The Servant's Tale

by Margaret Frazer

  Gilbey answered her in kind, his voice lower as if he were nearer to her. “Little enough maybe, but sweet.”

  The silence after that was weighty with possibilities that made Frevisse consider leaving, but she chose not to; there might be more to learn from these two.

  But there was not. And when, in a little while, Annie asked, “Know what I want right now?” and Gilbey answered, “I know what I can give you. Same as always,” Frevisse moved away, knowing she must not hear more.

  But what she had heard put both Gilbey and Annie in the priory’s mercy. There was a fine imposed on any unfree couple who carnally indulged themselves outside of marriage. A fine Gilbey and Annie had clearly incurred. He would pay his to Lord Lovel, who owned two-thirds of Prior Byfield, land and villeins. Annie belonged to the nunnery, and her coins would go into the priory coffer. But it was not coins Frevisse was interested in. She wanted information and the means to it had been put into her hands.

  She was feeling the cold through her sheepskin-lined shoes before Gilbey came out of the laundry. She had counted on him leaving by the priory’s back gate, the one most villagers used when they had business at the priory. She was waiting in the doorway of the storage shed across the narrow way from it, and nearly let him reach it before she stepped out into his way.

  He jerked to a halt, startled, and glanced back over his shoulder, plainly wondering if she knew where he had come from. But almost as quickly his expression went smooth and innocent, and he said with a respectful bob of his head, “God’s good day to you again, lady.”

  “And to you, too, Gilbey Dunn.”

  That startled him again, because he had no reason to think she knew his name. Meaning to keep him off-balance, she said, “Show me your dagger.”

  It did not please him. But he had nothing to gain by being rude to her. His being Lord Lovel’s villein instead of the nunnery’s would not serve as excuse for anything.

  But he paused, a momentary shadow of a frown between his eyes, before he unsheathed his dagger and handed it to her, hilt foremost.

  She took it and laid her fore and middle fingers together along its blade, measuring its width against the width of Sym’s mortal wound, and found that at its widest Gilbey’s blade was near enough a match as made no difference. Measuring the blade along her forearm, she saw it was longer than Joliffe’s dagger. Maybe long enough.

  She gave it back, looking directly into Gilbey’s face as she did. Expressionless, he took it without meeting her gaze. And that told her nothing; villeins were not supposed to presume so much on their betters as to dare look at them eye to eye, but she had already overstepped her own propriety in talking with him alone this much.

  Gilbey, his dagger back in its sheath, said “I’d best be getting back to the village.”

  Frevisse gestured at the gate to indicate that he could depart. But she stood there alone a while longer, considering what she had discovered, before going on her way, wiping her nose, harkening to the bell calling to Tierce.

  The only way Tierce that day differed from what was expected of it was that Domina Edith was not there. She had suffered a mild relapse—nothing dangerous, Dame Claire said—but she should keep to her chamber.

  After, the other nuns bustled away to their various work and to be out of the cold. Frevisse, with the smothered feeling of being too enclosed, stayed in the cloister walk, pacing a while before finally sitting down on the low columned wall that ran around its inner side, between the roofed walk itself and the little garden in its center. There were other things she should be doing, and she would be called forward in chapter meeting if she were seen so apparently idle, but she needed to gather her thoughts and so far as she was concerned that was work indeed just now.

  For one thing, she discovered she did not have much in the way of thoughts. What she had was a head that felt full of porridge—dull, lumpy porridge, lying on her thoughts like a dead weight.

  She leaned against a column, feeling its carved spiral of vines and leaves pressing at her flesh through the woolen and linen layers of her habit. The stone’s chill would creep through soon, but for just now sitting felt very good while she tried to sort out what facts she had.

  Sym was known in the village as a quarreler and a fighter so there was nothing special in his discord with Ellis and Joliffe; the players were only the latest people to have reason to be angry at him.

  Nor were Tibby’s relatives happy with Sym’s attentions, according to Father Henry. Maybe, wary of his temper, one of them had wanted him out of the way for better reasons than either Joliffe or Ellis had.

