The Bishop’s Tale (11 page)

But whatever she did, whatever she asked, the matter came back to the question of whether Sir Clement had died of God’s holy will or man’s sinful intent.

A darkness came between her and the candles, and she looked up to find Sir Philip an arm’s length away, looking down at her.

She glanced toward the bier and saw the empty place where he had been kneeling. She had been so distracted with her problem when she entered that she had not realized the taller man beside Master Gallard had been Sir Philip.

Now he bowed his head to her slightly, in acknowledgment of her noticing him, then tilted it to one side, asking her to come with him.

She would have to talk to him sometime; at least this way he had sought her out, and so might be less guarded with his answers. With a sense of duplicity, because she had not been praying, Frevisse briefly bent her head and crossed herself, then rose to go with him from the chapel. Dame Perpetua followed her and in the antechamber, as they drew to a far corner, she stopped by the door, her hands quietly in her sleeves, her head bowed, just as she had been with Bishop Beaufort.

With no waste of words over any greeting, and not even a look at Dame Perpetua, Sir Philip said, “His grace the bishop wished to speak with you.”

“And did,” Frevisse answered, sure he already knew it. What he probably wanted to know was why, but she had her answer ready. “He had a message for me from my uncle. My uncle charged him with it on his deathbed, and he wished to give it to me personally.”

“God keep your uncle’s soul,” Sir Philip said. “And that was all?” His gaze dropped deliberately to the bundle she still held against herself, then returned to her face.

Her expression bland, Frevisse said, “What else should there be?”

Matching her tone, he said, “Your uncle spoke of you upon occasion. He was fond of you. More, he valued your intelligence.”

Frevisse bent her head humbly, as if to disparage the compliment, and said nothing.

“And I think he spoke of it to Bishop Beaufort, too.”

“That would have been very kind of him,” Frevisse said.

“His grace the bishop is not content that Sir Clement’s death was God’s will.”

Frevisse could not help a start of surprise. “He isn’t?”

“Didn’t he say so to you?”

“Did he to you?”

“He questioned me about every particular I observed of Sir Clement’s attack and death, and I don’t think he was satisfied with my answers.”

“Why? What did you tell him?”

“You saw it, along with everyone else in the hall and then in my room.”

“But you were closer. And I didn’t see what happened in your room until I came at almost the end.”

Sir Philip gestured impatiently. “You saw enough. He was better, able to breathe with less effort and talking lucidly. And then he was struck again and died. You saw that.”

Frevisse nodded. She had seen that. She wished she could more clearly remember where the others had been around the room, what they were doing before the second attack, what their faces had betrayed of their feelings. She crossed herself. “As if God had begun to remove his hand from him, and then struck him down after all.” She shivered with memory. “Did he say anything before then that I didn’t hear? Anything so unrepentant, or…” She hesitated. “… so blasphemous there was no salvation for him?”

“There was no repentance or fear of God in him at all. He was himself, ill-tempered and demanding as always.” Sir Philip paused, then added, “Perhaps that was what brought God’s final anger down on him. That even so plainly warned, he saw no error in his ways.”

Drawn along that path of thought, Frevisse quoted, “ ‘What, do you think your life was given to you forever, and the world’s goods with it?”“

“ ‘Nay, nay, they were only loaned to you, and in a while will go to another,”“ Sir Philip answered.

It was a game Frevisse loved, and she was good at it; but this time she had to admit, “I know the quotation but don’t remember the source.”

“It’s from
Everyman”
Sir Philip said. “I’ve never seen it performed, but your uncle had a copy of it.”

The chapel door opened quietly on its well-oiled hinges, and Jevan Dey came out. He paused at the sight of them, then closed the door and bowed. The lamplight in the antechamber was as dim as yesterday, but where its shadows obscured Sir Philip’s ruined face, they deepened the tense, exhausted lines around Jevan’s mouth and eyes, making him look more nearly his uncle’s age than his own. “My lady,” he said to Frevisse, then turned to Sir Philip. “I thank you for giving my uncle his final absolution. We were all too… stunned to ask for that. For his soul’s sake, my thanks. If he comes to peace at last, it’s by your hand.”

