Longsword

by Veronica Heley

  There was a great jingling and neighing of tired horses as the rest of the company dismounted. The horses were led away, servants darted here and there with bundles and packages as the first of the train of carts came into the courtyard, laden with the effects of the travellers. Each new servant was taken into the charge of one of Telfer’s men or women, to be directed to the quarters in which their master or mistress was to lie. Some eight extra noblemen and women had now to be assimilated into the castle, and perhaps three times as many more servants. The abbot and his train, nuns and all, were still on the road, later than they ought to have been, delayed by the bad roads.

  Varons frowned as he looked over the newcomers. So many haughty nobles, so many even haughtier servants, strange to the ways of the castle … so many possible causes of friction. … He was glad the stocks had been left standing: the sight of them might cause the guests to hesitate before reaching for their knives in trivial disputes.

  Lord Henry turned to a big man in scarlet and black, who was throwing a fur-lined cloak back over his shoulders. At his elbow stood a beautiful woman, and the woman looked not at Lord Henry, her host, but at Elaine’s tired face … and smiled. Then the big man said something to her which caused her to turn from him with a shrug and a scowl … and now it could be seen that she was no longer beautiful, or even very young. …

  “My lady aunt …” said Gervase, low in Telfer’s ear. “Is she still trying to hang on Sir Bertrand’s sleeve, do you think?”

  “And what will the Lady Elaine have to say about that?” replied Telfer, equally low.

  Lord Henry had taken Sir Bertrand’s hand, and was laying it in Elaine’s. Elaine had dutifully gone down on one knee before Sir Bertrand … but his gaze was riveted on Beata’s parted lips and brilliant eyes. And Sir Bertrand said, loud enough for all to hear, “I salute the Queen of Beauty!” And all who heard him, and who saw his look, knew that the compliment was not for Elaine, but for Beata.

  Crispin bit his lip, and the scar on his cheek grew dark. He lifted his sister from the ground with a hand under her elbow, so that she stood between the man she was to marry, and the sister whom Sir Bertrand had so obviously admired. Sir Bertrand was forced to lower his gaze, and to acknowledge Elaine’s existence.

  “Trouble … nothing but trouble.” said Varons. “If it’s not the servants, it’s their so-called betters.”

  Lord Henry lifted one of his short, awkwardly-hung arms, and waved his hand, collecting his noble guests into one group. “Welcome!”

  At that point Beata turned her head and looked up, and it was a marvel how she knew where Gervase was, for she had not seemed to look at him before. He let slip the leash that he had been holding, and gave Flash a nudge. That sagacious animal, who had been sniffing and yapping from the moment he saw his old master below, slipped down the ramp, his tail oscillating so fast it could barely be seen, and jumped up at Lord Henry, uttering sharp barks of pleasure.

  Now Gervase watched Lord Henry even more closely. Would the man show any sign of emotion? They said he cared for nothing and nobody since his wife had died … except perhaps for his dog, and one of his horses … if the man showed no emotion even now, then he was as good as dead inside.

  But Lord Henry, though a cold, was not a hollow man. He grasped the dog’s collar, and shook his head from side to side, in a game that, plainly, both were accustomed to. His smile became, for a few moments, something to hearten those who watched.

  Beata spoke a few words, explaining that the dog had been nursed back to health by their new secretary. Master William, and at that Lord Henry’s smile vanished. He nodded to Beata, and led the way up the stairs without comment. Gervase slipped back into the crowd, but Telfer and Varons stepped forward to greet their master. Telfer was greeted by name, and with a smile, and so was Varons. But Gervase, in the shadows, was aware that Lord Henry was paying scant attention to his trusted lieutenants. His eyes ranged over the crowd of waiting servants, searching for the one face with which he was not familiar, and when he had found it, the gaze hardened for as long as it took a man to breathe in and out. Then Lord Henry passed within, and his family and guests went with him.

  “That went off very well, I thought,” said Varons. He clapped Gervase on the shoulder, and passed into the keep also.

  “He knew you,” said Telfer. “He knew who you were. He looked for you.”

