Longsword (9 page)

“All this – or much of it – Hamo had already told me. It makes sense, and yet I still hanker for Ware.”

“That is natural enough. But consider; your uncle dotes on his wife, and has gone so far as to make a new will in her favour. You cannot clear your name. Put the past behind you, and take what we offer.”

“And if I find I cannot put the past behind me?”

“You will be paid a salary as is usual, each quarter day. By Christmas you should have earned enough to buy yourself clothes and another sword, if you still wish to leave. A word of warning. Three bailiffs owe you allegiance; one to take your orders for the manors in the immediate vicinity of the castle; one for the manors that lie in Kent, Sussex and on the outskirts of London, and a third who is responsible for the sheep-farming in the Midlands. The latter two are honest men, long in our employ, and have rendered their accounts promptly. You will find them easy to deal with. But the man who has recently been appointed to oversee the reeves – the village foremen – here … he is a different matter. He is one who hangs on my Lord Crispin's sleeve and whispers in his ear. His accounts are always late, and frequently have to be queried. That chest,” and he pointed to the oak chest, “should contain monies collected from the manors hereabouts for which Rocca is responsible, but though he promised Hamo to pay the Michaelmas dues in to me, he has not yet done so … and October is far advanced. I take little interest in the affairs of the manors – as you can imagine, I have more than enough to do victualling and maintaining the castle itself – yet I have heard rumours about this man Rocca which make me uneasy. Hamo has been ailing for nigh on a year. It is many months since he was able to ride out and see for himself what was going on. It fretted him that he had to rely on reports from a man whom he suspected – rightly or wrongly – of cheating him.”

“What did he suspect?”

“That Rocca was extracting more than his due from the peasants, and rendering less than his due to my lord. The balance has gone … who knows where? In bribing those whose duty it was to observe Rocca's doings? On Rocca's back? In the building of a new house for Rocca?”

“You wish me to challenge his accounts?”

“If it can be done discreetly, yes. Yet the situation is not as straightforward as one might wish. Rocca is my Lord Crispin's candidate, and he has my lord's ear at all times. To attack outright might be dangerous, until my Lord Henry confirms your appointment.”

Gervase thought of Jaclin's jeer “Crawl to Crispin”. …

Telfer smiled, and it was the sleek smile of one glad to pass responsibility to another for what could prove to be a dangerous matter. He said, “My own poor quarters lie directly above this. I am accustomed to passing an hour in Hamo's company after the evening meal every night. I trust you will make me welcome in the same way.” It was a command, and not an invitation. “By the by, my Lord Crispin is returned, as you may have heard. He expects you to wait on him in the green solar above the Great Hall at noon.”

He was gone. Gervase gazed around him, thinking that his lines had fallen in pleasant places. A servant came in, bowing, with hot water and clean towels. Gervase stripped to the waist, washed, and took down a hand mirror to inspect his face. He had not seen his image since he had been taken ill, and though he had prepared himself for a shock, he was still horrified to see how much his appearance had altered. His skin was pock-marked, and the jut of his beard broadened the lower part of his face so that he looked less of a soldier than a scholar. His hair had grown somewhat, but lay close to his head, flattened by the linen coif and close-fitting black scholar's cap, which covered his head from forehead to the nape of his neck. One eyelid was now heavier than the other. His cheeks were sallow and thin, his lips bloodless. He looked years older than he had done the day he first stumbled on Malling.

He looked down at his body. It was as lean as ever, but the muscles did not respond to his call as they had done once. He doubted that he would be able to carry his long sword for any length of time now, never mind wield it in battle. He pulled on a clean shirt from the pile in the chest in his bedroom, and wandered back into the main room. He stopped, staring out of the window, then stepped to one side, lest someone see him from the garden.

A party of richly-dressed young men and women was making its way through the walks between the espaliered fruit trees. In their midst, the centre of attention, came a beautiful young girl, with a gaily-dressed nobleman hovering at her shoulder. They were all laughing, and the sound of their laughter was bitter to the ears of Gervase. A while ago he had been satisfied with his lot, but now he was filled with envy. Once he would have walked among those women as of right, and they would have hung on his arm as that girl now hung on the arm of the dandified creature in the furred tunic. And no-one would have thrust him to the rear, as Jaclin was being thrust at this moment.

