by Peter Tonkin
The three of them came out into the warlike room one by one, Tom last, because he lingered to relock the door. As the other two hesitated at the edge of the fencing piste, Tom crossed to the wall and pulled down the falchion that Ben had used in practice yesterday. It came in a black leather scabbard with a considerable swash figured in gold.
‘Give your Toledo to Ugo. Just for tonight,’said Tom quietly. ‘You will cut an altogether more impressive figure in this – especially if you have to use it. There is much of the swashbuckler about you, Ben, and there will be hearts lost to you this night!’
Ben opened his mouth to reply – perhaps even to demur; but even as he did so, the most unexpected sound rang out. It was the brassy blare of hunting horns.
‘We are summoned to Lady Margaret’s feast,’ said Tom. ‘She would have preferred the bell in St Michael’s Church, I expect, but she cannot ring it without a bell-rope.’
‘Such a sound!’ said Ben, quite awed. "Tis almost as thrilling as the hunting horns in Shakespeare’s play of A Midsummer Night’s Dream!’
‘Better than Plautus, perhaps?’ teased Tom.
The drama of the moment won through to the truth in Ben’s jealous heart. ‘Much better than Plautus,’ he said.
Twenty-seven: Feast
What struck Ben most forcefully about the feast was the importance of the guests. It was not the pomp or ceremony with which the occasion was conducted – though that was enough to rival Queen Elizabeth’s court at its most formal. It was not the food – though he was hungry and it was the best that he had ever tasted, offering a range and quality of removes that he had hitherto never even dreamed of. It was not even the entertainment – though this was varied and amusing, and he had never in all his life heard a baron reciting Homer in Greek or seen one fighting with a quarterstaff, and these were amongst the least of the attractions.
What really struck him was the way in which every local lord, knight, gentleman and justice had been invited here; and they had all come, with their ladies at the very least. As he arrived at the entrance to the great hall hard on Tom’s heels, Danforth was just announcing to the Baron Cotehel and the Lady Margaret his mother and Countess Cotehel, the arrival of Justice Pinnock and his wife, followed by Lord and Lady Keane and Lord and Lady Trematon.
‘When Hal comes into his majority,’ said Tom, sotto voce, as they joined the queue to be announced, ‘he will not only be Lord Outremer and Castelan of Cotehel, he will be the Senior Justice at the local assize and Lord Lieutenant of the County. It is the price he pays, as his forbears paid, to the memory of King Henry for the work done here and at Elfinstone. It is no wonder that everyone at this end of Cornwall and the latter end of Devon wants to know him. In due course he will be their lord and leader in peace and war.’
‘It is no wonder, then,’ said Ben in reply, ‘that the Lady Margaret wishes to have him master of every social, legal and military art.’
Then the social arts claimed the three of them, and discussion had to wait. They were announced by Danforth and then guided past the reception line, where the Baron and Lady Margaret greeted them with the same formality they used on the greatest of their neighbours. Ben was not a man to be easily impressed, and yet the simple magnificence of Lady Margaret’s gold and silver dress, suiting so perfectly, as it did, with the newly furbished decorations of the great hall, simply took his breath away; and when he stole a glance across at his master, he saw that Tom, too, had been simply stunned by the Lady’s impact.
Their placing at table was clearly a compromise between the Lady’s wishes for the master, the apprentice’s obvious lack of polish and the Dutchman’s unexpected arrival. They were the last three above the salt, but on the favoured right hand and, if not at the top table itself – raised on a dais so the great and the good could see and be seen in careful precedence – then immediately beside. Indeed, though Ben was suspiciously proximate to the great medieval ewer of white crystals that marked the line between the honoured guests and all the others, he was so well pleased that he hardly noticed.