  “Yes,” said Gervase.

  Telfer took a deep breath. “You had best go, now. They will lower the portcullis and shut the gates as soon as the abbot and his train are here. …”

  “Too late!” said Gervase, pointing to where a train of cowled and hooded figures came clattering into the courtyard. In the distance could be heard the clangour of gates shutting, and villagers shouting their farewells as they passed out into the countryside … free. …

  Telfer said, “I must go down to greet the abbot. What will you do?”

  “Nothing,” said Gervase. “The game is out of my hands now.”

  As Telfer went down the slope into the courtyard, a man in a murrey gown came out from where he had been riding with the baggage wagons, and looked up at Gervase. Rocca … laying a trail of poison with the father, as he had once laid a trail with the son. How much did Rocca know, and what had he told Lord Henry?

  Gervase turned into the keep as the men with torches dowsed their lights, withdrawing them from windows and ramparts. The courtyard was silent now. All the noise was within, in the Great Hall.

  A prick of fear assailed Gervase. He could smell danger. He had the faculty many soldiers acquire of knowing when he was being watched. Yet Rocca had stayed outside. Gervase did not move, but his eyes probed the shadows around him, and still the sense that he was in danger grew, and reason would not disperse it. One of Varons’s men-at-arms came out of the hall, and beckoned to him.

  “The captain asked me to take you to him.”

  Gervase nodded, and the sense of danger increased until he could almost smell it. Fear was in the air, and yet he could not see how or where the attack would be made, if Rocca was outside.

  Gervase followed the man with his chin on his shoulder. And yet no-one came after them. A servant crossing an anteroom muttered an apology as they nearly collided. Then they were within stairs and going down again. The undercroft was normally used as a store, and was but poorly lit. They went across it, and into another passage leading to a small room in the bowels of the earth. The door was opened by another man-at-arms, and Gervase paused, his mouth dry. Now he knew where the danger would come from … had come from. A lighted torch had been thrust into a sconce set high in the wall, and below it stood Varons, with a crumpled sheet of paper in his hand. Varons did not look directly at Gervase, but thrust the paper into his hand, and turned away. The door closed.

  Gervase smoothed out the paper, and held it up to the light.

  The handwriting was that of Rocca, but the signature under the warrant for the arrest and detention of the fugitive Gervase Escot, also known by the name of Master William of Leys … the signature was that of Lord Henry. The terms of Gervase’s imprisonment were spelled out in detail. All his clothing and effects were to be given into the keeping of Master Rocca, bailiff of Malling.

  “Rocca has had two days in Lord Henry’s company,” said Varons, in a strangled voice. “He made the excuse that he must take part of the Michaelmas rents to Lord Henry, who needed extra money for travelling expenses. But when Rocca joined Lord Henry’s party, he made it his business to tell Sir Bertrand de Bors about you … and Sir Bertrand demanded that you be arrested and held against his coming. Lord Henry called me to him just now, together with my sergeant. Orders have gone out to the gates, to watch for you … otherwise I would have said you should knock me down, take my dagger … tie me up and escape.”

  “With two men at the door?” Gervase studied the warrant. The conditions under which he was to be detained were dreadful, so dreadful that he could not contemplate them without shivering. He must be cal
m. There must be some way.

  “My keys!” said Gervase. “That is what he’s after … access to the manorial rolls which would prove that he’s been cheating his master. He knows very well that those keys never leave me, by night or day. Once in possession, he can alter the entries on the rolls to cover up the loss of those monies which he has extorted from peasants who appear so poor, and yet should be so prosperous … to explain the loss of those sums of money which he has given to Crispin, over and above monies which … yes, there will be a grand altering of totals, if we do not stop him.”

  “Tell me what to do?”

  “Take my keys and give them to Telfer.” Gervase slipped them from the leather belt he wore, and handed them over. “Have the chest containing the rolls taken from my room and placed where Rocca cannot reach them, until you have a chance to explain to Lord Henry what we suspect has been happening. Thomas will help you.” Gervase took off the sapphire ring. “And take this, also. I would not have it fall into Rocca’s hands. Take it back to Crispin and tell him … tell him nothing. He cannot interfere without denouncing himself for having cheated his father. He is caught in Rocca’s trap, just as I am. Well, it is one way out of our difficulties, I suppose.”

