The Bastard's Tale (21 page)

That done, he laid a hand over Gloucester’s and whispered, hoping, “Father?”

Only Gloucester’s breathing answered him, loud in the quiet room. The far too quiet room, where nothing moved but the last, dying flames in the fireplace and their low shadows flickering across the floor. A room with no sound but Gloucester’s harsh breathing and the drub of Arteys’ heart hitting against his ribs. A room where a dead man’s blood was soaking into the carpet under him and laughter burst up from the hall below.

Arteys kept from looking at the dead man, did not need to make certain he was dead. He had seen the life go out of his eyes while the dagger was still in him. He had never, until now, seen a man die because he had killed him and he never wanted to see it again. Or, ever again, the man to whom he had done it.

Gloucester’s harsh breathing went on. From the hall there was a louder roar of laughter and then clapping that told Arteys the play was done and he had no more time to be here. That had been his father’s last order to him—to get out and away—and feeling frozen to the heart, Arteys obeyed, slipped out into the night again and this time locked the door, no worry now about the rasp of metal on metal as he turned the key. There was no one in the room to hear it.

Chapter 16

The day after Gloucester’s arrest went not so badly for Frevisse as she had feared it might. All the talk at night and in the morning in the guesthall dorter had been of the arrest, with Prime giving respite but afterward had come breakfast and more talk, some people dark with worry about what might come of it, others head-shaking and tut-tutting, others merely excited by the scandal of it; but to Frevisse’s surprise, there was very little malice toward Gloucester. She was reminded of fish in a well-stocked fish pond when food was thrown to them—the food hit the water and the fish surfaced in a swirling mass, seething around each other as they gobbled with staring eyes and gaping mouths. At present, the duke of Gloucester was food and the gaping, gobbling, and staring were all around her when she parted from Dame Perpetua after Mass.

Despite it was Sunday, Dame Perpetua was bound for the library, kept open for monks who wished to spend their day of somewhat rest in reading. Frevisse, less happily, went on her way to Alice. The man on duty at the head of the stairs told her before she even thought to ask that my lord of Suffolk was already gone to the king. Frevisse thanked him without showing how very thankful she was for that and went in, passing through the two outer rooms with her eyes lowered, catching a little of the talk among the few men there but hearing nothing new, only gaining the thought that, to judge by their open, exceeding glee against Gloucester, not even a battle victory over the king of France could have set them higher. She wished she had ignorance enough to be simply pleased at Gloucester’s trouble or—better still—to have no other than pious regret for his fall. But to want ignorance, and for no better reason than her own comfort, was wrong and she breathed a brief prayer as she knocked at the bedchamber door.

Admitted, she found Alice about to go out, surrounded by a flustering of her women putting things away in the long traveling chest and John sitting on the bed end, drumming his heels.

‘I’m late,“ Alice greeted her. ”The queen expects me and I’m late. Alyson, take John into the next room. All of you. I want a moment alone with my cousin.“

They went, but with the steady intent of four years old, John asked over his shoulder as he was led away, “Can we go see the wheel today, Dame Frevisse?”

‘Possibly,“ she said, looking not at him but at Alice, who after waiting with open impatience for the door to close, gestured at herself and said fiercely, ”Look at this gown!“ It was one she had worn yesterday of finest, deep-dyed crimson wool double-woven all over into curving, leafing patterns with enough yards of cloth in the skirts spread around her feet and behind her to make three cloaks for lesser women, Frevisse guessed. ”I mean, look at this!“ Alice cried. ”The king’s uncle, a man we’ve known all our lives, is under arrest for treason. King Henry won’t talk about it, acts as if it hasn’t happened. Poor Margaret keeps saying, ’But of course he should be arrested if he wanted my lord husband’s throne, yes?‘ What do I say to that?“ She did not wait for an answer but grabbed handfuls of skirt in either hand as if hating it. ”If Gloucester is guilty of treachery, we ought to be in mourning of some kind but I’m ordered—
ordered
—to make joy over it and see to it that so does the queen and that she brings Henry around to public pleasure at it, too.“

‘Pleasure?“ Frevisse repeated. Solemn thankfulness, yes, maybe. But pleasure?

