Frevisse stopped where she was, as much in disgust as horror, then crossed herself as much in penance for the disgust as for the repose of Martha’s soul. Dame Claire, recovering from her own reaction, went to kneel where Father Henry had been.

Frevisse, almost as quickly, went to stand between sight of Martha’s body and Thomasine, who was crouched too near it, whimpers crawling up from her throat and her face pressed against prayer-clasped hands. Carefully, not wanting to bring on hysterics, she took the girl by the shoulders and said as gently as she could, “Stand up out of Dame Claire’s way.”

The infirmarian was feeling for pulse and breath, looking for life where very surely there was none.

“Stand up,” Frevisse repeated, wanting to get her away from the temptation to look again at Martha.

Thomasine responded, letting herself be helped to her feet. With an arm around her shoulders, Frevisse turned her away from both Martha and Lady Ermentrude.

“It was awful,” Thomasine whispered, shaking in Frevisse’s hold. “It was horrible. She had a… fit. She–”

Firmly across her rising voice Frevisse said, “It’s over. She’s not hurting anymore. It’s finished.”

Dame Claire sat back from her fruitless search for signs of life and looked up at Father Henry still standing above her. “What happened?” she demanded.

Dumb-faced and stunned, perspiring freely, he shook his head. “We were sitting here, the women and I. The others were gone to supper. Lady Ermentrude was dozing, all quiet. Martha was at her stories again, about Lady Ermentrude and what a willful woman she was. I was, God pardon me,” he crossed himself fervently, “hard put not to be laughing at what she had to tell, until she grew too bold and Thomasine was beginning to be offended and went away to pray.” He pointed to the prie-dieu in the far corner. “I asked Martha then to speak more seemly.”

There was a growing murmur at the doorway, and they turned to see a clot of people come to gape. No more were they noticed than they were pushed aside as Sir John came through, with Lady Isobel behind him. “What is it?” he asked. “What’s happened?”

Frevisse cut across his questions, pushing Thomasine toward Lady Isobel. “My lady, please, your sister has need of you.”

“Why, what’s happened?” Lady Isobel’s question was sharper than her husband’s. “Is my aunt all right?” She came to take Thomasine’s arm as she spoke and over her sister’s shoulder saw what lay on the floor. Her face went curd-pale. In a choked voice she said, “Martha Hayward.”

“Help your sister,” ordered Frevisse, shifting the girl into Lady Isobel’s arms. “Take her away from here.” Lady Isobel nodded distracted agreement, her sickened gaze still on Martha’s body.

“She’d dead?” Sir John croaked the word disbelievingly, his gaze averted.

Frevisse thought dryly that he must not have received his knighthood for skill in battle if he were squeamish over so bloodless a death; she firmly pushed both Thomasine and Lady Isobel away to the side of the room, turning back as Dame Claire told Father Henry, “Go on.”

The priest, uneasy at his growing audience and still shocked, obeyed. “She said she was thirsty, all dry from so much talking, and missing her supper in the bargain, and the sops were going to waste and,” he gestured helplessly toward the empty bowl on the table, “she just ate them. She said she’d have a taste and then she ate them all.”

“I dare say,” Frevisse said with subdued irony.

Father Henry nodded vigorously. “She ate the sops, talking all the while, and then without my having any chance to stop her, she drank a great draught of the wine. I told her then it was meant for Lady Ermentrude and had medicine in it, so she made a face and stopped and went to talking again. In a while she said she was hot and opened the window, though I told her not to, and took to walking up and down the room. She was drunk then, I think, taking so much wine at once, for she wasn’t making much sense. I tried to have her sit down lest she rouse Lady Ermentrude but–”

Father Henry stopped, embarrassment and uncertainty on his face.

“She pushed him,” Thomasine said a little shrilly. “She laid hands on him and pushed him aside and kept on walking back and forth and Maryon said we’d best do something.”

