The plainest answer, of course, was by something put into the men’s food or drink, and she instantly did not like that answer. Their food and drink had come from the guesthall’s kitchen, been served by the guesthall’s servants.
But that might not be entirely true, she told herself. Both Breredon and the Rowcliffes had servants with them. She would have to find out who served them and where. If Breredon had indeed been keeping entirely to his room, that limited who could have come at his food or drink. She hoped.
She found she was standing alone in the cloister walk, looking at a soft fall of rain into the garth.
When had the day turned to rain? she wondered. She wondered, too, how long she had been standing there, finding that after all she was not so willing as she had thought she would be to do what came next-to return to the guesthall and ask questions.
Not that her willingness or unwillingness mattered. Bound as she was by her vow of obedience, her duty was to obey, willing or unwilling. So long as a duty was neither a sin nor dishonorable, once it was given it had to be done, and the guesthall and its guests were presently her duty. Even without Abbot Gilberd’s order, she must go back and, once there, would ask the questions that were gathering in her mind. Never mind that what she truly wanted to do was go to sleep again and awaken to find everything was answered, all troubles ended.
That being impossible, she went on her way along the cloister walk, only to have Dame Margrett, sitting on guard again, say with a nod toward the open doorway beside her, “She wants to talk to you.”
Chapter 21
Cecely now mostly sat on the bench, keeping what watch she could on the cloister through the narrow doorway. Twice she had caught glimpse of Neddie passing along the far side of the walk with that woman they had keeping him, but plainly they were not going to let him near her. Nor did anyone come near her who did not have to. All she had seen of even Abbot Gilberd today was when he paused in passing the doorway and looked in. She had immediately bowed her head and gone into the necessary low curtsy, expecting him to say something at her, but by the time she had straightened and looked up, he was gone, not a word spoken.
They were trying to drive her mad. That was it and she knew it. To keep from satisfying them, she had finally been reduced to finding the breviary among the rushes, to try passing the hours with reading. If nothing else, the psalms praising God for the striking down of enemies were to the good. Her Latin had never been much, but she could read it well enough in the psalms, and curses in Latin did seem stronger, as if using Christ’s own language gave them greater weight. “Qui autem perdere quaerunt animam meam, introibunt in profunda terrae. Tradentur in manus gladii, portio vulpium erunt.”-Whoever seeks to ruin my life, they’ll go into the depths of the earth. They’ll be given to the sword, foxes will eat them!
Yes. That was how it ought to be.
Without Alson she would have known nothing that was happening. As it was, all she knew was what little Alson knew, and she only heard it when Alson had her turn at sitting guard, meaning she knew very little and not very often. Still, Alson had had one of her turns during Sext just now, and goaded by what Alson had told her, Cecely made bold to ask the nun outside her door if she might speak to Dame Frevisse-no matter that “asking” anything of these women stuck in her throat, the more especially because she had to sound “humble” while she did it.
“Humble” seemed to work, though. Far sooner than she had hoped, the long-nosed, stiff-spined woman was standing in the doorway, looking as if Cecely was a bad smell; and Cecely, forgetting to be either humble or courteous, demanded, “Is it true Symond Hewet is dying?”
“No,” Dame Frevisse snapped back. “How did you hear he was?”
Not about to betray Alson, Cecely said, “Women talk. In the walk. I can hear them. The abbot is here. When is he going to see me again?” Not that she wanted to see him again, but this waiting, with nothing going one way or other, was wearing at her.
“I suppose he and Domina Elisabeth have other matters to talk of beyond you.”
What matters? Cecely wanted to demand. Because they kept busy with something besides her for long enough, her chance might come after all…
Doubting Dame Frevisse would tell her anything even if she knew it, she asked instead, “How ill is Master Breredon?”
“He’s mending.”
“It was John Rowcliffe did it, you know.”
“Did what?”
“Poisoned him,” Cecely snapped, impatient at having to say it again. How often would she have to say it before someone got it into their head? “He’s dangerous! They all are, the Rowcliffes. I told you that. They want me dead. They want Neddie dead. Your abbot should make them go away!”
With no sign of being moved in the slightest, Dame Frevisse asked, “What of Symond Hewet?”
Cecely felt herself blink with surprise and wariness. “Symond?”
“Why was he poisoned?”
“Why was he poisoned?” Cecely echoed.
“Supposing John Rowcliffe poisoned Master Breredon, why would he then poison his cousin?”
“To throw suspicion away from himself. Or-” Cecely leaped to a better reason. “Or because Symond was going to finally tell the truth. Or threatened to tell the truth. Then Neddie would get the manors he’s supposed to have and John would lose them, and so he wanted to stop Symond saying anything and he poisoned him!”
Her triumph at that cooled under Dame Frevisse’s level stare in the long moment before Dame Frevisse asked, “What has Symond Hewet been lying about? How would John Rowcliffe lose these manors if Symond Hewet told the truth?”
Glad of the chance to tell someone, Cecely said eagerly, “He’s the last living of three brothers. He…”
“John Rowcliffe?”
“Yes!” Cecely said impatiently. How slow-witted was the woman? “There were the three brothers. And a sister. She was oldest. She was Symond’s mother. Then there was the oldest brother. He died a long time ago. George was his son. It was George that drowned with Guy. Then there was John, and then Neddie’s grandfather, Guy’s father. The father of all of them had been a merchant in Norwich. After he was rich, he bought manors and moved away from Norwich. You see? His lands weren’t entailed. He could will them any way he wanted to. They didn’t have to go to only the eldest son. They were supposed to be divided between his sons, but John took them all!”
“How?” Dame Frevisse’s voice matched her stare-level and bare of any feeling.
“How?” Cecely echoed.
“How did John Rowcliffe take the manors without his brothers made protest against him?”
“They were dead!” How could this woman be so slow? “They were dead and Guy and George were too young. Neddie’s age, maybe. John had their wardships. There wasn’t anything they could do, and when they were old enough to do something, John had brought them to think there was nothing wrong.”
“How did you find all this out?”
“I asked questions. He’d raised them to have no questions. They just believed him. But I found out the truth. Now they’re both dead, and he wants to do the same thing to Neddie! To steal his manor like he stole the others! But Symond must have decided enough was enough, and he was going to tell the truth, and so John poisoned him!”
“You’re growing too loud,” Dame Frevisse said. “Lower your voice. Why would Symond have kept quiet all these years about the wrongs done his nephews?”
“Cousins,” Cecely snapped but with her voice down. She had not meant to share this with the whole nunnery. It was just that the injustice of it and that no one cared made her so angry! “None of it was skin off his nose, was it? He had what he had from his mother, so he wasn’t out anything. John probably bribed him some way, too. I don’t know! But since he’s the only one who can give John the lie, that’s why John wants to be rid of him!”