THE NOVICE'S TALE

Chapter Two

Domina Edith, waking as easily as she had fallen asleep, lifted her head. "What is it?"

Dame Frevisse swung back in a gentle swirl of veil and curtsied, her face courteously bland. "Lady Ermentrude Fenner is just entering the yard."

"And seemingly she's bringing half of Oxfordshire with her," Master Chaucer added, not helpfully.

Thomasine, her heart dropping toward her sandals at this confirmation of the visitor’s name, bit her lip against any sound. Domina Edith herself gave no sign beyond the merest fluttering of her eyelids before saying mildly, "I do not recall receiving any warning of our being honored with a visit from the lady."

Which was all too usual for Lady Ermentrude. She seemed to feel that the honor of her coming more than outweighed the burden of surprise. It may even have been that she enjoyed the frantic readying of rooms, the culinary desperation in the kitchen, and the general scurrying that followed her unannounced arrivals. 

Domina Edith brushed at her faultless lap. "She'll wish, as always, to see me first. You must needs bring her, I suppose. But there's no need to hurry her, mind you. Take time about it if you wish."

If Lady Ermentrude so wished, was the more likely, thought Thomasine. But Dame Frevisse only said, "Yes, my lady," then hesitated in her curtsey, and asked, "The guesthall kitchen . . . ?"

The guest hall was new and barely tried, so there should be no surprise that things were still settling over there. Still it seemed cruel that something should shift in the kitchen chimney just before the arrival of an important lady who inevitably traveled with a large retinue. There would be no stonemason to repair it for at least a week, and in the meanwhile nothing could be roasted in the guest kitchen fireplace.

Domina Edith gestured with true regret. "We needs must use the priory kitchen. You should advise the cooks on your way to greet Lady Ermentrude." 

Dame Frevisse nodded and went out. Thomasine, hoping to make Dame Frevisse's departure her own, rose to follow her but Domina Edith said, surprised at her, "Stay, child. Matters must be kept decent between Master Chaucer and myself. And Lady Ermentrude will be asking to see you, as always."

Thomasine knew it. And dreaded it. Lady Ermentrude was her great-aunt only by marriage, but that was small comfort. Her first husband had been Thomasine's grandfather's brother. When he had died young, she married back into her own Fenner family, but with the Fenners' in-bred devotion to keeping tight hold on anything and anyone who might be of use or profit to them, she had not let loose her interest in her first husband's people. Thomasine's father had been raised in her household -- something she had never let him forget – and for one miserable season Thomasine and her sister Isobel had been there in their turn, too, to learn highborn manners and a lady's duties. Properly, they would both have stayed until their marriages were made, but Thomasine's frail health had failed her and she had been sent home, leaving only Isobel to Lady Ermentrude's attentions. Now Isobel was six years a wife, and Thomasine nearly settled into nunhood where she hoped to find herself beyond Lady Ermentrude's interference.

But St. Frideswide's was a particular charity of the Fenners and lately most particularly of Lady Ermentrude. Her gifts of food and money were always welcome, which gave her further excuse to drop in uninvited, and her visits always included an rude teasing of Thomasine, asking if she were ready yet to be taken away from this dull prison and given to a husband of good birth and manly vigor. 

Now, Domina Edith said, "Go to the window, child, and tell me what's come with her this time." To Master Chaucer she added, "Pray excuse my unseemly curiosity, but Lady Ermentrude's visits . . . ." She hesitated, seeking an explanation that would be both polite and accurate, and finally said, "Her visits sometimes put a strain upon us."

"She stayed a week with my lady wife and I one Christmastide," Master Chaucer answered with equal and polite restraint, his tone making very clear he understood all she had not said. 

Thomasine, gone carefully to the window farthest from where he sat, reported dutifully, "My lady, there are at least ten men-at-arms come with her. And fourteen or fifteen outriders. Five sumpter horses and two carriages of servants and more sumpter horses coming."

"Is Lady Ermentrude on horseback or in a carriage?"

There was no difficulty finding Lady Ermentrude among the clutter of her baggage and people. "She's dismounting now, my lady. She was riding."

