Longsword

by Veronica Heley

  Lord Henry sank back into his chair. “When we were both young, Telfer, you and I … everything seemed so clear-cut … right and wrong … good and evil. We thought it strange that a man should find it difficult to choose, when morality and self-interest conflicted. Now I am older and they say I am a wise man … yet I find it very difficult to choose. Let the matter rest as it is for the moment. The man cannot run away now. Perhaps I will question him sometime in the New Year, when Sir Bertrand is safely wed to Elaine. In the meantime, I forbid all mention of the subject. No, not another word!”

  “My lord! Uncle!” It was young Jaclin, bowing before them, awkward and nervous. “Uncle, a boon! You have been pleased to dub me a knight, and indeed I am grateful, but I heard that Master William was arrested last night and sent to the dungeons … my lord, he is no rogue, and has been of much service to me. I wanted him to watch me in the lists. I thought, even, that he might act as my squire.”

  “That is enough!” said Lord Henry. “My mind is made up! Forget him, as I intend to do. …”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “My lord! Father!” Crispin hastened up even as Lord Henry still frowned at Jaclin. “A word with you, Father … in private. …”

  “What, sirrah?” said Lord Henry, his smile a thing of the past. “Is this my disobedient son, who has foisted a rogue and a scoundrel on me? Peace, sirrah! To your duty, sirrah! I will have none of your selfish whining! Go sit beside your lady wife, and show that you love her well.”

  “Father, it is not possible!”

  “Silence!”

  And there was silence. Lord Henry had not even raised his voice, but his guests, applauding the last of the contestants, were aware that something was amiss, and began to look round, and to mutter amongst themselves.

  Lord Henry beckoned to the Clerk of the Lists, who was hovering nearby. “Is the ground fit for us to hold the mock battle?”

  “My gracious lord, I fear not. However, plans have been made against this contingency, and if my gracious lord would care to lead guests out to the impromptu tiltyard, we could hold the procession of noble knights shortly, and then. …”

  “I will challenge all comers to tilt against me!” cried Sir Bertrand, coming up behind them. He was yawning, stretching, loosening his muscles at the prospect of action. “I’ll declare my Lady Elaine the fairest Queen of Beauty that ever was, and so on and so forth. Then you may come at me one at a time, or all together … what you will!” And he laughed, showing all his teeth.

  Crispin cast him a look of dislike. “I challenge you here and now, on behalf of my sister Beata. And I will strip you of your armour and your horse by nightfall. Aye, and belabour your carcase till you cry for mercy!”

  “Crispin!” said Lord Henry in warning tone. His son started, changed colour, and bit his lip.

  “Aye, well …!” said Sir Bertrand, laughing. “And if the Lady Beata had been offered me, in place of her sister Elaiine, I doubt not I would fight alongside you. There’s a maid meet for mating. …” He chuckled, with meaning. “She wears the look of a woman who knows her lover’s eyes are upon her. Which of our company. think you, does she favour?”

  Crispin’s hand was on the hilt of his sword, and the scar on his cheek burned. “You son of a …!”

  “Enough!” said Lord Henry, and once again Crispin was checked. “More than enough, Sir Bertrand. My daughter Beata is destined for the church, and the only lover she has ever had, or ever will have, is our Lord Jesus Christ.”

  “Then my jest was ill-timed indeed,” said Sir Bertrand. But his eyes, those bold, large eyes of his, slid round Crispin to where Beata was standing with one hand up to her curls, laughing and causing a group of young men to join in her laughter. And Sir Bertrand’s tongue came out, and touched his upper lip, and Crispin made a sound deep in his throat … and Varons moved to stand directly behind Crispin.

  Lord Henry leaned back in his chair, watching them all beneath heavy lids, until Crispin took his hand from his sword and, tapping Jaclin on the shoulder, strode away to arm himself.

  “Varons, Telfer!” The two men drew near Lord Henry. “Sir Bertrand, though uncouth, is no fool where women are concerned. Does my daughter Beata have a lover?” There was no reply. Lord Henry’s hand came down lightly, caressingly, on the arm of his chair, and began to stroke it. The threat of violence hung in the air, all the more telling for being so understated.

