He indicated she should sit on a stool besidethe table. “I hope my summons was not too inconvenient. You are undoubtedly tired after such a day.”
“At your pleasure, my lord bishop. There is no inconvenience.” She sat containedly, straightwithout stiffness, her hands, like her companion's, tucked into hersleeves, her voice pleasant, mild in the middle range.
Beaufort studied her face in its surround ofwhite wimple and black veil and learned no more about her. She was here, obedient to his summons, as anyone would be. Whatever she felt or thought about it did not show. And thatin itself told something about her: Not many lesser people cameinto his presence without showing something of unease orover-eagerness, depending on what they feared or wanted fromhim. Did she fear nothing? Want nothing? Heremembered her sudden push for information about the availabilityof affordable grain the evening their paths had first crossed – andhow that one sign of interest in his power had, at the mildestpossible rebuke from her aunt, been withdrawn completely. Buteven in that brief exchange he had sensed her strength ofwill. Thomas had been right; she was an unusual woman,intelligent and controlled, no matter how meekly she sat herebeside him, eyes modestly downcast, waiting for him to speak. Very well.
“Your uncle charged me with a message for youas he lay dying.”
Her head came up, confronting him with a lookthat was neither meek nor modest but sharp as a huntinghawk's. But her voice was steady-voiced as she said, “Yes, mylord?”
Watching her carefully, Beaufort said, “Hesaid to tell you he would miss you.”
She bent her head too swiftly from him toread her reaction, and for perhaps a dozen heartbeats she wassilent, then said softly, her face still lowered, “Thank you, mylord.”
“I believe you will miss him?” He madeit a question, so she would have to answer.
She lifted her head. There were tearsin her eyes, but she said steadily, clearly not caring that he saw,“He was my friend. I have no other like him. And neverwill.”
Beaufort looked away, reached out and drew abundle toward him across the table. “He also left you this, abequest outside his will, to do with as you choose.”
He held it out to her. As she took it,he noticed how long and fine her fingers were, and though she wastoo strong-featured to be commonly beautiful, her face was notunattractive. Thomas had said she had freely chosen to be anun and never shown herself discontented with her choice, but stillthe bishop wondered why she had made it when certainly she couldhave married well enough. Thomas would surely have given hera dower, fond of her as he was. Beaufort had had occasion towonder about other nuns' choices through the years; choices that,like Dame Frevisse's, puzzled him.
She set the bundle on her lap and placed herhands over it. Though the gesture was quiet, her handsseemingly at ease, Beaufort had the intuition that it would cost abattle to take it back from her, should anyone be so foolish as totry.
“You're not going to open it?” he asked.
“Not now,” she said, her composure complete,her look directly into his eyes asking what concern it was ofhis. When he did not respond, she dropped her eyes, waitingto be dismissed.
Pleased to disconcert her, Beaufort leanedback in his chair and said, “Well, I have a request of my own foryou.”
He thought he detected a wary stiffening inthe pause before she looked at him again. But her voice wasas even as before. “Yes, my lord?”
“There was a death here today. You sawit, I believe.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And you were distressed by it.”
“I've seen death before, my lord. I'mnever glad of it but…” She hesitated, then said, “Butit's a part of life. It comes to us as surely as birth. To be angry at one is to be angry at the other.”
“And both come at God's will.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And this particular death, it's being said,came more directly than most from God.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I want to be certain of that.”
Dame Frevisse opened her mouth as if toprotest but remembered herself and asked instead, “How can you bemore sure than by having seen it with your own eyes? Hewished God's judgment on himself and it came.”
Beaufort knew what was being said throughoutEwelme manor house and – by this time – in the village, and whatwould be said much farther afield as guests went away to their ownhomes more full of the talk of Sir Clement's death than of Thomas’funeral. God had worked a wonder in the sight of everyonethere today, and it would be more than a nine days' wonder.
“I want to know that that is what itwas,” he said.
With some asperity behind her continuedrespectful tone, Dame Frevisse said, “Then I suggest you ask SirePhilip. He was nearer to it than I from the beginning, andwith him to the very end of it.”
“I have already spoken with Sire Philip.”
And been thoroughly unsatisfied because thepriest had seemed as willing as everyone else to accept God's handin Sir Clement's death; had seen no further, asked no further,wondered no further than that God chose that time and place to makehis power manifest. “Your uncle told me you have a way offinding out things that others do not see.”
Dame Frevisse drew a deep breath as if tospeak, but then tightened her mouth and said nothing. Instead, she bowed her head, hiding her face again.
Beaufort went on, “I want to be assured thiswas indeed an uncommon death. I want to be sure of God'swill.”
Dame Frevisse straightened to look directlyat him and asked a question he had not expected. “Why?”
He could simply require her cooperation outof obedience to his place as a prince of the Church. But withmemory of things Thomas had said about her, Beaufort leanedforward, dropped his voice to make this clearly between only thetwo of them, and said with the plain truth, “I want to know ifthere was man's hand in this, and sin. Sir Clement was ablaspheming man for many years. I doubt there's anyone couldcount now how many times he's stood up and said, ‘If I'm wrong inthis, may God strike me down within the hour,’ but it was often andoften without God ever taking notice of him. I've heard himmyself, on occasions enough when his lies were baldly apparent toall present. So I can't help wondering why God would chooseto strike him down now in particular, when there were other, moresuitable times. Unless one is inclined to think God wasasleep or busy elsewhere on the other occasions.”
Dame Frevisse's mouth twitched with an effortagainst smiling. It was a gesture Beaufort had often seen onThomas Chaucer's face. “I didn't know it was that way withhim,” she said. “Only that he seemed to enjoy creating angersaround him.”
“Oh, indeed he enjoyed that,” Beaufortagreed. “And that's what makes me wonder about hisdeath. He had a talent for garnering enemies, and made apractice of never losing one once he'd gained him. But what Iwant to know particularly… is whether or not Sire Philip had ahand in it.”
His words startled her, and she did not tryto hide it. “Sire Philip? Why do you suspect him inparticular?”
“I don't, in particular, suspect him. Isimply want to be sure I don't have to suspect him at all.” Beaufort hesitated; but she was an intelligent woman and wouldserve him better if he made himself clear. “I have had my eyeon Sire Philip Basing these few years. He, like you, hasabilities beyond the ordinary, and I'm ever in need of such men inmy service. But I need men I can be sure of before I put theminto offices where I must trust them. ‘The king ought toplace in posts of command only those of whose capacity he has madetrial.’”
“‘And not to proceed to make trial of thecapacity of those whom he has placed in posts of command,’” DameFrevisse immediately answered, completing his quotation. “Vincent de Beauvais. And very true.”
So she was as knowledgeable as Thomas had ledhim to believe. Very learned, Thomas had said, and had notadded, For a woman. Beaufort wondered what the book in herlap was that Thomas had so particularly wanted her to have.