Free The Bishop’s Tale by Margaret Frazer Page B

to rise again.
     
    Bishop Beaufort rose in his place to his full, impressive height and, with his hands held wide to include everyone in front of him, declared in his strong voice, “Good people! We’ve seen a wonder here with our own eyes. May God, having made his will manifest, have mercy on this man. Let us pray for him. And for ourselves, who may be as near and unknowing as Sir Clement was to God’s great judgment. Return to your places, I bid you. Sit, that we may pray.”
     
    He was so completely sure of their obedience that— scared or awed or wary—people complied, the guests subsiding onto their benches, the servers to their places near their lords or along the screen to the kitchen. The gap where Sir Clement, his ward, and his nephew had sat remained eloquently empty; people glanced at it and nervously away, or kept their eyes averted entirely.
     
    Bishop Beaufort waited until the hall was still and all their eyes on him. Then he brought his hands together, said,
“Oremus”
and bent his head. Every head in the hall bent with him, and in a voice that carried all through the hall, meant to reach everyone as well as God, he said, “Lord of power and might, may we—dust in your wind—learn not to tempt your wrath. If it be your will, spare Sir Clement Sharpe, that he may be a better servant in your sight to the end of his appointed days, if these be not they.
Sed fiat voluntas tua.
And may we all come to the ends you have appointed and find your mercy at the last, through Christ our lord, who lives and reigns forever. Amen.”
     
    He lifted his head and said in a more common voice, “Now let us remember that we came to honor our friend Thomas Chaucer and go on with this meal in remembrance of him, may he rest in God.”
     
    A murmurous response ran through the hall. Hands moved, making the cross from head to breast, left shoulder to right. Some heads remained briefly lowered in personal prayers. Much subdued and in deep order, the meal continued. Bishop Beaufort sat down and turned to comfort Matilda, pale and shaken beside him.
     
    Frevisse gave up anything more than the pretense of eating, and with her headache did not dare drink more wine. Robert did not return, and the abbot made no more effort at conversation. Left to her thoughts, she did not like their morbid turn; God so directly manifest against someone who had tried his patience past endurance was not a comforting sight. She took her mind away from the incident, sheltering in watching other people down the hall.
     
    Two servers were clearing away the dishes from Sir Clement’s place. One righted a goblet and dropped a towel over a wide wine stain.
     
    Farther down the tables, Dame Perpetua had stopped eating and, very white-faced, sat with bowed head, lips moving in silent prayer. The nun sitting beside her was weeping and telling her beads. Sir Philip had not returned, and a large woman had shifted sideways to take advantage of his vacated place.
     
    The next course, roast pork on a bed of saffron rice with apricots and mushrooms, was just being set in front of her and the abbot, when her aunt’s lady-in-waiting Joan leaned over her shoulder and said low in her ear, “My lady and Countess Alice ask if you would mind going to see how Sir Clement does, and return to tell.”
     
    “Assuredly,” Frevisse said. She could leave the table with less disruption than anyone else, she supposed, and her report would probably be more detailed than a servant’s.
     
    Aside from those considerations, she welcomed an excuse to leave the hall. She rose and asked, “How is it with my aunt?”
     
    Joan shook her head and made small tch-tch-tch sounds. “She’s being very brave, despite the fright that fool gave us all. She’ll see the day through well enough, but there’ll be payment tonight and afterwards, poor lady. Valerian would help her rest if she’d take it, but she always refuses. You might speak to her about that, my lady, if you