The Boy's Tale (12 page)

This one was ended by Dame Claire hurrying along the cloister walk toward her, a small, stoppered pottery jar in her hand. When she saw that Frevisse had seen her, she beckoned with her head for Frevisse to follow her into the slype. Gathering herself back to duty, Frevisse did, and there Dame Claire held out the jar to her, saying, "Would you take this to Mistress Maryon? I told Sister Thomasine that I'd do it today, she so hating to go among strangers and there being so many there just now, but there's a problem in the kitchen that I have to see to if we're to have dinner on time. Mistress Maryon can put it on the wound, that's not a problem, but I want to know how his hurt looks and would rather you told me than have it from a servant."

Though Frevisse had hoped to avoid both Master Mont-fort and Master Worleston, she understood both Dame Claire's needs and Sister Thomasine's and took the jar with a reassuring smile. "Willingly, Dame."

"Thank you," Dame Claire said and sped away toward the kitchen.

The rain had kept most of the sheriff's and crowner's entourages inside so far that morning, but, like the sun now, they were coming out, down the stairs from the guesthall to sit on the well curb in the courtyard or wander out the gate to see what there might be to do in the while until their masters were done here. Frevisse, her hands tucked up her opposite sleeves with the jar in one of them and her head bent down so the forward swing of her veil on either side obscured her face, passed among them and through the hall unnoticed, she thought, to Sir Gawyn's room.

Only Sir Gawyn and Maryon were there. He was raised a little higher on the pillows than yesterday and was not so pale, but the red across his cheeks made Frevisse ask without other greeting, "Are you fevered?" A fevered infection of the wound was the main thing to be feared in a wound like his.

"No," said Maryon too quickly, as if to avert the possibility by firm denial.

Tersely Sir Gawyn added, "I've just finished an unpleasant time with the sheriff and that idiot of a crowner."

Frevisse had had her lesson that a little while spent with Master Montfort usually raised a person's choler as well as color. "And did you satisfy them?"

"I think so. Montfort at least. The sheriff has more wit about him, but there was nothing he could particularly fault other than that this is an out-of-the-way place for outlaws, but that was hardly our fault. We were traveling and we were attacked." Sir Gawyn closed his eyes and with a heavy breath eased down farther in the bed. "But it wasn't as easy as I'd hoped."

"They're questioning Will and Colwin now," Maryon said. "We hope that will be the end of it and they'll go."

"They won't talk with you or Jenet?"

"They asked if I confirmed what Sir Gawyn said, and I did; and they don't seem interested in trying to learn anything from someone so shaken she's in the care of the nuns."

"And Edmund and Jasper?"

"None of us has mentioned them."

"What of the dead?"

"They went to see them yesterday, before supper, and have given permission they be buried. The funeral is this afternoon, with burial in the village churchyard."

"Even the outlaws?" Who should not be buried in consecrated ground.

"Not knowing who they were, no one can be sure they were actually outlawed, and so your priest has said they could be buried in the churchyard," said Mistress Maryon.

"I'll see the boys are watched so Jenet can go to the funeral Mass," Frevisse offered.

"That would be good of you."

Frevisse handed her the small jar. "Dame Claire sent me with this for the wound. She said you'd know what to do and that I was to see how the hurt looked."

Maryon turned toward Sir Gawyn. "Can you bear it now, or would you rather rest a time?"

Sir Gawyn's smile was bleak. "Best do it now and have it over."

Frevisse stood across the room while Maryon uncovered the wound. Sir Gawyn bore the necessary movement and pain in silence, but despite Maryon's great care, he was pale again when it was done, his mouth tightly shut, his chest rising and falling heavily with his effort to steady his breathing. Maryon looked around for Frevisse to come to the bedside.

Not given to squeamishness, Frevisse inspected the hurt closely. The flesh was still ugly around it but not red or swollen or streaked with discoloration nor smelling of rot. As nearly as Frevisse could judge it looked as well as could be hoped for, and far better than it had looked four days ago.

Sir Gawyn crooked his neck to see the gash and asked, "Does she know what she's doing? That mouse-meek nun that's come the other mornings says it's to heal from inside to out, rather than crusting over and healing to inward."

"There're arguments for both ways," Frevisse said, "but Dame Claire and Sister Thomasine have both had good fortune with this one."

Sir Gawyn gave a short laugh. "And how many sword gashes come your way in a nunnery?"

"Not swords but scythes and knives and carelessness enough around the village that they've had their chance to deal with deep cuts and the like."

"This wasn't carelessness," Sir Gawyn said bitterly.

"It was," Maryon corrected. "The man meant to kill you and missed."

Sir Gawyn laughed. "True enough! Careless of him to miss and more careless of him to not stop my blow in return."

While they talked, Maryon had poured wine into one of the bowls on the table. Now, taking up the bowl and a sponge, she came back to the bedside. Sir Gawyn drew a deep breath, closed his eyes, and tensed for what was coming. Her own face set in a match to his, Maryon laid clean cloths along the wound and began with all the gentleness she could to soak it with wine. Despite the cost to them both, she did it thoroughly, then blotted it dry with a clean towel, put aside the bowl and sponge, and took up Dame Claire's jar of ointment. Gently, gently, her fingertips touching him as lightly as possible, she spread it over the wound, and as she set the jar aside said softly, "There. It's done for today. I only need to re-bandage it."

