“I know, Aunt. I know. I do,too,” Frevisse said with aching sincerity, and without warning wascrying with her; huge, unbearable tears scalding down hercheeks.
Sire Philip joined her at the bedside. His voice warmer than Frevisse had ever heard it, and calm withdeep authority, he said, “My dear lady, you've made yourself illwith your grieving. You'll break your heart if you go on, andthink what your husband would say to see you like this.”
Matilda choked on a sob and with the ghost ofa smile trembling on her lips, said, “He… he would say… ‘N-now,Maude. Now, Maude.’”
“Exactly so. So imagine he's sayingthat to you and try to find the peace he would want you tohave.” He bent over her, not to give blessing but to tuck theembroidered cover more comfortingly under her chin. “You'reover-wearied and must stay in bed all this day. You've beentoo brave for too long and need your rest to regain your strength,just as Master Chaucer would want you to. If you wantanything, we'll joyfully do or bring it.” He glanced aroundthe room, eliciting a nod or faint murmur of agreement fromeveryone there. “You see? We love you, too, and wantyou well again. We've lost the head of our household; wecould not bear to lose its heart.”
Aunt Matilda sniffed tremulously and manageda watery smile. Tears still stood in her eyes but the rawedge of hysteria gone. She had let go of Frevisse's hand andwas holding Sire Philip's now.
He turned to one of the women holding agoblet at the foot of the bed. “Is that for my lady?”
“A sleeping potion, sir.”
She held it out and he took it. Alicelifted her mother on the pillows and, still holding her hand, SirePhilip gently held the goblet to Matilda's lips, waiting patientlywhile she drank it a sip at a time, until she had taken itall. Then he handed the goblet away and took her hand in bothof his.
“You'll stay with me?” she quavered. “Even while I sleep? You'll stay with me and pray? ForThomas?”
“And for you, my lady. I'll be herewhen you awaken,” he promised.
Worn out, she did not resist whatever hadbeen in the drink but soon slipped into a drowse, with tears stillon her cheeks. Even with the drug, it was a shallow sleep,pathetic in its fragility.
Frevisse had drawn back from the bed whileSire Philip tended to her aunt. Now, with everyone keepingvery still for fear of disturbing her aunt, and Sire Philip clearlyintending to stay there for as long as he had promised, she slippedsideways to the door and out. Silently, she edged the doorclosed but not latched behind her, whispered, “She sleeps but onlylightly,” to the pair of serving maids hovering in the outerchamber, and gave them no time to ask her anything else, but wentbriskly on.
Now, while for this once she could be sure ofwhere he was, she meant to look through Sire Philip's room.
If she had met anyone in the chapel'santechamber, she would simply have gone in, as if intent onprayers. But there was no one, and she went up the narrowstairs in soft-footed haste. Outside his door she paused torap sharply, lest his servant be there. No one called out,and she went in.
The bed had been made, the shutters set opento the pallid sunlight. The sparsely furnished room wasneatened to the point of being utterly impersonal. There wasno trace of yesterday’s chaos of emotion and desperation.
Frevisse crossed to the table. Shetouched her fingertips to its scrubbed top, where Sir Clement hadfallen forward, as if an answer might come to her by that. Nothing did. She looked around and saw the only closed placewas the aumbry, from where the bottle and goblet that had given SirClement his last drink had come. When she opened its doors,she was confronted by three neatly ordered shelves. Thebottle on the bottom one, beside two cups and a pewter plate wasnot yesterday's; this one's cork had not been pulled. Shetook up the nearest cup and found it unremarkable, of blue-glazedpottery, simple, undecorated, austere like the rest of theroom. Its fellow matched it. The plate might have comefrom a peasant's cottage.
On the middle shelf was a goldencasket. Even before she opened it, Frevisse knew that it mustcontain the essentials for the last sacrament. She crossedherself, took it down, and reverently opened it. Everythingappeared exactly as it ought to, with the tiny jars of chrism andholy water, a gilt Crucifix, a small wax candle, a pyx. Sheclosed the box and rubbed her fingers with her thumb, to remove anytrace of holy particles.
Feeling guilty for her intrusiveness, shereached among and behind the few pieces of folded clothing on theupper shelf for anything hastily put out of sight and foundnothing.
She went to the bed. The straw-filledmattress rustled at her prodding. She stooped to lookunderneath. There were only the ropes laced through a plainwooden frame, and his servant's narrower truckle bed. Carefuleven in her haste, she felt all through the coverings of SirePhilip's bed and then pulled out the servant's and did thesame. Finding nothing, she unmade them, to inspect themattresses. Neither showed any sign of having been cut openand sewn shut again and, hoping she did it identically to how theyhad been, she remade both beds.
She tried the prie dieu next, running herhands along its sides, and tilting the bench to look at itsunderside. As nearly as she could tell, there was nowhere fora hidden place in it. The cushion on its kneeler was firmlytacked down along all its edges and though she kneaded the cushionthoroughly with both hands she could detect nothing odd about itsstuffing.
The desk remained. Like the prie dieuit seemed to have no secret places, and the books were commonplaceones. A worn psalter, an Oculus Sacerdotis with acarved leather cover, the ubiquitous Lay FolksCatechism, from which Frevisse andnearly everyone she knew had been taught their prayers inchildhood, and a handsome copy of Stimulus Amoris, writtento stir the reader's love of God. Frevisse riffled throughthe pages of each one, finding the first three to be plain copiesof indifferent craftsmanship, heavily annotated in all theirmargins in firm, dark writing. The Stimulus Amoris wasanother matter. Its script had been done in a clear, steadyhand meant to make the words as lovely in their seeming as in theirmeaning; what notes there were, were lightly done, as if todistract from the beauty of the pages as little as might be. And it was illuminated as the other books were not, paintedthroughout with pictures in bright, exquisite detail, shining amongthe pages. Despite where she was, and why, Frevisse lingeredover it.
When she put it back at last and lookedaround the room, she could find nothing else to question. There was nothing here to suggest murder.
But why should there be? Sire Philiphad had all night to dispose of anything dangerous tohimself. A trip to the necessarium, a bottle, a packet, ascrew of paper dropped down the hole, and he was rid of evidencethat he had killed a man. But aside from that, it wasdifficult to imagine that he had had some sort of poison in hisroom at all. Why would he? On the chance he mightsomeday have occasion, desire, or chance to use it? If hewere indeed a man who kept poison to hand that purposefully, he wasfar different and more dangerous than he seemed.
Or had he had it to hand especially for SirClement? Knowing for weeks that Chaucer would die, and thatalmost surely Sir Clement would come to the funeral, had heprepared for the chance? But then how had he given him thepoison at the feast and again in the room? For surely it hadto have been a double dose of the same poison for the symptoms tobe the same?
She had the why Sire Philip might havedone it: Sir Clement was a threat to his advancement in theChurch. But the how eluded her. In the room,yes, there might have been chance, but in the hall Sire Philip hadbeen seated far down the table from Sir Clement and not come nearhim until after Sir Clement had been stricken.