“Maryon?” Dame Claire asked.

The dark-haired lady-in-waiting stepped forward from beside the door. Frevisse realized she had been there all the while but so still she had gone unnoticed. “I’m Maryon,” she said.

“And you were here the while?”

Maryon bent her head in acknowledgment. “I thought to be of service, if my lady should need me.”

“What seemed the matter with Martha to you?”

“Too much drink,” said Maryon succinctly. “I went to the door to send someone for some of my lady’s men to have her out of here but while I was speaking to the woman, Martha started making… sounds.”

“Awful sounds!” Thomasine cried, and they turned to stare at her. “And… and clawing at herself.” She made a feeble gesture at her chest and throat.

Her calm a decided contrast to Thomasine’s edge of hysteria, Maryon said, “I told the woman at the door to run and find the infirmarian, that she would be in the church somewhere. When she was gone, Martha fell down and we couldn’t help her.”

“She was lying on the floor, kicking, thrashing…” Thomasine’s eyes were full of desperate misery. “Father Henry went to help her, and I tried to pray, but it didn’t help. It didn’t help.”

Father Henry said, “There was nothing I could do but give her the Last Sacrament. There was time, barely. Just a general absolution and the anointing.” He held out the small wad of bread that he had correctly used to wipe the last of the chrism from his fingers. His hand was trembling. He looked at it with surprise and then put it behind his back.

“But she just went on and on, kicking and choking!” Thomasine cried. “She couldn’t stop. Until she… died.”

“A fit,” Lady Isobel said quickly, firmly, hugging Thomasine close. “A fit. Her heart, I would think. So fleshly a person easily might die like that. Here.”

She moved her sister toward the table where a goblet sat beside the empty bowl of milksops. She pushed the goblet toward Thomasine’s hands. “Drink this. It will steady you, child.”

Thomasine’s hands fluttered back, warding it off. “No. That’s the wine with Great-aunt’s medicine in it.”

“Yes, but medicine for quieting nerves,” said Frevisse, remembering. Which would do Thomasine no harm just now. “It’s all right,” she said reassuringly. “Dame Claire can mix more. Go on.”

Obediently Thomasine reached to take the goblet from Lady Isobel. But her hands were shaking far worse than Father Henry’s; there was an instant’s mistiming and the goblet fell, spattering the edge of Lady Isobel’s gown and splashing the wine across the rush matting in a bright stain.  Lady Isobel exclaimed in annoyance and backed away, shaking out her dress as Thomasine, wringing her hands, began a shaky litany. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry, I’m sorry–”

“Enough!” Frevisse said sternly. “The dress will wash and there was hardly any wine in the cup. Crying over spilled wine is as useless as crying over milk.” She shifted her attention to Lady Isobel.

But she was already recovered, her dress forgotten as she came back to her sister’s side. “It’s all right. Come sit down. You’re trembling so.” She led her away to the bench at the window. Sir John followed them and put his arm around his wife’s shoulders, holding her close while she held Thomasine. They were not moved so much by a servant’s death, Frevisse thought, as by the bare fact of Death itself, and a dreadful one, unexpected, a hard thing to face so young as they were. Thomasine, apparently recovering a little, began to draw slightly away from her sister and averted her eyes. Frevisse, reassured by so typical a gesture and feeling the girl would do well enough for the time being, turned her attention back to Dame Claire, who had closed Martha’s eyes and was straightening her limbs.

“It would seem it was her heart,” Dame Claire pronounced, gazing on Martha’s face. She crossed herself and rose to her feet.

“How does my lady aunt?” asked Lady Isobel.

Dame Claire turned and felt Lady Ermentrude’s face and hands, and listened to her breathing before answering, “She seems to be doing well enough.”

Coming near, Frevisse asked in a quiet voice, “Is it the medicine you gave her makes her sleep so deeply?” She was thinking that perhaps it was as well Thomasine had spilled it.

