Tale of Gwyn

by Cynthia Voigt

  “Gwyn?”

  His voice sounded panicky. What had he done now? She went to the door to see.

  Tad had swept himself into a corner, the farthest corner from the door. He stood there, his pants rolled up, the bucket beside him, the square of dry floor under him. His hand held the broom upright and a film of dirty water lay over the boards. “I don’t know—” he started to say.

  Gwyn burst out laughing.

  At first, Tad didn’t want to join in, then he couldn’t help himself. “But what do I do?” he asked her.

  “It won’t bite you if you walk through it. It’s a little shallow for drowning in.”

  “But my feet’ll get dirty.”

  “Nobody will know if you get your stockings on fast enough.”

  “But Mother’ll know from my stockings.”

  “Maybe she will, but what can she do when it’s already been done?” Gwyn asked him. “She never noticed in mine though, so I wouldn’t fret about that if I were you. I’d fret about getting this dirty water out the door before Da and Burl try to bring up the ale.”

  He put his broom to work immediately. She watched him for a minute, paddling in the water, sweeping it toward the door. The floor looked clean enough.

  And Tad looked pleased with himself. She continued her thinking as she went back to rolling out pastry dough. What was there to look pleased about in cleaning a floor, she wondered. Nothing, she answered herself, nothing at all; anyone could do it. Except Tad seemed pleased that he could.

  No wonder, she thought, with everybody telling him he couldn’t, that he would hurt himself or catch cold. He probably thought he wasn’t given chores because everyone knew he couldn’t do them.

  Gwyn filled the pies and set them in the baking oven, built into the stones at the side of the fireplace. She was seeing her family now as if they were strangers. That wasn’t surprising, since she felt like they were strangers—or was she a stranger? She was more critical now, no doubt about it, although, for another change, she never gave voice to her thoughts. But she could see that her mother’s bitterness was never allayed, not even by Tad over whom she clucked and worried so much. She could see that Da’s patience and carefulness came from a desire to soothe his wife, and she wished Da would govern his wife more. But why should her mother be so bitter? And why should Da be reluctant to govern her?

  Gwyn felt as if she could see through the masks people put on, and she didn’t much care for what she saw underneath.

  In the barroom at day’s end, too, serving mugs of ale and plates of pastry to the men, she wondered why—in this hungry time—they spent any of their precious coins at the Inn, while their wives and children waited. Their talk was conducted in angry tones, but she could see the fear behind it. Rumors flew, as thick in the warm air as the smells of the room, wood smoke and ale, the tallow from burning candles. The Lords were raising the taxes to half of what a holding would earn, to three-quarters, the men grumbled. The Lords were going to be short of pay for the soldiers, so they were going to seize the holdings from men who couldn’t pay taxes; these would be given to the soldiers instead of pay. Any day now, Messengers would ride into the villages to announce the new taxes, which must be paid before the Spring Fair.

  “What I’ll do,” the men said, one to the other, “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll not plant a crop for another man to harvest.”

  “Let the soldiers kill one another off, and the Lords too; I won’t weep a tear.”

  They talked with their heads close together, worrying over the rumors like a dog worrying at a bone. Their voices grew loud and angry.

  “What do the Lords care, as long as they can live fat.”

  “It’s our bones, and the bones of our children, that their houses are built of. We’re the meat they grow fat on.”

  “No wonder there’s no way for a man to approach a Lord with his complaint—how many Lords would be alive at the end of a day, think you? If a man could get close to them.”

  Some of the rumors gave them satisfaction. “If the battles in the south rage long enough, that’s where I’ll take my crops to market. Starving people pay higher prices, now, don’t they?”

  “There’s a highwayman coming to be journeyed here. As I hear it, he’ll be hanged in the north.”

  “A man can choose where he’s to make his last stop, if he’s journeyed.”

  “I’d have myself hanged right outside Hildebrand’s door then, and let him see what he’s done.”

  “And do you think he’d even notice you, man?”

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a good hanging. Aye, I’ll thank the man for a holiday, if he chooses a spot near enough that I can go watch.”

