Longsword (2 page)

“And what are poor discharged soldiers to do, then?” whined one.

“Work!” she cried, swinging one empty basket into the other.

“Give us alms, and we will go in peace,” said the leader, edging towards her round the table. His eyes were on the purse that swung from her girdle. Gervase cursed under his breath. To draw attention to himself by going to her aid would be to court disaster … his description would be only too easily recognised …

“Food ye have had in plenty,” said the girl, giving the baskets to her nurse. “No more can I give ye, and no more will I!”

“Shelter there is for women and children, but not for poor wounded soldiers?”

The woman and her two children had been ushered through the postern gate into the castle, and so had the man with the sore on his face, but the girl now barred the door to the beggars with her own person.

“My lady, shall I call for help?” The servant cowered against the wall, frightened at the beggars' threatening looks. “I told you we should have waited. …”

“Get ye within, nurse. I am coming. …”

The chief of the beggars caught her arm, and as she reached for her dagger, the second of the men grabbed her free hand, and twisted it up and away from her belt.

Gervase threw back his cloak and drew his sword, left-handed, from where it hung behind his right shoulder. His long legs carried him easily over the ground, while the nurse cried out and ran within the castle. The rest of those who had sought alms fled, screaming, as the band of four turned to deal with the newcomer. From under their rags they produced an assortment of weapons and advanced on Gervase. The nurse ran out again, still screaming. She made darting runs to and from the postern gate like a distracted hen.

“One against four,” shouted their leader. “And I have her purse already!”

It was a poor sort of fight. Gervase sent one man sprawling in the dust with a kick and a shrewd blow from the pommel of his sword, as a cudgel was raised to smite him. …

The second beggar had a dagger, and as he slashed at Gervase he found himself facing an incredibly long sword, snaking over the top of his hand to prick at his throat. The man howled, dropped his dagger, and tripped over his own feet in an effort to avoid the wicked-looking blade.

The third beggar attempted to come up behind Gervase, but even as he raised his crutch, the tall man sidestepped, throwing his sword from his left hand into his right, to meet the onslaught of their leader who had a blade of his own in his hand. This was sent clattering into the distance as the man howled, doubling over, clutching at his elbow. …

The nurse screamed. A half-dozen assorted servants and men-at-arms erupted from the postern. The four beggars gathered themselves together and fled, leaving a cudgel, a crutch and a sword behind to mark their passing.

It was over. The girl licked a trifle of blood from her hand. Her eyes were wide, seemingly more interested than afraid. She smiled at Gervase, revealing good teeth.

She said, “Thank you, messire. Such swordplay!” Her voice was as warm now as it had been matter-of-fact before.

“I doubt if my intervention was really necessary,” replied Gervase, sheathing his sword.

“It was my folly that brought it about,” said the girl. “I ought to have waited for Anselm, or called for help earlier. But no-one has ever offered me violence before. …” She stood upright, with care. She was, perhaps, more shaken by her adventure than she cared to acknowledge.

“And you knew I would intervene, if necessary,” said Gervase. As the words left his mouth, he was astonished at himself for saying them … for even thinking them.

She did not evade the charge. “Yes,” she said, with a simplicity that he guessed was characteristic of her. “I knew you would come to my aid if I needed help.” The nurse was urging the girl within. The men-at-arms were returning with two of the beggars, and the girl's purse.

“My father will wish to thank you,” she said. “Come within, messire …?”

She waited for him to supply his name. He drew back. He could not possibly announce himself as Sir Gervase Escot of Ware, who had once been a suitor for her hand. He could not embarrass the Lord of Mailing, or risk the sheriff's arrival while he was being entertained as became his station. …

“I am travelling in haste,” he said. “I will seek a bed at the inn in the village.”

The girl's face flamed with hurt pride. “Will you not allow us to repay …?”