The beautiful girl swayed and bent her slender figure like a dancer, managing a spangled scarf with skill as she flirted with the gallant beside her. She had long silky hair of a shimmering gold, that slipped and slithered over her breasts in artful manner as she lifted and dropped her shoulders … such art was there! Such artfulness to conceal art! Gervase accorded her his reluctant admiration. She turned, and turning bent her body, so disposing of her skirt that the silken overgown slid apart to reveal a clinging robe beneath, a robe of material so fine that it seemed to the onlooker that if he only looked hard enough, and at the right angle, he would see through it … and did not.

She drooped long lashes over her cheeks, while glancing up and sideways at the young man. Her laugh was as joyful as her smile. She clapped her hands, gathered her skirts – with artful abandon – and made as if to run away from her gallant.

He, poor fool seeing nothing of the art but much of the beauty, tried to catch her in his arms … whereat all the rest of the company laughed and clapped their hands … except only for Jaclin, glowering in the background, trying to hitch his new sword higher lest it catch in his heels. …

Then another party entered the garden, and at once the beautiful girl abandoned her lover and flew to the newcomers, to hang on the arm of a fair-headed man in a black silk tunic. Her lover hung back, awkwardly bowing. The fair-haired man took the beauty away with him, holding her firmly by the arm, and sending her admirer a look of such contempt that the poor youth turned away, biting his lip.

Now the garden was empty, but for a couple of women making their way across it with baskets in their hands … poorly-dressed, chatting among themselves … a boy with a barrow, an ancient crone scolding him from the doorway.

“The Queen of Beauty?” Gervase asked himself. “Was that the girl I was supposed to marry?” Receiving no answer, he checked the whereabouts of the sun in the sky, resumed his outer clothing and went in search of his new master.

The green solar was large and full of light. It occupied the whole second floor of a tower which had been built adjacent to the ancient keep, some fifty years ago. Four windows let light through the thickness of the wall, and these were both glazed and hung with shutters. There were skins on the tiled floor, and embroidered hangings on the wall on either side of the great fireplace. A group of men and women, including the lovelorn swain of the garden, hung about the fire, chatting to each other while watching the fair-haired man, who walked before the windows with his sister.

Gervase took up his stand inside the door, and waited for his new master to notice him. He watched Lord Crispin, as did the rest of the company … aye, and as did the servants, who were busying themselves with mending the fire, and handing round wine and nuts to the guests.

Crispin was a big-boned man of some twenty-four summers. His hair curled with that self-will seen in Beata's locks, but he was as fair as she was dark. His black silk tunic was embroidered all over with a red-gold thread, and the neckline was studded with precious stones. He carried a pair of heavily-embroidered gloves in his right hand, and beat them on his left to emphasise the points he was making. He wore an enormous sapphire set in a heavy gold ring on his right forefinger. There was a scar on his left cheek which darkened when he was angered, and faded when he was in a good humour.

Gervase, studying him, felt that he had seen such men in France; they were brave because they lacked imagination, cunning enough in matters concerning their own advancement, and usually carried their wine well. They were not over-intelligent. This man was handsome, but he had the over-full lower lip of one who liked his own way. Something in the movement of eyelid and lip hinted at petulance. Gervase remembered Jaclin saying “Crawl to Crispin” … He began to wonder if it were too late for him to withdraw.

The Lady Elaine bent her head to listen to her brother. Her attitude was that of a child caught out in a misdemeanour. She bit her lip, her colour came and went. She played with her hair, shrugging expressive shoulders. But she made no verbal comment on what he said. Presently she left him, and called some of the women to her. A page was bidden play a tune on his lute, and she began, slowly at first, and then with gathering enjoyment, to practise some dance steps with her women. Her admirer turned to scowl at the fire, and his companions drew away from him. Gervase looked for Jaclin, but he was not there. Beata …? Ah, no. She had ridden out to the home farm on business. Question: did her farm now come under his direction, or no?

