Well, this was just one more battle he could not win. There were other women in the world … he checked himself on a sigh. No, there were no other women like her. He thought of the women he had known. He had seen many noble and beautiful women in his time, and he knew that none of them could hold a candle to her. He knew it, and the knowledge was a dead weight inside his breast.
He moved restlessly on the bench. Flash whined, and thrust his nose into Gervase’s, hand. He pulled on the dog’s ears, and the creature moved to sit on Gervase’s feet – a trick he had developed of late, to attract attention.
If she had not been destined for the cloister … but that line of thought was painful.
What was he to do? She said he must leave, and he supposed he ought to do so. Should he redeem his sword – seek a living as a mercenary? No, he had turned his back on that life. Everyone at Mailing assumed he was a discharged soldier, and unable to give the true explanation, Gervase had allowed the tale to pass. It was true that every year he had been duty bound to don armour and follow his uncle into the field, yet Gervase had always thought of this as a very small part of his life. For the rest, he had been absorbed in the care of his uncle’s fields and farms.
Well, all that was gone, and it was no use thinking about it.
What remained to him? A clerk’s position? He could probably perform such duties, but the pay was poor, the prospects nil, and the work tedious.
Could he seek a position as a bailiff? That would indeed be better. Yet who would employ a man with no name, and no influence?
Someone tugged at the sleeve of his gown, and he looked up to see a boy of about nine years old, with a great rent in his tunic, and a broken toy in his hand. By his fine-drawn, not to say tearful appearance, and the good quality of his clothing, Gervase guessed the lad to be one of the pages about the castle. The boy held out his cup and ball, which should have been joined together with a leather thong, and was in two separate parts.
“The Lady Beata said you would mend this for me.”
Gervase felt as if she had laid her warm, capable hands on his heart. She had not forgotten him! The page was young, and his nose needed wiping. Doubtless he had but newly come to the castle, and was still homesick. Gervase remembered only too well what it was like to be young and far from home. He also remembered – just in time – not to address the boy as an equal.
He said, “Let us see what we can do. What is your name, young master?”
Chapter Four
He had not yet left the cloister, but already he knew a great deal about the castle and its inhabitants. Pages, serving-men, clerks: as they passed through the cloisters on business, or visiting their friends, they stopped to pass the time of day with him. Telfer, the Master of the Hall, gave him a kindly word now and then on his way to sit with Hamo; Telfer was a stoutly-built man with thinning hair spread with care over a large-domed head. Gervase was surprised that such an important man as Telfer, with all the cares of running the castle on his shoulders, should stop to pass the time of day with a penniless invalid, but he supposed that Hamo had put in a good word for him.
As his health improved, and the emaciated look began to pass from his face, he found himself taking an interest in what went on around him, even though he knew that soon he must leave Mailing. There were tantalising glimpses of quarrels in high places, glimpsed in the reports and letters he wrote for Hamo … his little friend the page told him tales of the Lady Joan and her son … convalescent men crept out of their cells and became expansive in the presence of a good listener.
He learned that Henry de la Boxe, Lord of Mailing, had been a widower for seven years, and had apparently no intention of marrying again. He was a hard man with a reserved manner, who spent half his time in litigation and the other half consulting physicians about cures … not that he was a sick man, said his men, but he was interested in such things. Lord Henry was seldom seen at Malling, but his son and heir Christopher – commonly known as Crispin – usually resided there.
Voices were lowered and glances were cast over shoulders when the men spoke of Crispin, for his temper was sharp and his hand heavy. Crispin had two aims in life, and in both things his father opposed him. Crispin wanted control of at least some of the Mailing estates, and he wanted to divorce his wife Joan. On neither question would Lord Henry give in to his son, and therefore the Mailing men were divided in their loyalty, some holding to the old lord whose temper, though cold, was inclined to justice, and others gathering to the rising sun of the heir, saying that the old man could not last much longer, anyway. As far as Gervase could tell, Beata held to her father’s side, as witness her bringing the dog to him; an action which now took on the light of courage amounting to foolhardiness. The servants hissed and shook their heads when they saw Gervase fondling the dog, and said that if my lord Crispin but knew …!
