The meeting shifted to reports on matters at the priory in general.
Dame Alys stood up, snorted, hacked, and said, “The pig we’ve fattened for the villeins’ penny ale this Christmastide was slaughtered yesterday and dressed out at near to fifty pounds, more than we’d thought it’d be. Though whether there’ll be cider enough is another matter. Dame Frevisse has seen fit to be giving it to people in the guesthall without asking my leave or need in the matter and if that goes on, I don’t know where we’ll be.”
Frevisse, roused from her comfort, cast quickly through her mind and realized Dame Alys was talking about yesterday when Meg had brought her some cider from the kitchen. She could make some sort of defense of that, but on the whole it was better that Dame Alys’s displeasure should fall on her rather than on Meg’s overburdened head.
Domina Edith asked, “Have you answer for that, Dame Frevisse?”
Frevisse rose. “No, my lady.”
Domina Edith sighed and said, “We must observe the rules set down for all our good, especially for the kitchen since food is scarce this winter and costly, not even to be given to guests without Dame Alys being asked first and her permission given. In penance you shall go without your portion of cider at supper these next three days and apologize to Dame Alys for failing in courtesy to her.”
Somewhat stiffly, Frevisse said, “I beg your pardon for my failure, Dame Alys.”
Dame Alys, blowing her nose, nodded ungraceful acceptance and said to the room at large, “If there’s to be spiced cider for the villeins’ wassailing in the orchard on Twelfth Night, we must mend our ways. Even so there may not be enough to see us through to Lent.” She raised meaningful eyebrows at Frevisse.
Dame Perpetua, as always, expressed her regret that such frivolity as wassailing continued to be encouraged by the priory among the villeins. No matter how old the custom, it seemed to have little to do with holy days from any Christian view she had read. Domina Edith, as always, agreed with her without providing for reform, and asked for the rest of her obedientiaries to report.
One after another, they said omnia bene, all was well, except Dame Claire who was concerned that her supply of horehound for sore throats might not be sufficient for the winter.
At the last it was Frevisse’s turn since her office of hosteler was least among the obedientiaries. Very briefly she reported that there were no people in the new guesthall and nine people in the old: Lord Lovel’s villein, Barnaby Shene, who was seriously hurt, his wife and two sons tending to him, and five travelers, including a sick child.
“He awoke in the night with a sore throat and has a cough and fever this morning. They will be staying until he is well enough to travel, by your leave, Domina.”
Domina Edith nodded her approval and looked at her nuns. “Is there aught else that must be said now?” she asked. After quick glances among themselves, they all shook their heads. She smiled. “Then let me only remind you that no matter how ill or well we are feeling-or sounding-we must remember before all else that what matters more than our feelings are our prayers and singing in the daily services, especially at this holy time of year. It is our souls’ grace and God’s worship we are supposed to be accomplishing. It is our inward being, not our outward seeming, that matters most to God. Remember that, rather than dwell on our imperfections.”
She was more pale than when she had come in, her aged skin pulled thin over her face’s bones, her body sunk deeply into her cloak. Frevisse knew that Dame Claire was poised to go to her the moment she dismissed them to their day’s work.
But a discreet knock at the door turned all their heads toward it, and Domina Edith said, “Enter.” Her voice had no strength behind it and she gestured to Dame Alys to call again.
At Dame Alys’s booming croak, the lay woman who was supposed to keep watch at the outer door into the cloister put her head in to say, “It’s Roger Naylor, my lady, craving word with you as soon as might be.”
A stir of curiosity passed among the nuns. Naylor was the priory’s steward, in charge of their properties and the other worldly matters necessary to sustain St. Frideswide’s spiritual life. Occasionally, as his duties necessitated, he came into the cloister to confer with Domina Edith. Now, at her nod, he entered the room.
He was a dour-faced man whom Frevisse had come to know a little since her hosteling had begun to take her out of the cloister more. She was not sure she liked him but knew that his long, lined, rarely smiling face fronted a mind not only keen to St. Frideswide’s best advantage but mostly fair in pursuing it.
He came now the length of the room to kneel on one knee before Domina Edith, who left him there as she said in her soft voice, “There must be more than usually grievous trouble, Master Naylor, that you presume to come here. What is it?”
“Not so much trouble yet, my lady, as trouble to come if it’s not dealt with now. Do you know who bides in your guesthall this while?”
Domina Edith frowned, both at his words and the general stir among her nuns. “Yes, we know who bides in our guesthall. A man hurt maybe to his death though he yet lives, and his family tending to him, and five travelers who are staying on because of a sick child among them.”
“It’s not plain travelers they are, though they’re surely minded to keep you thinking they are. But I heard two of the men talking in the stable. They’re players. For all they’d have us think they’re honest folk, that’s all they are and nothing better.”
Domina Edith said, “You may rise, Master Naylor,” and looked with mild questioning at Frevisse. “Did you know this, Dame?”
“That they were players? I knew. They never sought to hide it from me, Domina.”
“But you never said so!” Sister Fiacre’s shocked voice broke in, as unexpected as it was seldom heard. She had always been given to nerves and flutterings, mostly expressed in hand wringings or, if very sorely distressed, in tears. These months past an illness had been draining her to the point where much was forgiven her. Now she so far forgot herself to exclaim, “If you knew what they were, you should have said, Dame Frevisse!”
Frevisse retorted crisply, “I’ve not made it custom to tell more than how many guests we have and why they’re here. Chapter meetings aren’t for gossip.”
“But traveling players!” Dame Alys croaked. “They’re not decent. Not fit to be inside our honest walls, for certain.”
She glared at Roger Naylor for confirmation. Frevisse was amused to see him torn between agreeing with Dame Alys and disliking her support. As cellarer, Dame Alys had the right to interfere in his office, and often did.
Gazing somewhere over Domina Edith’s left shoulder, he only said, “I’d like to know whether their boy is truly ailing, or shamming so they can linger long enough to choose what to steal.”
“Dame Frevisse?” Domina Edith’s neutral tone gave Frevisse both permission to answer that and a warning to keep watch on her ready tongue.
“The boy is truly ill, with a cough, inflamed throat, and fever. If he stays warm and quiet, he should better quickly, but the raw weather would be dangerous for him now.”
“And you’re sure he’s not shamming?” Naylor insisted.
Dame Claire stood up. At Domina Edith’s nod she said with the assurance of authority, “I saw him this morning. There is no doubt of his illness.”