Longsword

by Veronica Heley

  He thought quickly. To give his own name would be to invite trouble, even if they had not yet heard, here in Mailing, of the theft.

  “William,” he began and hesitated. His father’s name had been William.

  “I shall call you William Longsword,” she said, as if she had not noticed his hesitation, though surely she had. “Your weapon is long enough to have spitted all four of those rascals at once!”

  He smiled but made no reply. Inwardly he cursed himself for having drawn his sword, for was it not almost as notable as his red hair? He put up a hand to his hood, to find that it had flown back long since. Well, it was done. Any that passed that way would hear the tale of the red-headed man with the long sword, and he would be identified as clearly as if he had claimed himself Gervase Escot of Ware. It was done, and he was weary to the bone. The girl’s face changed; her face was so mobile it took the imprint of each passing thought.

  She said, “You are tired. Come, follow me.”

  She led him, with the nurse jealously coming between them, through the postern into a courtyard ringed with the blank walls of granaries. A low arch led into another court in which a cheerful bustle surrounded the kitchens. The fragrant scent of roasting meats lingered on the air, and the aroma of home-brewed ale. A sharp turn led into a quiet cloister, greying over with shadows as the sun sank. A cresset was alight in one corner, and a servant – an ancient, toothless, bald-headed man – was hobbling about setting more torches aglow here and there. A candle and a fire gave warmth and light in one cell, but she stopped at another nearby, and there left him, saying she must attend to her patients. A candle and meats were forthcoming. There was clean linen on the bed, and fresh rushes on the floor. He would have fared worse, perhaps, in the inn. And he had saved his money.

  He ate, drank, snuffed the candle, and fell on the bed to sleep.

  One moment he was asleep, and the next aware of confused sounds and lights. He was on his feet in an instant, eyes wide, left hand reaching for his sword, wondering where he was.

  “Look what ye’ve done now, ye lack-witted, clumsy. …” The ancient man who had brought his supper was passing by. The door had swung open. The ancient put his head in, seeing that Gervase was up, to reassure him. “’Tis nothing, messire. The boy knocked against your door in passing, being but new-woken, and the catch is not good. …”

  Gervase relaxed his grip on his sword. A false alarm. He remembered now where he was. He stepped to the door to look up at the sky. Was it far off dawn? The night was still dark, but there was a faint glimmer in the east, over the roof of the cloister opposite, which told of the day to come. He had slept well. Perhaps it would be a good thing if he went on his way now, before the rest of the castle woke.

  “He’s gone for the Lady Beata,” said the ancient, pleased to find someone awake and therefore, presumably, ready for a gossip in the middle of the night. Gervase wondered if the man ever slept. He seemed as fresh, or as jaded, as in the evening when he had ministered to Gervase.

  “There’s a poor traveller a-dying in the end cell, ye see, and she likes to be with them at the end, to take their last wishes if she can, and fold their hands over a sprig of rosemary. Then in the morning she says a mass for their souls. She does it for everyone, rich or poor. There’s many a man come a few extra miles on his journey to die here – as did that poor creature – knowing as she’d say a mass for him, poor sinner though he be. …”

  Gervase thought it was unlikely that any such death-bed would fall to his lot. He found himself wishing, with a fervour that surprised him, that the projected marriage had still been possible.

  “She comes.” The ancient turned to watch the nurse pass through the far side of the cloisters, treading at the heels of a dark-cloaked figure. A gangling boy bore a torch to the cresset, and set it alight. His duty done, he went yawning back to his pallet.

  “Where’s your hurry?” asked the ancient, as Gervase began to buckle on his sword-belt. “The portcullis won’t be lifted till dawn. I thought you were to be presented to Lord Henry? –”

  “I am journeying in haste. Perhaps the postern gate is open?”

  The ancient shook his head. Gervase sat down on the bed, bidding himself show no sign of impatience. He was securely locked in, as securely as if he had still been in the inner store at Ware, though this time there would be no men arriving in the middle of the night to try to murder him. …

  “I must be off in the dawn,” he said.