Between these two parties, the old and the new, there existed another powerful group in the castle, and Gervase spent more time thinking about this group than about both the others put together. Great estates do not govern themselves; farms do not produce a harvest without direction, nor do servants produce horses, linen or food as required without someone to oversee them. In the beginning Gervase had wondered at the attention rendered to that elderly and irascible old man Hamo, but now he wondered no longer. The great castle, with its many courts, storehouses, stable and gardens, its keep and towers and quarters for the men-at-arms, might be administered by Telfer, but the lands whose revenues supported the castle were administered by Hamo. To Gervase, Hamo seemed like a giant spider, sitting in the centre of the web of Malling, twitching a line here, spinning an extra length there, sending out reports and receiving them.
In her own way, Beata was also something of a spider, though her territory was confined, within the greater web woven by Hamo, to the infirmary, the home farm and the giving of alms at the gate. She did undertake other duties within the household itself – duties which ought by rights to have been carried out by Crispin’s wife Joan – but these seemed spasmodic rather than routine. Only it was surprising how often someone would say, “I will ask the Lady Beata about …” whatever it was.
Neither Beata nor Hamo were responsible for the maintenance of law and order about the castle, though Telfer had some privileges in that direction, but a certain Captain Varons came frequently to see Hamo, and expressed his concern for the old man’s health with such friendliness that Gervase deduced Varons to be at one with Hamo in all matters of importance.
This same Captain Varons would pass Gervase by without speaking to him, yet when he had gone Gervase would rub his forehead, and frown. He thought he had seen Varons somewhere before, but could not for the life of him recall where. Varons was not a man whom one could easily forget, for he had a thatch of hair so thick it would seem no rain could ever penetrate it; this thatch was prematurely grey, while his moustache was still black. He was a well-set up man, with an eye that missed little – or so said the servants.
And then there was Jaclin. Jaclin was; not to put too fine a point on it, a nuisance. He was a nuisance to himself, and a nuisance to everyone around him. He was reputed to be the natural son of a distant connection of Lord Henry’s, and liked to speak of his cousin Crispin – though not within Crispin’s hearing. Jaclin was aggressive but clumsy; handsome but slovenly in dress and deportment. He was somewhat younger than Crispin, and though he had received a smattering of education, was neither warrior enough to earn a fortune for himself in the lists, nor intelligent enough to make himself useful in matters of business. Lord Henry found the lad so irritating that he had refused to take him with him to London, and Crispin openly despised his base-born cousin, and laughed aloud when it was suggested that Jaclin accompany Crispin when next he went to a tourney. So Jaclin, like Beata, stayed at home, and unlike Beata, found nothing to do but drink, and bully whatever servants were unluckly enough to cross his path.
It was not long before he also tried to bully Gervase.
Gervase was busy carving a new top for the son of one of the men-at-arms when someone kicked him on the ankle.
“You, there! Cutpurse! Pigsmeat! Are you the scarecrow with whom my cousin Beata has been spending so much of her time?” Gervase raised his eyes without setting his work aside, and recognised Jaclin from what he had heard about him. Thick curly hair, like and yet unlike Beata’s, hung around the lad’s ears and over his left eye. His eye was restless, bold and overbright. His colour was high, his jaw set for a fight. “To your feet, scum!”
Holding onto his temper, Gervase did as he was bid. Now Gervase was a tall man, and topped Jaclin by some two inches, even though the youth had the advantage of him in weight.
Jaclin surveyed Gervase with disfavour. “Not much of the soldier about you, is there, scarecrow! Well, what have you to say for yourself?”
