Longsword

by Veronica Heley

  And the crowd stamped and shouted till it seemed the timbers of the building must surely fail, and fall.

  Beata was on her feet. By her side Lord Henry sat smiling, with a tinge of colour in his sunken cheeks. Beyond them Elaine, with tears on her face, laughed and clapped her hands. Beata ran round her chair and caught her sister up in her arms.

  The cheers died away at last, for it seemed the two knights were having some converse. No-one was near enough to hear what they said. People shushed one another, and nudged and pointed to where Lord Henry was leaning forward, calling for the victor. Then Sir Bertrand, released from his durance, picked up his sword and handed it to the man who had defeated him … and walked away down the length of the hall leaving his destrier for the victor.

  Gervase did not remove his helmet, even now. He walked slowly to the centre of the stand, and bent his knee to listen to Lord Henry’s congratulations. Then Elaine loosed the garland from her hair, and threw it down to him. He caught it on the tip of Sir Bertrand’s sword, and bowed his thanks. And Beata, laughing, put her own garland to her lips before throwing that down, too … and this made everyone shout and yell and scream with laughter all over again. Now Gervase had two wreaths, one on either sword. He bowed again, and stepped back.

  Berit had brought up the destrier, and gave Gervase a leg up into the saddle. He rode off with the two swords over his arm.

  “Who would have thought the lad had it in him?” said Lord Henry. “Well, he is my heir, now. I shall have to acknowledge him … have him recognised as my son.” Suddenly he was an old man.

  Beata stopped smiling. She caught Telfer’s eye, and then saw that Varons was also looking at her, and both were worried. In their eyes she saw that they too knew it had not been Jaclin who had fought Sir Bertrand. She looked at Elaine, and Elaine was saying something about going to see how Crispin was. So Elaine had not guessed.

  “Why, Father,” said Beata. “Jaclin deserves your love, it is true … but as to being your heir. …”

  “Do not be greedy, girl,” replied Lord Henry. “The church is satisfied with the dowry I have arranged to give with you, so do not hanker for Crispin’s portion as well.”

  “It is not that, but. …”

  Telfer said, “My lord is ill?” He came forward to give Lord Henry his arm. Beata looked into her father’s face, and was silent. This was no time to deal an old man further blows.

  “The masque must be cancelled,” said Lord Henry. “When we are returned to the hall … I am a little tired, I find. I will go and rest a while. Telfer: make the announcement about my son’s death. See to everything … he must lie in state in the chapel until such time as. …”

  “May I suggest that this is no time for weddings, my lord?” Telfer’s eyes were going from Beata to Elaine and back to Sir Henry.

  “We will postpone Elaine’s wedding for a couple of days … understandable, in view of family grief.” He groped for Beata’s arm. “Our guests shall still have their feast tonight, eh? And we shall show them all what we think of young Jaclin … hiding his light under a bushel … such skill … and the only one of you who could stand up to Sir Bertrand, with the exception of Crispin. Crispin. …” His smile was back on his face as he began to pass by his guests, bowing here and there, but leaning heavily on Beata’s arm. “Crispin would have enjoyed the jousting today, wouldn’t he …?”

  Beata saw her father to his chamber, told her nurse to fetch same salves from the infirmary, and fled downstairs and up again, bursting into Jaclin’s room before Varons could prevent her.

  “Fool!” she said, forestalling his protest. “Did you think I would not know him?”

  Gervase was being helped off with his chainmail and shirt, revealing a bad graze on the back of his left shoulder, and sundry other bruises.

  “Show me your hands!” commanded Beata. He held them out, palms up, and she bit her lip. Although he had worn gloves the cuts and grazes inflicted by the bars of the cage had been re-opened in the fight. She swooped on the bowl and towel that Berit was holding, giving the sleeping figure of Jaclin a cursory glance as she set to work on Gervase’s hurts.

  “Is he sick, or drunk?”

  “Drunk,” said Varons. “Lady, it is not seemly that you be here. …”

  “Enough!” said Beata, setting her teeth as she worked on Gervase’s hands. “Have I not nursed him before, and no harm befell either of us?”