  And there was Gilbey Dunn, of course, the pushing neighbor who could not leave the widow and grieved mother alone a decent while. Though Gilbey Dunn did not strike Frevisse as the sort of man who cared for risks he could avoid.

  Sym had not been badly hurt in the fight with Joliffe; apparently he had not even known it, or else thought it no more than a scrape, until he reached home. It had been his mother’s fright that had frightened him into wanting to be shriven. With his father’s death so new in his mind, he had probably been especially afraid he was dying, and his mother in her own fear had done all she could before she left to find help. That was maybe the only comfort the woman could have from his death; that she had helped make his soul safe before she left him. Because then, before she had returned, someone had come in; and either Sym had been lying with his eyes closed and did not hear him, or it had been someone he was easy enough with that he did not stir when they came. He possibly had not even had time to know what they were doing before they thrust a dagger between his ribs and into his heart. The wound had been too clean and simple for him to have struggled at all. He had probably died barely knowing he was hurt.

  And then whoever had done it had folded Sym’s hands on his chest and covered him and gone away. Had they hoped his mother would only think he was sleeping when she came back and so put off the outcry for a while?

  But why had they wanted him dead at all? What little she had seen and now knew of Sym, he seemed to have been more his own worst enemy than anyone else’s. It was only his death that told that someone else had felt very differently. But why? That was the question she found herself holding to now. Gilbey Dunn had reason; he could be more sure of the marriage and the land if Sym were out of the way. But murder was a desperate act, and a final one for the murderer as well as his victim if he were caught. She had the distinct impression that Gilbey was a man who liked to keep his options open. And very likely he had someone to say where he had been that night, it being New Year’s Eve and people gathering for festivities of one sort or another.

  She found that her hands, tucked up either sleeve for more warmth, were pressed against Joliffe’s dagger in her belt. There was where the next real danger lay. Master Montfort the crowner would come sooner or later, and from past dealings with him, Frevisse knew him well enough to know that he favored the easy solution over the harder. In this matter Joliffe was the easier solution. A stranger of the less desirable kind, with no protector, and a tongue that he would not curb even if his life depended on it. She could already hear Montfort’s quick summation of the facts that would make his work simplest; and she could imagine Joliffe in his hands, hauled off to Oxford and a quick hanging.

  Frevisse shivered from more than the day’s cold and the stone’s chill. She stood up. There were still her daily duties to be done, including returning Joliffe’s dagger to him, and she had best see to doing them. She had thought as far as she could with what little she knew, and could only hope Father Henry would return with answers that she needed.

  Chapter

  17

  MEG KNELT IN the shadows at the back of the church, beyond the choir. She was not sure she should be here. This was where the nuns prayed; her own church was down in the village. She had meant to go directly from the guesthall to the kitchen, but the nuns’ singing had drawn her as she went through the cloister, and when they had left she had slipped in and along th
e nave to kneel here with her thoughts that were not quite prayers, only a seeking to know what God wanted of her, and if He was pleased with what she had managed for Sym and Barnaby.

  Beyond a numbness in her mind and heart, she knew that she was grieving for Sym. But she was past tears. Her only strong feeling seemed to be the dim joy of knowing he was safe from Hell, that he would someday go from Purgatory into Heaven’s golden light. She had done that for him. So while there was the stone-hard weight of losing him on earth, she also had the certainty that he was safe, and the comfort of that was great.

  “My child.” The voice beside her was so soft and Meg so far into her thoughts that for an instant the words seemed a part of her own mind, come to answer her from wherever prayers went for answering. Then she realized a nun was standing beside her, and she struggled up from her stiff knees to curtsey unsteadily. She knew the sister’s face but not her name. It was hard to learn the nuns’ names when most of them never spoke at all, or so it seemed. The soothing lack of clacking chatter inside the cloister was one of the things she loved about the priory, so different from the village.

