The Sempster's Tale (25 page)

Through the hall’s two tall windows Frevisse could see the afternoon was slipping away. Westward the sky would soon be full of sunset colors. Here, with the windows facing east, it would soon be lamp-lighting time, and the gathering shadows were maybe a kind of hiding for Anne. Though her hands clenched her lap finally eased and lay open, she made no move to leave and did not speak. Nor did Frevisse, and the quiet drew out between them until a sudden, savage yelling somewhere in the lane beyond the foregate brought them both to their feet.

Anne cried out “Daved!”, and started away. Frevisse might have stopped her but didn’t, instead went with her into the screens passage and toward the outer door, only to be pushed aside by Master Naylor, probably just come off guard, and Master Bocking in a rush to be ahead of them, with Dickon only slightly behind. By the time Frevisse and Anne were at the head of the stairs to the yard, the men were down them and running toward the gate, joined by Master Grene’s men Wyett and James running from another doorway in the yard, carrying clubs, too.

At the gate the man Pers was standing on a barrel to look over the fence and shouted from there, “It’s Master Grene! They’re attacking him!”

Frevisse tried to catch Anne’s arm but failed. Anne went down the steps behind Dickon, and Frevisse followed her.

Ahead, one of the men yelled, “Open the gate!” and Pers leaped from the barrel and grabbed for the bar. James, reaching him, shoved him aside, exclaiming, “We’re ordered not to open!”

Wyett, catching up to him, shoved him aside in turn, yelling back, “If he’s out there, we—”

‘What if they get in?“

‘—can’t leave him!“

‘They—“

Master Naylor broke their beginning struggle for the bar, pushing them both away, ordering at them, “Be ready,” as he threw the bar aside one-handed, his club ready in the other. Pers sprang forward to pull one side of the double gate open while Master Bocking, with club in one hand and drawn dagger in the other, ordered the others, “Follow us!” sharply enough that they left off quarreling and obeyed as he and Master Naylor charged out the gate toward the wide scuffle of men in the street.

Frevisse saw, before Master Naylor and the others piled into it, that the fight looked to be eight men at the most, with Master Grene and Daved Weir against six others, so that it might have been going worse than it was except Daved Weir had a dagger in either hand and the look of someone who knew how to use them. It was his foot, though, that he planted hard into a man’s groin, sending the fellow reeling back into one of the others, and only then did Frevisse see that Father Tomas was there, too, stooped over and dragging someone out from among the fighters’ feet that Frevisse did not clearly see as she caught Anne by the arm at last, stopping her in the gateway passage, saying at her, “Leave them to it! We’ll be in the way!” as two more servants from the house raced past them and out the gate, clubs in their hands.

Anne understood well enough that she held where she was. And with Master Naylor and the rest into the fight, everything was breaking apart into a wilder flurry until suddenly some of the men were breaking clear, starting to run up the lane, one of them bent over, more shuffling than running, another clutching his upper leg and limping. Master Naylor’s barked order stopped the several household men ready to pursue them, while all along the street other men with clubs and daggers were bursting from doors and other gateways, too late for the fight but one of them calling, “Grene, are you all right?” and another, “Raulyn?”

Master Grene, short of breath and disheveled, waved a hand at them all. “Done,” he called between panted breaths. “All over. They’re gone.”

‘Though I doubt I want to be out here if they come back with more of their kind!“ Daved called, backing away through the gateway with Master Grene and the others.

Enough people agreed with that, that there was a general withdrawing behind all the other doors and gates while Master Grene ordered, “Close it,” at Pers, who readily slammed the gate shut, with Wyett swinging the bar into place across it at the same moment Master Grene turned on Daved and raged, “What in hell’s teeth were you thinking of, throwing yourself into that fight like that? You near as damn-all got us killed!”

Of the two of them, Daved Weir looked the worse. Though he was without apparent wound save for a red mark on his jaw that would probably be a bruise before it was done, his doublet was torn open and his shirt ripped to almost his waist as if he had grappled close with someone; but still high-blooded with the joy of battle, he laughed and said, “There are worse ways to die than suddenly, Raulyn.”

‘Maybe for you!“ Master Grene stormed back at him. ”But I’d rather not!“

Somewhat aside, Dickon and Father Tomas were helping Brother Michael to his feet from the cobbles. The friar was the worst battered of anyone—with no blood on him but short of breath and partly bent over in pain, one hand pressed to his ribs as if he hurt there. Past Master Grene, Daved asked, “How is he?”

Brother Michael answered for himself, leaning on the priest but straightening a little as he said, “Beaten. But otherwise unmarred. They were using feet and fists, not weapons.”

‘I was coming from the church,“ Father Tomas said. ”To see Mistress Grene. I saw him ahead of me. They came from the other way, those men, and attacked him. Went for him for no reason.“

‘They didn’t say anything?“ Master Naylor asked.

Brother Michael straightened a little more, still holding his ribs but his breathing more steady. “Asked if I was the friar that was preaching at St. Paul’s, I said I was, and they—” He stopped—not from a stab of pain, as Frevisse first thought, but staring at Daved before then jerking fully straight and snatching at the front of Daved’s doublet, crying out,
“You! This!”
in both oath and accusation; and Frevisse saw he had hold not on Daved’s doublet or shirt but the end of a narrow length of pale cloth showing through the shirt’s tear. In the yard’s shadows Frevisse thought there was a fringed knot at one corner but that was all she clearly saw before Daved clamped a hand around the friar’s wrist and ordered, cold and low-voiced, “Let it go.”

