1 The Novice's Tale

by Frazer, Margaret

  “Never at all. She was as out of the world’s troubles as if she were in her grave.”

  He heard what he was saying after it was out of his mouth and grew flustered, but Frevisse didn’t have the time to listen to his apologies. She said briskly, “Neither you nor Thomasine had any of the sops or wine, only Martha?”‘

  “Only Martha,” he said, and went on to repeat what he had said before—that she had gobbled all the sops and drank he knew not how much of the wine, then grown loud and erratic and caught at herself and died. “Just as I told Master Montfort,” he assured her.

  “And as you must go on telling him that whenever he asks you,” Frevisse said firmly. It would hardly do for Father Henry to begin trying to make something out of nothing.

  Among Lady Ermentrude’s and Master Montfort’s and Sir John’s people crowding the guest halls, she was unable to find Maryon. “Here just a minute or so ago,” she was told so often that she began to think the woman was avoiding her. Time for finding her ran out when the bell rang for Vespers. On the way, she met Dame Claire by chance and asked if any of the herbs she had used in either of the sleeping potions could have caused death.

  “Not even if you took them by the handful and ate them down all at once. Except the poppy. Enough of that will cause a person to fall into a deep sleep, past all waking until the drug has run its course. And it is possible to take so much that sometimes the sleeper will die without waking. But Lady Ermentrude did not sleep her way to death.”

  After Vespers was supper, eaten in silence except for a nun reading the day’s lesson aloud. The meal was finished, and they had cleared their places and were turning toward the garden for an hour’s recreation, when a servant slipped quietly up to Domina Edith and whispered something to her. Everyone paused. The prioress nodded to whatever was being said, then pointed at Thomasine and at Frevisse, crooked her finger to tell them to come, and nodded for the rest to leave.

  When they had come to her, she said, “Master Montfort has asked to see you, Thomasine.” Thomasine dropped her eyes and made her turtling gesture. Without seeming to notice, Domina Edith went on, “Dame Frevisse and my blessing will go with you.”

  Thomasine’s eyes reappeared to glance slantwise at Frevisse, then at Domina Edith. She appeared on the verge of pleading something, then thought better of it and only nodded. Frevisse controlled a surge of exasperation at so much shrinking humility, swallowed it, curtseyed to Domina Edith, and left, sensing Thomasine behind her like a lonesome shadow.

  Montfort had taken Lady Ermentrude’s former room for his own now. The table had been pulled out from the wall to be more convenient to the clerk, who was crouched there over his parchment when they entered. Poised, pen in hand and ink beside him, he did not bother with looking up when they entered, just went on waiting for whatever was going to be said.

  Montfort, on the other hand, was looking for them, rolling forward and back on the balls of his feet, rubbing one hand around the other in anticipation. Frevisse’s dislike of him had begun the first time she had ever met him and had not lessened with their distant acquaintance over the years. Now he looked at her with less than pleasure.

  “I asked for the novice Thomasine. Is she coming?”

  “She’s here,” Frevisse answered as shortly and stepped aside, revealing Thomasine.

  “That’s good then. There are things to be asked. And from you, too. Or perhaps you first. You were with Lady Ermentrude less and so there’s less you know. You helped bring her to bed when she arrived… urn… ill?”

  “I met her in the hall. She was disoriented and in pain. Two of her women and I brought her in here, to be put to bed. We began to undress her, to make her more comfortable. She was calm at first, then became agitated, and at last flew into screaming and hysteria. Her words left her, and there was only noise—”

  “Yes, yes. I don’t need to hear every step of it. Keep it brief.”

  “Very well. She collapsed and I left Father Henry to take her confession and did not see her again until perhaps an hour later, when word was brought that someone was dying. We thought it was Lady Ermentrude, but it was Martha.”

  “And how was she then? Lady Ermentrude, I mean.”

  “Sleeping so deeply that Martha’s dying had not roused her.”

  “When did you see her again?”

  “Sometime before dawn. I awoke and came to see how she did.”

