Longsword Read Online Free

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 – even his legs – 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. …
    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. …
    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 – soldiers posted there because of the beggars’ attack on her, no doubt. The irony of it. …
    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€œTake it, do!” said the nurse, poking the crust at him once more.
    The girl looked round, her eyes widened, and her hands stilled.
    â€œLongsword!” 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. …
    The walls were plastered and whitewashed. The bed was hard and hot. …
    The ancient man hovered, mumbling. His name was Anselm. The girl called him that. Water, more water. Ah. …
    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