man beside Master Gallard had been Sir Philip.
Now he bowed his head to her slightly, in acknowledgment of her noticing him, then tilted it to one side, asking her to come with him.
She would have to talk to him sometime; at least this way he had sought her out, and so might be less guarded with his answers. With a sense of duplicity, because she had not been praying, Frevisse briefly bent her head and crossed herself, then rose to go with him from the chapel. Dame Perpetua followed her and in the antechamber, as they drew to a far corner, she stopped by the door, her hands quietly in her sleeves, her head bowed, just as she had been with Bishop Beaufort.
With no waste of words over any greeting, and not even a look at Dame Perpetua, Sir Philip said, “His grace the bishop wished to speak with you.”
“And did,” Frevisse answered, sure he already knew it. What he probably wanted to know was why, but she had her answer ready. “He had a message for me from my uncle. My uncle charged him with it on his deathbed, and he wished to give it to me personally.”
“God keep your uncle’s soul,” Sir Philip said. “And that was all?” His gaze dropped deliberately to the bundle she still held against herself, then returned to her face.
Her expression bland, Frevisse said, “What else should there be?”
Matching her tone, he said, “Your uncle spoke of you upon occasion. He was fond of you. More, he valued your intelligence.”
Frevisse bent her head humbly, as if to disparage the compliment, and said nothing.
“And I think he spoke of it to Bishop Beaufort, too.”
“That would have been very kind of him,” Frevisse said.
“His grace the bishop is not content that Sir Clement’s death was God’s will.”
Frevisse could not help a start of surprise. “He isn’t?”
“Didn’t he say so to you?”
“Did he to you?”
“He questioned me about every particular I observed of Sir Clement’s attack and death, and I don’t think he was satisfied with my answers.”
“Why? What did you tell him?”
“You saw it, along with everyone else in the hall and then in my room.”
“But you were closer. And I didn’t see what happened in your room until I came at almost the end.”
Sir Philip gestured impatiently. “You saw enough. He was better, able to breathe with less effort and talking lucidly. And then he was struck again and died. You saw that.”
Frevisse nodded. She had seen that. She wished she could more clearly remember where the others had been around the room, what they were doing before the second attack, what their faces had betrayed of their feelings. She crossed herself. “As if God had begun to remove his hand from him, and then struck him down after all.” She shivered with memory. “Did he say anything before then that I didn’t hear? Anything so unrepentant, or…” She hesitated. “… so blasphemous there was no salvation for him?”
“There was no repentance or fear of God in him at all. He was himself, ill-tempered and demanding as always.” Sir Philip paused, then added, “Perhaps that was what brought God’s final anger down on him. That even so plainly warned, he saw no error in his ways.”
Drawn along that path of thought, Frevisse quoted, “ ‘What, do you think your life was given to you forever, and the world’s goods with it?”“
“ ‘Nay, nay, they were only loaned to you, and in a while will go to another,”“ Sir Philip answered.
It was a game Frevisse loved, and she was good at it; but this time she had to admit, “I know the quotation but don’t remember the source.”
“It’s from
Everyman”
Sir Philip said. “I’ve never seen it performed, but your uncle had a copy of it.”
The chapel door opened quietly on its well-oiled hinges, and Jevan Dey came out. He paused at the sight of them, then closed the door and bowed. The
Now he bowed his head to her slightly, in acknowledgment of her noticing him, then tilted it to one side, asking her to come with him.
She would have to talk to him sometime; at least this way he had sought her out, and so might be less guarded with his answers. With a sense of duplicity, because she had not been praying, Frevisse briefly bent her head and crossed herself, then rose to go with him from the chapel. Dame Perpetua followed her and in the antechamber, as they drew to a far corner, she stopped by the door, her hands quietly in her sleeves, her head bowed, just as she had been with Bishop Beaufort.
With no waste of words over any greeting, and not even a look at Dame Perpetua, Sir Philip said, “His grace the bishop wished to speak with you.”
“And did,” Frevisse answered, sure he already knew it. What he probably wanted to know was why, but she had her answer ready. “He had a message for me from my uncle. My uncle charged him with it on his deathbed, and he wished to give it to me personally.”
“God keep your uncle’s soul,” Sir Philip said. “And that was all?” His gaze dropped deliberately to the bundle she still held against herself, then returned to her face.
Her expression bland, Frevisse said, “What else should there be?”
Matching her tone, he said, “Your uncle spoke of you upon occasion. He was fond of you. More, he valued your intelligence.”
Frevisse bent her head humbly, as if to disparage the compliment, and said nothing.
“And I think he spoke of it to Bishop Beaufort, too.”
“That would have been very kind of him,” Frevisse said.
“His grace the bishop is not content that Sir Clement’s death was God’s will.”
Frevisse could not help a start of surprise. “He isn’t?”
“Didn’t he say so to you?”
“Did he to you?”
“He questioned me about every particular I observed of Sir Clement’s attack and death, and I don’t think he was satisfied with my answers.”
“Why? What did you tell him?”
“You saw it, along with everyone else in the hall and then in my room.”
“But you were closer. And I didn’t see what happened in your room until I came at almost the end.”
Sir Philip gestured impatiently. “You saw enough. He was better, able to breathe with less effort and talking lucidly. And then he was struck again and died. You saw that.”
Frevisse nodded. She had seen that. She wished she could more clearly remember where the others had been around the room, what they were doing before the second attack, what their faces had betrayed of their feelings. She crossed herself. “As if God had begun to remove his hand from him, and then struck him down after all.” She shivered with memory. “Did he say anything before then that I didn’t hear? Anything so unrepentant, or…” She hesitated. “… so blasphemous there was no salvation for him?”
“There was no repentance or fear of God in him at all. He was himself, ill-tempered and demanding as always.” Sir Philip paused, then added, “Perhaps that was what brought God’s final anger down on him. That even so plainly warned, he saw no error in his ways.”
Drawn along that path of thought, Frevisse quoted, “ ‘What, do you think your life was given to you forever, and the world’s goods with it?”“
“ ‘Nay, nay, they were only loaned to you, and in a while will go to another,”“ Sir Philip answered.
It was a game Frevisse loved, and she was good at it; but this time she had to admit, “I know the quotation but don’t remember the source.”
“It’s from
Everyman”
Sir Philip said. “I’ve never seen it performed, but your uncle had a copy of it.”
The chapel door opened quietly on its well-oiled hinges, and Jevan Dey came out. He paused at the sight of them, then closed the door and bowed. The
Similar Books