  Now this sister put out a gentle hand toward her shoulder, not quite touching, and said softly, “I only wondered if you would rather come kneel at the altar instead of back here.”

  Meg turned her wonder-widened eyes toward the altar, the heart of the church. Covered by a damask cloth of spotless white, set with the golden-clasped prayer book, the gleaming candlesticks, and little golden house enclosing the bread and wine that were Christ’s living body and blood, it had a special light of its own, kinder than sunlight, as mysterious as the undying flame in the red-glass lamp hanging above it.

  “I couldn’t go there,” Meg whispered. “Not there.”

  “Yes, you can. I’m Sister Fiacre. I’m sacristan here and the church and everything in it are my duty. I promise you can go to the altar’s very step if you want. Come with me.”

  With her hand under Meg’s elbow to guide her, she drew her toward the three steps that led up to the altar. At the bottom one, she said softly, “This is where I pray when I can. When I’m here, and it’s quiet, I can feel Lord Jesus’s comfort all around me, almost hear his words, and know God is pouring himself over me like healing ointment and the Holy Ghost is waiting to enter my soul with peace.”

  Meg began to pull back. She did not understand the words but they sounded as holy as anything any priest might say. At the same time, she felt the sister’s fragility, and was afraid of how easy it would be to hurt her. But she protested, “I shouldn’t be here.”

  “You’re one of God’s children. The blessed Mary, mother of Jesus, stood at the foot of the cross and watched her own son die. She has a special care for any mother who suffers a son’s loss. Kneel here and ask her to ask her resurrected son to comfort you.”

  Meg thought for a panicked moment that Sister Fiacre meant she was to ask for Sym’s resurrection. Then she understood, and even found the word for it. “Intercession,” she said.

  Sister Fiacre’s pale lips parted in surprise, even respect. Then she nodded and said, “That’s right. Ask the blessed mother’s intercession. And how can so perfect a son as Jesus deny what his own mother asks of him?”

  Meg’s uncertainty went away. Sister Fiacre must have seen her acceptance because she said with a kind smile, “So you can pray here as long as you want. You’ll not bother me at my work.”

  Awed at the thought of working in a place where she herself hardly dared come at all, Meg asked, “You work here? What do you do?”

  Sister Fiacre’s smile made her whole face wistful with remembered pleasure. “I see that the church is swept, the altar cloths clean, Father Henry’s vestments ready, all the gold and brass and glass polished, the candles trimmed to burn their best, the prayer books marked to the right text, new herbs strewn to freshen the air. If needed, I see that things are repaired or replaced. Everything must reflect God’s glory and aid our worshiping here. And then…” She looked around at everything. “And then when all is done and if I have a little time, I kneel here and pray, and if I’ve done very well, I sometimes feel St. Frideswide is thanking me for what I’ve done to keep her church lovely.”

  “The saint comes to you?” Meg breathed.

  Warming to Meg’s admiration, Sister Fiacre said, “Not to be seen, of course. That’s not been granted me. But I can feel her presence. Her veil is in the altar, you know. And one of her fingernails. You know her story? She refused to marry a prince in order to be a nun. The abbey she founded is in Oxford, and so is her tomb, but a part of her is here, too. And I can feel the warmth of her love wrapping me all around and her pleasure that I’ve done well. It’s like nothing of the world at all. Maybe she’ll come to you, too, while you’re here, and ease your heart.”

  Meg, wrapped in a kind of holy enthusiasm, said, “Maybe, if…Could I help you with your work?”

  Sister Fiacre hesitated, looking doubtful. “Instead of praying?”

  Meg clasped her hands. “Isn’t work a kind of praying? Father Clement in the village used to say that. That we should do our work as a kind of prayer to God instead of complaining of it. Surely, taking care of God’s holy church must be prayer of the best kind. And it would ease my heart.”

  As soon as she said it, she knew that was the best plea she could have made. Sister Fiacre nodded. “Of course, child,” she murmured, though she was probably barely older than Meg herself. “Of course. Come and help me.”

