Longsword (20 page)

“Then why did you not tell Crispin the truth? Or why did I not tell him? Perhaps we did not wish to think clearly on the subject, but the truth is that we have all betrayed our trust by not being frank.”

The two men were silent, their eyes on the table, and not on Gervase.

“And so I will go, as I said I would, at Christmas. I will not go before then; you need me, and I have promised. … But I will not ask you to introduce me to Lord Henry. I will keep well in the background. Thomas will take over my duties, and I will run errands for Telfer, or for you, Varons … whatever is required. Then I will go, as I came, with nothing but the clothes on my back for wages.”

Varons swore, and shook his head, but voiced no other objection.

Telfer said, “You may be right,” in heavy voice. “And yet … I feel it is all wrong. Crispin does not wish you to go. No-one wishes you to go. He was asking me today why you were determined to go, and I could give him no good reason. He was vexed. I said you intended to return his ring before you left, and he gave the table such a buffet I thought it would crack … then he vowed you should keep the ring, and that you must have the roan horse for your own, as well.”

“The roan?” Gervase looked pleased, and then he frowned. “I doubt Rocca will like that … where has the man got to? Did Crispin say?”

“He is worried about the bailiff being absent at such a time, too. One thing, Rocca has gone without Crispin's permission.”

“Rocca is surely up to no good,” said Gervase, turning the ring on his forefinger. “And I think Crispin suspects … I doubt he actually knows, for he is not a devious man … he does not take easily to plots and stratagems, any more than I do. But Crispin suspects that what Rocca is doing is intended to harm me. Therefore he says I must keep the ring, and gives me the roan horse. It's his guilty conscience. …”

“Hold hard,” said Varons. “There may be nothing in it but gratitude. Crispin is like that. You know he gave the ostler's parents a purse of gold, swearing them to secrecy?”

“Like Jaclin,” said Gervase, thinking how the lad had offered him his sword.

“Well, they are half-brothers, after all,” said Telfer. “Did you not know? The lad's mother was a washer-woman here, and a rare beauty. Jaclin knows, of course. So does everyone else. But Lord Henry has never recognised the boy as his son, and so no one else does. Of course, if Jaclin distinguishes himself in the tourney, and is allowed funds to go abroad to the war, and does well there – who knows? Lord Henry will probably find him an heiress to marry.”

Lord Henry and his party were in sight of the castle.

Gervase, Telfer and Varons came out onto the head of the ramp that led down into the courtyard, and looked about them with identical expressions of critical approval. Everything was as they had planned. Men holding flaming torches lined the ramp and more torches were suspended from windows overlooking the court. A small page – Flash's special friend – knelt at Gervase's feet to buckle a jewelled collar onto the dog, and put the leash in Gervase's hand. Grooms were waiting to take the horses away as the company rode into the court, and a crowd of retainers – all those who could easily be spared from the kitchens at this hour of the night – had been positioned to give a rousing cheer of welcome to the lord of the castle on his return.

Telfer settled his chain of office more comfortably over his shoulders, and smoothed back what remained of his hair. Varons tightened his sword-belt one notch, and then put it back where it had been before. Gervase watched the door of the keep.

She came out and stood looking out over the courtyard and then up at the windows, with her head on one side. She seemed nervous, and her hand played with her curls. She did not look at Gervase. Elaine followed, leading the Lady Joan by the hand, bending to hear the bereaved mother's whispered words of complaint. Elaine's jewels shone more brightly than her eyes. The light of the torches set Beata's flashing beauty aglow, but drained all colour from Elaine.

Crispin strode out, humming, brushing a speck from the rich damask of his furred tunic. The air was chill. A few flakes of snow flickered down into the light of the torches, and sizzled there. All was quiet. Then the leading horsemen clattered into the court, Telfer lifted his hand, and the courtyard erupted with cheers.

