Shields of Pride Page 14

  ‘You grew up fast, though.’

  Joscelin arched his brow. ‘I had no choice.’

  Conan massaged his scar with two fingers. ‘I don’t suppose you did, nephew,’ he said in a gentler tone. ‘I saw your woman, Breaca, the month before we sailed. She gave me board and lodging in Falaise for two nights.’

  ‘She’s not my woman any more.’ Joscelin returned to stirring the grass. He watched the shiny, stiff stems bend and spring upright. Then he glanced at Conan, driven to ask despite his determination not to. ‘Is she happy?’

  ‘Merry as a nesting sparrow with three fine fledglings to show to the world - two little wenches and a baby boy in the cradle. She told me to wish you well the next time I saw you and to say that you and Juhel are constantly in her prayers.’

  Joscelin bit the inside of his mouth. After Juhel had died, he had been unable to hold Breaca. She had been at a crossroads age, craving a roof over her head and more security than he could provide. In the year of grieving determination it had taken him to become a competent, tough soldier, standing on his own merits and paid accordingly, she had ceased following the mercenary road from one war to the next and settled down with a hostel keeper from Falaise. ‘She is in my thoughts and prayers too,’ he said softly. ‘And if she has found what she wants, then I’m glad for her.’ He changed the subject. ‘Are you seeking employment now?’

  The older man eyed him suspiciously. ‘Depends. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I’m short of troops. I was thinking of riding into Nottingham to hire men but, since you’ve already lined your purse with Rushcliffe’s silver, perhaps you and your men would like the position?’

  Conan stared. He grasped the drawstring pouch at his belt and waggled it at Joscelin. ‘What do you mean? See - empty as a hag’s tit!’

  ‘You’re not going to tell me that my seneschal rode into your troop wearing nothing but his drawers?’ Joscelin scoffed. ‘You said yourself that he was “a fatted calf, dripping in wealth” and not his at that. It belongs to my five-year-old ward.’

  Conan continued to stare. Despite his best effort his lips twitched and in a moment he was lost to a full grin. Joscelin himself was similarly afflicted, his hazel eyes bright with amusement.

  ‘You are your father’s son,’ Conan growled by way of capitulation.

  ‘And my uncle’s nephew,’ Joscelin retorted.

  Chapter 16

  ‘Look, Mama. What are they doing?’ Robert wriggled upright on the saddle to point at the cage of scaffolding confining Arnsby’s tall, octagonal keep. Men stood on platforms or toiled on the ground, caparisoning the monstrous stone beast in white summer plumage.

  ‘They’re giving it a fresh coat of limewash to protect it from the weather,’ Joscelin said over his shoulder and slowed his courser so that Linnet could join him. ‘We’ve to do the same to Rushcliffe before the winter comes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To protect the fabric from the bad weather and keep it strong.’

  Robert sucked his underlip while he considered the reply. Linnet had watched her son gain rapidly in confidence during the weeks following Giles’s death. Given space to breathe without being slapped, glared at or found lacking, Robert had begun to emerge from his shell - tentatively at first, with much drawing in of horns, but growing bolder by the day. Joscelin had put him on an ancient pack pony in the tiltyard and begun teaching him to ride. He had fashioned a small, blunt-tipped lance for him and a wooden sword. Conan de Gael, Joscelin’s uncle, had played at knights and outlaws with Robert and conceded defeat with dramatic death throes, much to the boy’s consternation and delight. And Robert, so silent and withdrawn before his father’s death, had started asking questions. One after another they tumbled out of him, queuing up to trip off his busy tongue. Why is the sky blue? Why don’t people have fur like coneys? How does Job the shepherd know when it’s going to rain? Where does the sea go when the tide is out?

  ‘Why are we here?’

  ‘I told you; to visit Sir Joscelin’s father.’ Linnet kissed Robert’s fair hair.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I need to talk to him,’ Joscelin said. ‘Here, come and sit on my saddle and stop bedeviling your mother with questions. You can guide Whitesocks if you want.’

