The Boy's Tale

by Margaret Frazer

  "Big enough he could have been knocked unconscious by it?" Frevisse asked.

  "He might have been," Master Naylor agreed. "He fell, likely."

  But where in the pool or beside the pool could he have fallen hard enough to knock himself out? There were no rocks that Frevisse remembered. A heavy tree branch? Not overhanging the pool so that he would have fallen after striking it. And besides . . . She felt the lump again. It was a round lump, very localized, not oblong as it would have been if he had fallen against a branch or anything more than a small, round rock.

  "When was he last seen?" she asked.

  The men looked among themselves. The one who had rolled the body over suggested, "Dinner maybe? Midday?" There were nods of vague agreement from the others. "Then he went off. Don't know where?" he asked and the others shook their heads, agreeing they did not know.

  "Will you ask around, to see if anyone saw him after that?" she requested Master Naylor.

  "There're not many others here just now. All we can spare are out to the haying. But I'll ask."

  Frevisse nodded. It was the same in the guesthalls and in the cloister itself. Only the most absolutely needed servants remained; this time of year the needs of haying came first in almost everything.

  "Roll him back over," she said. The man did and she stood looking into the dead face. Someone had closed his eyes but with the handling his jaw had dropped in death's slackness. His hair had begun to dry on the way up from the stream but lay lank and formless around his head. He had not been particularly prepossessing in life and was less so now; but he had been alive and someone had taken his life from him, without chance of confession or absolution. Had taken more than his life: had taken his surety of salvation. For what?

  She prodded through his clothing and pulled out his belt with his purse and dagger still hanging from it. The dagger was not especially fine but good enough to steal if one was out for theft. She looked in the purse. A silver penny, a bent halfpenny, and a well-used pair of dice. His money, such as it was, had not been wanted, either.

  She put money and dice back into the purse and gathered up it and the belt and dagger. "I'll take these to his knight," she said.

  "Is there anything more?" Master Naylor asked.

  "No."

  He told the men to go on with the body. They went, Father Henry with them still audibly praying, but Frevisse stayed where she was. She had more to ask Master Naylor, but he asked first, "So it looks like a drowning. Was it?"

  "He drowned," Frevisse agreed. "But I'd guess he was hit on the head first and dumped in to drown afterward."

  "Unless he was already in the water, swimming, when he was struck."

  "The effect was the same," Frevisse said. "Was he the sort to go off by himself?"

  "No. He settled himself among our folk almost as soon as he came here and has been fellow-well-met ever since. Generally liked so far as I could tell. The only reason he wasn't to the haying with most of the rest was he'd been told to keep close here in case he was needed."

  "Needed? For what?"

  "You're the one who knows what's toward here, not I," Master Naylor said. "You tell me."

  "Apparently I don't know as much of what's toward as I need to," Frevisse returned. "I can't even guess whether he was more likely to have been killed by chance or to a purpose, by a stranger or someone here who knew him. Had he had quarrels since he came here with anyone at all?"

  "So near as I could tell, he was easy tempered and easily gotten on with. No, that's not all true. He was in heavy words this morning sometime with that other fellow who came with him. The squire."

  "Will? Sir Gawyn's squire? They were quarreling?" That might make things simpler, though she had not thought Will the ill-tempered sort to quarrel and then stalk and kill a man.

  But Master Naylor shook his head. "Not an outright argument, I'd judge. A disagreement maybe, with Will— that's the name?—frowning and trying to make a point that Colwin just grinned at and shook his head against."

  "But you don't know what it was about?"

  "It was no concern of mine. I didn't ask. Maybe someone else knows."

  "Was Colwin after women any?"

  "Not that I saw or heard of."

  "Could you ask around and see what's said of him? And if anyone knows what he and Will talked of that time?"

  "That I'll do. And send a man I shouldn't have to spare this time of year to Montfort again. And tell people to keep an eye out for strangers. And hope this is the end of it. Is there aught else I should see to?"

  "No. I'll go myself to tell Sir Gawyn and Mistress Maryon about this." The bell began to ring inside the wall. "After Vespers," she added with resignation.

  "I'll go tell them, if you like. They should know as soon as may be."

  "I'd be grateful if you did," she said. And then changed her mind. "No, I'd rather do it myself." To see their reactions as they heard of the death. "So I should do it now."

  Chapter 16

  When Frevisse came in, Sir Gawyn was across the room from his bed, leaning on Will, Maryon close on his other side in case of need, but upright and walking. Barely walking and obviously weak but moving mostly on his own.

  The window, kept so definitely closed until now, was open, letting in the warm day's fresh air and the late afternoon sunlight to shine high against the wall above the bed.

  They all looked up as Frevisse paused in the open doorway, their expressions glad with Sir Gawyn's triumph changing to surprise. Maryon glanced toward the sound of the bell as if it were something she could see and started to say, "Shouldn't you—" then froze, the gladness of the moment going out of her. "The boys. What's happened?"