  “One who loves her; yes,” said Telfer. “A lover? Not in the sense that Sir Bertrand intended.”

  The solid white hand stilled on the arm of the chair; only the forefinger twitched, twice. “There is a name on the tip of my tongue,” said Lord Henry. “Is it he, indeed? Or some other …?”

  “My lord,” said Varons, “he is a man of honour, and she understands her duty. You have not been betrayed, my oath on it.”

  The white hand closed convulsively around the arm of the chair. The black eyes watched Beata. “So … she does not know he has been arrested? She cannot, or she would not behave like that. It cannot go deep with her … I must say, I am relieved.” He permitted himself a chuckle. “She is grown so much, she might have given me trouble, if she but knew. …”

  Varons met Telfer’s eyes over Lord Henry’s head. Telfer shook his head. This was no time to disillusion Lord Henry.

  The Clerk of the Lists came hurrying up, followed by the two heralds. The musicians had now formed themselves into a group by the door, and had struck up a martial tune.

  “My lord,” said the Clerk, bowing low and walking backwards as Lord Henry proceeded to lead his guests out of the hall. “The challenges … so many! My Lord Crispin and Sir Bertrand so very eager to fight each other! Might I suggest that we revert to the Arthurian method of matching knight against knight in single combat? The least experienced being given their moment of glory first, and then building up to a bout between the finest, the most illustrious … oh, my lord! The vigour of your son, the prowess of Sir Bertrand …!” The little man kissed his fingertips, and nearly fell over a hovering page in his enthusiasm. “Entirely at your discretion, of course, my lord … but perhaps four pairs of knights this afternoon, and the same again tomorrow? First they must break three lances against each other, and then … light permitting … and if they so wish … a second bout on foot, with swords? Only the best of the knights will wish to descend to fighting on foot, but … the vote among the ladies to say which knight deserves the golden wreaths … though perhaps, tactfully, one each to Lord Crispin and Sir Bertrand?”

  Thus talking, the Clerk led the procession out through the courtyard, and along to where the tithe barn had been made ready for them, with braziers placed at intervals along the sides to take the chill off the air, and scarlet cloths hanging over the rail of the balcony. There were bench seats for the ladies in front, and standing room behind for those of the gentry who did not care to risk themselves in the arena. And below the balcony crowded a couple of hundred poor folk, and many not so poor, who had come from far and wide to see the gentry disport themselves. The light was not as good as on a summer’s day, but the great iron rings swung high above the Lists, shedding the glow of a myriad candles upon the ground below. Lord Henry looked round him, long and hard, and Telfer knew that his master would not have missed any of the alterations that had been made and that, though he barely smiled, he was pleased with all that had been done.

  “Keep my son and Sir Bertrand apart as long as you can,” he said to the Clerk of the Lists. “Match Sir Jaclin with the other new-made knight, and the rest as the heralds suggest.”

  Lord Henry beckoned his daughters to sit one on either side of him, and saw that all his other guests were appropriately settled. “Elaine, my dear; you are not smiling. Yet this is a joyful occasion, is it not?”

  “Yes, Father,” said Elaine. She turned her head to where the head of the knights’ procession was coming into the barn, and smiled.

  “Beata, my dear,” said her father. “You smile too much. Remember your de
stiny lies in the arms of no earthly man. …”

  “And if any man question my smiling,” she replied, “you must say it is with joy at what is to befall me. What else?” And she laughed in her father’s face.

  Lord Henry’s eyelids drooped, and he thought: assuredly she has no idea her lover is in the dungeons … or perhaps she did not care for him deeply? No, this change in her is too great to be accounted for in any other way. Sir Bertrand spoke truly; she looks as a woman does who is aware of being admired … as her mother used to do when I first went courting her. So who is the man? Suppose it is not Escot; then who?

