Longsword (13 page)

“You are needed here.” Varson touched Gervase on the arm, and indicated they should take the stairs to the battlements. “Jaclin is greatly improved, though not as much as he believes. You have checked Rocca simply by being on your guard, by watching him … the affairs of the castle run smoothly. Telfer is heard to defer to your judgment, and my Lord Crispin has grown to depend on you. Then there are all the preparations for the tourney, and the masque. These things are not within Telfer's sphere … without you they would fail.”

“No-one is indispensable.”

“I am in two minds about that. If I were gone, I know very well what would happen to my idle, good-for-nothing men-at-arms … a sloppy, ill-mannered crowd of louts at the best of times, and without me at their back. …” He spread his hands.

“And without me?” Gervase smiled his twisted smile. “Not much would be altered, I think. There is a clerk under me who, with a little more training, would do very well.”

“And Jaclin? You have kept him usefully employed for two months or more; without you he would have no chance at all in the lists at Christmas. As it is, he does you credit.”

“No, he does not do me credit. You have a lad or two in your garrison who has an instinctive idea of what he is about, but young Jaclin lacks innate skill. I can teach him a trick here and there, but I cannot give him the gift of timing his actions, of adapting. He throws a lance, and his aim is true, but his arm is stiff. He hits the target four times out of five now, but to succeed in the tourney he must hit it five times out of five, for in the hour of trial there will be so many distractions as must dishearten him. Above all, he has no sense of discipline. He practises hard for an hour, and then despairs. He will try and try again, but lacking that one vital ingredient of perseverance, will not try the twentieth time and the thirtieth. And then perhaps he will not practise at all for three or four days. No, I do not look for him to do very well.”

“He talks of entering the lists in Crispin's little army of knights, to tilt against those headed by Sir Bertrand.”

“He will keep his seat in a melee, unless he is very unlucky. It is in the single combats that I fear for him. He cannot imagine being defeated, yet I cannot envisage him standing up to a man of experience.”

“He has the family hot temper.”

“As witness our recent bout.” They grinned at each other, and paced on together, talking of arrangements for the tourney. Gervase felt sure that Varons would not betray him … or not betray him wittingly. Too many people knew his secret. And what would happen when Sir Bertrand arrived? Would he recognise Gervase?

“I wonder if I should go before Lord Henry arrives.”

Gervase and Telfer were sitting together after supper one evening. Outside a storm raged. It had been pounding at the castle all day, stopping work on the stands which were being erected along the length of the tiltyard, and even preventing workmen from adding the finishing touches to the new kitchen which had been built in the outermost courtyard, to feed the horde of invited guests and their retainers. On the table between the two men lay a flagon of wine, goblets, and a dish of nuts. Under these lay a medley of papers and reports on which they had been working.

Gervase took off his coif, and smoothed back his hair. Soon he would have to have his hair cut, or it would peep out from under the back of his cap.

“Does that gown chafe you?” said Telfer. “Is that why you wish to leave?”

“No, I am grown accustomed to the gown. But the cap and coif irritate me. I was always wont to go bareheaded.”

“A tall-tale,” said Telfer, his eyes on Gervase's hair, so many shades darker than his beard.

“Too many men to tell tales,” said Gervase, speaking lightly. “Varons knows, and you know, and I would take my oath on it that Master Thomas the clerk knows. …”

“And who is to tell the tale on you? Not I, or Varons … nor Master Thomas, either, unless I miss my guess. We all wish you well. Who does not? Do not affairs run as smoothly now, as when Hamo was in his prime?”

“On the surface, maybe.”

“You find it humiliating to take Lord Crispin's orders?”

“Some of his commands are unwelcome, and yet I am accustomed to taking orders which do not please me. I appreciate his dilemma. I think I am even a little sorry for him.”

They were silent awhile. The wind redoubled its efforts to break into the castle, and somewhere not far away a shutter banged against a wall. In the round tower Crispin's only son and heir, the deaf and dumb child, lay in the throes of a fever. Lady Joan wept and ate, drank and wept, while the child was nursed by Beata. Crispin went in and out, uncertain whether to hope that his son would live, or to wish he might die.