“She never had any of the medicine. I wanted the food in her, to act against the drunkenness, and managed to make her eat a little, but by the time she’d finished being fed she was nearly stupored into sleep already and wouldn’t drink. She just went to sleep without it.”

“What should we do?”

Dame Claire stood still, thinking, after a moment giving a tiny nod of decision. “Domina Edith must be told at once. Father Henry, will you do that? And Martha’s body had best be taken into the cloister, away from here. Can you find men to do it?”

Frevisse turned to the door and pointed at four gawkers, who proved less willing to bear Martha’s bulk than they had been to stare at it. But they were even less willing to cross Frevisse and managed to take the body away with a semblance of respect.

With an audible sigh, Lady Isobel moved from her husband’s arms, going to pick up the goblet from where it had fallen and partly rolled under the table. As she bent over and her fingers closed around it, she made a small sound of surprise and reached further under the table, then cried out sharply, “It bit me!” She jerked her hand back and clasped the fingers with her other hand. Blood welled and spilled over.

“What is it? What bit you?” asked her husband, coming immediately to swing his foot under the table.

“That stupid monkey!” she said, fierce with pain. “That stupid monkey bit me!”

Sir John kicked again, hard enough to hurt, but the monkey, untouched, skittered out of hiding and scaled the bed curtains to sit on top, chittering in fright.

“I’ll kill it!” Sir John said. His gaze and hands moved, looking for a weapon, but Frevisse said firmly, “We’ll have it down later. You’ll rouse Lady Ermentrude. Be quiet!”

He stopped, confused, as if uncertain whether to glare at her or at the monkey. The animal stared down at them silently, his tail wrapped up across his chest and around his shoulders in comfort.

“Please, John,” Lady Isobel said softly, holding out her injured hand to him. His anger vanished like mist wiped off a mirror, and he went to her again.

“I’ll take her to the infirmary,” Dame Claire said. “To clean it and bandage it. Will you come, my lady?”

“Lady Ermentrude?” Lady Isobel asked. “Who will stay with her?”

“There’s no worry about that,” said the woman Maryon. “I’ll remain with her.”

“And so will I.” Thomasine still stood beside the window, a slender child in her dark gown, solemn as if years of age were on her, her voice steady. “I need to make up for failing Martha.”

“There was nothing you could have done, child,” Dame Claire said. “Dame Frevisse, will you see to what needs doing? And Lady Isobel, if you’ll come with me. When we have finished, doubtless Domina Edith will be wanting to hear from me about what’s happened. By your leave.”

Frevisse nodded her agreement. As Dame Claire left, taking Lady Isobel and Sir John with her, Maryon closed the chamber door against the remaining staring faces. Thomasine turned, her hands clasped imploringly, to Frevisse. “Please give me leave to stay. I’ve been angry at Lady Ermentrude. And at Martha. My staying will be penance for all of that.”

“Otherwise you’ll spend the night in church on your knees,” Frevisse said dryly.  Thomasine looked surprised and a little abashed at being so well understood.  She nodded, and Frevisse granted, “Then you might as well pray here as there and be of some use in the bargain.  Maryon, can you find some of Lady Ermentrude’s ladies to keep the watch in turns with you?”

“I can do it alone. I don’t mean to sleep!” Thomasine cried out earnestly as Maryon nodded.

“I did not think you did. But I doubt Maryon or any other of your aunt’s ladies will make the same sacrifice. They’ll take their turns while you keep your watch. And your silence,” she added as Thomasine opened her mouth to protest. “Go to your praying.”

Frevisse ate her belated supper alone in the refectory.  The servants’ silence and long looks as they served her told they knew all there was to know about Martha’s death and were feeling it, even if they knew better than to ask her questions.