  “Was she still sleeping?”

  “Yes. But she awoke a short while later.”

  “How was she then?”

  “Quiet. A little confused but in her right wits and apparently recovering.”

  “But she did not recover, did she?”

  Frevisse had the double urge to smack the self-pleased condescension off his face and to verbally rip his illogic to shreds. She smothered the first desire but said astringently, not tempering her contempt, “She was better. Weak still, but coherent and recovering, I was several minutes out of the room, hearing nothing from her, before she began the screaming again with no warning at all. We found her thrashing and incoherent, in pain and struggling to breathe. It was poison, not her heart or temper that killed her and you will never bring Dame Claire or me to say otherwise.”

  Montfort’s florid face turned more red as she talked, and darker red before she had finished. The suffusing color seemed to stop his words, even when she had sharply ended. The clerk’s scratching pen trailed off to silence for lack of anything to write; then Montfort shifted his feet on the floor and said, but this time with almost no conviction, “You are not fit to judge.”

  “Perhaps not,” she replied. “But you cannot make a lie of what I know to be true.”

  Montfort glared at her but said nothing. Unable to hold a stare without words to back it, he whirled toward his clerk. “From here on, be sure to take down everything these women say. They want the truth, they’ll have it, and convict themselves with their own words.”

  He swung on Thomasine. “So what were you doing all night in your aunt’s room? Just answer what I ask you. Don’t go adding matters. What did you do?”

  Thomasine did not lift her head. Toward the floor she said, “I prayed.”

  “That’s all you did?”

  “My lady aunt was sleeping. My great-aunt. By marriage. She was sleeping and so I prayed.”

  “And when she awoke?”

  “I told her I had prayed for her.” Thomasine looked up. On this at least she was confident. “I wanted her to know my prayers were worth more to her than any worldly marriage could be.”

  “And what did she say?”

  Thomasine looked down again. Her voice was barely audible. “She insisted she would have me out of here.”

  “And you were angry with her. And afraid. Your sister said so.”

  “No. Not then. She couldn’t take me anywhere, weak as she was. I didn’t have to be afraid of her. I fed her and helped her drink her wine and hoped she would sleep again.”

  “But when Dame Frevisse left you alone with her, she worked herself into a temper nonetheless.”

  He said it with flat determination, meaning her to accept

  it-

  Thomasine shook her head. “No. She was in no more temper than was usual to her. Not even really angry. Only determined she was going to leave. She sent me out to fetch her women.”

  “Out? You left her?”

  “For only a moment. I looked back—”

  “It doesn’t matter for how long,” he interrupted impatiently. “What you’re saying is that when you left your aunt, she was in no fit.”

  Thomasine nodded her head wordlessly, her eyes fixed on his face.

  “You’re saying she was fine when you left the room. And that then, when you weren’t there, she began the screaming and all the rest.”

  Thomasine nodded again.

  Montfort stared at her discontentedly, then turned his attention to Frevisse. “Is that what you say, too?”

  “I heard nothing from Lady Er
mentrude after I left the room until Thomasine was standing beside me. She started to say something but Lady Ermentrude began to scream and we all went in to her.”

  “Who do you mean by ‘all’? Be precise.”

  Frevisse answered levelly, “Dame Claire, Thomasine, myself. One of Lady Ermentrude’s women named Maryon. Have you spoken to her?”

  “Of course I have. Go on. Anyone else?”

  “Robert Fenner was with us. Father Henry came a few minutes later, in time to give her last rites.”

  “But Sir John and his lady were not there.”

  “I thought it better they not be, since seeing them had so angered her before.”

  “So you told them to stay out. You take a great deal on yourself, Dame.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Perhaps I do.”

  She left it there for him to make of her reply what he • would. But there came a hard rap on the door, and his attention immediately shifted.

  “Come,” he barked.