  The aged man doddered away, and Gervase fell to watching the flickering light in the cell opposite. It was in his mind to walk out into the cloister until he could see into that cell, so that he could watch her minister to the dying man. But he did not, for surely a man had a right to privacy when he was dying … and if she were to catch him spying on her. … “Beata,” he said to himself. “Bay-ah-ta … a lovely name. …” He bit his lip, and buried his face in his hands. He must think! A man fleeing from justice does not think clearly. He had an hour or so before dawn … he must use it to consider, as dispassionately as he could, what had happened and what he should do about it.

  The accusation of theft … his own indignant protestation of innocence … his uncle looking sick, turning from him, casting him off.

  Ah, the pain of that moment when his uncle had turned away from him … after so many years of loyalty and hard work … it was as if those years had never been, as if he had spent his life for nothing. …

  “Let him be branded as a thief!” Now who had spoken the words first? His uncle’s new wife? Or her loving cousin, Sir Bertrand, that attentive relative of hers, who was always at her elbow?

  Branded! Gervase supposed he must have protested. He could only remember staring at them in disbelief. True, his uncle’s ring had been found in his wallet, but how it had got there, he had no idea. Or at least, he had some idea of how the trick had been worked, but it was impossible to accuse his uncle’s beloved wife of theft, or of bearing false witness against him. How clever the woman had been, turning Ralph Escot from his nephew with such accusations and half-truths as could not be disproved, only denied!

  It was Sir Bertrand who had helped the stricken old man away, and Sir Bertrand who had presided over that travesty of a court case. It was Sir Bertrand who had given orders for Gervase to be locked in the innermost of the stone-built store-rooms, to await punishment. But was it Sir Bertrand who had come to that room in the middle of the night, carrying a rope with a noose at the end of it? Gervase shook his head. No, neither of the two men who had come to kill him had been as big as Sir Bertrand. The light had been bad, but … he concentrated, shutting his eyes … yes, he knew now who the two men were … there had been one servant from Sir Bertrand’s retinue, and one from his aunt’s.

  If it had not been for the head groom, Gervase would have been dead by now. But that stalwart soul, who had taught him to ride when he was a child, had overheard enough to send him to the store-room window to warn Gervase and to slide Gervase’s sword through the bars, that he might be armed against treachery.

  Gervase groaned. What was he to do? His uncle had believed him guilty, and disowned him. For twenty-seven years he had been his uncle’s heir, and though the young man and the old had often quarrelled, yet their quarrels had never been serious until Lord Escot had taken it into his head to marry. His new wife was an attractive widow, cousin to that Sir Bertrand de Bors who held land near Ware. Then all changed for Gervase. He saw now that he ought to have left Ware when Lady Escot arrived. But at first her words had been honeyed, and Gervase, though he had not liked her, had conceived it his duty to stay, for was he not his uncle’s reeve and bailiff and steward, all rolled into one? Then Lady Escot had announced that she was to bear a child, and his uncle’s eyes had begun to avoid his nephew’s, and then … the accusation of theft, backed up by false witness … the woman declaring she had heard Gervase boast of his intention to keep the ring … that he had said such things about his uncle as could not be forgiven, especially by
an old man. …

  If Gervase had stayed, he would have been killed. He had been disowned, but that, apparently, had not been enough for Lady Escot. And he had no redress, for he had no proof, no money, no influence. He had nothing but his sword and the clothes on his back. Well, let it be so. He yawned. He would go out into the world and seek a new master – one who would reward his services with gold rather than blows. Chance had directed him away from the sea, and he would go where chance led him. Overseas he could have taken service in some army or other, earned his livelihood as a paid soldier … he had had experience of such work. He yawned again. To the devil with armies and battles and wounds … give him a quiet life, any day! Had he not tired long since of war?

  So he would seek his livelihood by other means. He would not go abroad, but continue walking westward. If his uncle sent sheriffs after him, they would surely go south, expecting him to cross the Channel. He would be far safer going west. …

  Before he knew it, he was asleep again, and only woke when the ancient shook his arm. Sunlight was filling the bare cell with warmth.