When she had finished, Frevisse went to the church in search of Dame Claire. Martha’s body, already washed, wrapped in its shroud, and placed in a plain coffin, was resting on a bier before the altar, candled at head and feet, with Father Henry too deep in prayer beside it to notice her. At Compline Domina Edith would divide the night into watches and set the nuns in turn in pairs to praying in the choir for the salvation of Martha’s soul.  But Dame Claire was not there, and after a brief prayer for Martha’s repose, Frevisse went out to the garden, where the nuns would be taking the last of their evening recreation before Compline and bed.

Dame Claire was not among them. Frevisse, pausing in the gateway to look for her, supposed she must be with Domina Edith and was thinking of going to join them when she noticed that the other nuns were not walking or sitting as usual but standing in little groups along the paths, their low talking – allowed during this one time of the day – underrun with excitement and pleasurable agitation. She knew Martha had never mattered enough to any of them for there to be much grieving for her loss. It was simply that so sudden a dying provided eager gossip for an evening, even better than Lady Ermentrude’s regrettable behavior. Better that they gossip about someone beyond caring what they said, than about someone still able to be offended, she supposed.

Then, before she could withdraw, Sister Amicia, among the nearest cluster of nuns, saw her and called out excitedly, “Dame Frevisse!”

Heads turned, and they all began to move toward her eagerly, Sister Amicia first. With resignation, Frevisse waited where she was.

Sister Amicia, still the most eager, exclaimed, “Dame Frevisse, you were there! Nobody knows anything except she’s dead. Tell us please, was it awful?”

With a quelling edge to her voice, Frevisse answered, “She was already dead when Dame Claire and I came in. Her struggle was over.  She was only lying there. It was her heart, Dame Claire thinks. Have you seen her?”

“No, she hasn’t been into the garden yet today.”

The nuns crowding behind Sister Amicia nodded, making the expected murmurs of sympathy. Martha had been a fine cook, but fat, and not young, they agreed. A greedy stomach was bad for the heart.  But Sister Amicia, with widened eyes, leaned nearer to Frevisse and whispered in awed, carrying tones, the question they all wanted answered. “She saw demons, didn’t she, come to torment Lady Ermentrude? Isn’t that what stopped her heart, truly?”

Aware that everyone around them had heard that “whisper,” Frevisse let her impatience show. “I doubt it,” she said crisply. “There was distinctly no smell of brimstone in the 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.  Now, away from the others, Frevisse let go of her arm and tucked her own hands into her sleeves to match Dame Claire’s quiet self-containment while saying, “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. “You mean 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 if there was no guilt and the death was innocent, he had to 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 least, or even three. “He’s been sent for?”

“One of Lady Ermentrude’s men has gone. And he’s to tell Lady Ermentrude’s son she’s ill. So there’ll be more trouble there, too.”  Because the message might bring every Fenner who possibly could make the journey to St. Frideswide’s.

Lady Ermentrude’s son, Lord Walter, would surely come, bringing Heaven only knew how many followers and friends. And the guest-hall chimney still needed repairing, and there was hardly room left for putting up a single poor traveler, much less another entourage.  But if nothing else, their coming might divert idle tongues from talk of demons and devils. There was some bit of comfort in that, Frevisse thought.

“And I should have told you already that Domina Edith wants to see you. Now, before Compline, if possible,” Dame Claire said.

“Which gives me somewhere safe to go, and you had better find one, too, because Sister Amicia is strolling to intercept us.”

“Oh merciful Heaven,” Dame Claire said, and turned toward the church as Frevisse left her for Domina Edith’s parlor.

The old greyhound had raised itself up from its basket and was standing beside the prioress’s chair, accepting bits of biscuit when Frevisse entered. Domina Edith looked up and nodded, finished with the dog, patted its head, and told it to go lie down again, which it obediently did. “And you, Sister Lucy, may go walk in the garden with the others awhile,” she said to her attendant. “Dame Frevisse will keep me company until Compline.”

