room.”
Irony was lost on Sister Amicia. She only blinked, a little disappointed. “But maybe there isn’t always. Brimstone, I mean. Do you think?”
“Thomasine was there,” Frevisse said shortly, “and said nothing about seeing demons.”
“Oh, but she did,” one of the other young nuns exclaimed gladly. “She said she saw them dancing all around Lady Ermentrude. She said that.”
If talk of Lady Ermentrude’s demons was already this far into the priory, there was no hope of stopping it, Frevisse thought angrily. Curbing the rumors was all that was left. “That was this afternoon when Lady Ermentrude first came,” she said briskly. “Not when Martha was dying. And Thomasine never said she saw demons, only that she thought Lady Ermentrude was seeing them.”
“But that’s nearly the same!” exclaimed Sister Amicia.
“Not remotely the same. My saying you’ve seen angels in the sky doesn’t mean you’ve seen them, only that I think you have.”
“But Lady Ermentrude was seeing something. She was terrified.”
“She was seeing the effects of having too much wine in too short a time. Dame Claire will tell you that people who drink too often and too deeply think they see terrible things not really there.”
Better Lady Ermentrude’s weakness be known than to have the whole priory giddy with rumors of devils for a year to come, Frevisse thought. She was satisfied by the shocked intakes of breath at her bluntness. Before anyone, even Sister Amicia, could think of anything else to say, she added, “Here’s Dame Claire come. I pray, excuse us.”
She did not wait to be excused, simply took Dame Claire’s arm—as the infirmarian, surprised at so many faces looking at her all at once, paused beside her—and walked her away from them. Frevisse could fairly guess what they would say behind her, but she had long since accepted that among the various things she needed to do penance for was a recurring great impatience with stupidity. And their childish desire for gossip was a trial she did not care to put Dame Claire through just at this moment.
She had glimpsed Dame Claire’s face as she joined her, and seen that she was looking tired and inward-turned, as she always did when someone in her care had died. That was why Frevisse had gone looking for her, to see if there was aught she could do to ease her friend’s heart.
Away from the others, Frevisse let go of her arm, tucked her own hands into her sleeves to match Dame Claire’s quiet self-containment. “I know we always say this to you but it’s true. There was nothing you could have done.”
“I know. But it’s wearisome, being able to do nothing.
And it was all so unlooked for. So sudden, with no time for being ready. I hate being able to do nothing.“
There was no answer to that except platitudes, which were pointless, and after a moment Frevisse said instead, “Domina Edith has settled everything for the funeral tomorrow?”
“Not tomorrow.”
Frevisse looked at her, surprised. “Her relatives in Banbury will be wanting to bury her?”‘ So far as she knew, Martha Hayward’s distant cousins had never shown that much interest in her.
Dame Claire said, “I doubt it. They might. But the crowner has to come.”
“Ah.” Frevisse had forgotten that necessity. Martha Hayward had died suddenly, without being ill, and any unexplained death, whether by accident or illness or overt crime, meant the crowner was required. Though his proper duty was to determine if any fines or forfeits were due the king (with a portion going into his own purse), in order to do so, he had to ask questions, determine where any guilt lay. Or at last say there was no cause for any doubts, that the death was innocent, and give permission for the burial. Depending on where in Oxfordshire he was just now, and how long he took to arrive, the burial would hardly happen for two days at
Irony was lost on Sister Amicia. She only blinked, a little disappointed. “But maybe there isn’t always. Brimstone, I mean. Do you think?”
“Thomasine was there,” Frevisse said shortly, “and said nothing about seeing demons.”
“Oh, but she did,” one of the other young nuns exclaimed gladly. “She said she saw them dancing all around Lady Ermentrude. She said that.”
If talk of Lady Ermentrude’s demons was already this far into the priory, there was no hope of stopping it, Frevisse thought angrily. Curbing the rumors was all that was left. “That was this afternoon when Lady Ermentrude first came,” she said briskly. “Not when Martha was dying. And Thomasine never said she saw demons, only that she thought Lady Ermentrude was seeing them.”
“But that’s nearly the same!” exclaimed Sister Amicia.
“Not remotely the same. My saying you’ve seen angels in the sky doesn’t mean you’ve seen them, only that I think you have.”
“But Lady Ermentrude was seeing something. She was terrified.”
“She was seeing the effects of having too much wine in too short a time. Dame Claire will tell you that people who drink too often and too deeply think they see terrible things not really there.”
Better Lady Ermentrude’s weakness be known than to have the whole priory giddy with rumors of devils for a year to come, Frevisse thought. She was satisfied by the shocked intakes of breath at her bluntness. Before anyone, even Sister Amicia, could think of anything else to say, she added, “Here’s Dame Claire come. I pray, excuse us.”
She did not wait to be excused, simply took Dame Claire’s arm—as the infirmarian, surprised at so many faces looking at her all at once, paused beside her—and walked her away from them. Frevisse could fairly guess what they would say behind her, but she had long since accepted that among the various things she needed to do penance for was a recurring great impatience with stupidity. And their childish desire for gossip was a trial she did not care to put Dame Claire through just at this moment.
She had glimpsed Dame Claire’s face as she joined her, and seen that she was looking tired and inward-turned, as she always did when someone in her care had died. That was why Frevisse had gone looking for her, to see if there was aught she could do to ease her friend’s heart.
Away from the others, Frevisse let go of her arm, tucked her own hands into her sleeves to match Dame Claire’s quiet self-containment. “I know we always say this to you but it’s true. There was nothing you could have done.”
“I know. But it’s wearisome, being able to do nothing.
And it was all so unlooked for. So sudden, with no time for being ready. I hate being able to do nothing.“
There was no answer to that except platitudes, which were pointless, and after a moment Frevisse said instead, “Domina Edith has settled everything for the funeral tomorrow?”
“Not tomorrow.”
Frevisse looked at her, surprised. “Her relatives in Banbury will be wanting to bury her?”‘ So far as she knew, Martha Hayward’s distant cousins had never shown that much interest in her.
Dame Claire said, “I doubt it. They might. But the crowner has to come.”
“Ah.” Frevisse had forgotten that necessity. Martha Hayward had died suddenly, without being ill, and any unexplained death, whether by accident or illness or overt crime, meant the crowner was required. Though his proper duty was to determine if any fines or forfeits were due the king (with a portion going into his own purse), in order to do so, he had to ask questions, determine where any guilt lay. Or at last say there was no cause for any doubts, that the death was innocent, and give permission for the burial. Depending on where in Oxfordshire he was just now, and how long he took to arrive, the burial would hardly happen for two days at
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