  “… and there was I thinking ye meant to be off at first light, and here it is an hour past dawn, and the Lady at Mass already. …”

  Gervase started up. It had been in his mind to attend Mass with the Lady, and the knowledge that she was already gone to church gave him a feeling of loss. Yet what was he about, thinking of going to Mass, with the sun high in the sky, and the road before him?

  “… but she looked in on you before she went, and told me that if you really did wish to be off without greeting her father – and it seemed to surprise her, I may say, that ye should be so scornful of our hospitality–she said I must see ye fed, and set ye on your way, and that if your road took you to Bristol, would ye act as escort to the poor lady with the two children whom she took in yester eve? One of them, to my mind, is sickening for something serious, but the poor mother is so determined to be away. …”

  Bristol. The west. Gervase nodded. Chance was undoubtedly working in his favour. Who would think of connecting a lone fugitive with a man escorting a poor but respectable family to Bristol?

  Yet though he told himself that all was going well, he was filled with a feeling of depression that he could not shake off. He looked across the cloister, but the door of the dead man’s cell was closed. He felt as if he, too, had been shut out. Beata, he thought. The name meant happiness, or blessedness. A good name for her. He wished her well. He wished. … He shrugged. He must be on his way.

  Chapter Two

  The glossy leaves of summer had changed colour and were beginning to fall from the trees before Gervase came to Malling again. This time he did not stride down the road with all the confidence of youth and health. Gone were the long sword, the rough but serviceable cloak, fine linen, tunic and boots; instead, he crept along on feet wrapped in bloodstained bindings, and his emaciated body was clothed only in a tattered tunic and loincloth. Gone was the long stride and proud carriage; he leaned on a staff cut from the hedgerow, and the sun and the rain alike beat on his bare head.

  He paused within sight of the castle, more to rest than because he was too early to join the poor people at the postern gate. He looked at the stream, and debated within himself whether he had the strength to get up off the ground again, if he stooped to slake his thirst. He doubted he had. He forced himself to move forward, then wavered and nearly fell. The last rays of the sun were gilding the walls of the castle, and caught at his face. He winced, and shielded his eyes. Face, hands and arms – even his legs – were swollen and red.

  Twenty paces more, he said to himself. Then another twenty … she will not refuse to take in a dying man. I can go in peace, knowing that she will close my eyes … if only she is not afraid of my disease … if only. …

  Ten paces, and he had to lean against the wall to rest. His forehead burned. He groaned and tried to cool it against the stone of the wall. The brightness of the sun had gone. Now he shivered, as his fever mounted. It would be very easy just to slip down and die, but then she would never say a mass for him, poor sinner that he was.

  Gervase took another step, and felt the sky blacken above him. He clung to his staff, shutting his swollen eyelids. On, he muttered. Only a little way now. How many days was it since he had started back to Malling? Eight? He had lost count. Another few steps, and the postern was in sight … or did his eyes deceive him? She would not recognise him, of course. Who would? But that did not matter. It was better so. If only she were not afraid of the disease. …

  There were two men-at-arms behind her at the postern gate, and the nurse … the nurse’s apron was blinding white … the girl was not looking his way, but talking to a youth with a twisted leg … suppose she did not see him, after all? Suppose the soldiers turned him away – soldiers posted there because of the beggars’ attack on her, no doubt. The irony of it. …

  He was there. He reached the trestle and put one hand on it, leaning on it and on his staff. The nurse was thrusting some bread at him, and remarking that he was nearly too late. The girl was turning away, having finished with her task for the evening. She had not seen him. Her hair was flying out from under its confining net, strong curls of glossy black, each with a mind of its own … she was trying to tuck them back in, and they were resisting her. …

  “Take it, do!” said the nurse, poking the crust at him once more.

  The girl looked round, her eyes widened, and her hands stilled.

  “Longsword!” she cried. She ran round the trestle. She had her arm round Gervase, and was supporting him, his staff dropping away … he felt tears burn his cheeks. His throat swelled. He could not speak.