  The lean man who entered was beyond doubting a Fenner, with Lady Ermentrude’s height and arrogant nose. He was wide across the shoulders and his fair hair was cropped close. He was richly dressed in a buff linen houppelande, with a jeweled belt low on his hips. The garment’s yard-wide sleeves were gathered at his wrists and slit from below the elbow nearly to the shoulder, to show the sky-bright cotehardie underneath. The cotehardie’s blue matched his hose and shoes and the long liripipe of his hat. It was an easy guess, from his looks, his manner, and Montfort’s sudden, deflated, respectful bow, that he was Sir Walter, Lady Ermentrude’s older son.

  Frevisse, sinking quickly in a deep curtsey, could not read in his face what he was actually feeling, even when she straightened to look fully at him. Not looking at them at all, he briskly acknowledged her curtsey, and Thomasine’s, as well as the clerk’s quick rising and bow at the table. His attention was all for Montfort, and he cut over the crowner’s fumbled greeting with “We must needs talk. Are you nearly finished with these?”

  “Quite finished, my lord. Done just as you were entering, Sir Walter.” Montfort flicked his hand dismissively at Frevisse and Thomasine. “You may go. You were satisfactory. You may go.”

  More than merely willing, Frevisse collected Thomasine by the arm and hasted her out of the room, leaving the door for someone else to close.

  Chapter 9

  Outside the doorway, they nearly collided with young Robert Fenner, who fell back, his eyes going to Thomasine. “I pray you pardon me, my ladies,” he said.

  Apparently Thomasine was no longer afraid of this particular male. She murmured it was no matter and shifted a little, as if she would continue going toward the outer door. But Frevisse held her where she was and said to Robert, “Do you know if word is out about Lady Ermentrude’s death?”

  “There’s talk beginning. Montfort is known for quick decisions, but hasn’t made one yet for this. People are starting to wonder, and once that starts it will spread like mold in damp bread.” He nodded at the door behind her. “Sir Walter has only just come but he’s even quicker to move than Montfort. If he believes the rumors about poison, he’ll press Montfort into doing something as fast as may be. If Montfort resists, there will be as fine a display of temper as this place has ever seen. He has that other matter to hand, so he will be doubly anxious not to linger over this one.”

  “Other—You mean his uncle’s dying? But surely…”

  “A cousin. Lord Fenner. He’s rich three times over, and Sir Walter is his heir. The title is Sir Walter’s for certain but he wants to be sure there’s no ill-written will sharing the wealth with others. He’s been at Lord Fenner’s sickbed this month past, and the talk has been that nothing short of Judgment Day could pull him away. But now his mother’s dead of a sudden, so here he is. Not that Lord Fenner will be making any wills in his absence; he’s taking his time about dying and won’t make a will until the bishop himself has assured him there is absolutely no way he can carry any of it away with him beyond the grave. Still, Sir Walter will be eager to get back. He’s a careful man and doesn’t like leaving things to chance.”

  “Or being kept from what he wants.”

  “No. Best warn your prioress there is going to be hell to pay until his mother’s death is settled.” He looked at Thomasine and paused. This time Frevisse noted that Thomasine did not flinch from his look. More gently than he had been speaking to Frevisse, he said, “We are kin of sorts, my lady. Did you know that?”

  “No,” she said softly. Her gaze dropped, but then returned to his face. “How?”

  “I’m one of Lady Ermentrude’s rather too many great-nephews. So by marriage at least we’re cousins.”

  Thomasine hesitated, then yielded to a worldly impulse and asked, “What will you do now that Lady Ermentrude is dead? Will you go into Sir Walter’s household?”

  Robert made a small shrug. “Most likely, since I have to go somewhere.”

  “And after all, it will be familiar,” Frevisse said. “He’s very like his mother, I suspect.”

  Robert’s dryness matched her own. “You suspect rightly, my lady.” He turned serious again. “I would suggest your lady abbess see to keeping everyone as close in as may be. The fewer people Sir Walter has to strike at when he knows the truth, the better. Pray pardon me, I have tasks to finish.”

