It was a pity she needed Master Breredon’s help at all, and a pity that her need had brought her back here. Still, the place had served its purpose. She had not known how long she would have to wait for him to come. She had needed somewhere safe for her and Neddie, where Master Breredon would be surely able to find her, as well as somewhere no one would think to look for her. St. Frideswide’s had served all those purposes well. Now soon, soon, soon she would escape from here as readily as she had done before and never be dragged from bed in the middle of the night for prayers or see any of these dreary women again. Mercy of the Lord! They didn’t even have sense enough after Lent’s lacks and Easter’s rigors to make merry the way most people did!
Kneeling on her aching knees, her hands clasped so hard her fingers hurt, Cecely had sudden, sharp memory of her Easter Monday last year when the three of them had ridden out together to watch the games and merriment in the village, Neddie on Guy’s saddlebow, safe between Guy’s arms, her riding pillion behind them, an arm around Guy’s warm waist. His summer doublet when she rested her cheek against it had smelled of the southernwood and rosemary it had been stored with through the winter, and one of the village women had given her a garland of spring flowers to wear around her neck. When old John Jankin’s feet went out from under him in the tug-rugget and he’d pitched backward, knocking down the whole line of men along the rope behind him, she had laughed herself near to falling off the horse, had had to grab hold of Guy’s belt to save herself.
They had been so happy together. Not just then but so many times. It was unfair, it was wrong that he was dead. Wrong that she had to endure this place again. Wrong that she and Neddie had to be here. Wrong that she had to deal with Master Breredon. Wrong and wrong and wrong! The only grief there had been between her and Guy in their years together had been their lost babies. Now he was gone from her forever. How was she supposed to love God when he’d taken away from her what she loved most in the world? How was she supposed to love God when he was so cruel?
Cecely found tears of anger and grief were washing warm down her chill cheeks, and she raised her head, lifted her gaze to the altar. There was no point in wasting those tears. Dame Amicia, her keeper today, was in chapter meeting with the other nuns, but there was a servant standing somewhere behind her, keeping watch. Let whoever it was report she had cried. Domina Elisabeth would probably think it was in contrition and sorrow for her sin and be glad of it.
But what had been between her and Guy had not been sin, Cecely thought angrily. They had been so happy. How could their happiness have been sin?
Someone laid an uncertain hand on her shoulder. She looked around and up, startled. It was Alson. Alson! Sent to watch her just when Cecely needed her most!
Eagerly Cecely grabbed her hand and pulled her down beside her.
Frevisse, when the morning’s chapter meeting was done, went to see how things were in the guesthall and was in time to see Father Henry waving farewell to his aunt and her friend as they rode out of the yard with laughter and promises to be back come Michaelmas. Frevisse joined him in a final wave as they disappeared through the gateway and said to him as he turned around, “You’re fortunate in your kin, Father.”
He was smiling. “I am indeed.”
“As they are fortunate in you.”
Father Henry looked at her in open surprise. “Are they?”
“They are. As St. Frideswide’s is in having you for our priest.”
She was as surprised to hear herself say that aloud as Father Henry seemed to be at hearing it, and she left him standing there, still startled, as she went on to the guesthall.
Happily, the two widows were not the only guests leaving today. As Frevisse came into the hall, little Powlyn and his parents were almost readied to go, taking with them Dame Claire’s assurance their child was fully on the mend. On Dame Claire’s behalf, Frevisse took their thanks and a thank-offering for the priory, promised the nuns’ prayers for them and their child, and saw them away.
After that she spoke briefly with Mistress Lawsell and Elianor, saying nothing about yesterday.
Like the Lawsells, Master Breredon preposed to stay on a few days more. Indeed, Ela said that with the widows gone, he had already made bold to ask to move into the guesthall’s best chamber with his two servants. As he had been so generous with his Easter gifts to the nunnery, Frevisse made no pause over agreeing to that and made a point of going to thank him again for his gifts and to ask how his servant did.
“Much better,” Master Breredon assured her. “Ida is a favorite with my wife, so I’m as grateful to your infirmarian on my wife’s behalf as Ida’s husband is on his.”
Frevisse accepted his thanks on the nunnery’s behalf and said it was pity he had had to spend Easter away from his home. He agreed but said some things could not be helped.
Sext took her back to the cloister before she was finished in the guesthall, and it was afternoon before she was free to return and take council with Ela in the guesthall kitchen not only on how food was lasting for the present guests but-more worryingly-how they would fare if other guests came.
“We’re that low on flour, there’ll have to be more grain ground if there’s to be bread after tomorrow,” Ela said. “A bit of meat wouldn’t come amiss. What’s left of the ham won’t last long. Some lamb or mutton, maybe?”
“Send to ask Hamo.” The nunnery’s shepherd. “If there’s sheep to spare, I suppose it will have to come to here. We can go on with fish in the cloister a while longer.” Frevisse held back a sigh at the thought of more fish after all the fish there had been through Lent. Besides that, the priory’s fishponds were somewhat over-fished just now, so the nuns would likely have to make do with the last of the dried stockfish from the bottom of the last of the barrels laid in last autumn. Spring was always a difficult time for food.
“Still,” she said hopefully, “the cows are in good milk. If nothing else, we can oat-pottage everyone in cloister and guesthall alike when all else fails.”
“We’re nearly out of oats,” said Ela.
They settled on deciding that Frevisse would bring the matter up in tomorrow’s chapter meeting, to be talked over and decisions made there. Ela made no secret of being glad she would have no part in that. Frevisse held back from admitting she wished she could avoid it, too. Instead, she thanked Ela for her good, steady handling of the guesthall’s guests and servants.
“Oh, aye,” Ela answered, making a grumble of it but her pleasure at the thanks showing through. “Well, there you are. It’s less trouble in the long jog to handle things and people well from the start.”
Frevisse left the kitchen, going up its outer stairs into the yard. The morning was become softly warm, the sky strongly blue between light streamers of scrubbed-white clouds, and she paused a moment, her face turned up, eyes closed, to the gentle sunlight, pleasuring in the brightness and warmth. But only briefly. At the sound of soft-soled, running footsteps she opened her eyes and saw Sister Helen running through the gateway from the outer yard where no nun had any business being and most especially not alone.
All her momentary ease falling away, Frevisse started toward the girl, not sure whether to be angry or-now that she saw the girl’s frightened face more clearly-alarmed. Certainly Sister Helen looked glad rather than guilty to see her, running to her so headlong that Frevisse caught her by the arms to stop and steady her. Sister Helen grabbed her arms in return, gasping to catch her breath, giving Frevisse time to demand, “What were you doing out there and alone? What’s the matter?”