Longsword (21 page)

“With two men at the door?” Gervase studied the warrant. The conditions under which he was to be detained were dreadful, so dreadful that he could not contemplate them without shivering. He must be calm. There must be some way.

“My keys!” said Gervase. “That is what he's after … access to the manorial rolls which would prove that he's been cheating his master. He knows very well that those keys never leave me, by night or day. Once in possession, he can alter the entries on the rolls to cover up the loss of those monies which he has extorted from peasants who appear so poor, and yet should be so prosperous … to explain the loss of those sums of money which he has given to Crispin, over and above monies which … yes, there will be a grand altering of totals, if we do not stop him.”

“Tell me what to do?”

“Take my keys and give them to Telfer.” Gervase slipped them from the leather belt he wore, and handed them over. “Have the chest containing the rolls taken from my room and placed where Rocca cannot reach them, until you have a chance to explain to Lord Henry what we suspect has been happening. Thomas will help you.” Gervase took off the sapphire ring. “And take this, also. I would not have it fall into Rocca's hands. Take it back to Crispin and tell him … tell him nothing. He cannot interfere without denouncing himself for having cheated his father. He is caught in Rocca's trap, just as I am. Well, it is one way out of our difficulties, I suppose.”

Varons embraced him. There were tears in his eyes. “I will speak to my lord, at the earliest possible … confound this tourney, and all those guests. … Telfer and I, we'll have you out of it in no time at all.”

Gervase smiled and nodded, but he did not believe Varons. This was, this must be the end.

They went out, and down the stairs yet again.

“What! Him again?” said the gaoler. Varons showed the gaoler the warrant, and he sighed, and shook his head. Gervase was told to discard his outer clothing and his shoes, which he did. As he shook out his hair he thought numbly that Beata's hair had never looked so beautiful as tonight, in the light of the torches, with the wreath of flowers so delicate, so hardy … like herself. Well, it was unlikely he would ever see her again … perhaps it was better so.

This time there was no favoured treatment. This time there was no window, no light, no fresh air. They went past barred doors and men roused from slumber, past hands clutching at bars, and voices calling out to them for mercy.

“We like to have the cells full for when Lord Henry comes,” said the gaoler. He thrust his torch into a low passageway, indicating that Gervase should precede him. The passage was narrow and low, but debouched eventually into a chamber whose stench caused Gervase to recoil … only to be pushed forward, over and into the foulness on the floor. There was a phosphorescent slime on the walls. Gervase swallowed, trying to think of some plea that he might make, some protest … and knew it would be in vain.

An iron cage rested some foot or so above the floor, suspended by a chain from a ring in the ceiling, and the ceiling of this chamber was high indeed. The chain went through the ring, and then wound itself around a spindle, controlled by a wheel.

“Only the worst – murderers and the like – get put in here,” said the gaoler. “They commonly scream when I leaves them here … good echo … I can hear them nigh to the top staircase.”

Gervase stared in fascinated horror at the cage. He had heard of such things, but never seen one before. He remembered someone in France telling of how his sister had been suspended in one such cage over the battlements of a castle till she died … for what offence he could not remember.

The cage was large enough to accommodate a small man standing, but Gervase was above average height. A man might lie down on the barred floor, if he bent himself into a foetal position. There was a door, and it was open, a staple and padlock dangling from the central bar.

The gaoler pushed Gervase to the cage. He thought of trying to make a fight for it … but that would be useless, and only incriminate Varons if his friend tried to help.

He got into the cage, aand it swung. Before he had turned round, his hands clutching at the bars, the door was being padlocked on him. Then the gaoler was turning the wheel, and Gervase was rising into the air, rising, with the foetid smell all around him, rising above the piles of filth left behind by previous occupants of the cage … to which he prayed he would not add while Varons and the gaoler were there, watching him rise … and jerk to a halt.

Then they turned and left him, taking the torch with them. And he was alone in the dark … in a cage … half-naked, in a cage.

He bowed his head on his hands, and began to pray.