“If the child dies, and surely only the strength of the Lady Beata holds him here still,” said Telfer, “then we must look for further changes. My lord will undoubtedly wish to repudiate the Lady Joan, who has proved a bad bargain as a wife. …”

“Apart from the manors she brought him by way of dowry,” murmured Gervase.

“I believe the church would support him in a divorce,” Telfer nodded. “Father Anthony seems to think so, anyway.”

“With the Lady Beata about to be received into their arms,” said Gervase, “bearing her enormous dowry with her … why should the church not agree?”

“If only the Lady Joan will go quietly! I fear she may tell her woes to her kinsman, Sir Bertrand. Suppose he take her part?”

“What, when he is so soon to be allied to this house by marriage himself? Surely he would not be so foolish.”

“Hamo never thought Sir Bertrand wished for the match, until Lord Henry pressed it. Of course it is a good marriage for Sir Bertrand, but Hamo said there was talk at Ware about Sir Bertrand and another lady …?”

Gervase sighed. “Telfer, I wish I knew the truth of that matter. Yes, there was talk. It seemed to me then, and to others about the place, that my very new and very experienced aunt, Lady Escot, had a habit of familiarity with her cousin, Sir Bertrand, that was … suggestive. There was no proof that they had had carnal intercourse. She was already a widow when my uncle courted her. There was no good reason why she should not have married Sir Bertrand instead … save that they were cousins. Yet it is not unusual for cousins to obtain a dispensation, in order to marry. Perhaps … I thought she might be a couple of years older than he … and he would know that, and wish for a younger wife, who would bear him children. My aunt's first marriage had proved barren … perhaps it was that which kept them apart. …”

Telfer nursed his goblet, resting one ankle over the knee of his other leg. He was a wise old bird, thought Gervase, rather like an owl. If Telfer had been at Ware when Gervase had been accused of theft. … How absurd that charge was … had not Gervase handled all the money for the estate every year, without any of it sticking to his fingers?

“Looking back,” said Gervase, “I see that I should have cut my losses and departed when my uncle married. I resented the marriage, and though I would not let the servants speak against my aunt in front of me, I probably did show my feelings. And yet what right did I have to resent it, even though my uncle had promised I would be his heir? Did he not have every right to marry and get himself an heir of his own loins? I only wish that I had not parted from him under such circumstances as must lead him to think of me with anger … or regret. Possibly he may regret my going … he was fond of me, in his way. His anger never lasted long. …”

“I do not think I could forgive a charge against my honesty.”

“He is a foolish old man. … If it had not been for Sir Bertrand, I am sure I could have made him see sense … questioned the servants … found out how the ring got in my pouch. Then I could have gone from him, without feeling that I had to carry a shameful secret around with me.”

Telfer sat up with unusual energy. “You are not thinking of going back … of challenging Sir Bertrand for the truth? That would be worse than folly. The man is so well entrenched there, has taken over all your duties … your uncle ailing, your aunt the only one who sees him. No, no. You must not think of it. You have made a new life for yourself. You are valued here, as you were never valued at Ware. This is where you belong.”

“Do I really do any good here? Have I succeeded in lifting the yoke of Rocca from the peasants? Have I gained Crispin's confidence? No and no. Master Thomas could do what I do.”

“No, he could not. There is some quality in you, Gervase Escot, which makes men hold themselves straighter when you speak to them. You expect them to show you their best side, and so they do. They see that you yourself would never behave boorishly, and so in your presence they shade their own behaviour – not by much, but a little. Enough. Consider Jaclin!”

Gervase smiled his crooked smile. “You think he behaves better when I am by? Swears less? Bullies less?”

“Hamo said you would make a jest of anything. You must be more careful. You make people laugh, and they go away with a smile on their lips, and the world seems a brighter place for a while.”

“That is dangerous?”

“It is dangerous for you, because those who do not laugh feel shut out, and the devil works in them, causing them to envy you, and the good terms you are on with the family here.”

“Rocca …!”

