Authors: Veronica Heley
If Gervase had stayed, he would have been killed. He had been disowned, but that, apparently, had not been enough for Lady Escot. And he had no redress, for he had no proof, no money, no influence. He had nothing but his sword and the clothes on his back. Well, let it be so. He yawned. He would go out into the world and seek a new master â one who would reward his services with gold rather than blows. Chance had directed him away from the sea, and he would go where chance led him. Overseas he could have taken service in some army or other, earned his livelihood as a paid soldier ⦠he had had experience of such work. He yawned again. To the devil with armies and battles and wounds ⦠give him a quiet life, any day! Had he not tired long since of war?
So he would seek his livelihood by other means. He would not go abroad, but continue walking westward. If his uncle sent sheriffs after him, they would surely go south, expecting him to cross the Channel. He would be far safer going west. â¦
Before he knew it, he was asleep again, and only woke when the ancient shook his arm. Sunlight was filling the bare cell with warmth.
“⦠and there was I thinking ye meant to be off at first light, and here it is an hour past dawn, and the Lady at Mass already. ⦔
Gervase started up. It had been in his mind to attend Mass with the Lady, and the knowledge that she was already gone to church gave him a feeling of loss. Yet what was he about, thinking of going to Mass, with the sun high in the sky, and the road before him?
“⦠but she looked in on you before she went, and told me that if you really did wish to be off without greeting her father â and it seemed to surprise her, I may say, that ye should be so scornful of our hospitalityâshe said I must see ye fed, and set ye on your way, and that if your road took you to Bristol, would ye act as escort to the poor lady with the two children whom she took in yester eve? One of them, to my mind, is sickening for something serious, but the poor mother is so determined to be away. ⦔
Bristol. The west. Gervase nodded. Chance was undoubtedly working in his favour. Who would think of connecting a lone fugitive with a man escorting a poor but respectable family to Bristol?
Yet though he told himself that all was going well, he was filled with a feeling of depression that he could not shake off. He looked across the cloister, but the door of the dead man's cell was closed. He felt as if he, too, had been shut out. Beata, he thought. The name meant happiness, or blessedness. A good name for her. He wished her well. He wished. ⦠He shrugged. He must be on his way.
The glossy leaves of summer had changed colour and were beginning to fall from the trees before Gervase came to Malling again. This time he did not stride down the road with all the confidence of youth and health. Gone were the long sword, the rough but serviceable cloak, fine linen, tunic and boots; instead, he crept along on feet wrapped in bloodstained bindings, and his emaciated body was clothed only in a tattered tunic and loincloth. Gone was the long stride and proud carriage; he leaned on a staff cut from the hedgerow, and the sun and the rain alike beat on his bare head.
He paused within sight of the castle, more to rest than because he was too early to join the poor people at the postern gate. He looked at the stream, and debated within himself whether he had the strength to get up off the ground again, if he stooped to slake his thirst. He doubted he had. He forced himself to move forward, then wavered and nearly fell. The last rays of the sun were gilding the walls of the castle, and caught at his face. He winced, and shielded his eyes. Face, hands and arms â even his legs â were swollen and red.
Twenty paces more, he said to himself. Then another twenty ⦠she will not refuse to take in a dying man. I can go in peace, knowing that she will close my eyes ⦠if only she is not afraid of my disease ⦠if only. â¦
Ten paces, and he had to lean against the wall to rest. His forehead burned. He groaned and tried to cool it against the stone of the wall. The brightness of the sun had gone. Now he shivered, as his fever mounted. It would be very easy just to slip down and die, but then she would never say a mass for him, poor sinner that he was.
Gervase took another step, and felt the sky blacken above him. He clung to his staff, shutting his swollen eyelids. On, he muttered. Only a little way now. How many days was it since he had started back to Malling? Eight? He had lost count. Another few steps, and the postern was in sight ⦠or did his eyes deceive him? She would not recognise him, of course. Who would? But that did not matter. It was better so. If only she were not afraid of the disease. â¦
There were two men-at-arms behind her at the postern gate, and the nurse ⦠the nurse's apron was blinding white ⦠the girl was not looking his way, but talking to a youth with a twisted leg ⦠suppose she did not see him, after all? Suppose the soldiers turned him away â soldiers posted there because of the beggars' attack on her, no doubt. The irony of it. â¦
He was there. He reached the trestle and put one hand on it, leaning on it and on his staff. The nurse was thrusting some bread at him, and remarking that he was nearly too late. The girl was turning away, having finished with her task for the evening. She had not seen him. Her hair was flying out from under its confining net, strong curls of glossy black, each with a mind of its own ⦠she was trying to tuck them back in, and they were resisting her. â¦
“Take it, do!” said the nurse, poking the crust at him once more.