  Occasionally, someone tried to draw Gwyn out, but she refused to answer their questions about how much gold was in the sack, how much of it she would keep for dowry. She did not respond to their teasing. They were speaking to make one another laugh and not for her pleasure; behind their eyes a secret greed shone as bright as a star, and she knew that if she were to answer any one of the unmarried men seriously then he would ask for her. The widowers had the same gleam, but they sat back, waiting. She didn’t blame them, not really, any more than she blamed the bitterness of the women in the Doling Rooms; there was land to hold and families to feed and if gold was not good for that, what was its use?

  So she held her tongue. Da would make the announcement, because he had said he would. He was probably waiting because she might change her mind. Mother was at her day and night to do that, and even Rose—but Rose could imagine no greater happiness than being a wife.

  The snow was melting now, under rains and warmer air, until the hillsides were washed almost clean of it. Brown patches of ground showed, and the woods held only hidden pockets of snow. It was not spring yet, no little green leaves showed; but spring was coming. The days lasted longer, now, and every day melted more of the snow. Gwyn felt caged in. When Old Megg died, Gwyn welcomed the chance to go to the burning, just to see different faces. She felt ashamed of that thought, true though it was. But she felt like a horse kept too long in its winter stall, and even while she admired Rose’s miniature stitching along a hem, she longed to kick with her legs and kick herself free.

  Chapter 15

  ON THE DAY WHEN THE village bell rang out to summon them, people gathered quickly. Only Da and Gwyn went from the Inn. They were fairly sure they knew why they had been called so there was no need for everybody to go. There were more than fifty people gathered around the well when the Lord read the announcement, sitting high on his horse with four soldiers close behind him. He was Hildebrand himself, the people murmured, but Gwyn didn’t think this was so, because Hildebrand would be a man of years and this Lord was too young, and he kept close to the soldiers as if he was unsure what would happen were he to ride alone. Hildebrand would not have been unsure, Gwyn thought.

  The Lord, whoever he was, unrolled the paper and read out the news: The taxes for that year would be a quarter of a holding’s crops and earnings. Then he added something unexpected: Lord Hildebrand was offering one gold coin for every unmarried man who would become his soldier. The coin would be paid to the man’s family. Men who wished to take advantage of this could report to the Steward at the Doling Rooms, or the Bailiff when he came to gather the taxes.

  When he had rolled the paper up again, he turned his horse and rode away, with the soldiers close behind him. Nobody spoke until the sound of hoofbeats had faded entirely away.

  “Osh aye, and I didn’t know where the tenth was coming from,” one farmer said.

  “At least you’ve got three sons,” the Weaver answered him.

  “Osh aye, and what if they had taken a half?”

  The people agreed that a quarter wasn’t as bad as it might have been.

  Hearing that, Gwyn turned away. If she were a Lord, she would have put that very rumor about, just so that the people could take some comfort when the taxes were not as great as rumor had numbered t
hem. She suspected that the Lords had done just that, to keep the people quiet.

  That night in the barroom, several men took Da aside, leaving Burl to fill the mugs and take the coins. Gwyn watched these conversations. Once the Innkeeper nodded his head and shook the hand offered to him. The other times he shook his head and the man went back to his table to bury his face in his ale. The Innkeeper’s holdings would increase this year, Gwyn thought.

  Most of the men had left by the time the Fiddler entered. The Fiddler was an old man, as thin and bent as his own bow, who played for the dancers at the fairs and eked out the coins that fell into his cap to keep himself in his little house through the rest of the year. His clothes, shirt and trousers, were so patched that even the patches were worn threadbare. He was a timid man who avoided company except when he was among them to play. But when he put his fiddle under his chin and drew his bow across it, the music danced out bold and glad.

  Out of charity, Da gave him a mug of ale and told Gwyn to serve him a slab of pie. The Fiddler didn’t even sit down at one of the tables, but stood at the bar to drink and eat. Then he spoke his reason for the unexpected visit. “It’s the taxes. A half, as I’ve heard, Innkeeper.”

  “Only a quarter,” Da told him.

