The Sempster's Tale (44 page)

‘I mean to do nothing.“

‘Nothing?“

‘Now they’ve been found out, they’ll leave and not come back, surely.“

‘It could have been the uncle who killed the friar.“

‘Do you think it was?“

Master Naylor gave her one of his long-faced looks. “If he had, my thought is he’d have finished the matter by coming in after his nephew and had him out of here, one way or another.”

‘That’s my thought, too.“

‘So we do nothing about them? Despite they’re Jews?“

‘We welcome Master Weir’s help while he sees Master Grene through this trouble. Then he goes and doesn’t come back. That will be enough.“

Master Naylor considered that before saying, “Aye. That would be my choice. There’s trouble enough without making more.”

‘Is there any talk of Cade being forced out of London?“

‘There’s been some word running that way, yes.“

‘Will London do it, do you think?“

‘Who knows with Londoners?“ Master Naylor said and went away.

And the waiting went on, into the beginning of the long summer evening, with the clear sky colored rose and cream by the westering sun and fear beginning to twist inside of Frevisse that after all London would not rise against Cade. Not today anyway.

And then the waiting was done.

Anne, in the parlor with her then, knew it was Daved on the stairs and was on her feet and going to him, her hands out, as he came into the parlor. He met her as readily, clasping her outstretched hands, pulling her to him, wrapping his arms around her in an embrace she returned as fully as she returned his kiss.

Frevisse waited where she was, and when they had done, he set Anne back from him and ordered with edged excitement, “Best bring Mistress Hercy to hear, too.”

Anne went immediately into the bedchamber, leaving Frevisse and Daved to each other, neither of them saying anything because there was nothing to be said in the few moments before Anne returned with Mistress Hercy, who went straight to Daved, looking ten years older than she had yesterday but asking firmly as she came, “Is it time?”

‘Lord Scales is out of the Tower with his men, headed for the bridge, and the mayor and aldermen have called up the wards and are moving to join him against Cade.“

‘God save us all,“ Mistress Hercy breathed, signing herself with the cross.

Frevisse and Anne copied her. Daved did not, only went on, “Cade heard something was afoot and spent the afternoon drawing his men out of London, back into Southwark. He probably hoped that if he showed good faith that way, he could go back to dealing with the mayor and all again, but London means to take back the bridge and gates. That’s where the fight will be, at the far end of the bridge.”

‘Will that be enough to let you do… this thing?“ Mistress Hercy asked.

‘There’s still trouble enough scattered through the streets, with straggles of rebels and London troublemakers in plenty and likely more at it once night falls.“

‘When will you do it?“ Mistress Hercy asked.

‘As soon as it’s full dark.“

A burst of rabbled noise, muffled by buildings rather than distance, swung all their heads toward the southward window. It might have been anything, but as the sound rose into a clamor that could only be of men meeting with weapons and in anger, Daved said, “It’s started. What I need from you now, Mistress Hercy, is to come with me to tell your household men they can go out to the fight. They’re jumping out of their skins with wanting to. They won’t pause. The street barriers are still manned, so they’re not needed here. I’ve already spoken to the Naylors and agreed they’ll keep the foregate, and me the back. Once you have the women up here, it’s only a matter of waiting until I judge it’s dark enough to go.”

Unexpectedly Anne said, “I’ll come be watch for you in the house and at the gate.”

Daved paused, then gave a single, sharp nod. “When the first star shows, come.”

Mistress Hercy pressed a hand over her mouth, her breathing suddenly gone rapid and shallow. She had maybe been looking aside all day from what they meant to do and now was seeing it clearly for the ugly thing it was—a man’s body taken out and left somewhere like a dead, unwanted dog’s. Even Raulyn’s and despite he was dead because of her. But Frevisse had never looked aside, and when she met Daved’s level gaze, their understanding measured and matched each other’s, both of them knowing the only thing worse than doing the thing would be not to do it.

No, worse would be to attempt it and fail.

And hiding her own other thoughts, Frevisse asked, “We’re ready, then?”

Mistress Hercy drew a long breath, steadied, and said, “Yes.”

Anne only nodded, wordless.

Daved, with a warm certainty that both lifted them and carried them forward, said, “Good then. Remember, my ladies, what’s done is done. Let’s do the rest and be done with all. Mistress Hercy, I told the household men I’d come to plead your leave to let them go. Pray, come now and give it.”

Mistress Hercy gave a crisp, assenting nod and sailed past him toward the stairs as if she had never faltered. Daved followed her, and Anne watched him go before turning away to the window overlooking the yard again. Frevisse joined her there, and in silence they watched the household’s men, clubs in hand, stream down from the hall and away across the yard and out the gateway. “Done,” Anne said; and added without looking around, “You’ll have to be the one who sees to Pernell.”

‘And now, I think,“ Frevisse said, because the women were already chattering up the stairs, and even if all else had escaped Pernell, that would want explanation. But she found that all else had not escaped Pernell. She and Lucie were together at the bedchamber window, worried over what they were hearing from the bridge without being certain what it was.

When Frevisse told her, though, Pernell was more pleased than alarmed, saying, “Thanks be to God it’s going to end,” and with a hand on her belly and the other braced on the seat, lowered herself to sit there at the window. “That’s where Raulyn has been all the day, then. Helping to ready the ward for this. He might have sent me word. Why are men so single-witted?”

