The Prioress’ Tale (17 page)

Frevisse had followed, to be sure the handkerchief had not shifted, and when she saw that it was still firmly over the wound, stepped back willingly with Joliffe. Something definitely had to be done about the man’s smell.

He was cold, too, shivering in the church’s chill. Something better than the coarse-cloth tunic from the alms clothing would have to be found for him. After he was washed.

Behind her, Dame Perpetua asked, “And now?”

The side door slammed open. The madman cringed and huddled farther in on himself, and the rest of them jerked around toward it, to face Domina Alys, flushed with fury and triumph, standing there to judge them all with a single hard look before she swung around to Katerin, crowded close behind her, and said with that odd patience that Frevisse had heard her use before to the woman, “See? All’s well. Everything’s well. You can go back to your cleaning.”

“The men?” Katerin asked worriedly.

“All gone. No one here to hurt me.”

Despite Joliffe was plainly there and plainly a man, Katerin with her eyes set doglike to Domina Alys’ face accepted that, curtsied with her unsteady bob, and drew back out the door, presumably to her cleaning.

Domina Alys heaved a huge sigh at being finished with that, turned again to survey them all with disapproval, then stalked along the nave toward the madman. Joliffe, skilled at being unobtrusive when he chose, drew smoothly back, giving her space to ignore him if she wished. She did, for now, and instead stopped in front of the unnoticing madman, glaring down at him, fists on her hips, in open disapproval of his existence.

Kept outside behind her and Katerin until then, Sister Amicia came in hastily, still wide-eyed at whatever had passed in the yard, stopped to see who was there and what was happening, then came aside to Frevisse and Dame Perpetua, asking questions with her eyes she did not dare to say aloud. Hardly noticed, Sister Thomasine came to stand on their other side as Domina Alys turned to demand at Frevisse, “He stinks. Where’ve you been lodging him, Dame? The pigsty?”

All day Frevisse had been praying to be rid of her anger at Domina Alys. The hatred had been strongly enough refused that she was safe from it, she hoped, but all she had been able to do with her anger so far was curb it. Now it started to rouse sharply into words that would have been a mistake to utter. It was Dame Perpetua who saved her, saying hurriedly, quick to appease, “Lady Adela is bringing water and soap for him. And Dame Claire is coming to see to his hurts.”

“He’s hurt more than his head?” Domina Alys looked with disapproval at the bloodied handkerchief. She had small use for people bothering to be hurt.

“His ribs are maybe bruised,” Joliffe said, “but there’s nothing broken, I think.”

Domina Alys threw him a look that said she did not want to hear what he had to think and ordered at Dame Perpetua, “So have him out of here if that’s all it is. Into the kitchen yard, I’d say. Some servant can tend his hurt, feed him, send him on his way.”

Dame Perpetua looked at Frevisse, silently pointing out they had a problem now. Domina Alys caught the look and snapped, “What is it?” And when no one answered, “Dame?” dangerously.

Frevisse drew breath to say it, but Sister Thomasine, aside and silent until then, spoke first, softly. “We’ve given him sanctuary.”

Domina Alys looked in disbelief at—and did not conceal that she was smelling, too—the madman shivering on the wall bench all too near her. “Sanctuary?” she repeated. “Sanctuary to that dirty, stinking rag?” She turned on Frevisse and Dame Perpetua together, leaving Sister Thomasine out of it. “What do you mean, you gave him sanctuary?”

“Those men…” Dame Perpetua began, forced into defending what she had done.

Domina Alys was not interested. “I’ve settled with them. They won’t give trouble again.” She rammed a finger at the madman.
“That
is the trouble! He’s lunatic and stinking and you’ll see to his hurt yourself, feed him, and put him out the back gate, on his way before Vespers, and there’s an end to it!”

“But if he’s come to ask St. Frideswide’s aid,” Sister Thomasine said, “then we have to let him stay. If he wants to pray here, we can’t put him out.”

The madman lifted his head to look at her, out of the dirty mask of his face and tangled hair, his eyes staring directly, brightly at her; and she looked back at him, not wavering, repeating, “If he wants to pray here, we have to let him stay. We can’t refuse anyone who wants to pray.”

It was true enough but not something Domina Alys wanted to hear, and she began sharply, “He can’t pray. He doesn’t even know…”

The madman rose to his feet, the bloodied handkerchief clutched in his hand. “Pray,” he croaked.