  “I would not agree … as to there being no harm done,” said Gervases, smiling and wincing. “Yet you need have no fear, Varons.”

  “No, indeed!” she said. “What is more, Varons, my father wants you in his chamber, to make arrangements for my brother’s lying in state in the chapel. The masque is cancelled; there will be no dancing tonight. We shall have to devise some other entertainment for the company.”

  “I can devise an entertainment, if Varons will assist me,” said Gervase. “Berit, too … if you have no other pressing duties. First you must see to your master, that goes without saying. But if you will come to me after, in the infirmary. …”

  “I would take service with you, if I may,” Berit suggested.

  “Why, Berit!” said Gervase. “I had not thought … it might be, I suppose, if. … No! You do not know what. …”

  “Yes, my lord; I do. I know all about it. I caught some of Rocca’s whispers a while ago, and then I asked a pedlar who passes through Ware twice a year, and a servant of the wool merchant who buys fleeces from here and from Ware … and I soon learned the rest. My lord, you should have killed Sir Bertrand when you had the chance. …”

  “I nearly did,” said Gervase. “Tell me, what was it that you learned from your friends?”

  “That you came across your aunt and her cousin in bed one day when your uncle was out hunting, and that they drove you out so that you should not denounce them. The other tale was even better … that your aunt climbed into your bed one night, instead of her husband’s, and that you threw her out … and therefore she plotted revenge. …”

  “Christ have mercy!” gasped Gervase, growing red in the face.

  Varons slapped his thigh. “What, was there some truth in the rumours?”

  Beata started to giggle. Berit grinned. “You know, my lord, I didn’t believe those stories at first, you were so peaky and quiet … but now I’m not so sure!”

  “Neither am I,” said Beata, openly laughing. Then she sobered, seeing that Gervase was really embarrassed. “However it was, Gervase … whether it was simple jealousy on her part, or whatever … it is clear that no-one believes you stole that ring. Will you not make a push to recover your inheritance, perhaps by petitioning the King?”

  “There might be a way,” replied Gervase. “Varons. …”

  “I must go,” said Varons. “But I will return.”

  Beata spoke urgently. “Quick, before you go! My father must be told it was not Jaclin who performed so well in the lists. I began to tell him, but he checked me, thinking I was jealous of Jaclin. Now Crispin is dead, my father thinks to set Jaclin in Crispin’s place as his heir.”

  “That is his right, surely,” said Varons, with a troubled look at the supine figure of Jaclin. “Yet Jaclin will be a difficult master to serve.”

  “You accept it?” Beata took the salves from her nurse, who now came panting in. “You would let my father continue to believe that it was Jaclin who performed such feats of arms?”

  “Lady, I dare not tell him how we have disobeyed his orders … or not at present, anyway.” He bowed and went out.

  “You must have fresh clothes,” said Beata, bandaging Gervase’s hands.

  “I will fetch him whatever he needs from my Lord Crispin’s wardrobe,” said Berit. “Fear not, he shall have everything he requires.”

  “Not everything,” said Beata, low down. She helped Gervase on with a clean shirt, and then stood back, lacing her hands before her. “Gervase, when you were down there, I prayed to God that you might be saved, and praying, I offered the on
ly thing I had to give – that I would go into the convent willingly.”

  He gave her his twisted smile. “You will be abbess yet.”

  “My lady.” The nurse pulled at her arm. “Your father has sent pages out to seek you. The abbot wishes to rehearse for your robing on the morrow.”

  “It is not to be postponed, then?” Her voice was high and thin. “I had hoped for a few days more, in view of Crispin’s … ah well, now I know how hard it is going to be.” She closed her eyes and clenched her fists, raising them to her forehead, shaking her head. “I can do it,” she declared, opening her eyes, and lowering her hands. “I will do it.”

  “With God’s help,” said Gervase, still smiling that twisted smile.

  “Surely I need some help,” she agreed.

  “My lady …!” Again the nurse twitched at her arm.

