Longsword (15 page)

And she slept. He was not there when she woke, but she looked out of the half-open door and saw that it was twilight, and she knew that he would be at the gate, distributing alms for her. And she was content to wait for him. She decided she would stay awake until he returned.

He was there … he had come while she was asleep. They smiled at each other and for the first time he touched her cheek; only with the back of his hand, but it was enough to make her tears flow again … but peacefully, now. She said, “I must have been missed …”

“Of course. But I sent Anselm to explain to your brother that you had a touch of the child's fever, and needed to spend a few days away from your sister and your family, lest the infection spread. Your nurse has been sitting here with you. She says you will do nicely if you'll only mind your own business, and not try to do everything for everyone else, as well.”

This echo of her nurse's concern made her smile, but she asked, “I don't really have his fever … do I?”

He shook his head. “You are worn out. You need a rest. The fiction will serve to keep them away for a few days.”

A few days by herself … with him. …

Only now did she realise that she had been lying with clenched fists and jaw. She gave a long sigh, and sighing, felt some of her tension leave her. She said, “Will you not take off your cap and coif awhile?” She wanted to watch the firelight on his hair, for just a few minutes … a few minutes of stolen pleasure, to set against what was to come.

He obeyed her, and then took her hand in both of his, holding it firmly. He said, “I am glad you did not cut your hair. If it has to be done, it must not be done like that, in anger or despair. That robs the sacrifice of its value.”

She was quite calm, now. “You mean that I am robbing my father of his due, by not going gladly into the convent.”

Yes, he had meant that, but he would not say it.

She sighed again. “It is strange. This afternoon I could not do it. I thought I would never be able to do it. And now, if the scissors were in my hand, I could.”

After some time, he lifted his eyes from contemplating her hand, and looked her in the eye. “Do you really want me to go, straight away?”

She shook her head, but did not speak.

He said, “Would it help. … I am not sure if it is the right thing for me to do or no … I could return to France and enter the community of brethren there. …”

She was silent. She could not judge what might be best for him. She had had this shining picture of him from the beginning, of a knight without a sword, of a capable, kindly man who would have given her a goodly brood of children and loved her well. If that was not to be, then she was without purpose, for herself or for him. Her father's vow would dispose of her future, but for him … She sighed, and was silent.

Then he was gone, and her nurse was there, nodding, and the fire was low. She lay looking out into the shadows of the night, and it was as if he had left his gown about her, comforting her. For she knew now that the parting at Christmas would not end his love. He loved her deep and he loved her true … to the end, and beyond.

For three days Beata stayed in the infirmary, seeing only her nurse and Anselm. Most of the time she slept, and when she woke she ate whatever they put before her. Father Anthony came to the door several times when, feeling too weary to argue with him, she would close her eyes and pretend to be asleep, that he might go away again. Which he did. On the fourth day Crispin sent his physician to see her.

“They are afraid I will die before Christmas, and cheat them of their sacrifice,” thought Beata.

The physician found her weak and listless, but on the mend. He prescribed various noxious draughts for her – which she told Anselm to throw away – and talked much of low fevers and of putting your faith in God. He said it was her duty to recover quickly, and went hastily away, fearful lest he catch her “fever”.

On the fifth day the nurse sent for Gervase. Beata had known he would have to be summoned … perhaps she had not wanted to recover too quickly, knowing that if she seemed worse, he would come to her.

He smiled at her from the doorway. He did not come in at once, but stood there, hesitating. She knew why he hesitated. Nurse had gone about some business of her own, and they would be alone. She smiled back at him, and put out her hand to draw him into the room. She was dressed only in her shift, but wrapped in a cloak, sitting on a stool before the fire.

She said, “Did you think I was a ghost? I feel as if I were one. I feel as if I died that day you brought the here, and am only lingering till Christmas, that they can bury my body at the right time.”

