The Bishop’s Tale (10 page)

Beaufort knew what was being said throughout Ewelme manor house and—by this time—in the village, and what would be said much farther afield as guests went away to their own homes more full of the talk of Sir Clement’s death than of Thomas’s funeral. God had worked a wonder in the sight of everyone there today, and it would be more than a nine days’ wonder.

“I want to
know
that that is what it was,” he said.

With some asperity behind her continued respectful tone, Dame Frevisse said, “Then I suggest you ask Sir Philip. He was nearer to it than I from the beginning, and with him to the very end of it.”

“I have already spoken with Sir Philip.”

And been thoroughly unsatisfied because the priest had seemed as willing as everyone else to accept God’s hand in Sir Clement’s death; had seen no further, asked no further, wondered no further than that God chose that time and place to make his power manifest. “Your uncle told me you have a way of finding out things that others do not see.”

Dame Frevisse drew a deep breath as if to speak, but then tightened her mouth and said nothing. Instead, she bowed her head, hiding her face again.

Beaufort went on, “I want to be assured this was indeed an uncommon death. I want to be sure of God’s will.”

Dame Frevisse straightened to look directly at him and asked a question he had not expected. “Why?”

He could simply require her cooperation out of obedience to his place as a prince of the Church. But with memory of things Thomas had said about her, Beaufort leaned forward, dropped his voice to make this clearly between only the two of them, and said with the plain truth, “I want to know if there was man’s hand in this, and sin. Sir Clement was a blaspheming man for many years. I doubt there’s anyone could count now how many times he’s stood up and said, ”If I’m wrong in this, may God strike me down within the hour,“ but it was often and often without God ever taking notice of him. I’ve heard him myself, on occasions enough when his lies were baldly apparent to all present. So I can’t help wondering why God would choose to strike him down now in particular, when there were other, more suitable times. Unless one is inclined to think God was asleep or busy elsewhere on the other occasions.”

Dame Frevisse’s mouth twitched with an effort against smiling. It was a gesture Beaufort had often seen on Thomas Chaucer’s face. “I didn’t know it was that way with him,” she said. “Only that he seemed to enjoy creating angers around him.”

“Oh, indeed he enjoyed that,” Beaufort agreed. “And that’s what makes me wonder about his death. He had a talent for garnering enemies, and made a practice of never losing one once he’d gained him. But what I want to know particularly… is whether or not Sir Philip had a hand in it.”

His words startled her, and she did not try to hide it. “Sir Philip? Why do you suspect him in particular?”

“I don’t, in particular, suspect him. I simply want to be sure I don’t have to suspect him at all.” Beaufort hesitated; but she was an intelligent woman and would serve better if he made himself clear. “I have had my eye on Sir Philip these few years. He, like you, has abilities beyond the ordinary, and I’m ever in need of such men in my service. But I need men I can be sure of before I put them into offices where I must trust them. ”The king ought to place in posts of command only those of whose capacity he has made trial.“”

“”And not to proceed to make trial of the capacity of those whom he has placed in posts of command,“” Dame Frevisse immediately answered, completing his quotation. “Vincent de Beauvais. And very true.”

So she was as knowledgeable as Thomas had led him to believe. Very learned, Thomas had said, and had not added, For a woman. Beaufort wondered what the book in her lap was, that Thomas had so particularly wanted her to have.

But that was not to the point. Permitting himself a smile of appreciation for her completion of his quote, he said, “Exactly. So I would know whether Sir Philip is a murderer or not before I begin to trust him.”

“There was… strife between him and Sir Clement?” “Sir Philip is freeborn, but only barely. His father was still villein to Sir Clement’s father when Sir Philip was born, but Sir Philip’s mother was a free woman and he was born on her freehold property and is therefore free from birth himself, according to the law. His father later bought his way out of villeinage and, with his wife’s property and help, became quite prosperous and provided both education and opportunities for his sons. Sir Philip in particular took best advantage of the possibilities, and looks to go far in the Church. But Sir Clement had been making claim that he had proof Sir Philip is not freeborn after all, is still, in fact, a villein and therefore Sir Clement’s property. If Sir Clement had pursued and proved such a thing, Sir Philip’s future would have been severely hampered.”