  His eye passed over the procession of mounted men as they made their way before him, displaying their horses, with plumes and gilding on their harnesses, and rich cloths covering their flanks. The knights rode in the light armour intended for the tourney, covered with silken surcoats in brilliant colours, with pennants fixed to their lances, and shields displaying heraldic devices. Sir Bertrand and Crispin rode side by side at the head of the procession, but it seemed they found such proximity annoying, for first Crispin edged in front of Sir Bertrand, and then Sir Bertrand made a spurt to catch up and overtake Crispin. Thus they came to the centre of the balcony, immediately under the place where Beata and her sister sat. Sir Bertrand raised his lance high in the air, and in a resonant voice cried out that the Lady Elaine was the Queen of Beauty, and begged that she give him some favour to wear on her behalf. Elaine rose and, taking a knot of ribbons from the shoulder of her gown, dropped it into his waiting hands. She smiled and smiled, but her fingers were unsteady, so that she fumbled with the ribbons, and dropped them so clumsily that Sir Bertrand had to lunge forward to catch them. Not so Beata. She jumped up, laughing, as Crispin cried her name aloud. The knot of ribbons was off, and thrown into his hand with a flamboyant gesture.

  Lord Henry thought: Varons was wrong. Her lover is here … somewhere!

  He looked along the line of esquires, for each knight was accompanied by a young man versed in arms, but not yet ready for knighthood. But there was no-one there, he thought, who would hold Beata’s attention.

  Jaclin also besought a favour from Beata, and so did Gerald. But Beata turned so naturally to include Elaine in the little ceremony, that Gerald’s favour came from Elaine, instead.

  “That was well done,” said Lord Henry to Beata, as the last of the younger knights passed before them. It was, perhaps, the first word of praise he had ever given her.

  She said, “Father, I love you for that!”

  And he, master of plot and stratagem, knowing himself generally more feared than loved, understood that this expression of her love for him was but an overflowing of her love for another man. At first he was angry that it should be so, and then he remembered how Beata had nursed him the previous winter when he had been ill so long … and he thought of her as she had been then, going silently about the castle with her hair cropped short and a plain gown concealing instead of ornamenting her figure … and he marvelled again at the change in her. And with that marvelling came a pang that she was to be lost to him so soon, just as she had become of value to him.

  He followed the direction of her eye, and saw only Jaclin entering the lists, followed by a squire who carried his lances and his shield.

  Jaclin? thought Lord Henry. Could Beata love Jaclin, and not Gervase Escot? This idea troubled him so greatly that he had to be reminded to give the signal for the bout to start.

  The knights rode one from each end of the barn, to meet at the centre, under the place where Lord Henry sat. The lists were divided lengthways by a flimsy barrier, and the knights on their horses kept one on either side of this barrier as they levelled their lances at each other. Jaclin held his horse straight, his powerful shoulders bent forward, his shield well up, and his lance steady, remembering all that he had been taught. The point of Jaclin’s lance took his opponent full in the centre of his shield, and the power of Jaclin’s body, locked onto his horse by rigid thighs, kept him steady, so that his opponent tumbled off his horse with a cry.

  “Bravo!” cried Beata, jumping to her feet. “Oh, bravo Jaclin!”

  “Bravo Jaclin, indeed!” said Lord Henry, as the fallen knight was helped from the lists. “You favour Jaclin, Beata? He has gained his opponent’s horse and armour with that thrust.” Jaclin cantered past them, and out of the tithe barn, holding lance and shield high in acknowledgment of the cheers that greeted his victory.

  “Oh yes!” said Beata. “He has worked so hard, and been so much less troublesome of late.”

  So it was not Jaclin she loved. The next pair of knights came into the lists; an elderly knight and a distant cousin. Three lances, and neither of them giving the other an opening … fairly matched, the company growing restive, for neither man seemed anxious to take risks. Lord Henry shook his head when the Clerk of the Lists enquired whether the bout should be prolonged on foot.

