Longsword

by Veronica Heley

  “No,” said Beata, in the same indifferent tone. “I knew you did not mean that I was admired.”

  Something in her manner perhaps, more than in her tone, stirred Elaine’s sympathy, and she pushed aside her jewel-box, and signed to the waiting-woman to leave them alone. Elaine put her arm round Beata, and drew the dark head close.

  “I am sorry the boy died. You tried so hard.”

  “He could never have been happy, or useful,” said Beata. “Let us talk of something else. I envy you, Elaine, for you always seem to be happy.”

  “I?” Elaine considered the matter, pretty head on one side. “I suppose I have been fortunate. …” She sighed. “Except about Gerald, poor fool. He swears he will throw himself under Sir Bertrand’s horse and be killed in the tourney … or take on all comers single-handed. He is not sure which!” Elaine laughed, and Beata managed a smile. “He has asked me to give him a token of my favour to wear in the tourney. I said no, of course, because Crispin was listening, and frowning at me not to encourage Gerald. But I might do so, perhaps. Gerald had the impertinence to ask for a lock of my hair!” And again she laughed. Beata pulled at one of her curls, twining it around her fingers.

  Elaine took up a comb, and pushing her sister’s hand aside, began to reduce her curly locks to order. “You have lovely hair, Beata. A pity it should have to be cut every year.”

  “Well, I shall be properly shaven and shorn at Christmas. A pity I am not fair-haired, too, or you could have had my tresses to add to yours.” Her tone was bitter.

  Elaine frowned, trying to think of a topic of conversation to lighten her sister’s mood. “The alms-giving!” she cried, her brow clearing. “Did I tell you that I did as you asked, and went to the gates every night when you were nursing the little boy? Three nights now I have gone, and the poor people are so grateful, and they call out to me to bless them, and say how lovely I am … the silly creatures!”

  Beata kissed her sister. “Thank you. I am sure it did them good to see you.”

  “You must thank the others, too, for I could not have done it all by myself. There are the two pages – the smallest ones – who say that they have to come because Master William needs help in such matters, being a stranger hereabouts.”

  “Master William?” Beata got off the bed, and busied herself folding and putting away some of her sister’s clothing.

  “Leave that … the women will do it. Yes, the children think he’s ancient. I suppose at their age, he must seem quite elderly. …” She yawned. “But he is not, of course. As I said before, it is pleasant to be admired.”

  “By him?” Beata’s activity became feverish. “The secretary? I should have thought you could have left him alone, Elaine. Is he not beneath your notice?”

  “I daresay he is,” said Elaine, beginning to comb her own locks. “But then, he is surely of noble birth, and there is something about him, when he smiles at you and gives you his hand … ugly, of course … but with a certain something. …”

  “You have studied him, indeed!” Beata turned her back on Elaine. “And did he tell you his history?”

  “Has the man a history?”

  “You … are … so … stupid!” Beata uttered the words in such a low tone that Elaine was not sure she had heard aright, but sat with the comb in her hand, staring at her sister. Beata threw down the clothes in her arms, and ran out. Elaine called after her, but Beata did not hear her – or if she heard, she did not heed the cry.

  Down the stairs she went and across the courtyard. He was not in the great hall, although there were a number of men there waiting to see Crispin with petitions. … nor in the green solar, where Joan sat drinking and crying. He was not in the tiltyard, where Crispin was doffing his armour. Crispin called out to her in merry fashion that he seemed to have lost none of his skill. …

  She paused with her hand on the chapel door. He would not be in there, and perhaps Father Anthony would be. She beckoned one of the pages to her, and asked where the secretary might be. She dreaded to hear that he was gone out to one of the outlying manors … but no, the lad said Master William was in the newly-finished apartments off the small courtyard, in the rooms which were being made ready against the arrival of their guests.

  She found him there, checking over a list of furnishings, with Master Thomas. Though she had sought him for some time, she did not know what to say to him. He, though, seemed to know what to do. He gave his list to the clerk, and invited Beata to inspect the bedding which had been sent over … was the quality of the linen good enough? He feared not, but would abide by her opinion.

  They were in a small room, by themselves, with the door open … no-one could see them. He lifted a sheet from a pile, and held it out to her. She did not take it, or look at it. She did not hear his words of censure. He talked on, saying that this was really Telfer’s business, and none of his … or hers, either, come to think of it.

  She walked about the room, seeing nothing of what was there. The clerk left the apartments … she could hear him going down the stairs … and there was silence. When had he stopped talking? She discovered that she was leaning against the wall, with her cheek against the cool plaster. In a moment she would cry. He had that effect on her sometimes. But she would not show him that he had any power over her, any influence. …

  She said, “I wish I had died with the boy.”

  “I know.” How had he known? And yet she had felt instinctively he would understand. He was a dangerous man. He knew too much. She must keep him at a distance, for her own sake.