‘Pleasure.“ Alice dropped from smothered outrage to plea. ”Frevisse, what am I to do? Despite all the times and ways Gloucester has been a fool over the years, he’s never had it in him to be disloyal to King Henry. Something is terribly wrong and I don’t know what.“

With no safe answer to give, Frevisse met Alice’s anguished stare in silence, watching helplessly as Alice drew up her courage and said in a raw, low voice, “St. Anne help me, Frevisse, but my husband is at the heart °f this and I don’t know what to do. Time was I would have asked and expected a true answer. Now all there will be is a kiss on the forehead and a soothing ‘Not to Worry, love, I have it in hand.’ If that much.”

Why?“ Frevisse asked before she could stop herself.

Alice turned and sat down on the chest beside her, the gown’s skirts heavy around her. “I don’t know. No, I do know. It’s the king’s marriage. Ever since Suffolk made it, it’s as if he’s seen something in himself that he can’t stop looking at.”

‘What?“

‘Greatness.“ Alice made the word ugly, let it lie between them a moment, then went on. ”To make the king’s marriage, Suffolk dealt with three kings all at once—Henry of England, Charles of France, Rene of Sicily, Jerusalem, and Naples. Never mind that we’re not supposed to acknowledge there’s any king of France but our King Henry and that Rene of Anjou’s royal title to Sicily, Naples, and Jerusalem is as empty as air. They’re all of them kings and Suffolk dealt among them as almost their equal, it seemed to him, I think. He liked it. He liked having no one above him in the world but kings. He wants to go on that way and the best way he sees to do it is to hold all the power he can around King Henry.“

‘You’ve tried to talk to him about it?“ Frevisse asked carefully.

‘I’ve tried. For answer, he’s cut me out of almost everything he does. We no longer lay our plans together. He
tells
me what he wants me to do. I didn’t marry him to be
told
what to do.“

‘Alice,“ Frevisse said, warning her voice had risen.

Alice jerked it back down but said with no less bitter anger, “What he wants from me is to make sure Queen Margaret, poor child, turns only to me for everything. Then I’m to see to it she influences Henry the way Suffolk wants him to go.”

‘Alice,“ Frevisse said from the heart, ”I’m sorry.“

Alice forced a pained part of a smile.
“I’m
sorry I so badly needed to say all this to someone and there’s no one else but you.”

‘I’ll pray for you both.“

‘Pray for King Henry and Margaret and Gloucester, too. We’re all in need.“ Alice stood up, the familiar iron of her will come visibly back to her, hardening her voice. ”Go on finding out what you can, please. Anything.“

‘I’ve been little use so far,“ Frevisse hedged.

‘You can tell me what people away from Suffolk are saying about Gloucester’s arrest. Are they angry or do they accept it?“

‘There’s no great choosing of sides yet, that I’ve heard. Mostly there’s only talk and wondering.“

Alice shook her head as if she did not understand that and gathered up her skirts. “I have to go. Will you take charge of John for this morning? I haven’t the time just now to browbeat his nurse into admitting she’s well.”

Hoping John would be better company than her thoughts were likely to be, Frevisse agreed, and indeed he proved better refuge from thinking than church or library would have been. He wanted, first, for her to tell him how good he had been in the play last night. Then he told her what King Henry and Queen Margaret had said to him and what his father and mother had said.

‘But I can’t see Giles again until tomorrow. The players have to practice today. They have another play tonight and I’m not in it. Can we go see the wheel?“

They did, and Frevisse stood uncomplainingly for as long as John wanted to stare at and talk about it. When finally that palled for him, they went for a walk through the abbot’s garden, having it almost to themselves this glooming day, and spent a long, chill time on the bridge to the abbey’s vineyards across the river, dropping sticks into the water on the bridge’s upstream side and crossing to the downstream side to watch them come out of the shadows and drift away on the dark swirling current. To the sea, she thought. Some of them would maybe go all the way to the sea. Not all of them, though. Not most °f them, probably, because most things did not come to the ends dreamed for them. Neither sticks nor anything nor anyone.

