Sir Bertrand rose, and prodded by a man-at-arms, left the dais, and approached Gervase on the floor of the hall. Berit had stepped forward to take the destrier away, and Gervase now faced him, also on foot.
“That man,” Sir Bertrand pointed to Gervase, “stole his uncle’s ring. He was seen to do it. When challenged, he said he intended to keep it, to revenge himself on his uncle for marrying and cutting him out of the inheritance. I was staying at Ware at the time. Since old Lord Escot was much distressed by the discovery that his nephew was a criminal, I took charge of the proceedings. In fact, the woman who saw him take the ring reported the affair to me, so naturally I felt in honour bound to see the matter through. There was a trial, at which I presided. The evidence was quite clear. The man was convicted and sentenced. Before the sentence could be carried out, however, the felon escaped and vanished. Apparently he came here, and, masquerading under a false identity, wormed his way into the counsels of the late and much lamented Lord Crispin. When I heard the fugitive had been traced, I applied for him to be arrested, so that he might be returned to Ware in chains and duly punished for his crime.”
Gervase turned to Lord Henry. “My lord, will you examine Sir Bertrand?”
Lord Henry folded his white hands on the table before him, and turned his head from Gervase to Sir Bertrand.
“Sir Bertrand, it is to your credit that you choose to cooperate in this ‘entertainment’. These proceedings are not legal, but since we are here, and under certain obligations to Lord Escot, by all means let us enquire further into the crime of which he was accused and convicted. You were at Ware as a guest of your cousin, I believe?”
“That is so. The hunting was good, but my cousin was not happy because this young man, her husband’s nephew, had behaved badly to her – giving rise to gossip of a wounding nature. …”
“One moment,” said Gervase. “You were on very good terms with Lady Escot. Was not a marriage between you two spoken of at one time?”
“The church frowns on marriages between first cousins,” said Sir Bertrand. “Besides, my cousin’s first husband left her practically penniless.”
“Ah yes. She was a widow when she married my uncle, was she not? I believe her first husband died within a year of their marriage, of a chill?”
“He was elderly,” said Sir Bertrand. “And somewhat corpulent.”
“As was my uncle,” said Gervase. “And he did not live long after the marriage, either … did he?” A ripple of amusement went round the hall.
“He died of a chill, too,” said Sir Bertrand, frowning. “I do not see what there is to laugh about in that!”
“Indeed, no,” said Lord Henry, in a soothing voice. “Now you went to Ware at your cousin’s invitation, to support her in dealing with her husband’s nephew, who was at that time also his heir. Is that correct?”
“Yes. I advised her to tell the young man to go from his uncle’s house, but she said her husband would not agree to parting with Gervase, because he made himself useful about the estate. Very shortly after this Gervase stole his uncle’s ring, so that solved the problem.”
“No doubt the witness against Gervase Escot was of unimpeachable integrity?”
“Naturally. A bond-woman called Wanda … she has been with my cousin for many a year, and is absolutely trustworthy.”
“A bond-woman?” Lord Henry’s voice expressed incredulity. “A creature of your cousin’s? Surely you are not serious?”
“If it had been her word alone,” said Sir Bertrand, shrugging. “But the ring was found in his wallet, you see, and he could not account for how it came to be there.”
Chapter Seventeen
Varons pushed two men in servants’ dress forward, and stationed himself behind them.
“So much for the crime itself,” said Gervase. “I repeat: I did not steal the jewel. It was put in my wallet some time that morning without my knowledge. But we will pass over the trial – and the sentence – and come to an event more strange than anything you have heard till now. There is no gaol at Ware. In times of need we use the innermost of two stone-built storerooms, which lead off the courtyard. The doors are bolted and locked from outside, the windows barred. While I was lying in one of these cells, someone whispered to me from the window that I must look out for myself. He said he had overheard two men talking in low voices about where they could find a rope long enough to hang a man … and discussing whether a certain lock required to be oiled. I will not identify my friend, for fear of possible reprisals. He said he’d attempted to see who it was talking, but by the time he’d got himself to the door the two men had gone. But it had been on his mind, worrying him, for he argued I wasn’t the sort to take my own life, and he knew there were certain people in the house who wanted me out of the way. So he took the trouble to find my sword, and drop it through the bars of my prison. And then he fled.
