Longsword

by Veronica Heley

  “Poor lad,” Gervase looked down on Jaclin. “Perhaps he would never have amounted to much, but this will surely finish him.”

  “Unless. …!” said Varons, turning on Gervase.

  “I would have liked him to have withstood a couple of charges from Sir Bertrand,” said Gervase. “I think he might have managed that, at least … though he could never have withstood the man on foot.”

  “Jaclin said you should have your sword back, if he was vanquished,” Varons reminded him.

  “So he did. Well, he had forgotten it would have to go to Sir Bertrand, if he lost.”

  “Here!” Varons seized the bowl of hot water and the razor for which the squire had been sent. “Off with that moustache! Strip! You are taller than Jaclin, of course, but then you are not so broad in the shoulder. Will the mailed mittens fit, that is the question! Move, man! Move!”

  Gervase took the razor which had been handed to him, looked at Varons, then at Berit, and put the razor down again. “You want me to take his place in the lists? I could not possibly. …”

  “Why not? Wearing a closed helm over a chainmail hood, nothing can be seen of your face … especially if you take off that moustache. Surely you can withstand a couple of passes on horseback in order that our house be not disgraced … and that Crispin, whose ring you wear, be avenged … and that your enemy shall learn you are not a cipher!”

  “Gerald might. …”

  “Do you think Gerald would be able to withstand Sir Bertrand? I tell you, you are the only man who can do it, and you are here to hand. Haste, man! At any moment now they will be sending for Jaclin. If you wear his surcoat over your armour … Berit here will cover all enquiries, for you must not speak. …”

  “No, this is folly! Such a deception is not honourable. If Lord Henry knew. …”

  “There is no time for that!”

  A wail from without took them by surprise. Varons and Gervase exchanged startled looks. That wail … from Crispin’s chamber, which was directly below. … Berit dashed to the door and flung it open. They could hear him clattering down the stairs.

  “I saw one of the doctors hurry towards the main gate as we came hither,” said Gervase. “I thought it odd at the time. Why should he leave, on foot, without a servant. …?”

  The woman’s wailing increased. Berit cried out, sharply. Then there was silence.

  “He went to the village for some herbs – of course!” said Varons, yet his voice lacked conviction.

  Berit’s feet dragged as he mounted the stairs. He came in and leaned against the wall, his head tipped back … he took in great gulps of air, with his eyes closed.

  “He’s … dead?” whispered Varons. “No, never!”

  Berit nodded, still beyond speech. His colour was bad. Gervase picked up the almost empty wine bottle, and held it to Berit’s mouth. The squire gulped, gagged and then drank. He took the bottle from Gervase, wiped his mouth, and threw his head back.

  “You will fight him for me,” he said.

  “For everyone!” Varons exclaimed.

  “There must have been some mishandling of the wound.” Gervase sighed. “A man can lose an eye, and be up and about the next day. I have seen it. Why did they not let Beata. …?”

  “There was talk of a sharpened lance,” said Berit.

  Gervase shook his head. “I do not think that is Sir Bertrand’s way. He is too proud a man to stoop to underhand means, where he expects to vanquish by strength. You should scotch that rumour. There is always talk of sharpened weapons, if a man is killed in the tourney.”

  Varons licked his lips. “It was that gold helm. He would have it! I will send for a plain helm for you to wear, Gervase … and anything else you require.’

  Gervase was silent. Berit moved to the door and went out, calling for a page. He could be heard giving orders, sending for the plain helmet. Then he came back in, lifted the bowl of water and the razor, and took them to Gervase.

  “Lord Henry will stop the tourney when he hears the news,” said Gervase, but he picked up the razor and began to shave off his moustache.

  “If he does; well and good. If he does not, then you will avenge us,” said Varons.

  “You have a higher opinion of my ability than I have myself,” said Gervase.

  One doctor – Crispin’s – had fled, but the other remained, and although in the absence of his rival the remaining doctor could easily lay all the blame for their noble patient’s death on the absconding physician, yet he was in no haste to do so. By the time that Gervase was armed, save for his helm, there was a rumour running through the castle that Lord Crispin was seriously ill or worse, but the physician had not as yet left the sick-room.

