One of the servants crossed herself. “It’s old Barnaby from the village. Looks like he’s done for himself this time.”
“He’s one of ours?” Frevisse asked. She didn’t recognize him, but she had little to do with the village villeins, even those who did belong to the priory.
“He’s one of Lord Lovel’s.” Annie Lauder, the broad-boned priory’s laundress, was usually to hand if something interesting were happening in St. Frideswide’s. “I know him.”
“Does he have any family?”
“Wife and two sons, and this will finish the ruin of them and his holding, that’s sure.” Annie’s voice held the assurance of someone who had often said it would happen.
“What he’s surely made is a ruin of himself.” Dame Claire was cutting away the strips of bloody cloth with a slim knife. Now, seeing more of his hurts, she said, “Mercy, his ribs! Someone had best fetch his wife.”
“I’ll go,” Annie Lauder said. “I know their cottage.” With a bustle of importance and elbows, she pushed her way out from among the cluster of people and was gone.
“Who’s building up my fire?” Dame Claire demanded, not looking up.
Frevisse, knowing the man was now entirely Dame Claire’s responsibility and that her own duty was simply to serve her, said, “Jak’s here with more wood.” Frevisse gestured the man forward. “Sister Amicia, if you’re going to be sick, go outside to do it. And so long as you’re going, fetch more bandages.” Frevisse had no sympathy with Sister Amicia’s stomach; since the young nun had been eagerly taking in every word and detail, Frevisse judged that her queasiness was more choice than necessity.
The travelers who had brought the man stood clustered near the other hearth at the hall’s far end, where a priory servant was building a fire for them. As Frevisse approached, the stout older man stepped forward from the others and bowed much as the boy had done.
Frevisse bent her head to him slightly. “We’ll have a fire and food for you very shortly. The day is drawing on, too late for traveling much farther, and I hope you’ll accept St. Frideswide’s hospitality, both on your own behalf and as thanks for your goodness-”
She paused, aware of a wordless exchange among the group. Their leader was well past being young, his hair grayed and his face seamed with age and laughter and many years of wayfaring, as used to the open air as to walls and roof. He carried his large frame with upright dignity, and now to the question she had not yet fully asked, he pulled off his hood and bowed again, a low, dramatic one.
“Your offer is welcomed, my lady, and most happily accepted. A generous fire and good shelter in good company is a blessing from the Lord these cruel midwinter nights.”
His rich voice flowed like satin, and Frevisse felt a spasm of dismay. “You,” she said, almost accusingly, “are not simply travelers.”
“No, good lady. We’re players, on our way from one place to another. Thomas Bassett is my name and this is my company. And though you’ve offered to us your hospitality, we’ll go on our way if you say the word.”
He knew, far better than she did, how unwelcome his kind could be. Wayfaring players were travelers of no fixed place or lord, belonging nowhere, always strangers and met always with suspicion, too often well founded, since folk dependent on the tossed coins of other people frequently turned to thievery to augment their income.
Frevisse’s hesitation was barely momentary before she said, “You have done a man a service that may save his life. I have offered St. Frideswide’s hospitality to you and, as you say, midwinter nights are cruel. It would be ungrateful and unchristian of me to take back my offer. I pray you, be at ease and take what comfort we can give this night.”
She felt tension flow out of the little band at her words. They had been braced to be sent on their way, and were greatly thankful for being allowed to stay. She doubted they would give trouble for whatever little while they were there.
“You have a cart and horse that need seeing to?” she asked.
“Tisbe our horse follows to heel like a dog and should be waiting in your courtyard now, and our cart behind her. There’s only the four of us. And Piers, of course.”
At mention of his name, as if on cue-and Frevisse suspected it was-the small boy she’d seen before stepped away from the woman who had been lightly holding his shoulders, and bowed very neatly. She bent her head to him in solemn return. His sweet-faced charm had probably wooed goodly pence from doting women on more than a few occasions, Frevisse thought, and hid her own amusement behind an unsmiling face.
The flaxen-haired player whom Frevisse had taken for a tall boy said, “I’ll see to Tisbe and the cart and bring in what we need for tonight.” Now, as soon as he spoke and she looked directly at him, she realized he was fully twenty years old or more, not a boy at all despite his slender, lean-hipped build and smooth face. Since his hair was so pale, his beard did not show unless it was looked for.
“Young Joliffe,” said Thomas Bassett by way of introduction, “who plays our women’s roles.”
Meeting the young man’s bold, assessing gaze, Frevisse was ready to believe that playing the woman was a skill in him, not a trait, and suspected that he probably wooed more than pence from women when he set his mind to it. With some asperity, she said, “But you will play the gentleman here, I trust.”
Joliffe made her an elegant bow. “In such an holy place as this, humbled by your kindness, surely.”
Frevisse forebore saying that she had sincere doubts about his humility, and was spared any reply at all by a raw, strangled screech behind her, as if a cat had been tossed into the fire. She swung around. The clot of people still around Dame Claire and the man Barnaby had pulled back somewhat, making room for the newly arrived woman. She was small, no more than thin flesh sunk down onto small bones, tanned and aged with years of weather and work. Frevisse had noticed her around the priory these few months past, but from her poverty had thought her a widow. Now she stood huddled and aghast, her hands pressed over her mouth and her eyes huge with fear and horror as she stared down at the hurt man. Her husband.
Dame Claire had had him moved onto the straw-filled mattress, and been cutting away what was left of his clothing to assess his injuries. Except for a cloth draped modestly over his loins, there was nothing to hide his body’s ruin.
Unable to take her eyes from him, rocking back and forth, the woman began to keen, “Oh, God. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. He’ll never work again, he’ll never work again. Look at him. Look at him.”
A whey-faced boy, trying very hard not to look at the man, stood beside her. Awkwardly he put an arm around her and said, “Mam. Mam, it’s going to be all right. He’ll heal fine, you’ll see.” But he did not believe it any more than she did.
On Meg’s other side Annie Lauder made no pretense of her curiosity. “Will he live at all? He looks like to die, if you’re asking me.”
“There’s no one asked you,” said Dame Claire firmly. “So near as I can tell, there’s nothing broken inwardly beyond my reach, nothing here that will surely kill him, if I can keep sickness out of his hurts.”
“His hand,” Meg moaned. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, look at his hand. It’ll never heal. Look at it.”
Dame Claire ignored her. “What I want is someone here to help me set his shoulder back in place. It’s only twisted from its socket, not broken.”
“That I can do.” The third man among the players stepped forward. “I’ve seen it done a few times, and helped at it myself. But we’ll need some strength beyond our own to hold him down.”