“I could hardly credit that anyone could be so base … but then, the whole affair had the proportions of a bad dream. I had not long to wait before I saw a crack of light under the door. The key grated in the lock, and was withdrawn, presumably so that they could oil the lock. Then the door opened and two figures stood there, throwing shadows before them. They had left the candle standing on the floor in the passage. One came in, leaping upon the pile of straw where I had been lying, bringing down a billet of wood, and the other followed, holding a coil of rope. No doubt their eyes were bewildered, coming from the lighted passage into the dark of my cell.
“It took them a moment or two to realise I was behind the door, and to turn on me. I pricked one on the forearm, enough to make him yelp and drop the billet of wood, and the other … I put the point of my sword to his throat, through his tunic and cape, and pressed hard enough to make him realise I was in earnest. I could see their faces clearly. I made one man tie his fellow’s hands behind his back with the end of the rope they had brought, and then I got them both to lie down and tied the second man to the first. Then I turned the key in the lock, and left them. The candle was where they had set it down in the passage and one of them had dropped a cloak nearby. I took the cloak, kicked the candle out, made my way out into the courtyard, climbed the wall, and took to the forest.”
“Devil’s brood!” spat one of the accused. “How could you have seen us, seeing as we weren’t there?”
Gervase nodded to Varons. “Try pulling up his sleeve.”
The second man turned to run, but there was another man-at-arms close behind him. A short struggle, and the two scars were uncovered to prove Gervase’s story.
“One of these men,” Gervase continued, “came with Lady Escot on her marriage to my uncle. The other,” he pointed to the man with the scarred forearm, “is called Choat, and he is in Sir Bertrand’s service. I believe he could tell you who sent him to kill me that night.”
“I was not there. No-one sent me.” The man was sullen, but his eyes shifted to Sir Bertrand’s face and then back to the floor.
“If you were not sent by anyone,” said Gervase, “then it follows that you two conceived the idea of murdering me yourself, and that you alone can be punished for it.”
The man who had gone with Choat into the storeroom now stepped forward. “My lord, I wish to dissociate myself from this fellow Choat.” He oozed a smiling complacency. “He came to me, and overbore my scruples, persuading me to accompany him to see if the prisoner were all right. Imagine my astonishment when I discovered Sir Gervase was not only armed, but prepared to turn on those who had come to visit him. I had had no idea, believe me! The depths of depravity to which my friend Choat had sunk had been concealed from me till that moment!”
“What of the coil of rope which you bore?” Gervase’s voice was harsh. “Does not that involve you equally with Choat in the conspiracy?”
The man swallowed, sweat on his brow. “My lord, it was his idea, I swear it. I went with him because he said he could trust no-one else. I thought it must be all right, if Sir Bertrand had bid him attend to the pri
soner. …”
“That I did not!” swore Sir Bertrand. “The man lies if he says I had aught to do with it!”
“But I thought. …” The man looked scared. He shifted on his feet.
“Perhaps it was your mistress, Lady Escot, who sent Choat to the cells?” asked Gervase softly.
“Ridiculous!” said Lady Escot. “Why should I have done that? Were you not already discredited?”
“Surely! And I think even that did not satisfy you. Yet if neither of these men can produce a better story, I must ask Lord Henry to hold them for trial for attempted murder.”
“Not so!” broke in the second man, his hand to his throat. “I know nothing of who sent Choat, but … I do not know if it means anything, but he was close in converse with my lady’s tire-woman earlier that day, and I thought … as they passed across the yard, she picked up something from the cobbles., and it seemed to me it was my lord’s ring. …” He licked his lips.
“My uncle’s ring? The ring that was supposed to have been in my wallet at that time? The ring for which I was convicted of theft?”
