The Maiden’s Tale by Margaret Frazer

although by the time they reached the hall Frevisse had noticed that Lady Jane, unlike most people, asked more about Frevisse’s travelling than told of her own. Frevisse was readying to turn that around when distracted by a household yeoman crossing their way, nothing particular about him except that when he made a deep bow of his head to them, as he should in passing, Lady Jane made an equally deep curtsy to him in return, far more than courtesy required from her, the man not pausing his going or Lady Jane in her talk until they were well away from him, when she said as if Frevisse had asked, “He’s my betrothed. We’re to be married at Twelfth Night.”
    Frevisse held her surprise in check. If Lady Jane was wellborn enough to be a lady-in-waiting to Lady Alice, surely she should be marrying higher than a yeoman, no matter what her face. There had been no sign of particular affection in either of them at their greeting or in Lady Jane’s voice now, and if the wedding were not for another a month and a half, the matter was not of haste, to cover some shame. Then for what?
    Another question to add to the ones about well-featured Robyn, because Frevisse did not comfortably believe what Lady Jane had said of him.
    In the lady chamber Alice waved to them to join her at a table covered with papers and account rolls, saying to the dark-haired, small-boned man who was with her as she let an accounts roll close, “There, that’s all for now. I’m going to enjoy my cousin’s company the rest of this morning if there’s nothing pressing.”
    “It’s all well in hand, my lady,” he said with a slight bow.
    “Frevisse, this is Master Bruneau, secretary concerning all our properties in France and a good friend.”
    Thinking she knew his accent, Frevisse said, “You’re from Normandy, sir? From near Rouen?”
    Master Bruneau’s formality dropped away into a smile. “My lady is of Normandy? Named then for our Saint Frevisse?”
    He gave her name the French pronunciation she had not heard since childhood. The English made shorter and less graceful work of it and she confessed, “No, my parents were entirely English, but I was born in France and, yes, was named for Saint Frevisse because she’s the same as our St. Frideswide of Oxfordshire.” Perhaps the only touch of home-longing her wandering parents had ever shown.
    “Ah. That would be why your French is of France rather than of Stratford-at-Bow.”
    “There now,” Alice said, feigning grievance. “He’s always doing that. Using Grandfather’s words against me.”
    Master Bruneau gave her a deeply respectful bow. “For the sake of your grandfather’s many and most beautiful words, I will tell you your French is unflawed. ”All lies in you, do with it what you will. I all forgive, without a longer space.“ ”
    “I’m supposed to know what that’s from, aren’t I?” Alice said.
    This seemed an old game between them, and Frevisse joined in with, “ ‘For whoso gives a gift, or does a grace, Do it by time, his thanks is well the more.” “
    Alice threw up her hands in protest. “That’s enough. I don’t need both of you doing it.” But she was laughing as she pushed some of the papers and three of the rolls in front of her toward Master Bruneau. “They’re yours. I don’t want to see that lot again until next year’s accounts have to be done.” And added warmly when he had gathered them up and gone, “He’s a sapphire among servants. Learned, of good understanding, capable, and entirely practical. Do you know how many people are of good understanding and learned and totally incapable of practicality?”
    “And his English
is
better than your French,” Frevisse said.
    “He’s been in England far longer than I’ve ever been in France,” Alice returned with dignity, “and that excuses neither of you quoting Grandfather so much more readily than I do.”
    “Who’s to blame for that?” Frevisse asked innocently.
    “You and Master