  She thought: that was all I wanted to say to him … what matter if he does admire Elaine? Or even, if he loves her. … No, he does not love her. I can feel his care for me, his anxiety, even though I have turned my face from him. It is as if he were reaching out to enfold me in his arms, though he has never touched me … never will touch me. …

  “Hamo’s property,” she said, in a high, an unnaturally high voice. “The money, as well as the land. Father Anthony declares that I must take it into the church when I go, in addition to the dowry my father will give. Crispin approves, naturally, for he, too, wishes to stand well with the church.”

  “Are you to pay everyone’s debts?”

  “Yes, I am the scapegoat for them all. But I will not go bleating to my death … nor will I beg for mercy any more … did I tell you I had begged my father to release me, and he would not? Nor will I permit myself to speak of this again. I wanted you to have Hamo’s money, and his lands, but it appears that I am not to be allowed to dispose of them as I wish.”

  “You want me to leave?”

  “Yes.”

  Now she could feel his moment of rebellion. He did not want to go. He would fight against it. In a moment he would have marshalled his arguments, and she knew he could out-think, out-talk her, so. …

  “Yes, Gervase,” she said. And felt his shock that she knew. Then she felt anger that he should not have guessed that she knew. Did he think her such a fool as not to have put two and two together … the red-headed man with the long sword, and the tale of the theft brought to her by travellers arriving on his heels, and she looking for his return every day thereafter though she had known that if he were wise he would never come back … every day, scanning the face of everyone who came to the gate … and that alone ought to have warned her how dangerous he might become to her peace of mind. …

  He said nothing at all. Well, she had silenced him, and she was glad. His voice was so deep, so melodious, so pleasant to the ear that he might perhaps have persuaded her. … No. She jerked herself upright.

  She said, “I am going to cut my hair off today. Now. I do not want to see you again.”

  Those last words had been a mistake. They had hinted at a weakness in her. Yet she would show no weakness. She clenched her hands at her sides, and turned round, looking at him and through him, aware of him only as a shadow against the deeper shadows in the room, not daring to let her eyes rest on him. She could see the door before her
. She walked towards it, and knew that he had stepped back, his head bent … and yet she had not looked directly at him. She could have described every detail of his long pale hands that were gripping at his belt, as they had been since the beginning of their interview, and of the harsh lines that had appeared on his face when she had said … what she had said.

  And she had meant it. She would do it, now, that instant. A pair of scissors, a few minutes by herself, and no more would she need to look in a mirror, no more twist her curls in her fingers, no more watch his eyes go to her hair, and that beloved crooked smile alter the grim line of his mouth.

  And his mouth was so hard-set, so thin. … It hurt. She acknowledged that she had hurt him, was hurting him, and was going to hurt him even more in the future. So. He must go. Now. Before Sir Bertrand came and denounced him. She would find him some money, somehow, somewhere … even if it meant taking some of that intended for alms-giving … a suit of clothes, a horse … surely Telfer would help her to equip him to set out on the road again. It would be easier for her to go into the convent, when he had left Malling.

  She was in the bedroom she shared with her sister, and all around her were the outward trappings of beauty: gold and green, silk on satin, the jewel casket open, and the comb left on the coverlet of the bed where Elaine had dropped it. Well, she would not need a comb again.

  She swallowed. She would not cry. She must find scissors at once, quickly, while her resolution lasted. If she were not careful she would begin to cry, and to tremble, and then. …

  She could not find her own shears, which should have been attached to a ring on her belt, next her purse. The waiting-woman had been using some scissors, working on a gown for Elaine … she dashed silks to the ground and the shears fell, glistening, at her feet.

  She picked them up, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. Seizing a lock of hair in one hand, she opened the shears and, made clumsy by haste, tried to cut too low. The shears would not cut so much at once. She lowered her arm. She was shaking. The shears dropped from her hand onto the coverlet. She stood there, shaking and trying not to cry, until she heard someone mounting the stairs outside. Swiftly, as if ashamed of what she had intended to do, she put the shears in her hanging purse, and drew the strings tight. A waiting-woman came in with yet another pretty veil for Elaine.

  Beata fled. She ran down the stairs, and halted, leaning against the wall. She was panting, terrified of herself, of she knew not what. … She told herself to be calm. She went to the chapel, where Father Anthony was counting over his store of candles.

  She stood before him with her hand on her purse, on the handles of the shears.

  “Father, will you cut off my hair for me?”

  He looked at her without really seeing her, candles in either hand. “Fifteen, sixteen … did you say – cut your hair? No, no. You know perfectly well the bishop is to oversee your robing at Christmas. Your hair will be cut then.”

  “I want it done now!”

  “Sixteen, seventeen. … Child! Can you not see that I am in the middle of …?”

  She turned and fled out of the chapel. It had begun to drizzle. She closed her eyes, leaning against the chapel door, letting the rain tingle against her skin. She must have it done now, or else … she dreaded to think … his own hair was of a wondrous hue, and she had grieved when Anselm had cut it short, when he had been ill. …

  Something moved in her throat, and she heard herself groan, as if she were in pain. Well, there was only one way to end this temptation. Once she had shorn her hair, she would have put such a barrier between herself and men that they would never more look at her with that look of … of love.

