And Beaufort, as nearly always, had seenwhich way the matter must go early enough that he had thrown hissupport to his half-brother without seeming to hesitate. Hehad won that gamble; his half-brother had become King HenryIV. Only Thomas had known how hard that decision hadbeen.
And even Thomas had not known how deeplyBeaufort had grieved for King Richard’s death when it was overwith.
But that had not affected his service to thenew House of Lancaster on the throne. He had served hishalf-brother to the height of his abilities, and his son King HenryV after him, and now his grandson King Henry VI, Beaufort’s owngreat-nephew, in an upward spiral of prominence and power.
It had not been easy, of course. Therehad been setbacks, enemies made, repeated frustrations. Through it all, whatever had gone wrong or right, Thomas had beenthere, nearer to him in mind and abilities than anyone else, theone person left since his mother’s death to whom he dared grieveand complain, and receive back sometimes sympathy, sometimes humor,sometimes rebuke, always understanding.
Leaning back in his chair, his elbow on itsarm, his hand over his eyes, fingers pressing on his achingeyelids, Beaufort was aware of his servants moving softly aroundthe chamber behind him. Someone would shortly need hisdecision about something, and he had better be gathering up hiswits to give it. And there was supper to go to. Tonightthe family would dine in the parlor again, and he must be kind butfirm and never in any way disrespect his position.
Then tomorrow there was the funeral and thefuneral feast, where he must be even more a pillar of the familyand an honor to both the Crown and the Church, whose representativehe was. He said a prayer for both his own endurance andMatilda’s.
Someone had come to stand silently in frontof him, waiting to be noticed. Beaufort drew a deep breathand brought his mind back to the problems of the moment, thendropped his hand into his lap and lifted his head.
It was a relief to see Sire Philip there, whowas inclined to talk only when he had something needful to say, andwas to-the-point and sensible when he did.
“Yes?” Beaufort asked.
Sire Philip bowed deeply. “I regret theneed to trouble your grace, but thought you might want to be warnedaforetime that Sir Clement Sharpe has come.”
“And is in his usual humor?”
“Very much so.”
“You’ve spoken with him, then.”
“Been insulted by him and turned the othercheek so he could insult it, too, would be a more accuratedescription.”
Beaufort’s mouth quirked withappreciation. “I dare say so. I’ll take what steps Ican to limit his… activities. And Sire Philip-”
The priest paused in his bow ofleave-taking. “My lord?”
“There has been and there will be littlechance to talk through these few days, so I may as well ask youhere while we have the chance. What are your plans now thatMaster Chaucer is dead?”
Two years ago Thomas, at the death of hishousehold priest, had asked Beaufort to recommend someone toreplace him. Beaufort had recommended Sire Philip, a minormember of his own household then, both because of the man’s clearintelligence and because of what he had made of his initiallylimited chances in life.
Priest to a wealthy household was a positiona man might comfortably have for life. Thomas had beenpleased with him, and so far as Beaufort had been able to learn, sowas the rest of the household, to the point where it appeared hecould look forward to being priest to the earl of Suffolknow. One of several priests, of course, since the largehousehold of an earl required more spiritual sustaining or morechurchly show than a single priest could provide.
Sire Philip tilted his head as if he foundthe question puzzling and unexpected. “Your will is mine inthis, my lord. Of course.”
“You have no preference?”
“Only to trust to your judgment regardingwhere I can best serve.”
The answer was impeccable, as everything SirePhilip did seemed to be. But it showed nothing of the man’sreal desires. With a nod and a small gesture, Beaufortdismissed him. Sire Philip bowed and withdrew, going pastBeaufort’s shoulder and out of sight toward the door.
Beaufort brooded at the air in front of himfor the length of a long-drawn breath, then roused with a shake ofhis head and a grunt at his own unspecific dissatisfaction, and sethimself to the duties of the evening.
Chapter Six
After almost a month of damp chill andovercast skies, the funeral morning came sharply cold under anachingly blue sky.
The funeral procession would form in theouter yard across the moat at mid-morning. Chaucer’spall-draped coffin would be borne on a black cart drawn by blackhorses in procession to the church in the village, where BishopBeaufort would conduct the funeral rites and the coffin beconsigned to its tomb. Then the living would return to themanor for the feast, and the dead would remain, his soul alreadygone to heaven, his body to wait for Resurrection Day.
At least with the new, bitter cold, the roadwould be more frozen, Frevisse thought as she partially opened ashutter in the parlor to see the day. For today, all ofEwelme was shutter-closed in the darkness of mourning; and heraunt’s bedchamber and the parlor would remain so for another monthat least. But for the moment Frevisse and Dame Perpetua hadthe parlor to themselves.
She had not slept well, partly from theunease of grief, partly from increasing worry over Aunt Matilda,whose control was becoming visibly brittle. Alice hadpersuaded her mother to take a sleeping draught last night, andsurely the sleep had helped ease her body if not her mind. Aunt Matilda would hold herself to her duties through the day, seton not disgracing her husband’s memory; but what would happen toher after that, Frevisse could only guess.
In the band of chill sunlight she had let in,Frevisse sat down on a stool across from Dame Perpetua, withcushions from the window seat to kneel on, and began Prime’sprayers. Since it was Sunday, the prayers were elaboratedfrom their everyday patterns, but the core remained the same.
“Domine Deus omnipotens, qui ad principiumhuius diei nos pervenire fecisti: tua nos hodie salva virtute; utin hac die ad nullum declinemus peccatum, sed semper ad tuamjustitiam faciendam nostra procedant eloquia, diriganturcogitationes et opera.”
Lord God almighty, who has brought us to thisday’s beginning: save us by your power, that in this day we turnaside into no sin, but always go toward your justice; turn ourwords, our thoughts and works toward your will.
By God’s will. For God’s will. InGod’s will.
But Chaucer, who had been more near to her inmind than anyone else in her life, as dear to her as her ownparents, was dead. By God’s will, she would never see or hearor laugh or speak with him again in this life that might last, forher, so many more years.
She was crying again. The tears droppeddown on her folded hands, warm against their cold.
But Prime wove around her its comforts andhope for the day. Her tears were done by the time theyfinished the office, and she pressed her eyes dry with the heel ofher hand before raising her head to smile at Dame Perpetua, not inapology – there was nothing shameful in crying – but in assurancethat she was ready to go on with the day. With the wry humorshe had shared with Chaucer, Frevisse thought what small sense itwould make if she worried over Aunt Matilda’s frailty and then fellapart herself. Simple crying was a safeguard against that; iteased the tight band of her grief and let her face the day morecoherently.
“Dame Frevisse?”
She turned to see who was speaking to herfrom the parlor doorway, and then rose quickly. “Robert!” She held out her hand for him to come in. Thechanges she had glimpsed in Robert Fenner yesterday were even moreapparent now that she saw him face-to-face. He was a fewinches taller than their last meeting, and his boy’s lean frame hadfilled out into a young man’s. But he was still Robert, withhis engaging, open smile, and he came to bow to her with the sameassured competence she remembered in him.