Gervase noted the well-shaped hands and muscular power of Jaclin’s shoulders and legs; also the nails bitten to the quick, and the stains on the costly surcoat. “The Lady Beata was kind to me when I was sick, and I shall forever be grateful to her.”
“She spends too much of her time here.” It was a challenge which Gervase did not dare take up. The lad suspected something; not much, perhaps – but he was not thick-witted, whatever else he was. Gervase felt a stir of sympathy for Jaclin, remembering his own years of patient endurance before he had been old enough, or skilled enough, to have been treated as an equal by his uncle. Jaclin was still young enough to learn; a pity he was too old and too well-connected to be beaten for his bad manners.
“They say you used to own a long sword, a very good extra-long sword,” said Jaclin, with an air of doubt. “You don’t look as if you could handle a long sword, or any other sort of weapon, for that matter. I doubt not you stole it somewhere … eh?”
Gervase stiffened, but returned no answer.
“Well, it’s all one. I have a fancy for a really good sword, and I have sent for it. My cousin Crispin has been away at the tourney – did you know that? When he returns, I shall arrange for him to watch me trounce some of the squires here, and then he will have to take me with him when he goes on campaign next year. I wish you to show me the trick you have of throwing the sword from one hand to the other. With that, and a sword that is longer than anyone else’s, I shall be unbeatable.”
Gervase felt bile hit the back of his mouth. He trembled, and saw that Jaclin noticed. The youth laughed. “What – do you turn ashen at the thought of my shaking a sword at you? You are all alike, you gutless rats. …”
“Your pardon,” said Gervase, and his deep voice and cold look held Jaclin in mid-sentence. “I had hoped to redeem my sword for myself. The Lady Beata promised. …”
The youth’s lower lip came out. “Trust a woman to interfere … but she’s too late. I told Varons two days since that I wanted the sword, and gave him the money for it. It should be here by nightfall, or tomorrow at the latest; what do you say to that?”
Gervase said nothing, but stared past Jaclin into the gathering twilight. He could not understand why the thought of his sword passing into Jaclin’s hands distressed him – had he not parted with it of his own accord? Yet it hurt.
“So,” said Jaclin, “I want you to be in the tiltyard tomorrow an hour after dawn for my first practice.”
“I am hardly fit yet to. …”
“I don’t expect you to stand up to me. As if you could!” He laughed, but his eyes were watchful, waiting to see if Gervase dared to give him the lie. Gervase wet his lips. He guessed that Jaclin’s prowess was not as great as he boasted, but to say so would be disastrous.
“There’s a groat for ye.” Jaclin tossed the coin in the air and let it fall. Then, still laughing, he left the cloister.
Gervase shuddered. His hands were so stiff from the effort he had made to control himself, that at first he could not uncurl them. He let the coin lie.
“Master William!” Gervase started. Would he ever get used to being called Master William? He put his knife and the half-completed top into his purse, and went into the end cell to see how the old man did. Hamo was sitting up, all hunched shoulders and knotted hands. Gervase thought he looked more like a king spider every day. A spider calling a fly into his web.
“Well, and what did you make of our noble kinsman, Jaclin?”
“He says he has sent for my sword. Who told him about it?”
“Nurse, I suppose. She thought your routing four unarmed beggars a tale worthy to tell her cronies. Doubtless everyone in the castle has heard of your prowess by now.”
“The beggars were not unarmed,” said Gervase, taking his customary seat at the reading desk, and looking to see what papers he was to copy, or letters to write. “Is it true that Captain Varons has sent for the sword? Can you not drop a word in his ear?”
“I?” The old man exhibited pious horror at the notion. “How would a word from me …?”
“It would be more than enough, if you wished it. The Lady Beata promised. …”
“Ah, but what power has she here?” The thrust wounded Gervase, as it was meant to do. He tried to give no sign of distress, but knew that Hamo had learned somehow – but how? The girl had not been near Gervase for days – of his love, and of the hopelessness of it.
