Servant’s Tale Read online

  “Sym is the older one?”

  Meg stiffened, remembering his quarrel with her men, and nodded.

  Rose did not seem to notice her stiffening, just said, “He’ll make a well-grown man. There’s strength in him.”

  Pleased to have someone notice one of the good things about Sym, Meg nodded. “He’s like his father.”

  “And the other boy is a handsome one.”

  Meg warmed to the woman. “And bright,” she said. “He knows his letters.” It helped to say it aloud, made it more real.

  “It’s good to have two sons. They can be a help to each other as well as to you.”

  The idea of Sym and Hewe a help to each other held Meg silent for a disconcerted moment. But she knew her duty to a conversation and said, “You have a son, too.”

  The warmth of Rose’s answering smile betrayed how deeply that fact mattered to her. “Piers,” she said.

  “Is he feeling better?” Meg asked.

  “Yes, thank you. His fever is still high but he’s resting quietly and keeping warm and Dame Claire says it shouldn’t worsen.”

  At the mention of Dame Claire, Meg’s head twitched around toward the door, wondering how long it would be before help came. Rose asked, “Do you work here at the priory?”

  Meg did not want to think about her work at the priory and how near she might be to losing it. “Sometimes,” she said. “You and the others are all players?”

  “Not me,” Rose said with soft laughter. “I do the tumbling that brings the crowd to us and help to hold them afterwards long enough for us to gather their pence in payment for our shows.”

  “Tumbling?” Meg said. Tumbling was what children did on a summer day down a grassy slope.

  “Like this.” Rose stood up with swift grace, her arms raised over her head, then, as if it were a natural thing, bent backwards, doubling over the wrong way for any body to go. Too quickly for Meg to quite understand what she was seeing, Rose’s hands touched down behind her, and with a twist in the air she was over and upright.

  “God grant mercy!” Meg breathed, crossing herself for protection against such strangeness.

  Rose smiled. “It’s something I learned when I was little.” She turned sideways to give herself more room, tripped forward to land on her hands as she flung her feet up and over herself and back to the floor, bringing her upright with a little bounce. “See?”

  Meg put a protective hand on Barnaby’s chest and waved the other at her to stop. It looked like something demons would do to mock God’s proper ways. “No more,” she begged.

  “Indeed, no more,” said Dame Frevisse from the doorway.

  Chapter 8

  Frevisse stepped aside to allow Father Henry and Dame Claire to go past her into the hall. In the moment of entering she had been startled to see Rose’s forward flip, then had to smother her reaction of amusement on seeing Meg’s fright; it was Meg’s ignorance, not stupidity, that made her so easily frightened. Besides, what they were here for was not amusing.

  Oblivious, Father Henry went past her, making the sign of the cross and saying, “Pax hie domui.”‘ Peace to this place.

  Frevisse and Dame Claire, following him side by side, responded, “Et omnibus habitantibus in ea.”‘ And to all who live in it.

  Rose and Meg together answered, “Amen.” Meg, on her feet now, bowing her head and making a hasty little curtsey in respect for the priest, cast Rose a startled glance as if surprised to hear an amen from someone like her. Rose, not noticing, made her own graceful curtsey to the priest and withdrew down the hall to her own fire.

  Barnaby opened his pain-filled eyes. Hope and fear together slid over his beard-stubbled face as he saw the priest standing over him, and he rasped, “Father, your blessing. I hurt like to die. I want God’s help.”

  “It’s here,” Father Henry said reassuringly. Draped around his neck and hanging almost to his knees was a black silk band embroidered with crosses, flowers, and bunches of grapes in shades of penitential purple; and he carried with careful hands the gilt box embossed with sacred symbols that held the Host. He went to stand at Barnaby’s feet. Frevisse picked a wisp of straw from the hearth and took a bit of fire to light the candles she and Dame Claire carried and then joined him as he began the sacrament meant to assure the soul’s safety after death. His inaccurate Latin was reassuringly loud, and Frevisse saw both Barnaby’s and Meg’s faces ease as he made his way through Psalm 31.

  As he finished, she and Dame Claire set down the candles on either side of Barnaby’s head, and Father Henry stooped so Barnaby could kiss the crucifix he held out to him. Meg began to sob quietly. Dame Claire put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Dominus vobiscum,”‘ intoned Father Henry, opening his book of ritual.

  “Et cum spiritu tuo,” Frevisse and Dame Claire replied together, Meg following a half moment after them.

  Father Henry began to pray. Barnaby moaned “Amen” whenever the priest paused or hesitated, and since Father Henry’s Latin reading was only somewhat better than his remembered Latin, the amens were frequent and often inappropriate. It was unsettling to Father Henry but at last he got to the end, when he said his own amen, and gestured for the three women to withdraw while he heard Barnaby’s confession.

  Away from the fire’s small spread of warmth, the December cold slid under clothing and lay like ice along shin and forearm. Meg began to shiver violently, as much from shock as cold. Dame Claire gave the box of medicines she had been carrying to Frevisse and wrapped an arm around Meg, drawing her close for comfort and what warmth they could share. “We could go to the fire,” she offered. But Meg shook her head, and Dame Claire did not press her. As rigorous as she could be toward complaining patients or servants slow to obey, Dame Claire’s deepest trait was kindness.