“My Lord Crispin smiles when he speaks of you. He would, I think, be rid of Rocca if he knew how. Crispin is not a wicked man, and he is uneasy when he does wrong. The trouble is that he thought he was doing a clever thing by accepting the Michaelmas dues direct from Rocca, instead of keeping them for his father; but in doing so he has not only earned his father's wrath, but also put himself – to some extent – in Rocca's power. He begins to suspect, perhaps, that Rocca is a far greater villain than he had thought. He dislikes the idea of being tied to Rocca and yet how can he be rid of the man who has done so much for him? Rocca was appointed bailiff against Lord Henry's wishes, remember … and against Hamo's advice. How can Crispin now acknowledge that he made a mistake?”

Gervase rose and opened the shutter over the window. By leaning out he could catch sight of the windows in the round tower nearby. There was a light still burning in the chamber where the deaf and dumb boy fought for his life … with Beata holding him, bathing his forehead, caressing him all the time … how many days since she had walked in the sunlight, ridden out into the country?

Gervase leaned his forehead against the edge of the shutter for a moment before closing it once more. He felt dull and heavy. For some reason he had been thinking much of his uncle of late, remembering the bluff manner which concealed kindness, Lord Escot's hearty sneezes, and his loud laughter. …

“I am poor company tonight, I fear,” he said to Telfer. Telfer continued to massage his right ankle, and look into space. There was a feeling of tension in the air. Gervase believed it came from him, and did not blame Telfer for it. Beata: her courage, her wildness in grief, and rebellion – her love for Hamo and for her father, a father who had disposed of her life as casually as Crispin had thought to dispose of the dog, Flash.

Flash lay snoring in a corner now, but Beata. … Gervase felt an unfamiliar black hole open up around him. He despised those who wallowed in self-pity. He told himself that it would help no-one – and certainly not himself – to be seen to grieve. And yet he grieved. At last Telfer departed to his own room.

Gervase resumed his coif and cap, drew a cloak around him, and went to walk up on the battlements. The men were accustomed to seeing him there, either with Varons, or alone. Now and then heads turned as he passed, and he would exchange a word with the sentries.

He leaned on the wall, overlooking the sleeping countryside, and thought about Telfer. That quiet man knew of Gervase's love for the Lady Beata. Nothing had been said of it – nothing could be said of it – and yet Gervase had been aware for some time that Telfer knew. A lifted eyebrow, a hesitation, and all was clear; for men that work closely together hour after hour, day after day, develop forms of communication other than speech.

Yes, Telfer knew. It eased Gervase's troubled mind a little, to know that Telfer knew, and to a certain extent understood. It was some solace to him that Telfer wished Gervase to stay on at the castle, felt that he had found a place for himself where he might be of some use in the world.

It was Beata who was lost, without a place. A word here, an outburst of angry grief there, and to one who watched and listened as closely as Gervase watched and listened, the truth was easy to come at. He even divined the reason why she spent all her energies on saving the life of a child whom no-one else – not even his mother – thought worth preserving. Beata was daring all, risking all, spending herself because only thus could she keep at bay the thought of what was to be … the thought that she could not face, the future she could not contemplate. And yet she would have to bring herself to do so, sometime.

And yet … although he felt his own life was without purpose if she went … why did he suddenly think of his uncle, bending to give a small boy an apple? Beata … his uncle … Hamo. … Life was a dark affair, indeed.

“It is very pleasant to be admired,” said Elaine, trying the effect of a ruby ring on her forefinger.

“Yes,” said Beata. She was sitting on their bed, with her knees to her chin, and her arms clasped round her ankles. She looked ill, and though she was pale it seemed that the fever had passed from the dying child to her eyes, for they burned and sparkled as surely they had never done before.

“Oh, I didn't mean you,” said Elaine, laughing, and throwing a kiss at her sister. “I ought not to boast, to you!”

She did not mean to be unkind. Whatever else she was – shallow, selfish and ignorant – Elaine was a kind-hearted girl, and not nearly as spoiled by her elevation to the role of Queen of Beauty as many another girl might have been. Only she was so accustomed to thinking of herself as beautiful and sought after, that she never thought her dark, busy little sister might also be admired. Lord Henry had often congratulated himself on his decision to dedicate the smaller and darker of his twin babes to the church, for who could have justified for existence as a marriageable daughter better than Elaine?