The Squire’s Tale (5 page)

For a moment he only looked at her, then answered, very softly, “And you in mine.”

‘I know.“ She smiled at him, letting him go. ”Now bid Dionisia good-bye, too, or she’ll be difficult after you’re gone.“

‘Katherine,“ her woman said quellingly but did not resist the quick, smacking kiss that Robert, smiling, gave her on the cheek, and while Katherine had stayed pale to his kiss, Mistress Dionisia blushed, fighting a smile as she said, pushing him away, ”You’ve neither of you any sense.“

‘Mayhap not,“ Robert agreed, ”but now you’ve no grounds to say you were neglected.“

‘Which I’d not have said anyway. Be off with you and don’t worry over Katherine, we’ll all see to her well enough here.“

‘I know.“ Robert turned and made a deep bow to Domina Elisabeth. ”Again, my thanks, my lady.“

‘And equally our thanks to you for seeing fit to trust us with both your treasures,“ Domina Elisabeth returned graciously.

While Frevisse made a parting curtsy to Domina Elisabeth, Robert threw his cloak over one shoulder and took up the chest, then followed her out of the parlor and down the stairs, but at their foot, before passing out into the cloister walk again, she paused and turned back to him to ask with a nod toward his splinted hand, “Was it in saving Katherine you were hurt?”

As if unwilling to admit it, Robert hesitated, then said, “Yes.”

‘There was a fight?“

‘A brief one. No blood was spilt.“

‘How dangerous is this thing you’ve asked us to do?“

Robert blinked, seemingly taken by surprise, before answering straightforwardly enough, “I don’t know. Not dangerous at all so long as no one knows she’s here.”

‘Or your papers.“

‘Or my papers,“ Robert agreed.

Nor was there any way, even if it was only her choice to make, that Frevisse would have refused refuge to the girl or anyone else who asked it, despite what danger there might be; she simply wanted to know and nodded and went on into the cloister walk. The sacristy lay on the cloister’s far side and the shortest way to it was leftward and around, past the writing desks where Dame Perpetua and Sister Johane were still at work. To leave them undisturbed by going the other, longer way around was reasonable and Frevisse did but with another purpose in mind: at the corner of the cloister’s square she said to Robert, “Wait here a moment, please,” and before he could ask why, hurried away along the side passage to the infirmary.

There Dame Claire, Sister Thomasine, Helen and Lucy were together at the shelves where the boxes and pots of medicines and baskets and hanging bunches of herbs for making more were all kept, Dame Claire holding one of the bunches for the girls to look at closely, saying in a voice surprisingly deep for so small a woman, “This is betony. Powder of it mixed with honey is…”

The rule of silence could never be held to utterly. Here, as in Domina Elisabeth’s parlor, necessity intruded, but when Dame Claire broke off and everyone looked to Frevisse as she came in, Frevisse made sign with her hand to ask that Sister Thomasine come with her. Dame Claire nodded agreement and Sister Thomasine came away without a word, taking off her apron and laying it aside on her way out of the room. She had been still a novice, young and desperate with piety and fear, when Robert—equally young—had first seen her and fallen into love with her. Sister Thomasine had never noticed his love but Frevisse had; had also seen the moment when Robert knew his beloved was completely given to God and watched him let go of any hope of her. Now, though Sister Thomasine was walking toward him with bent head and eyes down, Frevisse saw him recognize her in the same moment that he saw her, with sudden remembrance and pleasure lightening his face back toward boyhood, and in a whisper, to disturb the cloister’s quiet as little as might be, she said, “Sister Thomasine, do you remember Robert Fenner?”

Sister Thomasine raised her head and to Frevisse’s relief her thin face was lighted with both remembrance and pleasure, as if she were encountering a familiar friend, gladly met after long parting as she said, “Of course I remember him. He’s been in my prayers ever since he was here.”

Fleetingly Frevisse wondered if Sister Thomasine prayed for everyone who had ever crossed her path, then had the wry thought that probably she did, while Robert said with surprised pleasure, “You’ve prayed for me? Oh, Thomasine, my thanks for that!”

