The Maiden’s Tale (22 page)

“Who will be looking?” Lady Jane demanded.

“Whoever it is that wants him dead.”

“I presume it is my death we are discussing, my ladies?” Orleans inquired behind them.

Turned from the room and too concentrated on what they were saying to notice he was there until then, they startled, surely looking as guilty as they felt, then started to rise but he gestured them to stay and pulled a chair over to join them, saying as he sat, “So. Yes?”

Frevisse answered, with no help for it, as evenly as he asked it, “Your death is less the question we were wondering over than how actually safe your grace is here.”

“I doubt I have been actually much safe anywhere since I was twelve years old.” Orleans smiled. “What does it seem to be this time?”

“Lady Jane believes that a man who was one of Lady Alice’s messengers before me was murdered by someone here in the household, but the murder is unsuspected yet by anyone but her. And William.”

“And you believe what?”

“What I believe or not is beside the point that there’s nothing to suggest who might have done it but that, if it’s true, then there’s someone already part of the household who is willing to kill you if it’s found out you’re here.”

“Unless whoever it is who is willing to kill is in the employ of someone who wants me alive, rather than of someone who wants me dead,” Orleans pointed out.

“Are there so many men who want you dead?” Frevisse asked.

“What makes ‘many’?” Orleans asked back. “One man is too many if he hires someone competent at his work.”

A slight scratching at the hallward door twitched all their heads that way and for a stiffened moment they all sat looking toward the sound before Frevisse made her shoulders ease and said, “That will be William with our dinner or more wood,” and Lady Jane set her sewing aside and rose to her feet, but stopped to ask Orleans, “What happened when you were twelve years old, my lord?”

Orleans’ pause then as he looked back at her went on so long that almost it seemed he was not going to answer, before finally, quite quietly, he said, “My father was murdered, my lady.”

Chapter
19

William came in burdened with a tray heavy-loaded with dishes and a green-glazed pitcher that obscured where he walked. To help him, Lady Jane took the pitcher and came with him to the table where Orleans was come to clear his writing away and Frevisse to help set out the food. Apples baked in cinnamon syrup in thick pastry cups, a round loaf of white bread with sliced almonds striped in patterns on its crust, slices of pale meat in a yellow sauce—not, Frevisse hoped, last night’s neglected peacock reduced to anonymity…

Lady Jane, returning to lock the door they had left a little open, gasped and stopped, Frevisse looked up, William spun around, and Orleans went rigid, while in the doorway, wide-eyed and startled as they were, Master Bruneau stared past them all to Orleans, apparently no more believing his eyes than Frevisse would have liked to believe hers. But he recovered before any of them and bowed low, saying, “My lord.”

And then Lady Jane, recovering, too, crossed the few yards between them, seized him by the arm and pulled him into the room, shut the door and wrenched the key around in the lock as if that would undo what was done, while Orleans came, too, but smiling, both hands held out to clasp Master Bruneau warmly by the hand, saying, “Sir! It’s more than good to see you again!”

“And you, my lord,” Master Bruneau said with equal, welcoming warmth. “And you.”

Orleans sobered. “I heard about Jeannette and am most sorry. How do you? And do not tell me well.”

The brightness of tears unexpectedly glistened in Master Bruneau’s eyes. “No, not well, my lord. Better but not well.”

William was gone calmly back to setting out the food, leaving only Lady Jane and Frevisse not understanding as Orleans led Master Bruneau aside toward the window, saying ‘“Well’ does not come, I fear. Only ‘better.” I grieve you have had to learn that for your lady as I had to learn it for my Bonne.“

Master Bruneau made an agreeing movement of his head and quoted with a tremor in his voice, “ ‘Now hold himself from love who may. For me, I may keep no more. I must needs love despite all grief and sore. And yet…’ ” His voice broke.

“I know.” Orleans’ voice had a broken edge of grief to it, too. “ ‘My Heart began to acquaint himself the other day With beauty which so cheered him therefore That her to serve he has himself foreswore.” Remember how Jeannette laughed the evening I first read that to you all and said it was for her?“

The echo of remembered laughter took something of the grief from Master Bruneau’s answer. “I remember. You pleased her much. The copy you gave her, she kept always. Remember the poem you did for Lady Anne, how long it took everyone to see where the cleverness lay? And the one you did for Lady Eva?”

