The trouble there was that, when accused, they would both, surely, deny it all, and there was no proof to hold up in front of them, to force them to the truth.
Besides that, nine years ago Alson had convinced them all, with her weeping and denials, that she was innocent of knowing Cecely meant to escape. Frevisse now very much doubted her innocence, and if Alson had lied so well then, she might lie equally well now. And so there was this gathering in the church, and Abbot Gilberd in Father Henry’s white and gold Paschal cope standing on the altar step, towering over Alson as he demanded at her, deep-voiced with authority, “Alson Pye, do you believe in the salvation of your soul?”
Alson’s head trembled in a desperate nod.
“Alson Pye, do you believe in the damnation of your soul?”
Alson froze, then trembled another nod.
“Then rise, Alson Pye,” Abbot Gilberd ordered. “Come forward, up these steps, and lay your hand on God’s consecrated altar.”
When Alson did not immediately rise-maybe gone too weak with fear to do it-Father Henry took her by one arm and gently raised her to her feet, and when even then she stayed rooted where she was, he urged her forward, lifting as much as guiding her up the two steps to the altar. There she slid from Father Henry’s hold onto her knees again and huddled forward, her head deeply bowed, her arms clutched against herself, her clenched hands pressed between her breasts.
“Woman,” Abbot Gilberd ordered, “lay your hand on the altar.”
Alson gave a shuddering sob and huddled lower.
“Father Henry,” Abbot Gilberd ordered, and Father Henry bent over her, pried her right arm away from her, and stretched it out to the altar. Her arm was rigid and resisting, and her hand stayed clenched. Father Henry bent close and whispered something to her until, still unwilling but finally obedient, she opened her hand and laid it, trembling, against the front of the altar cloth, another sob shuddering through her.
Above her Abbot Gilberd said, “Now I will ask you certain questions, woman, and as you hope for your soul’s salvation rather than the flames of eternal Hell, you will answer me truly. Do you understand?”
With a whimpering sob, Alson nodded that she did.
“First, have you, in these last few days past, talked with the woman called Sister Cecely?”
Alson managed, faintly, “Yes.”
“Has she asked you to do things, and have you done those things she asked of you?”
Alson began to whimper.
“Have you?” Abbot Gilbert demanded.
Alson whispered, “Yes.”
“What were those things she asked of you, that you then did?”
Alson’s whimpers turned to outright sobs. Through them, she cried, “To take medicines from Dame Claire!” The last of her will crumbled. Still sobbing, she wailed, “She wanted me to steal one of the strong potions. But they’re in little bottles and little boxes. Dame Claire would know if I took any of those. So I took other things, bits of this and that. Just a little, little bit of some of the herbs she keeps on the highest shelf. Strong ones but not the worst ones. Not the worst ones like she wanted me to! I’m sorry!” Overwhelmed by her sobs, she grabbed her hand away from the altar and covered her face with both.
With no sign of pity, Abbot Gilbert ordered at Father Henry, “Her hand.”
Father Henry took Alson’s right hand again, dragged it back, and pressed it to the altar again, and held it there. Sternly, Abbot Gilberd demanded down at her, “What did you do with what you took?”
“Nothing!” But even Alson knew the foolishness of saying that, and before Abbot Gilberd could challenge her, she gulped and gasped, “I put some in that man’s…those men’s food. I did that.”
“We know for a truth you were never near those men’s food,” Abbot Gilberd said. “This is your soul we’re trying to save, woman. Who helped you?”
Alson broke into full sobs again and tried to twist her hand free of Father Henry. Abbot Gilberd bent, placed his own right hand over both of theirs, and pushed them hard against the altar. Very near her ear now, he demanded again, “Who, woman?”
Alson froze, staring fixedly at the back of the abbot’s glove, its gold embroidery glinting in the candlelight.
“Who, Alson?” Father Henry said gently. “You have to tell. For his sake as well as yours.”
Alson moaned, then gasped out, “Tom. My brother. I talked him into doing it. God forgive me. God forgive us.”
Abbot Gilberd freed her and straightened. “We pray he may.”
Father Henry freed her, too, and she covered her face again and huddled completely down into a bow-backed heap on the altar step, brokenly sobbing.
Frevisse looked at Domina Elisabeth. Now was time for the question to which Frevisse had prompted her. If she did not ask it, then Frevisse would, because it had to be asked; but Domina Elisabeth took a step toward the altar and said in a voice that matched the abbot’s in stern demand, “Alson, nine years ago, after Sister Cecely fled, you told us that she asked you to take her turn at kitchen duty that day without she told you anything else. You said you knew nothing of what she planned. Was that the truth?”
Alson shook her head.
“Speak out, woman,” Abbot Gilberd said. “Are you saying you lied then, too?”
Alson straightened and swung around, still on her knees and fumbling for balance on the altar steps, trying to answer him and tell Domina Elisabeth at the same time, suddenly fierce the way a cornered animal was fierce when all hope was gone. “She said she was going to meet this man of hers in the orchard. She said he was leaving and this would be their only, last chance to be together. Just a little while, she said. Just a little while and nobody would know. That’s what she told me! Only then she never came back. And I thought how happy she was going to be and how much trouble I’d be in if I told I knew about the man. So I said I didn’t, and everyone was angry at me anyway, but not like you would have been if you’d known! Then she came back, and she said if I didn’t do what she asked of me, she’d tell how I’d known everything about her leaving, even though I didn’t. I swear I didn’t! Then you’d throw me out. So I did what she said to do. Only everything’s gone wrong!” she wailed with a freshened flow of tears.
No one showed sign of being moved by her misery. Abbot Gilberd gestured toward one of his men waiting at the far end of the darkened nave. A moment later the west door opened, and a few moments after that two more of his men brought in Tom Pye.
Alson, seeing her brother, gave a gulping sob, crouched lower on the altar step, and went very still, as if that might make her invisible. Tom, brought there under guard, had to know he was in some kind of trouble, and by his defiantly lifted chin and stiff face Frevisse guessed he had been maybe ready to out-face whatever it was; but when his guards brought him to a stop at the rood screen and he found himself confronted by abbot, priest, nuns, the candle-lighted altar, and-his eyes fell on her last-his sister kneeling there in abject, open misery, Frevisse saw all the defiance go out of him.
“Oh, Alson,” he said.
Briefly, sparing nothing, Abbot Gilberd told him everything to which his sister had confessed. Visibly wilting between his guards, Tom did not try to bold it out. Instead, he pointed at Alson and cried, “It was her doing! She said it would be a good thing. She said that if I didn’t do it, that woman would tell how Alson helped her run off. She said she’d lie about it, and then Alson would be in trouble again. I only did it because she told me to!”
Adam, disgraced in the Garden of Eden, had made the same defense, Frevisse thought.
It was not an excuse that had improved with age.
Abbot Gilberd’s men took Alson and Tom away. Father Henry went with them while at Domina Elisabeth’s bidding the nuns moved to take their seats in the choir.