The courses came and went. Each one was introduced first to the Baron, as master here, and then the Lady Margaret. Then each was brought down the tables as each guest, in strict social order, carved himself a chunk to lay upon his trencher; or, if he preferred, Danforth in all his glory would perform the office for him. Those courses that survived the entire table – like ceremonial baron of beef, presented first in honour of their host, the ox, the great pie of larks and blackbirds and the porpoise baked in golden foil – were placed on the remove tables at the side of the hall.
And so the evening began to pass, the whole of it as well rehearsed, prepared and presented as any of Will Shakespeare’s plays. At first, the food and the conversation were enough to claim the full attention of the guests as they all began to fill their bellies and broaden their acquaintance. Then, as they continued to eat, they were entertained. The tables were set in a horse-shoe shape so that diversions could be presented in the midst. After the first ten courses, when the edge was taken from appetite for food and conversation alike, a little choir of servants schooled by the Reverend Wainscott sang some modern catches by the likes of Thomas Tallis. This they followed with the short but unseasonal ‘Audivi Vocem’ from his Christmas Mass. These were succeeded by a consort of viols, and the viols by a boy with a lute, who sang like an angel. Ben recognized him as Kit the butcher’s boy, and wondered – with a vagueness for which the boutellier’s excellent vintages were entirely responsible – that he should play his instrument as handily as he could steer a skiff.
Kit was succeeded by the Baron himself, who recited the opening of The Iliad in Greek to much applause. Then he suited the warlike theme of the poem with some action, falling to an exhibition bout with quarterstaves fought against Ulysses St Just.
Then, as the wine continued to flow, the manly theme of combat dominated. The blacksmith and the most massive of Quin’s postillions gave a bout at wrestling, which was declared a drawn match after some half-hour of equal effort. This garnered the loudest applause of all, the clapping led by the soft-hearted Lady Margaret, who clearly did not like to see winners lording it over losers.
Then St Just appeared again. As Ben was looking vaguely around for the opponent chosen for his next bout, the sword-master crossed the open area with swift and purposeful stride. And stopped immediately opposite. For a chilling moment that sobered him more effectively than a bucket of water, Ben supposed St Just was going to challenge him but no. With a kind of blessed inevitability, Ben heard the words: ‘Before we clear the room for dancing, perhaps Master Musgrave...’
Tom put down the fork that he had brought from Italy for occasions such as this and stood. He turned slightly and bowed to the shimmering vision of Lady Margaret at the head of the table, then stepped back. As he walked round to the makeshift piste, he undid his belt and took off his rapier and his dagger. By the time he stood opposite his challenger, he was ready to lay them on the table and accept whatever weapons St Just had chosen. This was an exhibition bout, performed with courtesy, for the amusement of the guests – it was no formal challenge to a duel such as might have given Tom the selection of the weapons.
No sooner was Tom ready than Danforth himself appeared, hot-foot from the armoury, with two old-fashioned sword-and-buckler sets. Tom accepted the set that he was given and weighed the short-sword easily as he watched St Just prepare for battle. Tom was used to such bouts. He usually fought on his own terms and with his own swords, but tonight he was content to follow his opponent’s lead. He did not remove his red-slashed doublet, therefore; but he did pull out the black gloves he carried, like the Italian fork, for special occasions, and pulled them on. Then, side by side with St Just, he went through a standard series of exercises to loosen his joints, and ensure his clothing would not restrict his movements at a crucial moment. At last satisfied and readied, the two of them straightened, and fell into the first position, face to face, some pair of yards apart.<
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Tom had studied George Silver’s Paradoxes of Defence and, although he found it old-fashioned in the face of Capo Ferro’s teachings, he was well able to employ its advice. With his buckler held low, he waited, therefore, adopting a square-on approach almost like that into which the wrestlers had fallen. His sword was a well-balanced falchion with a blade a little longer than his fore-arm, almost as wide as two fingers, sharpened on both edges and coming to a decent point. He placed it in the Fool’s Guard and watched St Just’s point, waiting. He did not have to wait long.