  He moved away as Sir John and Lady Isobel approached. They seemed not to notice him at all as Lady Isobel closed on Thomasine and folded her in her arms, exclaiming, “Poor girl! How tired you look! All this has been too much for you. Haven’t they left you alone today? That dreadful crowner, with his stupid questions, has he been frightening you? Can’t they see how weary you are?”

  Thomasine began removing herself gently from her sister’s hold. “I’m well enough. It will pass,” she murmured.

  “You look none so well yourself, Sir John,” Frevisse said. To her eye he looked gray and a little drawn.

  “The toothache,” he said. He nursed his jaw a little with one hand. “It comes and goes. That wretched mountebank said he had cured it, and he was gone with our good silver pence before we discovered he hadn’t. All that smoke and seethe and froth, and now the pain’s come back again.” He glanced uneasily around to see that no one was near them, and said, low-voiced, “You know what’s being said about her death?”

  Frevisse indicated with a small movement of her head that she thought it best they move away from the door behind her. Its thickness was sufficient to mute but not muffle Sir Walter’s voice.

  Sir John flinched slightly, and moved away toward the hall’s outer door, the other three following.

  “Is it true, what’s being said?” Lady Isobel asked. “That she was… was… poisoned?” Her cheeks’ soft cream reddened at the word.

  “Yes. Beyond all doubting,” Frevisse said.

  “But why? By whom?” . “That’s what Master Montfort is trying to determine. Will determine very shortly, I trust.”

  “But how can he be so very certain it was… poison?”

  “Because of all the signs of it on her. And because Martha Hayward died the same. There’s no doubting there was something in her food or wine that killed her, and Martha, too.”

  “Not in the wine, surely,” Lady Isobel protested. “We brought it. There was nothing wrong with it. We brought two bottles, and the twin of the one I gave to Dame Claire I poured out for John myself. And you drank it, didn’t you, my heart, trying to ease your tooth?”

  Sir John blinked, then said, “Yes, and there’s naught wrong with me.” But he looked alarmed and seemed to take a swift internal inventory. Not yet were the next words off his tongue, Frevisse thought, but he curbed them as Lady Isobel said, “So it must have been in her food. Who prepared it?”

  “Thomasine,” Frevisse said. “The poison may have been added to one or the other after both the wine and food were in her room.”

  They had reached the end of the hall now. For a moment there were no servants or anyone else near them
and Frevisse asked, “How long were you with your aunt last night?”

  “All the first watch,” Lady Isobel answered readily. “Then one of her women came in, Maryon, I believe, and I went to bed. It had been a wearying day.”

  “Sir John, were you there at all, after Martha Hay ward’s death?”

  “Only to ask if more wine was needed. Dame Claire said there was some left and it would do.” His jaw was obviously aching and the words came stiffly.

  “So the bottle was there then. Did you take it away, then or later?”

  “No. But does it matter? Obviously it was emptied and taken away.”

  “I don’t know what matters at present. But it is odd that it has disappeared and no one seems to know who took it or to where.”

  “I remember seeing it,” Lady Isobel said. “It was there on the table, and I could see there was perhaps a third of the wine still left.” She gave her husband a tender look. “I thought to take it for John. His tooth is like to trouble him after such a day as we had had and I thought he might need its comfort.” Her hand reached sideways, feeling for his.

  Their fingers intertwined affectionately. “But instead I opened the second bottle.”

  “And it worked. After Isobel came with it, I slept far better.” He seemed to imply that it was as much her tender concern as the wine that helped.

  Frevisse smiled despite herself. They looked hardly older than Thomasine, standing there hand in hand like young lovers instead of a long-married couple. The bell for Compline began to ring. “My thanks,” Frevisse said. “I ask your pardon for troubling you. Now, pray, excuse us both. We’re needed elsewhere, by your leave.” At their mutual nods, she began to leave, drawing Thomasine with her, then on a thought turned back to say, “You should ask Dame Claire for something to ease your tooth. She surely has something better than your peddler’s frothing potion.”