She knelt and made herself look into Will's face. It was nothing; empty of expression; Will was completely gone from it. She shifted her attention to the dagger. "It's thrust in full to the hilt," she said.
"See here." Master Naylor pointed to the wall above the body where a long scar in the plaster ran from the height of a man's chest in a long curve to disappear behind Will's back. "It went full through him and out the back. That's from the point."
"And it was his own dagger, I'd guess." She indicated the empty sheath at his side.
"So it was someone he knew."
"And trusted enough they were able to take his dagger and stab him through before he could cry out or fight back," she agreed. "Any struggle or noise would have roused someone in the hall." The guesthall servants mostly slept on pallets around the great hall at night.
"Or it was someone he didn't so much trust as had no suspicion of," Master Naylor suggested.
"There's that, too," Frevisse agreed. She stood up. "Have Sir Gawyn and Mistress Maryon been told?"
"Mistress Maryon knows. She went in to Sir Gawyn."
"Did she see the body?"
"She didn't want to."
"But I do," Sir Gawyn said behind them from the guarded end of the passage. He had dragged a doublet on roughly over his shirt and hosen. Strained and grim, he leaned on Maryon who was as pale as he was and had her face averted.
Master Naylor said, "Let them by."
Maryon stayed where she was. Sir Gawyn came forward alone with one hand to the wall for balance, and Master Naylor moved aside to let him come to Will's body. Frevisse in the narrow space settled for stepping back instead of trying to pass them both and so could see Sir Gawyn's expression as he looked down at his squire. Of the possible emotions he might have had, he showed none. His eyes were dark and still in a face rigid as stone. He looked at Will for as long as a slow heart might beat twenty, then backed away, still looking, leaning on the wall for support until he turned, reached out for Maryon, and let her help him away along the passage.
When they were gone, Frevisse knelt down and gently straightened Will's body until it lay flat on the floor. She laid his other arm across his chest and raised her gaze to Master Naylor standing at his feet.
"The questions I meant to ask aren't changed, but there are more of them now. And there are ones I need you to ask."
Master Naylor stared at her grimly for a rude while, then said, "What would they be?"
"What I want to know—what I want you to ask everyone outside the cloister—anywhere near the nunnery, come to that—is who saw Colwin and when yesterday afternoon, and if anyone heard him say he was going anywhere or meeting anyone."
"I can ask that and be able to tell you by late afternoon."
"That would do well. And the same about Will. Who saw him where and when and with whom. Were there any guests in hall last night?"
"In neither one."
"So it's someone here then."
"Or someone who came in over the wall," Master Naylor offered. "That would be no great trick."
"But finding Will and killing him and leaving again all unknown and unnoticed—that would be difficult."
"Granted. And we can be sure it was Will he meant to kill. Coming with Colwin's death, it can't be chance. But why? What's so particular about these people that they're so death-haunted? It was no chance attack by outlaws that brought them here, was it?"
Frevisse refused him any answer beyond an ambiguous shake of her head and asked, "Have there been any strangers seen around of late? Have you asked?"
"No one unaccounted for. I've asked and kept an eye out."
"But there have been travelers, some who've stayed here in the guesthall since Sir Gawyn and the others came, even if not last night?"
"Yes."
"And one of them might have suborned one of our people to the murder—the murders—for a price."
"Who among our people would you pick for a hired murderer?" Master Naylor asked scornfully. "The ones you don't know well, I know. How likely do you think it is that one of them could do it and not betray himself?"
"Not very likely. But is any of this likely?"
"Not very, but then I don't know as much about it as you do." His look dared her to change that. She met his stare, refusing him, and finally, grudgingly, he asked, "What else do you want to know?"
"Will said he exercised their horses yesterday afternoon. Do you know when he did that? Or if he did it."
"He didn't," Master Naylor said flatly. "He was never in the stable yard at all in the afternoon, so far as I know, and I'll flat swear he never exercised the horses. There was no need. Colwin did that every day."
"Will told me that he didn't and that's what they had words over yesterday morning."
"Then Will was wrong. Or lying about what they quarreled over."
"The latter seems the more likely, but learning what the quarrel was truly over will be difficult now, unless someone overheard them."
"I saw them at it. No one was near enough to hear."
A frustrated silence came between them, until Master Naylor bestirred himself and, indicating Will's body, said, "Be as it may, I have to have this seen to, and harry our folk into the fields before the bailiff begins to yelp there's no hope of having the haying done in time. Is there aught else I can find out for you?"
"Not that I can think of now. Have you sent for the crowner yet?"
"A man went yesterday to find him."
So now there would be, probably shortly, Master Mont-fort to deal with again. But she had remembered another matter. "Ask your stablemen particularly about what they saw of Colwin or knew of between him and Will," she said. "And see what you think of their answers." Another thought came to her. "Who was at the pigsty when the boys were?"
