Poison was the obvious answer. Thephysician would have spoken out about any wound, and there had beenthe strange struggle to breathe, as if Sir Clement were beingthrottled by an invisible foe, and the swollen face, the rash, andred welts.
But how could he have been poisoned? Sir Clement, like everyone else, had shared his food anddrink. Lady Anne and Guy had shared his food; she and SirClement had shared a goblet; yet only Sir Clement had sickened.
Even if some way it had been poison, SirePhilip had been well down the table from Sir Clement at the feast.But perhaps, if it was poison, it had been given earlier. What elsehad Sir Clement eaten or drunk? Breakfast, surely. Was there apoison that was so slow to act?
Or perhaps the poison had come later. Sir Clement had been the only one to drink the wine in SirePhilip's chamber, just at that point where he had appeared to berecovering. What if God's hand had touched him but not closedon him, only leaving him with warning of his sinful mortality andan opportunity to change? Had Sire Philip – or someone else,Frevisse added conscientiously – taken the chance of what was meantto be God's warning on Sir Clement to kill him?
The poison had worked swiftly there in SirePhilip's room, with symptoms seemingly identical to those that hadstruck Sir Clement in the hall. And since no one could haveforeseen God's action, how would they have had a poison so readilyto hand, and one that matched so well?
She would need to talk to the people whomight know or have seen more. And ask the physician his ideason the nature of Sir Clement's death. Physicians always hadideas; ever insecure in their inevitably lost battle againstmortality, they generated theories as readily as a master smithmade weapons.
But whatever she did, whatever she asked, thematter came back to the question of whether Sir Clement had died ofGod's holy will or man's sinful intent.
A darkness came between her and the candles,and she looked up to find Sire Philip an arm's length away, lookingdown at her.
She glanced toward the bier, and saw theempty place where he had been kneeling. She had been sodistracted with her problem when she entered that she had notrealized the taller man beside the usher Master Gallard had beenSire Philip.
Now he bowed his head to her slightly, inacknowledgment of her noticing him, then tilted it to one side,asking her to come with him.
She would have to talk to him some time; atleast this way he had sought her out, and so might be less guardedwith his answers. With a sense of duplicity, because she hadnot been praying, Frevisse briefly bent her head and crossedherself, then rose to go with him from the chapel. DamePerpetua followed her and in the antechamber, as they drew to a farcorner, she stopped by the door, her hands quietly in her sleeves,her head bowed, just as she had been with Bishop Beaufort.
With no waste of words over any greeting, andnot even a look at Dame Perpetua, Sire Philip said, “His grace thebishop wished to speak with you.”
“And did,” Frevisse answered, sure he alreadyknew it. What he probably wanted to know was why, but she hadher answer ready. “He had a message for me from myuncle. My uncle charged him with it on his death bed, and hewished to give it to me personally.”
“God keep your uncle's soul,” Sire Philipsaid. “And that was all?” His gaze dropped deliberatelyto the bundle she still held against herself and returned to herface.
Her expression bland, Frevisse said, “Whatelse should there be?”
Matching her tone, he said, “Your uncle spokeof you upon occasion. He was fond of you. More, hevalued your intelligence.”
Frevisse bent her head humbly, as if todisparage the compliment, and said nothing.
“And I think he spoke of it to BishopBeaufort, too.”
“That would have been very kind of him,”Frevisse said.
“His grace the bishop is not content that SirClement's death was God's will.”
Frevisse could not help a start ofsurprise. “He isn't?”
“Didn't he say so to you?”
“Did he to you?”
“He questioned me about every particular Iobserved of Sir Clement's attack and death, and I don't think hewas satisfied with my answers.”
“Why? What did you tell him?”
“You saw it, along with everyone else in thehall and then in my room.”
“But you were closer. And I didn't seewhat happened in your room until I came at almost the end.”
Sire Philip gestured impatiently. “Yousaw enough. He was better, able to breathe with less effortand talking lucidly. And then he was struck again anddied. You saw that.”
Frevisse nodded. She had seenthat. She wished she could more clearly remember where theothers had been around the room, what they were doing before thesecond attack, what their faces had betrayed of theirfeelings. She crossed herself. “As if God had begun toremove his hand from him, and then struck him down afterall.” She shivered with memory. “Did he say anythingbefore then that I didn't hear? Anything so unrepentent,or…” She hesitated. “…so blasphemous there was nosalvation for him?”
“There was no repentance or fear of God inhim at all. He was himself, ill-tempered and demanding asalways.” Sire Philip paused, then added, “Perhaps that waswhat brought God's final anger down on him. That even soplainly warned, he saw no error in his ways.”
Drawn along that path of thought, Frevissequoted, “‘What, do you think your life was given to you forever,and the world's goods with it?’”
“‘Nay, nay, they were only loaned to you, andin awhile will go to another,’” Sire Philip answered.
It was a game Frevisse loved, and she wasgood at it; but this time she had to admit, “I know the quotationbut don't remember the source.”
“It's from Everyman,” Sire Philipsaid. “I've never seen it performed, but your uncle had acopy of it.”
The chapel door opened quietly on itswell-oiled hinges, and Jevan Dey came out. He paused at sightof them, then closed the door and bowed. The lamplight in theantechamber was as dim as yesterday, but where its shadows obscuredSire Philip's ruined face, they deepened the tense, exhausted linesaround Jevan's mouth and eyes, making him look more nearly hisuncle's age than his own. “My lady,” he said to Frevisse,then turned to Sire Philip. “I thank you for giving my unclehis final absolution. We were all too… stunned to ask forthat. For his soul's sake, my thanks. If he comes topeace at last, it's by your hand.”
“And God's will,” Sire Philip said. “But for your kind words, thanks.” He gestured toward thechapel. “I'll pray for him whenever I can.”
Jevan's smile was taut. “There'll befew others who'll come willingly. He made himselfdisliked. And his death has made people afraid even to benear his corpse.”
“At least there's someone with him now,”Frevisse said.
Jevan shrugged. “I doubt prayers willaid his soul now. If ever any man was damned directly tohell, it was Sir Clement. But he appreciated the forms. When it suited him. My own presence beside him this while isthe last thing he can require of me.”
He chopped his sentences as if following athought all the way through were difficult for him. It wasweariness rather than grief lining his face so deeply, Frevissedecided.
Sire Philip said, “But you can go rest now,can't you? You've done enough for this day, I think.”
“I want to find Guy. He should be here,too. For form's sake, if nothing else. He's SirClement's heir.”
“And you?” Frevisse asked. Jevan wasSir Clement's nephew, too, and surely heir to something.
Jevan's attempt at a smile made sharp,unamused angles in the lines around his mouth. “I'm SirClement's dog. If he had his will in this, I'd have my throatcut and be buried at his feet. That would have pleased himmore than my prayers.”
He was too tired for any pretence, Frevissethought, or for clear thinking. Food and rest and the wearingoff of shock would be the best things for him now. As hebowed and moved to leave, she said, “If you see Robert Fennerwithout Sir Walter near-” Jevan would understand that. “-please tell him I'd be glad of a chance to talk with him oncemore before he leaves.”