The girl looked round, her eyes widened, and her hands stilled.
“Longsword!” she cried. She ran round the trestle. She had her arm round Gervase, and was supporting him, his staff dropping away ⦠he felt tears burn his cheeks. His throat swelled. He could not speak.
He heard the nurse cry out, and the girl say something about that being nonsense, and then she was giving orders, sharp and clear, and the two men-at-arms were coming forward, lifting him onto the trestle top, and carrying him through into the castle. For a few paces she walked beside him, with her hand in his, and then she withdrew her hand and he, striving to turn his head to see what had happened to her, lost consciousness, and went into the fiery hell that awaits those who contract smallpox.
She was bending over him, between him and the candle, and her head was haloed by its light. He was in such a fever ⦠a red hell. â¦
The walls were plastered and whitewashed. The bed was hard and hot. â¦
The ancient man hovered, mumbling. His name was Anselm. The girl called him that. Water, more water. Ah. â¦
She was there again, on the other side of the bed, and now there was no nimbus of candlelight about her. She was frowning, biting her lip, bathing his face. He tried to smile up at her. His lips framed the words, “You knew me,” but though he strove to speak, she did not seem able to hear him.
How many days? It was taking him a long time to die. He had not thought it would take so long. He had thought it would be all over quickly ⦠all he had ever done had ended in failure ⦠such an unsatisfactory life, best ended. ⦠But perhaps it was an illusion that he was taking a long time to die? Perhaps they were still living through that first night, the night of his coming to the castle? He tried to ask the ancient Anselm, but his lips were too swollen, and one of his eyes completely closed.
It could not be the same day, for the girl was wearing different clothes. Her everyday dress was a plain affair of dark purplish-brown, but this was of sage green, with a pattern of gold threads. Then he saw it was not a different dress, but a green cloak cast over her shift, with the rays of the candle shooting gold across it here and there.
He tried to smile at her. He wanted to tell her that he had never seen anyone so beautiful. She sat on the stool beside his bed with one of her characteristically abrupt movements, and took his hand in hers. â¦
Then she was gone, and the candle was there again. It fretted him that she was not between him and the candle, to shield his eyes from the brightness. Then his sight blurred. Later â how much later? The sonorous words; he had known their meaning once, but now they echoed in his head like waves on the seashore. Then he realised that the girl's nails were digging into the palm of his hand, and the priest was asking him if he repented of his sins. â¦
Gervase tried to say that he was innocent of the theft of the ring, but the priest would not wait, taking his mumblings for assent. Gervase was shriven, and anointed, and received the Last Sacrament; and all this time he was aware of what was happening, although it seemed to be happening not to him, but to someone else.
It seemed to distress the girl that he was dying. She wept, and turned her shoulder on Anselm when that ancient came to enquire whether the corpse was not yet ready for his shroud. It worried Gervase that she wept. He could not understand why she should. He was happy enough to go, and he tried to tell her so.
“⦠you shall not die!” said the girl. It was night, and she was wearing her cloak over her shift, with her hair loose about her shoulders. Such wonderful hair, curling and waving, running riot around her neck and over her brow, but not long enough ⦠surely she did not cut it?
He found he could open both his eyes. Not much, but a little. The swellings on his mouth had abated, too. Perhaps he could even talk, if he tried hard enough.
He made an effort to moisten his lips and she, quick to help, held a goblet of wine to his mouth. He said, “It is better this way ⦠close my eyes ⦠a sprig of rosemary between my hands. ⦔ He was surprised he could say so much, and even more surprised that she had heard and understood him.
“No,” she said. “You must not die. You are too young. There is so much for you to do. ⦔
He moved his head in negation.