Lord Henry smiled to left and right. A groom led his horse to the mounting-block, and he dismounted, stiff from his journey. Gervase saw, with a sense of shock, that the man was below average height … almost a dwarf. One side of his neck was thicker than the other, setting his head slightly awry on a powerful pair of shoulders. Lord Henry's eyes passed over the group of upper servants waiting to greet him at the head of the ramp, passed on to where his daughters, his son, and his son's wife were coming down to greet him … and Gervase forgot that the man was ungainly of body, and short of stature, for this was a person of considerable presence. Lord Henry's iron-gray hair was carefully curled under his wide-brimmed travelling hat, and the heavy face beneath was dominated by thick-lidded black eyes … eyes that saw and judged and condemned. …

Beata, running ahead of her brother and sister, came down the slope like a great bird, with her green and gold skirt flowing behind like her wings, to sink to her knees at Lord Henry's feet. She was lifted up with a smile that was fixed and meaningless, to be scrutinised by eyes that sharpened as they took in every detail of the change in her. Lord Henry had left her a brown girl, whose insignificance of person he had been able to overlook with ease. Now … he drew in his breath. Was this truly his daughter Beata?

Then Crispin was leading Elaine to his father, with Joan treading on his heels. Courteously, but without Beata's spontaneity, Crispin bent his knee before his father. Lord Henry's smile thinned, so that all men, watching him, understood that their lord was displeased with his son and heir … and possibly also displeased with his daughter Elaine, who moved like a shadow at her brother's side.

There was a great jingling and neighing of tired horses as the rest of the company dismounted. The horses were led away, servants darted here and there with bundles and packages as the first of the train of carts came into the courtyard, laden with the effects of the travellers. Each new servant was taken into the charge of one of Telfer's men or women, to be directed to the quarters in which their master or mistress was to lie. Some eight extra noblemen and women had now to be assimilated into the castle, and perhaps three times as many more servants. The abbot and his train, nuns and all, were still on the road, later than they ought to have been, delayed by the bad roads.

Varons frowned as he looked over the newcomers. So many haughty nobles, so many even haughtier servants, strange to the ways of the castle … so many possible causes of friction. … He was glad the stocks had been left standing: the sight of them might cause the guests to hesitate before reaching for their knives in trivial disputes.

Lord Henry turned to a big man in scarlet and black, who was throwing a fur-lined cloak back over his shoulders. At his elbow stood a beautiful woman, and the woman looked not at Lord Henry, her host, but at Elaine's tired face … and smiled. Then the big man said something to her which caused her to turn from him with a shrug and a scowl … and now it could be seen that she was no longer beautiful, or even very young. …

“My lady aunt …” said Gervase, low in Telfer's ear. “Is she still trying to hang on Sir Bertrand's sleeve, do you think?”

“And what will the Lady Elaine have to say about that?” replied Telfer, equally low.

Lord Henry had taken Sir Bertrand's hand, and was laying it in Elaine's. Elaine had dutifully gone down on one knee before Sir Bertrand … but his gaze was riveted on Beata's parted lips and brilliant eyes. And Sir Bertrand said, loud enough for all to hear, “I salute the Queen of Beauty!” And all who heard him, and who saw his look, knew that the compliment was not for Elaine, but for Beata.

Crispin bit his lip, and the scar on his cheek grew dark. He lifted his sister from the ground with a hand under her elbow, so that she stood between the man she was to marry, and the sister whom Sir Bertrand had so obviously admired. Sir Bertrand was forced to lower his gaze, and to acknowledge Elaine's existence.

“Trouble … nothing but trouble.” said Varons. “If it's not the servants, it's their so-called betters.”

Lord Henry lifted one of his short, awkwardly-hung arms, and waved his hand, collecting his noble guests into one group. “Welcome!”

At that point Beata turned her head and looked up, and it was a marvel how she knew where Gervase was, for she had not seemed to look at him before. He let slip the leash that he had been holding, and gave Flash a nudge. That sagacious animal, who had been sniffing and yapping from the moment he saw his old master below, slipped down the ramp, his tail oscillating so fast it could barely be seen, and jumped up at Lord Henry, uttering sharp barks of pleasure.

Now Gervase watched Lord Henry even more closely. Would the man show any sign of emotion? They said he cared for nothing and nobody since his wife had died … except perhaps for his dog, and one of his horses … if the man showed no emotion even now, then he was as good as dead inside.

