Longsword
Page 17
Lord Henry’s brows drew together, and seeing this Jaclin made haste to remove himself, with his comrade and the priest. They would spend the night fasting and praying in the chapel, in preparation for the ceremony of knighting early on the morrow.
Crispin, who had been sitting slumped forward in his chair, now roused himself. He had become aware that for some reason Lord Henry had taken a dislike to Master William, and his better nature urged him to defend the secretary. “Master William is a good man, and without him I daresay we would never have been ready in time for the tourney. If my word is worth anything, he should have the post of Steward tonight.”
“Your word promoted Rocca,” said Lord Henry. “I am not certain that your word is worth anything.” So saying, he turned to the abbot, who was on his other side, and began to talk to him.
Telfer was coming back up the hall, catching Beata’s eye, shrugging. He had not been able to find Gervase – now he had stopped to have a word with Varons, and the two men were turning to look up at the dais, and then drawing apart from the others, frowning. Bad news, thought Beata.
Something heavy dropped onto her feet. Something warm, and living. She put down her hand, and dragged Flash out. He jumped up at her, wagging his tail.
“He has a new trick, Father,” she said. “He sits on your feet when he wants attention. Did he not sit on yours just now? He always sat on Master William’s feet. It’s his way of begging for scraps at mealtimes.”
Lord Henry smiled at the dog, flicked his fingers to draw him near, and gave him a bone.
“We are wearying our guests with this talk of a fugitive clerk,” said Lord Henry. “Now, my dear Joan. …”
Telfer was bending over Beata’s shoulder again. “He has been arrested as a fugitive on a warrant signed by your father. Varons says Rocca is at the bottom of it. Rocca made mischief with Sir Bertrand, who demanded Gervase’s arrest. Varons has the ring your brother gave Gervase. …” Beata and Telfer both looked at Crispin, who was drinking steadily, head on hand, leaning on the table. Beata shook her head at Telfer, indicating that it would not be wise to ask her brother to intervene on Gervase’s behalf at the moment. Telfer bowed, and passed on.
Beata turned in her chair to consider Sir Bertrand. He was only too ready to talk to her, for Elaine paid him no attention at all. He talked about tourneys he had attended, and accidents that had occurred to other people – though never to him. And she smiled and nodded, and laughed at the right points and felt herself divide into two. There was her body, sitting at the high table, eyes everywhere, ears bent for the significant word, watching, waiting … brilliantly the queen of the feast, gathering power from the admiration of all those who dined in the hall and watched the nobility.
And there was her inner self, calculating, planning, vigilant … holding Gervase wrapped in her arms as she had held him twice when he had been on the verge of death – though he had never known – trying to tell him that she was doing what she could … trying to give him hope and patience and courage. …
Bars … and the tumblers in the hall formed themselves into a pyramid, and for a moment inspiration came through a trick of the light: faces glimpsed through spreadeagled arms and legs, and she knew where Gervase was. In a cage. Rather, in the cage. She had never been in the dungeons, of course, but she had seen prisoners brought out of the West Tower, and compared the ways they had endured the punishment and whether or not they could walk afterwards. The cage – she drew in her breath, and held it – the cage was the most feared, the most terrible. …
She would not cry. She smiled at Sir Bertrand, and threw back her head and laughed. He laid his hand on her arm, and leaned over the space between her chair and his, and said in her ear, with his breath hot on her cheek, “If I had only known. …
She felt a sense of shock. This man was to marry Elaine … Elaine, who sat so still and silent on the far side of Bertrand, playing with her food, while her father watched his two daughters and Bertrand: three pawns on his chess board.
Beata felt desperate. She wanted to run away and hide, to burst into tears, to scream. She gritted her teeth, and clasped her hands round the arms of her chair. She said, inside herself, “Help me, Gervase. …”
Suddenly there was warmth around her. She closed her eyes for a moment, and let out her breath, the tension leaving her … and letting him in … relaxing, feeling his strength around her, his self-control, his clear, uncluttered mind.
