Longsword (30 page)

“What of the coil of rope which you bore?” Gervase's voice was harsh. “Does not that involve you equally with Choat in the conspiracy?”

The man swallowed, sweat on his brow. “My lord, it was his idea, I swear it. I went with him because he said he could trust no-one else. I thought it must be all right, if Sir Bertrand had bid him attend to the prisoner. …”

“That I did not!” swore Sir Bertrand. “The man lies if he says I had aught to do with it!”

“But I thought. …” The man looked scared. He shifted on his feet.

“Perhaps it was your mistress, Lady Escot, who sent Choat to the cells?” asked Gervase softly.

“Ridiculous!” said Lady Escot. “Why should I have done that? Were you not already discredited?”

“Surely! And I think even that did not satisfy you. Yet if neither of these men can produce a better story, I must ask Lord Henry to hold them for trial for attempted murder.”

“Not so!” broke in the second man, his hand to his throat. “I know nothing of who sent Choat, but … I do not know if it means anything, but he was close in converse with my lady's tire-woman earlier that day, and I thought … as they passed across the yard, she picked up something from the cobbles., and it seemed to me it was my lord's ring. …” He licked his lips.

“My uncle's ring? The ring that was supposed to have been in my wallet at that time? The ring for which I was convicted of theft?”

The man nodded, eyes glancing now at the stolid face of Choat, and now at Gervase.

The abbot, who had continued to eat the while, said low down to Beata, “Now Lord Escot must prove complicity … if he has not that, he has nothing. …”

Gervase frowned at the two witnesses. “How came the ring in the yard?”

“I know not, except that everyone knew my lord had been complaining it had grown loose on his finger. You must have heard him … everyone did … the woman Wanda must have known whose ring it was! Everyone knew! My lord must have dropped it in the yard as he mounted his horse to go riding. I am sure she knew whose ring it was. Moreover. …” He hesitated. “I think it was she who came to let us out of the storeroom after you left. I could not see very well, for my hood had worked round over my face in my struggle to free myself … but I heard someone whispering to Choat, someone who had brought a candle into the storeroom … and then Choat freed me, and we made ourselves scarce. Whoever it was who freed us had gone before I had a chance to see them. They must have moved very lightly, my lord – like a woman!”

Varons pushed a middle-aged woman into the centre of the hall. She curtseyed, taking her time. She wore the good but plain gown of an upper servant, and had a plump face with knowing eyes. “My lord, if it please you, that man there tells nothing but lies. He is well known for it, and I have often said to my lady that he should be turned off. …”

“Why, you …!”

“Silence!” said Lord Henry. “Woman, did you pick up a ring from the courtyard that day?”

She hesitated, and then, “Yes, my lord. I found a ring and took it to. …” Her eyes flitted in Lady Escot's direction, and then lowered again. “I set it on the chest in my lord's bedroom. Sir Gervase stole it from there.”

“And did you go down to the storeroom in the night, to see what had happened to the would-be assassins?”

“Of course not, my lord. I was … otherwise occupied.” And this time her eyes flicked to Sir Bertrand, and then returned to the floor.

“Is that true, Sir Bertrand?” asked Lord Henry.

Sir Bertrand nodded, and laughed. “My cousin is ever thoughtful of my comfort! Aye, the woman spent the night with me.”

“Then,” said Gervase, “the two men must hang, as having been unable to prove the plot was anything but their own.”

“Not so!” cried the second man, his eyes wild. “Wanda did not go back into the house after she picked up the ring! I watched her, thinking it was a pity it had not been my good luck to discover the ring, for my lord would likely have given me a reward for finding it. She spoke awhile to Choat, and then she saw Sir Bertrand crossing the yard and ran after him, crying that she must speak with him in private.”

The woman started, and flushed. “I forgot! Yes, I showed him the ring, and he promised to put it back for me. …”

Sir Bertrand strode forward, glaring. “Woman! Did I not give it back to you, though you pressed it in my hand? You said you knew what to do with it. …”

“What did you think she meant by that?” said Gervase.

“Why … how should I know?”

“But you saw the ring yourself? You recognised it?”

