The Bishop’s Tale (7 page)

The service was making its dark and eloquent way through the Mass for the Dead. The day’s sunlight through the bright windows added richness to the elaborate vestments of the priests and Cardinal Bishop Beaufort and strewed jewel colors over the darkly dressed mourners crowded in the nave. Under the growing cloud of incense, the church grew warm with the many people, a warmth welcome after the slow, cold procession behind the coffin from the manor house.

“In quo nobis spes beatae resurrectionis effulsit…”
In whom the hope of a blessed resurrection dawned for us…

Drained, Frevisse let the service carry her as it would. Elegant, complex, the Mass comforted sorrow with the divinely given hope that death was not the end. Even weeping seemed irrelevant for the while.

“Vere dignum et justum est, aequum et salutare, nos tibi semper et ubique gratias agere
…” Truly it is fitting and just, reasonable and good, for us to give thanks to you always and everywhere…

But in some way none of this solemnity seemed anything to do with Thomas Chaucer as she knew him, the man who had always challenged her to think, a man full of laughter and sometimes teasing and often kindness.

But then, in essence, the Mass for the Dead had nothing to do with that part of Chaucer that had been his earthly self, but with the part of him that would live for eternity. The part of him that was now purged of earthly matters and emotions. The part of him she did not know and had not yet learned to love in place of the other who had gone forever.

The pastor of Ewelme began his sermon with the customary reminder, “Behold this coffin containing its dead burden as you would a mirror, for surely you will come to this in your turn…”

Frevisse turned her mind to prayers of her own until the Mass continued.

“Et ideo cum Angelis et Archangelis, cum Thronis et Dominationibus, comque omni militia caelistis exercitus, hymnum gloria tuae canimus, sine fine dicentes: Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus
…” And so, with angels and archangels, with thrones and dominions and all the assembly of the heavenly host, we sing hymns to your glory, without end saying: Holy, holy, holy…

Around the altar the priests and deacons moved in their ritual patterns, Bishop Beaufort foremost among them, perfect in every movement and gesture, as if what he did was infinitely precious. As truly it was. But he made it seem as outwardly so as it was inwardly, a rare and beautiful thing to watch and listen to.

Chaucer would have appreciated that, Frevisse thought. He had loved beautiful things, from a delicately swirled and tinted Venetian glass goblet brought from overseas with infinite care and cost, to the subtleties of a sunset over his own hills.

Was there anything like that in heaven for him to love?

Or was heaven all love, with no need or desire distinguishing one soul from another? What was it like, to be pure spirit? And how, without throats, did the angels endlessly sing, Holy, holy, holy? And how did the saints hear them without ears?

“Circumdabo altare tuun, Domine… enarrem universa mirabilia tua.”
I will go about your altar, Lord… describing all your wonders.

Chaucer’s body was blessed and censed and given at last to its tomb. The last prayers were said, for all the dead, past and to come. The prayers felt as real as a comforting arm, and Frevisse wrapped the words around herself.
“Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine. Et lux perpetua luceat eis. Requiescant in pace. Amen.”
Eternal rest give to them, Lord. And let perpetual light shine upon them. May they rest in peace. Amen.

The mourners eased their way out of the church, into the bright day and cold wind. The sky that had been clear when they entered the church was now streaked with high, thin clouds, and to Frevisse’s mind there was the smell of snow to come, or very bitter frost. The villagers were crowded around the church porch, waiting for the funeral alms and to bless the widow and Countess Alice as they came by. Frevisse, behind her aunt, was bemused to find she was expected to walk with Suffolk, an unlikely occurrence under any other circumstances, but at least there was no need to speak to one another, and they did not. She had no good opinion of him, not much opinion at all, though she remembered Chaucer had once said, on a visit to St. Frideswide’s after their betrothal, “They’re well-matched in wealth and affection, and he has power and she has sense. They should do well enough.”