  "Nothing to them. They're in bed and probably sleeping. It's Colwin. He's dead."

  She wanted particularly Will's reaction, but at her words he bent his head until his bright hair fell like a curtain, and she could not see his face. Letting loose of Sir Gawyn with his right hand, he crossed himself as Maryon and Sir Gawyn, their expressions stricken, also did, Sir Gawyn asking as he did, "How?"

  "Drowned in the stream below the nunnery. There's a pool there in the woods. He was found in the water."

  "Drowned?" Sir Gawyn repeated. "How? Why didn't someone help him?"

  "Apparently he was swimming alone. Was that usual for him?"

  "Not Colwin," Sir Gawyn said. "He liked companions, whatever he did."

  Will nodded agreement.

  "Or he may not have been swimming," Frevisse said. "There's evidence he was struck on the back of the head. He was maybe unconscious when he went into the water."

  Sir Gawyn made a wide gesture of a grief stronger than Frevisse had yet seen in him. And with the frustration of helplessness and anger.

  But it was Maryon who put into words the fear surely growing in all of them. "They've found us and they won't stop until there are none of us left! Until there's no one to come between them and the children!"

  Will raised his head, color flooding his cheeks. "No one is going to hurt the children," he said. "We swore it to their lady mother."

  He looked at Sir Gawyn, and the knight met his gaze, their faces matched in rigid determination.

  "We can't keep our oaths if we're dead!" Maryon said with angry fear.

  "So we must stay alive," Sir Gawyn answered. A sweat was breaking out over his pallor. He sagged on his squire's arm. "I have to lie down again."

  Maryon caught him around the waist, careful of his hurt shoulder, but it was on sturdy Will that most of his weight leaned as they helped him back to bed and laid him down on it, Will lifting his feet up and swinging them around to stretch him out flat. Sir Gawyn lay with his eyes closed, breathing as if after great effort; but when he had steadied, he said, eyes still closed, "We have to bring the children here. Where we can guard them."

  "They're better kept in the nunnery," Will said flatly. "They're harder to come at there."

  Sir Gawyn made a derogatory sound. "Simple walls, unguarded doors, no men—" he
started, but Mary on interrupted. With a sharp look meant to silence both men, she said, "We can talk of it in a while. Dame Frevisse needs to go to Vespers."

  It was direction to Frevisse as well as them, but the bell had long since ceased to ring; Frevisse was hopelessly late and she wanted to ask her questions now, before they had more time to think. "When was the last time any of you saw Colwin?"

  The three of them looked among themselves, then Maryon answered, "This afternoon sometime. After Sext?" she asked Sir Gawyn and Will.

  "I think so, yes," Sir Gawyn said. Will nodded agreement.

  "Where?"

  "Here. He came to ask if there was any chance the horses could be put out to pasture for just an afternoon. He thought they were going stale, kept so much in the stables."

  "I wish they could be turned out," Sir Gawyn said, his eyes closed again. "But we need them sure to hand if we have to . . . depart suddenly."

  "So you told him he couldn't," Frevisse said. "And that was the last you saw of him?"

  "Yes."

  Despite her now calm voice, Maryon stood with her hands clutched rigidly together. "Where is he? What's been done with him?"

  "Master Naylor had some of the men bring him in. I don't know where he is now or what's to be done."

  Will straightened from where he had slumped against a bedpost. "I'll go see to him. It should be . . . one of us . . . sees to him."

  Sir Gawyn moved a hand, bidding him go, and he left the room.

  "Were you here all the afternoon?" Frevisse asked Maryon.

  "Most of it. I went to lie down awhile sometime. Around None, I think."

  "And Will? Was he here all the while?"

  "In and out, as always." Maryon sharpened to the questions. "Why are you asking?" she demanded.

  "The crowner has to be summoned back for this. We'd best think about what questions he'll be asking and what we'll answer."

  "God's nails!" said Sir Gawyn from the bed. His good arm was now across his eyes, his body slack; but his tone hardened. "We have to be out of here before he comes."

  "Gawyn, you can't," Maryon protested.

  "I have to. We can't expect the luck we had last time he was here. He's a fool but even a fool can see things eventually. I can ride if need be. Tomorrow I'll ride."

  With a slight curtsy that no one heeded, Frevisse left them to argue it between them, with mental note to herself to tell Dame Claire what he intended. Dame Claire would surely have something to say about it, though whether she were heeded was another matter.

  Like everywhere else, most of the guesthall servants were gone to the hay fields, but Ela came limping to intercept Frevisse as she crossed toward the outer door. "He's out there," Ela said, pointing to the door. "I thought I'd warn you."

  "Warn me? Who's out there?"

  "Will. The squire. He was going somewhere, I passed him going out as I was coming in, and then when I turned in the doorway because I'd heard something odd, he'd just sat down on the steps out there with his head in his hands and was crying. Still is, I think. I thought I'd warn you. What'd he be crying for?"

