5 The Boy's Tale

by Frazer, Margaret

  The two women working in the kitchen garden spied them as they straggled out from among the trees and came running with exclaims to help. Without answering their questions, Frevisse ordered, “Take the boys to Jenet. I’ll bring Lady Adela.”

  She had already told Jasper and then Edmund when he was more recovered that they were not to say to anyone else that they had been pushed. “Nor you either, my lady,” she had added fiercely to Lady Adela, goaded by fear as much as by anger. “And after this when you’re told to stay where you’ve been put, maybe you’ll do it!”

  Edmund and Jasper had nodded miserable, dripping agreement. Now they clung to her hands, one on either side of her, resisting being given over to the women, but Frevisse handed them firmly away. “You need to be dry and put to bed as soon as may be.” And inside the cloister walls in safety. “I can’t walk fast with these soaked skirts. Go on. I’ll be there when I may.”

  They let the women pick them up then, Edmund’s head drooping down onto Joan’s shoulder.

  With a belated thought, Frevisse asked the women, “Have you seen anybody else while you’ve been out here? Has anyone else come by?”

  “No, my lady. There’s been no one, not nearby, save you. Most everyone’s gone to the haying,” Joan said readily. The other woman nodded agreement.

  Frevisse gestured them to go on. Edmund had closed his eyes, but Jasper looked back at Frevisse all the way out of sight.

  Seeming not to notice but with a small ache for him in her heart where she did not want it to be, Frevisse took Lady Adela’s hand, kicked her soaked skirts away from her legs—even wrung out, they were a burden and bother— and followed, wishing there were someone to carry her, she was so exhausted. But there was not and she said a prayer for strength and kept on, one bare foot after another. Her shoes were somewhere in the bottom of the pool. One each in exchange for the boys’ lives, she reminded herself, but the charity of the thought was forced. What she wanted was to spank them and Lady Adela very hard for their foolishness, and she dwelt on that thought because until she had them all, including herself, back inside the nunnery walls, she did not want to think about the possibility that whoever had pushed them into the water had almost surely still been there, hidden among the trees, watching, while she dragged them out.

  But he was surely gone now, knowing the alarm would be raised. He would be somewhere else long before she could tell Master Naylor to send searchers. All the same, some sort of search would have to be made and soon. She would have to talk to Master Naylor quickly. No, she would have to talk to Dame Claire first. To explain what had happened, and to consult over what had to be done both to better protect the boys and to find whomever had attacked them.

  No, she amended, pulling her skirts away from her legs again; first she had to change into dry clothing.

  By St. Benedict’s Rule, the dorter was supposed to be a large room where all the nuns slept communally, but in the centuries since St. Benedict wrote it, the Rule had eased in certain areas. The large dorter was divided into wooden-walled cells for each nun, where she slept and kept her personal belongings.

  The curtain drawn across her cell’s open end, Frevisse took off her wet, muddy gown and undergown and from the chest beside her bed took her only change of clothing, a gown and undergown identical to the first except they were clean and dry. She had meant to put them on after her weekly bath but there was no help for it now.

  She concentrated on drying herself and re-dressing, but her mind was not interested in that problem. As she fussed at the row of buttons from the black undergown’s elbow to wrist, the one thought that pushed at her was that someone wanted the boys dead.

  A chance attempt against them by a killer passing casually by? Too unlikely to bother considering. There had to be a particular reason someone wanted them dead. Who? And for what reason?

  It was hard to imagine it was someone of the nunnery or the village. So far as nearly everyone knew, they were only boys who had had misfortune on a journey. One of their own people? Why? Or someone else, from outside, who knew who they were and had somehow found them here? But again, why kill them?

  Their mother was in danger, not of death but certainly censure and probably polite but ruthless imprisonment, for her imprudent marriage. The late king had imprisoned his stepmother for years for no better reason than that he disliked her. But how did their mother’s indiscretion put Edmund and Jasper in danger?