Sister Thomasine looked momentarily surprised, either at his thanks or at being called simply by her name for probably the first time in all the years since she had taken her final vows, but all she said was, simply, “You’re very welcome.”

In a quick whisper Frevisse explained why he was here and asked, since it would be unseemly for her to be alone with him, would Sister Thomasine come with them into the sacristy? Sister Thomasine nodded that she would and they went on around the cloister walk, past the refectory, the kitchen passage, the door to the warming room, the stairs that led up to the nuns’ dorter, finally to the narrow door into the sacristy beside the church.

Frevisse opened it for Robert to go in with the chest and followed him, with Sister Thomasine coming last and the door left open behind them for more light because the room’s single window high in the east wall was both too small for any but the smallest of children to squeeze through and closed with thick green glass that kept the sacristy in perpetual twilight even on the brightest days. But there was light enough for Frevisse to point to a place in the far corner beyond the great storage chests ranged along the walls and Robert set his own small chest there, almost out of sight, stepped back from it, and nodded with satisfaction. “That will serve very well.”

‘You’ll come for it yourself?“ Frevisse asked.

‘I hope to. Else I’ll send someone with a token that Katherine knows and no one else.“

‘We’ll need either you or the token and Katherine’s word to release it.“

‘That’s what I want,“ Robert assured her but his gaze strayed to Sister Thomasine standing just inside the doorway, her hands tucked into her opposite sleeves, her eyes lowered. His gaze lingered a moment, then he looked back to Frevisse and said, ”I’ll go now. With good riding I might make Banbury by dark or not long after.“

‘You’re not alone?“ she asked.

‘I’ve a man with me. He’s seen to the horses while I’ve been in here.“

They moved to leave the sacristy and Sister Thomasine faded out the doorway ahead of them into the cloister walk again as Frevisse asked, “Do you mean to go directly home?”

Robert shook his head. “No. I mean to swing eastward a ways and come back from a different direction than we left by, to confuse things if anyone is interested. I’ll be home the day after tomorrow rather than tomorrow, making it more unclear how far we actually went.”

That told Frevisse something more about how much it meant to him to keep Katherine and his papers safe but they were in the cloister walk again, going back the way they had come, Sister Thomasine following and silence between them until at the passage back to the infirmary Sister Thomasine said softly, “By your leave, I’ll leave you here.”

Robert turned quickly around to her. For a moment he looked about to reach out to take hold of her hands as he had with Katherine but her hands were still tucked up their opposite sleeves and he held back, only saying, “It was good to see you again. To see you’re doing well.”

Sister Thomasine raised her eyes to him. “And you, too.” And then, out of her usual way of things, she asked, “Are you married? Do you have children?”

‘I’m married,“ he said. ”We have three children. Two boys and a little girl. Robin and John and Tacine.“

Frevisse’s hands, tucked out of sight in her own sleeves, tightened on her forearms, because just as Robin was the little name for Robert, Tacine was for Thomasine.

Gravely regarding him, Sister Thomasine said, “I’ll add them to my prayers.”

Equally grave, Robert answered, “Thank you.”

There was a pause then while it became clear there was nothing more to be said between them, before he simply bowed to her and she bent her head in return, turned, and walked away toward the infirmary, Robert watching her leave with something of the boy he had been showing in his face, the years and troubles smoothed away to feelings as simple as they had been then despite all he must have learned since of how unsimple love was, how complicated by too many things ever to be simple except maybe in the first moment it existed.

Turning away from so much laid out so openly, Frevisse went on toward the outer door, Robert following her, both silent until with her hand on the latch, she turned back to him and said, smiling, “I’m sorry it was trouble that brought you here but it’s been good to see you again.”

All look of the boy was gone from him; he was a man with a man’s troubles riding with him as he answered, smiling, too, “It’s been equally good to see you.” And softly, after a moment’s hesitation, “And Sister Thomasine. Thank you.”

