Longsword (25 page)

Lord Henry thought: Varons was wrong. Her lover is here … somewhere!

He looked along the line of esquires, for each knight was accompanied by a young man versed in arms, but not yet ready for knighthood. But there was no-one there, he thought, who would hold Beata's attention.

Jaclin also besought a favour from Beata, and so did Gerald. But Beata turned so naturally to include Elaine in the little ceremony, that Gerald's favour came from Elaine, instead.

“That was well done,” said Lord Henry to Beata, as the last of the younger knights passed before them. It was, perhaps, the first word of praise he had ever given her.

She said, “Father, I love you for that!”

And he, master of plot and stratagem, knowing himself generally more feared than loved, understood that this expression of her love for him was but an overflowing of her love for another man. At first he was angry that it should be so, and then he remembered how Beata had nursed him the previous winter when he had been ill so long … and he thought of her as she had been then, going silently about the castle with her hair cropped short and a plain gown concealing instead of ornamenting her figure … and he marvelled again at the change in her. And with that marvelling came a pang that she was to be lost to him so soon, just as she had become of value to him.

He followed the direction of her eye, and saw only Jaclin entering the lists, followed by a squire who carried his lances and his shield.

Jaclin? thought Lord Henry. Could Beata love Jaclin, and not Gervase Escot? This idea troubled him so greatly that he had to be reminded to give the signal for the bout to start.

The knights rode one from each end of the barn, to meet at the centre, under the place where Lord Henry sat. The lists were divided lengthways by a flimsy barrier, and the knights on their horses kept one on either side of this barrier as they levelled their lances at each other. Jaclin held his horse straight, his powerful shoulders bent forward, his shield well up, and his lance steady, remembering all that he had been taught. The point of Jaclin's lance took his opponent full in the centre of his shield, and the power of Jaclin's body, locked onto his horse by rigid thighs, kept him steady, so that his opponent tumbled off his horse with a cry.

“Bravo!” cried Beata, jumping to her feet. “Oh, bravo Jaclin!”

“Bravo Jaclin, indeed!” said Lord Henry, as the fallen knight was helped from the lists. “You favour Jaclin, Beata? He has gained his opponent's horse and armour with that thrust.” Jaclin cantered past them, and out of the tithe barn, holding lance and shield high in acknowledgment of the cheers that greeted his victory.

“Oh yes!” said Beata. “He has worked so hard, and been so much less troublesome of late.”

So it was not Jaclin she loved. The next pair of knights came into the lists; an elderly knight and a distant cousin. Three lances, and neither of them giving the other an opening … fairly matched, the company growing restive, for neither man seemed anxious to take risks. Lord Henry shook his head when the Clerk of the Lists enquired whether the bout should be prolonged on foot.

Then Gerald, and a knight who had come in Sir Bertrand's train. And the first lance nearly unseated Gerald, causing Beata once more to jump up from her seat … but he made a good recovery, and managed to shatter his opponent's shield on the third lance, so that Lord Henry was graciously pleased that the two men should continue their fight on foot. But now it could be seen that the stranger knight was far heavier in weight than Gerald, and more experienced, so that Gerald was soon forced to submit, but on such terms that he did not consider himself badly treated. It was in the rules that the victor could take not only his opponent's horse and armour, but – at the discretion of the Clerk of the Lists – might also in some cases exact a ransom. On this occasion Gerald did not lose his horse or have to pay a ransom, but surrendered his armour and sword.

Jaclin now came on again, tilting against an older knight. Such was the younger man's ferocity that on the third charge he managed to make his opponent sway dangerously in the saddle, casting shield and lance from him in an endeavour to remain upright. Lord Henry pronounced Jaclin the winner and in mercy to the older knight, who seemed dazed, forebore to order that they continue to fight on foot. Jaclin would gain both armour and horse, for the second time that day.

“Sir Jaclin is eager to try again,” said the Clerk of the Lists, consulting Lord Henry. “But although he is courageous enough, his horse is blown. …”

“I doubt he is capable of fighting any more experienced knight,” said Varons, low in Lord Henry's ear. “He has done better than Master William anticipated, as it is.”

So Lord Henry gave the signal for the last bout of the day There was a sudden hush as Crispin came on at one end, and Sir Bertrand at the other.