The Lady Beata was queen of the feast; unofficially, that is. Officially the honours were shared between the Lady Joan as Crispin's wife, and the Lady Elaine, who had so often borne the title of Queen of Beauty in the past. But poor sad Joan – all black veils and hysteria – was accorded lip service only, as chatelaine of Mailing. She had made it clear she would not exert herself to help Crispin with the guests, since Crispin had made it clear that he wished her to the devil.

Once in the hall. Lord Henry took Joan by one hand and Crispin by the other, and he joined the hands of man and wife together before the whole company, smiling at them and at Sir Bertrand in meaning fashion. More, he bade Sir Bertrand welcome not only as an old friend, but also as a cousin of the Lady Joan. Crispin, loosing his wife's hand, scowled and turned his head from her, so that the Lady Joan, who had smiled when Lord Henry took her hand, now put her kerchief to her eyes and wept. Beata, impatient because Joan ought to have been greeting their guests by name and directing them to their seats, stepped forward, in front of the weeping Joan, and performed the office of chatelaine herself.

Lord Henry's eye rested on Beata, and he marvelled at her poise.

Elaine, standing silent and awkward beside Sir Bertrand, was nudged by her sister, with a hissing reminder of duties to be performed. So Elaine pushed back her long hair with a lax hand, and looked around, only to find that Beata had already summoned Telfer to her aid, and that the guests were already seated according to their rank. And then Elaine shivered, for Lady Escot was staring at her with a wicked, sly, knowing look. …

Beata sat very straight in her chair, and smiled and laughed, and ate and drank, and was conscious of herself as queen of the feast … and mocked herself because she was extracting pleasure from something so transient. And then she was sitting still, not breathing, her eyes fixed on the floor of the hall, and seeing it not … seeing nothing, scenting filth, while a voice filled her brain, praying for courage. And then the voice and the smell faded, and she was looking at the jugglers in the hall, and accepting a cutlet from a spit handed to her by a page, and her goblet was being refilled, and her father was looking at her with shrewd black eyes, eyes that saw everything and noted everything.

Gervase! She wanted to scream to everyone to be silent, to cease that terrible hubbub, the echo in the hall, that she might think. But Crispin on her left, and Sir Bertrand on her right were both talking, and the one was laughing, and inviting her to laugh with him, while the other was scowling and muttering that their father was an unfeeling tyrant.

Quiet! She said to the hollow space inside herself. Quiet, Gervase! I heard you. …

She laughed with Sir Bertrand, and when he put his hand over hers, removed it without showing any sign of offence. She said to Crispin, “Do you know what has happened to Master William? He is not sitting with Varons and the others, and I am afraid. … Father snubbed him; looked at him, but would not speak to him. …

“How the devil should I know?” said Crispin, downing another goblet of wine. “What am I to do about Joan, if Father won't allow a divorce?”

“I will think. …” said Beata, and beckoned a page to send for Telfer, who was hovering nearby, directing servants, his eyes everywhere. And Lord Henry looked at Beata, and she looked back at him, and once she would have dropped her eyes from his and bent her head … and now she did not, but stared back at him … eye to eye, strong will bent against strong will, and neither willing to yield. Then Lord Henry smiled and lifted his goblet in a toast to her, and she flushed, and smiled back. Each knew the other's mind. He knew she would not refuse to do her duty, and she knew he would not break his vow to send her to the convent. Yet there was now a consciousness between them that they were, in a sense, equals.

Telfer bent his head beside her and she said, in a voice barely stronger than a whisper. “Gervase … in trouble. Will you investigate?” Telfer bowed and passed on, his face impassive – yet she knew he was to be trusted. She clapped and laughed as a juggler finished his act and dancers came on, turning somersaults.

And the pain stabbed her. She could feel the burn of bars across her back, yet nothing had touched her. Quiet! she said to herself again. Quiet, Gervase … Telfer is sending to look for you.

They were feasting well … pray heaven the provisions would last out till after Christmas, with so many more guests than they had anticipated. Thank heaven the Bishop had not come after all, though how many nuns had the abbot brought with him? Five … six … seven? And no doubt an equal number of servants to look after them.