After Sister Lucy made her curtsey, Domina Edith gestured Frevisse to sit on the window seat across from her. Domina Edith sat as if sinking into sleep for a few moments before raising her head and saying, with no sign of sleepiness at all, “Martha ate and drank before she died. A milksop from our kitchen. Wine from Sir John. Herbs from our infirmary.”

“Yes, my lady,” Frevisse answered quickly. Then she made the mental leap to overtake the prioress’s mind and said, startled, “Surely not!”

“Surely not,” Domina Edith agreed firmly. “There was nothing wrong with any of it, but the crowner will be here, asking questions, and there will be talk. There is always talk when someone dies without obvious cause. I would like the answers known before the questions begin. Who made the milksop?”

“Thomasine was sent for it. I don’t know if she or Dame Alys or one of the lay workers made it. It might have even been Martha herself.”

“Do find out, please. And what particularly went into it. The wine she drank was Sir John’s?”

“He brought it because it’s Lady Ermentrude’s favorite. It was to hand and easier to use than gathering the keys to the priory’s supply just then.”

“Very reasonable and thoughtful. The herbs?”

“Dame Claire sent Thomasine for them. She was very specific which box she wanted, and was satisfied with what Thomasine brought.”

Domina Edith drew a deep sigh and let it out heavily. “That all seems reasonable. It is only a pity that Dame Alys makes so great a matter of the quarrel between her family and the Fenners, and her wishing she could have a hand in it, since the food came from her kitchen.”

“True. But she may have had no hand in the milksop.”

“But Thomasine surely did. And with the medicine. She had both of them at one time or another, and everyone knows how plainly terrified her aunt had made her.

“Not terrified enough to kill,” Frevisse protested.

“That is what must be made clear to Master Montfort when he comes. Thomasine is strung too high for her own health and an accusation of murder could destroy her.”

Frevisse, frowning, said, “You don’t think–”

“No. She has been here long enough for me to take her measure. She could not hide such a deed, if she had done it.”

“No,” Frevisse agreed.

Domina Edith nodded her bobbing nod that sometimes led off into sleep, and her voice after a pause was dreamy. “She has a holiness sometimes alarming to behold. Men have been killed in mishandling holy relics, you know.”

Frevisse hesitated, having lost the prioress’s path of thought, wondering how far toward sleep she was. “Yes?” she said, prepared to slip away if there was no reply.

But Domina Edith looked up shrewdly from under her wrinkled eyelids, not sleepy at all. “I would be more afraid than pleased to have a living saint on my hands. And if I’m afraid of so much holiness, how must she feel, finding God working within her? It’s small wonder she looks half-sick with dread so much of the time. And now there’s her talk of demons. What happens when Master Montfort begins questioning her?”

“I don’t know, Domina.”

“I want you with her as much as may be through these next few days. Where is she now?”

“With Lady Ermentrude. I gave her leave to stay. She wants to spend the night there, in penance for her anger at Lady Ermentrude and Martha.”

Domina Edith smiled a small smile. “People who cause such anger so deliberately should be the ones to do the penance for it. Which I daresay Martha is doing now, wherever she is, may I be wrong.” She crossed herself. “And Lady Ermentrude – but Dame Claire thinks she will live.”

“It seems likely, yes.”

“And enjoy recovering her health among us, doubtless.” Domina Edith quieted the grumble in her voice. “But may she live a good long while yet, she and her monkey and her parrot and her dogs, and visit us many more times after this, amen.”

“Amen,” Frevisse replied.

“You mean for Thomasine to keep watch all night?”

“Some of Lady Ermentrude’s women will keep it in turns with her. Otherwise I think she’d spend the night on her knees in church and this seemed a better choice. By your leave.”

“My leave is given. But bring her to Compline. And see that she eats. Holiness is no excuse for mortifying a body God has already seen fit to make so weak.”

