Her voice trailed off, but it had been enough. Naylor raised his own voice to say, “There. You’ve heard it. It happened in the alehouse, in the fight, and enough of you saw what happened there to know there’s no one to blame but Sym himself. There’s naught else for any of you to be doing now until the crowner comes. Go on home. It’s a cold night to be standing about.”
Unpurposed now and aware of the hour and the cold, the men began to drift away out the priory gateway. The four bearing Sym’s body waited for Father Henry to lead the way to the new guesthall. Meg looked at Dame Claire, who said, “You come with me, Meg. You can stay the night here. There’s no need for you to go back to your house tonight, not alone.”
“There’s Hewe,” Meg said vaguely, looking around.
“I’ll see to him,” said Frevisse. The boy was standing where he had stopped, dazed, past tears for now. Meg did not look at him, only nodded and let Dame Claire take her from the women and lead her away toward the cloister door where cautious heads were brave enough to peer out, now the noise was over.
“You’d best tell Domina Edith what has happened,” Frevisse said.
Dame Claire nodded. The curious faces disappeared inside with her and Meg, and now the only light left in the courtyard was from the open guesthall door and a lantern sitting beside the mounting block. Naylor went to pick it up and held it so its yellow glow fell on Joliffe’s and Ellis’s faces where they still stood in the doorway.
“You were luckier than I’d have thought was likely,” he said. “But you’re not to leave here. Master Montfort will be wanting to talk to you when he comes.”
“They’ll stay,” Frevisse said. “There’s a sick child, and they’re to play for us tomorrow or next day.”
Naylor nodded acceptance of that, his attention changing to her. “You were overbold in taking on those men with me. But I thank you for your help.”
His ungrudged honesty surprised Frevisse into a frank answer. “You were bold enough yourself. I couldn’t leave you alone to it. Besides, they didn’t have the mindless sound yet of a mob that kills without thinking. They were angry at one man in particular and not past knowing a nun when they saw one. I thought it safe enough.”
“Your notion of safe is somewhat broader than most,” Naylor said. “Well, I’ll be finishing my rounds now and go home, please you, my lady.”
Frevisse nodded and he left, taking his lantern with him. Frevisse went to Hewe and took hold of his arm. “You’re cold,” she said. “Come in now. We don’t need you falling sick along with all else that’s happened.”
He came, less because her words made sense than because he was ready to do anything he was told just then. Joliffe and Ellis were still waiting in the doorway, Bassett with them now. They all drew back as Frevisse brought Hewe in, and followed as she led him down the hall to the farther hearth were Rose was building up the fire. Piers, obviously under orders to stay where he was no matter what, peered out from among his blankets with wide-awake, wary curiosity. But they knew the immediate danger was past; only some of Rose’s tension was still betrayed in her movements as she glanced at Hewe and then at Frevisse, questioning.
It had been plain instinct to bring him to Rose. While Barnaby had lain hurt there, no one had come visiting; Frevisse had no idea who in the village he could go to tonight. Father Henry had enough to see to with Sym’s soul and body, and if she gave him over to the priory servants, they would give him no peace with their questioning. That seemed to leave only Rose. Frevisse said, “His father was buried yesterday. Now his brother is dead. Dame Claire is caring for his mother and I don’t think there’s anyone he can go to.”
Rose shifted her look back to Hewe for a considering moment, and then nodded. “He’s welcome here. Set him close to the fire. He looks in need of warming.”
Over their heads Joliffe answered something Bassett had said. “You would have been a fool to follow me out there. The matter was mine. And if I didn’t set it right with the oafs, if it went wrong for Ellis and me, then Rose and Piers would have been needing you indeed.” He asked loudly, “So what’s in the pot for my supper, Rose?”
“You’ve had your treat for tonight, my lad,” she said, and handed the bowl toward Hewe.
He blinked at her uncertainly, not taking it. “My brother is dead,” he said.
