Longsword (31 page)

Elaine said, “I do not think he will … although it would make me very happy to. …” She pressed her hands to her mouth, and shook her head.

“She is a good girl,” said Lord Henry. “I am lucky in having such dutiful children, am I not? Yet I think there is something more than duty in Elaine's agreement to marry you.”

Gervase looked at the abbot, to find that cleric nodding and smiling. He looked beyond the abbot to where Telfer stood with bright eyes, also nodding and smiling. He looked at Lord Henry, and noted the tired lines around his eyes, and the effort he was making to hold himself straight in his chair. He felt Beata's hands close around his forearm, and heard her whisper. “I beg of you. …”

“You do me too much honour,” he said, and his voice seemed to come from a long way away. “The Lady Elaine would grace any king's court, and I am but a humble knight, occupied with matters of hedging and ditching. I am too coarse a robe for her to wear.”

Now Lord Henry's eyes began to burn, and his fingers to shift along the arm of his chair. He said, “Elaine, Lord Escot requires assurance that you will be a loving wife to him. Walk with him by the windows, and talk with him awhile. He needs to be convinced of your good faith.”

Elaine walked away to the window, and after a moment Gervase followed her, stroking his chin. Elaine did not look at him, but tugged at a tress of her hair and spoke softly, her eyes lowered.

“My lord, I know you do not love me, yet it is true that I have learned to care for you.”

“Hush, lady. Do not say the words. Surely you will wish them unsaid tomorrow.”

“I realise it will take time for you to recover from … I know that you love my sister. I would not have urged this … or not so soon. My father is too hasty. It was Beata's idea to speak with you now. She wanted this settled, that she might leave, knowing we were both provided with. … In six months, or a year, perhaps. …”

He did not know what caused him to look round, but he was just in time to see Beata put her hand to her forehead, and close her eyes. It was only for a moment, and then she straightened up – with an effort – and bent to pull the fur higher over her father's knees. And now she was smiling.

He turned back to Elaine. She was looking at him, and beyond him … and now Elaine was smiling, too. She said, “I understand. You would look at me and think of her, always. There is something between you, I have seen it happen so many times … she does not have to speak to pull you to her, nor you, to turn her in your direction.”

“Lady, I wish it were not so, for all our sakes.”

“Yes. Gervase. …” It was the first and last time that she called him by his name. “Do not lose heart. …”

He bowed over her hand. “Lady, if you ever need a friend. …”

“I have a better one in mind,” she said. Then she walked past him, and left the room.

Gervase bowed to Lord Henry, and followed her example.

Morning came at last. Gervase had spent most of the night sitting motionless by the fire in his cell at the infirmary, dozing, thinking, praying. He had been so chilled, despite the fire, that he had pulled a blanket over his shoulders, in addition to the cloak Berit had found for him.

“Burial of one kind today,” said the squire, helping Gervase to don the sky-blue surcoat. “And of another kind tomorrow. Robing today … not to be postponed under any circumstances, apparently. Burial tomorrow of my lord Crispin … then everyone's to go … and Mailing will be so quiet …!”

“I suppose I should wait to see Crispin buried,” said Gervase. He plunged his face into cold water, trying to wake himself up. He felt numb with grief.

“Captain Varons said he would come to fetch you for the robing … instructions to give you a good position, where you can see it all.”

Gervase winced. “Did he think I would run away? Though I confess that now it comes to it, I wish I had not promised to attend.” Yet she would not run away. And she would expect to see him there.

Varons came at last, his snapping eyes telling of the strain of recent weeks. “No swords in the chapel … that's right. You've to stand at the front. There's a chair set for Lord Henry, but for no-one else. The place will be packed. What a way to spend a feast day!”

The chapel was crowded with noble company, and few of the servants had been able to find a place to stand. Some of the pages had climbed up the pillars, and clung to the rafters, in order to get a good view. Beata was popular and they were sad to see her go. The air was heavy with the greasy smoke of countless candles and of incense. Rushes had been freshly laid on the floor, to take the chill from the stone flags.

Varons led Gervase to a pillar under the rood, at the point where the nave of the chapel joined the chancel. It was a somewhat exposed position, and Gervase would willingly have drawn back into the crowd, but that Varons remained at his side.

Then his eyes were taken with the sight of the black-draped coffin on the bier before them. It might be Christmas Day, but Crispin dominated the castle, in death as in life. Beata would have to pass by the coffin on her way to the altar to be robed.

He clenched his hands on his belt, and began to pray for her.

They were coming … a susurration of rich fabrics, a sigh or two from the congregation, and Lord Henry came into view with his daughters, one steadying him on either side. The abbot and his retinue, the cross and its bearer … the black-robed nuns … nothing was lacking by way of ceremony. The boys' voices swung high, in arcs of sound, and the bases echoed them below.

Elaine and Beata were still wearing their gold dresses, but one wore a filmy veil of black, and the other had her head and shoulders swathed in folds of white linen. Then Lord Henry was sinking into his chair, and the abbot was speaking, in a voice surprisingly sonorous for one so small of stature. He told once more of the vow Lord Henry had made, of how its fulfilment had been deferred, and of how it was now to be redeemed.

Then the girl in the white, all-concealing veil stepped forward, and the abbot spoke to her, and she was received up into the chancel, among the nuns and the clergy, to take her vows.