Frevisse gasped and crossed herself, and on either side of her. Sister Amicia and Dame Perpetua did likewise.

“Pray,” the man repeated, more strongly.

“Yes,” Sister Thomasine agreed. “Pray.”

More quickly than anyone could have moved to stop him, he darted away at a stooping run up the nave. Domina Alys made a raged outcry and started after him, then caught herself back, apparently remembering that running after a madman was not part of a prioress’s dignity or duty, and snapped at Joliffe, “You brought him in. Fetch him back here.
Now.”

“Not from the altar,” Sister Thomasine said calmly.

The madman had reached it, gone up its steps, was crouched beside it, clutching at the altar cloth like a small child to a mother’s skirts. A lunatic, filthy child and all too likely to pull everything down on top of him. Too impatient to wait for someone to obey her, Domina Alys started after him herself.

Dame Perpetua flung out a hand to stop her. “He spoke!”

Brought up short, Domina Alys stared at her.

“He spoke!” Dame Perpetua insisted.

Urgently Frevisse explained, “He’s never spoken before.”

Domina Alys turned on them both. “What?”

“He spoke,” Frevisse repeated. “Even when the men were at him, he never made even a sound.”

Domina Alys frowned, absorbing that, and looked along the nave toward the altar and madman. “He’s never spoken?”

“Never,” Dame Perpetua said. Her voice trembled.

“He didn’t even cry out when the men were hurting him,” Sister Amicia said, her voice trembling.

“That has to mean he couldn’t,” Dame Perpetua said, the beginning of awe in her voice. “Now he’s crying out for prayers. He’s praying at the altar!”

He was not. He was clutching the altar cloth, silent again, but he
had
spoken. They had all heard him. And although a paternoster while ago he had hardly had wits enough to hold his own head up, they had seen him go, run, of his own will, to the blessed shelter of the altar. They had
seen
him.

With the same willingness to awe as Dame Perpetua, Sister Amicia whispered, “A miracle.”

Chapter 15

A shiver of possibility went up Alys’ spine. A miracle. A healing. Here in St. Frideswide’s. When word of it went out…

Dame Claire came in from the cloister, her box of medicines in her arms, and behind her was Aunt Eleanor with Margrete, and Lady Adela with a ewer and clean cloths, and behind her that girl Joice who was making so much trouble but being useful now, carrying a basin of steaming water.

Taking the matter in hand, Alys pointed them toward the altar. “He’s there. Dame Perpetua, go with them. Sister Thomasine, stay with me. Sister Amicia, you stay by the door and make certain no one else comes in.” Dame Claire and the others had surely been noticed crossing the cloister, and the curious would not be far behind them. Alys did not want the complication of them just yet, not until she had things thoroughly in hand here. She gave a sharp nod at the minstrel, letting her displeasure show, and said, “Dame Frevisse, see him out of the cloister and quickly.” And as an afterthought: “Sister Amicia, send someone for Father Henry.” Even if it were only Father Henry, it would not hurt to have a priest to testify to everything. Followed by Sister Thomasine, she followed the others to the altar to take over matters there, in time to hear Dame Perpetua exclaiming to them, “He’s not mad anymore! He talks now. Sister Thomasine…”

“Dame Perpetua!” Domina Alys snapped her short. “There’ll be time enough for that later.”

She knew the questions that would have to be asked and answered: How long had the fellow been possessed? Who was he? Who knew him? The more important the people who knew him, the better the miracle, and if this proved to be a great enough miracle—or, better, if more miracles followed it—she would have no more worry over the tower or anything else. There would be pilgrimages to here, and pilgrimages meant offerings, gifts, money enough for the tower, for its bells, for a gilded weathercock if she wanted it. Money enough for everything she meant St. Frideswide’s to have.

But for now she had to see to this miracle, such as he was, kneeling with one filthy shoulder leaned against the green damask altar cloth—probably dirtying it, but that did not matter now—one hand fisted into its hem, the other pressing a bloodied handkerchief to the side of his head while Dame Claire tried to gentle it away to come at the wound. Her box of medicines was set beside her and the girl Joice was near it, holding the basin of water and a soaked cloth ready for when Dame Claire would need it. Lady Adela hovered close behind them, but since she had set down the ewer and cloths beside Joice, she was not needed there, and Alys ordered, “Lady Adela, go to Lady Eleanor, out of the way.” At least Aunt Eleanor, Dame Perpetua, and Margrete had sense enough to stand aside. Or maybe it was just the smell that kept them at bay. Well, if they wanted the odor of sanctity about the man, they were going to have to wait for it.

