“Yes, yes, welcome! It’s going to be acruel night, indeed it is. So you’re very welcome to shelterhere. Of course you are. But you know, perhaps, we’re ahouse bereaved. We can offer shelter, certainly,but-”
“I’m Master Chaucer’s niece,” Frevisse cut incurtly. “He sent for me. Before he died,” she added, tobe spared being told again that she was too late.
“Oh. Oh.” The little manregistered true distress. He was inches shorter than she wasand cricked his neck sideways to see up to her face. “Youmust have heard on the way, then! How cruel, howdistressing! My deepest sympathy!” He looked around herat her companions. Dame Perpetua stood beside her; it wasunthinkable for a nun to travel without another nun for propriety’ssake. And beyond them were two burly men the priory stewardhad chosen from the priory’s stables to accompany them. Giventhe times and season, any traveler with sense went well guarded ifpossible.
The little man seemed about to deal with oneof the men, anticipating that the women might collapse intohysterical grief at any moment. But Frevisse was too tiredand cold, and aware that Dame Perpetua was, as well, to waste timein displays of grief. Tersely taking the situation in hand,she said, “Let my men be seen to in the stable, if that isconvenient.” The little man nodded, blinking rapidly at thisdisplay of authority. Frevisse did not give him chance tospeak his agreement, but turned to the priory men and directed,“Return to St. Frideswide’s tomorrow. We’ll be here forI don’t know how long, but if it’s to be more than a fortnight,we’ll send word. When we’re free to return, my aunt willarrange escort for us, surely.”
She looked at the little man forconfirmation. He bobbed his head emphatically. “Oh,surely, surely,” he agreed.
“Then Dame Perpetua and I would be mostgrateful to go inside.”
“Surely, surely.”
As the two priory men bowed awkwardly andbegan to follow one of the grooms toward the stables, Dame Perpetuasaid, “God grant you a good night’s rest.”
Ashamed she had forgotten that simplecourtesy, Frevisse added hastily, “And a safe journey home.”
The men bowed again, in a hurry to be away toshelter and food. Frevisse and Dame Perpetua gave themselvesover to the little man’s guidance.
Ewelme was a moated manor house. Asthey crossed the bridge from the outer yard after the little man,the wind caught at them again, colder than before. But therewere servants standing ready to hold the doors open, and on thelittle man’s heels they came out of the wind and darkness into apassage where elaborate wooden screens averted the drafts that hadcome in with them. Beyond the passage was a great hall thatwas the heart and gathering place of the house. It was fullof torchlight and the sounds of trestle tables being set up. “Nearly supper time,” the man explained, as if they would not knowthis. “Now…” He hesitated. Apparently he hadnot decided what to do about them in the time from the stable tohere. Should it be food and warmth first? Or ought theybe taken to Mistress Chaucer right away? Or…
Frevisse thought he must be one of her aunt’schoices for office, her uncle had always expected quick-wittedcompetence and dignity from those who directly served him. Impatiently, and instantly displeased at herself for it, she said,“I want to see my uncle. And Dame Perpetua wants a warm fireto stand beside until it’s time to eat. I’m sure Aunt Matildawill want to know we’ve arrived.”
“Yes, yes, that seems the best way,” the managreed. “Your uncle is in the chapel, my lady. Ifyou’ll come with me…”
“I know the way. See to DamePerpetua.”
Dame Perpetua gave her a grateful, shiveringsmile and nod. She was a good traveler, not given tocomplaint and grateful for whatever comforts came her way, but shehad reached the end of her endurance and needed warmth and a placeto sit. She followed the little man away.
There was no warmth in the chapel, though themany candles around the coffin gave an illusion of it. Frevisse paused in the doorway, shivering, remembering when AuntMatilda had agitated for a fireplace in here… “There, alongthe outer wall. It would be no trouble at all to have itbuilt.” But Chaucer had answered, “We come here for the goodof our souls, not the comforting of our bodies.” And thoughhe had had no objection to comforting his body at other times andplaces with all the luxuries his considerable fortune could afford,he had held firm about the chapel. There was no fireplace,and chill seemed to breathe from its stones.
But he had been lavish in itsdecorations. The main worshipping for the household was donein the village church, where the funeral and burial would beheld. The chapel was meant solely for private familydevotions, and the household priest’s daily mass, and was asgracefully complex and elegant as a saint’s reliquary. Theceiling was painted heaven’s blue and spangled with stars, theelaborately carved and gilded wood reredos behind the altar reachedto them, and though now the altar was covered in black cloth ratherthan its usual embroidered richness, a long stretch of woven carpetin jewel-bright reds and blues and greens reached from it down thealtar step and the length of the chapel floor almost to thedoor. The side walls were painted with saints standing eachby the other in a flowery mead, smiling benignly down on those whocame to pray, while the rear wall was brilliant with the Virginbeing crowned in heaven while saints and angels joyfullywatched.
Seeing the Virgin, Frevisse could hear heruncle singing lightly, “Had the apple not been taken, taken been,Then would not Our Lady have been crowned heaven’s queen, heaven’squeen…” as he had done the day he had explained all themeanings in the picture to her, when she was small and newly cometo Ewelme and still wary of its strangeness.
Now his coffin was set on trestles in frontof the altar, with two priests and two servants of the householdkneeling among the candles around it, their prayers a small,sibilant murmur in the quiet. Until he was buried, he wouldnever be left unattended. Frevisse went forward silently until shecould see his face. The candlelight gave it a warmth it no longertruly had, and as was so usual with the peaceful dead, he lookedonly sleeping. But it would never again be any use to think,Remember this, to tell him when he comes to visitnext. Or hope, in this world, to talk and argue with him,or hear his laughter.
Frevisse found the pain of her grief stilltoo raw and unfamiliar to bear. She dropped her eyes, kneltwhere she was, and began her prayers for his soul’s safety andrest. She had prayed so much these past months, against herthick misery of doubts and a different kind of grief, that theprayers came with instinctive ease and no need to grope forwords.
Lost in her prayers and grief, she wasunaware of any movement around her until a hand briefly touched hershoulder and someone said, “You had best come to supper now. Your aunt will want to see you as soon as may be.”
She became aware that the stone under thecarpet was pressing hard on her knees, and that around her therewas a shifting and murmur as those who had been praying gave overtheir places to those come to replace them. Her face was warmand wet with tears, and she had no idea how long she had beenthere. There was no hope of hiding that she had been crying,and she did not try as she lifted her head to the man standingbeside her.
She recognized him as one of the priests whohad been praying beside the coffin when she entered. He hadthe drawn look of someone who had been praying for an uncomfortablylong while, but there was the sheen behind his weariness that toldhow rich his praying had been.
She let him take her elbow and help her rise,not questioning how he knew who she was. Chaucer’s niece, thenun, had been expected. And she was hungry. Broken out of her prayers, she was suddenly aware of all her body’sdiscomforts, with hunger for food and warmth very strong amongthem.
“Thank you,” she said. With her handstucked into her sleeves and her head down, she followed him notback to the great hall where most of the household would dine, butaside and up the stairs to her aunt’s parlor.