Brother Michael pulled, both at the cloth and to be free, and Daved must have done something because the next moment the friar let go the cloth with a gasp of pain and snatched back his hand. But with unabated fierceness, glaring at Daved, he started again,
“You
—”

Master Grene stepped between them, saying in loud interruption as he gripped the friar by the arm and turned him toward the hall, “Better we take this inside, Brother Michael. Wyett, keep guard here with Pers for a time. Nicol, shouldn’t you be gone to the kitchen? The rest of you go on, too. You did well, all of you. My thanks. Anne, Dame, go tell Pernell all’s well.”

He was drawing the friar hallward with more force than courtesy while scattering his household men with orders; but Brother Michael broke free, spun around to point fiercely at Master Naylor and Dickon, nearest to Daved, and ordered, “You two! Take hold on him.” He swung his pointing finger to Master Bocking. “On both of them. On your souls’ peril, seize them both!”

Master Bocking said something in a language Frevisse did not understand, and together he and Daved moved for the gate. Master Grene’s two men were there but not ready for trouble. Daved shoved one of them one way, his uncle shoved the other the other way, and Daved had his daggers drawn again to hold them at bay, while Master Bocking swung the bar clear and began to pull open one side of the gate.

“Stop them!”
roared Brother Michael, and the man Wyett had wit enough to swing his club not at Daved who was beyond his reach but at the opening side of the gate, driving it shut just as Master Bocking slipped through the gap, not catching him in it but leaving Daved shut in and without time to open it again before Wyett, Pers, Master Naylor, and Dickon closed on him. For an indrawn, frightened breath Frevisse thought he would fight them. But the intent went out of him and instead he dropped his daggers, yelled something upward over his shoulder—again in a language she did not know; meant for his uncle, surely—then stood with his empty hands held out to either side of him.

Chapter 18

Uncertain what came next, no one moved except Brother Michael, drawing himself up as straightly as Daved was standing, to say with assured authority, “By right of my place in the Church’s holy Inquisition I order you to seize this enemy of Christ!” Anne’s small sound in her throat cut off as Dame Frevisse took harder hold on her arm, warning her silent as Pers and Wyett, still not understanding what was happening, moved toward Daved uncertainly.

‘Seize him!“ Brother Michael ordered again. ”On your souls’ peril! He has to be brought to the bishop! Open the gate—“

Quickly Raulyn said, “You can’t trust yourself to the streets again, Brother Michael! Not now and with dark coming on. You’ve seen yourself the Kentishmen have slipped Cade’s leash. By now I wouldn’t dare the streets outside even my own gate, let be between here and any where else.”

Brother Michael had stopped, was listening to him. With Dame Frevisse’s fingers digging into her arm, Anne kept silent the sobs trying to rise in her throat as Raulyn urged, “Keep here for now anyway. You risk losing him otherwise. His uncle is out there, remember, and who knows who else, ready to help him.”

Brother Michael looked toward the gate. With his hurts still fresh on him, he couldn’t doubt Raulyn’s warning, but he hesitated half a moment longer before finally granting harshly, “Here then, yes. We’ll stay here with him under guard while we wait it out.” He suddenly pointed at Father Tomas. “And you’ll wait with us. What your part in this has been we’ve still to learn. The abomination didn’t happen in your church by chance. And you,” he added at Raulyn. “You’ll have to prove you knew nothing of what they are, or you’ll have both the bishop and the king’s officers to answer to.” He started toward the hall, ordering at Raulyn’s men, “Bring him.”

‘I need my men on gate-guard here,“ Raulyn said.

Brother Michael pointed at Dame Frevisse’s men. “You two, then.”

Both men looked to Dame Frevisse, who nodded for them to obey, and with no eagerness, they closed on Daved from either side. Anne willed him to fight them off—or run—or do whatever he needed to win clear and away. But rather than that, he suddenly threw up his head and laughed in a way Anne had never heard from him—laughter bitter and bright and barren of joy unless it was the joy of a man refusing to fear a fight he knew he could not win; and like a man flinging himself open to a dagger-blow, he let the Naylors take hold on his arms and start him toward the hall.

Anne began to twist against Dame Frevisse’s grip, meaning to go to him; but Daved caught her eyes and gave the slightest refusing twitch of his head, telling her no. Then he was past her, and Brother Michael was herding Father Tomas toward the hall, and Raulyn, having stopped to pick up Daved’s daggers—where had the second one come from?—came aside to say, “Anne, go back to Pernell now, please.”

His words came from some hollow distance beyond having any meaning. Anne gave them no heed, not taking her gaze from Daved’s back going away from her between his guards. She had to be at least near him, and she forced her legs to steady, gathering herself to follow them. Raulyn, seeing her intent, said, “No, Anne.” Laying a quick hand on her shoulder. “Don’t. I’ll do all I can. Anything you do will only make it go the worse for him.”

Worse than burned at the stake? Anne thought; but Raulyn had not waited for her answer, was gone after the men now going up the steps into the hall. Anne would have followed him, not caring what he had said, but Dame Frevisse still held her arm, still held her where she was, and said, “We’ll follow in a moment. But one thing. What was it set the friar off against him? That cloth. What was it?”

Started to pull against her hold, Anne paused, repeated blankly, “What?” Among her fear-scattered thoughts, her only clear one was that she had to go to Daved, and instead of the denial she should have made she blurted out, “It’s something he wears. It’s for prayer or… it’s because he’s Jewish. I don’t know…”

The nun’s grip on her arm became suddenly painful, pulling Anne around to face her.
“He’s Jewish?
He’s Jewish and you
knew
it? You took a Jewish paramour?”

That the nun had known Daved was her lover jarred as much as the depth of accusation in the words, and Anne said sharply back, “I didn’t know he was Jewish when I fell in love with him.”