  The rumour left the keep with Gervase, and ran about the court as he checked the girths on the destrier that was waiting for him, and mounted. He wore a plain helmet … the very one he had admired in the armoury. Varons had told him that Lord Henry had been used to wear that helmet in tourneys in his youth. It was not a bad fit, though Gervase would have preferred a larger aperture for vision. Behind Gervase came Berit, carrying three lances and a shield bearing the Mailing arms. Varons walked at his side, inspecting the bright but blunted point of Gervase’s sword … the long sword that had swung at Jaclin’s side these last few months.

  Within the barn the company waited, growing restive. Two pairs of knights had entered the arena, and given but a poor account of themselves. Now Sir Bertrand sat in his pavilion, waiting for Jaclin to arrive. Sir Bertrand was very confident of himself this morning. He was a healthy, thoughtless animal, was Sir Bertrand; conscious of his good looks and his long-unbroken record of success in the tourney.

  Lord Henry addressed his daughters jointly. “You know your duty. You will smile on Sir Bertrand when you give him your ribbons, and you will also be gracious to him when you give him the golden garlands afterwards. We cannot expect Jaclin to run more than one lance, possibly two if he is lucky … and then I will announce that honour is satisfied, and we will bring the hour of the masque forward.”

  “I shall give Jaclin my ribbons,” said Beata. “In recognition of his courage in challenging the champion.”

  “I heard poor Crispin is unconscious,” said Elaine. “It seems wrong to be sitting here, enjoying ourselves, when he is so ill.”

  “Unconscious?” Beata asked, surprised. “I enquired of the doctors at the door of Crispin’s chamber this morning, and they said there was no cause for alarm.”

  “Even if there were,” pronounced Lord Henry, who had received later information than either of his daughters, “we should still do our duty. Heaven forbid that either of you should leave your seat before Jaclin is defeated.”

  “What has heaven got to do with it?” said Beata. Her tone was sullen, for Gervase was nowhere to be seen.

  Lord Henry’s physician entered the barn and approached the stairs leading to the balcony at the same time as Jaclin’s destrier came into view led by Berit, and with Varons in attendance. Sir Bertrand leapt to his feet, calling for his helm and struggling to pull the chainmail mittens which were made all in one with the sleeves, over his hands.

  “Jaclin has greatly improved,” said Lord Henry. “I had not noticed, before, how well he sits his horse.”

  “I wish this were over,” sighed Beata. She had looked beyond the horseman for Gervase, who must surely have come in with Jaclin, but she could not see him.

  The doctor was approaching along the balcony. Sir Bertrand, swearing, mounted his horse with a little difficulty, for he was a big man, and his armour was perhaps something heavier than that normally used for the tourney. The physician stopped beside Telfer, and began to whisper to him. Beata turned her head in an effort to hear what the physician was saying.

  “Attend to your duty,” said Lord Henry, rapping her on her hand.

  The two horsemen approached the centre of the balcony from opposite ends of the lists, but whereas Sir Bertrand still carried his helm under his arm, his opponent was already w
earing his.

  “Do you hide your face, lest we see how your lip quivers?” jeered Sir Bertrand.

  His opponent turned his head slightly to survey Sir Bertrand, and the jibe died on the big knight’s lips. Just so had Beata seen someone else turn his head to check an ill-advised remark. She had seen that turn of head used on Crispin when he was in a rage. She had seen it turned on her a dozen times.

  She half-rose in her seat, her face white. She feared she might be going to faint, though she never had, before.

  Telfer was whispering to Lord Henry, and she heard his words, though Elaine did not – though they were not meant for her to hear.

  Crispin was dead. Gervase had taken Jaclin’s place to avenge Crispin. Only last night Gervase had said that he had come to love Crispin … but what had happened to Jaclin? Had he given up his place to Gervase, as being the better swordsman of the two? Or … speculation dissolved into grief and fear, threatening to burst her head apart.