But Gervase continued to look at the girl who stood on the far side of Lord Henry's chair, the girl in the filmy black veil, with the short dark curls, with the broad yet delicate face and dark eyes that blinked to hold back tears … lips soft yet full, that smiled at him over her father's head. At Beata, his love, his all … Beata, still standing beside her father … not gone into the arms of the church.

Eventually it was done, and the new nun, her sweet face joyful within the close cap and hood, was kissed by her family for the last time and withdrew from the world.

Then Lord Henry, trying to rise from his chair, found he needed more assistance than Beata could give him. Gervase stepped forward, took the old man's right arm, and helped him to his feet.

Gervase walked with Beata in the moonlight, beneath the cloisters. Tomorrow Crispin would be buried … tomorrow many of the guests would depart from the castle … tomorrow Gervase was to move into Crispin's old apartments, and the following day he was to be formally betrothed to Beata.

But now they spoke of Elaine as they walked close together, with his right arm around her, and her left hand in his.

“… for it was not my idea,” Beata was saying. “Even if I had thought of it, I could never have suggested it, because I had sworn to go willingly into the convent.”

“Perhaps it was because she saw you could make the ultimate sacrifice that she found the courage to do it.” said Gervase, putting her hand to his lips. How nearly he had lost her!

“No, I cannot take the credit, for she said she had been thinking of it for some time. Since that poor ostler was blinded … you remember? She said it was brought home to her then what a feeble sort of creature she was. She said she wanted to change, but needed help … help which she did not feel she would obtain in her marriage to Sir Bertrand. She said it was only a step from that to thinking of how peaceful it would be in the convent, and to long for it. Only she did not think Father would allow both of us to go into the convent, and of course he would not have done so. Then she began to see how much I had changed, and how I hated the thought of becoming a nun. She said she could not understand why I dreaded something that she wanted so badly.”

Gervase frowned. He did not speak, but she picked up his moment of doubt, and answered it. “Yes, she did love you, I think … not as I do, not with every thought, but quietly and gently. If she had been able to marry you, instead of Sir Bertrand, if you had not shown her so clearly that you could not be happy in such a marriage … then I think she would not have dared to oppose Father's wishes.” She pulled his arm across her, and stood still, cradled in his embrace. She said, “I thought I would die with the pain, when you went with her last night to the window, and I saw she was pleading with you … I could not see how you could resist her, and it hurt … though indeed, I would have gone with a smile if. …”

He turned her to him, and kissed her.

Presently they continued their stroll, up and down. “I went after her, last night, and found she had cut off all her lovely hair. She was laughing and crying, both at the same time, and saying she couldn't marry anyone now. …”

“The abbot took your part?”

“Yes. He had seen everything. He is a wise man. He went to talk to her, and then he talked to me, and made me confess that I loved you, and that I thought you loved me, although you had never said so. …”

“Had I not?” said Gervase, his lips on her hair. “Now I quite thought I had, once or twice … or ten times.”

“Or twenty.” She shuddered, and his arm tightened about her once again. “It was so close … I can still hardly believe it … even though all these years I never really thought it would happen! Marry me quickly, Gervase! I am so afraid something will go wrong! Father has changed his mind once too often about Elaine's marriage, even though he has now consented to ours. …”

“I will carry you off over my saddle-bow, if necessary. But will you be satisfied with Ware, after this?”

“Ware?” She pushed away from him, searching his face by the fitful light of a cresset set in the corner of the cloisters. “Ware. …” She looked about her. “I never thought to leave Mailing. Yet if that is what you wish. …” She nodded.

“My lady of Ware!” He kissed her, and in that same moment was filled with doubt. Ware was a small place. Perhaps she might be content there, if she were lucky enough to produce a child straight away, but he …? After Mailing, what would Ware seem like to him? Then, like a lion which had been kept locked for too long in a cage, the responsibilites that went with the position of steward of Mailing leaped onto his shoulders. The burghers in the Midlands, seeking remission of taxes: someone should ride up there up there at once … the poverty Rocca had created among the peasantry hereabouts … the new corn-mill … the dozens of men awaiting trial in the West Tower … Telfer, and Varons … all his friends here. …

While thoughts like this passed through his mind, Beata's nurse came to take her away, and Gervase was left to pace the coisters by himself. Although the hour was late, he did not feel that the day was over – yet he could not think what it was he had left undone that he ought to have done. He went out into the great courtyard, and looked up at the keep. There were torches alight on the ramp, and a dog and a man descending. Flash jumped up at Gervase, barked, and ran back to the ramp.

“They await you in the solar, my lord,” said Thomas. His writing implements were under his arm.

Gervase went with Thomas up into the keep, across the hall, up more stairs and into the solar. There, where he had first seen Crispin at the head of the table, Lord Henry now sat in state. He was lapped in furs, and a pile of documents lay under his hand. Telfer sat on his right, and Varons on his left. Thomas brushed past Gervase to take a seat at a desk, a little to one side. There was a vacant chair at the foot of the table. It would have been Hamo's chair once, completing the circle.

In that moment Gervase saw that Lord Henry would never let him go back to Ware, save perhaps on a short visit. He saw that he could marry Beata whenever he wished. He also saw that if he took that vacant chair, he would be tied to an old man's whims all over again, that his days would be filled with work from dawn to dusk, and that there would always be a threat held over him that if he did not please his master. Lord Henry would take another wife. …

He looked into Lord Henry's eyes, and saw there an appeal for understanding; more … he saw that the old man was to be trusted.

Everything he had ever wanted was within his grasp.

He took a deep breath, and sat in the vacant chair.

“Now,” said Lord Henry, “we can begin. …”