“The one I wrote without ever mentioning Love or Beauty because Lady Eva has none, inward or outward, but would not stop asking that I write a poem ‘all of her own’?”

“That one.” Controlled to quiet now, Master Bruneau asked, “But, my lord, why are you here and, I take it, in secret?”‘

Orleans told him briefly, making little of the attack, saying, “Only my doublet suffered and, see, Lady Jane has mended it to new.” Making slight, too, of his need to stay hidden but leaving no doubt of it.

And Master Bruneau fully understood. “I’ll assuredly say nothing, my lord.”

But from where he stood beside the table William asked what Frevisse had been wanting to. “Why did you come here at all, Master Bruneau?”‘

Not seeming surprised at being asked nor as if he had anything to hide, he answered, “I’m missing one of my Rouen rolls. You know?” he asked of Lady Jane. “The other day when I was in here? I knew you were to be private today but thought no harm in asking to look when I saw William bringing your dinner.”

With William and Lady Jane he made quick search under furniture but the roll was not found, and he and William left together, William taking away the remains of breakfast, Master Bruneau with a deep wish to Orleans for his safety and success.

When they were gone, the door locked behind them, Orleans, Lady Jane, and Frevisse ate their cooled dinner in mostly silence, each to their own thoughts, until near the end Frevisse looked up from the apple tart and asked Orleans, “Who was Bonne?”

Orleans’ smile curved awry between remembered pleasure and loss. “My wife.” He stirred the apples left in his pastry shell a little, then laid the spoon aside and said far away to somewhere inside himself or beyond the years, “ ‘Cursed death, why will you not make me to die, Since my sweet heart, since my good soul is gone? I would my life in someone else’s heart did lie, For now for nothing do I live this long.” “ He raised his head, forcing a smile. ”I was newly come into the earl of Suffolk’s keeping when word came that she had died. Almost seven years ago now. Master Bruneau and his wife were kind to me in my grief then. You would not believe how comforting it was to be able to talk to them of Bonne in French. That was why I tried to give what I could in return of comfort to him now, Mistress Bruneau being dead. Ah!“ He pushed the bowl with the unfinished tart away from him. ”Enough. I think I’ll sleep to pass the time the faster.“

Stretched out on the settle, he slept or seemed to well enough that Frevisse and Lady Jane kept quiet not to disturb him, sitting at the window again, Lady Jane sewing, Frevisse praying her way through None, then merely sitting, thinking as little as might be, no satisfactory way to take her thoughts. She wanted to stay clear from the one question she had of Alice and Orleans, the one she did not want to ask and was afraid to have answered. And as for Orleans’ safety and hers, there was little she could do, confined here, but hope they were both in small danger from any murderer. If there was a murderer.

Orleans sat up and returned to the
Confessio Amantis.
Lady Jane’s sewing and Frevisse’s quiet turning away from her thoughts went on and a while more of the afternoon slipped away before into their silences there was the sound of a key in the hallward door and Alice entered, locked the door, and turned to face them, looking like a child let off of lessons as she said, “There! I’ve told everyone I’ve had my surfeit of folk for today and will spend the rest of it with you at your prayers.” She was still dressed for being out but with her kingfisher cloak thrown back over her shoulders, showing her murrey-purple gown; and pulling off a glove as she moved toward the fireplace, she added, “I’ve given order I’m not to be disturbed until my lord comes home from Westminster. That’s one benefit of being lady rather than lord. There’s never a chance I’ll ever have to sit through any session of Parliament!”

Orleans had put aside his book and risen to his feet as she came toward the hearth and him; and Alice gave him her smile as she held her ungloved hand toward the flames with a sigh of pleasure and “Oh mercy. Warmth!” but looked away from him toward Lady Jane and Frevisse at the window to go on chatting, “I thought I’d freeze on the ride home. I swear I’m going ahead with building us a place at St. Giles Holborn, whatever Suffolk says. It will be that much nearer Westminster…”

Orleans made a half step toward her, took her outstretched hand into his own, and all her bright spatter of words ended between one and the next. For a moment she went utterly still, then with an aching slowness turned toward him, both of them ceasing to feign anything for anyone, all pretence gone that she was there for any other reason than him.