“Yes, there is,” she said, nervously insistent. “Such skill with the sword. ⦔
“I sold my sword â to innkeeper â at Mere. The child â the boy â fell sick. Then the mother. I saw it was smallpox. She would not rest. Husband dead ⦠wanted to take children to her father in Bristol. No money. She said to leave them ⦠but I could not. So I sold everything, little by little. ⦠only it was no good. The little girl lived longest ⦠almost got there. I sold my tunic to give her burial and took their things on to the grandfather ⦠but he did not care. He saw I was sickening, too ⦠he turned me away ⦠afraid of the infection ⦠why are you not afraid?. ⦠I thought you would bury me, if you were not afraid ⦔
She struck her hands together. “If only I had known! It is all my fault, for I guessed the child was sick. I will repay you, I will! I will send for your sword ⦠you will live to fight again. ⦔
“Longsword is dead. When I sold my sword, I knew what I was doing. Tired of fighting ⦠glad to be done with it ⦔
She put both hands to her forehead, pressing on the temples. “Oh, I am so stupid! I ought to be able to think of the right words. ⦔
Then the nurse came, and took the girl away. He had wanted to say goodbye to her, to thank her ⦠but she was gone, and he had not said the words. A wave of fatigue hit him, and he nearly went under. If he went under, he would die. Why, then, was he holding back?
“He's still alive!” The girl sounded exultant.
He opened his eyes and smiled up at her. He wanted to tell her then, how grateful he was ⦠but she was gone again. The day lay before him, long and dreary, and he knew that the waves of fatigue would come back, and that one of them might be so big that he would have to relinquish his hold on life. When he saw her next, he would tell her that he was too tired to go on. â¦
But the days passed, and though she came to his bedside in the night twice more, with her hair loose and her cloak around her shoulders, yet he did not die.
He stretched himself in the narrow bed, and without opening his eyes thought of that other bed of his, at Ware. That was a wide bed with an embroidered coverlet on it, with fine linen sheets, and wool blankets. There was a carved wooden screen he could pull round from behind the bedhead, if the wind turned to the north and the chimney smoked, or the draught came round the shutters on the windows. By his bedside there was a stand, on which his man would set water and towels morning and night, and beyond that again the big carved chest against the arras in which lay, carefully folded with sprigs of lavender, his linen shirts, his best tunic of blue-green damask, and the workaday ones of fine wool and leather. A cupboard on the wall held a mirror and a razor. A larger chest beside the door held his chainmail tunic, together with the helmet he had carried to the wars in France, and to tourneys ⦠and his spurs ⦠and the shield with the sign of the Escots blazoned on it, azure blue on black. â¦
At the foot of his bed, on a square of rush matting, would lie his two dogs, curled up in sleep, ready for the click of his fingers. Where were they now? Would someone look after them for him?
He sighed and turned himself on his side.
What should he do with himself this coming day? As Sir Gervase Escot of Ware he had had a number of alternatives. If his uncle were fit, and in a good temper, they would go hunting in the winter-time, and ride out to see to the farms in summer. Or they might hold court in the hall, and there Gervase would as likely as not be left to dispense justice by himself, for his uncle had less and less patience for disentangling court cases as he advanced in years and girth. Or they might get out the dice in the evenings, or the cards, or entertain passing travellers â a minstrel, perhaps â a neighbouring lord. His uncle would probably get drunk whether he did any of the other things first or not. Gervase enjoyed the wines of Gascony, but he did not at all relish the loss of control which drunkenness brought in its train. He was a man who liked to be in control of whatever situation he happened to find himself.
Now, lying in the bed at Malling, he put his hands to his head, remembering everything that had happened to him in the past few months ⦠and kept his hands there, passing them over his face and head. He had been clean-shaven and long-haired when he had fallen ill. Now he had a beard and his hair had been shorn to allow the sores on his head to be cleansed every day. His skin was still raw in places, and one eyelid would never rise to the old extent again. He feared his face was badly marked, and then laughed, soundlessly, for what on earth did it matter if he were marked or no? He had never been a handsome man, and yet ⦠he sighed ⦠he had not been vain, but he had known himself attractive to women, and had taken a certain pleasure in that. Now he supposed he must be content if only he did not frighten children away with his ugly face and ginger beard. His hair was still auburn in colour, but he knew his beard was bright red, for Anselm frequently chuckled over the fact that his newly-grown beard was so much lighter than the hair on his head.