She seemed not to expect an answer, and Frevisse, her choice either a lie or silence, chose silence.

From here nothing of the bridge was to be seen, and the distant clash and formless shouting of the fighting told little of what was going on, except it came no nearer, sign that thus far the Londoners must be holding their own. In the parlor the women talked, but in the bedchamber there was little to say and less to do, and finally Lucie curled up on the bed in all her clothing and went to sleep. Pernell soon lay down, too, saying, “I’ll only rest a while,” but shortly her breathing likewise evened into sleep, and Frevisse, still at the window, was alone with her own thoughts. Full dark was come. More stars than only the first were out. By now Daved must have Raulyn’s body out of the house, was likely even quit of it. And then he’d be away, soon to be quit of England, too, and back to his true life.

But which was his true life? He lived in lies so many-layered, did he even know anymore which of his lives was true, which one a lie? She had known people who had come to think the lies they lived in were their truth. Did Daved live so deeply in his lies, they were become his truth?

She laid her hand over the pouch still hung about her neck under her gowns. So many lies. And some of them hers.

So many lies. So many deaths. So many deceptions and treacheries. So much greed and fear. And love.

Frevisse folded her hands into her lap and bowed her head and prayed for the love there was between Anne Blakhall and Daved, for the men fighting on London bridge—those still alive and those already dead—and for Raulyn’s doomed, damned soul.

She did not know how much later it was that an outcry among the women in the other room made her raise her head, first looking around to the bed to be sure Pernell and Lucie, for a mercy, still slept; then out the window where she saw the orange glow of fire off a black roil of smoke blotting out the sky above London bridge. The bridge was on fire. In the other room, after their first outcry, the other women’s voices went on, hushed and strained. Mistress Hercy came briefly into the bedchamber to be sure of the sleepers, then came to Frevisse and said in a whisper, “He must be away by now.”

‘Long since,“ Frevisse agreed.

Mistress Hercy stood a little longer, looking out at the fire-stained smoke, then went away, leaving Frevisse to her thoughts and watching. To her relief in a while it was clear that the fire was not spreading; and by the time the eastern sky was well-paled toward dawn, the battle-clamor had lessened; and by the time full daylight was come there was nothing left to hear but a few distant shouts and nothing to see but a drift of grey smoke thinning across the sky. The rebels had not won their way back into London.

By then Pernell and Lucie were awake and Mistress Hercy had brought in their breakfast tray and the news that all the household’s men were come lag-footed home, tired and dirty but no wounds among them, and all the women were in the kitchen with them, feeding them and demanding to hear about everything. The last Frevisse heard as she slipped out to the parlor was Mistress Hercy saying, “No, not Raulyn yet, dear. Give him time.”

Eating without much interest the dry bread and cheese waiting for her in the parlor, Frevisse found herself fervently hoping Master Naylor would soon say the streets were safe enough for her to return to St. Helen’s. Cowardly though it might be, she wanted to be away from here before Raulyn’s body was found.

She had done eating when Anne came slow-footed into the room. Like Mistress Hercy, she looked older. Frevisse had meant to say nothing to her, but with her discretion weighed down under her tiredness she said, “You didn’t go with him.”

Going slowly to the window seat where she had sat so much of these few days, Anne sat again and only then, as if she had just heard Frevisse’s words, said softly, “No, I didn’t go with him.”

Not able to ask if she understood how small was the likelihood he would ever come back to her, Frevisse found herself saying, meaning it, “I am most sorry things are as they are.”

Anne raised her head and looked out the window. Tears shimmered in her eyes, and her gaze was inward-turned to some place deep inside herself; but calmly and with a pride that came from that far inward place she said, “Whatever else, I am his
eishet chayil.
That will have to do.” And took up the embroidery lying there unfinished and began to sew.

Author’s Note

To begin at the very beginning, let me say the title was the most ongoing of troubles with the book. It was to be called
The Seamstress’ Tale
— until I learned that
seamstress
was a word first made in the 1600s, when older, non-gender-specific words began to be given new endings to differentiate women doing something from men doing the same thing. The older, common words for anyone who sewed were
semster
and
sempster,
and fearing that neither of those would be clear to a potential reader, I wavered back and forth and among other possibilities, but such things as
broiderer
and
brawdster
didn’t look likely to ease the problem. But neither could I quite bring myself to the unperiod
seamstress,
and I wish to express my thanks to members of the CrimeThruTime list who took time to tell me what they thought, and my admiration and appreciation of my editor Gail Fortune’s patience with me while I made up my mind. Not to mention her patience and sustaining help in general!

My particular thanks go to Susan Weintrob, not only for the first suggestion that I do a story with Jews (“How?” I remember protesting. “There hadn’t been any Jews in England since 1290!”) but for keeping me from errors. Such as may be have come from my failure to ask her something that I should have.

Thanks must also go to Chris Laining who has not only made a wonderful rosary for Frevisse but helped Anne Blakhall at her work by guiding me toward such works as
The Conservation of Tapestries and Embroideries
with its inspiring close-ups of medieval embroidery rich with gold thread and pearls, and the invaluable
Medieval Craftsmen: Embroiderers
by Kay Staniland, besides advising me at length on what was period in sewing and what was not. If there are errors, it’s because I didn’t listen to her well enough.