Sir Gawyn had shuddered soundlessly under her touch. Now he drew a deeper breath and his hands unclenched from the bedclothes, though sweat was beaded over his face. As Maryon began to bathe his face and neck with a clean cloth and water, he opened his eyes and smiled at her. "I'll be all right."

Maryon smiled back. "I intend you to be."

Something more than merely tending to his hurt was going on between them, Frevisse thought. Had it begun here, or existed before?

A sharp rap at the door was all the warning Master Montfort gave before entering the room. Without bother of greeting he stared assessingly at Sir Gawyn's shoulder and said, "There's a bad one, and you're lucky if it doesn't infect. I've seen a deal of wounds in my time, you know. I will say that one looks like it's healing, but you'll never have your strength in the arm again. In fact, I'd be very surprised if you even could lift your hand head-high when it's healed."

Before Sir Gawyn could answer, Maryon said with sharp scorn, "Time will tell. And the infirmarian here is very skilled. It's not for you to predict doom or joy."

"I deal in the truth, woman," Master Montfort returned, drawing up straight to display his dignity in the face of a mere woman's opinion. "I said it because I see it. People need to face the truth, no matter what it is."

But both Frevisse and Maryon had had experience with Master Montfort's idea of truth. For him, truth tended to be what he found most convenient or enhancing of his reputation. Because Maryon looked as if she were about to tell him so to his face, Frevisse said mildly, "Have you and Master Worleston come to a conclusion yet?"

Master Montfort swung his displeased attention to her. "That's what I came to tell these folks. That everything is settled as much to our satisfaction as we expect it to be. They were feloniously attacked by men bent on robbing them and who have paid for their stupidity with their lives. There's not even a fine in it for the Crown and probably not much profit from the felons' belongings when we sell them. A sorry business all around." He fixed a harder glare on Frevisse and added, "So I trust you don't think you've found a twist in the matter and are bent on making something other about it?"

But Frevisse bowed her head and said quite humbly, "No, I'm content with what you and Master Worleston have discovered and declared. We're all content with it, I'm sure."

"That's good then. That's very good." Master Montfort cast a sharp look at Sir Gawyn again. "That shoulder isn't going to do well at all, I should think," he asserted and left.

Maryon moved swiftly behind him, shutting the door with a force she only barely kept from a slam at the last moment. "Fool! Fool, fool, fool!" she raged.

"And that's to the good so far as we're concerned," Frevisse said. "I should be going." She had learned what Dame Claire had asked her to, and heard what she had hoped for from Master Montfort. The rest could be left between Maryon and Sir Gawyn; she wanted no part of it, and more especially since she feared—and thought Maryon did, too, by the intensity of her defending against it—that Master Montfort on one thing at least was right, that Sir Gawyn would be crippled no matter how well he healed.

They let her go with thanks, and she crossed the hall as she had come, avoiding notice of anyone, until outside the door, at the head of the stairs down to the yard, her way was blocked by Master Worleston. She inclined her head to him respectfully and would have gone around him, but he said, "Dame . . . Frevisse, isn't it?"

She stopped, perforce, acknowledging she was. "Is there anything you need that I can help you with?"

"We've been most well seen to and will be leaving after dinner. I knew your uncle. He spoke of you sometimes and I thought to take this chance to meet you."

Frevisse smiled at him. Now that the cruel early edge of grief that had come with her uncle's death was gone, it was good to hear him spoken of. But, "How did you know I was his niece?"

"Master Montfort spoke of it last night."

"Ah." Frevisse could imagine in what unflattering content Master Montfort had spoken of her.

Master Worleston had a straight-mouthed way of smiling, as if he found amusement where he knew he should not but nevertheless could not resist. "He was warning me against you, of course."

"Of course," she agreed. "And whose opinion do you favor? My uncle's or Master Montfort's?"

Master Worleston drew in his brows in mock deep consideration and said solemnly, "On the whole, and weighing what I know of each man, what do you think?"

"That Master Montfort must be a severe trial to you."

"One might say so," the sheriff agreed.

"But at least you've concluded this trouble quickly enough."

"So it seems."

With a qualm, Frevisse heard a hint of qualification in Master Worleston's voice. "Seems?" she asked.

"A simple matter of failed robbery. Rather too many dead but that can happen. Everything explained and accounted for." Master Worleston rolled off the points as they would probably go in the record of the incident. But his tone was dissatisfied as he added, "And not so well accounted for."

"In what way?" Frevisse kept her own tone no more than casually interested.

"For such incompetent outlaws, they were very well accoutered. And there've been no reports of a band of outlaws anywhere near here."

"They could easily be from somewhere farther off, somewhere become too dangerous for them. Some other shire," Frevisse offered. "Or they might have lately been turned out of some lord's service and gone to robbery only now."

Master Worleston shook his head, not refusing her ideas but in dissatisfaction. "There are going to have to be more questions asked."

"You're not leaving then?"