  "Another of the men he came with is dead. Drowned. The one called Colwin."

  Ela clicked her tongue in shock and sympathy. "Poor man. Poor, poor man. He was a good one, too. No trouble to anyone. And drowned. That's a pity, isn't it?"

  "Was he in here at all today?"

  "About Sext, I recall seeing him."

  "And Mistress Maryon and Will, did they come and go at all this afternoon?"

  "Will did. I saw him go out at least once, maybe twice. I didn't see the lady at all. But I wasn't here the whole time and couldn't say for certain about any of them, except the knight. He's kept in. Not strong enough to go anywhere, poor man."

  "Thank you," Frevisse said and went on. As Ela had said, Will was sitting on the guesthall steps, halfway down to the yard, his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, and by the shiver of his shoulders he was indeed crying.

  Softly but not trying to hide that she was coming, Frevisse went down and stood a few steps below him. "Will," she said, and her own gentleness surprised her.

  He raised his head. His cheeks were wet, his eyes tear-brimmed, and he made no attempt to conceal it; for sufficient reason the strongest man cried and it was no shame. Seeing her, he said, "My lady," and started to rise, but Frevisse gestured for him to stay seated.

  "I didn't know you and Colwin were such near friends," she said.

  "We weren't. There wasn't what could be called friendship between us. But he was—" He did not have the words for what he wanted to say, and shrugged his broad shoulders.

  "But you were used to him. He was familiar," Frevisse offered sympathetically.

  "That's it," Will said. "You grow used to people, and he was none so bad. You could depend on him. He was a cheery sort. And—" Will fought the grief tightening his face. "And he had hopes. Things he wanted to do. It's not right for him to be dead."

  Inwardly Frevisse wholeheartedly and bitterly agreed that it was not right, that things were very wrong and Colwin's death was only part of it.

  Drying his face on his shirtsleeve, Will said, "It's all come too fast. Hery and the others and now him. And Sir Gawyn hurt, so there's only me."

  "What happened to your other shirt?" Frevisse asked.

  Will looked at his sleeve as if surprised to find it on his arm. "What? Oh. My other shirt. I tore it, exercising the horses this afternoon. One of the women in the hall says she'll mend it. I've not the knack and surely Mistress Maryon won't do it for me."

  Following an earlier guess and the slight edge to his voice, Frevisse said, "She would if it were for Sir Gawyn though."

  "Oh, aye, she'd do that right enough," Will agreed. "She's set for him and means to have him if she can."

  "And you're not pleased at the idea."

  Warming to Frevisse's sympathy, he said, "She's butter and cream when she talks, and there's no denying she's pretty enough to look on, though not so young as she might be. But her mind is like a whip, and when she's not pleased her tongue matches it."

  "You don't like her."

  "Like or not doesn't matter. She does her duties as well or better than anyone else could. I'll grant her that free and clear. But she's set herself for Sir Gawyn and she'd be no good for him."

  "Why not? They seem fond of one another."

  "Fond doesn't fill the belly. He needs to wed money, especially now he's—" Will shied away from saying it. "And so does she, come to that, having none of her own. So I don't know what she's playing at with him now."

  "They're mayhap in love."

  "That's a fool's game," Will said. "Love is no use if you've not the wherewithal to clothe your back, and if things have gone as wrong with her grace as they look to have—" He froze, realizing he was saying what he should not, then looked around to be sure no one had been near enough to hear, before fixing a sharp look on Frevisse. "You know about that. Mistress Maryon said you knew."

  "I know." She prompted him to go on. " 'If things have gone as wrong with her grace . . .'"

  "Then there's no livelihood for either of them anymore, and they'd best be looking for what they can do next."

  "But only after they've run the risk of taking Edmund and Jasper on to Wales. Why are you staying with them if it's all so bad? Shouldn't you be looking for your own gain, too?"

  "I'm Sir Gawyn's squire," Will said, "and glad on it. There's been no one I'd rather serve, and have done most of my life. It's not my place to leave him, come what may. And I'm the queen's man, too." His voice warmed. "She's as fine a lady as ever was. And she loves her boys. I've seen her with them. If the only thing there's left for me to do in service to her is see them safe away, then that's what I'll do. For my lady's sake."

  His words and warmth showed his grief had a core of gladness because it was grown around that most chivalrous of loves—love for a lady unattainable but seen as everything that could be desired and admired in a woman. For just the
moment his face shone with it.

  How old was he? Frevisse wondered. In his thirties somewhere, near her age, she would have guessed. But with his gladness on him, he looked younger, more as he must have been when his life was new and there was more hope in it than now.

  But that was not what she was here for, and she asked, "What did you do all this afternoon?"

  The gladness faded, lost again behind present needs. As if those were a burden becoming too heavy to lift, Will said, "I was here and there. In and out, as need be. Mostly in."