All the gentleness there had not been for her own menfolk was in Rose’s voice as she answered, “I know.” She shifted to sit in front of him. “And that’s a thing sad beyond saying. But your mother is going to be needing you, and you have to stop your shivering or you’ll be sick and that would be a pity, too. Here.”
She held the spoon out to his mouth. As if he were no older than Piers, he opened for it obediently. Rose looked over his shoulder to Ellis, who picked up a cloak and draped it over the boy’s huddled back as she fed him another spoonful.
Frevisse backed away. Hewe would be cared for now; she should go see what help Dame Claire might need. She found Dame Claire was still in the infirmary, sitting on the edge of one of the beds beside Meg. Dame Claire rose when Frevisse came in but Meg did not even look up, only went on sitting there huddled in on herself, dry-eyed, her hands clenched tightly together in her tense lap.
“She’ll stay here the night,” Dame Claire said, coming to Frevisse. “There’s no point in her going back to her place alone.”
Frevisse nodded agreement, but Meg stirred herself enough to say, “Hewe?”
“He’s with friends,” Frevisse said. “He’s warm and he’s fed. He’s fine.” She nearly went to take the woman’s hands, to make some sort of contact with her to be sure she was still there enough to hear, but instead she asked Dame Claire, “She needs some rest. You’ll give her something?”
“The strongest draught that I can make. Then I’ll stay with her until I’m sure she’s sound asleep.”
Meg did not even look up at this conversation going on over her head. She had lost a husband and her son in scarcely three days with not even a sickness to warn her it was about to happen. Sleep would help but it could not stop the full weight of the grief that was going to come when the first numbness of shock went out of her.
Meg raised her staring eyes from her hands to Dame Claire and said hopefully, “He was frightened, Sym was. Said he was afraid he might die. So I helped him say, ”O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee,“ like after confession. He said it slow and good, with tears. And he begged the Virgin to help. He wanted Heaven at the last, just as he should. I blessed him in God’s name before I went for help. Was that enough? Will he be all right?”
“If it happened just as you just told me, his soul is saved,”‘ Dame Claire assured her. “All who ask for God’s mercy receive it. You did well to remind him and pray with him. He’s safe now.”
Meg nodded, and looked back at her hands. “He’s safe now,” she murmured.
Dame Claire, lower voiced, said to Frevisse, “Talk to her, will you, while I go make the sleeping draught?”
“Yes,” Frevisse said, not wanting to. Meg looked at her and said again in a vague and worried voice, “Will it have been enough? He’ll be all right? Father Clement said once, when there was plague and he couldn’t be with everyone at once, that that could be enough. Sym will be all right?”
“He’s fine now,” Frevisse assured her. “Happy and at peace.” Sym’s corpse was lying empty under a blanket, but Dame Claire was right. If his mother had done all she said she had done, then his soul was safe, and that grief at least she could let go of. “You did all you could. Father Henry will say a proper funeral Mass for him, and that can only help. So don’t worry. How did this happen?”
Meg stirred a little. “It was a fight. Another of his fights. At the alehouse, he said. With one of the players. He didn’t even know he was hurt until he was home. He was so surprised, he looked and there was blood. I made him lie down. On my bed. And I looked at it, and I was scared, and that made him scared and he started begging for the priest b
ecause he didn’t want to die unshriven. He was so scared.” Her voice and face echoed his fright, reliving it. Frevisse patted her shoulder distantly. Meg went on, unable to let go of what was running steadily through her head. “I didn’t leave him until I’d done all I could. I remembered what Father Clement said and I did it. But there was no one else so I had to leave him. To find help. But he’s safe now. No more hurting. No more angers. He’s safe?”
“He’s safe,” Frevisse repeated, wishing Dame Claire would hurry.
Meg made as if to rise. “I have to go watch by his body. He can’t be left all alone tonight.”
Frevisse laid a hand on her cold arm and pressed her to stay where she was. “Father Henry is with him. He’ll pray beside him through the night. There’ll be time enough tomorrow. You’re staying here tonight.”
