“Secret doors through stone are so difficult to manage,” Joliffe said, matching her mockery. “I gather the masons aren’t being paid enough to take the trouble of making one.”
“They weren’t paid to take the trouble of making this one!”
“From what Master Porter says,” Joliffe returned, turning away to gauge how much a scramble he needed to reach the top of the wall, “they’re not being paid at all for anything.”
“What?” Frevisse asked sharply.
Surprised by her surprise, Joliffe turned back to her. “You didn’t know?”
“That they aren’t being paid? No, I didn’t know. Surely they haven’t done all this building unpaid?”
“Assuredly they’ve been paid something or you’d not have as much of a tower as you do. But you’re not going to have much more. Wages aside, they’re nearly out of stone and your prioress doesn’t seem inclined to pay for more.”
Inclined-or able to? It was two Sundays since Domina Alys had allowed them their weekly afternoon walk in the orchard to admire how the tower went. It had been nearly to the church’s eaves then, a bulk of stone crowned by a network of scaffolding, and Frevisse had understood the plan was for it to be finished and roofed before freezing weather could bring an end to the work. But they had not been allowed near it that day or out to see it since; and now that Frevisse came to think about it, Domina Alys no longer said anything about the work except when forced to it.
“If they’re nearly out of stone and they haven’t been paid,” she said, inadvertently thinking aloud, “then-” She heard herself and stopped.
“Then you’re going to end up with an unfinished tower and some very angry masons,” Joliffe finished for her.
They regarded each other silently a moment, both of them considering what could come of that, before she said, subdued, “You’d best go.”
He nodded, made a small leap to grab the top of the wall, and with a deft-footed scramble was over and gone.
Frevisse stayed where she was, trying to sort into sense what Joliffe had told her and what had happened in the church and everything else she was becoming afraid of in St. Frideswide’s. But it would not sort to sense and finally, no nearer to quiet of mind, she walked slowly back along the garden wall and through the slype, into the cloister walk just as Katerin began to clang the bell for Vespers.
The day was almost finished. Vespers, supper, an hour’s recreation, Compline prayers, and it was done.
It was a day she was desperately ready to have end, and her impatience stirred at finding her way into the church blocked by other nuns clustered just inside the door, apparently more interested in being in her way than going to their places in the choir. But beyond them Domina Alys’ voice was raised, sorting them out in no uncertain terms, so that abruptly they were shifting aside, and Dame Claire and Bess from the kitchen were coming out, holding up the shambling madman between them, on their way to somewhere with him.
Moving out of their way, Frevisse asked, “Where are you taking him? Has Domina Alys given up on him? He can’t just be turned loose again.”
The madman raised his loosely hanging head and looked at her, the first time she had ever had chance to see his face clearly. Its lack of the unnatural childness so many of the wandering mad carried with them startled her. Instead, it was the face of a man who had had some sort of life worth living before the madness came on him; a young man’s face but marked by years lived, rather than wandered through unthinkingly. And there was more sanity in the eyes that looked out at her from under the strong-boned line of his brows than could have been there an hour ago; but only for an instant. Then they lost focus again, the brief sense in them blurring, and his head fell loosely forward as Dame Claire said, “Domina Alys has ordered he’s to have a bath, be fed, and cleanly clothed.”
“And then?” Frevisse asked.
“Then he’s to be brought back into the church.”
She and Bess had kept him moving, were past Frevisse by then, and she turned to go into the church. If he was to be brought back here to stay, it had to mean that Domina Alys was seriously thinking there had been a miracle. Frevisse wished she could feel some warmth of pleasure at that possibility, but just now all that rose up in her was a weary contemplation of the complications there could be from it. A miracle was not something simply to be accepted and exclaimed over. A seeming miracle had to be judged, considered, proven. There would have to be explanations to the abbot, even to the bishop, if it went that far, and then intense investigations by churchmen from outside St. Frideswide’s. Was Domina Alys seriously considering opening them up to all of that, particularly given everything else that was presently so wrong?
She was following the other nuns toward the choir when a smother of noise from the yard warned that Sir Reynold and his men were returned. She shut her mind to it as another thing she could do nothing about. Mercifully she was done with them for today, and after tomorrow she would not have to deal with them again. But as she passed Lady Eleanor, Lady Adela, and Joice, standing together with Margrete a little behind them in the nave waiting for Vespers, a heavy-handed pounding started on the west door and everyone swung in confusion to face it, with small shrieks among the nuns and Joice shrinking a wild step backward, except Domina Alys who stormed down from her choir stall, ordering, “Margrete, go open it!”
Used to being given orders, Margrete hurried to obey, with Lady Adela following her, as Lady Eleanor put a steadying hand on Joice’s arm, and Domina Alys snapped, “The rest of you, into your places! Whoever’s doing that had better pray he has a good reason or he’ll still be sorry a week from now!”
The nuns were still sorting out their exclamations and not yet in their stalls as Margrete swung the bar aside and Lady Adela pulled open the door. A wide swathe of golden afternoon light swept down the nave, startling the church’s shadows, then was broken as a man burst into the doorway, a dark shape against the light, crying out before Domina Alys could yell at him, “There’s a man hurt! Sir Reynold wants your infirmarian!”
“Is it Sir Reynold?” Domina Alys demanded, starting for him.
“Sir Hugh?” Lady Eleanor asked with equal urgency.
“Not them, no.” The man was short of breath with urgency. “It’s Godard. They’re taking him into the guest hall. He’s bad hurt.”
“Sister Amicia.” Domina Alys chose the nun nearest her. “Go tell Dame Claire she’s wanted.” She swung to find Frevisse. “You, hie to the guest hall and see to what needs doing there. You.” She pointed at the man. “Tell Sir Reynold we’re coming.”
The man was hurriedly bowing as he retreated. Frevisse, following him, heard Domina Alys say behind her, “There’s still Vespers to do, the rest of you. Dame Juliana, see to it. And no scanting!”
There were fewer men and horses in the yard than Frevisse had expected, but the servants, crowded at the top of the guest-hall stairs, trying to see in or go in all at the same time, slowed her. She gave orders that cleared them out of her way, sending some for hot water and to be sure the kitchen fire was kept up for more, another for towels, another for rags, the rest simply to stand aside, and all the while she was hoping this was not as bad as the man had made it sound.
It was.
Inside the hall, near the hearth, a half dozen of Sir Reynold’s men were gathered apart from Sir Reynold and Sir Hugh who were supporting a man between them more as if he were a deadweight than a live one. There was blood on the man’s right side and on Sir Hugh holding him there, and as a hall servant dragged one of the straw-filled pallets that served as beds for the servants and lesser guests on the hall floor at night to lay it in front of them, Sir Reynold and Sir Hugh looked at each other over Godard’s head, made silent agreement, and in a single concerted motion shifted their holds, Sir Reynold loosing him to bend and take him behind the knees and lift while Sir Hugh caught him by both shoulders from behind, so that together they swung him sideways and down onto the mattress. Godard cried out and his body spasmed with pain, but he was down and Sir Reynold let him go and stepped back, wiping sweat from his own face. Sir Hugh stayed where he was, kneeling with Godard leaning back against him, saying, “We have to have your doublet off. It’s better we do it now before we lay you down than have to lift you up again.”