  Did someone want revenge against Queen Katherine and was willing to take her sons’ lives to have it? There was a possibility, Frevisse supposed. Or it could even be revenge against their father. A Welsh feud and nothing to do with royalty at all?

  No. If it had been as simple as that, Maryon would have said so.

  Frevisse tugged impatiently at her sleeve, fighting the last button closed.

  So suppose it was not against anyone else but simply a direct desire to have them dead. Because on their mother’s side at least they were of royal blood? But not full blood. They were young King Henry’s half brothers, and what royal blood they had was French, not English; they were no threat to his throne.

  She slipped her gown over her head, with its open-hanging sleeves and full fall of black fabric from her shoulders to her feet, shook it straight, and reached for her belt; and stopped, the belt in her hands, as another thought came to her.

  Young King Henry, their half brother and almost all of fifteen years old, was king of France as well as king of England. He held England by right of blood through his father. He held France through his mother, through the treaty her French royal father had made with England, naming her his last legitimate child and her husband and their children heirs of the French throne.

  Did that mean that somehow Edmund and Jasper could be used as pawns against their brother, could be made to serve in some sort of French claim against England’s hold on France?

  Frevisse did not see how, but that did not mean it was not possible. St. Frideswide’s was too removed from the world in general by site and purpose and inclination—rumors from Banbury sometimes seemed as remote as anything heard from London or France—for her to be able to accurately judge what might or might not be likely in that regard. There was no way she could hope to understand the intricacies of court politics. And this particular guess might be wide of the mark. But somebody, for some reason, wanted possession of the boys very badly. That was why they had been sent on their way to Wales: to keep them out of someone’s hands. And now it was certain that someone wanted them dead. The same someone? Another someone?

  She buckled the belt into place around her waist and took up her wimple and veil. They at least had stayed dry enough to be put back on, and she did so absently, feeling to make sure her hair was completely covered by the white wimple before pinning the black veil into place over it while her mind went on with her questions.

  Someone wanted the boys, either alive and in his power or else dead and beyond anyone’s use. Of that much she could be sure. As for who that someone could be … She stood completely still, staring at the floor without seeing it, frozen by the certainty of her thought. It was said King Henry would come of age this year, be given his royal power, and the men who had formed factions around him all these years of his minority would now have to contend not only with each other but for the King’s favor if they hoped to share in power. And of those men the two greatest were Henry Beaufort, Bishop of Winchester, and Humphrey Plantagenet, Duke of Gloucester. The King’s great-uncle and uncle, both ambitious men who had believed all through the royal minority that each should have had more power in the government than they did. Who knew what either of them might make of such untoward inconveniences as royal half brothers with a putative claim to the French throne? For a surety, either of them could make something of it; they had the necessary power.

  Frevisse had briefly had—much against her will—some dealings with the bishop of Winchester. He had not seemed the sort of man who would order children killed. He would undoubtedly
be willing to have them in his power, yes, but dead? She did not believe that of him.

  The duke of Gloucester, on the other hand, was said to be out of all proportion ambitious, proud even beyond his exalted place. And if King Henry died without fathering a child, the duke would succeed him on the throne.

  Her legs gone weak, Frevisse sank down to sit on the edge of her bed. What sort of power could a man like that turn against St. Frideswide’s if he chose? She slid forward onto her knees on the floor below the crucifix hung on her wall. Kyrie, eleison, Christe, eleison … Lord, have mercy, Christ, have mercy …

  She wished her uncle Thomas Chaucer were still alive. He had known both how to use power and how to protect himself from it. But he was dead and she had already written to his daughter Alice, which now seemed as if it might have been a foolish thing to do for the same reason it had seemed sensible before: her husband was one of the men maneuvering for power around the young King, the men among whom almost certainly was someone who wanted Edmund and Jasper dead.