St Just was quick and confident, but he favoured the edge and made his strikes a little wide and showy so that, fast though he was, Tom had warning enough to block and turn either with his own blade or his buckler. He was content to fight defensively at first, but soon began to dictate the rhythm, so that the pace of the battle became relentlessly faster. There was little thrusting – it was all cut-and-parry work, beating out a ringing music as though a blacksmith was racing to fashion a horse-shoe in the least possible time. Blade against blade chimed like discordant bells while blade against buckler rang like gongs.
Tom had the advantage of having seen St Just at work against the footpads at Farnham and, as his defensive game relentlessly explored his opponent’s technique, Tom soon began to define its limitations. No sooner had these been defined in the dazzling, pounding display of cut and parry that had characterized the bout so far, however, than Tom was presented with a problem: if he took the initiative now, he could win the bout. It would not be easy, but he was certain he could do it. As he thought – albeit at lightning speed – Tom eased the relentless rhythm of the bout. St Just sensed victory and had no scruples such as Tom harboured. He drove at once for total mastery, and Tom was forced to focus entirely on his technique, suddenly concerned that St Just was about to add some more red slashes to his crimson-puffed doublet. It was St Just’s livelihood at risk here – and his standing before his household, his student and his mistress: he could not lose. But Tom suddenly found that, damage to his flesh and doublet aside, he did not want to lose in front of Lady Margaret either. The rhythm of the bout picked up again and Tom began to take the initiative. He stopped moving his feet and stood there, toe to toe – a benefit, given the guns wedged in his loose boot-tops. He pulled both blade and buckler in, controlling the size of the gestures he made in order to attack or defend; and as his strokes became tighter, so they became faster and less easy to read.
St Just’s style was not so adaptable. He had clearly not been bested in a long while and never felt the need to explore his limitations as Tom sometimes did with Ugo and his other masters in the Corporation of London’s Masters of Defence. And he was beginning to tire. Grimly, relentlessly, Tom pushed the rhythm of the bout on to another, faster level. Their arms were almost blurred now and the ringing of blade on blade and buckler was almost continuous. Tom’s eyes flicked away from the firefly point of St Just’s blade and up to the violet of his extraordinary eyes. There was desperation there, and not a little madness. Here, thought Tom, was a man that would take death before dishonour – who had, at the bottom of his wounded heart, little else to live for.
Tom froze. His blade and buckler were high, for St Just was attacking from The Falcon, high over their heads. The strike arrived and Tom turned his fore-arms, wedging both the blades in place, and holding them there. ‘Master St Just,’ he gasped, his voice filling the ringing silence, ‘a moment’s rest, I beg of you.’ His level brown gaze held St Just’s, and in the instant that followed he saw the madness drain away saw something else replace it; but St Just glanced away before he could read exactly what it was. Then, once again, the Lady Margaret was pleased to lead the thunderous applause for honours so dazzlingly won – and so equally shared.
‘That was kind,’ observed Ugo quietly as Tom caught up his swords then stood back against the wall while the room was cleared for dancing.
Tom gave a bark of laughter. ‘Charity’s always painful,’ he said. ‘I might well have made another enemy there.’
‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Ben, all afire. ‘Such a bout! I have never seen such swordplay. You were Castor and Pollux, two twins of equal brightness.’
Tom was content to leave it at that, hoping Ben’s view was the general one. The consort of viols returned and the dancing began; but this, as everything else before midnight that evening, was dictated by the strictest order. Had Tom hoped for a moment or two that Lady Margaret might dance with him, he was disappointed; but he did not give up hope. As with the sword fighting, the dancing here was old-fashioned and country-style, but none the worse for that, and, as he could read George Silver, so he could dance a pavane, an allemande or a galliard with the best – or a bergomask or a dump, come to that. This ability remained untested for the moment, however. He stood with Ben and Ugo, entertaining a passing array of other guests – mostly men – who were also not dancing for the moment and who wished to express their admiration of his swordplay.