Frevisse bent her head to him in both acceptance of his thanks and in farewell and with a murmured prayer for his safe journeying pulled open the heavy door, let him out, and closed it behind him.

Chapter 3

Well into this third week of Lent the lightness of hunger was become familiar as well as welcome but nonetheless Frevisse sat back on her heels, scrub brush in hand, with a deep sigh and thankfulness to be nearly done with washing the choir floor’s paving. How somewhere no one ever walked but nuns come in from the equally paved, often-swept cloister could be so constantly in need of cleaning she did not understand and in Lent hunger made the work only the harder. But—
Advenerunt nobis dies poenitentiae, ad redimenda peccata, ad salvandas animas.
To us have come the days of penance, for redeeming sins, for saving souls. And that made the burden a blessing.

But she was still glad to be done with it for today and nodded pleasantly to Sister Margrett, just finished, too, and sitting back from her work at the far end of the choir. They had started in the middle between the choir stalls where the nuns gathered six times a day for the Offices of prayer that were their main duty among the tasks that made up their lives, beginning with Matins and Laud together at midnight, then Prime at dawn, with Sext, Terce and None through the day and Vespers near its end. Only Compline was usually done simply in the warming room at the end of the nuns’ daily hour of recreation, just ere bed. And none of that explained how the choir floor came to so often need washing, Frevisse thought impatiently and inwardly laughed at herself at the same time, recognizing the short temper that came to her with fasting and must needs all too often be countered with prayer.

Sister Margrett made question with her hands, asking if they were done here, and Frevisse nodded that they were and together, Frevisse not so briskly as she had done when she was younger, they stood up, took up the pads they had been kneeling on and the buckets and left the church, going around the cloister walk to the kitchen and the scullery beyond it, keeping clear of the servants busily preparing supper under Dame Perpetua’s direction. Unfortunately there was no way to keep equally clear of the warm, thick smell of the fish mortrewe with its almond milk and ginger, and Frevisse’s stomach clawed at her with unhappy protest of its hunger but supper would not come until after Vespers and wishing she could hold her breath she hurried with Sister Margrett through putting the kneeling pads on the shelf where whoever would need them next would expect to find them, poured the dirty water down the drain, rinsed the buckets and brushes and put them away under the stone sink, and was just going back into the kitchen as the cloister bell began to ring to the Office.

The servants were not required to go to services nor, being busy at things that could not be left, often simply could not, but Dame Perpetua broke off in midword telling one of the women she needed to cut up another onion, took off and laid aside her apron, and joined Frevisse and Sister Margrett going back toward the church. From wherever else they had been throughout the cloister the other nuns were coming, too, in haste and silence save for the hush of soft-soled shoes on stone and the rustle of the rain as another of the day’s many showers passed over. In the church the choir’s candles, lighted by Sister Amicia as sacristan, made an island of bright welcome among the gray shadows and in a whispering of skirts each nun went to her place, the choir stall she had been given when she first came into St. Frideswide’s and which would be hers until she died unless she was elected prioress and must needs move to the more elaborate seat that went with her office.

Frevisse, glad that honor was never likely to burden her, sank into her own familiar place, made sure of her breviary and Psalter in front of her, then slid forward to kneel in prayer until everyone was in place and the Office began, continuing the unending weave of prayers and psalms begun years into centuries ago and never ceasing, prayed and sung by so many women and men in so many places, their lives given to the prayers and petitions and their lives lost to all memory but God’s, that sometimes it seemed to Frevisse that here and now this hands-count of nuns no more made the prayers than someone made a river: they simply stepped into the endless flow, to be carried by it the way a river carried whatever came into its way.

Across the choir the nuns chanted,
Deos gratias
—God be thanked—and answer was made by the other nuns,
Fidelium animae per misericordiam Dei requiescant in pace.
The souls of the faithful through the mercy of God rest in peace. To be answered from across the choir, “Amen,” and like a long sigh of someone coming to rest, the Office ended.