  Agnus dei, eleison … Lamb of god, have mercy …

  Frevisse’s breath caught. Lambs were what they were here in St. Frideswide’s. Not simply the boys but everyone. Innocent lambs who had no way to struggle against the kind of power that might be turned against them.

  But not lambs for the slaughter. Not if they were innocent enough. So long as no one of the priory knew who the boys were, so long as everyone here could claim they had not known the boys were sought by powerful men, then even if the boys were eventually discovered and retribution was demanded for having sheltered them, Dame Claire could claim on the priory’s behalf that it had been done in innocence, in simple obedience to the Rule to give shelter and comfort to those in need. So long as that were true, the chance was very good that no punishment would fall on St. Frideswide’s.

  Only on Frevisse, if her part in it were known.

  But better on only her than on everyone. What mattered was to keep both the boys and the priory safe, and therefore the boys’ secret to herself alone so that whatever the cost might eventually be, it would fall on only her.

  She raised her head from her clasped hands, drew a deep, steadying breath, and stood up to go in search of Dame Claire.

  When she understood that Frevisse’s matter was urgent beyond the ordinary, Dame Claire brought her into the infirmary for greater privacy, and though the infirmary was no longer her domain, she went to the shelves of herbs, her hands moving among them familiarly because Sister Thomasine had changed nothing she could help changing since she became infirmarian, until she found what she wanted, took a few sprigs of last summer’s dried lavender from one of the boxes, and handed it to Frevisse, saying, “Smell them. They’ll quiet your nerves.”

  Frevisse had hoped she was not that obvious and bent her head obediently over the lavender, inhaling deeply.

  As calmly as if they were discussing a simple kitchen matter, Dame Claire said, “So there’s a dark secret concerning these children that you and Domina Edith feel it better I do not know.”

  “Best that no one knows,” Frevisse said evenly, keeping her voice both firm and calm. “Or if that can’t be managed, then as few as possible.”

  “But they’re in some sort of danger, you believe.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re certain, then, they weren’t just claiming to have been pushed to avoid admitting they’d fallen in by carelessness?”

  “They were too honestly terrified. Jasper especially.” She had belatedly had another thought. “And they said yesterday that their fall into the pigsty was no accident either. No one paid them any heed, but maybe they were right. I need to talk to Master Naylor. Someone should look through the woods around the pool to see if there’s any trace of who was there.”

  “And Maryon should be told. She’s obviously not their mother—” Dame Claire made it a question but fixed her eyes on Frevisse, expecting confirmation. Frevisse nodded wryly, accepting that Dame Claire had already guessed more than Frevisse wished she had. “—but they’re in her care so she should know,” Dame Claire finished. “Is the lavender helping?”

  Frevisse had gone on unthinkingly inhaling its slightly musty sweetness the while. Now, at Dame Claire’s question, she realized her knots of keyed-up intensity had eased and left her mind more clear on what had to be done. “Yes,” she said in surprise.

  “That’s good then.” Dame Claire turned from the shelves to face her fully. “If I trusted no one else in all the world, I trust Domina Edith and she’s depended on you in other matters like this. I’ll accept I should not know why the boys are in danger, and you have my leave to do what you think needs to be done, and to come and go as you see fit, until this trouble is settled. Is that sufficient?”

  “Very sufficient,” Frevisse said. The matter was now fully in her hands. Come of it what might, it would be on her head. “I’ll go about it then.”

  The bell began to ring to None.

  “Prayers first,” Dame Claire said. “Those always first.”

  Frevisse opened her mouth to protest that the sooner the woods were searched the better, then closed it. Whoever had been there was long gone, and anything he had left behind would still be there when prayers were over. Obediently, she bowed her head and folded her hands into her sleeves, ready to follow Dame Claire to the church.

  “And afterwards have Sister Juliana give you a new pair of shoes before you go out again,” Dame Claire added.

  Later, in the shadow of the gateway to the outer yard, Master Naylor eyed Frevisse with extreme disfavor. “And you’re sure of this? They’re not lying to save themselves a smacking?”