"Then she's feeling well." Domina Edith betrayed a faint regret at that. Lady Ermentrude enjoyed a touch of sickness as much as anyone could, keeping her servants and everyone else scurrying to fetch hot possets and cool drinks and an orange if they had to ride to Banbury for it, and cushions and blankets and her dogs to tumble and quarrel across her coverlet and someone to read her awake or sing her to sleep. But the only thing worse than Lady Ermentrude ill was Lady Ermentrude at her vigorous best, needing to be entertained late into the evening when all Christians should be in bed, and then betimes up and around, looking into every nook and cranny of nunnery affairs as if the bishop had sent her on visitation in his place.

"And baggage wagons besides the sumpter horses?" Domina Edith asked. The length of a visit could sometimes be guessed by the number of the lady's chests and boxes.

"Yes, my lady. They're still coming through the gateway, but there are three so far." Domina Edith could not hold back a faint sigh.

"And two men with her dogs," added Thomasine. "Hounds and lap dogs both."

Domina Edith sighed again. The hunting hounds would go into the kennels, but the lap dogs were tiny terrors that followed their mistress nearly everywhere, even into the church for Mass. "And the parrot," Domina Edith asked. "Did she bring the parrot as well?" 

Thomasine looked among the women climbing down from the first carriage. "I don't see ..." she began, but saw something worse, paused to be sure of it, and then said rather hopelessly, "There's a monkey."

From other times, St. Frideswide's knew that Lady Ermentrude's occasional monkeys were the most thieving, noisy, dirty, troublesome creatures ever to come inside the nunnery's walls. Every one of them had been wicked, nasty servants of the devil whose single grace seemed to be that they rarely lived long.

"A monkey," Domina Edith repeated, sounding as if she had been given a second hundred years in Purgatory. 

Master Chaucer's shoulders twitched, and he found it necessary to extract a handkerchief from his undersleeve and blow his nose. 
"That's very well for you, Master Chaucer," Domina Edith said sternly, "since you're meaning to ride on this afternoon.” Then to Thomasine, "Is Dame Frevisse to the courtyard yet?"

Among the bright milling and shifting of people, wagons, and horses and the scurry of priory servants come to sort the rout into guesthalls and stable, Thomasine was easily able to recognize Dame Frevisse, tall and black-gowned among the brown and cream livery of Lady Ermentrude's servants and the brighter colors of her ladies. As Thomasine watched, she moved with direct purpose through their chaos to reach Lady Ermentrude, also easily seen in her trailing gown of sheened Apricot-and-blue silk, arrayed with great hanging sleeves and fashionable padded headdress airy with yards of floating veil. 

How does she keep from frightening the horses? Thomasine wondered uncharitably. Dame Frevisse, having reached her, bowed a graceful greeting and began with only a word or two to draw her back from her busy shouting and gesturing at everyone in the yard. 
"She's speaking with Lady Ermentrude just now," Thomasine dutifully reported. "As you can tell by the sudden ceasing of the lady's voice," Master Chaucer added. 

"But are they coming this way yet?" Domina Edith asked. 

"Now they are." 

"And the monkey, is it coming with her?"

Thomasine hesitated. Close behind Lady Ermentrude were two women, one keeping well away from the other, who carried the long-tailed brown monkey perched on her shoulder. It had pulled her hat sideways and was shrieking in what seemed to Thomasine close imitation of its mistress. Both women moved as if to follow Lady Ermentrude but Dame Frevisse lifted her arm in a polite but definite gesture. Thomasine could not hear what she said, but the women nodded and turned away to follow the flow of furnishings and people toward the guesthall. 

Master Chaucer, who had risen to his feet to watch along with Thomasine, said admiringly, "Frevisse could command armies. A pity she's a woman."

Thomasine frowned at him, and beyond him caught an expression flitting across Domina Edith's face that showed how little she thought of that remark also. But before his quick glance could see her disapproval, Thomasine smoothed it away and said, "The monkey is not coming, Domina. Nor any of the dogs." 

Domina Edith gave a relieved sigh. "I should have made her hosteler long ago." Master Chaucer looked pleased at this compliment of his niece, and she elaborated, "Lady Ermentrude had our last hosteler in near hysterics within a half day of her coming. 