“And God’s will,” Sir Philip said. “But for your kind words, thanks.” He gestured toward the chapel. “I’ll pray for him whenever I can.”

Jevan’s smile was taut. “There’ll be few others who’ll come willingly. He made himself disliked. And his death has made people afraid even to be near his corpse.”

“At least there’s someone with him now,” Frevisse said.

Jevan shrugged. “I doubt prayers will aid his soul. If ever any man was damned directly to hell, it was Sir Clement. But he appreciated the forms. When it suited him. My own presence beside him this while is the last thing he can require of me.”

He chopped his sentences as if following a thought all the way through were difficult for him. It was weariness rather than grief lining his face so deeply, Frevisse decided.

Sir Philip said, “But you can go rest now, can’t you? You’ve done enough for this day, I think.”

“I want to find Guy. He should be here, too. For form’s sake, if nothing else. He’s Sir Clement’s heir.”

“And you?” Frevisse asked. Jevan was Sir Clement’s nephew, too, and surely heir to something.

Jevan’s attempt at a smile made sharp, unamused angles in the lines around his mouth. “I’m Sir Clement’s dog. If he had his will in this, I’d have my throat cut and be buried at his feet. That would have pleased him more than my prayers.”

He was too tired for any pretense, Frevisse thought, or for clear thinking. Food and rest and the wearing off of shock would be the best things for him now. As he bowed and moved to leave, she said, “If you see Robert Fenner without Sir Walter near”—Jevan would understand—“please tell him I’d be glad of a chance to talk with him once more before he leaves.”

“Certainly, my lady. My lord.” He bowed to them again, and left.

“If you’ll pardon me,” Sir Philip said with a bow of his own, “I’ll go with him, I think, to be sure he eats and does indeed sleep tonight, rather than coming back here to pray again.”

“He had no fondness for Sir Clement, so it’s doubly to his credit to do what he’s doing,” Frevisse said.

“But that makes it no less tiring. Doing right from a sense of duty is more wearing than doing it from affection.”

“And so has greater merit.”

“Truly,” Sir Philip agreed. “By your leave, my ladies.” He bowed and left them.

To Dame Perpetua, still silently standing to one side, Frevisse said, “I suppose we should go to Aunt Matilda now.” For her, in this, affection and duty together were going to be equally wearing; she wished someone was going to bid
her
have her supper, then go to bed and be done with the day.

But no one was likely to. Resigned to that, she led the way toward her aunt’s parlor.

Robert Fenner met them at the foot of the stairs. “Jevan said you wanted to see me,” he said, with no more greeting than a quick bow and a glance over his shoulder toward the hall. “Sir Walter is not pleased to be among those left to each other’s company in the hall. He hoped for a chance to talk with his worship, the earl of Suffolk.” His tone caught both Sir Walter’s arrogance and his own ridicule of it.

“And lacking that pleasure, he’s spreading his discontent wherever he best can,” Frevisse said.

“As ever,” Robert agreed. “So I can’t be gone long.”

Understanding the hint, Frevisse asked directly, “What do you know about Sir Philip’s relationship to Sir Clement?”

“The priest? Your uncle’s household priest? Nothing.”

“It’s said his father was a villein of Sir Clement’s father. Basing, I think the name was.”

“Ah!” Robert nodded. “I know the common gossip there. Basing bought his freedom with his wife’s money, and then went on to increase her small fortune to a larger one and set the sons he had by her in places well above villeinage.”

“Sons?” Frevisse asked.

“Two of them, if I remember rightly. The priest and another one. I don’t know about the second one. But I do remember talk that Sir Clement liked to claim the purchase from villeinage had not been valid and that father and sons were both still his property.”

