always be graceful in success, Frevisse thought, and wondered how he was in defeat. She rose, made low curtsy to him again, and left. Dame Perpetua silently followed.
Interested and speculative looks were turned on them by people in the outer room, but Frevisse walked through without raising her head, the cloth-wrapped bundle pressed against her middle by her folded hands, her veil swung forward on either side of her face in appearance of holy modesty.
In truth she was feeling nothing remotely like holy, and just then modesty was the least of her concerns. But she wanted no one to speak to her; she did not trust her ability to answer well or even politely. She wanted to be alone, to think how best to do what Bishop Beaufort was asking. With the instinct of her years in St. Frideswide’s and her knowledge that with Ewelme crowded with guests tonight there was no private place to go to, she retreated to the chapel.
In its antechamber, as Frevisse reached for the door handle, Dame Perpetua touched her arm, stopping her. “Dame Frevisse, how is it with you?” she asked gently.
Frevisse turned to her. “How much did you hear of what he asked of me?”
“All of it, I think. Will you be able to do what he wants of you?”
It had been for her common sense and good manners that Perpetua had been chosen to come with her; nor did Frevisse have any doubt of her discretion. But this was not something she thought she could share. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice sharpened with her own desire not to be burdened with the problem. “I don’t even know if I know how to try.” She reached for the door again. “I need to pray awhile.”
Behind her, Dame Perpetua said quietly, “Prayer is meant to be a strength and guidance, not a hiding place.”
Frevisse paused as the justice of mat warning struck to the soft core of her conscience. She had no reply. Her darkness was her own, and God had not yet shown her the way out of it. Until he did, prayer was her only ease. And her only guidance. She did herself that much justice: she was searching for a way out of the darkness of her regret, a way through forgiveness—God’s and her own—into acceptance of her deeds, not into escape from them, or denial. And prayer was the only way she had. Prayer was not her hiding place but her hope.
But that was not something to be put into words here and now. After a moment, not answering Dame Perpetua, she went on into the chapel.
Sir Clement’s body was laid out where Chaucer’s body had been yesterday. There was no coffin yet; the body, completely enveloped in a white shroud, rested on boards set on trestles covered with black cloth, seemly enough until a coffin could be made. His relatives would depart with the body tomorrow, Frevisse supposed. No, the crowner still had to come, as he always did, to investigate any uncertain or violent death. Neither Sir Clement’s body nor his family would be able to leave until then, and there was no way to know yet when the crowner would arrive.
She crossed to the far side of the chapel, Dame Perpetua behind her. It was dim here, well away from the door and from the light of the few candles set around Sir Clement’s bier. She recognized Jevan kneeling at the head of the coffin, his face above his clasped hands touched with the warm golden candlelight. Three others, one of them Master Gallard, the usher, by his shape (but subdued and motionless for once), knelt in a row beside the coffin, facing the altar, their backs to her. In a hush of skirts, Dame Perpetua sank down to her knees beside her. Frevisse followed her onto the familiar hardness of stone floor, bowed her head, folded her hands together—and found that instead of going readily into the comfort of prayer, she was staring blindly at the floor in front of her, thinking of the problem she had been set.
There was no question but that she must do as Bishop Beaufort had asked. He was her
Interested and speculative looks were turned on them by people in the outer room, but Frevisse walked through without raising her head, the cloth-wrapped bundle pressed against her middle by her folded hands, her veil swung forward on either side of her face in appearance of holy modesty.
In truth she was feeling nothing remotely like holy, and just then modesty was the least of her concerns. But she wanted no one to speak to her; she did not trust her ability to answer well or even politely. She wanted to be alone, to think how best to do what Bishop Beaufort was asking. With the instinct of her years in St. Frideswide’s and her knowledge that with Ewelme crowded with guests tonight there was no private place to go to, she retreated to the chapel.
In its antechamber, as Frevisse reached for the door handle, Dame Perpetua touched her arm, stopping her. “Dame Frevisse, how is it with you?” she asked gently.
Frevisse turned to her. “How much did you hear of what he asked of me?”
“All of it, I think. Will you be able to do what he wants of you?”
It had been for her common sense and good manners that Perpetua had been chosen to come with her; nor did Frevisse have any doubt of her discretion. But this was not something she thought she could share. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice sharpened with her own desire not to be burdened with the problem. “I don’t even know if I know how to try.” She reached for the door again. “I need to pray awhile.”
Behind her, Dame Perpetua said quietly, “Prayer is meant to be a strength and guidance, not a hiding place.”
Frevisse paused as the justice of mat warning struck to the soft core of her conscience. She had no reply. Her darkness was her own, and God had not yet shown her the way out of it. Until he did, prayer was her only ease. And her only guidance. She did herself that much justice: she was searching for a way out of the darkness of her regret, a way through forgiveness—God’s and her own—into acceptance of her deeds, not into escape from them, or denial. And prayer was the only way she had. Prayer was not her hiding place but her hope.
But that was not something to be put into words here and now. After a moment, not answering Dame Perpetua, she went on into the chapel.
Sir Clement’s body was laid out where Chaucer’s body had been yesterday. There was no coffin yet; the body, completely enveloped in a white shroud, rested on boards set on trestles covered with black cloth, seemly enough until a coffin could be made. His relatives would depart with the body tomorrow, Frevisse supposed. No, the crowner still had to come, as he always did, to investigate any uncertain or violent death. Neither Sir Clement’s body nor his family would be able to leave until then, and there was no way to know yet when the crowner would arrive.
She crossed to the far side of the chapel, Dame Perpetua behind her. It was dim here, well away from the door and from the light of the few candles set around Sir Clement’s bier. She recognized Jevan kneeling at the head of the coffin, his face above his clasped hands touched with the warm golden candlelight. Three others, one of them Master Gallard, the usher, by his shape (but subdued and motionless for once), knelt in a row beside the coffin, facing the altar, their backs to her. In a hush of skirts, Dame Perpetua sank down to her knees beside her. Frevisse followed her onto the familiar hardness of stone floor, bowed her head, folded her hands together—and found that instead of going readily into the comfort of prayer, she was staring blindly at the floor in front of her, thinking of the problem she had been set.
There was no question but that she must do as Bishop Beaufort had asked. He was her
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