And that time she had for once sent word ahead that she was coming." She shook her head regretfully at the memory. "Sister Fiacre is much more content now as sacrist. Neither the altar linens nor vestments or candles or lamps shout at her, no matter what she does or doesn't do. Shouting hurts Sister Fiacre’s feelings." Domina Edith gazed off thoughtfully at nothing in particular. Thomasine hoped she was not going to sleep again. "But the monkey is not going into the new hall, is it?" 

St. Frideswide's had two guesthalls now, both within the priory's inner wall. Travelers and visitors could stay the night or longer in them, enjoying the priory's Rule-directed charity but leaving the nuns in peace inside their cloister. Only Dame Frevisse as hosteler needed to deal daily with them. Lesser sorts of travelers and superfluities of servants stayed in the old guest hall to the north side of the inner gateway, with its large single room for everyone to sleep in. The new hall to the gateway's south was of stone and better built, with separate chambers off its central hall for noble guests and their near attendants. It meant that St. Frideswide's charity was less evenhanded than it had been, but it still never failed, still always offered a roof to every head and food for every belly, charging only what the visitor cared to pay, even if it were nothing. 

But just now anyone who chanced to come would have scant comfort; Lady Ermentrude and her traveling household were rapidly filling up both guesthalls at once. 

"The monkey and lapdogs are all going into the new hall," Chaucer said. 

Domina Edith murmured, "God help our clean new floors." 

Lady Ermentrude was out of sight now. Thomasine drew back from the window and said hesitantly, "Lady Ermentrude will be here on the moment. Should I go to the kitchen?"

She was assigned to help in the kitchen today and surely she would be more needed than ever now, with all the guests come and the guest hall kitchen useless. 

But Domina Edith merely said in her faded voice, "Be sure the basin's water is clean and the towel folded best side up."

So Thomasine took up the towel Dame Frevisse must have brought for Master Chaucer. Refolded and laid over her arm, it showed no use. And the water in the silver pitcher was still mildly warm as she poured it into the silver basin on the table. Burying a craven urge simply to flee, she took the basin and went to stand by the thick wooden door, bracing herself. 

Lady Ermentrude's shrill voice was already rising from the stairs, complaining of the ineptitude of servants, the dusty roads, the complications of travel in hot weather. As always, the sound of her made Thomasine's stomach knot; with an effort she kept her face under control as the door opened and Lady Ermentrude swept into the room in an excess of skirts and veiling and voice. Paying no heed to Thomasine, she paused to thrust her hands into and out of the basin, shook them briskly to make the droplets fly and dried her fingers with little dabs at the towel while gazing around the room. 

There might have been a time when her features could have been called beautiful. There were fine bones under the aging skin and traces of rich natural coloring. But years of self-indulgence, most particularly in her famed ill temper, had creased lines more deeply down her face than need have been there, drawn out and narrowed her mouth, given her eyes a beady eagerness to peer and judge. She was still, as she had always been, elegant in bearing and dress; however, greed and selfishness had made a thin, brittle veneer of her good manners. And now she said, still eyeing the room, "Nothing changed. Even the dog in its basket the same. You are like God's Holy Church, everlastingly unchanged!" 

She made it sound a doubtful virtue for anyone to have and certainly not one for which she personally had much use. Before Domina Edith could respond, Lady Ermentrude recognized Master Chaucer standing at the window and, tossing the towel at Thomasine's face, advanced on him, her voice brightening. "Master Chaucer! What good chance to meet you here! We can have a fine exchange of news from Court and Queen."

With what looked to Thomasine like something less than pleasure, Master Chaucer took the plump hand held out insistently under his nose and kissed it before replying in cool tones, "I've long since left my service at the court and any word I've had of Her Grace Queen Katherine is third hand at best."

Thomasine had the small, sharp, sinful satisfaction of seeing her great-aunt very slightly disconcerted. Whatever Master Chaucer's connections, he was nonetheless of common birth and should be more flattered by her attentions than he was showing. But he was too unexpected a windfall in the predictability of the nunnery --- and too rich and too close to nobility far higher than her own -- for Lady Ermentrude to take offense. Instead, with a condescending familiarity meant to make up for his own lack of enthusiasm, she exclaimed, "Dear man! You know full well I've been these past few years with Her Grace as one of her ladies-in-waiting." To Domina Edith she added, as if she had not mentioned it on every possible occasion whenever she had been at St. Frideswide's, "I've been with Her Grace now and again ever since she left the court to live retired." 

