The Servant’s Tale (7 page)

The servant who had been talking to the newcomer crossed the yard to intercept them. He bowed and said, “If it please you, my lady, there is a man with a letter for you.”

Frevisse looked over to see that the messenger was waiting while another servant led his horse away toward the stable. Now that she looked closer, something about him was familiar. For a moment she hesitated, then went toward him, and he responded by eagerly coming to meet her. He bowed low to her and as he straightened, she exclaimed, “Hobden! It is you, then?”

“Aye, lady. It’s me.” He grinned all across his broad face. “And I was thinking it was you. Even all dressed like that, you’re still you and no mistaking. When were you last on a horse, is my question?”

“A good long while, I promise you. But I’ve not forgotten. I could still give you a race if we came to it.”

“There’s no doubting that. You had a way in the saddle that lasts longer than lessons.”

“Is May well? And your girls?”

“May is well, thank you for asking. And the girls have made me a grandfather thrice over now.”

“Have I been gone that long?” Hobden’s daughters had only begun to look at boys when she had left her uncle’s keeping to enter St. Frideswide’s. “Yes,” she added before he could answer. “I suppose I have.”

“Long and long, lady,” Hobden agreed.

He was, indeed, now that she looked at him, far older in his face than he had been when he was one of her uncle’s main stable hands. And so must she be, too, she thought, though lack of mirrors in St. Frideswide’s spared her too detailed knowledge of the fact.

“But that’s the way of things.” He was cheerful enough about it. “If you don’t grow older, it’s because you’re dead, and I’m not ready for that yet.”

“And my uncle. How does he?” she asked eagerly, and then belatedly, “And my lady aunt?” Aunt Matilda was her mother’s sister, and Thomas Chaucer her uncle only by marriage, but it was with him she had been closest while growing up in their household. Their friendship, begun when she came at age eleven, had lasted the years despite how rarely they saw each other anymore.

“Well, lady. Both of them very well. And here”—Hobden drew a packet from his belt pouch—“is a letter from him for you.”

Frevisse took it with delight, recognizing both her uncle’s clear script and his seal. “Hobden, much thanks. Will you be here a while, that I’ll have time to write an answer?”

“Surely. Master Chaucer gave me leave for that if you wished. And I’d rather sit by a good fire than travel the road this bitter day.”

“Then let me see you to the guesthall and assure the servants you’re to have their special care.”

She took him to the greater guesthall and gave him into the keeping of one of the kitchen servants there with orders that he was to be made comfortable and well fed. She looked at the letter, but thought she would like a leisurely time over it, and instead of opening it, tucked it up her sleeve.

As she went down the steps and turned toward the lesser guesthall, she realized her pleasure in seeing old Hobden had been much like her pleasure in bantering with Joliffe; and that was odd, because she had known Hobden for years of her life, and Joliffe hardly a few hours, and yet felt the same fellowship with him.

Actually, it was not just with Joliffe, it was with all of the players. She liked them, she trusted them, they brightened her day with their presence. Why?

Because of the way they were with one another. That was what made her like and trust them beyond the ordinary. They were bound to one another not only by the needs of their work, but by a strong tie of caring deliberately made and kept by Rose around her son. Frevisse knew full well how strong a tie that could be, and what a shield against the troubles of the road, no matter how unblessed its basis was.

Raised voices startled her as she entered the other guesthall. Her first thought was that the man Barnaby had roused and was complaining loudly. But as she thought it, she saw that Meg, sitting beside her husband’s body, was looking not at him but, dry-eyed and tense, down the hall toward her sons in close and obviously angry talk with Bassett, Ellis, and Joliffe. Or rather, Sym was talking, shoving himself into Bassett’s face while Hewe, like a fair shadow, was poised behind him, clearly ready for whatever was going to happen. Frevisse started toward them, but before she reached them, Ellis said something that brought Sym around to face him, his voice rising for Frevisse to hear. “And I say my father was never so drunk in his life he couldn’t keep a cart on the road!”