  Varons embraced him. There were tears in his eyes. “I will speak to my lord, at the earliest possible … confound this tourney, and all those guests. … Telfer and I, we’ll have you out of it in no time at all.”

  Gervase smiled and nodded, but he did not believe Varons. This was, this must be the end.

  They went out, and down the stairs yet again.

  “What! Him again?” said the gaoler. Varons showed the gaoler the warrant, and he sighed, and shook his head. Gervase was told to discard his outer clothing and his shoes, which he did. As he shook out his hair he thought numbly that Beata’s hair had never looked so beautiful as tonight, in the light of the torches, with the wreath of flowers so delicate, so hardy … like herself. Well, it was unlikely he would ever see her again … perhaps it was better so.

  This time there was no favoured treatment. This time there was no window, no light, no fresh air. They went past barred doors and men roused from slumber, past hands clutching at bars, and voices calling out to them for mercy.

  “We like to have the cells full for when Lord Henry comes,” said the gaoler. He thrust his torch into a low passageway, indicating that Gervase should precede him. The passage was narrow and low, but debouched eventually into a chamber whose stench caused Gervase to recoil … only to be pushed forward, over and into the foulness on the floor. There was a phosphorescent slime on the walls. Gervase swallowed, trying to think of some plea that he might make, some protest … and knew it would be in vain.

  An iron cage rested some foot or so above the floor, suspended by a chain from a ring in the ceiling, and the ceiling of this chamber was high indeed. The chain went through the ring, and then wound itself around a spindle, controlled by a wheel.

  “Only the worst – murderers and the like – get put in here,” said the gaoler. “They commonly scream when I leaves them here … good echo … I can hear them nigh to the top staircase.”

  Gervase stared in fascinated horror at the cage. He had heard of such things, but never seen one before. He remembered someone in France telling of how his sister had been suspended in one such cage over the battlements of a castle till she died … for what offence he could not remember.

  The cage was large enough to accommodate a small man standing, but Gervase was above average height. A man might lie down on the barred floor, if he bent himself into a foetal position. There was a door, and it was open, a staple and padlock dangling from the central bar.

  The gaoler pushed Gervase to the cage. He thought of trying to make a fight for it … but that would be useless, and only incriminate Varons if his friend tried to help.

  He got into the cage, aand it swung. Before he had turned round, his hands clutching at the bars, the door was being padlocked on him. Then the gaoler was turning the wheel, and Gervase was rising into the air, rising, with the foetid smell all around him, rising above the piles of filth left behind by previous occupants of the cage … to which he prayed he would not add while Varons and the gaoler were there, watching him rise … and jerk to a halt.

  Then they turned and left him, taking the torch with them. And he was alone in the dark … in a cage … half-naked, in a cage.

  He bowed his head on his hands, and began to pray.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Lady Beata was queen of the feast; unofficially, that is. Officially the honours were shared between the Lady Joan as Crispin’s wife, and the Lady Elaine, who had so often borne the title of Queen of Beauty in the past. But poor sad Joan – all black veils and hysteria – was accorded lip service only, as chatelaine of Mailing. She had made it clear she would not exert herself to help Crispin with the guests, since Crispin had made it clear that he wished her to the devil.

  Once in the hall. Lord Henry took Joan by one hand and Crispin by the other, and he joined the hands of man and wife together before the whole company, smiling at them and at Sir Bertrand in meaning fashion. More, he bade Sir Bertrand welcome not only as an old friend, but also as a cousin of the Lady Joan. Crispin, loosing his wife’s hand, scowled and turned his head from her, so that the Lady Joan, who had smiled when Lord Henry took her hand, now put her kerchief to her eyes and wept. Beata, impatient because Joan ought to have been greeting their guests by name and directing them to their seats, stepped forward, in front of the weeping Joan, and performed the office of chatelaine herself.