“But Sir Clement had not pursued it into court yet?” “And curtail his sport? The torment of the uncertainty of his victims was among the things he most enjoyed.”

“By your words, he had more victims than Sir Philip,” Dame Frevisse said. “Sir Philip won’t be the only one who might be glad to have him dead. Possibly he’s not even the only enemy who was present at the funeral feast.”

“Most assuredly. Now mind this: Sir Philip does not know how much I know about him. He only knows we both agreed Sir Clement was a pain better avoided if possible. So when you begin questioning people about Sir Clement and his death…” Dame Frevisse raised her eyebrows at the word “when.” Beaufort did not care. She was going to do this thing for him, whatever she thought. “… he will have no reason to suspect you are especially interested in him, since you cannot know there was especial reason for him to want Sir Clement dead. Do you understand?”

Chapter
10

Frevisse found that on closer acquaintance she did not much like Bishop Beaufort. Nor the way that he was watching her across the little distance between them with the remote calculation he would probably give to a property he was thinking of investing in. And she doubted he cared that she was watching him as warily as she would an adversary about to make a threatening move. He did not care, she thought, whether a person liked or disliked him, so long as they did what he asked. And did it well.

What had Chaucer told him about her? Why would such a powerful man ask this of her? In a cool, level voice that she hoped matched his own, she said, “I understand and will try to do as you wish, my lord bishop.”

Bishop Beaufort nodded, then made a graceful gesture of dismissal. He would always be graceful in success, Frevisse thought, and wondered how he was in defeat. She rose, made low curtsy to him again, and left. Dame Perpetua silently followed.

Interested and speculative looks were turned on them by people in the outer room, but Frevisse walked through without raising her head, the cloth-wrapped bundle pressed against her middle by her folded hands, her veil swung forward on either side of her face in appearance of holy modesty.

In truth she was feeling nothing remotely like holy, and just then modesty was the least of her concerns. But she wanted no one to speak to her; she did not trust her ability to answer well or even politely. She wanted to be alone, to think how best to do what Bishop Beaufort was asking. With the instinct of her years in St. Frideswide’s and her knowledge that with Ewelme crowded with guests tonight there was no private place to go to, she retreated to the chapel.

In its antechamber, as Frevisse reached for the door handle, Dame Perpetua touched her arm, stopping her. “Dame Frevisse, how is it with you?” she asked gently.

Frevisse turned to her. “How much did you hear of what he asked of me?”

“All of it, I think. Will you be able to do what he wants of you?”

It had been for her common sense and good manners that Perpetua had been chosen to come with her; nor did Frevisse have any doubt of her discretion. But this was not something she thought she could share. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice sharpened with her own desire not to be burdened with the problem. “I don’t even know if I know how to try.” She reached for the door again. “I need to pray awhile.”

Behind her, Dame Perpetua said quietly, “Prayer is meant to be a strength and guidance, not a hiding place.”

Frevisse paused as the justice of mat warning struck to the soft core of her conscience. She had no reply. Her darkness was her own, and God had not yet shown her the way out of it. Until he did, prayer was her only ease. And her only guidance. She did herself that much justice: she was searching for a way out of the darkness of her regret, a way through forgiveness—God’s and her own—into acceptance of her deeds, not into escape from them, or denial. And prayer was the only way she had. Prayer was not her hiding place but her hope.

But that was not something to be put into words here and now. After a moment, not answering Dame Perpetua, she went on into the chapel.