* * * * *

Lady Ermentrude still slept, to Thomasine’s heartfelt relief. The crucifix lay on her pillow, ready to hand if needed. The goblet, with fresh wine and a new infusion of Dame Claire’s quieting medicine, sat on the table along the wall. There was nothing she need do except pray. All the women had gone to the hall for this while and she was alone. The prie-dieu waited in its corner, but Thomasine stood at the foot of the bed, watching Lady Ermentrude’s sleep and trying to form the words that, for once, disconcertingly, did not want to come, so that it was a relief rather than interruption when a small scratching at the door was followed by Isobel looking cautiously in and then entering, closing the door softly behind her. She came to stand by Thomasine and asked, “How does she?”

“Still sleeping. I think it’s sleep. She breathes evenly and hardly stirs.”

“What does your Dame Claire say?”

“That if she sleeps quietly the whole night, she will probably mend.”

“You look as if you could sleep yourself. You’ve had a wearying day,” Isobel said.

Thomasine shook her head. “I couldn’t sleep. She needs my prayers. I need my prayers,” she amended softly, then turned her wide eyes fully on her sister and said, “We all need everyone’s prayers.”

Taken aback, Isobel said, “What?”

Thomasine looked to Lady Ermentrude again. “Death struck at her, you know. Meant to take her but missed, and Martha was taken instead. Didn’t you feel it?” She was very careful to keep her voice calm, but the calm was stretched taut over a hysteria she was unsure of holding in check. She looked again at her sister, who looked desperately anxious to understand. They had never been much together, never particularly close, but they were sisters and there ought to be a bond between them. “I keep watching her, wanting to see what it looks like to escape Death so narrowly.”

“Thomasine!” Isobel breathed, with a kind of horror.

But Thomasine needed to say the words, was too wrought into her own feelings to stop, and continued despite Isobel’s stare. “And I’m afraid Death will try again. I tried not to hate her but I did. I maybe still do, even after watching her suffer so horribly. It was ugly and awful, the way she suffered, but I had no pity at all for her. She’d been awful to me and I had no pity. I’m so wicked, there was no pity in me at all and I still don’t think there is! Oh, Isobel, what am I going to do?”

Tears came then, with the last wailing question, and Isobel, who understood the tears if nothing else, put her arm around her shoulders and drew her backward to the bench under the window. “Sit,” she urged. “Sit here with me.”

Willing to be told what to do, Thomasine obeyed. They sat down together, and letting go completely, Thomasine buried her face in her sister’s lap and sobbed.

Isobel patted steadily at her shoulder until the tears eased and Thomasine made to sit up again. “You’ll need this,” Isobel said, offering a handkerchief.

“I have my own,” Thomasine sniffed, pulling a bit of cloth from her sleeve.

Isobel, noting it and the frayed edge of the sleeve, asked, “Do you have to wear so poor a habit? We sent you good cloth; did they take it away from you?”

“No, of course not. But this suits me well enough. I gave my good handkerchiefs to Domina Edith. The ones we made before I came, remember? She said they were as fine as any she had seen.” Sharing the memory strengthened the frail bond and steadied Thomasine. She had dried both nose and eyes when Isobel said, “Did Lady Ermentrude truly say she meant to take you away from here?”

“Yes.”

“Did she say why, among all her other ravings?”

“No. She was too drunk, I believe, to think. She had the one idea and she kept saying it. But I’ve told her again and again that I want to be here.”

“Again and again? She’s threatened this before?”

“Not truly threatened. She’s only teased me, very meanly. But this time…” Thomasine’s eyes widened with memory. “This time she truly seemed to mean it. And what if she still means it when she wakens? Oh, Isobel, I was so frightened!”

“There now,” Isobel said firmly. “You needn’t be. She was just stupid with drink, and has no rights over you, whatever she means. She can’t have you out of here if you mean to stay. Thomasine, do you mean to stay here?”

Thomasine firmed her mouth. “You never have to ask that, Isobel. I want with all my heart to be here forever.”

