Frevisse had spent countless uncomfortablehours there in her girlhood, learning and working the intricate,eternal embroidery and stitchery considered a suitable occupationfor a lady, and listening to her aunt talk. Aunt Matildaalways talked – to Frevisse, to her women, sometimes to the emptyair. Aunt Matilda was fond of talk, and that had been theoriginal reason Frevisse had sought the refuge of her uncle’srelatively quiet company, among his work and books. Later,love of what those books held had been the stronger motive. Her uncle had been far better company than her aunt; he listened asmuch as he talked, and his mind ranged through all the learning andlessons he had gathered into his library and his life. AuntMatilda had thought Frevisse’s choice very unladylike, of course,but since dear Thomas allowed it, she had been willing to let itbe.
Aside from her boredom, Frevisse rememberedher aunt’s parlor as a lovely room, well-proportioned andhigh-ceilinged, with ample windows to fill it with light even oncloudy days. It looked out on the moat with its swans and, insummer, the green reaches of the park. With her owninherited wealth and her husband’s constantly growing fortune, AuntMatilda had furnished it with every comfort. And though tonight theshutters were closed across the windows, top and bottom, shadowswere banished to the lowest, farthest corners by lamps burning onevery flat surface, all around the room. Their rich, steadylight gleamed on the painted patterns of the shutters and ceilingbeams, and caught among the bright threads of the wall-hungtapestries. Braziers glowed in the corners, warming the room,and it was so crowded with people that in the first moment of herarrival, Frevisse failed to recognize anyone.
Then she saw her aunt. Richly gownedand veiled in black, she was seated at the room’s far end, in frontof the brightest tapestry. On her right, in another chair,sat a younger woman in equally rich black whom Frevisse guessed washer daughter Alice, so that the man seated beyond her wasundoubtedly Alice’s latest husband, William de la Pole, the earl ofSuffolk.
The identity of the man seated on AuntMatilda’s left was more problematical. For a moment, unableto have clear view of him among the crowded shift of people in theroom, Frevisse could not even guess who he might be. But thenshe saw him clearly. A churchman by the severe cut of hisfloor-length black gown and the priest’s cap he wore to cover histonsure. But even the length of the room away, she knew hewas anything but a plain churchman; he held himself like a prince,and quite abruptly she realized who he was, though she had seen himno more than twice in her girlhood. Cardinal Bishop Beaufortof Winchester. A prince of the Church indeed, and doing thefamily great honor by his presence.
Then Aunt Matilda, whose eye was ever as busyas her tongue, saw her, broke off whatever condolences she had beenreceiving, and, rising from her chair with an exclamation, surgedtoward her, arms extended. “Frevisse, my dear! Myprecious dear!” She was a tall woman, comfortably plump inher middle age. Her black veiling, enough for half a dozenwomen, drifted and fell about them both as she wrapped herarms around Frevisse and held her close. “I knew you would betoo late; he went so suddenly at the end, almost as soon as theletter was sent. I don’t know what I shall do without him,what any of us shall do without him. But you’re here. Bless you, my dear.”
Enveloped in her aunt’s embrace and overflowof words, Frevisse murmured only, “Dear aunt,” which seemed to besufficient.
But then there was the necessity of beingintroduced, first to the room at large: “My very dear niece,Dame Frevisse of St. Frideswide’s Priory. Dear Thomas was sofond of her, and she’s come too late to bid him farewell, but she’shere to my comfort, and I’m so glad.” Then to the threepeople still seated in front of the tapestry on the room’s onlychairs: “My lord of Winchester, may I present my dear nieceDame Frevisse.” Aunt Matilda drew Frevisse directly in frontof him. “Frevisse, this is the Cardinal Bishop HenryBeaufort. He came all the way from Winchester – imagine that- to be with Thomas at the end. He and Thomas arecousins. You remember him, surely.”
Frevisse sank in a deep curtsy. “Mylord bishop,” she said, and took the hand he held out to her, tokiss the proper ring among the many that he wore. All of themwere ornate, most set with red stones shaded from ruby togarnet. To go with his cardinal’s robes, she supposed, notingthat his gown was of the richest wool and lined with blackfur. The jewels and sable showed he was undoubtedly aswealthy as rumor said. And that was only one of the manythings rumor said about him.
But apart from what little Chaucer had saidof him to her, rumor was all she knew about him. She wasdisconcerted, as she straightened and met his gaze, to find himregarding her with a speculative assessment deeper than thecommonplace nature of their meeting.
But all he said, in most formal wise, was,“Your loss is as mine in this.”
So it was sufficient for her to answer, withan acknowledging bow of her head, “A great loss and a deep grief tous both.” Than she was free to move away from him to meet hercousin Alice.
She had seen her uncle fairly often and heraunt occasionally since she had entered St. Frideswide’s. Butshe had last seen Alice seventeen years ago, when Alice had beenthirteen and already two years widowed from her firsthusband. Since then she had grown into womanhood, married theearl of Salisbury, been widowed again by his death at the siege ofOrleans, and a few years ago married the earl of Suffolk.
When Frevisse had known her, she had been aquiet-mannered child, neither unsatisfactorily plain nor noticeablylovely, and much better at her sewing than Frevisse had ever hopedto be. Remembering her then, Frevisse was disconcerted now tobe confronted by a woman as tall as herself and quite lovely, herblue eyes perfect almond shape and brilliant with warmth andintelligence as she rose form her chair and took Frevisse’shand. “It’s been a long while cousin, and now a sad occasionto meet again,” she said, her voice as gracious as hermovement.
Frevisse murmured a reply, trying toreconcile her memories of her little cousin to this poised, grownwoman. She was not perfectly beautiful; her face and nose andupper lip were all somewhat long, but they were in proportion toeach other; and to judge by her eyebrows and rose-sweet complexion,she was still pale-fair. It was not difficult to see how shehad married twice into the high nobility, even putting her father’swealth aside.
Alice’s husband, William, the earl ofSuffolk, had also risen to be introduced. He was taller thanAlice, his brown hair attractively graying at the temples, hisdemeanor suitably grave. But he had a merry mouth, given tolaughter at other times, Frevisse supposed. He was handsomein the expected ways – his strong features even, his jaw firm, hisbrow broad, his nose well-shaped. He made a striking mate toAlice; their children should be good to look on. But hepatted Frevisse’s hand with condescending comfort after he hadbowed to kiss it, and as he spoke a few sentences perfectly suitedto the occasion, he was more aware of how well he said them thanwhether they were a comfort to her. Frevisse decided shewould avoid him as much as possible.
The arrival of servants with supper freedFrevisse from receiving other condolences. Alice and Suffolkand most of the others were going down to dine in the hall with thehousehold, but Aunt Matilda was to dine in the parlor with BishopBeaufort. “And I’d have you dine here, too, my dear. With your – Dame Perpetua? You’re both exhausted, I’m sure,and this will be so much easier than the hall.”
Frevisse readily agreed. As the smalltable was set up, she went aside to where Dame Perpetua had falleninto quiet conversation with the priest who had brought Frevissefrom the chapel. He was apparently staying to dine, too, andacknowledged her approach with a slight inclination of hishead.