The Bastard's Tale (27 page)

‘It was Suffolk,“ Arteys said. ”Nobody else would dare.“

With unwonted brevity, Bishop Pecock granted, “I fear so.”

‘What I wish,“ said Frevisse, ”is that we knew for a certainty what happened when the man was found dead. Rather than raising an outcry, whoever found him either went to someone for instructions or else made decisions themselves. But someone had to have helped move the body, whatever was done with it then.“

‘The cart has been found,“ Bishop Pecock said. ”Or
a
cart has been found with the hospital’s badge painted on the side and much where Joliffe thought it would be if it had been used to the purpose we’ve supposed.“

‘That’s good!“ Arteys said.

‘It’s a small cart, meant for a single horse to pull. Runman pulled it himself back to St. Saviour’s. He was given twopence reward for his trouble.“

‘No one wondered why a bishop’s servant was troubling with a cart?“ Frevisse asked.

‘I didn’t send him out wearing my livery or badge,“ Bishop Pecock said reproachfully. ”Particularly since I told him to return the cart if he found it and was able to do so, and to find what would be said about it being gone, such as when and how long and so forth. It might have been a cart innocent of any wrong use, after all, merely gone astray.“

‘Was it?“ Frevisse asked.

‘Innocent? I think not. The steward at St. Saviour’s complained at length about the business. The cart was indeed taken last night and by someone of the hospital itself, because there’s no question but that the gates into St. Saviour’s yard were properly barred this morning when someone went to unbar them for the day.“

‘Which means whoever took the cart returned to St. Saviour’s,“ Frevisse said, ”and barred the gates after coming in.“

‘So it would seem.“

‘Unless it was someone who knew the same way in and out that I used,“ Arteys said. ”They could have taken the cart out, gone back in, barred the gate, and gone around and out the way I did.“

‘Possibly,“ Bishop Pecock agreed. ”But that begins to confuse the matter past any hope of solving it. I think we should hold to the hope that whoever saw to moving the body is someone who stayed at St. Saviour’s last night.“

He looked to Frevisse, who nodded agreement but said, “Which nonetheless solves nothing since we have no way to find them out.”

‘Yet,“ said Bishop Pecock.

‘Did you see the duke of Gloucester as you purposed?“ Frevisse asked.

‘I did, with no trouble.“ He glanced at Arteys. ”I told Arteys of him already but you’d like to hear, too?“

‘If it please you, my lord.“ Lest she become so drawn into the tangle of questions and seeking out of answers that she forgot there was a yet-living man at the heart of it all.

‘There’s little to tell. He still sleeps and seems at ease in it. Or ease enough, though his breathing is labored. I prayed by him a goodly while and noted no change. He never stirred, save for his breathing.“

‘Everything else was as it should be? No sign of blood on the floor, so slight it could be overlooked if not looked for directly?“ Frevisse asked.

‘None. I made careful note of the floor beside the bed while I knelt there. Nor, curiously, was there even sign it had been particularly scrubbed within the day. The man must not have bled much.“ The bishop frowned slightly over that. ”Given the wound, I should think he would have. Perhaps he fell face upward. Did he, Master Arteys?“

‘He didn’t. He…“ Arteys stopped. ”The floor? There was a carpet there. He fell on a carpet.“

Bishop Pecock’s look sharpened. “There was no carpet in the room. There were bare, albeit well-polished, floorboards. Nothing else.”

‘There was a carpet. Patterned in mostly red, with greens and cream.“

‘And he fell on it downward, bleeding, you say? Blood would be difficult to clean out of a carpet sufficient to their need of there being nothing suspicious in that room.“ He turned a look nigh to triumphant on Frevisse. ”And the carpet that should be there is gone.“

With equally rising hope, Frevisse asked, “How large was the carpet?”

‘About three feet by five?“ Arteys said uncertainly. ”I’m not certain.“

‘But a large one, as such things go?“ Frevisse asked.

