Longsword Read Online Free Page B

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. …”
    â€œLongsword 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?
    â€œHe’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. …
    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. …
    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 – a minstrel, perhaps – 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