She settled into the room's second-best chair -- Domina Edith had made no move to rise from the best -- and turned her attention back to Master Chaucer. "I was with Her Grace not above a week ago. But I've left her service for good. Did you know that – and why?" She leaned toward him, a glitter of gossip in her eyes. "I told her my age was wearing on me and she gave permission for me to leave." A beringed hand smacked a silken thigh. "Ha! I'm as young as ever I was. No, there's going to be scandal in that household. And the wise know better than to be near the mighty when there's a fall from grace." Lady Ermentrude's head cocked sideways like a clever crow's. "What rumors have you heard, Master Chaucer? About one thing or another?"

"I've heard no rumors nor talk of scandal. And since you're surely to be counted among the wise, you fully know the unwisdom of retelling any such to me or anyone, even our good Domina Edith, soul of discretion though she is." 

His voice was mild, but Thomasine thought there was warning in his eyes. Lady Ermentrude paused before drawing a deep breath, her mouth opening to reply. Before she could, Domina Edith, apparently unaware of anything at all beyond the casualness of conversation, said, "My lady, I think you've failed to recognize your niece." 

She gestured to Thomasine, and Lady Ermentrude turned to stare at her as if demanding how she had dared to go unnoticed. Thomasine, to cover the sick tightening of her stomach, stepped forward and set the bowl and towel on the table, her head bent to avoid her great-aunt's gaze.

But there was no avoiding her shrill summons. "Thomasine! Come here, child! Let me see you better!"

Thomasine came as she was bidden and curtseyed, all outward politeness, but her clenched hands were clenched up either sleeve, her eyes held carefully down to keep them from betraying her feelings. 

Lady Ermentrude took hold of her chin and twitched her face up and from side to side, eyeing her with the same scrutiny she gave a horse she was thinking to buy. "Indeed no, I hardly know you even when I look at you. You've sunk so far into nunhood you're becoming quite a little worm." 

She released Thomasine's chin. Thomasine stepped out of reach and dropped her gaze back to her feet. "Yes, Aunt," she whispered. 

"Pah!" Lady Ermentrude's disgust was plain. "You become any meeker you'll cease to breathe!" There was a familiar smirk to her voice as she added, "But you're a novice yet and it's not too late. There's many a fine and lusty young man to be had. Half a dozen I know who'd have you at my word. And some two or three not so young but rich enough you'd find the marriage honey-sweet one way or other. Whatever way, I could have you married before Christmas if I set to. Master Chaucer and I, we made a goodly marriage between your sister and Sir John. She'd not be a knight's wife now if it weren't for us, and we can do as much for you, I warrant. Eh, Master Chaucer?" 

Young Sir John Wykeham had been Master Chaucer's ward when Lady Ermentrude's attention lighted on him. With no marriagble daughters or nearer nieces of her own to hand just then, she had decided Isobel would serve to bring him into Fenner circles, and since the marriage was in the young John's interest, too, she and Master Chaucer had brought it about. The title of Lord D'Evers had died with Isobel and Thomasine's father since there were no sons of the blood to carry it on, but the remaining inheritance was considerable, and with Thomasine purposed even then to be a nun, it would not be divided, only a smaller sum set aside to dower her into the nunnery. In every practical way, the marriage had been an excellent alliance. That Isobel and Sir John had fallen in
love with one another between their first meeting and their marriage had been of no consequence one way or the other, merely a comfortable chance. More important was the fact that they had so far managed to have two sons and a daughter to secure the inheritance. 

But the success of it all had given Lady Ermentrude ambitions to do it again. Now she prodded at Thomasine, "Here, girl! Come to your senses! There's no need to leave all that property to your sister and her get by losing yourself behind these sad walls! Come out and have your share of it and the world, too!"

