The Boy's Tale (11 page)

"I made her—made all three of them—promise not to go out again." There had not been time to scold them properly over what they had done, and aside from dragging that little about the key out of Lady Adela, Frevisse had settled for insisting at them that they had done wrong and that they must not,
must not,
go out alone again. At her angry demand, as she hurried them along the cloister walk toward their rooms, they had mumblingly given their word, but she did not for a moment believe that meant the end of problems with them.

"May I go across to the guesthall, to talk with Mistress Maryon? She may have an idea what would keep them occupied."

"We certainly have few ideas. But I wish I knew why we're keeping them at all—" Dame Claire broke off, perhaps because Frevisse's inadvertent expression gave away more than she meant it to. Dame Claire fixed her with a long and considering look before saying, "No, maybe I don't wish that. Domina Edith has agreed to it and with that I should be satisfied."

"It's best," Frevisse said. If anyone else had to be trusted with the secret of whom the boys were, she would choose Dame Claire first, but at present the fewer who knew, the safer all were.

And perhaps her face showed some of that, too, because Dame Claire nodded. "So be it then. Yes, of course you may go talk to this Mistress Maryon."

Dame Alys was at the guesthall before her. Frevisse heard her voice by the time she reached the top of the stairs from the yard, demanding why they were setting the table up so early and did they call it clean because she did not, when was the last time anyone had scrubbed it down properly, they could take it outside right now and do it, she cared not if it was still damp from its last scrubbing, they would do it again and thoroughly this time.

Coming into the hall, Frevisse stood aside as two of the serving men trudged past her on their way out, carrying the heavy tabletop between them.

"And so long as we're at it, we may as well look at all the others, too, and see how much else you've been slacking because you thought I wouldn't notice," Dame Alys declared at the servants left in the hall. "Go on. Stir yourselves."

She stood in the center of the hall, fists on her wide hips, glaring over her handful of minions as if she were a commander rallying particularly stupid troops for battle. It was Dame Alys's opinion that, generally speaking, everyone was more stupid than herself, and servants particularly so.

Nor was she pleased to see Frevisse, or interested in dissembling her displeasure. "What are you wanting here, Dame?" she demanded. "This isn't your place anymore."

Frevisse had long since learned that the best way to deal with Dame Alys was to say as little as possible and to say it very mildly. Now she bowed her head in acknowledgment of Dame Alys's blunt truth and said, "I've Dame Claire's permission to speak with Mistress Maryon."

"About having those whelps out of the cloister, I hope," Dame Alys snapped. "She's with that man." She jerked her head toward Sir Gawyn's room. "And he's as welcome to be out of here as those brats are."

Frevisse curtsied a small thanks and left her.

Sir Gawyn's room was one of the guesthall's smaller ones and plainly furnished. There was the bed, a crucifix hanging on the wall opposite its foot, a small table beside it, and a joint stool. The table was crowded with the clutter of necessities—a basin, a pottery jug, a roll of bandages, and various bowls and cups. Sir Gawyn lay as Frevisse had last seen him three days ago, his eyes closed and very still; but he was no longer sick-gray with pain, only pallid, and had been shaven and washed and his hair combed so that, even lying as he was, drawn and colorless, obviously worn with blood-loss and pain, Frevisse could see that though he was not handsome, there was an attractive strength in his face.

His squire, Will Tendril, was leaning against the wall beside the crucifix, arms crossed on his chest, his gaze on the floor in front of him. Maryon seated on the joint stool, in reach of both the table and Sir Gawyn, was telling her beads in her lap. She and Will both looked up as Frevisse paused in the doorway. Then Will straightened from the wall and Maryon rose to her feet, alarmed questioning in her face. Frevisse smiled reassurance that nothing was wrong and gestured for her to come out of the room.

"I'm awake," Sir Gawyn said. "You don't have to go." He turned his head on the pillow to see who was there, his eyes fever-bright but not burning. He frowned a little. "You were here at the first. When we came. I remember seeing you then."

"She's Dame Frevisse," Maryon offered.

Recognition sharpened his gaze. "Dame Frevisse," he repeated. "Yes, Maryon has talked about you. Will."

Will had come forward a step when Sir Gawyn first roused. Now, without needing further order, he bowed and went out of the room.

"He'll see that no one overhears us," Sir Gawyn said. "Is everything all right? The boys?"

"They're well. But they stole out of the cloister this afternoon—no, they came to no harm, only got themselves wet and happy playing in a stream and not so happy after I found them and brought them back inside."

"Where was Jenet?" Maryon demanded.

"Gone to the village church, I gather."

"To pray over Hery Simon's corpse."

"I suppose so," Frevisse agreed. If that was the name of the man she had loved.

At the man's name Sir Gawyn's mouth had tightened. Now he asked, "When will they be buried?"

"Tomorrow, if the sheriff and crowner are readily satisfied. They're to be here by this evening, had you heard?"

"Master Naylor sent word of it," Maryon said. "What's taken them so long?"

"I gather they had to finish sorting out the rights and wrongs of a quarrel broken into deadly violence at a village on the far side of the shire before they could come here."

"That's as well," Sir Gawyn said. "I've more of my wits about me now than I would have had if they'd come sooner, and more strength for it."

"You look far better than you did."