“Your pardon, lady. A bed for the night would be welcome, and something to eat and drink from the buttery, but I would not wish to trouble your father. …”

Still her eyes showed that his refusal had hurt her. He bent his head, the better to resist her silent pleading. She did not know what she was asking. …

The nurse intervened. “My lady, it would be wiser not to disturb your father with news of this … surely he will blame me for allowing you to come out unattended. No harm was done. Your purse has been recovered, and if this poor man … doubtless he knows his place, and would be overwhelmed by being taken into the hall when the company are at meat already. …”

“I do not think it is that,” said the girl softly.

No, it is not that, said Gervase to himself. How quick of understanding was this girl! In another minute she would surely guess that he was a fugitive. …

“Will you accept a bed in the infirmary?” she asked him. “Will you share the fare provided for the men and women who lie there?”

He had no words to express his gratitude. She held out her hand; he took it, and bowed over it. It was broad in the palm, and capable. It was not the soft hand of a Queen of Beauty, yet it pleased Gervase. He wanted to carry her hand to his lips but he did not dare … and yet he did not know why. Perhaps because she did not seem to expect it?

“Your name, messire?”

He thought quickly. To give his own name would be to invite trouble, even if they had not yet heard, here in Mailing, of the theft.

“William,” he began and hesitated. His father's name had been William.

“I shall call you William Longsword,” she said, as if she had not noticed his hesitation, though surely she had. “Your weapon is long enough to have spitted all four of those rascals at once!”

He smiled but made no reply. Inwardly he cursed himself for having drawn his sword, for was it not almost as notable as his red hair? He put up a hand to his hood, to find that it had flown back long since. Well, it was done. Any that passed that way would hear the tale of the red-headed man with the long sword, and he would be identified as clearly as if he had claimed himself Gervase Escot of Ware. It was done, and he was weary to the bone. The girl's face changed; her face was so mobile it took the imprint of each passing thought.

She said, “You are tired. Come, follow me.”

She led him, with the nurse jealously coming between them, through the postern into a courtyard ringed with the blank walls of granaries. A low arch led into another court in which a cheerful bustle surrounded the kitchens. The fragrant scent of roasting meats lingered on the air, and the aroma of home-brewed ale. A sharp turn led into a quiet cloister, greying over with shadows as the sun sank. A cresset was alight in one corner, and a servant – an ancient, toothless, bald-headed man – was hobbling about setting more torches aglow here and there. A candle and a fire gave warmth and light in one cell, but she stopped at another nearby, and there left him, saying she must attend to her patients. A candle and meats were forthcoming. There was clean linen on the bed, and fresh rushes on the floor. He would have fared worse, perhaps, in the inn. And he had saved his money.

He ate, drank, snuffed the candle, and fell on the bed to sleep.

One moment he was asleep, and the next aware of confused sounds and lights. He was on his feet in an instant, eyes wide, left hand reaching for his sword, wondering where he was.

“Look what ye've done now, ye lack-witted, clumsy. …” The ancient man who had brought his supper was passing by. The door had swung open. The ancient put his head in, seeing that Gervase was up, to reassure him. “'Tis nothing, messire. The boy knocked against your door in passing, being but new-woken, and the catch is not good. …”

Gervase relaxed his grip on his sword. A false alarm. He remembered now where he was. He stepped to the door to look up at the sky. Was it far off dawn? The night was still dark, but there was a faint glimmer in the east, over the roof of the cloister opposite, which told of the day to come. He had slept well. Perhaps it would be a good thing if he went on his way now, before the rest of the castle woke.

“He's gone for the Lady Beata,” said the ancient, pleased to find someone awake and therefore, presumably, ready for a gossip in the middle of the night. Gervase wondered if the man ever slept. He seemed as fresh, or as jaded, as in the evening when he had ministered to Gervase.

“There's a poor traveller a-dying in the end cell, ye see, and she likes to be with them at the end, to take their last wishes if she can, and fold their hands over a sprig of rosemary. Then in the morning she says a mass for their souls. She does it for everyone, rich or poor. There's many a man come a few extra miles on his journey to die here – as did that poor creature – knowing as she'd say a mass for him, poor sinner though he be. …”

Gervase thought it was unlikely that any such death-bed would fall to his lot. He found himself wishing, with a fervour that surprised him, that the projected marriage had still been possible.

