Chapter 25
Shaken, Frevisse stared down at the huddle of Sister Cecely. The grief and anger that had torn her voice, the outright terror on her face before she collapsed, had been of a woman in vast, staggering pain.
And yet Frevisse found herself turning away from her with no word said.
Found herself leaving the room.
Found Abbot Gilberd standing in the cloister walk just outside the door.
Dame Perpetua, surely having risen to her feet when the abbot approached, was standing, too, her head deeply bowed as she probably did her best to be invisible. She would have heard everything, but how much Abbot Gilberd had heard, Frevisse had no way of knowing. She started a deep curtsy that he stopped with a flick of his hand, then made a sharp gesture for her to follow him. With folded hands and her head as bowed as Dame Perpetua’s, Frevisse did, hearing behind her the whisper of Dame Perpetua’s skirts as she sank rapidly down onto the stool, probably in relief that it was not to her the abbot wished to speak.
On her own part and judging by her startled glimpse of his stern stare at her before she had started to curtsy, Frevisse very much doubted she was going to like the next few minutes and tried to brace herself as he led her along and around the cloister walk to the corner near the foot of the dorter stairs. There, most away from where they might be overheard by anyone while still in sight of anyone who cared to look, Abbot Gilberd turned to her and said, “You gave that woman no comfort.”
Even without Abbot Gilberd’s stern saying of it, Frevisse was unsteadied by that failure, now it was done past undoing. Whatever else Sister Cecely was, she was a woman in breaking-hearted torment and yet Frevisse had walked away from her with no offer of comfort at all. From where had that cruelty come? Frevisse did not know until slowly, staring at the paving stones between the hems of her black gown and Abbot Gilberd’s black robe, she found her way to an answer and, still slowly, feeling her way through the words, finally said, “Sister Cecely has lived comfortably in her lies for years. She’s lived in them happily and never cared what was the truth. Now all her lies are breaking down and taking her comfort with them. But to have the lies broken and all her comfort gone may be the only way she’ll ever be able to grow into facing the truth.”
And Frevisse prayed silently that it had been an innate knowing of that-even if not understood until now-that had kept her from giving any kindness to Sister Cecely just now. An innate knowing, not a cold heart.
Whichever way it had been, Abbot Gilberd said nothing for an uncomfortably long moment. Then he sketched a cross in the air above her, said, “Benedicite, dame,” and walked away along the cloister walk.
Keeping her head bowed, Frevisse said, “Thank you, my lord,” at his departing heels and stayed where she was. Only when he was well away, probably going to see Domina Elisabeth again, or perhaps Sister Cecely, did she move, going swiftly along the walk behind him as far as the door into the church. There she lifted the heavy latch and went in, closed the door with care for silence, and went-nearly fleeing in her need-to her place in the choir, sank to her knees in her stall, clasped her hands on the reading ledge, pressed her forehead to her hands, tightly closed her eyes, and began to whisper, “Omnipotens deus, misereatur mei et dimissis peccatis meis. Omnipotens deus, misereatur nostri et dimissis peccatis nostris.” Almighty god, have pity on me and dismiss my sins. Almighty god, have pity on us and dismiss our sins.
Repeating and repeating it until the upheaval of her feelings steadied and her mind cleared a little.
Then, falling silent, she lifted her head and eased carefully backward onto the seat behind her.
One thought at last came cold and calm to her.
There were still lies in this matter.
Cecely said Symond Hewet had asked for Edward’s wardship. She said that she had forestalled him with threat of telling Jack Rowcliffe’s father about the bill of obligation, that then she had become frightened and decided to flee.
On the other side, Symond Hewet claimed that she had tried to extort money from him with the bill, that he had warned her off with promise of trouble for her if she made trouble for him.
The stories were close enough to one another. Cecely had notably left out mention of stealing the deeds. Symond had said nothing about asking for Edward’s wardship. Both agreed that Cecely had tried to use Jack’s bill, whatever the reason. So, if nothing else, that was likely true, however little way it went to answering anything.
Maybe it was not necessary to know precisely what had passed between them. It was maybe enough to know that-whatever the truth behind her choice-Cecely had fled from the Rowcliffes, taking her son and the stolen deeds, not knowing that Symond knew her deepest secret and that, knowing it, he would have somewhere to look for her.
Even Cecely was not such a fool as to come here if she had known-even suspected-anyone knew her past.
Of course returning here at all had been a fool thing to do, whatever her reason, but Cecely had never been as well-witted as she plainly thought she was-well-witted while everyone else were fools; that was how she seemed to see the world.
Frevisse thought wryly that an almost greater question than who had poisoned Breredon and Symond was why no one had yet tried to do away with Cecely. Cecely was the root cause of everyone’s troubles, and yet it was at Breredon someone had struck first.
Another thought eased into Frevisse’s mind, drawn by that one. When Breredon had fallen ill, Cecely had immediately said the Rowcliffes had done it and should be sent away. She had said it again just now in bitter insistence.
Frevisse could see why Cecely wanted the Rowcliffes gone. If Cecely were fool enough to think she still had chance of escaping here, her hope of it had to hang on Breredon, and so long as the Rowcliffes were here, the thing would be impossible, even to Cecely’s poor thinking. Hence her insistence that they were guilty of Breredon’s sickness.
But she had been insisting on their guilt from the first, before anyone else had thought of poison at all. Because of her open anger at the Rowcliffes no heed had been given to her, but what if…
Frevisse felt her way carefully into her next thought.
What if Breredon had been poisoned not to kill him or even to make him very ill but only ill enough that the Rowcliffes might be accused of poisoning him? Doses were hard to judge. He may have fallen more ill than was intended by…whoever had done it.
But then had come Symond Hewet’s sickness. He had been far nearer to death than Breredon had been. Had that been meant? Or had both men been meant to die, and Breredon’s sickness been less and Symond’s greater only by chance? By ill chance for Symond.
But the first question was still-Why had they been poisoned at all?
Frevisse gave way and finally looked straight at the thought she had been circling-that somehow Cecely had seen to Breredon being ill so that the Rowcliffes would be accused and sent away.
So far as she had been able to learn, no one had reason to go to the trouble of having Breredon dead, not even the Rowcliffes now he was forestalled of getting Edward. But his sickness could have served Cecely if she could have made anyone believe her accusations against the Rowcliffes.
How she might have seen to Breredon being ill was something Frevisse would consider in a while. A question that came first was why, if Cecely had wanted Breredon ill as a way to having the Rowcliffes sent away, it would have made sense for her to then have Symond sicken, too. If what she wanted was for the Rowcliffes to go away, Symond’s illness only served to keep them here.