Meg looked around herself. “Here?”
Dame Claire came with the cup and its medicine. “You’re going to stay here and you’re going to drink this.”
Meg took the cup and stared into it without drinking. “It’s different here from everywhere else.”
“Drink your drink,” Dame Claire said.
Meg obediently drank a little, then said, staring at the dark liquid again, “They made me marry him. And then Sym was just like him. Just like him.” She raised her dazed eyes to Dame Claire. “I can stay here?”
“For tonight, at least. Drink all of it.”
Meg did, in a long, steady draught.
“Now lie down,” Dame Claire said, “and sleep. That’s what you’re to do now.”
“Hewe?”
“Hewe’s in the guesthall with friends,” Frevisse repeated patiently. “He’s taken care of.”
Meg’s eyes closed. “There’s no hurting in him. He’s not like his father. He’ll be all right.” Her eyes closed and probably as much from exhaustion as Dame Claire’s medicine her breathing evened into sleep as they watched her.
The clear weather held next day, and the cold with it. The services were blurred with snuffling and the chapter meeting with coughing; and Frevisse, who had been nearly over her own rheum, found it was come back, probably from her short sleep and being out in the icy night. Handkerchief in hand, she went about her duties until, as she was crossing the courtyard back from the old guesthall to the cloister, Father Henry intercepted her.
“Dame Frevisse, Dame Claire asks if you could come to her in the new hall,” he said.
Busy with her running nose and her aches, she did not ask why, but with a resigned sigh, only nodded and turned from her way to fall into step beside him, back across the yard and up the stone steps to the new guesthall, built for their higher-ranking visitors, with separate chambers and its own kitchen.
Sym, alive, would likely never have entered it. Now he was laid on a blanket on one of the hall’s trestle tables. Dame Claire was there, with a basin of warmed water steaming into the cold air on the table beside him, and a pile of clean rags and a folded cerecloth showing she had come to clean the body and ready it as far as might be for burial before the crowner came.
“Where are his mother and brother?” Frevisse asked.
“The boy is with the players. Meg was still sleeping when I left her,” Claire answered. “Which is just as well.” She made a small gesture toward the body. “There’s a problem.”
Probably with Father Henry’s help she had begun to strip it for washing but had gone no further than beginning to remove the doublet and shirt. Sym’s chest and side were laid bare, and the ragged cut along the right side of his waist, smeared with dried, blackened blood, showed plainly. To Frevisse’s eye it looked no more than a shallow scrape that in the heat of his temper and the fight, Sym could quite possibly have not heeded right away.
It was the other wound, the smaller one, on his side between the lower left ribs and almost unbloodied, that held Frevisse once she saw it. She looked and went on looking, her mind knowing but not ready yet to admit what it meant. Only after a long pause did she say, knowing that Dame Claire knew as well as she did, “That went into his heart.”
“Directly in,” Dame Claire agreed.
“And if it did…”
She did not finish. There was no need. From a dagger thrust like that, into the heart and out again, and no more blood around it than would have followed the exiting blade, Sym must have died almost on the instant. Would have fallen and probably been dead before he was down.
Chapter 15
Father Henry, looking from Frevisse’s face to Dame Claire’s, said, “I don’t understand.”
Frevisse waited for Dame Claire to say something but she went on staring at Sym’s body, brooding over a death that should not have happened. At last, instead of answering the priest’s question, Frevisse asked, “You were in the village last night when Meg went looking for help?”
“One of the women was sick and had asked for me and—‘’ Father Henry betrayed embarrassment. ”—and I stopped at the alehouse before I came back here. To warm myself. It was cold out.“
“And Meg came there and said Sym was hurt?”
Father Henry nodded. “All afraid, she was, and glad to see me. She told the men her boy was hurt, that the player had stabbed him, she needed help. And then, seeing me, she begged me to come.”
“She’d left his brother with him and come looking for help?”