“I … yes.”

“Yet before noon you had three men come into the buttery and drag me to the ground while you stood over me, shouting that I was a thief – a thief of a ring which you had seen a short while before, in the hands of Wanda – a thief of a ring which you knew very well was not missing?” Sir Bertrand was silent, and his face grew red with anger.

Gervase asked, “Did the woman Wanda suggest that she arrange to have the ring put into my wallet secretly? Did she suggest that you might then have me accused of theft in order to please her mistress, your cousin?”

“I … she is a clever piece, Wanda. …”

“Did she suggest you misuse your position in my uncle's house to arrest me and try me? Did she suggest that I then be visited in the night by two trusted men, with a rope … a rope to hang me with … under such circumstances as my uncle might think I had committed suicide?”

“No!” screamed Wanda. Her chubby face was now colourless. “I did not think. … I could not have … it is true that I arranged for the ring to be put in your wallet, but it was his idea, not mine! I told your one-time bedfellow Anne that it was a good-luck charm, and she promised to put it secretly in your wallet before noon, when I plotted to waylay you, and then accuse you of theft. But of the plot to murder you I knew nothing … I swear it!” And she fell on her knees.

“But witnesses have deposed that it was you who came down to the storeroom with a candle in the middle of the night, to see what had become of the murderers?”

“Not I! Not …! No, no! I stayed in bed, I swear it! I did not even hear him leave, for I was asleep … I swear it! I only knew he had gone when I woke and found the bed cold! And he told me nothing, even then …!”

“Who left you in bed … in the night?”

“Him!” She pointed to Sir Bertrand. “Sir Bertrand de Bors. He went down to see that everything had gone as planned. It was his idea! Not mine! Not mine!” She began to work her way to the dais on her knees, sobbing. Sir Bertrand leaped forward, his dagger raised to strike Wanda, but at the same moment Gervase also leaped forward, and the lance he still held in his hand was used as a single-stick to parry the blow, and send the dagger to scatter rushes on the floor.

There was a thick silence. Even Wanda, crouching low, had ceased to sob. The Lady Escot screamed. Hands and mouth trembling, she was suddenly an old woman. Heads turned in her direction. She put her hands over her face, and huddled down in her chair.

“Well, Sir Bertrand?” said Lord Henry. “How much did Lady Escot know?”

Sir Bertrand looked at Lord Henry. He gazed around the hall, with a fair assumption of indifference. He drew himself up to his full height, and laughed. He folded his arms across his chest and stared Lord Henry in the eye. He would say nothing.

Lord Henry rose to his feet, slowly and with dignity. He said, “This was not a court of law. Yet we have heard enough today to justify reopening the case against Lord Escot. Varons: take the three conspirators away to the West Tower and hold them in separate cells for interrogation. Sir Bertrand, you are here as a guest, and will be treated as one. You will return to your quarters but my men will replace your servants, and you will remain confined there until such time as your case can be brought to the attention of the King's Justiciars. I suggest that you consider what damages you can pay Lord Escot for wrongful arrest and slander, which may perhaps provide a mitigating circumstance when the case comes to trial.

“As for you, Lady Escot: nothing has been proved against you, which I think is more than you deserve, for I have little doubt you know exactly what was going on at every stage of the conspiracy. Howsoever, if you will agree to leave Ware and take up residence in some place appointed by Lord Escot, he will, I dare say, allow you sufficient revenues on which to live.”

Lady Escot was trying to stand. She was whimpering, like a whipped dog. Two men-at-arms led her away. Sir Bertrand bowed low to Lord Henry and marched out after her, two more men-at-arms falling in behind him. The other conspirators had already been taken from the hall.

Gervase remained, leaning on his lance, still looking at Lord Henry.

Black eyes looked into golden, and neither man smiled.

Lord Henry said, “Lord Escot, you have been greatly wronged, but it shall not be said you sought justice in vain. Rest assured that whatever is in my power to do for you shall be done. Your estates shall be returned to you and you will receive compensation for your sufferings. And now, as your entertainment is over, may I invite you to join us at table?”