With insultingly deep indifference, Ellis said, “Then yesterday he was drunker than he’s ever been before. When he drove past us, he’d beaten that nag into a mockery of a gallop and was standing up in the cart waving his goad and singing—” He turned to Bassett. “What was he singing, Thomas?”

Bassett for answer began in a mellow baritone, “I have a noble cock, whose crowing starts my day, he makes me rise up early—my prayers for to say!”

Joliffe, grinning, joined in harmony, “I have a noble cock, his eye is set in amber; and every night he perches—in my lady’s chamber!”

Ellis was opening his mouth to join them when Bassett caught sight of Frevisse and cut him and Joliffe both off with a sharp, embarrassed gesture. “And that’s the truth of it, lad,” he said more courteously. “It was no surprise to us, only a grief, when we found him smashed up a while after that.”

“So you’re saying. But there was no one else than you to see it, was there? I say it’s more likely you forced him off the road and into that crash, for a chance to dip into his pockets!”

“Boy, a glance would’ve told a simpleton there was nothing about the man, or his cart, worth taking,” said Joliffe. Before Sym could respond, Frevisse moved between the two sides and said, keeping her tone level, “They’ve already told us this. What’s brought you to questioning it now?”

Jerked out of his anger’s stride, Sym fumbled for the humility expected toward his betters, his eyes shifting hotly between her and the players. He finally burst out resentfully, “I asked the use of their mare. I’ve need of her to fetch in what’s left of Gilbey Dunn’s cart but they think her too good for the likes of me to use.”‘

“And so you’re trying to make other trouble,” Frevisse said coldly. “Saying things for which there’s neither proof nor likelihood. Better you put your passion into praying for your father than accusing the men who helped him.”

“Helped him into the ditch, most likely!” Sym burst out.

“Helped him to here rather than leaving him to die in the ditch where he’d put himself,” Frevisse snapped back. Sym was far beyond his bounds in speaking back at her and she cut off whatever else he meant to say. “Enough! They are the priory’s guests and this is no place for quarreling.”

Sym glared at her, his hands twitching halfway toward fists while he fought for control, until finally he dropped his eyes away and shoved his hands behind his back.

To smooth the matter, Bassett said, “Tisbe is as tired as the rest of us. And our own need of her is too great to be chancing her to a stranger’s hands, no matter what reason. There must be horses in your village you can borrow.”

Sullen and unconvinced, Sym avoided looking at Frevisse but swung his look from one to the other of the players, wanting to hit someone and knowing he could not. “Pah!” he exclaimed. “Maybe I don’t want to use your nag after all, you and it being no more than plain dirt off the road!” Unable to unleash his temper into action, he jerked away from them, nearly blundered into Hewe as he swung away, and took his revenge by swinging at him. But Hewe was clearly used to that and ducked the blow easily, backing toward their mother who still sat beside Barnaby, her anguish plain on her face. Sym, seeing Meg, ducked his head again, away from her, and lumbered into a heavy, swift walk, to go slamming out the door. Hewe stood where he was, unsure what to do until his mother, not meeting anyone else’s gaze, gestured for him to come to her and, when he had, pulled him down beside her to go on with the vigil over his father.

Bassert, holding Ellis from following Sym by a hard hold on his arm, said, “Dame Frevisse, I pray you, witness we’ve done nothing to warrant his anger at us.”

Frevisse nodded. “I doubt his tempers last long. He’s not likely to bother you with it again, but I’ll warn the servants to be mindful of him. Meanwhile I bring you a request from our lady prioress.”

Bassett immediately swept his deepest bow. “My lady, it will be our chiefest joy to serve you and your mistress.”

“She asks if you will perform for us—”

“Something sweet, meek, and gentle as the lady nuns themselves,”‘ said Joliffe in a sweet, meek, gentle voice.

Frevisse glanced at him sharply. After her set-to with Sym, she was in small mood for trifling from anyone. “Something suited to the season and our worship,”‘ she amended, giving her voice the same edge she had used on Sym. “Perhaps a miracle or mystery play?”’