He seated himself on a stool on the other side of the fire, and without being reminded, took off his cap and coif with a sigh. He ran his hands back through his hair, and shook his head. It seemed to her that his attention was not wholly with her; once this would have enraged but now it merely saddened her. She thought he looked weary, though it was not much past noon.

Then he was looking at her, and smiling again. She did not know what anxiety had preoccupied him, but it was gone, and she was content.

“That you should have to be sent for …!” she said, in mock reproach.

“It is an open secret in the castle that I am devoted to you, and that is no great matter, I think. But it must not be said that I am of any importance to you.”

“Oh, prudent man! Oh, wise steward! To think you might have been married to my sister by this time. …”

He laughed, low and soft, and shook his head at her.

“Do you not admire her?” She could not resist probing the wound.

His eyebrows zigzagged. “She is delightful, in her own way. She does everything with such an art – and she is fond of you, Beata.” He used her name deliberately, for the first time, bringing light to her lacklustre eyes. “She has asked every day if she may be permitted to visit you, and when my Lord Crispin and the physician have denied her, she has wept. She weeps beautifully.”

“I am glad,” replied Beata, leaving it unclear whether she rejoiced because Elaine had asked for her, or because her lover did not really admire her sister. “Do you enjoy working as a secretary?”

Again he ran his hands through his hair, and this time grimaced. “Telfer asked me if my gown chafed, and I said no; only the cap and coif. Perhaps that is about right. I like to bring order out of chaos, prosperity from neglect. I was trained to be a soldier, but the years of combat brought only a feeling of emptiness … the waste of it all! I like to build, and not to destroy. The years in which I was allowed to administer my uncle's estates were busy years, and I never stopped then to ask myself if I were content with such work. Now I know that I was. Hamo was right about my having a talent for it. If I were allowed a free hand here, I could do such things …! I ought to be riding to the Midlands now, for there is a dispute about pavage in the town. Your father writes that we must refuse the townsmen's claim, but when I studied their charter …!” He stopped short, laughing at himself for having become so enthusiastic. The light died from his eyes. “It is true that my place is here at the moment. Your brother says that after Christmas. …” He shrugged. “Well, I must obey him, of course, and help Telfer as best I can. Yet this delay will not soothe the tempers of the men in the Midlands who are disputing the tax. Yes, the cap and coif do chafe me.”

“Oh, if you could only have talked face to face with my father about it, he would have bid you go! What is a steward for, if he cannot act for his lord in such cases?”

“But I am not steward here. I am only acting-temporarily – for Crispin as his secretary. I see what should be done, and cannot do it because I have to wait on his moods. If I could fawn on him, and flatter him, it would be easier to get my own way, but I cannot. And yet … a dozen times I have been on the point of throwing up the post, and then he has turned round and given me everything and more than that which I have been working for. And why does he give in? Because I have convinced him that this or that is the right course to follow? No. It is all caprice. No, not all. I must be fair. He seems a warm-hearted man at bottom, but … perhaps it is because he is entangled with Rocca that he tries to play the tyrant. Yet he has quite accepted that I keep the dog Flash beside me. That takes a forgiving spirit, does it not?”

“My father is not capricious. You will like to serve him.”

“I think not. I think I will go at Christmas. Perhaps I should go before Sir Bertrand de Bors arrives, for fear that he recognise me. …” He looked at her steadily.

She smiled faintly. “I know about it. Did he put the ring in your wallet? Did he arrange the whole thing to please his cousin? Tell me. …”

He looked into the fire. “It all seems so long ago, now … as if it happened to another man, in another age. I was falsely accused, convicted, and would have been branded as a thief. Awaiting punishment, two men came to kill me in the night. But I had been forewarned, and my sword had been thrust through the bars of my prison, so that I could defend myself, which I did. And escaped. And came here. I do not know how the ring got into my wallet. I cannot clear myself. When my uncle turned his back on me, I knew all was lost.” He shook himself out of his reverie. “Well, Telfer tells me no-one would recognise me, dressed like this, and with a beard. So, I will serve Mailing as best I may till you go, and then I also will be on my way.”