She half expected Sir Clement Sharpe might take the chance between the church and manor house to approach Aunt Matilda. His gall and lack of manners apparently did not preclude such rudeness. But she only saw him distantly among the crowd as they slowed to cross the bridge from the outer yard. His nephew Guy was to one side and there was a glimpse of Lady Anne’s fair hair to his other. Let them keep their troubles to themselves today, Frevisse thought, and tomorrow they would be gone with the rest of the guests.

Once inside the manor house, they came into the hands of Master Gallard. Today the usher’s main task was to oversee the sorting of everyone into their proper places along the outer sides of the long trestle tables set facing each other in a double row the length of the great hall, from the high table on die dais at the hall’s upper end to the screens’ passage at its foot. Among the matters Aunt Matilda had fretted over yesterday had been the question of whether there would be enough room for everyone, but the time of year, and the weather, had held back the number who came. There was room enough, though barely.

The principal problem—and one Frevisse was glad fell onto the usher Master Gallard and nowhere near her—was of precedence. The family and those guests of very highest estate would sit at the high table. The tables down the hall would seat the guests of lesser rank. To seat diem in precedence, giving offense to none, was a delicate art and a diplomatic balancing act. Master Gallard, fussy and over-busy as he always seemed to be when facing far less trying tasks, managed with surprising skill. For this occasion of rigorous importance, his fussing had smoothed over into competent haste. And haste was very necessary in directing servants to guide guests to their places all around the tables before there could be impatience or open complaint. He had committed everyone’s face and place to memory. There was no order to their coming, but as they reached him at the door into the hall, he directed the servants where to lead them with a gesture and briefest word. In remarkably short while, the guests were seated along the outside of the tables, and the servers were bringing out the first course of the elaborate meal.

Frevisse, as a member of the family, had place at the high table; but because she was not of Chaucer’s actual blood, she was at its far right end, well away from the concentration of lordliness at its center, where Bishop Beaufort, as a prince of the church and great-uncle to the king as well as Chaucer’s cousin, held pride of place next to Aunt Matilda, with Alice on her other side. Not even the duke of Norfolk, sent as the king’s representative with the royal condolences, had precedence over Bishop Beaufort, and Alice’s husband, as earl of Suffolk, was further aside, beyond the bishop of Lincoln.

The high table was nearly the width of the hall itself, and crowded full with others almost as impressive as those at its center. But Frevisse, overly warm in the church, then chilled during the windy walk back to the manor house, and now growing too warm again in the crowded hall, was more concerned that she might have a headache coming than with conversing with any of them. She was not used to headaches and was not sure if her head’s ache was going to increase into something sickening or ease as she grew used to the crowding and noise—even at a funeral feast, the talk rose loudly with the need to be heard over the voices of so many others. But since she was at the table’s end, there was no one to her right, and the abbot on her left was far too busy talking toward the more important center of the table to pay more than passing heed to her. Except that they shared serving dishes and a goblet between them, he would probably not have acknowledged her presence at all.

To her wry amusement, Frevisse found herself caught between annoyance at being ignored and relief that she did not have to bother with conversation more complex than, “Yes, thank you, I’ll have a little of that.” She ate meagerly, but mostly her attention wandered to the guests at the long tables below her among the bustle of servers. She saw Dame Perpetua, well down the other side of the hall, seated with another nun and Sir Philip and a man who was either bald or another priest; it was difficult to tell at this distance.

Somewhat nearer along the tables, Frevisse recognized Sir Clement Sharpe with Lady Anne and his nephew Guy on either side of him. Keeping them apart still, Frevisse thought, and wondered how much good it would do him in die end.

Leaning over Sir Clement’s shoulder to pour wine into the goblet he shared with Lady Anne, was Jevan Dey. Seen together with his uncle, their resemblance was marked. But where Sir Clement’s face was active, open and intent, Jevan’s was shut, without even the small animation he had had when talking to her with Robert Fenner. Sir Clement had much to answer for there.