  Lord Henry sat as if he were all of one piece, without joints. He retained his smile, but something went out of his eyes … and when he came to walk back to the keep later on, it was seen that something had also gone out of his step. Beata waited, half-crouching … she waited for her father to give the order to cancel the jousting.

  He said, “We are waiting for you, Elaine. Throw Sir Bertrand your ribbons.”

  Elaine smiled down at Sir Bertrand, and threw the knot of ribbons. This time she threw straight. He caught it with a laugh, kissed it with an extravagant gesture, and wheeled round to return to his end of the lists. Beata dragged at the ribbons on her shoulder, and hesitated. She did not think she were capable of throwing anything straight at that moment. She knew her face was on fire. She leaned forward and threw the ribbons so that they fluttered out and down, and he caught them neatly, gracefully. Chainmail moulded itself to the wearer’s form, and the silk surcoat that he wore overall did little to disguise his lean strength.

  “He’s wearing my old helmet, I see,” remarked Lord Henry. “He could do worse, but I must see he’s fitted out with a new one. That tunic is barely long enough for him. I suppose the boy has grown while I’ve been away.” The sweat stood out on his brow, but he talked on. “What’s that … something blue … at his throat?”

  “Crispin’s sapphire ring, I think. Secured in the laces that hold the neck and hood together. Father, why don’t you stop the tourney? If Crispin is dead. …”

  “Crispin would have wished Jaclin to avenge him. I’m glad Jaclin is wearing Crispin’s ring. I didn’t know Crispin was so fond of the lad.”

  “He wasn’t. Do you mean that Sir Bertrand’s lance. …”

  “Was perhaps not as blunt as it ought to have been … though not so sharp as to enable me to bring a case against the man. Let Jaclin do what he can. I have no other heir but him.”

  She tried to still the trembling of her knees as she re-seated herself. She closed her eyes, her hands clenched. She felt as if she had swayed in her seat. She opened her eyes again. The ceiling of the barn seemed about to descend on her, dark and heavy … and that noise … the noise was not in her head, but came from the hooves of the two destriers cantering, and now galloping towards one another. He would be killed. She knew it.

  “Oh, God! Prevent it!” she prayed. “This is my punishment for denying you! Help me, help him, now! I would give anything for this not to have happened. … Crispin’s death … all my fault … I will give. …”

  Then she knew what she must give, and gave it gladly. She would go willingly into the convent, with a smile. It would be the hardest thing she could do, and she would do it.

  It was as if something had burst inside her head, leaving her calm after a long illness.

  I can do it, she said to herself … and two lances splintered on their opposing shields.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Both knights recoiled in their saddles, but both kept their seats. Both inspected their shields and threw them away.

  “Now this is worth watching!” said the abbot, nearby.

  And again, with new shields, crouching behind them … and Beata nearly shrieked, for she had remembered that Gervase was left-handed. Surely he could not hold the lance true for long with his right hand, and if he changed to his left, would it not handicap him, riding wide?

  The lances splintered true, and Lord Henry said, softly in her ear, “He is better than yesterday. Perhaps his nerves steady, rather than go to pieces, under stress.”

  “I think it very likely,” replied Beata. She thought, it is going to be all right. He did have some experience of tourneys before he went to France … I remember now. …

  The third time, Sir Bertrand became annoyed that a callow boy should have had the power twice to shatter his shield, and so he lifted the point of his lance, as he had done to Crispin. But this time his lance, instead of catching in the helm, scraped over the side of it, as the knight in Malling colours swayed in the saddle … and this time Sir Bertrand received a blow on his thigh from a lance which had struck him at a different angle, from a point which had been dropped, instead of raised. Sir Bertrand was nearly jolted from his saddle but cursing, dropping his lance, sawing at the reins, he pulled his horse to a standstill and jumped down. As he turned to face his opponent on the other side of the barrier, Sir Bertrand drew his sword and let out a battle cry.

  “A pity I must stop the fight now,” said Lord Henry. “But I cannot expect an unseasoned boy to meet Sir Bertrand on foot.”

  “I believe you might,” said Varons, bending over to speak in Lord Henry’s ear. “He has learned much from Master William.”

