Tale of Gwyn

by Cynthia Voigt

  “I saw you, daughter, when the Fiddler came to ask—”

  Gwyn grunted, to show she had heard and understood.

  “I want you to know—because I know how rumors are, and how little truth there is in them, and I wouldn’t have you think ill of me. The rumors exaggerate.”

  “Exaggerate what, Da?” Gwyn asked. She leaned on the broom. “Exaggerate the troubles in the south? Exaggerate the hunger here? The dangers on the roads?”

  “That too, but I’m speaking of myself. They exaggerate my position.”

  “I know.” Gwyn resumed her work, the brown water flowing before her.

  “Do you?”

  “Da, of course. Your holdings are the vineyard and two small farms to the west of the village, and both of the farms are kept by the men you bought them from. I know it’s not the wealth of a Lord that you have.”

  He smiled at her, then. “I have also given dowries to two daughters in as many years.”

  “While keeping the holdings for the Inn’s welfare,” Gwyn agreed.

  “It’s not that I didn’t want to help the man, daughter. It’s that I cannot. If I were to help one, then all would come to stand in line before me, their hands out. I’d run out of coins soon enough. And where would we be then, come the Autumn Fair and the Bailiff’s next visit, were summer to scorch the crops, or the war in the south spread north and—”

  “They’d resent it more, anyway,” Gwyn told him. “It would be like the Doling Rooms.”

  Da sighed and agreed. “I just wanted you to know, daughter.”

  “I know,” Gwyn answered, her arms busy.

  “Do you know also what it is you have chosen? What it will mean to you?”

  Gwyn stopped work again. She looked at her father. He was, she reminded herself, concerned for her well-being. That was what prompted his question. “No,” she said. “How can I know that? How can anyone know that?”

  He let the questions go. “We’ll have Messengers and soldiers soon, and the Bailiff.”

  “We’ll be ready.” The Bailiff collected the taxes before the fair, probably because any man with money near his hand on the day of the fair would spend or gamble it away. The Lords made sure they got their taxes before the merchants and mountebanks put hands into peoples’ pockets.

  “I would like to help the Fiddler,” Da said. “If I had only myself to think of, I’d have given him the coin.”

  “Aye, I know,” Gwyn reassured her father. She thought, perhaps he would have. But the fact was that he had not.

  She swept the shallow tide of water out onto the stones of the Innyard. Burl was crossing it with two buckets of water in his hands. His foot had healed and he walked without any trace of a limp. He greeted her without stopping. Gwyn stood with the mild sun on her face and the sweet air at her nose. “It’s a nice day, isn’t it,” she said.

  Burl set his buckets down then. “Aye,” he said. “It happens every year. Every year I begin to think that there is nothing worth hope in this world, and then every year spring comes—like music.”

  Before she could answer him, he had picked up the buckets and moved on. Gwyn stared after him. His shoulders, under the rough shirt, were broad and strong. He worked with steady energy, without complaint. He spoke seldom, and then always in the same tone. But he played his pipe and she wondered whether Burl too wore a mask. He moved into the dark barns and she went back to the house. Everybody else did, so why not Burl as well?

  No reason, Gwyn thought later, striding through the woods. How could she know the reasons for anything when she didn’t even understand the reasons for which she was where she was, dressed as she was, and for what purpose. The high boots shielded her legs from snapping branches, the mask hung close over her face and the short red cape swung with her shoulders. Her heart sang.

  She carried the hat in one hand and held the sword steady with the other. The gold coin she had put into a cloth bag, tied at her waist. Her legs felt long without skirts to wrap them around, and her stride was free.

  The Fiddler’s hut had been built beside a little stream, to the west of the Inn. In summer, the water was choked by watercress, but in early spring it chuckled freely along southward, to join the river. Gwyn stood among the willows crowding close to the stream’s edge and studied the tiny house across the way.

  A thin trickle of smoke rose from the chimney leaning against one end. The door was opened and so were the shutters of the window. Except for a breeze that rippled the surface of the water, nothing moved in the quiet glade. Watery spring sunlight poured down over the scene.