She opened her eyes and looked about her, seeing everything now as if through his eyes, making calculations as if with his mind, noting that the clerk Thomas was talking with Varons, and that they were both turning to look at a man in a murrey gown: the serpent Rocca. Now how much did Rocca know? Enough to point the finger at Gervase as a fugitive. He was a clever man, but not quite clever enough. If he had been really clever, he would have confessed his peculations to Lord Henry, throwing the blame on Crispin to ingratiate himself with his father. A hundred to one Lord Henry knew nothing of Crispin’s little deal with Rocca. It was a card she could play, if she could only see how.
Beata’s eyes moved on. Lady Escot, pouting, talking across young Gerald to Joan, comparing notes on fashions, gossiping … Lady Escot was well past thirty, if Beata were any judge, and she remembered what Gervase had said about her; and then Beata’s eyes narrowed, as she had often seen Gervase’s eyes narrow, when a thought struck him. She leaned forward to ask Joan a question, and Joan, like the obedient pawn that she was, seeing no ulterior motive in the query, repeated it to Lady Escot, who threw up her hands in what was meant to be a pretty, spontaneous gesture, and replied honestly, raising laughter around her. Beata leant back against her chair, well-satisfied. And there was card number two, if only the game could be twisted her way.
And she saw Lord Henry frown at his daughter Elaine, who was being told to get up and lead the dancing with Sir Bertrand, and Sir Bertrand was not looking at Elaine, but at Beata. There was a hand pressing on Beata’s thigh, but she did not start or push it away; instead she looked Sir Bertrand full in the eye, so that his colour rose, and he turned away.
Then Beata turned her head and saw that her father had seen the movement of the hand, his daughter’s rejection of it, and Sir Bertrand’s discomfiture. Once more the eyes of father and daughter met and clashed, and this time it was Beata who looked away first.
There is another card, she thought. I could tell him I will make a public declaration of my unwillingness to go into the convent. I could shame him before everyone and he knows now that I am capable of doing it if I set my mind to it. I would still have to go, of course, but the humiliation of its being known that I did not wish to … that he had had to force me … no, he would not like that.
And Crispin. Or rather, Crispin vis-à-vis Joan. There is something there that I could use, if only I could think how.
Elaine was half out of her seat, her eyes downcast, making no attempt to summon Telfer to instruct the musicians about changing to a dance tune … making no effort to pair off the rest of the guests. Joan? No, Joan would not dance!
Beata leaped to her feet and clapped her hands, catching Telfer’s eye, smiling, holding out her hands to Gerald and Crispin, urging everyone to their feet, to dance and make merry. She swung on Crispin’s arm into the dance, while her mind still wrestled with the problems around her.
Lord Henry’s determination. He would be justice itself if Gervase were to ask for the trial to be reheard at Malling. No, Lord Henry was in a cleft stick and could not move in the matter. He could not offend his son-in-law. …
The cage! How to get Gervase out? Perhaps Varons could … no, Varons always obeyed orders, however much he disliked them. Varons could not help, however willing he might be. Telfer had influence with her father. … No, no. Her father could not help, she saw that quite clearly. He had been appealed to, as a fellow justice of the peace, to detain an escaped criminal. How could he do otherwise than comply? Yet, if a way could be found to re-open the case?
Sir Bertrand de Bors. Consider him well, Beata. Six foot tall and well-built; broader in the shoulder than Gervase, with thighs like tree-trunks. Clumsy-footed, heavy with power. Red-necked, hirsute, blue-chinned, with dark eyes that were of unusual size and beauty. Such eyes, combined with a soft voice – unexpectedly soft and small for a man of his bulk – speaking of his love of women, of his pleasure in their company, of his triumph. The accepted son-in-law of a wealthy nobleman, the victor in the contest with Gervase – he must know that Gervase was even now in a dungeon, at his behest – and still he smiled at Beata rather than at Elaine. He wore a powerful scent, too, to disguise his own strong odour. He was a man who would hold a woman’s wishes in contempt … a man used to having his own way in all things. A man without scruples.