  “That’s as much trouble to me as a half. And I was wondering.” He did not have the voice to continue the question.

  Da shook his head. “I’ve no use for your house, man.”

  “It’s only one silver coin I need. Even the Bailiff knows how little my value is.”

  Da shook his head. Gwyn held her tongue—there were twenty silver coins in a gold one. It was not much the man asked.

  “If not the holding, then—I could write a dance for Rose’s wedding. I could do that, and it would be a song people would remember. It would be a fine gift for a man to give his daughter, on her wedding.”

  “What man would pay coins for a song,” Da said.

  “As I’ve heard, the Lords do.” The Fiddler spoke in a low voice.

  “I’m not a Lord, man.” Da’s voice carried through the room. The few men still drinking there looked up at him then quickly down, as if they did not wish their thoughts to be seen.

  “Then I’ll have to pledge you my fiddle. It’s all I have.”

  “How would you keep yourself without your fiddle?” Gwyn asked him.

  “I can’t keep myself with it, now can I, Innkeeper’s daughter?” he asked her, his voice cracking with the shame.

  Da didn’t need to say anything. The Fiddler knew his request had been denied. But he stood helplessly there, his hands opening and closing. Gwyn felt sick at heart.

  “Your brother wouldn’t have denied me. Win wouldn’t have said me no,” the Fiddler muttered.

  Da’s anger flowed out of him, like fire leaping up. “Win would have long ago been begging himself, Fiddler. As you well know. And I’ve kept the Inn and made it prosper, while he would have wasted it. As you well know.”

  The white, lined face collapsed. “Aye, aye, I know it. All the same,” and he smiled as if his eyes were looking at something nobody else could see, “he was a grand fighter. A grand lad.”

  “A grand fighter,” Da agreed.

  Gwyn left the Inn the next morning early. Her mother’s voice followed her out the door. “What’s got into you? Where are you going? Answer me, miss—or are you too proud now to speak to your own mother? And I want to know who’s going to—” But Gwyn never heard what chore would fall onto somebody else’s shoulders. Let Rose come down from sewing on her pretties for a time. Let Tad try his hand at it, whatever it was. And why didn’t Mother do it herself? But she did not answer and she did not turn back.

  She skirted the village, leaving it behind her. She went on to the vineyard, where the stumpy vines still waited in their winter death. She crossed the vineyard and slid down the muddy hillside to Old Megg’s house. She did not go in immediately, but lingered outside, looking around her at the empty goat pens and the empty hillsides and the distant line of silent mountains. When she had looked her fill, she entered the house.

  She kept her cloak on against the chill, but she opened the shuttered window and left the door open behind her, for light and fresh air. Although it was not in her plan, she took a piece of charred wood from the fire and wrote her name down on the tabletop, where she and Gaderian had worked so many evenings ago. She wrote her name first; and then she wrote all the letters of the alphabet in a line.

  That satisfied her, and she rubbed them all out, leaving a smear of charcoal on the wood. Then she went to the cupboard.

  It was all there, just as she had guessed. She spread the clothing out on Old Megg’s bed. The sheathed sword she put on the table. She touched everything with curious fingers. The wide brim of the hat was wrinkled from being jammed into a corner, and its white plume hung down dejectedly. The white shirt was softer than any shirt Gwyn had ever touched, with a silk ribbon to tie it at the neck and buttons at the ends of the full sleeves. The scarlet cape had been folded so carefully it wasn’t wrinkled at all and lay bright as blood on the blankets.

  There were trousers, too, and a braided silk belt to hold them up. The tunic was blue, as the stories told, but they did not tell the way silver threads had been woven into the fabric, making it glimmer in the light. The clasps, six of them, going down the front of the armless tunic, were of heavy silver, plainly wrought. The boots reached up over Gwyn’s hips when she stood them beside her, but the tops were made to fall over in a cuff. The mask Jackaroo wore was red silk, not black, with tiny stitches to hold the hem around the eyeholes. Gwyn tied it around her head. It covered her hair like a cap and hung down almost to her collarbone. She could see out of it easily.

