Chaucer moved his head in weak denial. “No. I’ve always known I was right to avoid Westminster likethe plague. Though, like the plague, it cannot always beavoided.” With a smile, he added, “But I’ve also known youwere where you belonged, Hal, given your very different ambitionsfrom mine. I’d be sorry to hear you’ve wearied of it?”
Tentatively – and Chaucer probably the onlyman in England to whom he would show that side of himself -Beaufort said, “The King is growing older. Things arechanging.”
“To your advantage perhaps.”
“Perhaps,” Beaufort assented. IfBedford died in France – the man who had both supported him andcurbed him, keeping a balance among the court factions no matterhow they resented it – then there would be new possibilities.
Chaucer’s eyes closed, not in sleep, Beaufortthought, but simply because he lacked strength to hold themopen. The pulse in his throat fluttered and lost beat. Beaufort leaned forward, a sick feeling in his own heart. Butthe pulse steadied, weakly, into a slow rhythm again and wenton. Chaucer had been dying for three months now, had knownfor certain he was dying, though the wasting disease itself hadbegun to come on him a while before that. Nothing he ate gavehim any strength; despite everything done for him – and he couldafford the best physicians in England – he had wasted as simply asif he had been deliberately starving. Now there was verylittle of him left; his failing body could not hold on to hisspirit much longer.
Without opening his eyes, Chaucer said,“Lydgate.”
Beaufort almost looked around the room to seewho had come in.
“If he sends a poem about me,” Chaucer said,his eyes still closed, “I strictly charge you that it isn’t to beread at my funeral or at any of my memorials. Not a word, nota line of it.”
“But…” Lydgate was England’s masterpoet, brilliant, popular, prolific. He wrote on every greatoccasion, at length. His many-versed cry of pain at Chaucer’sdeparture for a stay in France had won high praise. And heclaimed Thomas’ own father Geoffrey as his inspiration. So itwas perhaps surprising that Thomas had always been, privately butunremittingly, rude about his work.
“Unless you are quite sure I won’t come tohaunt you in some particularly horrible guise, don’t let any of hiswork be read anywhere near me, dead or alive. Not at myfuneral, my month’s mind, my year day, or any other time.”
Beaufort twitched his lips tightly over asmile he could not help, while allowing the tears to flow. Customary as tears might be among the gently born, yet he had notcried as wholeheartedly for anyone since his mother died, far morethan thirty years ago. It was a minute or two before he couldsay, “You have my word you’ll be spared him, even in death.”
Chaucer’s eyebrows lifted, but his eyes didnot open. He took a shallow breath, and another, and saidmore faintly, “My niece. The nun. I’ve told you abouther?”
“You’ve told me. I have the book. I’ll give it to her.”
“Tell her… I’ll miss her.”
Chapter Two
Frevisse bent lower and rested her foreheadon the cold stone of the altar step, her clasped hands pressedagainst her breast, her knees aching beneath her. She hadbeen there since the end of Tierce, the mid-morning office. Soon it would be Sext, and the other nuns of St. Frideswide’sPriory would be returning. She would have to rise and takeher place with them in the choir, and she was not certain her kneeswould hold her when the time came to stand.
She sighed and straightened, raising her eyesto the lamp burning above the altar. Its oil was renewed bycaring hands every day, its small flame deeply cupped in the curveof red glass. It burned without wavering, simple and enduringamong the shadows and cold air eddies of the church, and life.
Frevisse shivered. She was latelycaught in a cold eddy of life and could not seem to escape it,despite all her prayers and penance. Half a year ago she hadmade choices and a final choice that had come because of them – andsince then had lived with what she had done, and found nopeace. There were people dead who might have been aliveexcept for her choices. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maximaculpa. By my fault, by my fault, by my most grievousfault.
As if in sympathy with her sorrow, the dayshad been gray and damp and chill under lowering skies for seeminglyas long as she could remember. It had been summer, a longtime ago, but there had been few warm days among the chill andwet. Then had come the rainy autumn, and what there had beenof harvest had rotted in the fields. Now, hardly passedMartinmas, late November in the year of God’s grace 1434, there wasnothing to look forward to but a famine winter and much dying, asif the world were a reflection of her soul.
Frevisse’s mouth drew down tightly at thethought. That was her self speaking, the worldly self she hadbeen so harshly purging all these months.
The prioress had understood her sickness ofheart. In the shifting of duties she had made at Midsummer,Domina Edith had ruled that Frevisse would cease to be hosteler,seeing to the priory’s guests and always in contact with mattersoutside the cloister. Instead, she was made novice mistress,her duties to oversee such novices as the priory had – which waspresently none, and none expected. In place of them, she wasset to copying in her fine hand any books the prioress had promisedto someone or had borrowed for the priory – which in the monthssince Midsummer had been one.
Frevisse had been grateful for this lesseningof outward responsibility, had understood that Domina Edith hadgiven it to her so she would have chance to mend her sins andinward hurt. And she had tried. But there was still nojoy or even simple pleasure in anything she did or prayed. And that was another sin, the deadly one of accidie. God forgave all sins repented of, but one’s heart had to be open toreceive the forgiveness.
The cloister bell began to clang flatly,telling it was time for Sext. Wearily, Frevisse crossedherself and rose painfully to her feet. The offices, seventimes each day, from midnight through to bed again, were hercomfort and refuge. She almost always could forget herself intheir complex beauties of interwoven psalms and prayers, and find amomentary promise that this dryness of her heart and spirit wouldnot last forever.
But it was not ended yet. Weary ofherself, she went the little way beyond the altar to her place inthe choir, knelt there and waited, her head bowed.
Quietly in their soft-soled shoes, with onlya rustle of skirts, the other nuns came from whatever tasks theyhad been doing through the priory. St. Frideswide’s was asmall Benedictine house; there were only ten nuns and theirprioress. Frevisse could identify them all by theirfootfalls. Sister Thomasine first, her light, hurried stepsreflecting her eagerness. To serve as a nun had been her onlydesire since girlhood, and, still hardly more than a girl, shecherished it with her whole heart. It had been a shock to herwhen Domina Edith had appointed her infirmarian in place of DameClaire. And a shock to Dame Claire, who had been taken fromher beloved herbs and potions and tending to the sick to becomecellarer and kitchener, supervising the priory’s lay workers,storerooms, and kitchen. Dame Claire’s firm, even footstepsfollowed Sister Thomasine’s, with a mingling of two others closebehind her – Sisters Emma and Juliana, neither hurried nor lagging,simply tending to another of the tasks of a nun. Behind them,with no mistaking her heavy tread, came Dame Alys. She hadtaken her loss of authority as cellarer with ill grace, and made adiscontented sacrist. After her, by a goodly while, rushedSister Amicia, nearly late as usual.
Domina Edith did not enter until SisterAmicia was in her place. The prioress’ dignity required shenot be part of the crush and bustle of her nuns. But she wasonly waiting, and entered as soon as Sister Amicia had settledbreathlessly into her stall. Dame Perpetua and Sister Lucywere on her either side, hands on her elbows to steady and supporther as she shuffled to her place in her own elaborately carvedchoir stall. Domina Edith was very old, and last winter’sdeep cold had dealt harshly with her. She had survived aheavy rheum in her chest but not recovered her strength. Frevisse, risen to her feet with the others, watched her slowcoming and painful easing down into her seat with concern. Domina Edith had been prioress since the year Henry of Lancasterhad made himself King Henry IV; Frevisse could not and did not wantto imagine St. Frideswide’s without her.