The man nodded, eyes glancing now at the stolid face of Choat, and now at Gervase.
The abbot, who had continued to eat the while, said low down to Beata, “Now Lord Escot must prove complicity … if he has not that, he has nothing. …”
Gervase frowned at the two witnesses. “How came the ring in the yard?”
“I know not, except that everyone knew my lord had been complaining it had grown loose on his finger. You must have heard him … everyone did … the woman Wanda must have known whose ring it was! Everyone knew! My lord must have dropped it in the yard as he mounted his horse to go riding. I am sure she knew whose ring it was. Moreover. …” He hesitated. “I think it was she who came to let us out of the storeroom after you left. I could not see very well, for my hood had worked round over my face in my struggle to free myself … but I heard someone whispering to Choat, someone who had brought a candle into the storeroom … and then Choat freed me, and we made ourselves scarce. Whoever it was who freed us had gone before I had a chance to see them. They must have moved very lightly, my lord – like a woman!”
Varons pushed a middle-aged woman into the centre of the hall. She curtseyed, taking her time. She wore the good but plain gown of an upper servant, and had a plump face with knowing eyes. “My lord, if it please you, that man there tells nothing but lies. He is well known for it, and I have often said to my lady that he should be turned off. …”
“Why, you …!”
“Silence!” said Lord Henry. “Woman, did you pick up a ring from the courtyard that day?”
She hesitated, and then, “Yes, my lord. I found a ring and took it to. …” Her eyes flitted in Lady Escot’s direction, and then lowered again. “I set it on the chest in my lord’s bedroom. Sir Gervase stole it from there.”
“And did you go down to the storeroom in the night, to see what had happened to the would-be assassins?”
“Of course not, my lord. I was … otherwise occupied.” And this time her eyes flicked to Sir Bertrand, and then returned to the floor.
“Is that true, Sir Bertrand?” asked Lord Henry.
Sir Bertrand nodded, and laughed. “My cousin is ever thoughtful of my comfort! Aye, the woman spent the night with me.”
“Then,” said Gervase, “the two men must hang, as having been unable to prove the plot was anything but their own.”
“Not so!” cried the second man, his eyes wild. “Wanda did not go back into the house after she picked up the ring! I watched her, thinking it was a pity it had not been my good luck to discover the ring, for my lord would likely have given me a reward for finding it. She spoke awhile to Choat, and then she saw Sir Bertrand crossing the yard and ran after him, crying that she must speak with him in private.”
The woman started, and flushed. “I forgot! Yes, I showed him the ring, and he promised to put it back for me. …”
Sir Bertrand strode forward, glaring. “Woman! Did I not give it back to you, though you pressed it in my hand? You said you knew what to do with it. …”
“What did you think she meant by that?” said Gervase.
“Why … how should I know?”
“But you saw the ring yourself? You recognised it?”
“I … yes.”
“Yet before noon you had three men come into the buttery and drag me to the ground while you stood over me, shouting that I was a thief – a thief of a ring which you had seen a short while before, in the hands of Wanda – a thief of a ring which you knew very well was not missing?” Sir Bertrand was silent, and his face grew red with anger.
Gervase asked, “Did the woman Wanda suggest that she arrange to have the ring put into my wallet secretly? Did she suggest that you might then have me accused of theft in order to please her mistress, your cousin?”
“I … she is a clever piece, Wanda. …”
“Did she suggest you misuse your position in my uncle’s house to arrest me and try me? Did she suggest that I then be visited in the night by two trusted men, with a rope … a rope to hang me with … under such circumstances as my uncle might think I had committed suicide?”
“No!” screamed Wanda. Her chubby face was now colourless. “I did not think. … I could not have … it is true that I arranged for the ring to be put in your wallet, but it was his idea, not mine! I told your one-time bedfellow Anne that it was a good-luck charm, and she promised to put it secretly in your wallet before noon, when I plotted to waylay you, and then accuse you of theft. But of the plot to murder you I knew nothing … I swear it!” And she fell on her knees.