But the child had not shifted and Alys turned a hard stare on her. “Lady Adela, don’t make me tell you twice.”

Lady Adela’s outthrust lower lip told she was about to be stubborn, but Dame Perpetua called, a little desperately, “Come here now, child. You’ve been told. You’ll be sent away altogether, you go on like this.”

Lady Adela shared an unfriendly look between her and Alys and ungracefully obeyed.

Putting the thought away for later that Lady Adela was someone else who was going to have to be dealt with and probably soon, Alys moved in close on Dame Claire, who had the man’s hand away from his head now and was beginning to wash the blood and dirt out of his matted hair so she could find where he was hurt.

“Keep him from bleeding on things if you can help it, Dame,” Alys said for the sake of saying something. Dame Claire gave no sign of hearing her but just now that did not matter. Let her see to the hurt. Alys would see to the rest. She drew back, away from his smell. It would be better when he had been cleaned. They could see more clearly what they had then. “Dame Perpetua, go find some kitchen folk to bring a tub of water from the laundry, large enough to wash him in. Hot water, mind you, and soap and towels and plenty more rags.”

Dame Perpetua momentarily stared at her, then exclaimed, “You’re going to have him washed here? In the
church”]
All else aside, it’s nearly time for Vespers!“

Alys had forgotten Vespers. Dame Perpetua was right, there would not be time to have the fellow scrubbed like he needed to be before Vespers. But neither did Alys mean to pray with the smell of him for company. Either Vespers would have to go elsewhere or he would.

But that did not excuse Dame Perpetua speaking out at her that way, and she said coldly, letting her displeasure show, “You forget your place, Dame. No, not in the church. In the warming room. Give order for the fire to be laid there while the water is being brought and then stay to oversee it all.”

Dame Perpetua flinched at the warning but still held back, seemingly unable to believe what she was being told, until Alys snapped, “Dame!” She flinched again at that, dropped hurriedly into a low curtsy, and fled, Alys calling after her, “When he’s clean and Vespers is over, I want him back here at the altar and no delay. You understand?”

“Yes, my lady,” Dame Perpetua called back, not slowing.

Good. Someone at least could learn their lessons.

Beside her, Aunt Eleanor asked mildly, “You mean to keep him in the church, then?”

From someone else that would have been too close to criticism, but Alys answered her readily with, “How much did Dame Perpetua manage to tell you about what happened?”

“Enough, I think. The man was lunatic and mute, and after Sister Thomasine spoke to him, he has his wits back.” Aunt Eleanor glanced toward the limp, dirty figure letting Dame Claire do what she wanted to him. “A little,” she amended. “Enough that he could speak and ask for prayers and go to the altar.”

“But you see the rest of it?” Alys asked. “It’s not going to matter anymore that all we’ve ever had here is one of St. Frideswide’s fingerbones! It’s never done aught for us anyway. What I have now is far better than it’s ever proved to be.” All of a saint’s power to bless and protect was supposed to be as present in the smallest part of her as in the whole, but Alys had never seen any particular good come from their tiny bit of bone. She looked aside to Sister Thomasine, standing where she had stopped after following Alys up the church. As always, she was simply there, head bowed, hands folded, so lost in prayers she hardly heard anything that happened around her. A thin little nothing of a nun, that’s what she looked like, but Alys had known what she was, had always known. She had thought Aunt Eleanor would realize it now, too, but her aunt’s expression was more blank than comprehending and Alys leaned close to whisper, just between them—it was not something servant or child needed to know yet: “She’s a saint. You see it? She spoke to a madman, and despite all the powers of the devil and demons inside him, he spoke back. He answered her and asked for prayers. He’s her first miracle and if she can do one miracle, she can do more.”

She drew back, to enjoy Aunt Eleanor’s wonder, but what there was of it was too slight, too questioning. “You really mean to keep him in the church, then?” she repeated.

“In the church. Here at the altar.” Alys was beginning to be impatient. She had expected her aunt to grasp it easily, even if no one else did. “It’s done in other places.” The sick—and most particularly the lunatic—were allowed to stay at the altar or the saint’s tomb through a night or even nights and days together while they prayed and were prayed for.