Thomasine, knowing too well that there was no defense against her great-aunt in this mood and that she would only stop when she was sated with the game, bent her neck and said with forced mildness, "I thank you for your kindness, Aunt, but am content here where I am." 

"Nonsense--" Lady Ermentrude began. 

But Domina Edith, in her soft, aged voice, cut across her strident tones as if unaware of them. "Thomasine, tell her why you are content." 

Thomasine, disconcerted, looked up into her prioress' gaze. Age had faded Domina Edith's eyes to paleness, and her much-wrinkled face seemed to take its shape more from the confining wimple than any strength left in her flesh, but her look held Thomasine's, steadying her out of her angry helplessness. "Tell her," Domina Edith said again, and Thomasine, goaded into nervous daring, looked from her to Lady Ermentrude. 

Her great-aunt looked back, thin eyebrows raised as if she were unsure what was to happen. Thomasine, her voice trembling a little but sure of the words, said, "I've chosen my bridegroom, Great-aunt, and there's none more fit than Him. I've wanted to be Christ's bride since I was eight years old. I'm taking my last vows in less than two weeks time, at Michaelmas, God granting it, and then I'll be beyond any marrying with mortal man, thank God!" Finishing on a strong note, Thomasine felt her head lift, and she dared to look her aunt in the face.

Lady Ermentrude drew herself up with a sharp hiss of disapproval, but before she had regrouped herself to make reply, Domina Edith, apparently oblivious to any possibility of offense, said, "Thank you, Thomasine. You still have duties in the kitchen, do you not? You'd best be back to them, I think. Dame Frevisse, pray serve the cakes to our guests."

It was dismissal and diversion together and Thomasine gladly used it, curtseying quickly before escaping out the door. Knowing too well her great-aunt's skill at anger, she had no wish to be there for it, and as she fled down the stairs, she wished she could flee as swiftly down the next two weeks to Michaelmas. 

* * *

Behind her in the parlor Master Chaucer said musingly, ignoring Lady Ermentrude's ire, "So earnest a lamb. Unfit, I'd judge, for the world beyond her cloister walls." 

"I've never seen a greater urge to give one's life to God," agreed Domina Edith. “Never a more fervent vocation. Too intense sometimes, I think, but that's her youth. She'll surely be a blessing to our house." The prioress crossed herself.

Master Chaucer and Frevisse echoed her gesture. Lady Ermentrude followed them more slowly. There was a silence then, until Lady Ermentrude broke it with, "You're new as hosteler since I was last here, are you not, Dame Frevisse?"

Frevisse was reminded of a vicious dog who, balked in one attack, looks for another. But mild as milk, looking at the plate of cakes she now held, she said, ""Yes, my lady."

"And you must serve as Domina Edith's body servant, too, it seems. I wonder how you manage your duties in the guest hall if you're so much busied here?"

"We all serve our lady prioress gladly,” Frevisse said blandly, ‘whenever the chance comes, and do all our duties as best we may. Will you have a honey cake?" 

She held out the plate with proper meekness and downcast eyes. Lady Ermentrude gazed at her a moment longer than was necessary, then took one. Frevisse turned away to offer them to Chaucer who took another, and while Lady Ermentrude examined hers on all its sides -- looking for something to criticize, Frevisse thought uncharitably -- Chaucer took a swift bite of his, and said, "Delicious. You've a cook to be kept."

Lady Ermentrude nibbled at an edge. "Truly," she agreed. "You do well for yourselves here."

"God sends us generous friends." Domina Edith smiled as Frevisse held out the plate to her.

Frevisse added, with subtle malice, "These cakes are a special matter. Master Chaucer sent word ahead of his coming, giving our kitchener time to ready them."

"He is a thoughtful man," Domina Edith murmured. Her face and voice were a study in aged innocence. Frevisse smothered a smile, having had long since learned that though Domina Edith's body was wearied with life's long journey, her mind was not. Chaucer, himself well aware of the strength of the prioress’ mind, seemed to choke on a bite of cake and was forced to coughing heartily behind his hand.

Lady Ermentrude sent sharp, darting glances at all their faces. "I shall be staying only a few days here," she declared. Their faces betrayed nothing but polite interest. "I hope that will be convenient to you as hosteler, Dame Frevisse, and to St. Frideswide's, Domina Edith?" 