“I trust you don’t mean in this particular room,” Dame Frevisse said from the doorway. “Because Domina Edith has sent me to bid you come to Compline now.”

Thomasine and Isobel startled at seeing her there, and the bell for the office began its small chiming into the evening air. Thomasine convulsively gripped Isobel’s hand, as if she would refuse to go, then let her loose, and, sighing, rose to her feet. Obedience came before inclination. With what might have been sympathy in someone else, Dame Frevisse said, “You also have Domina Edith’s permission to return here afterwards and stay the night, just as you wished.”

Supper in the guest hall was just ending, with only a few beginning to rise from their benches as Thomasine followed Frevisse out. Outside, at the head of the stairs, was the quiet-eyed youth who had helped Thomasine with Lady Ermentrude. He had not heard them coming, was standing with his face turned upward to the darkening sky, drawing a deep breath of the evening air, but was quickly aware of them and stepped aside from their way with a light bow.

Thomasine thought Dame Frevisse would have passed him with only an inclination of her head, but he asked in his warm and pleasant voice, “How does Lady Ermentrude?”

Dame Frevisse stopped and said, “Better, I think. She’s sleeping deeply now and is likely to recover if all goes no worse.”

“God be thanked.” His tone matched his words, pleasing Thomasine because, though she doubted anyone had any great affection for Lady Ermentrude, it was good he knew his duty. Then she saw his gaze had gone from Dame Frevisse to herself. She stiffened, but he said gently, so careful with respect she loosed a little of her wariness, “And I hope you’re none the worse for the fright she gave you and for the other woman’s dying, my lady?”

Her eyes wide on his face, Thomasine stared at him for a breathless moment, then looked hastily down at her hem and whispered, “Well enough, if it please God, thank you.”

Before he could answer, if he meant to, Dame Frevisse said, “We do not have a name to thank you by,” in an inquiring voice.

He bowed. “I’m Robert Fenner, if it please you, my lady.”

“Thank you, Robert Fenner, for your quick help today. Now, by your leave.” She went down the stairs, and Thomasine perforce followed her, stifling her urge to glance back to see if he stayed to watch them go.

Late twilight was deepening past blue to night as they crossed the courtyard to the cloister door. Once inside, the rule of silence took hold and they could not speak aloud except to God. The nuns gathered in the common room for Compline instead of in the church. Frevisse, with too many other things to think on, including Robert Fenner’s face when he had looked at Thomasine, was a little bewildered to find that the office’s three psalms were finished and that she was singing with the others, “Before the last of light, we pray that in your mercy you will watch over us this night.” Then they were through, and she gathered Thomasine up before she could be away to the guest hall and guided her firmly to the refectory.

Leaving her seated in the hall’s echoing loneliness, Frevisse went on to the kitchen. The servants were still there, finishing the day’s work and preparing for tomorrow’s, still quieter than usual, visibly aware of the gap where Martha Hayward had been a few hours ago. They looked up a little warily when Frevisse entered, but she only nodded to them and went about her business. She returned to Thomasine with not only the pittance of cheese and apples that were properly supper, but warmed milk and a honeyed crust of bread. Thomasine began to gesture in protest, but Frevisse raised one hand in a silent asking for obedience. A stubbornness began to pout across Thomasine’s face, but her young body’s hunger won over her mind’s demands, and with more haste than grace she took the food and ate. Having watched to be sure she finished, Frevisse gestured she would go to bed now, and that Thomasine was free to return to the guest house. Thomasine gestured that she had an errand to do first.

Perplexed, Frevisse raised an eyebrow.

Thomasine gestured a bowl in the air, stirred it, and made the sign for bread.

Another milksop, guessed Frevisse, and nodded permission. It was well thought of and would comfort Lady Ermentrude if she woke in the night.

Thomasine smiled her thanks, made a little bow, and went out.

Continue with Chapter 6 tomorrow!

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