At almost the same instant as Frevisse, Lady Jane turned away to the window and barren garden and what was left of the winter day’s fading sunlight, with Frevisse heartsick at what she’d seen; but beside her, curtly, quietly, Lady Jane said, “Whatever you’re thinking, they’ve done no sin. She swore it to me.”

As quietly but sharply Frevisse returned, “Swore it to you? Why?”

Lady Jane stiffened, probably realizing belatedly she would have better said nothing, and angrily wishing she
had
said nothing, Frevisse pushed, “Why should Alice need to swear oath to you about it? Or about anything?”

Lady Jane let out her breath and said miserably, “Because I hold a secret for her, so that if anything happens to her, I can…” She was looking for a way to say enough without saying too much. “… I can destroy it before anyone else learns it.”

A secret that could be seen then. That could be… read?

Across the room Alice and Orleans were speaking but far too low for even the murmur of it to reach beyond themselves. Turning her head slightly, Frevisse could see they had drawn nearer to each other, that he was unclasping her cloak, taking it from her with a gesture that was a caress despite he never touched her.

Frevisse turned her gaze back to the garden. Somewhere the clouds must have parted; though the garden was in shadow, high up along the eaves of the blank housewall beyond it there was a narrow band of sunset light. In winter the hours of a day were shorter, with the daylight, and this day, to Frevisse’s relief, was almost gone. A church’s bells began to call to Vespers and other London bells took up the peal, as always. Without need to think about it, Frevisse passed by paternoster and ave to Vesper’s opening.
Deus in adjutorium.
God, come to my aid.

It was a time later when someone gave a single, hard knock at the hallward door, and Lady Jane went, while at the hearth Orleans let go of Alice’s hands and they stepped well apart from one another, Lady Alice turning away from him toward the fire, before Lady Jane let in William with more wood that he brought to the fireplace, saying as he knelt to set them down, “His grace the earl is come home, my lady.”

A look of things not needing to be said passed between Lady Alice and Orleans as she asked William lightly, nothing showing in her voice, “Did he bring any guest back to supper with him?”

“No one but household folk, my lady.”

Beyond the door at the solar’s far end, someone laughed, the unexpected sound bringing William to his feet and Orleans’ hand to his dagger, but Alice said, as a key turned in the lock there, “It’s only Suffolk,” and it was, throwing open the door and entering with more laughter over his shoulder to one of his squires following with tray bearing a pitcher and silver goblets. Surely in protest at the squire, Alice cried out, “Good my lord!” but Suffolk took it for greeting, saying cheerily back, “My sweet lady!” Sending the squire toward the table with a nod and, “Set it there, Fulk, and pour for us,” he came on to take both her hands in his own and kiss them one after the other before turning to Orleans with, “Orleans! Survived the day then, did you?”

“What are doing?” Alice demanded.

Suffolk, if he even heard her half-hidden distress, ignored it, answering with the same great cheer, “Making a good end to what’s been a tedium of a day.” He closed on the fire where William was kneeling to his work again and held his hands out over him to the warmth. “I vow you have the right of it, my love, about our building at St. Giles. It’s too long a ride between here and Westminster.”

“My lord, no one was to know Orleans…” Alice began.

Rubbing his hands together, Suffolk cut in, “I’ve given order you and I will dine here in the solar tonight, to give Orleans better company than he’s had today. No, I’m discreet, love!” he said, laughing as she tried again to protest. “Fulk will do all the fetching of dishes and serving. William will keep the door. No one will know there’s aught but family here. You’re ready for good company, aren’t you, Orleans, after a day shut up with piety?”

Orleans made a slight bow. “Your company is always a pleasure, Suffolk, but you wrong these fair ladies. Not only have they kept kind watch this while, they’ve been good company.”

“Ah!” Suffolk exclaimed. He bowed vaguely toward Jane and Frevisse. “Pardon, my ladies. I meant you no wrong.”

Frevisse suspected he rarely if ever meant wrong or understood any ill tempers he roused, even now when he had just made waste of all they had done to keep Orleans secret. But then from what she had seen of him, if he wanted a thing for him that was sufficient reason to have it done and anyone’s protest against it only showed their ignorance.