“A soldier without a sword,” mused Hamo, turning up his eyes. “Eh, dear Lord! A soldier without a sword is like a crab without its shell. …”
“Or a craftsman without tools,” said Gervase. “Luckily a quill costs nothing to make, save a little time. I can always take up a new craft. …”
“You should not interrupt an old man. I was going to say that a soldier without a sword is like a knight without a name, or a home, or kin that will recognise him.”
Gervase stroked his beard with the feather of the quill in his hand, and considered the old man. The threat was there, in the air, all about them, even though Hamo had not put it into words. What was King Spider up to now? Did he know something, or merely suspect it? And if so … Gervase was too useful to him to be given over to the officers of the law … or was he? So Gervase peaked his eyebrows in enquiry, and Hamo allowed himself a chuckle of amusement.
“Well, well,” said Hamo. “Let us leave it at that for the moment. You want your sword back, though I Can’t imagine why. Sheer contrariness, I wouldn’t wonder. Just because Jaclin wants it. You have no money, and the clothes on your back are there at my whim – not that you haven’t earned them – I’ll say that for you, you’re no idler. …”
Gervase waited, stroking his beard the while. The old man had been trying to say something to him for days, but had either been interrupted by visitors, or changed his mind at the last minute. Often now he dropped asleep in the middle of a conversation. Gervase was afraid that Hamo was failing fast.
“My hands,” said Hamo, holding them up. “I want you to be my hands.”
“I am willing, in so far as I am able. You know that.”
“And my eyes and my ears,” said Hamo. “And my brain.”
There was a long silence. Gervase sat back, throwing the quill onto the desk before him. He folded his arms and surveyed the old man with a mixture of anger and dismay.
“No,” said Gervase.
“You are always so hasty, you young men,” said Hamo, at once assuming an air of senility. “We will speak of this again, when you have had time to think about it … you have worn me out with your nonsense, now. …” He closed his eyes and composed himself for sleep.
Later that day, he called Gervase in to him again.
He said, without preamble, “Well, have you taken time to consider the advantages of the position?”
“I considered the disadvantages of refusing you,” Gervase replied. “Are you threatening me with imprisonment, or what?”
“I?” The bright eyes twinkled at him, but the old man still pretended he did not understand. “Now how could I threaten you with anything?”
“Old man,” said Gervase at his most grim. “You know why I must leave Ma
iling. A few days more, a week at the outside, and I shall be strong enough to take to the roads again. If I have earned my keep here … if my sword is lost to me for good, then I will earn my living as a clerk. …”
“Your sword is certainly lost to you for the time being. But why trudge the roads seeking another patron when there is one waiting for you here? Do you not feel that you owe me some return for my interest in you? Is the game not deep enough for you?”
“What game?”
“The game of power,” said Hamo. “What else can be of interest to a man of your talents? You were a soldier once but you sold your sword. Therefore I deduce that you had no further use for it. Perhaps killing had come too easily to you, perhaps you had killed once too often. …”
Gervase acknowledged the hit with a grimace. Yes, it had been far too easy.
“What then remains for a man of your talents, but to serve the land?”
Now what did the old man know of that? Had Beata been talking to him?
“Yes,” said Hamo. “There is your true bent; there and in the giving of justice in the courts. You seem to understand both sides of the business well. And so I offer you the post of steward to Malling.”
The knowledge in Hamo’s mind overshadowed their conversation. The old man was really saying, “Be my assistant, and I will keep your secret”.
“No,” Gervase shook his head. “It will not do. I am not thinking so much of myself now, as of others. It is wisest I go, and go soon. You must do as you think best about that other matter.”
A little colour came into Hamo’s pale cheeks. “I must apologise. My good friend Master Telfer warned me not to threaten you, and I see he was right. You understand that he and Captain Varons are joined with me in making this proposal?”
Gervase rose, without haste but showing that he intended to finish the conversation. “I told you, it is not fear of the past which makes me leave.”
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