“Surely, my lady,” said Bassett. “We have several such ready to hand. You can look through our book to see which might best please you. Or let the lady prioress do so. It’s here to hand. Piers, fetch me that chest there, the little one—‘’ He pointed toward their stacked belongings beyond the circle of the hearth and Piers began obediently to crawl out from his covers near the fire.

“Piers, stay,” Ellis ordered, stopping the child with a gesture even more quickly than Rose putting out a protesting hand to him. “You stay warm and covered like you’ve been told. I’ll fetch it.”

As he went, Rose’s look thanked him and his own look dared Bassett to argue, but Bassett was uninterested, so long as the shabby collection of bound sheets came to him. Instead he began to ask Frevisse where in the nunnery the play could best be held and how many folk would be coming to it. The two of them settled into a satisfying talk of details and possibilities that ended in deciding the church would do best, and that probably they would perform
The Magi
the day after tomorrow, or the day after that if Piers took that long to better, so that he could give his voice to the angelic choir.

Chapter 7

Frevisse found a quiet corner in the cloister that the sun had warmed a little, and the wind couldn’t reach. She pulled the thick paper from her sleeve and unfolded it. Her uncle’s distinctive italic warmed her further just seeing it. For a moment she was transported home—with the Chaucers she had found the only permanent dwelling place of her life before she came to St. Frideswide’s—the house new-built when she came to it, bright outside with unmellowed Cotswold stone, bright inside with many large windows. She smiled, remembering how proud her uncle had been to greet visitors in his magnificent hall.

She opened the letter and began to read. Thomas Chaucer had not inherited his father’s gift for soaring imagery, but he was lucid and fluent, with more than a hint of his father’s sense of the ridiculous.

To my dear and right well beloved niece Dame Frevisse at St. Frideswide’s Priory: I greet you as heartily as I am able and so does your aunt Matilda, who begs me greet you in her name.

This winter proving severe, and my age beginning to weigh on me, I am staying at home this Christmastide. We, for a wonder, have no guests, and so are more than amply provisioned, all matters considered. Therefore I write to ask if you have any secret desire for some treat more than St. Frideswide’s can provide. Sugared almonds, perhaps, or three oranges to eat and share with Dame Claire and Domina Edith?

The King has been much busied with Parliament and his council at Westminster, and is gone to Bury St. Edmunds for the holy days. There has been much to-doing now that Bedford is come from France to settle matters between Gloucester and Beaufort yet again, and I am happily out of it for the present. I would quote Ecclesiastes at you, but you already know my choice of verse.

I have required my messenger to wait upon your reply, so stand not upon lengthy ceremony, but make your request and put it into his hand. He will receive it gladly, and perhaps repeat gossip of things hereabouts, which I command you to take with a grain of salt. May the blessings of this holy season fill your heart with joy.

Frevisse smiled over the letter, reread it twice, then tucked it back into her sleeve. She would share it with Domina Edith later, as it was against the Rule to have a letter whose contents were unknown to the prioress. She did indeed have a special request, and would write it down in brief and send it posting down the road to her uncle.

Meg had hardly slept last night and not at all today. Now, in late afternoon, aching with her exhaustion, she went on sitting hunched beside Barnaby’s unconscious body, watching his slack face and listening to the unchanging pattern of his noisy breathing while her weary mind went endlessly over all her fears and possibilities.

Even if Barnaby lived, he could not work. And if he could not work then he had no right to hold the house and land that were their living. It might be that the steward would advise Lord Lovel to allow Sym to take up his father’s rights and duties. That way they could keep the little they had left. He had the right of inheritance, and that was not easily set by, so there was some hope.

But Sym was only sixteen. Or maybe seventeen; the years blurred into one another anymore. He was well grown and strong but not a man yet. And he had already quarreled twice, with his father’s help, with the steward. And even if he did take up Barnaby’s place, there would still be Barnaby, and the little she had saved so far would go to pay for his accident if nothing else. Only it had not been an accident, and that would cost them more. He had been drunk and singing; the players had seen him and even known the very song, one of the only two he knew. Everyone in the village had heard him lurching home drunk and bawling the words often enough to believe their story.