  Lord Henry’s eye rested on Beata, and he marvelled at her poise.

  Elaine, standing silent and awkward beside Sir Bertrand, was nudged by her sister, with a hissing reminder of duties to be performed. So Elaine pushed back her long hair with a lax hand, and looked around, only to find that Beata had already summoned Telfer to her aid, and that the guests were already seated according to their rank. And then Elaine shivered, for Lady Escot was staring at her with a wicked, sly, knowing look. …

  Beata sat very straight in her chair, and smiled and laughed, and ate and drank, and was conscious of herself as queen of the feast … and mocked herself because she was extracting pleasure from something so transient. And then she was sitting still, not breathing, her eyes fixed on the floor of the hall, and seeing it not … seeing nothing, scenting filth, while a voice filled her brain, praying for courage. And then the voice and the smell faded, and she was looking at the jugglers in the hall, and accepting a cutlet from a spit handed to her by a page, and her goblet was being refilled, and her father was looking at her with shrewd black eyes, eyes that saw everything and noted everything.

  Gervase! She wanted to scream to everyone to be silent, to cease that terrible hubbub, the echo in the hall, that she might think. But Crispin on her left, and Sir Bertrand on her right were both talking, and the one was laughing, and inviting her to laugh with him, while the other was scowling and muttering that their father was an unfeeling tyrant.

  Quiet! She said to the hollow space inside herself. Quiet, Gervase! I heard you. …

  She laughed with Sir Bertrand, and when he put his hand over hers, removed it without showing any sign of offence. She said to Crispin, “Do you know what has happened to Master William? He is not sitting with Varons and the others, and I am afraid. … Father snubbed him; looked at him, but would not speak to him. …

  “How the devil should I know?” said Crispin, downing another goblet of wine. “What am I to do about Joan, if Father won’t allow a divorce?”

  “I will think. …” said Beata, and beckoned a page to send for Telfer, who was hovering nearby, directing servants, his eyes everywhere. And Lord Henry looked at Beata, and she looked back at him, and once she would have dropped her eyes from his and bent her head … and now she did not, but stared back at him … eye to eye, strong will bent against strong will, and neither willing to yield. Then Lord Henry smiled and lifted his goblet in a toast
to her, and she flushed, and smiled back. Each knew the other’s mind. He knew she would not refuse to do her duty, and she knew he would not break his vow to send her to the convent. Yet there was now a consciousness between them that they were, in a sense, equals.

  Telfer bent his head beside her and she said, in a voice barely stronger than a whisper. “Gervase … in trouble. Will you investigate?” Telfer bowed and passed on, his face impassive – yet she knew he was to be trusted. She clapped and laughed as a juggler finished his act and dancers came on, turning somersaults.

  And the pain stabbed her. She could feel the burn of bars across her back, yet nothing had touched her. Quiet! she said to herself again. Quiet, Gervase … Telfer is sending to look for you.

  They were feasting well … pray heaven the provisions would last out till after Christmas, with so many more guests than they had anticipated. Thank heaven the Bishop had not come after all, though how many nuns had the abbot brought with him? Five … six … seven? And no doubt an equal number of servants to look after them.

  And here was young Jaclin and another youth – a distant cousin brought down by Lord Henry from London – and they were approaching the high table, bending their knees to Lord Henry, with Father Anthony smiling in attendance. And at least the preparations for the knighting ceremony would keep the priest out of Beata’s way for tonight.

  Lord Henry was bending forward and speaking in kindly fashion to Jaclin – far more kindly than was usual with him. Jaclin had fired up and was boasting of the work he would do in the tourney, and how he had learned so many good tricks from a man who had been a soldier.

  “Who is this man?” enquired Lord Henry, pleased to be graciously amused by Jaclin’s chatter.

  “The new secretary, recommended by Hamo for the position of Steward,” said Beata, in a clear, metallic voice that hardly seemed to be her own. “He has been good to Jaclin, as he was good to Flash, your dog, that he healed.”