The Boy's Tale (22 page)

"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."

"Except for exercising the horses."

"Except for that," he agreed. He stood up. "I have to see to Colwin."

Frevisse did not move out of his way. "You were in heavy talk with Colwin this morning. What was that about?"

Will dropped his gaze toward his feet, paused before he answered from behind his forelock, "The horses, that would have been. They didn't look like they were being ridden enough. If we have to go on the sudden, we need them sharp. Colwin said they were fine, I said they weren't." Will shrugged. "That's all it was."

"He wasn't worried or frightened over anything? Over anyone?"

"No more than the rest of us are and probably not that much. So long as Colwin's skin was whole and his belly full, he was satisfied with whatever came his way."

The words brought up the reality that what had come Colwin's way was death. For a long moment, Frevisse and Will looked deep at each other, each of their faces very still and dark with the thought. Then Frevisse stepped aside to let him pass, and he bowed to her and went his way.

Chapter
17

Vespers had ended and the nuns were coming from the church as Frevisse returned to the cloister. Seeing her, they stopped, united in their disapproval. Under their silent, accusing stares and knowing her fault in missing the office was the more grievous because she had gone directly against what Dame Claire had told her to do, Frevisse stopped a few yards short of them, in front of Dame Claire, and went down onto her knees. Head bent over her clasped hands, she said, "I am in fault and know it, confess it, beg pardon for it from you all."

The words fell into the deep well of the nuns' silence and lay there awhile before Dame Claire said, "Your fault is acknowledged and your confession accepted. You will go now into the church and stay there on your knees until Compline, without supper or recreation. We will deal with this matter at chapter tomorrow."

Frevisse bent her head lower. "Thank you, Dame," she said. And then, although the shorter way to the refectory for their supper would have been to turn and go away from her along the cloister walk, Dame Claire led the nuns past her, flowing to either side of her in a whispering of black skirts and accusing silence. It was permitted that someone in such disgrace could be kicked by her sisters as they passed; but there was strong chance that someone so indulging her disapproval might be in like position all too soon and the kick remembered when the time came, and only Sister Thomasine, for whom it was obligation not indulgence, and for the good of her soul, to punish someone, struck Frevisse's ankle with one foot as she passed, very lightly.

Knowing the others would appreciate the sight of her humility, Frevisse stayed where she was until certain they were all in the refectory. Only then did she rise unsteadily from her knees—she had gone down onto the stone flags without sufficient care—and go on along the cloister walk. No food until breakfast tomorrow. Her stomach was already beginning to rebuke her, and less gently than Dame Claire had.

But there was no help for it. She must not negate her penance and humility by resentment or regret. And she had fasted before; it was a matter of the mind accepting so that the body would, too.

With nonetheless a sigh, she entered the church, passed the choir stalls to the altar, and knelt down on the floor in front of it. Drawing her back up straight, she bowed her head. Two years ago she had spent every moment she was free to do so here, praying for peace for herself and another, both of them bound by decisions she had made to lies they could never be rid of until their deathbeds. The peace of acceptance and forgiveness for at least herself had finally come; and now, in a new and lesser need, the prayers came back to her in a rush of familiarity and comfort.

Miserere mei, Deus, secundum misericordiam tuam; secundum multitudinem miserationum tuarum dele iniqui-tatem meam. Penitus lava me a culpa mea, et a peccato meo munda me. Nam iniquitatem meam ego agnosco, et pecca-tum meum coram me est semper.

Have pity on me, God, according to your mercy; according to the greatness of your mercy wipe out my iniquity. From deep in me wash my fault, and from my sin cleanse me. For I recognize my iniquity, and my sin is in me always.

The psalm was from the Office of the Dead. She had felt dead in soul when she had turned to it that while ago and it had helped bring her back to her life. Now it was meet not so much for herself as for the dead man who was her new burden—this time, at least, through no fault of her own.

How had Colwin come to be killed?

How had he come to be along the stream at all, come to that? By chance, out walking for the simple pleasure of it? Or to some purpose—to meet someone? And met instead whoever had tried to kill the boys and been killed instead, to leave them one less protector when the next attempt was made against their lives?

She had probably been spared when she came to the boys' rescue because killing a nun was something almost anyone balked at. But Colwin would have been fair game.

But still, why had Colwin been there at all? To keep watch on the boys? No, he would have saved them if that was why he was there.

Or had it been Colwin who pushed them into the water?

Frevisse lingered over that ugly possibility. But if he had, then who had murdered
him?
To suppose he had shoved the boys in and then that someone had killed him meant supposing there had been two murderers lurking along the stream with separate purposes. She found that unlikely.

What had she missed in this? What didn't she know yet about Colwin? And about the others?

Or was she assuming too much where there was really less? Maybe Colwin's death had been an accident. Maybe he had only chanced to be there not long after the boys, had meant to swim but fallen somehow, knocked himself senseless, and drowned.

But she could not make herself believe it. Someone had tried to drown Edmund and Jasper. Someone had succeeded in drowning Colwin.

Where had Will exercised the horses this afternoon? Master Naylor would know or could find out. And she wanted to see his ripped shirt. How had it come to be ripped? Had it also perhaps been wet? It would not be wet by now. In this weather, it would have dried long since, and he could have easily had it dry before he gave it to anyone to mend. If it was ripped at all. She would have to find that out, too.

But this was not what she was supposed to be doing now. She was supposed to be praying for God's mercy for her disobedience, and if she could not pray for herself, she could at least pray for Colwin.
A porta inferi erue, Domine, animam eius.
From the gate of hell rescue, Lord, his soul.

And she should pray for Domina Edith, too, that her passing be as peaceful as her life had been, for though she was surely safe from hell, she was not bound to this world for much longer. And who knew which prayers were most needed? Everyone was in need of all the mercy God could give. Brought back to duty by her thoughts, Frevisse set herself to pray not only for them but for herself and her corrupting pride, and from there went deeper into prayer until in the freedom of it she gradually lost all sense of anything else.