  Then Berit and Sir Bertrand’s esquire came running into the lists, to relieve their knights of shattered lances, and take away the two destriers. Sir Bertrand crashed through the barrier which divided him from his opponent and came forward, swinging his sword with both hands, and bellowing defiance. Sir Bertrand had lost his shield. Now the knight in Malling colours tossed his aside also.

  “Folly!” said Lord Henry. “He had the advantage, with his shield!”

  “Ah, but now he is free to use both hands,” Varons pointed out.

  “But he is not wearing mail on his hands!” said Lord Henry. “Varons, you should have seen to it that he was fitted out properly. One cut, and he is finished!”

  “He is wearing leather gloves,” said Beata, thinking of the damage a spell in the cage had done to Gervase’s hands and feet.

  “He knows what he is about.” Varons rebuked them both for want of faith.

  The two knights met with a crash of swords. Loud were the cries from the populace, some urging Sir Bertrand on, and some Sir Jaclin. Of the two men perhaps Sir Bertrand was the more popular with the crowd, for he had a reputation already as a champion in the lists and was about to marry the Lady Elaine. As for Jaclin, his truculence was well-remembered, and those who cried out for him at first were those who remembered only that he was of Malling blood, and was to avenge the spilling of Mailing blood.

  Swords clashed, disengaged, and clashed again. Sir Bertrand was the more heavily built of the two, and used all his weight as he struck. Gervase was a trifle taller and lighter on his feet. He thought more quickly, and more coolly. His control of his weapon was in every way superior to that of Sir Bertrand’s.

  Sir Bertrand began to grunt, but Gervase never made a sound as he circled and parried and struck. The first time his sword shot from right to left hand, in order to deliver a blow from an unexpected quarter, Sir Bertrand stared wildly, and gave ground.

  “There!” said Beata, pinching her father’s hand.

  “He has learned his lessons well,” agreed Lord Henry.

  “And there …” whispered Beata, more to herself than to him. Her eyes shone. Her breath was held … and released as Gervase swooped … and struck and ducked … and dodged another great blow. He changed hands again and attacked from a different angle … moving lightly around Sir Bertrand, forcing him to turn and change direction … turning
his mailed head from side to side, beginning to breathe hard and drag his feet.

  Then Sir Bertrand bellowed and charged at Gervase, forcing his opponent for once to give ground, back and back, with a fury of blows raining on him until Gervase, giving way a little too quickly, caught his spurred heel on some slight unevenness in the ground, and half-tripped, and half-fell. As he fell he rolled, but not quickly enough to avoid a blow on the back of his left shoulder which tore the silken surcoat apart.

  “Christ have mercy!” gasped Beata, clinging to her father’s arm.

  “I cannot stop them,” Lord Henry told her.

  “No,” said Beata. “I know … only … oh, Father! Pray for him!”

  Sir Bertrand, staggering a little, lifted his sword two-handed to deliver the coup de grace. But even as his sword descended Gervase was twisting out and away, so that coming up within Sir Bertrand’s arm, Gervase threw him off balance. The burly knight staggered, arms flailing, sword flashing.

  Now Gervase pounced on Sir Bertrand, delivering blows here and there, up and to the left … down and to the right, changing hands with such bewildering irregularity … so flashing the blade, so rapid the blows that it seemed there was an arc of steel before Sir Bertrand’s eyes.

  Sir Bertrand was driven against the barrier and checked, and in that moment of hesitation the point of Gervase’s sword was ripping up and into the rim of his helm, and his cap of steel went spinning off into the air, to fall with a rolling, echoing clang some distance away. The sword dropped from Sir Bertrand’s hand.

  The knight in Mailing colours took his own sword in both hands and raised it high, his arms above his head, the point reaching for Sir Bertrand’s unguarded eyes.

  “Kill!” said Lord Henry.

  A terrible hush lay on the people who watched. The knight in Malling colours brought his arms back, further. …

  “No” Beata spoke calmly and clearly. “Thou shalt not kill.”

  The man could not have heard her; he was too far away for that. But he lowered his sword till the point was resting on Sir Bertrand’s mailed breast, and leant on it, keeping his opponent pressed against the barrier.