Crispin threw himself down in a chair, and snapped his fingers for a servant to bring him some wine. Now he will call me to him, thought Gervase; but Crispin did not. Instead his eye rested on the awkward figure of a thick-set woman in a red silk dress, who was dandling a child on her knee. The woman rose and went timidly to Crispin, dragging the child after her. Gervase thought this woman must be the Lady Joan, Crispin's older and somewhat neglected wife, who had brought him a fat estate but – if gossip did not lie – no other joy in bed or out of it. The child was heavily-built and stared about him with an air of incomprehension, with his fist in his mouth. He had been born deaf and dumb, and Gervase had been told that Crispin would fain put his wife aside, since she had given him no other child but this. To his credit, Crispin now set the boy on his knee, and tried to coax a smile from him … but the child, lumpish and dull, sucked on his hand and would not respond.

Joan began to talk, or scold, rather. Crispin's face changed, the scar on his cheek darkening. He thrust the child from him, and gestured the woman away. Then he threw himself back in his chair, and rapped on its arm, frowning.

Now: thought Gervase. But it was not to be. There was a blur of reddish-purple, and a man in an extravagantly-cut and furred gown of murrey cloth came to lean over Crispin's chair, with his hand before his mouth, bending to whisper in his lord's ear. Crispin smiled. His eye passed over the group at the fire and went beyond it to where Gervase stood, with his arms folded, leaning against the wall. Gervase was sure that the newcomer had spoken of him, and that what the man had said was calculated to turn Crispin from him. There was something unfriendly in the newcomer's eye as he looked at Gervase … spiteful, almost … the layers of fat around his eyes creasing as he smirked and whispered.

Rocca: thought Gervase. And it looks as if he's bent on discrediting me before I can discredit him. There was nothing Gervase could do about it. He must wait. And chafing, he waited.

Two clerks were summoned by a page, and laid documents on a table close to Crispin's chair. The man in the murrey gown bent over Crispin, bowing, as he submitted documents for Crispin's approval. Now and then he cast a look of triumph over his shoulder at Gervase.

So, thought Gervase; the ambitious bailiff does not content himself with what he has, but seeks to displace me as man of business.

Crispin was frowning, throwing a letter down onto the table. Rocca caught up the letter, looking it over with agonised concentration. The two clerks had their heads together, and those same heads were turning to where Gervase stood, while their fingers smoothed away smiles.

Aha, thought Gervase; so Rocca does not have the backing of the two clerks! Now what is wrong with that letter, I wonder?

At long last Crispin flicked his fingers at Gervase, who crossed the room to stand before his new lord. The dancers paused as he passed by, and the group round the fire turned to see how he would be received. Gervase bowed to Crispin. The offending letter lay on the table before him. It appeared to be written in a fair hand. The penmanship was that of the younger of the two clerks. Gervase was familiar with it from the work he had done for Hamo.

“You are the new clerk, William of Leys?” Crispin's fingers tapped on the arm of his chair, and his foot twitched as if he would like to kick somebody or something. “My sister, Lady Beata, tells me it was Hamo's dying wish that you take his place in our household. I do not, myself, see the necessity for bringing in someone from outside, who cannot know our ways, and who owes no loyalty to me … to our house. What say you to that?”

Gervase weighed his words with care. “My lord, Hamo was good enough to say that I possessed certain skills which fitted me for the position … and I am a penniless man.” He would have said more but on a sudden stopped, with his eyes on the letter before him. The words were clearly penned, so clearly that he might read them from where he stood.

“… with Sir Bertrand de Bors. …”

His enemy's name was written there.

“That is all very well,” said Crispin, his foot beating the floor in time with his hand. “Yet I had my own candidate in mind … a man whom I can trust.”

Yet you have not dared to appoint him, thought Gervase, bringing his mind back to Crispin with an effort. You have not dared to usurp your father's prerogative to appoint a new steward, although you would very much like to do so … what offended you about that letter? If only I knew that. …