“I thought they were to be kept apart,” said Beata to her father. “Why, what sport shall we have tomorrow, if we let them wear themselves out today?”

“Perhaps the weather will improve, so that we may still have our mock battle outside tomorrow,” said Lord Henry, but he raised an enquiring eyebow at the Clerk of the Lists nevertheless.

“My lord, it was not so I arranged the matter. But my Lord Crispin overruled me, and there were some hard things said out in the courtyard … neither man will listen to reason.”

“Trouble!” said Varons, in Telfer's ear. Telfer nodded, anxious-eyed. Varons slid back through the company, and made his way along the balcony to the stairs.

Crispin adjusted his ornate, gilded helm. From its crest floated a long red plume, around which he had tied the knot of ribbon from Beata's dress. Sir Bertrand was smiling as he bent to take his own helmet from his squire, and fit it over his chain-mail hood. Now the two men faced each other down the length of the lists, with the slender rail of the barrier between them, like a string joining them together.

The first of the lances was handed up to the two knights, adjusted to their satisfaction … the signal given … and away they went, cantering, galloping faster and more heavily then any of those who had gone before them.

There was a crash and a splintering, and both horses checked as their riders rocked back in their saddles.

Beata said, “Father. …”

“They are well-matched, truly,” said Lord Henry, but his brows flattened.

The two knights cantered back to their own ends, and took a second lance each. Again they set off towards each other, power against power, heavily bearing down as they met … and the lance of one caught the shield of the other off-centre, and slid away harmlessly … but Crispin's lance shattered, and he laughed, the laugh echoing within his helmet.

Beata put her hand over her father's. “Father,” she said, a second time. But it was not in Lord Henry's power to stop the bout, even if he had wished to do so.

For the third and last time the horses turned and checked at the end of the lists, and each knight took a fresh lance.

“Father,” said Beata, “you will not let them continue the fight on foot!”

“No,” said Lord Henry. “After all, we must save some excitement for the morrow.”

“There is the masque,” she said, and smiled awry. “We can dance, instead of fighting.”

“It is expected that knights do both,” said Lord Henry.

The two knights were off again, crouching low, their dented shields covering their bodies, the plumes floating from their helms … they would meet exactly in the centre. There was nothing in it as regards distance; and yet perhaps Crispin was the faster, the more accurate, and his lance aimed at the exact centre of Sir Bertrand's shield, and would surely shatter against it once again … and so he be declared the winner. But Sir Bertrand lifted the point of his lance at the last moment, and even as they crashed together, the tip of that lance caught in the vizor of the ornate helm that Crispin wore, and as he was borne forward by the momentum of his horse, Crispin drove himself forward onto the lance … jolting in his saddle, his own lance shattered on his opponent's shield … fighting with his horse for control, dropping his weapons.

Sir Bertrand cantered on, holding one half of the lance, the shaft … for the other had broken away, embedded in Crispin's helmet.

Crispin swayed in his saddle, both hands to his helmet.

Beata's hand was a claw on her father's, her face as white as his.

She said, “My God! What have I done!”

Lord Henry half-rose in his seat. His lips moved. No sound came. Suddenly, he was an old man. At the third attempt he said, “Crispin loses this bout, evidently. He forfeits horse and armour to Sir Bertrand.”

Telfer moved forward and said, his voice shaking, “See, he is not hurt … he is still in the saddle.”

“Yes,” said Lord Henry, yet he moved stiffly as he resumed his seat. “Sir Bertrand is the victor, undoubtedly.”

Beata fell back in her chair, breathing through her mouth.

“Not much hurt, you think?” asked Lord Henry.

Crispin was struggling with the tip of the lance, trying to break it away from his helm. His squire was running down the length of the lists … and how long it was taking him to get there! A great hubbub and outcry rose from the people. Sir Bertrand brought his horse to a halt, and waited to see what might happen.

“But he is not badly hurt … is he?” said Lord Henry.

Someone screamed. It was Joan. Lord Henry looked at her as if he had never seen her before.

Beata rose, with an effort. She said, “I must go to him.”

Crispin brought his horse to a standstill. Sir Bertrand walked his horse round the barrier, and dismounted, taking off his helm. Varons was running up, and Jaclin, running to hlep Crispin, who had managed, using both hands, to tear off his helm. A great gasp, and then a groan ran through the hall, for blood was streaming down one side of Crispin's face.