He smiled at her with teeth that were a little too large and confident.
Beata clapped her hands, and laughed, and swung into the dance again. Her mind cleared, and she knew what she must do.
The feast was over, the dancers gone to their beds. Lord Henry had bidden his children good night and retired to his chamber, taking Telfer with him, to receive his report. Beata took a cloak from the hands of her nurse, had a quick word with Varons, and made her way to her brother’s chamber. He slept alone nowadays … or rather tonight he did not sleep, but sat drinking by the fire, attended only by his valet. She signed to him to dismiss the servant, and he did so, staring at her in half-drunken curiosity.
“What do you here, Beata?”
“You asked me to help you get rid of Joan. I have thought of a way. Suppose Father could be persuaded to break off the match between Sir Bertrand and Elaine. …”
“You want him for yourself?”
Beata’s face flamed. “Crispin!”
“Oh, very well. But you hide your dislike better than Elaine.”
“Believe me, I detest the man! Now suppose I could so arrange it that he were discredited with Father … perhaps even disgraced. I know of someone who could do this for you. Someone who has suffered at Sir Bertrand’s hands. … and if that someone were brought into court before Father, and allowed to tell his story, then I think Sir Bertrand’s hopes of wedding Elaine would be nil.”
Crispin put down his goblet with an unsteady hand, and squinted at Beata. “Master William? Rocca tried to tell me something. …” He shook his head. “His word against Sir Bertrand’s?”
“My dear, mud sticks! Let us so arrange it that mud be thrown at the right target this time, and there will be no more talk of marriage with Elaine. Think of her dread of the man! Think how grateful she will be to you!”
He shook his finger at her. “Rocca said you and Master William. … Told him not to be a fool! Beginning to think there might be some truth in it … eh?”
“I saved his life once, and I would not have it thrown away. Yes, I like the man … and so does Elaine. … No, not in that way! Oh, Crispin, have some sense! Has she not dropped all her old airs and graces? Is her behaviour not discreet nowadays? And is the man himself not worth helping? Have you not found him helpful? Consider this; Father once thought to marry him to Elaine. Suppose that that match were once more to be revived … would not Elaine’s new husband be grateful to you, instead of trying to work against you?”
“Well … yes; I suppose so. But it would be quicker to end it in the lists tomorrow. A pity we are to fight with blunt lances, or. …” He laughed unpleasantly.
“My way is more sure. You must send Varons down to the dungeons to get Master William out. You must hear his story, of course, before you move any further in the matter. Then we will confer together how best to approach Father.” She went to the door, opened it, and beckoned Varons to come inside. Then she went to a nearby table, and began to write.
“My lord,” said Varons, going down on his knee. “Master William sends you this.” He held out his hand, and the sapphire ring winked in the light of the candle, and the fire.
Crispin shook his head to clear it. “I cannot possibly interfere … in the dungeons, you say?”
If you will sign this warrant to release him from the dungeon into Varons’s custody,” said Beata, scratching away, “then you can hear his story here, without anyone being the wiser. If you are not satisfied, once you have heard his story, then he can go back to the cage, can he not?”
“The cage?” said Crispin. “Why did they put him in the cage? That is absurd!”
“Indeed it is,” said Beata, handing him the paper to sign.
Crispin snorted. “As if he would ever have stolen that ring … he’s too damned keen on the letter of the law, as I know to my cost. And I’ll tell you another thing, Beata; you think I haven’t got much in the way of brains, and maybe you’re right, but if he had wanted to revenge himself on his uncle, he could have milked the estate’s rent-roll, and no-one would ever have noticed.”
Rocca! thought Beata. Crispin does suspect that that’s what Rocca’s been doing, and it’s preying on his mind.