  The house sat at the edge of a narrow clearing, with the trees and undergrowth of the woods close up behind it. Now that she was there and dressed and ready to act, Gwyn realized that she did not know how to do what she wanted to do. She leaned against the trunk of a willow, hidden by its flowing branches where yellowy-green leaves sprouted, and considered the situation.

  It was easier if you were on horseback. If you were on horseback, you could announce your arrival with a thundering of hooves. That would get people out and waiting. No explanations would be necessary. But Gwyn was not on horseback.

  She looked at the hut and its placement. She took the piece of gold out of the little purse and wrapped it around with her fingers. Then she placed the hat on her head, took a breath, and stepped into the shallow stream.

  Reminding herself of who she was—Jackaroo—she stepped out long across the little clearing. She did not knock on the door. Without any hesitation, because to hesitate would mean to doubt and to doubt might give her away—she thrust the door wide. It banged against the wall inside.

  The Fiddler was sitting beside his fire, his head in his hands. His fiddle lay on the bed, as if it were a baby, sleeping safely. He turned to see Gwyn, and his eyes grew wide.

  “What do you want,” he whispered, afraid.

  Gwyn stood in the doorway with her feet apart.

  “Who are you.” Fear muted his voice. He backed up against the wall of his house. His eyes flew to his fiddle and he almost moved to take it in his arms.

  Gwyn pitched her voice low and tried to remember the cadence of Gaderian’s speech as she answered the Fiddler. “You have nothing to fear.”

  He didn’t know whether to believe her or not.

  Without waiting any longer, without explaining, Gwyn opened her hand and let the gold coin fall out of it onto the dirt floor. “This is small reward for your songs, Fiddler, but it is yours.”

  He didn’t move. She turned abruptly and walked around the house, into the woods.

  “Wait.” She heard his airy voice behind her. She hesitated, turning.

  “Jackaroo?” he asked. Even with his white hair, he sounded like a child, asking the question.

  Gwyn swept the hat off and made him a low bow. Then she turned abruptly and entered the woods. With her head high, knowing how the plume must wave in the bright air, she entered among the trees. She wanted to make as little noise as possible, to somehow give the illusion of great strength. She pictured the way Jackaroo would look, walking through the woods as if they were a grassy meadow, and she stepped out. A root caught her foot and pulled it out behind her. She stumbled, tumbled, and crashed flat on her face onto a scrubby bush.

  Gwyn lay still, humiliated and alarmed. She didn’t dare move, lest the Fiddler hear her and come to her aid and find her. She could hear him moving about in his house. Until she heard the glad voice of his fiddle, she remained where she was.

  When he had started playing, she knew she was safe again. On her hands and knees she moved as quietly as she could through the underbrush. When she had reached a safe distance from the hut, she stood up, brushed off the dried twigs and wet dirt, and recrossed the stream.

  Once across the stream and hurrying back to Old Megg’s house, Gwyn allowed the laughter that had been building up to go free. She laughed aloud. The laughter flowed out into the trees and rose up into the blue sky, like a song.

  During the next day
s, as spring spread over the hills and up toward the mountains, leaving in its wake a trail of blooms and green shoots, the Inn concerned itself with preparations for Rose’s wedding. The sheets and pillows were packed into the trunk Rose would take to Wes, along with the skirts and shirts, chemises and drawers. Custom was busy at the Inn, with soldiers on the move through the countryside, sent to chase out the bands of outlaws who had emerged from the hills and forests to prey on travelers along the King’s Way. Troops of soldiers moved east along the Way toward camp at the High City, where it was rumored that the King was gathering an army. The Bailiff spent several days at the Inn with his guard, as he collected the taxes from villages and holdings. Gwyn was kept occupied by day and by night, cleaning, baking, serving. Tad worked with Burl, to care for the animals and maintain the garden Mother was too busy to weed and hoe. Perhaps working with Burl was good for Tad—certainly he worked now with a better spirit without Mother’s voice to argue his tiredness.