  He heard the nurse cry out, and the girl say something about that being nonsense, and then she was giving orders, sharp and clear, and the two men-at-arms were coming forward, lifting him onto the trestle top, and carrying him through into the castle. For a few paces she walked beside him, with her hand in his, and then she withdrew her hand and he, striving to turn his head to see what had happened to her, lost consciousness, and went into the fiery hell that awaits those who contract smallpox.

  She was bending over him, between him and the candle, and her head was haloed by its light. He was in such a fever … a red hell. …

  The walls were plastered and whitewashed. The bed was hard and hot. …

  The ancient man hovered, mumbling. His name was Anselm. The girl called him that. Water, more water. Ah. …

  She was there again, on the other side of the bed, and now there was no nimbus of candlelight about her. She was frowning, biting her lip, bathing his face. He tried to smile up at her. His lips framed the words, “You knew me,” but though he strove to speak, she did not seem able to hear him.

  How many days? It was taking him a long time to die. He had not thought it would take so long. He had thought it would be all over quickly … all he had ever done had ended in failure … such an unsatisfactory life, best ended. … But perhaps it was an illusion that he was taking a long time to die? Perhaps they were still living through that first night, the night of his coming to the castle? He tried to ask the ancient Anselm, but his lips were too swollen, and one of his eyes completely closed.

  It could not be the same day, for the girl was wearing different clothes. Her everyday dress was a plain affair of dark purplish-brown, but this was of sage green, with a pattern of gold threads. Then he saw it was not a different dress, but a green cloak cast over her shift, with the rays of the candle shooting gold across it here and there.

  He tried to smile at her. He wanted to tell her that he had never seen anyone so beautiful. She sat on the stool beside his bed with one of her characteristically abrupt movements, and took his hand in hers. …

  Then she was gone, and the candle was there again. It fretted him that she was not between him and the candle, to shield his eyes from the brightness. Then his sight blurred. Later – how much later? The sonorous words; he had known their meaning once, but now they echoed
in his head like waves on the seashore. Then he realised that the girl’s nails were digging into the palm of his hand, and the priest was asking him if he repented of his sins. …

  Gervase tried to say that he was innocent of the theft of the ring, but the priest would not wait, taking his mumblings for assent. Gervase was shriven, and anointed, and received the Last Sacrament; and all this time he was aware of what was happening, although it seemed to be happening not to him, but to someone else.

  It seemed to distress the girl that he was dying. She wept, and turned her shoulder on Anselm when that ancient came to enquire whether the corpse was not yet ready for his shroud. It worried Gervase that she wept. He could not understand why she should. He was happy enough to go, and he tried to tell her so.

  “… you shall not die!” said the girl. It was night, and she was wearing her cloak over her shift, with her hair loose about her shoulders. Such wonderful hair, curling and waving, running riot around her neck and over her brow, but not long enough … surely she did not cut it?

  He found he could open both his eyes. Not much, but a little. The swellings on his mouth had abated, too. Perhaps he could even talk, if he tried hard enough.

  He made an effort to moisten his lips and she, quick to help, held a goblet of wine to his mouth. He said, “It is better this way … close my eyes … a sprig of rosemary between my hands. …” He was surprised he could say so much, and even more surprised that she had heard and understood him.

  “No,” she said. “You must not die. You are too young. There is so much for you to do. …”

  He moved his head in negation.

  “Yes, there is,” she said, nervously insistent. “Such skill with the sword. …”

  “I sold my sword – to innkeeper – at Mere. The child – the boy – fell sick. Then the mother. I saw it was smallpox. She would not rest. Husband dead … wanted to take children to her father in Bristol. No money. She said to leave them … but I could not. So I sold everything, little by little. … only it was no good. The little girl lived longest … almost got there. I sold my tunic to give her burial and took their things on to the grandfather … but he did not care. He saw I was sickening, too … he turned me away … afraid of the infection … why are you not afraid?. … I thought you would bury me, if you were not afraid …”