Longsword (12 page)

“You think he squeezed the peasants to give the same high return this Michaelmas as if there had been a good harvest. You think he did it to curry favour with your father – or your brother?”

“Yes. Also, there have been tales of villeins fleeing our lands, which never was the case before, and each one that goes reduces the rent roll … and I know Rocca boasts of having put down seditious talk among the peasants with severity. I may be wrong, but I think he confuses ‘grumbling' with ‘sedition', in order that none dare speak against him, or petition my father for leniency. There are whispers among my folk at the Glebe Farm about Rocca, but they will not talk freely, even to me. They seem to think Rocca all-powerful. He is supposed to have been promised the management of the Glebe Farm, in addition to those he already has, when I go into the convent. I do not think my father has given him this promise, but Crispin might have done so. This worries me; the Glebe was part of my great-grandmother's dowry and the profits have always been devoted by the women of our family to charitable purposes. I suppose Crispin will say that he will gladly set aside an equal amount from the ordinary revenues, to be spent on charity, but it is not the same thing as having control of the finances myself … and I suppose he could also say that there will be no-one to administer the affairs of the Glebe properly when I am gone, and that Rocca will have to do it in my stead. Joan will not do it, nor Elaine … if they can tell wheat from barley I should be surprised … or add a column of figures, or bully the miller, who will be honest only so long as he is in fear of my tongue. …” She caught herself up, and went out into the cloister, tying a veil over her hair, and fastening her cloak.

“Well, that is enough of my troubles. I must ride out to the Glebe today, for my reeve's eldest son is sick, and I promised to send him over some medicine last night, but then … something happened to prevent me. If I go straight away … there is a poor woman came in last night; she is still in labour this morning, and the midwife in the throes of another case. …”

“Your hair is beautiful,” he said, following her, and speaking low. Her hands stilled, and her colour rose. Her eyelids drooped, yet she spoke no word to reprove him for his impertinence.

“Ah, there is Jaclin …” She turned from him, speaking sharply. “He is waiting for you, no doubt. I wish he had a feeling for the land. I am never so happy as when I ride out and about, but he … if only he could even read and write! But he is all for the tourney, and war. I suppose he has heard that Father intends to hold a tourney here at Christmas.” He exclaimed something. “Yes,” she said. “Jaclin intends to blood your sword prettily … that is exactly how he talks about it, as if it were a magic weapon, to ensure his conquering all in the lists. …”

“He is a fool.”

“Treat him gently, for my sake, if not for his own. He longs to be a great warrior, to have my father notice him, to be of importance in the world.”

“Hola, Master William! Why were you not in the tilt-yard this morning? Did I not tell you I wished to practise?” Jaclin grinned. “I hear you need to be chastised before you will obey orders – is that so?” He grasped Gervase's upper arm, and shook him. “Is … that … really … so?”

“Enough, Jaclin!” said Beata. “We ride out on business now. When Master William has an hour to spare. …”

“Will you not ride with me?” said Gervase to Jaclin. “We could practise in some private glade away from the eyes of the curious … and your knowledge of the country would help me to a better understanding of my duties.”

Jaclin smiled. Preening himself, he led the way to the stables, where the Lady Beata's horse was already saddled up, and a sorry-looking mule waited nearby for Gervase.

“You cannot ride that!” said Beata, to Gervase. “It was Hamo's, but it is so long since he rode out … he was ailing for over a year.”

Gervase put one long leg over the mule. The soles of both feet touched the ground. He looked around, collecting the attention of the grooms.

“Have you nothing a trifle higher off the ground?” he enquired, with no sign of ill-temper.

The head groom, laughing, allowed he might be able to supply something more in keeping with Gervase's height.

“Something good,” said Jaclin, fussing over the girths of his own horse. “He rides out with me, and I don't want him falling behind.”

The head groom, after enquiring if Gervase were accustomed to the saddle, produced a sluggish palfrey. Checking Beata's protest with a smile, Gervase said the palfrey would no doubt be excellent if he intended to amble along, writing letters on horseback, but as he wished to encompass two manors that day …?