  She stripped off her own clothes and put on the shirt, tucking it into the trousers, which she hoisted up high then allowed to fall over the belt when she had tied that tightly around her waist. The tunic was long, reaching halfway down her thighs, and for all its richness the fabric was light to carry. She slung the cloak over her shoulders then pulled on the long boots. Everything was large, made for a man, but as she looked down at herself she saw that she looked like a man. Her breasts and the curve of her hips were all concealed under the straight tunic. Her hair was covered by the mask. She put the hat on, but it caught on the coils over her ears and wobbled. Impatiently, she removed it and untied the mask, then pulled the bone pins out of her braids. She piled them on top of her head, and pinned them in place. She tied the mask on again and replaced the hat. Now it felt right.

  Gwyn laughed at herself, and she was afraid. She didn’t want to think what she was dreaming of, and she did not know how to stop herself from imagining. At last, she picked up the sword in its scabbard. She buckled the broad belt across her hips.

  Alone in the small room, she strode back and forth, getting used to the feel of boots on her skirtless legs. She was swaggering, she thought, laughing aloud now. It would never do to swagger so. She tried to remember how the Lord had walked long across the garden and she stepped out boldly in imitation of his memory.

  Twelve paces across the room, turn, twelve paces back. The boots were too big for her feet, and her ankles wobbled in them, but you could stuff them with straw to make them fit. The sword hung heavy at her side, clumsy. She put her hand on the hilt as she had seen the soldiers do, and it rode easily then.

  Gwyn strode out the door, out and away from the house. Her whole chest felt as if it were quivering—with excitement, with joy, with fear. The empty hills around her could not see, could not speak. She was safe, safe enough. She pulled the sword from the scabbard and held it out in front of her. It was heavier than the wooden swords she and Gaderian had matched with, but it had a balance that made it easy at the end of her arm. Her hand fitted well within the metal cuff of the hilt.

  Her feet planted wide apart, she raised the sword to the sky. “Jackaroo,” she said, her voice a whisper. The name reverberated inside her head, as if it were the note of a single horn singing acr
oss the hills, calling up to the mountains—Jackaroo.

  Chapter 16

  SPRING SPREAD ITS BROAD CLOAK over the countryside. The first little green buds appeared on the trees as the sap rose up into their branches. Patches of moss and ferns appeared in the woods, and a few fragile flowers came up, yellow crocuses, blue periwinkles. The wombs of the goats swelled out with young and the kitchen garden lay brown and empty, its seeds growing secretly underground. Farmers planted their fields with turnips, potatoes, oats, onions. There was fish to be bought at the market.

  Gwyn welcomed the first sudden days of spring, when every morning carried an armful of surprises—the surprising brightness of sunlight or gentleness of spring rain; the surprising softness of air all around and ground underfoot; the surprise of birdsong. It was on one such morning that Da surprised her when he found her alone in the barroom. Gwyn had sent Tad out to look for weeds in the garden and break up the ground after a rain. Burl was cleaning the barn stalls. Mother and Rose were upstairs, making preparations.

  “This wedding,” Da said, standing at the doorway to the guest rooms, which he was getting ready against the Bailiff’s stay, “it’s only a fortnight away. You’d think a demon drove your mother.”

  Gwyn swept warm water over the boards, sweeping out the dirt of the last evening’s business. “Mother wants to do Rose proud.”

  “Aye and she will that. Your mother’s a fine, proud woman.”

  Gwyn didn’t say anything. She wondered if Da was going to ask her about marriage. Mother had been after her, and Rose too, in a gentler way. She hoped Da wouldn’t say anything. It was not that she wanted to change her mind. Far from it, although she understood her own reasons for that no better than she understood the reasons for the many other changes she felt taking place within herself. A few years earlier, when her body had so suddenly changed, she had felt awkward and uneasy, unsure; she recognized that same feeling now, but it was not her body that caused it, it was her self. Everybody seemed a stranger to her now, even the Innkeeper’s daughter, Gwyn, herself. She swept the wet floor and waited to hear what Da would speak of.