Although the two side tables had been removed, the top table remained on its dais so that between dances Lady Margaret and her most influential guests could take their ease and continue to test the boutellier’s cellarage. Tom kept a careful eye on this, and on the Lady as she came and went, her cheeks aglow and her eyes a-sparkle.
She was seated here at midnight when the great doors behind her were suddenly thrown wide. A strange procession entered, headed by Percy Gawdy dressed in Danforth’s costume, gold cross-garters and all. Behind him came Kit the butcher’s boy dressed in Hal’s gold brocade and, beside him, Gwynneth the servant girl in one of Lady Margaret’s dresses. Behind them came a small army of servants rather nervously in fancy dress. The consort of viols fell silent and the guests fell back from the dance floor.
‘Of course!’ spat Tom. ‘They have planned it early! Fool that I am not to have seen it! We must be quick or we shall be lost!’
Gawdy’s moment was come, albeit two days early, and he claimed it with theatrical relish. ‘My Lady, you must yield your seat,’ he said, holding up his hand. Though preoccupied and already seeking to take action, Tom noticed at once that the bandages were off now. The brand on his thumb burned red and painful still – indeed the whole fist seemed to have been scalded back and front.
At Gawdy’s gesture, the strangely dressed servants gathered round the Lady Margaret and Hal beside her. As he continued to speak, they rose and were led quietly out of the hall. All eyes were on Lady Margaret as always, and none on Tom and his companions – for the time being.
‘For I am your Lord of Misrule,’ Gawdy called to all there assembled. ‘And these are the King and Queen for a day. These are their servants and the feast and the day are theirs.
‘It is All Fools!’
‘Quick,’ ordered Tom under his breath so that only Ugo and Ben could hear him. ‘This is it. Let’s go!’
Twenty-eight: All Fools
It was only the speed and decision with which Tom moved them forward that allowed them to escape. Not that it felt much like an escape at first – certainly not to Ben, who was intrigued by the possibilities that the Feast of Fools traditionally offered. The guests were of Ben’s mind: many of them had experienced the fun and games, and sport – of childish and more adult sort – that the temporary exchange of power often offered. Like the country celebrations of May Day and Midsummer, part of the enjoyment of the feast was the way in which social barriers were lowered and a great deal of licence allowed; and the fact that many of the motley band of servants – men and women alike – were masked only added to the deliciously mysterious possibilities.
The three of them pushed swiftly but not too obviously through the press towards the great door, therefore, the only eddy of movement in the sudden calm. Gawdy’s wildly dressed followers had come right in through the door and none of them as yet had thought to step back and close it. Instead they were nonplussed for an instant – taken aback by the ease with which their plans were proceeding. Even Gawdy’s rin
ging announcement faltered a little.
In that instant Tom had reached the door. He paused for a heartbeat on the threshold and looked back as the other two caught up with him. His cold brown gaze raked over the frozen tableau of the room, drawing up a swift catalogue of who was there and who was not, as far as the masks would allow an accurate tally. Then, side by side, they stepped out into the empty entrance hall. Lady Margaret, Hal and their costumed escort were gone. The great echoing cavern was empty – but, Tom calculated, it would only be so for a moment; and in that moment, if they were to sound the wicked bottom of this seemingly innocent charade, they must disappear themselves.
‘Up or down?’ asked Ugo, seeming to read Tom’s mind.
‘Out, for choice.’
‘Best be about it then, or we shall be discovered.’
And so, like the most craven cowards on the face of God’s creation, the three of them took to their heels. By the time the doors into the great hall swung closed, they were crouching in the shadows outside the main door; and by the time that door too swung shut, they were invisibly pressed against the wall of the powder store, where the shadow of St Michael’s-within-Cotehel offered the best escape from the light of the rising moon.
‘What’s the plan?’ asked Ugo. ‘I take it we’ll not run any more.’
‘I will expound as we go,’ said Tom in a tone that Ben had never yet heard him use; ‘but we are not stood here merely for safety’s sake. Our quest must begin with the sally-port.’