And here was young Jaclin and another youth – a distant cousin brought down by Lord Henry from London – and they were approaching the high table, bending their knees to Lord Henry, with Father Anthony smiling in attendance. And at least the preparations for the knighting ceremony would keep the priest out of Beata's way for tonight.

Lord Henry was bending forward and speaking in kindly fashion to Jaclin – far more kindly than was usual with him. Jaclin had fired up and was boasting of the work he would do in the tourney, and how he had learned so many good tricks from a man who had been a soldier.

“Who is this man?” enquired Lord Henry, pleased to be graciously amused by Jaclin's chatter.

“The new secretary, recommended by Hamo for the position of Steward,” said Beata, in a clear, metallic voice that hardly seemed to be her own. “He has been good to Jaclin, as he was good to Flash, your dog, that he healed.”

Lord Henry's brows drew together, and seeing this Jaclin made haste to remove himself, with his comrade and the priest. They would spend the night fasting and praying in the chapel, in preparation for the ceremony of knighting early on the morrow.

Crispin, who had been sitting slumped forward in his chair, now roused himself. He had become aware that for some reason Lord Henry had taken a dislike to Master William, and his better nature urged him to defend the secretary. “Master William is a good man, and without him I daresay we would never have been ready in time for the tourney. If my word is worth anything, he should have the post of Steward tonight.”

“Your word promoted Rocca,” said Lord Henry. “I am not certain that your word is worth anything.” So saying, he turned to the abbot, who was on his other side, and began to talk to him.

Telfer was coming back up the hall, catching Beata's eye, shrugging. He had not been able to find Gervase – now he had stopped to have a word with Varons, and the two men were turning to look up at the dais, and then drawing apart from the others, frowning. Bad news, thought Beata.

Something heavy dropped onto her feet. Something warm, and living. She put down her hand, and dragged Flash out. He jumped up at her, wagging his tail.

“He has a new trick, Father,” she said. “He sits on your feet when he wants attention. Did he not sit on yours just now? He always sat on Master William's feet. It's his way of begging for scraps at mealtimes.”

Lord Henry smiled at the dog, flicked his fingers to draw him near, and gave him a bone.

“We are wearying our guests with this talk of a fugitive clerk,” said Lord Henry. “Now, my dear Joan. …”

Telfer was bending over Beata's shoulder again. “He has been arrested as a fugitive on a warrant signed by your father. Varons says Rocca is at the bottom of it. Rocca made mischief with Sir Bertrand, who demanded Gervase's arrest. Varons has the ring your brother gave Gervase. …” Beata and Telfer both looked at Crispin, who was drinking steadily, head on hand, leaning on the table. Beata shook her head at Telfer, indicating that it would not be wise to ask her brother to intervene on Gervase's behalf at the moment. Telfer bowed, and passed on.

Beata turned in her chair to consider Sir Bertrand. He was only too ready to talk to her, for Elaine paid him no attention at all. He talked about tourneys he had attended, and accidents that had occurred to other people – though never to him. And she smiled and nodded, and laughed at the right points and felt herself divide into two. There was her body, sitting at the high table, eyes everywhere, ears bent for the significant word, watching, waiting … brilliantly the queen of the feast, gathering power from the admiration of all those who dined in the hall and watched the nobility.

And there was her inner self, calculating, planning, vigilant … holding Gervase wrapped in her arms as she had held him twice when he had been on the verge of death – though he had never known – trying to tell him that she was doing what she could … trying to give him hope and patience and courage. …

Bars … and the tumblers in the hall formed themselves into a pyramid, and for a moment inspiration came through a trick of the light: faces glimpsed through spreadeagled arms and legs, and she knew where Gervase was. In a cage. Rather, in the cage. She had never been in the dungeons, of course, but she had seen prisoners brought out of the West Tower, and compared the ways they had endured the punishment and whether or not they could walk afterwards. The cage – she drew in her breath, and held it – the cage was the most feared, the most terrible. …