‘Yes.“

‘Not something to be merely thrown out,“ Bishop Pecock said, ”because if found, there might be questions why something of such worth was cast away.“

‘Especially if it had a large bloodstain on it,“ Frevisse said dryly.

Bishop Pecock dismissed that briskly. “They would have scrubbed the blood away as much as might be, enough that it would serve elsewhere but not there, where they can afford no suspicions of any kind to arise.”

‘They could have carried it away with the body,“ Frevisse said. ”On the cart.“

‘And thrown it in the river, too,“ Arteys said in despair. ”Rolled and tied, it would sink.“

‘That wouldn’t serve,“ Bishop Pecock protested. ”It might still be found. That’s not an idle river. It’s constantly in use. A fishing line or some other thing might all too easily snag it, and a carpet in a river would be too suspicious a thing to be ignored, nor do I doubt but that Master Grene or someone else of St. Saviour’s would be able to identify it if questions were asked widely enough.“

‘It had to disappear,“ Frevisse said, more to herself than either of them. ”Burying wouldn’t suit. It would take too much time and the digging would leave plain signs. Nor would burning it be possible. They had neither time nor place to do it. Not drown, bury, or burn. Hide in some way, then.“

‘Not in St. Saviour’s,“ Bishop Pecock said. ”Just getting the body out must have been difficult enough without then wandering about seeking somewhere to hide a carpet.“

‘Under the bed?“ Arteys suggested. ”For a while at least?“

‘Possibly,“ Bishop Pecock granted, ”but I think they were moving in hurried fear and would want anything that linked violence and the duke of Gloucester far apart from one another. If they were shifting the body out, why not take the carpet, too? But do what with it?“

‘Sell it,“ said Frevisse. ”Scrub the blood out as best they could, roll it up, take it with the body out of St. Saviour’s, dispose of the body last night, and this morning someone take the carpet to a regrater who sells used goods.“

‘With a large wet spot still on it?“ Arteys asked.

‘It’s the sort of thing that makes something into used goods, nor are some regraters known for asking close questions. I could make a tale right now that would satisfy. A displeased housewife wanting the thing out of her house for one furious reason or another and sending a servant to get rid of it, or—“

‘Yes,“ Bishop Pecock said. ”That would serve very well to be rid of the thing. Arteys, could you describe this carpet in some detail to Master Orle? He can go tomorrow morning to such shops as seem likely. It’s too late today.“

Indeed, the library was so in shadows that Dame Perpetua had no business still to be writing, though it seemed she was because the young monk was saying to her, “It’s time to stop, Dame. I’m not instructed to allow lamps. It’s nearly time for Vespers anyway.”

‘We are about to be discovered,“ Bishop Pecock said, sat down at the desk, raised a magisterial hand with pointing forefinger, and launched into, ”But if you grant that this is true, then you must also see the difficulty in disobeying them…“

The young monk came into sight at the corner of the stall, hesitated, and finally said, “My lord?”

‘… though they are in error.“ Bishop Pecock broke off and asked, not unkindly, ”Yes?“ Then said, before the monk could answer, ”Ah, the hour. Of course. We know your charge and will obey, brother.“ He stood up as if dismissing a class. ”Until tomorrow, shall we say? About eleven of the clock? You raised an interesting point, dame, and I’d like to discuss it further.“ Adding to Arteys, as Frevisse made a slight, accepting curtsy to that, ”Would you care to come to dinner with me, sir?“

Faintly, Arteys said he would and Bishop Pecock took him by the arm and walked him away. Hoping that meant Arteys was seen to for the night, Frevisse bent her head slightly to the monk and went to Dame Perpetua, just finished with tidying away her ink and pen, as the bells began to ring to Vespers.