“She comes.” The ancient turned to watch the nurse pass through the far side of the cloisters, treading at the heels of a dark-cloaked figure. A gangling boy bore a torch to the cresset, and set it alight. His duty done, he went yawning back to his pallet.

“Where's your hurry?” asked the ancient, as Gervase began to buckle on his sword-belt. “The portcullis won't be lifted till dawn. I thought you were to be presented to Lord Henry? –”

“I am journeying in haste. Perhaps the postern gate is open?”

The ancient shook his head. Gervase sat down on the bed, bidding himself show no sign of impatience. He was securely locked in, as securely as if he had still been in the inner store at Ware, though this time there would be no men arriving in the middle of the night to try to murder him. …

“I must be off in the dawn,” he said.

The aged man doddered away, and Gervase fell to watching the flickering light in the cell opposite. It was in his mind to walk out into the cloister until he could see into that cell, so that he could watch her minister to the dying man. But he did not, for surely a man had a right to privacy when he was dying … and if she were to catch him spying on her. … “Beata,” he said to himself. “Bay-ah-ta … a lovely name. …” He bit his lip, and buried his face in his hands. He must think! A man fleeing from justice does not think clearly. He had an hour or so before dawn … he must use it to consider, as dispassionately as he could, what had happened and what he should do about it.

The accusation of theft … his own indignant protestation of innocence … his uncle looking sick, turning from him, casting him off.

Ah, the pain of that moment when his uncle had turned away from him … after so many years of loyalty and hard work … it was as if those years had never been, as if he had spent his life for nothing. …

“Let him be branded as a thief!” Now who had spoken the words first? His uncle's new wife? Or her loving cousin, Sir Bertrand, that attentive relative of hers, who was always at her elbow?

Branded! Gervase supposed he must have protested. He could only remember staring at them in disbelief. True, his uncle's ring had been found in his wallet, but how it had got there, he had no idea. Or at least, he had some idea of how the trick had been worked, but it was impossible to accuse his uncle's beloved wife of theft, or of bearing false witness against him. How clever the woman had been, turning Ralph Escot from his nephew with such accusations and half-truths as could not be disproved, only denied!

It was Sir Bertrand who had helped the stricken old man away, and Sir Bertrand who had presided over that travesty of a court case. It was Sir Bertrand who had given orders for Gervase to be locked in the innermost of the stone-built store-rooms, to await punishment. But was it Sir Bertrand who had come to that room in the middle of the night, carrying a rope with a noose at the end of it? Gervase shook his head. No, neither of the two men who had come to kill him had been as big as Sir Bertrand. The light had been bad, but … he concentrated, shutting his eyes … yes, he knew now who the two men were … there had been one servant from Sir Bertrand's retinue, and one from his aunt's.

If it had not been for the head groom, Gervase would have been dead by now. But that stalwart soul, who had taught him to ride when he was a child, had overheard enough to send him to the store-room window to warn Gervase and to slide Gervase's sword through the bars, that he might be armed against treachery.

Gervase groaned. What was he to do? His uncle had believed him guilty, and disowned him. For twenty-seven years he had been his uncle's heir, and though the young man and the old had often quarrelled, yet their quarrels had never been serious until Lord Escot had taken it into his head to marry. His new wife was an attractive widow, cousin to that Sir Bertrand de Bors who held land near Ware. Then all changed for Gervase. He saw now that he ought to have left Ware when Lady Escot arrived. But at first her words had been honeyed, and Gervase, though he had not liked her, had conceived it his duty to stay, for was he not his uncle's reeve and bailiff and steward, all rolled into one? Then Lady Escot had announced that she was to bear a child, and his uncle's eyes had begun to avoid his nephew's, and then … the accusation of theft, backed up by false witness … the woman declaring she had heard Gervase boast of his intention to keep the ring … that he had said such things about his uncle as could not be forgiven, especially by an old man. …