Longsword (29 page)

“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 not 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.”

Sir Bertrand rose, and prodded by a man-at-arms, left the dais, and approached Gervase on the floor of the hall. Berit had stepped forward to take the destrier away, and Gervase now faced him, also on foot.

“That man,” Sir Bertrand pointed to Gervase, “stole his uncle's ring. He was seen to do it. When challenged, he said he intended to keep it, to revenge himself on his uncle for marrying and cutting him out of the inheritance. I was staying at Ware at the time. Since old Lord Escot was much distressed by the discovery that his nephew was a criminal, I took charge of the proceedings. In fact, the woman who saw him take the ring reported the affair to me, so naturally I felt in honour bound to see the matter through. There was a trial, at which I presided. The evidence was quite clear. The man was convicted and sentenced. Before the sentence could be carried out, however, the felon escaped and vanished. Apparently he came here, and, masquerading under a false identity, wormed his way into the counsels of the late and much lamented Lord Crispin. When I heard the fugitive had been traced, I applied for him to be arrested, so that he might be returned to Ware in chains and duly punished for his crime.”

Gervase turned to Lord Henry. “My lord, will you examine Sir Bertrand?”

Lord Henry folded his white hands on the table before him, and turned his head from Gervase to Sir Bertrand.

“Sir Bertrand, it is to your credit that you choose to cooperate in this ‘entertainment'. These proceedings are not legal, but since we are here, and under certain obligations to Lord Escot, by all means let us enquire further into the crime of which he was accused and convicted. You were at Ware as a guest of your cousin, I believe?”

“That is so. The hunting was good, but my cousin was not happy because this young man, her husband's nephew, had behaved badly to her – giving rise to gossip of a wounding nature. …”

“One moment,” said Gervase. “You were on very good terms with Lady Escot. Was not a marriage between you two spoken of at one time?”

“The church frowns on marriages between first cousins,” said Sir Bertrand. “Besides, my cousin's first husband left her practically penniless.”

“Ah yes. She was a widow when she married my uncle, was she not? I believe her first husband died within a year of their marriage, of a chill?”

“He was elderly,” said Sir Bertrand. “And somewhat corpulent.”

“As was my uncle,” said Gervase. “And he did not live long after the marriage, either … did he?” A ripple of amusement went round the hall.

“He died of a chill, too,” said Sir Bertrand, frowning. “I do not see what there is to laugh about in that!”

“Indeed, no,” said Lord Henry, in a soothing voice. “Now you went to Ware at your cousin's invitation, to support her in dealing with her husband's nephew, who was at that time also his heir. Is that correct?”

“Yes. I advised her to tell the young man to go from his uncle's house, but she said her husband would not agree to parting with Gervase, because he made himself useful about the estate. Very shortly after this Gervase stole his uncle's ring, so that solved the problem.”

“No doubt the witness against Gervase Escot was of unimpeachable integrity?”

“Naturally. A bond-woman called Wanda … she has been with my cousin for many a year, and is absolutely trustworthy.”

“A bond-woman?” Lord Henry's voice expressed incredulity. “A creature of your cousin's? Surely you are not serious?”

“If it had been her word alone,” said Sir Bertrand, shrugging. “But the ring was found in his wallet, you see, and he could not account for how it came to be there.”

Varons pushed two men in servants' dress forward, and stationed himself behind them.

“So much for the crime itself,” said Gervase. “I repeat: I did not steal the jewel. It was put in my wallet some time that morning without my knowledge. But we will pass over the trial – and the sentence – and come to an event more strange than anything you have heard till now. There is no gaol at Ware. In times of need we use the innermost of two stone-built storerooms, which lead off the courtyard. The doors are bolted and locked from outside, the windows barred. While I was lying in one of these cells, someone whispered to me from the window that I must look out for myself. He said he had overheard two men talking in low voices about where they could find a rope long enough to hang a man … and discussing whether a certain lock required to be oiled. I will not identify my friend, for fear of possible reprisals. He said he'd attempted to see who it was talking, but by the time he'd got himself to the door the two men had gone. But it had been on his mind, worrying him, for he argued I wasn't the sort to take my own life, and he knew there were certain people in the house who wanted me out of the way. So he took the trouble to find my sword, and drop it through the bars of my prison. And then he fled.

“I could hardly credit that anyone could be so base … but then, the whole affair had the proportions of a bad dream. I had not long to wait before I saw a crack of light under the door. The key grated in the lock, and was withdrawn, presumably so that they could oil the lock. Then the door opened and two figures stood there, throwing shadows before them. They had left the candle standing on the floor in the passage. One came in, leaping upon the pile of straw where I had been lying, bringing down a billet of wood, and the other followed, holding a coil of rope. No doubt their eyes were bewildered, coming from the lighted passage into the dark of my cell.

“It took them a moment or two to realise I was behind the door, and to turn on me. I pricked one on the forearm, enough to make him yelp and drop the billet of wood, and the other … I put the point of my sword to his throat, through his tunic and cape, and pressed hard enough to make him realise I was in earnest. I could see their faces clearly. I made one man tie his fellow's hands behind his back with the end of the rope they had brought, and then I got them both to lie down and tied the second man to the first. Then I turned the key in the lock, and left them. The candle was where they had set it down in the passage and one of them had dropped a cloak nearby. I took the cloak, kicked the candle out, made my way out into the courtyard, climbed the wall, and took to the forest.”

“Devil's brood!” spat one of the accused. “How could you have seen us, seeing as we weren't there?”

Gervase nodded to Varons. “Try pulling up his sleeve.”

The second man turned to run, but there was another man-at-arms close behind him. A short struggle, and the two scars were uncovered to prove Gervase's story.

“One of these men,” Gervase continued, “came with Lady Escot on her marriage to my uncle. The other,” he pointed to the man with the scarred forearm, “is called Choat, and he is in Sir Bertrand's service. I believe he could tell you who sent him to kill me that night.”

“I was not there. No-one sent me.” The man was sullen, but his eyes shifted to Sir Bertrand's face and then back to the floor.

“If you were not sent by anyone,” said Gervase, “then it follows that you two conceived the idea of murdering me yourself, and that you alone can be punished for it.”

The man who had gone with Choat into the storeroom now stepped forward. “My lord, I wish to dissociate myself from this fellow Choat.” He oozed a smiling complacency. “He came to me, and overbore my scruples, persuading me to accompany him to see if the prisoner were all right. Imagine my astonishment when I discovered Sir Gervase was not only armed, but prepared to turn on those who had come to visit him. I had had no idea, believe me! The depths of depravity to which my friend Choat had sunk had been concealed from me till that moment!”