  Rumors crowded the barroom: the troubles in the south, where the Lords had risen up against the Earl’s sons or against one another or even, as one rumor reported, against the King himself. The King’s Way was crowded, with people carrying goods to market and with soldiers, with Messengers whose horses arrived in a lather, to be walked cool by Burl, or Gwyn, or even once when everybody else was busy, Tad. Blithe came to visit, but was no help at all—she sat listlessly by the fire. Sometimes she could be persuaded to churn the butter. Sometimes she simply sat, with tears oozing out of her eyes, until Da sent her back to her husband. “We need hands to help, not a mouth to feed, daughter,” he told her.

  In the midst of this, Gwyn heard one evening—the first evening no fire was lit in the barroom—a rumor that Jackaroo was riding. She listened eagerly. The Fiddler told the story himself, a tale of despair and the unexpected gift, of how Jackaroo had appeared out of nowhere, and then disappeared into the woods, like a spirit. “Aye, he was there and then—gone. Faster than the blink of an eye,” the Fiddler told his listeners. “Aye, he spoke to me too, believe me or not. Where else would I get the money for taxes such as these?”

  “You can steal as well as the next man,” somebody suggested.

  “Who is there to steal from?” the Fiddler answered. “I’m telling the truth, whether you doubt me or not. He spoke to me, just as I’m saying. ‘This gold is to pay your taxes, Fiddler.’ That’s what he said to me, and no farther from me than the Innkeeper stands now. ‘But your songs are worth more than gold can pay.’ He said that too, said it to me. That’s how it happened, just as I said. I never thought I’d see the day.”

  Gwyn listened with no expression on her face, but her heart laughed.

  Chapter 17

  THE MORNING OF THE FAIR the sun rose into a gray sky. Burl and Gwyn carried Rose’s trunk through the woods, to the village, so they were at the tail of the crowd going to Earl Northgate’s city along the King’s Way. The Fair was held outside of the walls, and it spread over fields and through woods. As they climbed up the last hill, they heard the gatehouse bell toll out. Gwyn increased her pace. She wore her best shirt, with embroidery at the neck and wrists, and a fresh skirt. But Mother had carried her shoes for her. They weren’t fit for walking, so Gwyn would lace them on when she got there. The notes of the bell rolled over the hill to greet them. Burl, who had no best clothes to change into, looked as always and refused to hurry. Gwyn left him behind.

  At the crest of the hill, she looked down. The field was spread with tents, within which merchants offered their wares. From the woods, where paths wound, rose the fires from camps, where merchants and entertainers had slept the night. Up against the tall walls of the city, tables of food and drink were set out, and meat roasted in deep pits. Over all of this scene, gray clouds floated.

  Gwyn hurried down the hill, her skirt wrapping itself around her knees and slowing her down. She found her family gathered with all of the families of the couples to be wed. Quickly, she changed her shoes, leaving her boots with the pile of belongings they would pick up at the end of the fair. The red leather shoes, with their elevated heels and narrow toes, pinched her feet but made her feel different, lighthearted and fickle, as if she could dance all night and never tire.

  At her waist, Gwyn had a purse holding the twenty silver coins Da had given her in exchange for one gold coin. She had on her feet the shoes that she wore for dancing. All around her, people moved, talking and laughing. The fair had begun.

  For the first hour, while the marriages were performed and toasts were drunk, the people had the fairgrounds to themselves. Then the Lords would arrive, the men in bright tunics, the women with their silken dresses and their long hair flowing. For most of the afternoon, the fair would belong to them, as they moved among the booths and entertainments. After they had left, the field would be cleared for dancing and the fiddles would come out.

  For now, it was the dozen brides who were the object of all eyes. Rose waited quietly among them, her hair loose down her back, the prettiest of them all. Gradually the crowd surrounded them, keeping a space between. Then the priest arrived from within the city walls. The grooms stepped forward and the couples arranged themselves. The priest began the ceremony.

  Gwyn stood with her parents and Tad, her eyes taking in the scene. Despite the gray clouds and the plain brown of clothing, despite the priest’s black robe and the weighty words he spoke, despite the gray stone wall climbing up behind the priest, there was light all around. The couples stood, with hands intertwined at the ends of crossed arms. The girls’ hair gave color—yellow and brown and black waves, flowing down their backs for this one day. Gwyn’s eyes looked at the scene and then traveled up the walls to where the clouds were at last breaking up, separating under a high wind.