  Then Gerald, and a knight who had come in Sir Bertrand’s train. And the first lance nearly unseated Gerald, causing Beata once more to jump up from her seat … but he made a good recovery, and managed to shatter his opponent’s shield on the third lance, so that Lord Henry was graciously pleased that the two men should continue their fight on foot. But now it could be seen that the stranger knight was far heavier in weight than Gerald, and more experienced, so that Gerald was soon forced to submit, but on such terms that he did not consider himself badly treated. It was in the rules that the victor could take not only his opponent’s horse and armour, but – at the discretion of the Clerk of the Lists – might also in some cases exact a ransom. On this occasion Gerald did not lose his horse or have to pay a ransom, but surrendered his armour and sword.

  Jaclin now came on again, tilting against an older knight. Such was the younger man’s ferocity that on the third charge he managed to make his opponent sway dangerously in the saddle, casting shield and lance from him in an endeavour to remain upright. Lord Henry pronounced Jaclin the winner and in mercy to the older knight, who seemed dazed, forebore to order that they continue to fight on foot. Jaclin would gain both armour and horse, for the second time that day.

  “Sir Jaclin is eager to try again,” said the Clerk of the Lists, consulting Lord Henry. “But although he is courageous enough, his horse is blown. …”

  “I doubt he is capable of fighting any more experienced knight,” said Varons, low in Lord Henry’s ear. “He has done better than Master William anticipated, as it is.”

  So Lord Henry gave the signal for the last bout of the day There was a sudden hush as Crispin came on at one end, and Sir Bertrand at the other.

  “I thought they were to be kept apart,” said Beata to her father. “Why, what sport shall we have tomorrow, if we let them wear themselves out today?”

  “Perhaps the weather will improve, so that we may still have our mock battle outside tomorrow,” said Lord Henry, but he raised an enquiring eyebow at the Clerk of the Lists nevertheless.

  “My lord, it was not so I arranged the matter. But my Lord Crispin overruled me, and there were some hard things said out in the courtyard … neither man will listen to reason.”

  “Trouble!” said Varons, in Telfer’s ear. Telfer nodded, anxious-eyed. Varons slid back through the company, and made his way along the balcony to the stairs.

  Crispin adjusted his ornate, gilded helm. From its crest floated a long red plume, around which he had tied the knot of ribbon from Beata’s dress. Sir Bertrand was smiling as he bent to take his own helmet from his squire, and fit it over his chain-mail hood. Now the two men faced each other down the length of the lists, with the slender rail of the barrier between them, like a string joining them together.

  The first of the lances was handed up to the two knights, adjusted to their satisfaction … the signal given … and away they went, cantering, galloping faster and more heavily then any of those who had gone before them.

  There was a crash and a splintering, and both horses checked as their riders rocked back in their s
addles.

  Beata said, “Father. …”

  “They are well-matched, truly,” said Lord Henry, but his brows flattened.

  The two knights cantered back to their own ends, and took a second lance each. Again they set off towards each other, power against power, heavily bearing down as they met … and the lance of one caught the shield of the other off-centre, and slid away harmlessly … but Crispin’s lance shattered, and he laughed, the laugh echoing within his helmet.

  Beata put her hand over her father’s. “Father,” she said, a second time. But it was not in Lord Henry’s power to stop the bout, even if he had wished to do so.

  For the third and last time the horses turned and checked at the end of the lists, and each knight took a fresh lance.

  “Father,” said Beata, “you will not let them continue the fight on foot!”

  “No,” said Lord Henry. “After all, we must save some excitement for the morrow.”

  “There is the masque,” she said, and smiled awry. “We can dance, instead of fighting.”

  “It is expected that knights do both,” said Lord Henry.

  The two knights were off again, crouching low, their dented shields covering their bodies, the plumes floating from their helms … they would meet exactly in the centre. There was nothing in it as regards distance; and yet perhaps Crispin was the faster, the more accurate, and his lance aimed at the exact centre of Sir Bertrand’s shield, and would surely shatter against it once again … and so he be declared the winner. But Sir Bertrand lifted the point of his lance at the last moment, and even as they crashed together, the tip of that lance caught in the vizor of the ornate helm that Crispin wore, and as he was borne forward by the momentum of his horse, Crispin drove himself forward onto the lance … jolting in his saddle, his own lance shattered on his opponent’s shield … fighting with his horse for control, dropping his weapons.