But Lord Henry, though a cold, was not a hollow man. He grasped the dog's collar, and shook his head from side to side, in a game that, plainly, both were accustomed to. His smile became, for a few moments, something to hearten those who watched.

Beata spoke a few words, explaining that the dog had been nursed back to health by their new secretary. Master William, and at that Lord Henry's smile vanished. He nodded to Beata, and led the way up the stairs without comment. Gervase slipped back into the crowd, but Telfer and Varons stepped forward to greet their master. Telfer was greeted by name, and with a smile, and so was Varons. But Gervase, in the shadows, was aware that Lord Henry was paying scant attention to his trusted lieutenants. His eyes ranged over the crowd of waiting servants, searching for the one face with which he was not familiar, and when he had found it, the gaze hardened for as long as it took a man to breathe in and out. Then Lord Henry passed within, and his family and guests went with him.

“That went off very well, I thought,” said Varons. He clapped Gervase on the shoulder, and passed into the keep also.

“He knew you,” said Telfer. “He knew who you were. He looked for you.”

“Yes,” said Gervase.

Telfer took a deep breath. “You had best go, now. They will lower the portcullis and shut the gates as soon as the abbot and his train are here. …”

“Too late!” said Gervase, pointing to where a train of cowled and hooded figures came clattering into the courtyard. In the distance could be heard the clangour of gates shutting, and villagers shouting their farewells as they passed out into the countryside … free. …

Telfer said, “I must go down to greet the abbot. What will you do?”

“Nothing,” said Gervase. “The game is out of my hands now.”

As Telfer went down the slope into the courtyard, a man in a murrey gown came out from where he had been riding with the baggage wagons, and looked up at Gervase. Rocca … laying a trail of poison with the father, as he had once laid a trail with the son. How much did Rocca know, and what had he told Lord Henry?

Gervase turned into the keep as the men with torches dowsed their lights, withdrawing them from windows and ramparts. The courtyard was silent now. All the noise was within, in the Great Hall.

A prick of fear assailed Gervase. He could smell danger. He had the faculty many soldiers acquire of knowing when he was being watched. Yet Rocca had stayed outside. Gervase did not move, but his eyes probed the shadows around him, and still the sense that he was in danger grew, and reason would not disperse it. One of Varons's men-at-arms came out of the hall, and beckoned to him.

“The captain asked me to take you to him.”

Gervase nodded, and the sense of danger increased until he could almost smell it. Fear was in the air, and yet he could not see how or where the attack would be made, if Rocca was outside.

Gervase followed the man with his chin on his shoulder. And yet no-one came after them. A servant crossing an anteroom muttered an apology as they nearly collided. Then they were within stairs and going down again. The undercroft was normally used as a store, and was but poorly lit. They went across it, and into another passage leading to a small room in the bowels of the earth. The door was opened by another man-at-arms, and Gervase paused, his mouth dry. Now he knew where the danger would come from … had come from. A lighted torch had been thrust into a sconce set high in the wall, and below it stood Varons, with a crumpled sheet of paper in his hand. Varons did not look directly at Gervase, but thrust the paper into his hand, and turned away. The door closed.

Gervase smoothed out the paper, and held it up to the light.

The handwriting was that of Rocca, but the signature under the warrant for the arrest and detention of the fugitive Gervase Escot, also known by the name of Master William of Leys … the signature was that of Lord Henry. The terms of Gervase's imprisonment were spelled out in detail. All his clothing and effects were to be given into the keeping of Master Rocca, bailiff of Malling.

“Rocca has had two days in Lord Henry's company,” said Varons, in a strangled voice. “He made the excuse that he must take part of the Michaelmas rents to Lord Henry, who needed extra money for travelling expenses. But when Rocca joined Lord Henry's party, he made it his business to tell Sir Bertrand de Bors about you … and Sir Bertrand demanded that you be arrested and held against his coming. Lord Henry called me to him just now, together with my sergeant. Orders have gone out to the gates, to watch for you … otherwise I would have said you should knock me down, take my dagger … tie me up and escape.”