  Unsurprisingly, Barnaby’s confession took a long while. When he had finished, Father Henry spoke the words of absolution, and began the ritual anointing of eyelids, ears, nostrils, lips, hands, feet, asking the Lord to forgive any evil done with each member. Frevisse watched Meg rather than the priest, saw how she forgot her body’s cold in wonder at the magic, as a man known to be sinful was cleansed of all blame and made over fresh, worthy to share eternal bliss with God. There were fresh tears on Meg’s cheeks. She stepped out of Dame Claire’s embrace without hesitating when Father Henry beckoned and there was something like enthusiasm in her voice when they said a paternoster together.

  The priest ended the rite by giving Barnaby the viaticum— food for the journey—a thin wafer of consecrated bread that ought to have melted on the tongue, though Barnaby made an eye-bulging struggle of getting it down. When he was finished, Father Henry gathered up the articles of his sacred work and blessed them all.

  When he was gone, Dame Claire took his place, to tend to Barnaby’s body now that his soul was seen to. Dame Frevisse stayed in case her help was needed, doubting how much use Meg might be if her husband became desperate with pain. But Barnaby bore the infirmarian’s handling with set-jawed patience. He grunted with pain as she felt along his bruised side and chest, and went white around the mouth when she handled his hand, but he held back from groaning or cursing.

  When Dame Claire had finished and Barnaby was lying limp and closed-eyed, she mixed a strong sleeping powder into the wine she had brought. Meg sidled close to Frevisse and whispered, “What the priest did—Barnaby’s all blessed now, his sins all forgiven and gone? He’s sure of Heaven?”

  “As sure as any man can be,” Frevisse assured her. “And until he sins again.”

  Meg’s cheeks darkened with a faint blush and her eyes dropped. “There’s blessing indeed,” she murmured.

  Dame Claire stood up from pouring the medicine into Barnaby’s willing mouth. “You’ll soon be feeling very little of the pain and then you’ll fall to sleep,” she told him. “Sleep is best for you now. I’ll have some broth sent from the kitchen for you against your wakening.” She turned to Meg. “Keep him warm. If he’s still awake when the
broth comes, feed him only a little at a time. I doubt there’ll be trouble keeping him quiet.”

  She moved away to put her things back in their box. Meg went almost timidly to kneel beside her husband, wiping the last of her tears away, and said, “You’re all blessed, Barnaby. The lady said so. Better even than when you were born. All your sins are gone.”

  His eyes closed, his face gray, Barnaby said, “I’m still hurting. She said it would stop soon but I’m still hurting.”

  “She said it would take a while, Barnaby. Just a little while.”

  He grunted without moving and asked, “I don’t remember what happened. Was I fighting again? Was that it?”

  Hesitantly Meg said, “You crashed Gilbey Dunn’s cart into a ditch and wrecked it. Some travelers found you and brought you here.”

  Barnaby made a small moan. He opened his eyes and looked vaguely at the ceiling. “Where am I?”

  “The priory, remember? St. Frideswide’s. They brought you here and the nuns are letting you stay until you’re well enough to be moved.”

  He grunted that he understood and shut his eyes again.

  With great softness and, Frevisse suspected, some courage, Meg leaned nearer to him and asked, “Do you remember what happened that made you crash? Do you remember that?”

  At first Frevisse thought he was not going to answer, that Dame Claire’s sleeping draught was working more quickly than usual. But he finally said, “I was coming home. From Lord Lovel’s…”

  His voice trailed off but his breathing told that he was still conscious. Meg waited but when he did not go on, she asked “Did you deliver the wine?”

  Barnaby grunted, drew a tentatively deep breath, and probably found it did not hurt. Dame Claire’s potion had begun to work against the pain, and with a little more sense he said, “Just like I was told, and never spilled a drop from Oxford to his lordship’s hall. Never a stave sprung nor a drop spilled.” He grimaced—or maybe he meant it for a smile around the pain—and opened his eyes to Meg’s anxious face. “They had wine at the manor, though. Not pot-brewed ale but real wine, like I’d never had before, a great bowl of it in the hall, for Christmas and all. I sang for them, Lord Lovel and his lady…”

  “Not that song,” Meg said, flushing with anxiety and shame.

  Rough humor tugged at the corners of Barnaby’s mouth. “Nay, not that one. The other one. About King Henry that was, God keep him, and his Agincourt battle…”

  His voice caught as he fought an urge to cough.

  Meg touched his shoulder. “Don’t talk.”

  “Nay,” he said. “It’s working, the medicine. There’s not so much hurting. And before I forget—” He fumbled his unhurt hand under the blankets, groping for something at his waist that was not there.

  Frevisse had stayed near, knowing someone should watch until he was safely into sleep. Now she said, “Here,” guessing, and reached toward the ragged pile of his belongings they had stripped from his body but not bothered with since. “Your pouch?” she asked, surprised by its weight as she held it out.

  Barnaby waved it toward his wife. “For you,” he croaked. “Said I’d bring you something. See?”