  The little while then was a treasure to Meg. Humbly aware of the blessing she was given, she swept the tile floor in the choir and ran a polishing cloth over the already gleaming wood of the nuns’ choir stalls. Here was where they stood all those times every day and in the night with their prayers and singing to God. Except for the altar itself, there must be no more holy place in the priory. She moved with conscious silence and deep reverence, leaving reluctantly, returning gladly when Sister Fiacre gave her a bowl of rosemary and meadowsweet and other herbs to strew along the floor so their sweet scents would rouse under the feet of the nuns.

  She of course did not handle the altar or its furnishings, but watched with awe while Sister Fiacre did with a humble familiarity, and handed her the polishing cloths and took them back from her, deeply aware that they had touched the holy things themselves. She held them reverently while Sister Fiacre made sure everything was set precisely as it should be on the altar, and gave them up only reluctantly when Sister Fiacre came to take them to put away.

  Sister Fiacre had scarcely come back from that when there was a broad sweep of full daylight and a strong draft of cold outside air along the nave as the church’s wide western door was pushed open. Used to the church’s subdued light and silences, Meg instinctively drew back toward the shadows of the choir stalls, thinking again that maybe she should not be here. But Sister Fiacre swung around sharply, putting herself directly between the altar and the intruders, as if to defend it.

  Two nuns entered in a sway of skirts and veils, leading three men. Their obeisances toward the altar were perfunctory, though the men pulled off their hoods before, still chattering, they all came along the nave.

  “And you can see there are no side aisles, so no pillars to be in your way,” the younger nun said eagerly. “The best place would be there, between the stalls, only the space is so narrow there’s not room for you to perform. So where would you like to be? What would suit best? What will you need, a screen, tables, musicians? I can play the lute.”

  “Talented, too? Wonderful,” murmured one of the men, slender and fair, smiling as he bent his head to hear her more nearly.

  The other men were looking around with an assessing rather than reverent air as they came on. But the black-haired man was also aware of the younger nun, and she let show her awareness of him, between smiles at the fair-haired one.

  Sister Fiacre, from her rigid place at the foot of the altar steps, said, shrill with indignation, “Sister Amicia!”

  The younger
nun started, her chatter cutting off.

  “And Sister Lucy!” Sister Fiacre added for good measure, though the other nun had also fallen silent and had been in no more than decorous conversation with the older man. “What is this?”

  Sister Lucy said something in a low voice to the men and then hurried forward. “It’s by Domina Edith’s bidding. She said the players should see the church before they perform, remember? Sister Amicia and I have brought them, just as she said. It’s all right.”

  “I doubt that.” Sister Fiacre began to wring her hands with nervous temper. “I told her what they were like. Now look at you both, gabbling at them as if you were village women when they shouldn’t even be in here at all. I don’t want them here.”

  “But Domina Edith does,” Sister Lucy said. She looked around for confirmation to Sister Amicia, who, looking away from the gaze of the fair-haired man in a way that remained flirtatious, nodded agreement. From her place to the shadowed side, Meg recognized the men. The black-haired man had fought with Sym on the green. And the fair-haired one meeting Sister Amicia’s smiles with his own had stabbed Sym last night. Dame Claire had said it had been an accident, and no one’s fault. She had said it kindly, with sympathy, but firmly, so that Meg would understand there was going to be no one punished for what had happened.

  Meg had accepted it the way she had had to accept so many other things. But to see him, to see them both here in this holy place, distressing this holy woman…

  “The church is my concern!” Sister Fiacre said. “Domina Edith should have asked me to show it to them, if they have to be here.”

  “She said you should be spared the burden of dealing with lay people—” Sister Lucy began.

  Sister Amicia cut across her. “Especially men. We were to tell you they were coming, to prepare you, but then it just seemed easier to bring them along.”

  The older man stepped past her and made a flourishing bow to Sister Fiacre. “Good sister,” he began in a rich, full voice, “pray, we mean only…”