Gervase shook his head. “No, my lord. I have served Malling, and you have discharged the debt. Let that be the end of it. I will trespass on your hospitality one night more, and then be on my way.”

So saying, he bowed and left the hall.

The abbot said, “You weep, Lady Beata? Did the man mean so much to you?”

Some hours later Telfer was sent to fetch Gervase from the infirmary, to speak with Lord Henry in the green solar.

“You will deal gently with him, I trust,” said Telfer, as they went along. “He is much shaken by Crispin's death. He thought at first to place Jaclin in Crispin's stead, but now he has reconsidered. He has had Jaclin with him, talking the matter over, and my lord sees that it will not answer. Provision will be made for the boy, of course, but. …” He shrugged.

“He must marry again,” said Gervase. “Of his four children, the best is the one he has most neglected, and whom he now intends to throw into the arms of the church.”

“That is what I told him. The Lady Beata went further: she said all this had been brought about because he had not paid his debt to the church with his own body.”

Gervase gave a short laugh. “The old fox would not see it that way. …”

A page threw open the door of the solar and they went in. Beata was standing near the door, waiting for him. Lord Henry sat with Elaine and the abbot by the fire, but Beata had plainly come to greet him, and speak with him before he spoke to the others. She held out her hands to him. He took them. Her dark curls were tousled under a filmy black veil, but she had discarded her black mantle, and her gold dress glimmered with every breath she drew.

She said, “Gervase, you will listen to him … promise me you will listen! Swear that you will do as he asks! Believe me, I wish it, too!”

She withdrew her hands abruptly, and walked away. Gervase went slowly to the fireplace, and bowed to Lord Henry. The old man was sitting in a high-backed chair, a fur thrown over his knees. He gestured to Gervase to take a seat beside him.

“Lord Escot, you see before you a man stricken by sorrow, bereft of his heir … bereft, too, of the support he had looked for in his daughter's betrothed. I beg you …” Lord Henry was so little accustomed to begging that it sounded rather more like a command than a plea, “I beg you to forgive what slights I may unintentionally have put upon you. On this, the eve of Christmas, I wish to be at odds with no man. You refused to eat and drink with me earlier this evening. Will you not reconsider that decision?”

A goblet of wine was handed to Gervase, and it was Telfer who served him. Telfer wanted him to drink. Well, he would do so.

Gervase lifted the goblet to Lord Henry in a toast. “If you will forgive me for abusing your hospitality, at the same time?”

“Indeed,” said Lord Henry. “I think myself much in your debt. You have a talent for handling affairs, it seems. You will be glad to hear that the man Rocca has been laid by the heels, and a search of his house revealed a large amount of money for which he seems – at the moment – unable to account.”

“I am delighted to hear it,” said Gervase. He thought, and now he will come to the point. …

“In other matters, too,” said Lord Henry, “I believe I have much to thank you. Your attitude to my daughters has been most honourable … may I say chivalrous? Yes, I believe I may say chivalrous. It reflects great credit upon you …”

“… and upon them.” Gervase bowed.

“Of course, to a man your background – and wealth – these girls must seem insignificant little creatures?”

Where was the trap? Gervase could sense there was one, and yet he could not see it. He said, “Surely they both deserve the title Queen of Beauty.”

“You are something of a flatterer, I fear. Yet a large dowry will often compensate for other shortcomings, and she is still young, and would bear you healthy children. …”

A pulse began to leap in Gervase's throat. He could not believe what he was hearing … there was a gathering dread … and then the words came, and they were terrible in his ears.

“All things considered, I believe we could both do worse than return to the arrangement whereby you were to wed my daughter Elaine. More wine for Lord Escot, Telfer.”

Elaine had turned her head away from him, and was looking into the fire. Now she put up a hand to cover her eyes.

Gervase rose, but there at his elbow was Beata. She said, “I wish it. I beg of you, think! You must marry and have children. Can I rest quiet in the cloister, knowing that you lie alone at night? Grief passes, they say. It must be so, or we would all die when we are taken with this sickness. I am sick, but I suppose I shall be well in time, and all the quicker for knowing you are wed to my sister.”