Because of the excess of people, a great many of the guests were being served by their own servants or, if their estate was sufficient, their own squires. There was an almost constant flow of food from the kitchen, entering from die screens’ passage and spreading out along me inner side of the U-shape the tables made. The platters and bowls of everything from wheat hulled and boiled with fruit to capons stuffed with oysters were arranged to serve people by fours, except at the high table, where in token of their place only two shared the served dishes. That meant Frevisse received some attention from the abbot beside her, as he displayed his manners by setting particularly choice bits on her plate before taking his own portion. Still unsure of her head and of how her stomach might respond to so much rich food, Frevisse ate only what she felt she absolutely must—a chicken wing, a modicum of dried fruit seethed in wine—until the oyster stuffing; she forgot herself with that and ate as much as might be. She could not remember when last she had had oysters.

The next course was pies full of beef and currants, their juices dark with spices and orange peel. Each was surrounded by baked eggs, and Frevisse, her appetite roused now, cracked one and ate it. That left her mouth dry and she drank deeply from the goblet she shared with the abbot, wiping her lips first so that no grease might sheen the wine, wiping the rim afterwards where her lips had touched. As she set the goblet down, the abbot took it up and drank deeply enough to empty it, without bothering to wipe lip or rim; apparently thirst was more than manners with him. Frevisse averted her eyes from his lapse and refrained from comment as she let him place a share of the pie on her plate.

While she ate, her gaze moved absently around the hall. She caught glimpse of Robert Fenner serving a little ways down the table in front of her, but did not see Sir Walter. Dame Perpetua was speaking with Sir Philip, their heads close together to be heard. Sir Clement, she saw, was shifting a fistful of bones from his plate to the voiding platter in front of him that showed he had taken the greater share of the chicken that should have been split equally among him, Lady Anne, Guy, and the man beyond him. So he was greedy as well as contentious. How many other sins did he so fully indulge in? Frevisse wondered. She watched with amusement as Lady Anne drew him into conversation over the goblet they shared while Guy drew the large custard Jevan had just set before them toward himself and gave large portions to himself and the man beside him.

Then someone moved directly in front of her, blocking her view but bearing a welcome pitcher of wine. Frevisse glanced up in gratitude—she was thirsty again—then said with outright pleasure at the familiar and friendly face, “Robert! What are you doing?”

“Waiting on you, my lady, and anyone else between the whiles Sir Walter needs me. He’s down the tables from you only a little way, in heavy talk with an archdeacon over the cost of masses for the dead. Look—no, you can’t see him for the fat justice of common pleas in the way, and he can’t see you—”

“Which should help both our digestions,” Frevisse put in.

“True,” Robert agreed. He set the goblet back on the table, filled to a neat margin from the rim and, still leaning forward, asked too low for anyone else to hear in the general loudness of the hall, “How is it with Lady Thomasine?”

“She’s Sister Thomasine these three years,” Frevisse said gently. “And it’s very well with her. She’s happy.”

“God keep her so,” Robert said, and went away down the tables to fill other people’s goblets.

Frevisse said softly, “He does.” She took the goblet before the abbot’s hand reached it, to drink deeply enough both to satisfy her thirst and to leave him waiting for another server to satisfy his own. There were ways of being rude that were far more polite than his.

But her thoughts stayed with Robert. Three years and he still remembered a love he had known barely three days, had never had any real hope of even then, and had never seen since. Was it truly love with him? Or only the longing after Love that settles for the lesser thing, fixing the heart on something of the World because to fix the heart on the Thing Invisible that was the core and creation of Love in its full reality took more courage than many wanted to give to their lives.

Frevisse’s own choice had been made before she was Robert’s age, and she still barely had an answer for herself, let be anyone else.

She became aware of a disturbance down the hall, heads turning toward rising voices and servers drawing back from one part of the tables.