  With a cry Beata leaped forward to be caught up in Gervase’s arms. She clung to him, arms round his neck, lifting her face, lip to lip, cheek to cheek, murmuring endearments, her hands in his hair, at the back of his neck, his arms closing around her as if they could never be torn apart … both with their eyes closed, breath coming sharply, and as sharply released. One last kiss, slowly, with gentleness. …

  She smiled. She blinked. Her eyes were shining, but she shed no tears. She took a step back … or perhaps it was he that set her from him. He did not smile, but he showed no sign of distress either. Only the watchful care of his eyes belied assumed indifference.

  “Surely God will not grudge me one kiss,” she said. And then turned and left him.

  The afternoon was drawing into dusk when Jaclin woke. He was alone and he felt extremely ill. Presently he was able to pull on some clothes and stagger out. A man-at-arms jumped to attention and saluted the Malling “champion”. He had been set there by Varons hours ago to prevent anyone going into Jaclin’s room, for it had been decided to keep up the deception as long as possible.

  “What’s o’clock?” Jaclin screwed up his eyes. “What’s that bell tolling?”

  “My Lord Crispin died this morning.”

  Like everyone else in the castle, Jaclin thought first of what this might mean to him personally, and then, because he was not bad at heart, he thought of Lord Henry.

  “My Lord Henry ordered that you be taken to him when you woke, to receive his congratulations on defeating Sir Bertrand. …”

  Jaclin rubbed the back of his neck and frowned. He was trying to remember what it was he had been engaged in before he fell asleep. He was uneasily conscious that he had been about to do something important, but the fog in his brain was so dense that for the life of him he could not recall whether he had actually … he shook his head, and groaned. That wine …!

  He stumbled down the stairs after the man-at-arms. The company were sitting down to meat, but tonight no dancers disported themselves in the body of the hall, nor jesters made merry. Tonight the musicians played doleful airs in minor keys, the drink flowed less freely, and even the conversation was muted. The abbot sat in Crispin’s place, and at the end of the high table a cluster of black-clad nuns ate their meal in silence.

  Jaclin would have made his way round the side of the hall to the dais, going behind the tables at which the castle retainers and guests’ servants sat, but the man-at-arms led him across the hall to stand before the high table. There Lord Henry sat, clad in black, and on either side of him were his daughters, wearing black mantles over their golden gowns, and with filmy black veils attached to the gold fillets around their heads. Joan was not there, but Sir Bertrand was – shifting now and then to ease his bruises – and beyond Sir Bertrand sat Lady Escot, all solicitude for his hurts.

  “Welcome!” Thrice Lord Henry clapped his hands, and there was silence as Jaclin collected his wits and bowed. “Welcome, Champion of Malling!”

  “My lord jests,” stammered Jaclin, going red.

  “Indeed he does,” said Beata. “For where is our champion’s long sword and why does he not wear our golden leaves on his head?”

  “I … leaves? My sword: well, I did look for it, but it was not in my room.”

  “And what of Crispin’s sapphire?” said Beata. “I do not see that, either.”

  “Crispin’s ring?” His voice rose to a squeak. “I have it not! Am I still asleep …?”

  “Asleep?” said Lord Henry, and his voice was sharp.

  A fist crashed among the platters. Sir Bertrand pushed back his chair and stood, pointing to Jaclin. “That was not the man I fought. The voice, the hands … the height, even …!”

  There was a buzz around the hall, quickly stilled. Lord Henry’s eyelids dropped, as did the corners of his mouth. Jaclin backed away towards the wall, saying, “What the devil is going on?”

  Lord Henry’s eyes burned. “Beata … if it was not Jaclin … who was it?”

  She laughed. It was a sad little laugh; the laugh of one who finds her victory hollow. “Can you not guess, Father?”

  There was a fanfare from the musicians, and the double doors at the far end of the hall were thrown open. A roll on the drums and in the hush that followed Sir Bertrand’s destrier appeared, with a tall man seated on his back. The newcomer held his head high, sitting well down in the saddle, guiding his horse at walking pace down the centre of the hall. His dark red hair had been newly cut and washed, short over his forehead, and long over the nape of his neck. It glowed in the candlelight like burnished copper. He wore a fine leather tunic, and over it a silken surcoat of the greenish-blue men call “watchet”. On the forefinger of his right hand he wore Crispin’s ring, and at his side hung the long sword he had taken from Jaclin. If anyone had further need of identification, it would be satisfied by the sight of two garlands of gold leaves which the newcomer carried on the shaft of his lance, upright in his right hand, with the butt resting on his stirrup.