“The other boy was gone. She’d had to leave Sym there alone. That was part of her fear. That she had left him all alone. She kept saying we had to hurry so he wouldn’t be alone.”
Dame Claire raised her eyes from the body. “He must have died almost immediately. With hardly any pain.”
Frevisse lifted the boy’s hand. Or had he been old enough to be called a man? she wondered. In the quiescence of death his face was younger and more vulnerable than she remembered it being in life. Not that it much mattered now, she supposed. Young or old or in between, he had been murdered. That at least was certain. She went to his doublet and shirt lying at the far end of the table, turned them over, held them up. A ragged tear on the right side showed where one dagger blow had slid in and torn out. There was no other rend.
“His mother must have pulled these up from his chest and side, to better see how he was hurt. And left them open when she went for help.”
“Then someone came in after she was gone,” Dame Claire said.
“Someone he didn’t fear. Or didn’t fear enough to be wary of. He was lying flat and quiet when the dagger went in the second time. Or would he have lost enough blood to be unconscious, do you think?”
Dame Claire shook her head. “No. That first wound is messy but shallow. Even bleeding, it took so long to soak through his doublet, he was home before he knew he was bleeding, didn’t Meg say? There wasn’t enough lost for him to faint. Unless he was the sort who does when they see blood.”
“He was aware enough to be afraid and plead for help. His mother said so. And ask for absolution and the rest.”
“How do you know he was lying down when he was struck?” Dame Claire asked.
“The angle of the blow. In a fight a dagger coming into someone’s side like this one seemingly did has to be held underhanded, and comes almost always in at an upward slant. But this one went straight in. I’d guess the person had to have been standing directly at his side when they did it, and Sym not expecting it at all.” Frevisse turned to Father Henry. “How was he lying when you came in?”
The priest had been looking from one to the other of them while they talked, his large features registering his bewilderment. Now, glad of something plain that he understood, he said, “On a bed by the far wall, on his back, his hands folded on his chest. Like he was asleep and peaceful. I thought he was until I touched him.”
“Was he covered?” Frevisse asked. Father Henry nodded, and she prodded, “How? With what and how much?”
“A blanket. It was pulled up to his chin.”
“And his hands were outside of it, folded on his chest?”
“Yes.�
��
Frevisse came back to the corpse and carefully folded the arms so the hands rested one on top of the other on his chest. “Like this?”
Father Henry nodded.
Dame Claire met Frevisse’s look. In that position Sym’s arm completely covered the fatal wound in his side.
“Oh, no,” Dame Claire said.
“Oh, yes,” Frevisse answered. “A murderer not only sure of his blow but very considerate and respectful afterwards.”
“Murderer?” Father Henry asked. “It was accident. That’s what was being said last night.”
“What happened in the alehouse was an accident. It wasn’t that wound he died from. It was this second wound, here, directly into his heart, that killed him. At home, while he was lying on his bed.”
That seeped with some degree of slowness into Father Henry’s understanding, but as it did, his eyes widened. “Someone killed him while he lay there hurt and needing help?”
“It seems so, yes.”
Father Henry crossed himself. “That’s horrible.”
“Maybe more horrible is the fact that we don’t have any idea who might have done it. Or why.”
Dame Claire wrung out a cloth in the cooling water. “He was quarrelsome, I gather, from what his mother said.”
“And by what the men said last night,” Frevisse agreed. She watched as Dame Claire began to wash the body.
She knew Roger Naylor had already sent for the crowner. The messenger had gone that morning; but there was no certainty as to where Master Montfort might be at this holiday season or of how long it would take the messenger to find him, and so no way of knowing when he would come.
Nor any assurance that his coming would aid in finding the truth. Master Montfort had been to St. Frideswide’s before, and to Frevisse’s mind he was an arrogant fool who resisted any help anyone tried to give him, especially women, and most especially cloistered nuns.
Frevisse said, “There’s no one knows this is murder except us. Can we keep it so?”
2 The Servant's Tale Page 13
