frideswide’s was in need of money. She was to bring her cousin’s wealth and St. Frideswide’s need together.

  Letting none of her certainty show in her face, Frevisse said mildly, bending her head in a slight nod of agreement, “Lady Alice’s mother and mine were sisters, God keep their souls.”

  While everyone crossed herself for that, Abbot Gilberd went on, “It’s very likely her lord husband is come to London for Parliament and that she’s with him. Would you care to write to her that you’re here, too?” He looked questioningly at Dame Elisabeth. “Would that be possible, do you think? Would someone from here take the message?”

  “Of course,” Dame Elisabeth said, leaving Frevisse to wonder how much of this her brother had apprised her of beforehand.

  Nonetheless, aside from supposing she would not see his purpose, it was a reasonable thought on Abbot Gilberd’s part, and apart from St. Frideswide’s need, it would be good to see Alice again; so, matching graciousness for graciousness, Frevisse was satisfied to smile and say, “That’s most kind of you. My thanks.”

  Chapter 4

  At Abbot Gilberd’s quiet asking of Dame Elisabeth, paper, pen, and ink were brought, the abbot explaining, “If you write now, one of my men will take it to my lady of Suffolk for you, rather than needing to stir anyone out of St. Helen’s.” Frevisse, leaving the others to their talk, drew aside to pen a short message to Alice, saying she was briefly come to London on nunnery business, was staying at St. Helen’s Bishopsgate, and hoped there would be chance to see her. That done and with time for the ink to dry, she returned to hold it out to Abbot Gilberd because no nun was to write a letter without her superior’s permission and knowledge of what was in it, and until Dame Elisabeth had been invested as prioress, he held that place. He scanned the paper with a quick eye, more for form’s sake than need, asking as he gave it back to her, “Do you wish it sealed?”

  There was nothing secret or of importance written there, and Frevisse answered, “No, my lord,” and folded the paper end and end, overlapping on itself, then from side to side to make a small packet, easily tucked into a man’s belt pouch. Rising to his feet, Abbot Gilberd took it, saying, “Then I’ll be on my way. It’s time. Elisabeth, I leave them in your good care.”

  The nuns had risen as he did and now made him curtsies as he turned to go. Dame Elisabeth saw him from the room to the outer door, the others waiting, thinking of nothing to say in the brief moment before she returned and, standing in the doorway, her hands folded at her waist in front of her, said with a smile for Frevisse and Dame Perpetua, “There. Your things have gone to where you’ll sleep. Would you care to rest a while or be shown around St. Helen’s first?”

  Frevisse and Dame Perpetua exchanged looks to see if either was in need of rest, but being somewhere new was rare enough that Frevisse made a small nod of agreement to Dame Perpetua’s silent asking, and Dame Perpetua turned eagerly back to Dame Elisabeth with, “We’d very much like to be shown around, if it please you.”

  As Dame Elisabeth led them through rooms, around the cloister walk and to other rooms, talking quietly while she did, Frevisse for the first time wondered less how it was going to be at St. Frideswide’s with a new prioress than how it would be for the new prioress, leaving the place that had been her home since girlhood. Set where it was, the priory drew prosperous London merchants’ daughters and the daughters of lesser nobility whose dowries plainly kept St. Helen’s very comfortably provided. Did Dame Elisabeth realize what she was giving up in coming to St. Frideswide’s? And what would happen if she did not find her rise to higher office worth the cost?

  But even while she showed them through the rooms, briefly introducing them to nuns they happened to meet, Dame Elisabeth was asking occasional questions that they were answering more fulsomely than they might have done a litany of direct ones, questions that if she kept on this way, would leave her knowing a great deal about St. Frideswide’s before she ever reached there.

  Up a stairs, she stood aside from a door for them to go in ahead of her, saying, “This is our library,” and Dame Perpetua, ahead of Frevisse, simply stopped in the doorway. Over her shoulder Frevisse could see why. At St. Frideswide’s, what books they had were kept in two chests stored among other things in the small room above the sacristy. Here was a whole room given over only to books. Along one wall were closed shelves with one of the doors standing open to piled books inside; down the room’s center a table, other books lying out on it; desks for writing; a glassed window giving light to everything.

  Dame Perpetua, as if dazed, drifted in. Frevisse would have followed but Sister Clemens was coming up the stairs, calling, “Dame Elisabeth,” followed by a woman in a rose-yellow cloak and many-veiled headdress. “From the countess of Suffolk,” Sister Clemens panted as she reached them. “For Dame Frevisse.”
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  Frevisse stepped forward and the woman made curtsy to her, saying, “My lady has your message and asks if you would favor her by coming to supper tonight.”

  “You mean now?” Frevisse asked, taken somewhat aback.

  “If it please you. Her ladyship has sent escort of half a dozen men for you. And whoever has companioned you, of course.”

  There was hardly a way to turn down an invitation so thoroughly offered, nor did Frevisse doubt Abbot Gilberd would approve her going. It was likely what he had hoped for. But more than that, she was pleased to know Alice so wanted to see her and said, “We’ll come with pleasure and thanks, my lady.” Then she saw Dame Perpetua casting a desperately unhappy look at the library and added, for kindness’ sake, “Unless you’d rather stay here, Dame? I doubt Abbot Gilberd would object to…”

  She looked at the lady-in-waiting for her name.

  “Lady Sibill, by your leave, my lady.”

  “… would object to Lady Sibill being my surety in your stead.” Because it would be unacceptable for her to go out of the nunnery and through London unaccompanied by some woman.

  “Yes! Please!” Dame Perpetua said, all gladness on the instant, and men because that eagerness might seem impolite, said, “It would hardly do for both of us to leave Dame Elisabeth when we’ve only just come.”

  Dame Elisabeth agreed readily to all of that, and leaving her and Dame Perpetua to the library, Frevisse went with Sister Clemens and Lady Sibill away to the outer door, with a pause in the corridor there for Sister Clemens to hurry away and find wherever Frevisse’s cloak had been taken and bring it back to her. The half dozen men Lady Sibill had spoken of, squires in the dark blue Suffolk livery with the Suffolk badge of a silver ape-clog on their shoulders, were waiting, still mounted, in the cobbled yard, and when Frevisse followed Lady Sibill out, one of them dismounted, to lift first Lady Sibill up to ride sidewise behind one of the men, and then to lift Frevisse to ride behind him, saying, “Pardon, my lady,” as he settled her to the pad there.