Frevisse was among the first, glad of the chance to sink into the service’s peace, away from her circling thoughts. There would be no time now today to talk to Father Henry. But after the long, frustrating wait, she was ready to put him and her questions from her mind.
Her sickness was like a weight dragging her body and her thoughts to a slow trudge. She was hoping prayers, supper in a warm room, and then the play before Compline would be distraction enough to ease her way into sleep later.
It was cold in the cloister, with just enough of a breeze to lift her veil. Frevisse pulled at the heavy door to the church, and went into dimness, two nuns close behind her. They would wait just inside for the others. At first the black shape stretched on the altar steps made only a vague impression, a thicker darkness among the gathering shadows. It took a few moments for them to realize it was a wrongness that needed closer investigation.
Sister Thomasine went forward first, always bolder when it was a matter of the altar or of her prayers than any other time. But it was Frevisse who suddenly realized what she was seeing and moved sharply forward as Thomasine knelt, one hand outstretched toward the shape.
“Thomasine!” she said sharply, stopping the young woman’s hesitant hand, making her look around. More quietly, almost coaxingly, she added, “Come away, Thomasine. Don’t touch her.”
Sister Thomasine’s veiled head came around, her eyes blurred shapes in her white face and white wimple, wide with bewilderment.
“But I think she’s dead,” she said.
“Don’t touch her yet,” Frevisse repeated, coming to lift her up and away from the body. “Just stand here.”
“Who is it?” asked one of the other nuns, a question repeated in fragments as they looked among themselves to see who was missing. Others had been coming in, and now two more entered, to be told in frightened whispers what was happening.
“Is Dame Claire here?” asked Frevisse.
Even as she said it, her eyes were searching among their faces.
“Here I am,” said Dame Claire, breaking free of the whispering throng. She went to kneel beside the prone figure. For a moment her hand hesitated before, very gently, she touched the back of the fallen nun’s head, then put a hand under the nearer shoulder and rolled the body sideways enough to see her face. In the poor light, it appeared almost as white as the surrounding wimple, which was itself touched with darkness. Dame Claire returned the body to its original pose, crossing herself before rising to turn to the others.
“It’s Sister Fiacre,” she said, keeping her deep voice level with an effort.
Sister Thomasine sank to her knees, crying in a loud voice, “Si iniquitates observaveris, Domine; quis sustinebit?” If you shall observe wickedness, O Lord; who shall endure it?
That sent the others to their knees. Someone began to sob.
Frevisse saw beyond their bowed heads Domina Edith just come through the door on Sister Juliana’s arm. Threading her way among the kneeling figures, Frevisse went to her and said quietly, “Sister Fiacre is dead. She is over there, on the altar steps.”
Deep among wrinkles, Domina Edith’s eyes went swiftly to Sister Fiacre’s still form and Dame Claire on her knees beside it, then back to Frevisse’s face. She said, “Take me to her.” And to Sister Juliana, “Stay here,” as she transferred her unsteadiness to Frevisse’s arm. Carefully they circled the kneeling nuns.
Dame Claire rose to her feet at their approach, moving to put herself between Domina Edith and the body, but Domina Edith said, “She is one of mine. Can I refuse to look on her?”
Dame Claire hesitated, then said, too low for anyone except themselves to hear, “It wasn’t her illness that killed her.”
Equally low, not hesitating, Domina Edith repeated, “I’ll see her.”
Frevisse went to the altar, genuflected, then pulled one of the candles from its holder. She went to the altar lamp and lit the candle, then brought it down the three steps.
Dame Claire again turned the body so its face was exposed, and in silence Domina Edith stood looking down at her dead nun. The wimple and veil around Sister Fiacre’s head had concealed the flatness of the back of her head, and the sideways distortion the broken skull bones gave to her face, both now revealed in the golden candlelight. The eyes bulged as if startled to be overtaken by death, and a little blood had seeped brightly through the white, close-bound wimple along her face, but there was no distortion of terror. What had come had come unwarned and on the instant. The veil had soaked up most of the blood, leaving only a thin gleaming line on the stone floor as the candlelight caught it.
Behind them came the sound of someone rising, and Dame Alys’s hoarse voice. “It’s a shame, but not unexpected, her being so ill. Who will help move her? I’ll light some of these candles and lanterns. We’ll need more light, and there’s all these waiting for the play tonight. Though now there won’t be any play.”
Domina Edith, her hand heavy on Frevisse’s arm to steady herself, said without turning around, her tone giving nothing away, “Leave the lights alone, there is no need for them yet. Dame Alys, take everyone to the warming room for Vespers. Except Dame Frevisse, Dame Claire, and Sister Thomasine. The rest of you, go. Remember to take the psalter. Pray the harder in our absence. I will come to you as soon as may be to tell you the schedule of vigil for Sister Fiacre.”
Grateful and calmed by guidance, the other nuns rose in a hush and rustle of skirts and soft soles. Some two or three relaxed enough to cough. They left the church in Dame Alys’s wake, the door thumping solidly behind the last one out.
“Who?” Domina Edith asked. “Why?”
There was no answer yet to that. Or there were several answers, but no way of telling yet which was the right one. Frevisse, her mind beginning to move past the reality of Sister Fiacre’s death to what it meant and what was going to happen from it, was already seeing possibilities and not liking them.
“Roger Naylor must be told,” she said.
“And Sister Fiacre seen to,” Domina Edith said, “before the others see her. They will have to be told, but they need only see her in her coffin. They need not see what we have seen. Thomasine, you are not to talk of what you saw here.”
“Yes, Domina.”
“I need to see the wound uncovered,” said Frevisse.
“Why?” asked Dame Claire.
“Perhaps the wound will tell what manner of weapon struck her. At the least, was it sharp or blunt.”
“I am afraid her head may fall apart if the wimple is removed,” said Dame Claire, her voice reflecting her deep distress. Thomasine began to pray louder.
“Could you, er, restore her, Dame Claire?” Domina Edith said.
The infirmarian set her small hands to either side of the dead nun’s skull and gently pressed. The bones shifted to a more natural shape with a soft grating sound. Dame Claire swallowed thickly and said, “It appears her skin is mostly whole, but I would prefer that we not take off her wimple. Yet I understand Dame Frevisse’s request. We will need a clean wimple. And we’d best replace the veil.”
“Dame Frevisse, take Sister Thomasine to help you bring what is needed. We’ll prepare her body here. That would be best, don’t you agree, Dame Claire?”
Dame Claire nodded. “The less she’s moved the better. We can clean and coffin her here. Maybe before Vespers ends.”
“Thank you. I will tell them then what has happened.”
Sister Thomasine had risen and come to join them while they talked. Now, standing at Frevisse’s side, as sickly looking as Frevisse felt, her eyes on Sister Fiacre, she whispered, “Some wicked person denied her the Last Sacrament.”
“She has known she was dying for a long time,” Domina Edith said, “and was as prepared for it as anyone can be. And when the blow was struck, she was at prayer at the foot of the altar. She died by violence but in the midst of holiness. We can only add our prayers to her own.” The prioress’s weight had become increasingly heavy on Frevisse’s arm. In the same quiet, even tone she said, “I wish to sit now.”