“Of course he could,” she said, in a soothing voice. “That is, if he’d been that sort of man. You are clever, Crispin!” She set the quill in his hand. Then she remembered the advice Gervase had once given her, to flatter Crispin if you wanted him to do something – advice which Gervase himself had never been able to follow – and she smiled as Crispin scratched his name on the document which would free her lover.
“I’m not all that clever,” said Crispin, holding the pass out to Varons. “But when I set my mind to a matter, I can usually puzzle it out. He’s an honest man, and my friend. He’ll get me out of this marriage, if anyone can.”
“Oh, be quick!” said Beata to Varons.
He nodded, and was gone. Beata paced the floor, wrapped in her cloak. Crispin stared into the fire, and though he had picked up his goblet once more, he did not refill it.
Presently there was a stir at the door, and Varons came in, followed by a tall bareheaded figure.
Beata said, “Greetings, Lord Escot.”
Chapter Thirteen
Crispin stared, first at Beata, and then at Gervase. “Lord Escot? Why, so he is! I never thought of that!”
Gervase put out a hand to steady himself against the wall … but the wall was too far away, and his hand grasped only at the air. A small sound escaped Beata’s throat; a sob, perhaps … perhaps a laugh. She took off her cloak, and gave it to Gervase. Then she extracted the goblet from Crispin’s hand, refilled it with wine, and handed that also to Gervase. He looked steadily into her eyes as he took the goblet; then bowed his thanks, and drank.
Gervase said to himself, “This is not happening to me. I am not really here, standing barefoot in Crispin’s bedchamber. I was never in the cage. Perhaps I am dead already. Perhaps it is all a dream.”
But the goblet was a reality, the wine in it catching the light as he lifted it to his lips and drank, and it burned down inside him, reminding him that he had not eaten that day … was it still the same day, the day of Lord Henry’s return? There was no time in the cage, only timeless agony. …
“Did you not guess, Crispin?” Beata was talking to give Gervase time to recover. He tried to follow what she was saying, because she had mentioned his uncle’s name. She was saying something about his aunt’s pregnancy.
“But she is not pregnant!” Crispin said.
“That is the point,” replied Beata. “I could see she was not … and I counted on my fingers, and thought it just possible she might have borne a child already, so I made Joan ask her whether she had been brought to bed of a boy or a girl.”
“She had a girl? That is why the title passes to Master William … Sir Gervase Escot, I should say?”
“She was
never pregnant,” said Beata, smiling. “She admitted it quite freely. She said it had been a ‘mistake’. She said that men would do anything for you – especially elderly husbands – if you told them they were about to become a father. And everyone laughed, as she had intended they should. It gives me pleasure to think that a widow can only retain one third of her husband’s property, and that the rest must pass to his heir … to Sir Gervase Escot … with the title.”
“But how does that help me?” asked Crispin. “Master William – Lord Escot, I should say – the devil with this tangle! Listen, man! I got you out of gaol because Beata said you could help rid us of Sir Bertrand. If you will do this for me, I will …” he gestured widely. “Whatever you wish! Can you do it?”
Gervase looked at Beata. He was tired, so tired that he could barely stand upright. The cage had set its mark on him in more ways than one. There was dirt on his cheek, and the palms of his hands were scored where he had clutched at the bars … his feet were grazed and bleeding. His eyelids dropped. She was asking too much of him … and yet had she not a right to ask? Would he not still be in that infernal cage, if it were not for her? He knew how highly to evaluate Crispin’s aid.
He said, “I cannot prove that Sir Bertrand gave false evidence against me, but I think I can prove that he was behind the attempt to kill me, afterwards. If you challenge him with this, and have witnesses by you at the time, he will very likely betray himself. He is not a man who thinks quickly, and he will not be expecting a challenge.”
“I might be able to draw the truth out of him,” said Beata. “The man is a lecher. One look at him told me that. If I can get him alone – or what he thinks is alone – with witnesses hidden nearby. If I could get him to make love to me, and then Crispin could jump out, and charge him with being false in more ways than one. …”