  She caught her breath. There, at the top of the wall, a body hung from a scaffold, its head down, turning in the wind. Its hands were bound behind it, and it looked, at a distance, like a broken doll or a scarecrow.

  The couples below had eyes only for one another. The watchers had eyes only for the ceremony. When a bar of sunlight broke through, to illuminate the small scene, a happy sigh went up from the crowd. Only Gwyn saw how the hanged man dangled there from his own neck, at the edge of the picture.

  It made Gwyn uneasy. Why would the Earl leave him up there, on this day? It was as if the hanged man were on display there, to warn, to cause fear. Who had he been? What had he done?

  She forced her attention back to the ceremony, where the priest now moved along the couples, placing his hand over each set of joined hands, to say the words that bound them. The crowd watched this silently, as if it were one body. At last, the priest came to the end. He moved on, through the crowd and away, his work done. The couples turned to face the crowd, standing hand in hand for a long minute, and then the scene erupted as families and friends stepped forward, to celebrate.

  “Have you seen Blithe?” Rose asked Gwyn quietly, while Wes’s family and the Innkeeper’s family greeted one another formally, and they all moved off to the tables for a mug of ale and toasts. “I hoped she’d come.”

  Gwyn just shook her head. Blithe would stay stubborn in her grief and would be sitting by the dead fire at her home, even now. The press of people pushed Gwyn away from her family, where Mother held Tad by a firm hand to keep him from going off and disappearing. Gwyn let herself be carried away. She let her eyes go back up to the troubling figure at the gallows before she turned to move with the crowds again, toward the tables. “They say he struck one of the Earl’s soldiers.” It was Burl, speaking from behind her. She knew his voice.

  “He was a hot-tempered man,” the voice told her quietly. “That’s what rumor says.”

  Gwyn stopped again and turned her head to see Burl’s face. “Why would he strike a soldier?”

  “The soldier struck him first.”

  “Why would a soldier strike him?”

  “The barroom was crowded. This man had a seat and the soldier did not.”

  “A
nd the soldier? What’s happened to him?” Gwyn asked.

  “A soldier answers only to his captain.”

  A shower of sunlight washed over them, and another, as the sun fought its way through the clouds. But Gwyn felt cold.

  “How do you know all this?” Gwyn demanded.

  He shrugged.

  “And why do you tell me.”

  His dark eyes held hers. “I thought you would ask,” he told her.

  He was right, Gwyn knew, and her eyes fell before his. Her feet were already hurting, and she felt suddenly impatient, almost cross. But when she lifted her face again to snap at Burl, he had melted into the crowd. Once more she looked to the figure dangling from the gallows.

  Well, everybody knew there were hangings. There always had been, there always would be. She moved off to join her family.

  When the Lords and Ladies arrived in a long procession, with servants behind them, the whole fair brightened at the colors they wore. Merchants uncovered their wares and the people hung back, speaking in quiet voices, staring. Gwyn took Tad with her, and they wandered away from the bargaining, following a path into the trees.

  Tad’s cheeks were pink with excitement and his eyes went everywhere, trying to see everything at once. He had already untucked his shirt from his trousers, so it hung loose. The red curls on his head moved like sunlight on a brook. He grabbed at her arm and pointed, “Gwyn, look.” And then again, two steps later, “Look, Gwyn!”

  Gwyn looked around her, at the people before and beside them. She saw faces and bodies, men and women of all ages, and children running among them. She saw the same eagerness that filled Tad in their faces. But, as with the hanged man off atop the walls, her eye was caught that day by a crippled hand, its fingers stiff and unnaturally bent where bones had been broken; by the face of a girl her own age with a scar like a brand running from forehead to jaw, a scar that pulled her mouth up permanently into an unnatural smile; by a lame child, who stumbled far in the rear of the other children, his stiff leg dragging like an anchor; by men whose shoulders could no longer be held straight and women who could move their stiff joints only with the aid of walking sticks. There were more beggars that year, Gwyn thought, and if their eyes were anything to go by, more people who would be eating and drinking with their eyes only. There were more soldiers, too, swaggering around in groups.