"The sty?" Master Naylor echoed, but then followed where her mind was going. "You think their falling in was no accident?"
"They say it wasn't. It's a dangerous place to fall. If you and Father Henry hadn't had them out of there quickly, they could have been killed."
"You think it was someone turned the rail and dumped them?"
"It could have been, yes. You were there. And Father Henry. Who else? Was Colwin still with you?"
"And Will. And the pig man and a few stable hands who thought they had nothing better to do. Adam and Watkin."
"Do you remember who was where, when the boys fell?"
"I was talking with Father Henry. We'd turned aside. I wasn't noticing anyone that I remember."
"I'm willing to discount you and Father Henry—"
"Thank you."
"—but that still leaves Will and Colwin, the pig man, the two stablemen."
"So I have more questions to ask," Master Naylor said.
"And I'd best go talk to Sir Gawyn now."
Master Naylor moved back to the turn of the passage to give her better room to pass, but asked, "How is it with Domina Edith?"
Frevisse stopped short, remembrance hurting sharply again after the little while she had been free from it. She took a steadying breath and said, "Dame Claire doesn't expect her to wake again. It could be any time now."
Master Naylor crossed himself. "She's a good, blessed lady. God have her in his mercy."
"He surely must," Frevisse said. "Will you ask prayers for her from everyone?"
"She has them already."
As Frevisse had expected, Sir Gawyn and Maryon were together. He was seated on the edge of the bed, hunched over, head down, hands clenched together and clamped between his knees as if to keep them from finding something violent to do.
Maryon stood beside him, her hand resting on his shoulder in a comfort that the whole tense set of his body was refusing to accept. As Frevisse entered, she withdrew her hand but did not move away from him. He barely rose to the courtesy of lifting his head to nod in greeting.
"Dame Frevisse," Maryon said, and even her usually controlled and pleasant voice was a little raw with pain and worry. "Is there any
idea of who killed him?"
"Not yet. There are questions being asked that we hope will help. I have to ask you some, Sir Gawyn."
"Go on," he said without looking up.
"What we know is that Will was killed sometime in the night and that no one heard anything. Where did he usually sleep?"
"Here with me. This was where he always slept," Sir Gawyn said.
"His pallet and blankets were there." Maryon indicated the floor along the farther wall. "I—I put them away after we—after we saw—" She gave up trying to finish that and said instead, "The three of us talked together awhile after supper and then I went to my own room, as always. Will saw to Sir Gawyn in the nights."
"After Mistress Maryon had gone," Frevisse asked, "everything was as usual?"
The effort to answer showed in Sir Gawyn's strained voice as he said, "As usual as it's been this while we've been here. He saw to my wound and saw me into bed and we talked awhile, about Colwin mostly." Sir Gawyn paused as his voice unsteadied, gathered himself and continued. "I fell asleep then and slept through the night. When I woke this morning and he wasn't here, I supposed he'd gone out for no more than a moment and would be back."
"How long had he been with you?"
"Close to twenty years," Sir Gawyn said harshly. "He was a half-grown boy and my spurs were hardly cold from my knighting when I took him on. We've been together that long."
"He didn't go to bed last night when you did?"
"I fell asleep while we were talking. He was still dressed and not in bed."
"And you slept without hearing anything all night?"
"All night," he repeated bitterly.
"Gawyn, pray you, lie down," Maryon urged. "You're exhausting yourself the more."
Ignoring her, still talking to his clenched hands, he said, "And now we can't even leave here. They've found us, and I'm no use to anyone, and Will is dead. There's no one to keep them from the boys."
"The boys will be kept strictly in their room in the cloister from now on," Frevisse said. "They'll not go out of it, and someone will be with them all the time, day and night, and only those we know well will come into the cloister itself until this is settled."
"Will was killed in your own guesthall," Sir Gawyn said. "It was someone who knows the nunnery who did that." He reached to take hold of Maryon's wrist. "You have to go back into the cloister and stay with them. For your own safety and theirs. It isn't much but it's the best place now. The safest."
"And leave you here? I think not." Maryon's refusal was as complete as it was unhesitating.
"Maryon, listen. If they want me dead, they'll have me dead. If Will couldn't stop them, assuredly you can't. Better you be with the boys and keep them as safe as may be. I'm not who matters in this anyway."
"You matter to me!" Maryon cried out softly.
"But not before them. Whatever our feelings between us, we're both pledged otherwise. It can't be helped. You know it. Our words were given."
Another woman might have gone to her knees beside him then, hidden her face against him and begged for him to find a way to help them out of this desperation. Maryon instead turned to Frevisse and demanded, "He has to come into the cloister with me. We need to be all of us together. That's the best thing left now."
Frevisse started a shocked refusal at the idea of a man settled into the cloister, but cut it off. Maryon was right. It would be easier to guard them if they were all together, and the cloister was a more enclosed place than the guesthall.