A frenzied barking interrupted them, and Flash tumbled into the yard, tail oscillating. He flung himself on Gervase, who pulled his ears and disentangled the frayed end of rope which had been tied round the dog's collar.

“Oh, no!” groaned Beata. “Has he got free again?”

The head groom hid a smile. Jaclin stared. Gervase looked at the head groom, who kicked thoughtfully at a pebble. “Well?” said Gervase. “Are you going to give us away?”

“I will take him back to the Glebe with me,” said Beata.

“I doubt he will go willingly,” said Gervase, fondling the dog, who expressed his appreciation by rolling over on his back, with his legs in the air, wriggling and growling with mock ferocity.

“Fetch the roan,” said the head groom to one of his lads.

“And as to dogs … dogs come and go, and we don't take no notice of 'em … right?”

“The roan?” queried the stable lad.

“Yes,” said the head groom, smiling at Gervase. “The sooner Master William is out of my yard, the better … with all his party. …”

The roan was a good horse, and after a small difference of opinion with Gervase as to who was going to be master, suffered him to do as he wished. They rode west to the Glebe, where they left Beata, and then went on to the first of the outlying manors administered by Rocca. Jaclin became loquacious, pointing out this and that, condemning a neglected coppice here, and a tumbledown cot there. The eyes of the peasants were sullen as Gervase and Jaclin rode among them. They worked listlessly, and the ribs of their beasts of burden showed as sharp ridges through their hides.

“They all look half-starved to me,” said Gervase to Jaclin.

“They're a feckless lot,” replied Jaclin, shrugging. “Doubtless they've been drinking. Father Anthony says they're a den of sinners down here. Rocca's always complaining he can't get them to do a proper day's work.”

“An empty belly does tend to slow you down,” said Gervase. He slid off his horse to visit the mill, to which the peasants must take their corn to be ground. He came out looking thoughtful. “Not enough corn going through the mill to feed the sparrows! I thought this was supposed to be the most prosperous of the manors hereabouts … that is, according to the taxes levied last Michaelmas by Rocca. I see no signs of prosperity here, except. …” He pointed to a large house which was even now being extended by an extra wing. “Is that Rocca's house, by any chance?” It was. Gervase looked at the bailiff's house, and then looked at the lathe and plaster hovels that made up the rest of the hamlet.

“Come on!” urged Jaclin. “We're wasting time. There's a convenient glade in which to practise half a mile on.”

Stripped to the waist, Gervase tried to teach Jaclin how to throw the sword from hand to hand, and how to wield it with equal skill in either hand … and failed. Jaclin began to curse, and to become angry with Gervase who could manage it so easily.

“I am left-handed,” said Gervase, trying to explain.

“A sign of the devil in you,” snarled Jaclin.

“Then why seek to master the trick of it?”

“Because I want to be the best! I must triumph at the tourney at Christmas. My uncle shall give me the prize, and then I shall go to the wars, and earn fame and fortune. …”

Gervase put his head between his hands, fatigue immobilising him. He was too soon out of a sick-bed, too ill-equipped to teach a healthy young animal like Jaclin … and above all, he was out of sympathy with what Jaclin wanted to do.

“Surely your uncle needs you here, checking such creatures as Rocca …?”

“Such work is for peasants! Come, we will at it again!”

“I can do no more today,” said Gervase. “But tomorrow at dawn I will meet you in the tiltyard – or where you wish – before I commence the day's duties. And whenever I ride out, if you wish to come with me, we can take the opportunity of practising in secret. It may be some time before you are able to take on a fully-armed knight in combat.”

It was soon after dawn in the tiltyard. Jaclin, on horse-back, had been trying to hurl his lance through a ring which dangled from a chain above his head. Three times had he driven his horse past the ring, and three times failed to score. Now he beat at his horse until it reared, protesting at this ill-treatment.

“It is not the horse's fault,” said Gervase, growing angry. He threw off his cap and gown, and as Jaclin slid down from the horse, Gervase gentled the nervous animal with hand and voice. “You must ride parallel with the wall, and not at it,” said Gervase. “You are pulling the horse to the left at the last minute, and thus spoiling your aim. Also, I think you changed your grip at the moment you thrust forward. …”

“You think you could do better?” Jaclin's temper was mounting.

