That was where Sister Thomasine had betaken herself, to sit alone at her prayers while Frevisse talked with Perryn and where she was now but no longer alone or at her prayers. A while ago a small girl-child in a loose, knee-long smock had toddled out from the house, stood for a time staring at Perryn and Frevisse, then trotted off across the yard to Sister Thomasine and was there now, leaning against her knees, listening to Sister Thomasine who seemed to be explaining about the string of rosary beads she held.
That Sister Thomasine might be good with children had never occurred to Frevisse. But neither had she thought Sister Thomasine would be so little disturbed at being out in the world. She had taken their prioress’ order with bowed head and a quiet “Yes, my lady” and nothing more, and when the time had come this morning to go out the gateway from the priory’s inner yard as she had not gone since entering as a novice, she had done nothing more than pause, bow her head to murmur a brief prayer and make the sign of the cross over her breast, before she went on, her hands tucked into her opposite sleeves and her head down, showing as little as possible of herself and seeing as little of the world as might be while she and Frevisse crossed the priory’s outer yard with its clutter of stables, barns, byres, workshops, storage sheds and folk-mostly men-busy at their work.
Time had been, in Sister Thomasine’s young days, that even the sound of men’s voices had been enough to shrivel her with fear but thankfully she was grown past that depth of simplicity. In truth, Frevisse had come to see that in the ways of prayer and the spirit, Sister Thomasine was very far from simple, whatever lack of interest she had in going out into the world beyond priory walls, although today as they had walked along the road sunken between low-cropped hedges toward the village, she had stopped once to bend down and touch an herb Robert’s red petals bright in the wayside grass, another time had paused, head lifted, to heed a chaffinch making merry on an upthrust hedge branch, and once, where a low field gate let them see beyond the hedges, she had stopped to watch the long grass in an unmown hayfield bend and sway with the warm wind, then turned to Frevisse and said in her soft, near-whispering voice, “It’s very beautiful, God’s world.”
Frevisse had nodded silent agreement, Sister Thomasine had watched the wind-brushed hayfield for another moment, and they had gone on, Sister Thomasine withdrawing into herself again when they entered the village, leaving questioning of where the reeve lived to Frevisse and, when they had found him, taking herself aside to sit under the apple tree with her prayers.
Frevisse stirred out of her thoughts, considering she might after all not wait for Perryn to return. If they left now, she and Sister Thomasine might be in time for None, and she could come back tomorrow after talking over what small matters she needed to with Master Naylor about the bylaws. But before she could do more than stir, a woman said beside her, “My lady, would you and the other sister care for something to drink?”
Frevisse turned to look up at the woman in the doorway with a green-glazed pitcher in one hand, two green-glazed cups in the other. Simon Perryn’s wife, she guessed, because although, as with most women of middle years, the wimple and veil made it difficult to judge her age, she was assuredly no servant. Though her gown was simply cut, shaped to her but loose enough for working in, it was of well-dyed, good linen, her wimple and veil of equal quality, the veil lightly starched, the wimple falling in soft folds over her throat and shoulders, only marred on the breast by a somewhat grubby handprint of a size to have come from the little girl across the yard; and though she likely had never had a nun at her doorstep before now, she was at ease, smiling, as she held out the pitcher and cups.
Frevisse smiled back at her. “You’ll have to ask Sister Thomasine if she does but, if you’ll join me, I’ll gladly thank you for some.”
Perryn’s wife made her a smiling curtsy and crossed the yard to where Sister Thomasine and the child were still busy together, spoke with them and was coming back when a burst of boys appeared from between house and byre. There momentarily seemed to be a great many of them but as they skidded to a halt, bumping into one another, at sight of her, Frevisse saw there were only three, the oldest maybe twelve, the youngest maybe eight, the other somewhere in between, but all of them wet and muddy. Staring at her, they jostled elbows into each other, made awkward boy-bows, and headed away along one of the paths through the garden toward Perryn’s wife, who met them where their way crossed the garden’s wide middle path and said sternly, albeit around laughter, “Nay, keep your distance. I don’t need you dripping on me nor you’re not going inside like that either.”
‘But Mum…“ the middle one began in protest.
She pointed toward a shadowed corner beside the byre. “You just take yourselves over there and dry for a while before you even think of coming inside. Cisily will bring you something to eat and drink,” she added.
Promise of food diverted them and they went, laughing and loud, where their mother had pointed while she came on, to set the jug and cups on the bench and lean through the houseplace doorway to call, “Cisily! Starving boys by the byre. Milk and buttered bread, please,” and sat down on the bench where her husband had been. Still smiling, she said, “They’ve been to the stream,” and took up the jug to pour a pale ale into one of the cups with, “Sister Thomasine wanted none but I hope you do?”
She held the cup out to Frevisse who took it with thanks and, “You’ll join me, I pray you?”
‘Thank you, my lady,“ she said and added while she poured for herself, ”I’m Anne, the reeve’s wife.“
Frevisse acknowledged that with a slight bow of her head and, “I’m Dame Frevisse.”
They talked a little of Master Naylor’s trouble, then moved on to how grateful they were for the good weather. An older woman in simple servant’s garb and apron came out of the house bearing a tray with a plain pottery jug and wooden cups and half a loaf of sliced buttered bread. Brisk and cheerful, she crossed the yard toward the boys who leaped to their feet, the tallest taking the tray from her. She told them, “Mind you bring it in when you’re done, not just leave it sitting here,” and for what it might be worth they nodded agreement, mouths already crammed with bread. On her way back to the house she took the chance for a thorough look at Frevisse while making a quick-bobbed curtsy to her and her mistress, and was just gone inside when Anne stood quickly up, calling, “Lucy, no,” and moved to head off the little girl now making a toddle-legged run along the straightest garden path toward the boys-or, more probably, toward their food.