“But witnesses have deposed that it was you who came down to the storeroom with a candle in the middle of the night, to see what had become of the murderers?”
“Not I! Not …! No, no! I stayed in bed, I swear it! I did not even hear him leave, for I was asleep … I swear it! I only knew he had gone when I woke and found the bed cold! And he told me nothing, even then …!”
“Who left you in bed … in the night?”
“Him!” She pointed to Sir Bertrand. “Sir Bertrand de Bors. He went down to see that everything had gone as planned. It was his idea! Not mine! Not mine!” She began to work her way to the dais on her knees, sobbing. Sir Bertrand leaped forward, his dagger raised to strike Wanda, but at the same moment Gervase also leaped forward, and the lance he still held in his hand was used as a single-stick to parry the blow, and send the dagger to scatter rushes on the floor.
There was a thick silence. Even Wanda, crouching low, had ceased to sob. The Lady Escot screamed. Hands and mouth trembling, she was suddenly an old woman. Heads turned in her direction. She put her hands over her face, and huddled down in her chair.
“Well, Sir Bertrand?” said Lord Henry. “How much did Lady Escot know?”
Sir Bertrand looked at Lord Henry. He gazed around the hall, with a fair assumption of indifference. He drew himself up to his full height, and laughed. He folded his arms across his chest and stared Lord Henry in the eye. He would say nothing.
Lord Henry rose to his feet, slowly and with dignity. He said, “This was not a court of law. Yet we have heard enough today to justify reopening the case against Lord Escot. Varons: take the three conspirators away to the West Tower and hold them in separate cells for interrogation. Sir Bertrand, you are here as a guest, and will be treated as one. You will return to your quarters but my men will replace your servants, and you will remain confined there until such time as your case can be brought to the attention of the King’s Justiciars. I suggest that you consider what damages you can pay Lord Escot for wrongful arrest and slander, which may perhaps provide a mitigating circumstance when the case comes to trial.
“As for you, Lady Escot: nothing has been proved against you, which I think is more than you deserve, for I have little doubt you know exactly what was going on at every stage of the conspiracy. Howsoever, if you will agree to leave Ware and take up residence in some place app
ointed by Lord Escot, he will, I dare say, allow you sufficient revenues on which to live.”
Lady Escot was trying to stand. She was whimpering, like a whipped dog. Two men-at-arms led her away. Sir Bertrand bowed low to Lord Henry and marched out after her, two more men-at-arms falling in behind him. The other conspirators had already been taken from the hall.
Gervase remained, leaning on his lance, still looking at Lord Henry.
Black eyes looked into golden, and neither man smiled.
Lord Henry said, “Lord Escot, you have been greatly wronged, but it shall not be said you sought justice in vain. Rest assured that whatever is in my power to do for you shall be done. Your estates shall be returned to you and you will receive compensation for your sufferings. And now, as your entertainment is over, may I invite you to join us at table?”
Gervase shook his head. “No, my lord. I have served Malling, and you have discharged the debt. Let that be the end of it. I will trespass on your hospitality one night more, and then be on my way.”
So saying, he bowed and left the hall.
The abbot said, “You weep, Lady Beata? Did the man mean so much to you?”
Some hours later Telfer was sent to fetch Gervase from the infirmary, to speak with Lord Henry in the green solar.
“You will deal gently with him, I trust,” said Telfer, as they went along. “He is much shaken by Crispin’s death. He thought at first to place Jaclin in Crispin’s stead, but now he has reconsidered. He has had Jaclin with him, talking the matter over, and my lord sees that it will not answer. Provision will be made for the boy, of course, but. …” He shrugged.
“He must marry again,” said Gervase. “Of his four children, the best is the one he has most neglected, and whom he now intends to throw into the arms of the church.”
“That is what I told him. The Lady Beata went further: she said all this had been brought about because he had not paid his debt to the church with his own body.”
Gervase gave a short laugh. “The old fox would not see it that way. …”
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