  There. She had acknowledged it at last. Gervase loved her, and she loved him, and she could not bear it.

  Her old nurse was passing through the courtyard. Beata ran to her, and taking the basket from the nurse’s arm, said, “Will you do something for me, Nursey? I want you to cut off my hair now!”

  “I never heard the like!” said Nurse, taking the basket back with a wrench. “What do you want to cut off your lovely hair for now, before you have to? Is it not enough that you have to dress in those plain gowns, and go without all the pretty little things that someone-I-could-mention has? Go along with you, do. …”

  “My lady …?” He was there, at her elbow, and although his head was bent in courteous fashion, yet his hand was reaching for her upper arm, and he was turning her away, and walking her … she knew not where … tears. … She was shaking, and his arm was shifting to support her while he spoke on and on about some emergency in the infirmary … and there were the cloisters safely about them, and she could at last let the tears flow without anyone noticing.

  Her legs gave way, and he caught her up in his arm, and held her high, close against him. She closed her eyes, savouring the moment through weakness, knowing he had anticipated her collapse, and not caring who saw them … his arms, so safe. …

  Then she was being set down on a bed in the end cell – Hamo’s cell – and he was taking off his gown and folding it close about her. The tears ran down her cheeks and she made no sound.

  He was rubbing her hands, and Anselm was setting a light to the kindling in the fireplace. He was asking when she had eaten last, and she was trying to tell him, though for some reason it seemed she could only whisper, that she was supposed to fast in Advent … and he was cursing all priests, and Anselm – dear Anselm – was nodding his head, and tottering away to fetch her mulled wine, and chicken breasts and soup, and the two of them were pressing food on her, and encouraging her to eat, smiling at her … and she began to feel warm for the first time for days, although the tears still came, without sound, without effort.

  He laid her down to sleep on the bed, with the firelight all about his form, and sat beside her, comfortably close. She tried to sit up, to protest that she had duties to perform … and he pushed her back, saying he would attend to everything, that she was, simply, to sleep.

  And she slept. He was not there when she woke, but she looked out of the half-open door and saw that it was twilight, and she knew that he would be at the gate, distributing alms for her. And she was content to wait for him. She decided she would stay awake until he returned.

  He was there … he had come while she was asleep. They smiled at each other and for the first time he touched her cheek; only with the back of his hand, but it was enough to make her tears flow again … but peacefully, now. She said, “I must have been missed …”

  “Of course. But I sent Anselm to explain to your brother that you had a touch of the child’s fever, and needed to spend a few days away from your sister and your family, lest the infection spread. Your nurse has been sitting here with you. She says you will do nicely if you’ll only mind your own business, and not try to do everything for everyone else, as well.”

  This echo of her nurse’s concern made her smile, but she asked, “I don’t really have his fever … do I?”

  He shook his head. “You are worn out. You need a rest. The fiction will serve to keep them away for a few days.”

  A few days by herself … with him. …

  Only now did she realise that she had been lying with clenched fists and jaw. She gave a long sigh, and sighing, felt some of her tension leave her. She said, “Will you not take off your cap and coif awhile?” She wanted to watch the firelight on his hair, for just a few minutes … a few minutes of stolen pleasure, to set against what was to come.

  He obeyed her, and then took her hand in both of his, holding it firmly. He said, “I am glad you did not cut your hair. If it has to be done, it must not be done like that, in anger or despair. That robs the sacrifice of its value.”

  She was quite calm, now. “You mean that I am robbing my father of his due, by not going gladly into the convent.”

  Yes, he had meant that, but he would not say it.

  She sighed again. “It is strange. This afternoon I could not do it. I thought I would never be able to do it. And now, i
f the scissors were in my hand, I could.”

  After some time, he lifted his eyes from contemplating her hand, and looked her in the eye. “Do you really want me to go, straight away?”

  She shook her head, but did not speak.

  He said, “Would it help. … I am not sure if it is the right thing for me to do or no … I could return to France and enter the community of brethren there. …”

  She was silent. She could not judge what might be best for him. She had had this shining picture of him from the beginning, of a knight without a sword, of a capable, kindly man who would have given her a goodly brood of children and loved her well. If that was not to be, then she was without purpose, for herself or for him. Her father’s vow would dispose of her future, but for him … She sighed, and was silent.

  Then he was gone, and her nurse was there, nodding, and the fire was low. She lay looking out into the shadows of the night, and it was as if he had left his gown about her, comforting her. For she knew now that the parting at Christmas would not end his love. He loved her deep and he loved her true … to the end, and beyond.

  Chapter Nine

  For three days Beata stayed in the infirmary, seeing only her nurse and Anselm. Most of the time she slept, and when she woke she ate whatever they put before her. Father Anthony came to the door several times when, feeling too weary to argue with him, she would close her eyes and pretend to be asleep, that he might go away again. Which he did. On the fourth day Crispin sent his physician to see her.

  “They are afraid I will die before Christmas, and cheat them of their sacrifice,” thought Beata.