Master Naylor could put guards at the few doors there were into it. Haying or not, there were men enough for that, especially now that it was so plain that someone was willing to kill and kill again to come at the boys. She changed her protest to, "I'll speak to Dame Claire. I think we can find a way to manage it."
"Why Dame Claire?" Maryon asked. "Why not ask Domina Edith and save time?"
Frevisse stared at her. "You don't know Domina Edith is dying? The while you were in the cloister, you never heard?"
Maryon's face changed. "Ah, that's right. I'd heard that. But that's the way of it when you're old, isn't it? And Dame Claire has the power? She can agree to our coming in?"
Chilled with this reminder that what mattered so deeply to St. Frideswide's mattered very little to the world at large, and understanding that for Maryon the boys' and Sir Gawyn's needs were the most urgent, Frevisse said evenly, "I'll speak to her immediately about it."
"Thank you," Maryon said. Sir Gawyn had taken his hand back from her, had closed again into himself, and only nodded. Despite whatever Maryon had willed herself to believe, he had seemingly very little hope himself.
Chapter 19
Frevisse intended to return directly to the cloister then, to ask permission for Sir Gawyn and Maryon to refuge there and have them into safety, but at the top of the guesthall stairs down to the yard she paused. Master Naylor must have dealt with sending the gawkers and idlers off to the haying when he came out; the yard was empty except for a little cluster of guesthall servant women whose duties kept them from the haying, but those duties did not include listening with their heads close together at the half-open cloister door. She raised her hands to clap peremptorily at them, then paused, realizing what they were listening to.
The chapter house door must have been left open to the lovely morning air, giving clear scope to Dame Alys's booming voice. At this distance Frevisse could not make out the words—the women at the cloister door were apparently having better luck—but the temper and indignation carried well. Dame Alys was in full cry against something or someone.
Frevisse clapped her hands sharply, once. The women turned toward her with guilty starts, except the one leaning farthest into the opening who had to be jostled by a neighbor before she joined the others in quick curtsies toward Frevisse and scuttled away to disappear into the old guest-hall the other side of the gateway. When they were gone, Frevisse hesitated a moment, listening to Dame Alys's voice go on, fulminating at whatever had aroused her ire. She was in full cry, not likely to stop soon, and Frevisse turned back into the guesthall. There was small use in presenting the need to bring Sir Gawyn into the cloister to the nuns in chapter with Dame Alys in that mood. Chapter meeting was open for discussion, and once the matter was given over to everyone to have their say, it could easily be the hour of Tierce before they had done with it. It would be better to wait until after chapter and speak only to Dame Claire. Persuading her of the necessity would take less time and far less arguing.
Frevisse's honesty dragged her to admit that avoiding the general arguing in chapter lay strongly behind her choice, but it was also true that Dame Claire presenting a completed decision to the others later was the quickest way to have Sir Gawyn into safety. Meanwhile there was something she had meant to do, useless though it seemed to be now.
A quick question to Ela in the guesthall took her down to the kitchen in search of Nell. From her time as hosteler she remembered Nell as a wisp of a young woman with a soft heart and kind ways, clever enough to follow instructions without having to be told twice and shown how in the bargain.
Nell was sitting on a stool in the chimney corner where a slanted shaft of morning light through one of the small, high windows fell brightly. A sewing basket was on the floor beside her, but she was not sewing, only sitting, gazing sadly at the floor, her hands lying in her lap on what Frevisse guessed was a man's white shirt. Absorbed in her thoughts, she did not notice Frevisse until, standing in front of her, Frevisse said, "Is that Will's shirt?"
Nell quickly rose and curtsied, the shirt pressed to her bosom now. "Yes, Dame, pardon, I didn't see you come. Yes, it is, please you."
Not wanting Nell too uneased to answer questions readily, Frevisse smiled kindly. "He gave it to you to mend for him?"
"Yes, Dame." Nell held it out to her. "I've finished with it just now. Even though . . ." Her voice trembled away. She said instead, "Are his people wanting it back now?"
"We'll maybe need it to bury him in,"
Frevisse said. A tear slipped from one of Nell's eyes. It appeared that Will had made a conquest. In surprise, Frevisse asked, "Had you become . . . friends with him?"
"Oh no, Dame! Of course not, I know better than that, him just passing through, not here for long or anything. But ... he spoke kindly to me. We talked a little, now and again. Nothing more. Was it . . . Did he die . . . Was it horrible?"
Her question was not morbid curiosity but pained concern, and Frevisse answered her, "No. A single stab to his heart. If he felt anything, it was only for a moment. Then he was dead."
Someone had known just where to strike after taking his dagger from him, and had done it with great strength. Not easy, surely, in that small space and with Will already wary from Colwin's death and the attempt on the boys. Someone was very skilled. Or very lucky. And desperate and ruthless to have taken his chance where he could so easily have been heard or seen.
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