  Beata placed her right hand on her father’s left, and felt him start. She looked sideways at the abbot who continued to eat, but whose eyes rolled in her direction, and then fastened again on Gervase. She looked beyond the abbot to where Sir Bertrand was standing with his hands flat on the table before him, his mouth open … and behind him to Lady Escot, who had spilt her wine and whose hands trembled as she dabbed at her mouth with a napkin.

  Gervase looked neither to right nor left, but held Lord Henry’s eyes. He knew that his case would stand or fall by what that dread lord might decide. Eye met eye: black eye and eye of golden yellow, and each eye noted the strength of the other’s, taking in the harsh set of lips and the will-power betokened by jut of nose and chin.

  Neither seemed to look away from the other, yet both were aware of men-at-arms passing around the hall, singling out a man here and a woman there, and taking them away.

  “Has Varons betrayed me, then?” said Lord Henry, speaking to Beata, but continuing to look at Gervase. “Robing or no, you shall be whipped for this.”

  “Strangely enough,” she replied, equally low, “this was not my idea … and Varons has certainly not betrayed you.”

  Gervase stopped before the dais, and lowered the tip of his lance so that the two garlands of gold leaves slid onto the table before Lord Henry.

  “I come to claim my prize, Lord Henry!”

  “As Champion of Mailing you are welcome, Lord Escot,” replied Lord Henry. “State what you require by way of guerdon for defending my honour, and you shall have it. You shall have no more and no less than is your due.”

  Gervase bowed. He set his lance upright once more, and for the first time his eye went along the faces at the high table.

  “Then I would ask that you allow me to present a mumming play for your entertainment. It shall tell of love and blood and honour … it was a tale in which your son was interested, which he wished to present to you himself. As I wear his ring, I would carry out his wishes.”

  There was a pause, in which black eyes met golden, and neither would swerve.

  “This is no court of law,” said Lord Henry at last. “Yet I will n
ot refuse you your wish. You shall set forth your entertainment, and my guests shall choose whether they wish to watch it or no.”

  At this Lady Escot rose and would have left her place, but that a man-at-arms appeared behind her chair, blocking her way. Another went to stand behind Sir Bertrand, though to give him due, that bold knight had made no attempt to leave.

  “This is monstrous!” said Lady Escot, her voice cracking. “Have we not Lord Henry’s permission to withdraw?”

  “Would you be so discourteous as to leave an entertainment which he presents to his guests?” asked Gervase. “Or have you, perhaps, something to fear if you stay to hear … what there is to hear?”

  “Why should I be afraid?” retorted Lady Escot, a tinge of colour coming into her cheeks. She re-seated herself, and tossed her head, as if to say that nothing Gervase did was worthy of her attention.

  Lord Henry looked at Lady Escot. He looked long and hard. He had presided over many a court in his time, and knew that the woman was lying when she said she was not afraid. It was plain to any man of experience in such matters that Lady Escot had something to hide. Lord Henry reviewed his past conduct, which had assumed Gervase Escot’s guilt. He looked at the pale, trembling woman, and he looked at Sir Bertrand who was smiling and cracking nuts – but Sir Bertrand’s smile was too fixed to be natural, and his colour a trifle too high. Then Lord Henry looked back at Gervase. At that moment Lord Henry would have given much to have been able to stop the proceedings. Too much, however, had been said … he had been outwitted by that implacable man on the destrier. Yes, implacable. Gervase Escot could not be stopped.

  Lord Henry said, “You have my permission to proceed.”

  Gervase shifted in the saddle, and now he was facing Sir Bertrand. “In the lists this morning I bade you, Sir Bertrand, yield yourself my prisoner. This you did, swearing a solemn oath that you would faithfully perform the task I would set you at supper this evening. I call on you now to fulfil that vow. Tell us what you know of the stealing of Lord Escot’s ring at Ware, in July this year.”