They played until John complained his feet were cold—long after hers were—and that he was hungry. By then it was time for Nones, but having already forgone Sext and Tierce because a small and restless boy was not good company at prayers—and even less good company at Sunday’s longer Offices—Frevisse let Nones go, too, merely took John back to Suffolk’s rooms, where a servant brought them dinner. Then, because neither of the two squires left on duty in the outer room seemed to think John was to come into their charge and there was no one else around, Frevisse spent the afternoon with him by the fire, playing true-lady with marbles on a polished board until almost lamp-lighting time.

One of Alice’s ladies came for John then, bringing apologies. “My lady is sorry to have left you so long. She’s been with the queen and now she’s sent for Lord John to come and have supper with the queen and her.”

That should make Alice happier, Frevisse thought, as John asked, “May Dame Frevisse come, too?”

Quickly Frevisse said, “When queens ask for one person, they don’t want to see two. You go, as your lady mother wants. Why don’t you take your true-lady board with you?”

John accepted the game as reasonable substitute for her, and she helped him gather the marbles into their bag, tied its cord for him, put his cloak on him, handed him the playing board, and saw him away. Only when he was gone and she was putting on her own cloak did she have the surprised thought that she had enjoyed much of today.

The abbey bells were pealing to Vespers as she went out into the rapidly darkening twilight, barren of any sunset color. It was as bleak as her wondering if Arteys was still safe with Bishop Pecock. There was no reason he should not be, but too often in life “should” was not the way things went. At least Joliffe, if John had been right, had been in practice with the players today and would be performing tonight, with therefore small chance of him getting into trouble. Or making trouble, come to that.

There was no chance to do more than nod to Dame Perpetua in St. Nicholas’ chapel before Vespers began. Only at supper in the guesthall refectory with everything they said to each other masked by the generally loud talk around them did Frevisse ask if she had seen Bishop Pecock today.

‘He didn’t come to the library,“ Dame Perpetua answered. ”Or if he did, he didn’t speak to me or I notice him.“ That latter was all too possible if she were far gone into her work, Frevisse suspicioned, while Dame Perpetua went on happily about how far she was into copying the
Boece.
”There are such things in it,“ she said. ”Listen. ’Hope after nothing, nor dread not.‘ And ’If Fortune begins to dwell stable, she ceases then to be Fortune.‘ It’s so true and finely said.“

Not until they were going to Compline did she think to ask how Frevisse’s day had been and only when they were readying for bed did she wonder, “That trouble with the duke of Gloucester, how has that gone?”

Glad her lack of curiosity needed no long answer, Frevisse answered, “So far as I’ve heard, nothing has changed.”

But by morning it had.

The day began well enough. Dawn was growing golden up a clear sky when Frevisse and Dame Perpetua went from the guesthall dorter to the church for Prime and the raw edge was gone from the air, as if overnight the weather had slipped toward spring. Light poured through the abbey’s colored windows, flooding the columns, paving, and altars with patterns of sapphire, ruby, topaz, and emerald, their richness lifting Frevisse’s heart, which had gone heavy to bed with her and been no better when she awakened. Through Prime she let the light hold her, with the thought that, come whatever darkness men made, there was still beauty in the world and the beauties of heaven beyond it and all of them pale against God’s burning love.

Not until breakfast did the day darken, inwardly if not outwardly. The meal was a mere matter of ale and bread and, this morning, cheese set out on the tables for people to help themselves as they would. They could then eat either sitting or standing, taking long or less at it, and Frevisse and Dame Perpetua were content to draw aside and stand, thick-cut bread and cheese in one hand, an ale mug in the other, making no haste. Frevisse was supposing that after Mass she would go to Alice. Another day with John was all too likely but she hoped some way during it to make chance for Joliffe to find her so they could talk. Unless he sought her out at Mass, little though she would like that.

Her thoughts running that way, she was not listening to the talk around them. There were only so many ways to exclaim over a thing and surely all the ways over Gloucester’s arrest had been exclaimed yesterday, with nothing left for today but repeating it. It was Dame Perpetua who said, “Did you hear that?”, turning her head to look after two women who had just passed, their own breakfasts in hand. “What they were saying? Something about the duke of Gloucester. That he’s gone insensible? That he can’t be wakened?”