“You must appeal to my father to reopen the case.”

“Against his son-in-law?” He smiled, and shook his head. Then he extended his hand to her. “Come, will you dine with us in the hall tonight? You are needed.”

“I think not. I am always tired by evening, and everyone says they can manage well enough without me.”

“Who says so?” He spoke sharply. “Ah, I know who told you that! Your nurse? Is that not the usual way to talk to invalids, to keep them happy in their beds? Did she tell you of the floggings that Crispin orders every day? Or that there are now two pairs of stocks in the courtyard, and both filled from dawn to sunset? Did she tell you of Jaclin's drinking bouts, and of his thrashing Crispin's squire, who can ill be spared at this time? Did she not tell you that Telfer has lost his voice? That my clerk Thomas has developed a nervous twitch? That Joan denounced Crispin at Mass …?”

“What?” She half-rose from her stool. Her colour deepened to something approaching normal.

“She had been drinking, I suppose. She interrupted Sunday Mass, despite everything her women could do, to denounce him. She said a great many foolish things, about Crispin's desiring the child's death, and wanting to put her away. I think he would indeed like to divorce her, poor creature, but dares not say so as yet, for she comes of a powerful family … is not Sir Bertrand her cousin? As she reminds Crispin daily. Yesterday he sent his physician to her chamber, and the rumour is that the physician so dosed and purged her that she is now abed, and likely to stay there, weeping. …”

“Why, this is not to be borne!”

“… and leaving the castle without a chatelaine just when the first of your father's guests are arriving – they come from so far, they started early, and are expected on the morrow – you cannot ask your sister to act as chatelaine, can you? She confuses people's names and status, and gives offence without intending to do so. Also, she is very prone to tears since young Gerald was found by Jaclin with his arm about her, and that caused some stir, I can tell you! Your brother couldn't order Gerald to be whipped, but he screamed and shouted that he would like to do so, in front of everyone. Then Gerald, who does not lack for courage, tried to challenge your brother to meet him in the tourney, and Crispin was going to accept!” He put his hand over his eyes, overcome at the memory. “Well, Telfer and Varons and I got them apart, and talked some sense into them, but by that time your sister was in another pickle. The silly girl fled from the scene between Gerald and Crispin and after coming here and being turned away by your nurse, she went weeping to the armoury, looking for I know not whom. There she discovered a good-looking young ostler, who was old enough to know better than to try to touch her. However, she threw herself on him in tears, he put his arm round her to comfort her, and is in consequence under threat of losing his eyes.”

“I must dress! Where is …?”

“Of course he has been flogged already,” said Gervase. “Your brother, foiled of his vengeance where Gerald was concerned, fell on the ostler like a gift from heaven. Once more Telfer, Varons and I tried to intervene, but though we have gained a stay of execution for the moment, the lad is still in danger of losing his eyes. Your sister ought to have been married at sixteen – though, come to think of it, she has been so taught to display her charms that she is as likely to cause trouble as a young married woman as she is without a ring on her finger. Then. …”

Beata ran to the door, and called for her nurse. She clapped her hands. looking around her for her clothes. Gervase picked some stockings from the chest nearby, and handed them to her while he went on with his report.

“There is also the question of the masque to be perfomed on the night before your joint nuptials. I was told to compose some trifle, to be performed by the pages, the waiting-women, yourself and your sister. Unfortunately my effort did not meet with approval. I lack talent for fulsome praise, you see, and my drafts were greeted with scorn. Only this morning Father Anthony informed me that he was taking over the direction of the masque, which would have as its climax the ascent of a staircase by you and your sister, to be greeted at the top by Sir Bertrand in all his glory as the God of War … and our own Father Anthony in full canonicals, who will join with you in a song in praise of some minor saint or other – I forget which.”