"It doesn't much feel better.?' His right hand went toward his left shoulder's bulk of bandages, but he did not touch it. "But I'm better than being dead like Hery and Hamon anyway." He laid his hand along his side again.

"And he's fevered no more than's to be expected," Maryon said. "Your Dame Claire is very good. If everything goes on as it is, we'll maybe be able to leave before the month is out."

Her soft Welsh voice lilted over the words, but Sir Gawyn, his eyes closed again, lay with his face rigidly still and no response. Pretending she did not see, Frevisse said, "Then we must find more for the children to do, if they're to be kept in the cloister so long a while."

"Jenet should see to them," Maryon said. "She'll have to stop so much grieving over Hery."

"She's doing as well as she's able, I think. It's mostly that we have so little to offer Edmund and Jasper here to entertain and occupy them. What I wanted to ask you was whether we might allow them to go outside the cloister, if someone was with them all the while and they stayed inside the walls? Not until the sheriff and crowner are gone, certainly, but afterwards? It would help them be quieter the rest of the time, I think."

"They might be less apt to go looking on their own if we allowed them that much," Maryon agreed thoughtfully.

"And I'll try to have someone besides Jenet to watch them, too." Perhaps Sister Amicia, who burbled like a never ending brook about how sweet and pretty and charming and witty they were.

Softly Maryon said, "He's sleeping again."

Her attention had never fully left Sir Gawyn. Now Frevisse saw that his breathing had evened, his face eased. Sleep was probably the best thing for him through these days, and in silent agreement, she and Maryon left the room.

Will stood a few feet beyond the doorway, in talk with a short, stocky man, rough-dressed as if he were a groom or man-at-arms; by the sword at his side, he was the latter. "Colwin," Maryon said to him. "Is everything well?"

"Aye, mistress," Col win answered with a bow. "I've been out to exercise the horses is all, and Will and I are trading places now."

With Sir Gawyn ill, the men had apparently accepted that authority now centered on Maryon. From what Frevisse knew of her, she would handle it well, and woe to anyone who thought she could not. With glimmering amusement, Frevisse wondered what had passed between Maryon and Dame Alys here in the guesthall, with their very different ways and very similar wills.

A flurry and bustle of something out of the ordinary around the outer door made them look across the hall. "I think the sheriff and crowner are here," Frevisse said with sinking heart.

Maryon returned to Sir Gawyn without a word. Will and Colwin exchanged glances and moved to flank the room's door.

Frevisse wished there were some way to reach the cloister without encountering the crowner Master Montfort. The few times he had come here, he had never approved of her interference in his business. And she had never approved of either his arrogance or his ignorance. But he and a man she assumed was the sheriff were already entering the hall with perhaps half a dozen of their entourage behind them. Dame Alys was bearing down on them to make welcome, and there was no likelihood of avoiding any of them unless Frevisse chose to make an ignominious retreat to the kitchen and hope for a chance to slip out later.

She chose not to do that. Hands tucked into her sleeves and her gaze lowered, she started across the hall with the thought that if Dame Alys and Master Montfort would ignore her, she would willingly ignore them.

Probably Dame Alys gladly would have, but as Frevisse circled to pass them with no more than a respectful inclination of her head in their direction, Master Montfort said, "Dame Frevisse, is it not? You're no longer hosteler so what do you here? Interfering again? I won't have it. This is the one I warned you of, Master Worleston. Take heed, Dame Frevisse, he's been warned. He knows about you and won't have you interfering any more than I will."

Her expression carefully mild over the seethe Master Montfort always roused in her, Frevisse made curtsy to Master Worleston. He made bow back, and they both took the chance to look directly at one another. He was a well-fleshed man, with the high color of good living, dressed in a dark, calf-length houppelande cut sensibly for riding with none of the excess of sleeves that Master Montfort indulged in to show his importance. Frevisse saw that he was more amused than anything by Master Mont-fort's introduction of her as he said, "Dame Frevisse, my pleasure to meet you."

"God bless you in your duties," she responded.

"She was just leaving," Dame Alys declared. "She was only here on errand from Dame Claire and she's finished with it, aren't you, Dame?"

"Indeed," Frevisse agreed, bowed her head slightly to Master Worleston and Master Montfort, and left the guest-hall with her temper nearly intact.

Chapter
9

There was a brief rain the next morning, pattering lightly away to nothing, and the sunlight breaking through by the time Frevisse came out of the church at mid-morning, that much of her day's duties completed and half her penance of five hundred paternosters and two hundred aves well begun. The other part of her penance—to drink neither ale nor wine but only water through the coming fortnight—was neither so easy nor so readily disposed of, but she was smiling inwardly—outwardly would have been unsuitable just now—because the great benefit of a penance was that it cleared the conscience. And she was free and clear from her responsibility for Sister Thomasine because her plea that Sister Thomasine had acted under her order in leaving the cloister had saved Sister Thomasine from any penance of her own.

In the cloister walk she paused to gaze into the garth where every leaf of grass and petal of flower was sparkling with crystal droplets. The air was rich with the smell of wet earth and growing things, and Frevisse drew a deep breath, letting everything but the moment's loveliness slip from her mind. She had learned the value of life's momentary beauties and to enjoy them when they came.