Sir Clement’s body was laid out where Chaucer’s body had been yesterday. There was no coffin yet; the body, completely enveloped in a white shroud, rested on boards set on trestles covered with black cloth, seemly enough until a coffin could be made. His relatives would depart with the body tomorrow, Frevisse supposed. No, the crowner still had to come, as he always did, to investigate any uncertain or violent death. Neither Sir Clement’s body nor his family would be able to leave until then, and there was no way to know yet when the crowner would arrive.

She crossed to the far side of the chapel, Dame Perpetua behind her. It was dim here, well away from the door and from the light of the few candles set around Sir Clement’s bier. She recognized Jevan kneeling at the head of the coffin, his face above his clasped hands touched with the warm golden candlelight. Three others, one of them Master Gallard, the usher, by his shape (but subdued and motionless for once), knelt in a row beside the coffin, facing the altar, their backs to her. In a hush of skirts, Dame Perpetua sank down to her knees beside her. Frevisse followed her onto the familiar hardness of stone floor, bowed her head, folded her hands together—and found that instead of going readily into the comfort of prayer, she was staring blindly at the floor in front of her, thinking of the problem she had been set.

There was no question but that she must do as Bishop Beaufort had asked. He was her religious superior, and there was nothing immoral or illegal about his request. Though St. Frideswide’s Priory was in the bishopric of Lincoln, not his of Winchester, he was still a bishop and moreover a cardinal, and his power and influence stretched where he wanted them to in England. If she failed to obey him, she might suffer for it in some way. But if she tried and honestly failed, she thought he would accept her failure without blame.

But the problem remained of how to attempt what he had asked.

He doubted Sir Clement had been struck down by God. Why? And why did he believe it possible that Sir Philip had murdered him? He wanted to know what had happened because he had plans for Sir Philip and wanted to be sure of him. Sure that he had not committed a murder—or sure that he had? her mind treacherously suggested. She was not sure Bishop Beaufort had made that distinction clear when he asked her to learn the truth.

But at least he had given her the priest’s possible motive. The threat of villeinage was a heavy threat to hold over a man. And yet Sir Philip had been singularly undisturbed by the insults Sir Clement had thrown at him yesterday, as if neither they nor Sir Clement particularly mattered to him.

Or had he been hiding his true reaction with exceptional skill?

And if he or someone else had killed Sir Clement, how had it been done?

Poison was the obvious answer. The doctor would have spoken out about any wound, and there had been the strange struggle to breathe, as if Sir Clement were being throttled by an invisible foe, and the swollen face, the rash, and the red welts.

But how could he have been poisoned? Sir Clement, like everyone else, had shared his food and drink. Lady Anne and Guy had shared his food; she and Sir Clement had shared a goblet; yet only Sir Clement had sickened.

Even if in some way it had been poison, Sir Philip had been well down the table from Sir Clement at the feast. Except that once, when he had come to quiet Sir Clement’s outburst, just before Sir Clement had called down God’s judgment on himself. Had Sir Philip goaded that from him? Perhaps, but as nearly as Frevisse could remember, he had not been close enough to the table to have put poison into any food or drink. But perhaps, if it was poison, it had been given earlier. What else had Sir Clement eaten or drunk? Breakfast, surely. Was there a poison that was so slow to act?

Or perhaps the poison had come later. Sir Clement had been the only one to drink the wine in Sir Philip’s chamber, just at that point where he had appeared to be recovering. What if God’s hand had touched him but not closed on him, only leaving him with warning of his sinful mortality and an opportunity to change? Had Sir Philip—or someone else, Frevisse added conscientiously—taken the chance of what was meant to be God’s warning on Sir Clement to kill him?

The poison had worked swiftly there in Sir Philip’s room, with symptoms seemingly identical to those that had struck Sir Clement in the hall. And since no one could have foreseen God’s action, how would they have had a poison so readily to hand, and one that matched so well?

She would need to talk to the people who might know or have seen more. And ask the doctor his ideas on the nature of Sir Clement’s death. Doctors always had ideas; ever insecure in their inevitably lost battle against mortality, they generated theories as readily as a master smith made weapons.