"Truly," the prioress agreed. "Dame Frevisse?"

"As convenient and pleasant as it always is to serve you, my lady," Frevisse answered. 

Chaucer choked again, swallowed hastily as Lady Ermentrude's eyes began to narrow, and said, "Regrettably I'll not be enjoying your courtesies as hosteler, Dame Frevisse. I must needs ride on this afternoon. There's a manor of mine I mean to reach this evening if I'm to see to all there is to do before I go to France." 

"France!" Lady Ermentrude was diverted instantly. "You'll be seeing the King then. So fine a young lad he is. You're meaning to go soon?"

"This month's end."

"Pray, tell His Grace from me that his dear lady mother was happy and well when I left her."

Chaucer inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Gladly. And is there aught else you might wish done over there?"

Lady Ermentrude smiled, pleased with being treated at last in the way she deserved. "Oh no, I think not. My matters are all well in hand. But thank you. And how regrettable you must go on, or we could chat the evening away." 

"He comes to see Dame Frevisse, you know," Domina Edith said a little vaguely. "So very kind of him, I think, she being his niece and all."

"Yes." Lady Ermentrude's gazed flicked between Frevisse and Chaucer intently. "I think I knew you had a niece here but had forgotten her name, Master Chaucer. By marriage, I believe?"

"Yes, but nurtured in my own household from middle childhood, and in many ways a daughter to me." He smiled at Frevisse. 

Frevisse smiled back, as perfectly aware as he of how unwelcome Lady Ermentrude would like this piece of knowledge. Anyone so close to Master Thomas Chaucer was an unsuitable victim for her torments. 

"Ah," Lady Ermentrude said shortly. "I did not know that." Unexpectedly her face brightened. "I remember!" She turned to Frevisse. "Your mother made that unfortunate marriage to the younger son of someone or other. Most regrettable, it was thought at the time. And so you ended up in Master Chaucer's household when they could not keep you any more!"

"My mother and father did not find their marriage regrettable," Frevisse said in a level voice. "And it was my father's death that brought me to Master Chaucer's and my aunt's household. Nothing else."

The crisp, steady words must have given Lady Ermentrude sufficient warning she should go no farther that way. 

"How stand matters with your family?” Chaucer put in. “Did you visit at Fen Harcourt on your way from the Queen at Hertford?"

It was a well-chosen diversion. Lady Ermentrude smiled with straight-lipped disapproval. "I paused there and meant to stay longer but I'm not so old I need to wait on their favors. They could not find it convenient to give me due respect and I've come away sooner than I planned. They'll not be happy when they find how much they've offended me." 

"Harvest time can be a heavy matter," Chaucer remarked mildly. 

"So can my displeasure be." Lady Ermentrude eyed Frevisse as closely as she had eyed the cake. "My own house at Bancroft will be ready in two weeks so I'm thinking to spend a week here and then another week with Isobel. I'm minded to see the girl she had this summer. A girl child may be all right, and is no problem since they have two sons already and they're thriving, so I hear. Then I'll go on to my own manor, and my relations will see how welcome they are in their turn."

"Concerning sons," said Chaucer, "how do your own at present?"

"My Walter had been with Lord Fenner these two months past. Lord Fenner is dying now, it seems, and since the title comes by right of blood to Sir Walter, he's there to be sure not too much is lost when Lord Fenner makes his will, not all the property being entailed, you know. The title and lands will be a great boon to our family, and it will be best if the wealth comes with them."

"And Herbrand?"

"In France, in my lord of Bedford's household still. He fights occasionally, I believe, and should have the captaining of one castle or another soon."

"Mayhap I'll see him while I'm there."

"Mayhap," Lady Ermentrude agreed with no particular interest. "If so, tell him I mean to see how his manors are doing come the spring. He's left them to others for too long, if you ask me, and I've no mind to let Fenner property go to the bad by his neglect."

"How fortunate that travel agrees with you," Domina Edith said.