“The father is still alive?”

“I think not.”

“But both sons are alive.”

“I suppose so. I haven’t heard otherwise.”

“And how valid is this claim of Sir Clement’s?”

“Probably not at all or he would have pursued it, I suppose. Or maybe he had more pleasure in holding the claim over the sons’ heads, threatening to bring it down on them whenever he chose and meanwhile enjoying drawing out the torture?”

“Not a pleasant man.”

“You’ve only to know what he’s done to Jevan to be sure of that.”

“What has he done to Jevan?”

“Everything where he should have left him alone, and nothing where he should have done something. Sir Clement’s sister married less well than Sir Clement thought she should have and completely against his wishes. It might have been all right if her husband had lived long enough to make good on his small inheritance. By all accounts he was clever and capable enough, and he looked to be becoming a competent wool merchant. But he died with his affairs all tangled in investments that needed his close eye, and without him, when all was said and done, there was little left. His wife barely outlived him, and Sir Clement seized on Jevan. There were relatives on the father’s side who would have taken him and been glad of it, but Sir Clement had rank and power, and he’s used Jevan like a servant ever since, to punish him for his mother’s ‘sin’ in going against Sir Clement’s wishes in her marriage.”

“But he’s still Sir Clement’s nephew. He’ll inherit something now, surely.”

Robert shook his head. “The properties are all entailed in the male line. Everything goes to Guy because his grandfather was Sir Clement’s father’s brother, if I remember it rightly. Sir Clement reminded Jevan of his lack of expectation frequently and with pleasure.”

“God is too merciful; he waited too long to strike Sir Clement down,” Frevisse said, then quickly crossed herself. “God forgive me.”

Dame Perpetua crossed herself, too; but Robert said, “You’re not the only one who’s said that, nor do I doubt you’ll be the last.”

“I saw him die,” Frevisse said. “I at least should be more careful of my words.” But at the same time her mind was beginning to trace a path among the things she had been learning. “Then Guy is some sort of cousin to Sir Clement, not a nephew. And he’s cousin to Jevan, too. Will he deal more justly with him than Sir Clement did?”

“I gather that Guy despises him for a lickspittle, never mind Jevan had small choice in the matter. Jevan has no hopes from him. Or from the other way, either.”

“The other way?”

Robert smiled sadly, with memories of his own. “Lady Anne, Sir Clement’s ward. Jevan has never said it directly, but you have only to watch him to see he cares for her. I doubt she knows. Between her love for Guy and her fear that Sir Clement might take her for himself, she’s had little time to think of other loves. But that’s over now, God be thanked, and she and Guy will be free to marry, I suppose. Poor Jevan is out of everything, but it’s a suitable enough marriage, all ways—in rank and fortune and affection.”

Remembering what she had overheard and seen among the three of them yesterday, Frevisse said with some gentleness, “So Sir Clement’s death is boon to Lady Anne and Guy at least.”

“And to a great many others,” Robert said. “He dearly loved trouble for its own sake. Good my lady, I have to go back or there’ll be trouble for me and not of Sir Clement’s making.”

“Go quickly. I’m sorry I kept you so long. And thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” He smiled again; Frevisse could remember when there had been real joy in his smile, not this pretense he made of it now. “Pray for me, my lady.”

Frevisse, who rarely touched anyone, took hold of his arm for a moment, her eyes on his to make her words go more deeply. “Always. Go with God, Robert, whatever happens.”

He bowed too quickly for her to read his expression, caught her hand in his own and kissed it, then turned and left without lifting his gaze to her again.

“I’ll pray for him, too,” Dame Perpetua said in the silence after he was gone.

Frevisse nodded. “He’s in need.”

“As are we all.” Dame Perpetua’s simple certainty let what seemed too easily a mindless platitude be the plain truth that it was.

Frevisse felt suddenly grateful for Dame Perpetua’s quiet, steady presence.

Chapter
11