Without a word Gervase picked up the lance, mounted the horse, steadied him, and set off down the yard … steadying the lance, lifting it with elbow crooked, thrusting it at the ring, which did not even twitch as the weapon passed through, and then catching the lance again as he cantered forward.

“Bravo!” Captain Varons came out of the shadows, yawning, pulling his sword belt straight. “That was a neat trick.”

Gervase slid to the ground, biting his lip. He had not intended to show off like that … would not have done so if Jaclin had not nettled him, if he had thought there would be onlookers.

“A fluke, merely,” he said.

“I can do better than that!” Jaclin swaggered, drawing the long sword from its sheath, and making a sweep with it in the direction of Gervase. Jaclin laughed as Gervase jumped back, and swept in again with the sword, relishing the opportunity to make Gervase give ground … to wipe out the humiliating memory of his failure and the older man's success.

“Steady!” said Gervase, as the blade whistled past his head. He looked into Jaclin's eyes and saw there only the consciousness of power … the lad was going to hurt him, to pay him out. …

There was a shout from Varons, but little Jaclin cared. His lips were drawn back over his teeth, and he swung the sword with both hands. Again and again. And then there was the sharp smack of a stick connecting with a hand outstretched for it. Varons had thrown a pike to Gervase, who had caught it, and was now using it as a longstick, parrying Jaclin's blows at first, and then staying his advance, setting his own weight against that of the younger man, twisting and twirling the unwieldy-looking weapon between capable hands, thrusting at Jaclin's body now and then with the blunt – and never the spiked – end. Now Gervase was raining blows on Jaclin's ribs as if there were no weapon interposed between him and Jaclin, and Jaclin cried out and dropped his sword – Gervase's long sword – to the ground.

Varons looked at Gervase, and Gervase watched Jaclin, ready to resume the conflict if there were the slightest sign of more trouble. Then Jaclin said, breathlessly, that he thought Master William had learned his lesson, and went away with uncertain, heavy steps.

Gervase looked down at the pike in his hands, as if uncertain how it had got there. He was interested to see that he was not even breathing hard. His muscles had benefited from those daily bouts with Jaclin. He leaned the pike against the wall, and turned to thank Varons.

But Varons was staring at him, ruffling his thatch of grey hair. Gervase resumed his cap and gown, making conversation. He had an uneasy feeling that Varons had discovered the secret of “Master William's” identity.

“Do you mind – that is, do you remember the gate?” asked Varons.

Gervase gave him a blank, enquiring look. Yet he remembered the gate in the foreign town well – and the fight before it when the men under his command had been inextricably mixed with those who fought under another emblem – and the man with the thatch of thick black hair who had wielded a double-headed axe at his side.

“Gate?” he queried.

“Escot!” said Varons, snapping his fingers. “I thought I knew you. You remember how my sword broke, and you used a pike to cover me when I was down? I have often wondered what became of you. I would have sought you out to thank you, but we were moved on at dawn next day.”

Men were beginning to move about the castle. A groom took Jaclin's horse away. Flash arrived and sat on Gervase's feet, to attract his attention. Gervase bent to fondle the dog, thinking hard. Did Varons mean to give him away? Probably not. Men like Varons did not forget favours done them, although he, Gervase, had long forgotten the incident.

“Well?” said Gervase. “You may have heard that a man called Escot left Ware in the middle of the night, with the sheriffs after him. He had been falsely accused of robbing his uncle … and convicted. He could not prove his innocence, and while in prison, men came to kill him in the night, intent on making it look as if he had committed suicide – and so he fled.”

“Walk apart with me,” said Varons. He ruffled his hair, to help him think. “I believe you were innocent. You would not have stolen from your uncle. When the story was brought here, I said as much to Hamo. I will not give you away … but what happens when Sir Bertrand de Bors comes to Malling?”

“That is a question which is rarely out of my mind.”