"It would if it weren't for servants." Lady Ermentrude took up the theme as if to cue, as Frevisse suspected Domina Edith had meant her to, and set off on a long, well-practiced dissertation concerning the inadequecies of everyone so fortunate as to be allowed to serve her. It went its appointed course while Dame Edith fumbled crumbs off the single cake her conscience would allow her and Frevisse poured wine for everyone. Chaucer was finishing his third cake when Lady Ermentrude ended with, "But it's a common tale, and surely we've all suffered from such lowborn folk. Pray, what will you be doing for the King while you're in France?"

"Very little, likely. Mostly my own necessities draw me there, with some few other matters friends have asked of me." 

"I suppose there'll be his French coronation soon so he'll be able to come back to England and be done with it? Is it the coronation you're going for?"

"There's no date set for it yet and a great deal of France still to recover. The Witch and her rebellion cost us men and money as well as territory, and even though she's burned, Bedford reports he can hardly be sure of safe passage to Paris yet, let alone to Rheims."

"A French coronation." Lady Ermentrude shook her head. "You'd think his English crown would be enough."

"Not for the French," Chaucer said dryly. "But among other things I'm bound for collecting Lord Moleyns' heiress. I've bought her wardship and marriage rights from the crown and her mother has asked I fetch her myself if possible."

Lady Ermentrude looked well impressed. "That's a wealthy wardship to lay hold of! You've a choice for her husband? I've possibilities if you'd be interested. How old is she now? She was born in France, I think?"

"Six years or nearly. Yes.”

Frevisse turned to set the wine pitcher on the table and hide her face from Lady Ermentrude. It was not like her uncle to stay long after he had said he must be going. But now he settled back and went on easily. "And that reminds me that there's word, too, of someone you might remember. A youth named William Vaughan. He squired in your household, I think."

Lady Ermentrude frowned with thought before nodding. "I remember him, though his family was no one in particular. He went to France to make his fortune and died years back."

"Not so many years. Just two. At Orleans, during the siege." 

Domina Edith made a sound of regret. The loss of Orleans to the witch-girl Joan of Arc and the English disasters in battles afterward had brought much tears and praying at St. Frideswide's. Chaucer turned to include her as he talked. "Lady Moleyns is very taken with his story. He was part of her husband's meinie, one of his household men, I gather. In the fighting at Orleans, when Moleyns went down wounded, young Vaughan fought his way to his side before any of his other men and stood above him fighting off the French like a champion from Froissart. He was on his knees and bloodied in a dozen places before help came."

"A blessing on his courage," Frevisse said admiringly.

Lady Ermentrude, apparently unmoved by a tale of courage without a Fenner name attached to it, picked a fragment off the edge of her cake.

Domina Edith murmured, "But he did not save his lord?"

"No, alas. It would be a better tale if he had, but they both died of their wounds. Lady Moleyns, as the only reward she could make to him, took Vaughan's son into her household and has been raising him."

"A blessing on his courage and her piety," Domina Edith said. "Vaughan married over there then? Surely not a French woman?"

Chaucer shrugged. "The boy bears his name. That's all I know. Nor has Lady Moleyns been able to find any English relatives of his father, but she remembers Vaughan talking of your household, Lady Ermentrude, and asked if I would make inquiries. Do you know if he has any family who might want the boy?"

Lady Ermentrude shrugged carelessly. She thought, then mused, "There was a sister but she was a nun at Godstow and died long ago." She frowned, running her large list of names and connections through her mind. "No, I'm sure there's no one to be telling
he's dead." The cake continued to crumble between her fingers. "God give him good rest," she added perfunctorily. "At Orleans, you say?" She dusted crumbs from her fingers and turned the talk to a subject more to her liking. “One of my sumpter horses has gone lame, Domina. I want your groom of the stable to look at him.”

“As you wish.” Domina Edith nodded.

Chaucer rose, gathering up his hood and beginning to fold it into a coxcomb hat, using the long liripipe to bind it in place. "Ah then, I suppose Lady Moleyns will have to go on keeping the boy.”

“Hm?” said Lady Ermentrude. “Oh, yes, I suppose so.”

“And I, to judge by the slant of sunlight through this window, had best take my leave. I've some few miles to go yet today." He turned to Domina Edith. "Thank you for your hospitality, as always good and gracious."