  There was a small-boy triumph in his voice and glimmering twitch of a smile on his pain-grayed face. But with more wariness than pleasure, Meg took the pouch and pulled its drawstrings open, felt inside, and cautiously drew out what had weighed so much.

  In the hall’s shadowed light, the roundness that Meg held in her hand glowed as richly as a sunset. But a sunset could never be held in anyone’s hands, and Frevisse watched Meg’s wariness turn to wonder. Plainly she had never seen such a thing, and with a delicate grace that surprised Frevisse, she bent her head and smelled of it, then looked at Barnaby with wonder still in her face and asked, “What is it?”

  “A norange,” Barnaby said, proud of his knowledge. “There was a whole big bowl of them, big as the bowl of wine, nearly, there on Lord Lovel’s high table, right in front of him and his lady. Christmas Day the hall was open to all the servants and guests or chance travelers. And food? Food like you never saw and more than comes my way from one start of winter to the next. And drink.” The drug was working in him now, or he had forgotten his hurt in the excitement of his tale.

  “Good wine, with spices in it, and hardly a let to anyone taking a taste. The steward saw me reach out a hand and nodded and smiled, like I was a proper guest. I’ll travel the breadth of England if that steward should ask me, and never a grumble about the going. I had a taste and another, and that’s when I sang my song, the one that’s fit for noble folk. And they liked it, Meg! They liked it and Lady Lovel herself said it was worth something and tossed me the norange and I saved it for you. Brought it home for you for a Christmas fairing. You’ve never had the like, now have you?”

  Meg, the orange still cupped in her hands and held close to her breast, smiled a slow, spreading smile so clear and whole with pleasure that she looked years younger, and Frevisse for the first time wondered what age she really was.

  “Bamaby light, Barnaby bright,” she crooned softly. “Longest day and the shortest night.” The old rhyme for St. Barnabas’s Day that came near midsummer; a rhyme with a special meaning, Frevisse guessed, because a smile as whole as Meg’s own pulled at the deep-weathered lines of Barnaby’s face.

  He nodded and said, “It’s to eat. I saw them doing that with them. Eating noranges.”

  Meg looked doubtfully at the orange’s thick, tough skin and then at him.

  “Like this,” Frevisse offered, holding out her hand. There had sometimes been oranges in her uncle’s household, and she knew how they could be peeled to reach the sweetness.

  Hesitantly Meg handed over her treasure, but cried out when Frevisse dug a fingernail in at its crest, and jerked as if to snatch it away. She barely stopped herself, and clutched her hands together, her face raw with distress.

  Frevisse looked at her with surprise. “You have to peel it. The peel comes off and then you eat what’s inside.”

  Meg shook her head mutely, her mouth closed tightly over any spoken protest but her hands betraying how much she wanted the orange back in her keeping. Understanding, Frevisse held it out to her.

  Meg took it back, clasping it with both hands to her breast again.

  “It won’t keep long,” Frevisse warned. “Not like an apple.”

  “Nothing keeps long,” Meg answered. “But for a little while?”

  That was a plea and Frevisse answered it gently with a nod. “For a little while. A week or two. And if you save the peel and dry it, it keeps its scent a long while after.”

  Meg did not answer but bent her head to smell the sweetness again.

  Barnaby quieted as evening came on. In fact, Dame Claire, seeing to him after Compline, had been pleased. “He’s strong. His body seems to have steadied from the shock. I’ll be best able to tell tomorrow, but his chances are better with every hour.” She nodded toward one of the servants. “Eda knows where I sleep if you need me in the night.” Meg, hunched against falling asleep, glanced at the woman and nodded. Frevisse had thought a strong dose of Dame Claire’s potion for Meg, and a long sleep afterwards, would have been a good thing, but it was not possible and they had gone back to the cloister and bed and their own sleep.

  But now she was awake. The night was sunken into the cold, dead time between Matins and dawn; the dormitory was long since settled out of the restlessness that always came after midnight prayers. There had been the expected coughing, snuffling, smothered sneezing, and finally silence except for the sounds of sleep. But Frevisse was still uncomfortably awake, propped up as best she could manage with her thin pillow.

  She knew her wakefulness was partly because of her own cold’s misery, but there was something else, too, and the prayers and meditations that usually soothed her and kept her company when these wakeful hours came on her had neither done that nor helped her find why she was uneasy. The stark fact was that she was awake. She was awake and
something was wrong and she did not know what or where the trouble was.

  She had tried feeling it in the dormitory’s silence, listening for anything that should not be there; but everything was as it always was, from Dame Alys’s erratic snoring farther along the aisle to the gurgle of water through the necessarium. Nor could she remember anything left undone that could be troubling her. The only thing uneasy and wrong seemed to be her own mind and now, deliberately, Frevisse let it loose. Stopped trying to search out the trouble and let her thoughts drift in the night’s deep cold and darkness. If nothing else they might finally drift her back to sleep.

  She found she was thinking of Meg’s orange.

  Disconcerted, Frevisse circled the thought. Meg’s orange. She had held it only briefly but could still feel it. Could remember its smell and her knowing of how sweet it was inside. The pleasure of it in her hand.