“He is not badly hurt, I dare say,” said Lord Henry. “Such things happen in tourneys. … Telfer, I want that lance inspected, to see if the point be blunt or no.”

“Joan!” Beata bent over the hysterical woman, and beckoned for help.

Jaclin leaped forward to catch Sir Bertrand a blow on the cheek.

“And that for you … now you will have to fight me instead!”

“Sir Jaclin!” Varons had hold of Jaclin's arm, and was trying to restrain him.

“I demand the right to avenge my cousin Crispin!” cried Jaclin, appealing to Lord Henry.

“You cannot refuse him!” The Clerk of the Lists looked from Jaclin to Lord Henry.

“No, I cannot refuse him … but I am sure my son is not badly hurt.” Lord Henry roused himself, beckoning to Telfer. “The physicians must be sent for at once. The banquet is to go on as arranged. Sir Jaclin will fight Sir Bertrand tomorrow, when the country games are over.”

Sir Bertrand was approaching, and saluting them. “My lord, I claim Lord Crispin's horse and armour.”

Crispin was being helped to dismount, and laid on a hurdle. At Varons's direction he was borne off the field, his hands to his face.

Elaine smiled down at Jaclin; the first genuine smile she had given them all day. She said, “Cousin Jaclin, you shall wear my favour tomorrow, if you will, and I shall pray that you be the victor in the tourney.”

“Impossible,” said Lord Henry. “Elaine, you forget that Sir Bertrand is your champion, not Jaclin.”

“I forget nothing,” said Elaine. “And now, if you please, I will help my sister with Joan.”

The banquet was over, the last of the guests had dispersed to their rooms, and the noisy hum that had pervaded the castle was gradually being replaced by silence. Here and there a yawning man-at-arms stood his turn. Lights yet burned in the infirmary, where Anselm tended the sick; in Crispin's chamber, where his doctor and his father's physician argued over their remedies; and in Lord Henry's chamber, where his daughter Beata stood like a chidden child before him.

“I hold you responsible for this,” said Lord Henry. “You set them against one another with your lying tales. You incited Crispin to attack a man for whose safety we were responsible not only as an honoured guest, but also as your sister's betrothed. You, and you alone are to blame. …”

She blinked, but her wide eyes were tearless, and her mouth set hard.

“If it be so,” she said, “then let it be so. I told no lies. I have done nothing of which I should be ashamed in trying to save my sister from a man such as Sir Bertrand. He is a would-be murderer, and a thief of other men's reputations.”

“Silence! You anger me. Your childishness is beyond folly. Do you think I did not enquire of the circumstances surrounding the theft at Ware before I invited Sir Bertrand to become my son-in-law? Gervase Escot was brought before a court and convicted of. …”

“And what a court! What justice did he have? What justice could he possibly receive when it was in the best interests of the judge to convict him! Oh, if only Crispin had not been wounded! I had a plan to show you the truth of that matter … I am sure Lady Escot was behind the theft, and that Sir Bertrand aided her in everything! It was Sir Bertrand who sent men to kill Gervase when he lay in prison at Ware. That at least he can prove! Will you not hear him?”

“Beata, if you say one word more on that subject, tourney or no tourney, guests or no guests, I shall have you whipped and confined to your chamber till I can hand you over to the abbot! Have I not enough to bear? Does Crispin not have enough to bear?”

“At least allow me to nurse Crispin!”

“No, you shall keep well away from him, lest you inflame his fever with your dangerous ideas. The doctors took away his eye – did I tell you?” He had already told her twice. It seemed to oppress his mind, for he kept returning to it.

“If you will only allow me to help nurse him, I promise not to speak of. …”

“No, I said! Get you gone to your chamber. It is late, and tomorrow you must sit at my side and watch young Jaclin being torn apart by Sir Bertrand … for surely the young cub will be no match for an experienced knight … fool that he was to challenge … yet I do not think the less of him for it! It was well done, was it not? I did not think the lad had it in him. Well, well. He will be beaten for sure, but I will make it up to him. You and your sister will smile on Sir Bertrand when he wins … do you hear? You will smile and give him your golden garlands and, God willing, he will forgive us the insults we have put upon him.”