So all the rending caused by Sister Cecely had eventually healed over and been smoothed away by time, and in many ways it was a pity she was here again, not least because of the uneasiness she was making between Frevisse and her prayers, and it was impatiently that Frevisse finally amened, crossed herself, rose, and turned to see what Cecely was doing.
Afterward Frevisse had to wonder if her flare of anger when she saw Sister Cecely in talk with the man was righteous and allowable or a sin in itself. Best might have been a firm regret for Sister Cecely’s sinful weakness, mixed with prayerful hope for her amendment, but at the moment all that Frevisse felt was plain anger that Sister Cecely could not be trusted even so far as the church, not even in her son’s company. Knowing her anger was compounded with irk at having to deal with the woman at all, she did try to curb it, or at least hide it, but knew she failed at both.
Sister Cecely, seeing her, broke off her talk and came away from the man, bringing her son with her. Frevisse waited at the rood screen for them, stopped with a gesture whatever Sister Cecely was opening her mouth to say, and led her and the boy out of the church, into the cloister walk and around to the narrow slype. There they could talk with least disturbance of anyone, and Frevisse turned on Sister Cecely, who was clinging to her son’s hand, her head very humbly bowed in appearance of deep shame, but Frevisse knew for herself and all too well how much a bowed head could hide and she did not soften her demand of, “Well?”
Head still bowed, Sister Cecely said, “It wasn’t my doing. We were simply sitting there just as we did yesterday.” She stroked her son’s hair with her free hand, as if to make clear she had not been alone in the church. “The man was praying there. He started to leave. Then he came aside and spoke to us. As soon as he did, I went away from him. And you came.”
That had not been quite how it looked to Frevisse, but she might be wrong. She might be wrong, too, that there seemed more resentment than penitence under Sister Cecely’s words. Or it might simply be Sister Cecely’s shame making her sound more resentful than contrite or humble. If that was it, Sister Cecely needed to work on her shame; there was still too much of pride about it.
Unfortunately, Frevisse could not help her own too much anger as she answered, “I’ll nonetheless have to tell Domina Elisabeth what I saw. For now, for the while you have left with your son, we’ll return to the church, but now I’ll sit near you.”
“As you will,” Sister Cecely said with stiff mildness, head still bowed.
The boy was looking at the wall beside him, away from Frevisse and his mother both, and he went on looking away as they returned to the nave. There Frevisse pointed Sister Cecely to sit on the stone bench along the wall again, then sat herself a distance away, wishing she had her Lenten book to read but having to settle for folded hands and her thoughts. It surely was not wrong for her to pray and hope so hard that Abbot Gilberd would see fit to send Sister Cecely away to another nunnery. For Sister Cecely’s sake as much as St. Frideswide’s, Frevisse tried to tell herself, but was not fooled. What she wanted was Sister Cecely not here. Where Abbot Gilberd sent her or why made no difference, just so long as she was not left in St. Frideswide’s.
That did not stop Frevisse being sorry for the child, sitting there with his head hanging while Sister Cecely bent over him in whispered talk. He was unfortunate in his mother, Frevisse thought. She could not speak from motherhood herself, of course, but she had been a child and did not think she would have cared to be fawned at, the way Sister Cecely seemed to fawn at him.
Sitting there in the nave’s quiet, she found herself moving from simply irk at Sister Cecely to wondering how much she had been changed by her life and living outside the nunnery. She surely must have been changed. First there had been the giving of herself up to a man despite all the vows she had taken otherwise. Then there had been the pretence of being his wife for all those years. If they had been together all this time, it must have been under the seeming of marriage, to hide she was a nun, because an apostate nun and anyone sheltering her were liable to civil law as well as to the Church. Living in such a lie had to have had some corrosive effect on the soul. And then there were the deaths of her children. Sin-begotten though they were, they had been hers. She had held them, loved them, seen them die, and had to bury them. Frevisse could only imagine what pain there was in that-pain almost beyond bearing, surely. And then her paramour had died, and except for her one last child, everything she had gained by her sinning had been lost to her.
Had it been that that had finally brought her to humility and contrition enough to bring her back here to make good the wrong she had done when she fled from St. Frideswide’s?
Frevisse prayed so, but found that-prayer or no-she doubted it.
More than that, she found she doubted everything else about Sister Cecely, from her claim of contrition to her grief to her…no, not to her love for her son. That was surely true.
And none of it is my business, Frevisse reminded herself. Her duty was to pray for Sister Cecely’s good amendment and to tell Domina Elisabeth that she had seen Sister Cecely in talk with a man in the church. Everything else was Father Henry’s and Domina Elisabeth’s business, thank all the saints.
Later in the day she was likewise thankful when she was able to leave Sister Cecely at work in the kitchen under Dame Amicia’s eye while she made her own end-of-afternoon visit to the guesthall. There she found that no more guests had come and that Ela, as expected, had everything well in hand. That gave Frevisse chance to move among the present guests, speaking briefly to each, both for courtesy’s sake and to be sure all was well with them. She said nothing to Master Breredon about having seen him in talk with Sister Cecely, only asked how his ill servant did, remembered to thank him for his food gifts, and found him a courteous, quiet-spoken man.
She spoke to his servants, too. The woman, who indeed did not look well, claimed she was comfortable, and her husband said he was grateful that Dame Claire had already been to see her.
The parents of the small child glowed with pleasure when she asked how little Powlyn did. With him so much better, they were having a happier Easter than they had dared hope for, they said, and they thanked St. Frideswide for it.
It crossed Frevisse’s mind that the child’s bettering had as much to do with Dame Claire’s and Dame Johane’s skills as saintly care, but her next thought was to wonder who was to say that Dame Claire’s and Dame Johane’s skills were not the saint’s gift? The older she became, the more she found that faith and life’s mysteries twined together, with often neither faith nor life at all understandable.
But then, faith was not something to be “understood.” It was something to be lived.
But-come to it-that seemed to be true of life, too.
The two widows were making merry over a game of tables and dice when she came to them. One of them jestingly offered to let Frevisse take her place at the board for a while, and Frevisse as jestingly answered that, “If you’re losing so badly you want me to play, I assuredly will not take your place,” making both women laugh.
Frevisse had meant to make particular effort to talk with Mistress Lawsell and her daughter today, too, having done barely more than nod in passing to them since they came. Her intent was only increased by Ela telling her, on the quiet, that they had been to every Office since they came, even to Matins and Lauds. “And then up again for Prime,” Ela said. She did not sound approving, but Ela’s approval or disapproval aside, Frevisse was curious whether that devotion was only Mistress Lawsell’s, with her hope her daughter would become a nun, or whether the girl shared it. Ela could not tell her, was only able to offer, “She’s a quiet thing, the girl. Keeps her head down and her words to herself. It’s the mother does the talking.”