The smooth linen of her underdress slid comfortably across her shoulders as she shifted from one hipbone to the other. Someday she would wear silk under these black gowns of hers; and though for now she needs must settle for linen, at least it was better linen than the coarse stuff she had had to make do with in Domina Edith’s day. Let the others still wear that if they wanted to, or-more to the point-if their families would not afford them better, since Alys had no intention of raising the sum allowed for clothing yearly, there being too much else the money was needed for. For herself, it was different; she managed best if she was comfortable, thank you, and so it was as much her duty to be comfortable as it was her God-given duty to lead St. Frideswide’s out of the slumped heap Domina Edith had let it fall into.
Alys had long since admitted to herself, with some relief, that she was not made to be a saint. Some were and that was all very well for them-Sister Thomasine there was well on her way to sainthood, heaven bless her; anyone who knew how many hours she spent in prayer had to know how holy she was; and she was welcome to her hair shirt, too-but God had seen to Alys being made prioress and that was something different from sainthood by a long way and she knew what she meant to make of her duty now that she was.
There were others who saw it differently, she knew. The ones who were always looking to make trouble of anything she tried to do. Her glance flicked up from her prayer book, hoping to catch one of them out, whispering or some other way inattentive, but every head was bent over their books except for Sister Thomasine whose gaze was turned toward the altar just as always. She had all the offices to heart, no need for her prayer book. She lived for prayer, was here in the church on her knees whenever she had any time away from other duties and even at night when she could have been abed and sleeping, even in winter nights when it was so cold her breath showed in the low glow of the altar lamp. Domina Edim had held her back from such excesses, forbidden her to pray through the night without particular permission, but the girl was half-witted with holiness, so let her pray. Where was the harm? At least she made no trouble while she did. Nor trouble any other time, come to that. Her mind was turned to God and nowhere else. Not like some Alys could all too readily name.
But naysayers be hung, she would make St. Frideswide’s into a place known for four shires around despite the lot of them. Right now weren’t the granaries as full as this year’s half-decent harvest would provide? None of it had needed to be sold off this time, which put paid to all the fretting some people had made over last year’s necessity to do so. There was a sufficiency of apples and hedge-gathered nuts in the priory storerooms, too, and that lout of a steward had been able to buy almost all she had demanded of him in the way of spices and even rice from his Michaelmas trip to Oxford despite his complaining of the costs. The only lack that needed to be set right before winter was wine. There was hardly a half barrel left, and the way it went anymore, that would not see them through to Christmastide. But Reynold had promised to see to at least another barrel and maybe two being in store by Martinmas. And well he might, considering how much he’d helped in drinking what the priory had had.
Alys cut off the ungrateful thought. Reynold was her cousin, and the rest of the Godfreys had done more for St. Frideswide’s priory than any other family in a dog’s age. She was not about to begrudge him wine and the hospitality to go with it, no matter who grutched at it.
A silence among the nuns roused her to realization that she had lost her place in the prayers and that it must be her time to say something. With no notion of where they were, she offered at random, knowing it came somewhere this far along in None, “Redime me, domine.” Redeem me, Lord. “Et miserere mei,” she added firmly. And pity me.
A continued silence suggested that was not what she was expected to say here. Raking a harsh glare indiscriminately across the faces of the nuns who had dared raise their heads to look at her and the bowed heads of the rest, Alys repeated forcefully, “Redime me, domine! Et miserere mei!”
Of course it had to be Dame Frevisse who took it up then, out of everyone else’s sheep-headed confusion. Always ready to take the lead, was that one. Her head still lowered in that feigned humility of hers, she answered Alys’s insistence with, “Redime. Pes enim meus stetit in via recta.” Redeem me. For my feet have stood in the right way.
But at least she had started them moving again. Dame Perpetua answered a little unsurely, “Et miserere,” and they were away again, Alys laying heavily into a final “Redime.” Redeem me, Lord, from this nest of women who had to be led like sheep and gaggled like silly geese every step of the way she took them. She would find a way yet to approach Abbot Gilberd about having Dame Frevisse out of here, into another nunnery. She was the worst of them. If she could be rid of Dame Frevisse, the rest of them would be easy enough to manage. Or easier, anyway.
Admittedly the woman had finally learned to keep her mouth mostly shut-it seemed even Dame Frevisse could learn her lesson if the penances were hard enough and often enough-but her face still sometimes showed what she was thinking and Alys was tired of seeing it. Or of working to avoid seeing it.
The problem was that she had no wish to bring Abbot Gilberd in on any matter at all if she could avoid it. St. Frideswide’s was only a priory, and so it had to be a daughter house, subservient to an abbey and not even an abbey of nuns at that, but in St. Frideswide’s case, to St. Bartholomew’s Abbey at Northampton. Domina Edith had made the best of it, but for Alys it rankled. If St. Frideswide’s had been an abbey, its abbess would have been subject to no one in England except the Bishop of Lincoln, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and the King himself, so it was a great pity that the widow who had founded and endowed it in the last century had not had wealth or influence enough to make it one. That was a flaw that, given time enough and the chance to be rid of people like Dame Frevisse, Alys meant to correct.
The problem was that if she gave Abbot Gilberd a chance to ask questions out of the ordinary about St. Frideswide’s, concerning Dame Frevisse to begin with, he was all too likely to go on to asking others; and there were those among her nuns-Dame Frevisse was not the only one, just the worst-who would take a chance like that to make trouble, when just now in particular Alys did not want trouble. Unfortunately that meant she must go on dealing with Dame Frevisse; but if the woman would not bend, then she would have to be broken and that would settle the problem just as well.
Alys realized she had lost her place in the office again, but it did not matter. Wherever they were, it had gone on long enough. It would be time for Vespers before they had finished at this rate, and she had things to do. Not bothering with whatever everyone else was saying, she raised her voice and declared loudly, “Benedicamus domino deo gratias fidelium animae per misericordiam dei requiescant in pace amen,” and rose to her feet.
The slower-witted among her nuns fumbled through a few more words of the psalm before joining in the uneven chorus of amens trailing after hers. Alys made an impatient sign of the cross at them, slammed her prayer book shut, and shoved out of her choir stall. There were things to be done, and the sooner they were seen to, the sooner they would be finished. That was how she saw it.
Chapter 2
Frevisse came our last among the nuns from the church into the sunlight of the cloister walk. The others were scattering to their different duties, Domina Alys ahead of them all and already well away along the walk, going with her usual heavy-footed purpose as if she would tread down anyone daring to be in her way.