Chapter 21

That night was too short on sleep for Frevisse. Not even able to toss and turn in bed because Dame Perpetua was sleeping soundly beside her, she lay staring into the dorter’s darkness, listening to the even breathing and soft snoring of everyone around her, broken only by an occasional snort and shift of some sleeper, and wishing she was sleeping, too. She told her mind that although she could weave what facts she so far had into some sort of sense, nothing could be done with them until she knew more and therefore she might as well sleep as lie there pointlessly thinking. Not impressed, her thoughts went on, turning around and around on themselves, circling through worry for Alice, her life tied to Suffolk who very probably had ordered murder, to curiosity at how Joliffe had come to be Bishop Beaufort’s man, to worry at what would become of Arteys at the end of all of this. Come to that, what would become of all of them, including her? Because whatever they learned about the dead man and who had ordered Gloucester’s death, there was almost surely nothing they would be able to do except live with the knowledge, and what good would that be to anyone?

Finally, aching with tiredness and the annoy of being here and part of it at all, she opened her eyes to the darkness and silently, defiantly told herself she was going to stay awake as long as she possibly could and not close her eyes while she did.

She shortly thereafter went deeply to sleep.

But her thoughts were waiting for her in the morning, like a patient dog waiting at his mistress’ bedside. Distracted in them, she was up and dressed and adjusting her wimple around her face before she noted that the usual morning groans and murmurs of the other awakening and rising women were laced with laughter and gay talk so at variance with her own feelings that she almost asked Dame Perpetua why everyone was so happy out of the ordinary. Then she remembered and felt foolish and a little angry that with all that was happening she had let the knowing slip to a side part of her mind. It was Shrove Tuesday, with its burst of last great feasting and merriment before tomorrow when Lent began its fasting and penance through winter’s end and spring’s beginning to Easter.

Contrite at so grievous a neglect, she crossed herself and said aloud, remembering something else, “Confession. We have to make confession today.”

Dame Perpetua, pinning on her veil, sighed. “Along with all the royal court and parliament. The lines will go on forever. I won’t go far with Boethius today, I fear.”

‘Bishop Pecock,“ Frevisse said. ”He means to be in the library again today. He might take our confessions.“

Dame Perpetua brightened. “He might indeed. He’s very kind.”

Together, they pulled up and straightened the bedding, and were bent over, smoothing it, when Dame Perpetua said, low-voiced and not looking at her, “If you need me to know what’s going on, I suppose you’ll tell me. Please know I’ll help. If I can. Even if it’s only by going on pretending I don’t know anything is going on.”

Frevisse kept steadily at the bedmaking for a silent moment before saying, very quietly, “Thank you.”

In that quiet they went to Prime. The church was fuller than usual for the dawn Office and murmurs ran that the king was present though Frevisse did not see him. For the while of Prime she kept her mind to the psalms and prayers, taking most deeply to her heart today,
“Et sit splendor Domini Dei nostri super nos… et opus manuum nostrarum dirige.”
And let the brightness of our Lord God be over us… and guide the work of our hands. Because she was much in need of being guided.

At breakfast in the guesthall refectory there was laughter and talk and readiness all around for pleasure; and when she and Dame Perpetua went out of doors on their way back to the church for Mass, they caught through the gateway into the Great Court a brief view of the busy setting-up of food stalls and over the wall heard the rattle of a drum and happily roused voices already about the day’s pastimes. Nor did everyone who left the guesthall turn toward the church for Mass.

Because the Mass—that sacred gathering of power where the Divine and Man met most closely together— was one of the great pleasures and treasure of her life,
Frevisse took her mind away from everything else, set herself to lose herself in its mystery and wonder, and succeeded. Only when the last prayer had risen toward the high roof and faded to silence did she stir, to find her body had weight, her mind had thoughts, and her heart wished it could go back into that wonder and away from here. But one of life’s more unyielding lessons was that back was not possible. There was only forward, and all around her people were surging into talk and movement. Unused to crowds, Dame Perpetua moved to put her back against the wide base of the pillar beside her rather than be swept along. Frevisse joined her, willing to wait for the nave’s emptying before trying to go anywhere else.