  Frevisse wondered in passing if Edmund and Jasper had ever had a smacking, and doubted it, even as she said, “They’re due for one anyway, leaving the cloister as they did. And, no, I don’t think they’re lying. You know a child who’s only pretending to be frightened looks different from one who really is.”

  What might have been a smile lifted one corner of Master Naylor’s mouth. “My boy has tried that fooling a time or two, yes. Good enough then.” The brief amusement was gone from Master Naylor’s face. “I’ll go myself to see what I can find around the pool.”

  “Would you try to find out, too, if anyone unfamiliar was seen around here today? Or anyone not where they should have been?”

  “With the haying started, most everyone that can be spared is in the fields. They’ll know if anyone wasn’t there who should be, and the same with the few left to usual tasks. But by the same hand, with nigh everyone in the fields, someone could come and go around the priory and not be noticed so long as they kept clear of the hay field.”

  “I know. But ask anyway, on the chance someone was seen, something noticed.”

  “Aye, Dame. But you’d best tell the boys’ own folk what’s toward.”

  “That’s where I’m bound for next.” Little though she liked the idea of telling Maryon about this.

  Master Naylor, straightening from his bow, fixed her with the demand, “Why would anyone be trying to kill these boys?”

  Taken unready by his bluntness, Frevisse took too long to finally say, “I don’t know.”

  “But you have ideas.”

  “Yes.” She forestalled his next question by saying, “I can’t tell them to you.”

  He stared at her an uncomfortable time more, and she met his look with her own, until he nodded impassive acceptance, bowed again, and left her.

  Satisfied that he would do all that she had asked and regretting what next she had to do, Frevisse turned toward the guesthall.

  As Frevisse explained yet again what had happened, Maryon rose from where she had been sitting on the foot of Sir Gawyn’s bed and, twisting her hands around each other, paced the narrow width of the room and back again. Frevisse finished, “They’re safe now, tucked into bed and Tibby and Jenet both watching them.”

  Maryon snapped, “Jenet is useless!”

  Frevisse silently agreed but only said, “
They won’t be left to just her care anymore.”

  “They should be brought here,” Sir Gawyn said from the bed. He had been standing, holding to the bedpost but on his own feet, when Frevisse entered, and though he had lain down again, he was markedly better than yesterday, pale but no longer the ill gray that he had been. He seemed stronger, too, but Frevisse wondered how much of his strength came from his will to have it and not because he was actually that much better.

  Now she countered his suggestion with, “I don’t think so. They’ll be far more vulnerable here than in the cloister.”

  “But they don’t stay in the cloister!” Maryon pointed out. “This is the second time they’ve slipped out.”

  “We’ll keep better watch on them after this.”

  “Not so well as we would.” Sir Gawyn shifted himself higher against the head of the bed; he was becoming more adroit at managing with only his unhurt arm. “Mistress Maryon and I know them and they’re used to us. And to Will and Colwin, too. The four of us know what’s at stake. No one could guard them better the little while we’ll still be here.”

  “It will be some while yet before you can leave,” Frevisse said.

  “Not very long.” He ignored Maryon’s protesting gesture. “Now that we’ve been found, we have to leave as soon as may be. Tomorrow if I could.”

  “You can’t!” Maryon said. “Not so soon with your shoulder.”

  “No,” Sir Gawyn agreed bitterly. “Not as soon as that. But soon. Two days or three.”

  Maryon bit down on another protest. Her face smoothed into the blandness of a cat convincing someone it was not eyeing the cream, and she said reasonably, “But whatever we decide, for now at least they’re in bed and sleeping and we’ll not disturb them. There’s nothing can be done before tomorrow, come what may.”

  “No,” Sir Gawyn broodingly agreed. “Not before tomorrow.”

  Will had entered while they talked and remained standing just inside the door. Now, very quietly, he said, “You can’t ride before another week is out, sire. Not without risk of opening your wound.”