Dame Edith inclined her head to him and held out her hand for him to kiss. "You are always welcome, whenever you choose to come. Pray, make it often."

"As often as I may."

His kiss was warmer than the one he next dealt to Lady Ermentrude, though his leave-taking was as graceful. Her reply was formal but disinterested. Frevisse moved to the door to accompany him to the yard; at his gesture she preceded him down the stairs, until in the lower corridor they could walk side by side, not speaking, their silence companionable. In the eight years she had grown to womanhood in his household they had become friends enough to simply enjoy each others' company without words; in the years since she had entered St. Frideswide's their worlds had grown so far apart there was now little to be said between them, but the friendship held. 

Not until they were nearly to the outer door into the yard, in hearing of Lady Ermetrude's people still unpacking, did Chaucer say, "My deepest sympathies on your current guest. Will you be able to survive her?"

Frevisse's smile was wry. "I think between you and Domina Edith, she's impressed enough to be a little cautious of me. Now that she's quite perfectly aware that I'm closely connected to your wealth and royal relations, she may even want to make a friend of me."

"My deeper sympathies for doing you such a disservice. You know she'd treat me badly if matters were only slightly different."
"If things were slightly different she'd never speak to you at all except to give you orders. Your father was a vintner's son who happened to write stories and your mother's sister had no more decency than to be a royal duke's mistress. I would despair of anyone ever making a respectable figure from that." 

"The disgrace sits deep within my soul," Chaucer said cheerfully. "All those impressive half-royal relations of mine but not a single drop of noble blood to be found in my own veins. It's a shock to know that all this wealth and power I'm supposed to have comes from naught but my own wits and skill. Regrettable, I'm sure." 

Frevisse tempered her urge to laugh into a wider smile. Chaucer smiled back at her and asked with quiet seriousness, "You're still contented here?"

"Most of the time. Would it be simplest to say that I'm content with being content?"

"If it's true, it's more than most people manage with their lives."

"It's true," said Frevisse simply.

They had reached the door. Chaucer took her hand in his. "We've come, one way and another, by the turning of Fortune's wheel and our own wills, to the places we want to be." He kissed her cheek. "God's blessing on you, my dear." 

"And on you, too, Uncle. Keep safe and come again when you may."

"Be assured."

From the doorway Frevisse watched him cross the yard to where his own escort was waiting, collected neatly out of the disorder of Lady Ermentrude's people. Not until he had swung into his saddle and was riding out the gateway did she turn away, aware belatedly of someone bearing down on her from behind and surprised past words to find it was Lady Ermentrude, in full flow of veils and gown, striding toward her like a lord set on battle.

Frevisse had not anticipated facing the full rigors of her attention so soon. She sank quickly in a curtsey, bracing herself for whatever was coming. But Lady Ermentrude waved a dismissive hand at her and said briskly, "My plans have changed. I'm riding on to my great-niece Lady Isobel's today. It's hardly a three hours ride. I'll be there before full dark if I leave now."

"But--" A variety of protests went through Frevisse's mind. She chose the simplest of them and said, "Your people are half unpacked by now and settling in. Surely--"

Lady Ermentrude was already going out the door, forcing Frevisse to follow her. "And they can go on unpacking. I want haste, not a clutter of idiots slowing me down. A few men-at-arms, two of my women, that will do. I expect to be back tomorrow. You there!" She beckoned demandingly at a groom nearby.

Frevisse, with the thought that Lady Ermentrude's going would leave her free to set straight certain matters concerning the guest halls and dogs and monkey, contented herself with murmuring, "As you think best, my lady. We'll await your return."

"And have all in readiness, I'm sure," Lady Ermentrude agreed sharply. The groom was bowing in front of her now and she told him peremptorily, "I want my horse saddled. Now. At once. Go on." Smothering a look of bewilderment, the man ran off. "Sheep-face," Lady Ermentrude snapped, and began shouting, "Maryon! Bess! Bertram!" 

The courtyard shifted from disorder to chaos, but more quickly than Frevisse had thought possible Lady Ermentrude was mounted and riding out the gateway with a small cluster of her people behind her. 

In the intense gap of quiet left by her going, Frevisse drew a deep breath and turned away to the tasks next to hand.