  The words were no sooner spoken than accomplished. Robert scrambled with alacrity from his mother’s arms into Joscelin’s and settled there as if they had been his security since birth.

  They approached the open gateway, the horses’ hooves thudding on the solid drawbridge planks. The huge iron pulley chains were speckled with limewash and there were splashes of it, like enormous bird droppings, on the bridge itself. Robert’s small hand pointed and he chirruped a question. Joscelin bent over him and responded with patient good humour. A pang cut through Linnet to see them thus: the familiar sensations of guilt and love and a deeper, primal twisting of heart and womb and loins.

  ‘Ach,’ said Conan softly as he joined her on the drawbridge. ‘Give him a child and he turns to butter.’

  There was a strange note in the mercenary’s voice that caused Linnet to look at him curiously. ‘Certainly my son has taken to him,’ she replied. ‘And in London I met him in the company of his youngest brother.’ She looked thoughtfully at Conan. He was wearing a garish tunic of Welsh plaid and riding Corbette’s piebald stallion. Bracelets of copper and silver jangled in abundance on his forearms. The word disreputable came easily to mind. And yet he had helped ungrudgingly with his own war-scarred hands to rebuild the farmhouse that he and his men had burned. ‘You must know Joscelin very well.’

  Conan made a face. ‘Yes and no, my lady. He came to me when he was fifteen, stubborn, proud and half-starved. ’ A sardonic grin curled his lips. ‘I took him in and I took him on, taught him the bare-fist-and-teeth side of fighting, the kind that keeps you alive.’

  ‘Like a knife down your boot?’ she asked with a half-smile.

  Conan chuckled. ‘Never be without one.’ He regarded Joscelin as he was swallowed by the darkness of the portcullis arch and emerged again into the bright sunshine of the courtyard. ‘His own lad was about Robert’s age when he died,’ he added quietly. ‘It’s a hard life for a mother and child in a mercenary baggage train. It is a good thing that Joscelin has a place of his own to settle now and a family. There’s as much hunger in his soul as there is in his damned father’s.’

  They entered the darkness themselves, emerged into light. Linnet was unaware of blinking in the brilliance, nor did she feel the warmth of the sun. ‘You are telling me that he was married once?’

  ‘They never had a priest say the words over them or witness borne to their handfasting but they were together for more than five years and she bore him a child. After the lad died, she wandered with us for a little longer but it was finished between her and Joscelin. She married a widower from Falaise and settled down with him to run a hostelry.’

  Linnet was stunned. Conan leaned closer, taking her upper arm in his calloused, strong hand. ‘I’d prefer you to keep it to yourself, lass. Not even his father knows the tale and Josce would kill me if he thought I’d been interfering in his private concerns. But I thought it was something you should know.’ Releasing his grip, he leaped lightly from his mount and stood at her stirrup to help her down.

  Linnet thought that he deserved murdering to spring something like this upon her at a moment when she needed all her social skills to be polite to her betrothed’s dreadful father.

  Robert’s hand clasped in his, Joscelin appeared at her side. She saw his glance flicker to Conan’s bland expression. ‘What has he been saying to you?’

  He spoke lightly and there was a smile on his face but she was still reminded of Giles, who had been suspicious of her every conversation with another man. ‘I . . .’ The words stuck in her throat and her mind went blank with panic.

  ‘I was giving her some friendly advice on being a dutiful wife to my nephew,’ Conan said smoothly. ‘If she is lost for words, it is bec
ause she cannot repeat what I told her without being indelicate.’ He winked at her, slapped Joscelin hard on the shoulder and turned to face the keep. ‘Hasn’t changed a stone in twenty years! I always liked this place - good and solid, a gem to defend against siege.’

  Agnes de Rocher pushed the weft through the narrow shed of the wool braid she was weaving, knocked down the twisted threads into the pattern and stared at her work with dissatisfaction. The tension was uneven, dictated by her mood at the different times she had sat down to the work, and the braid snaked broad, thin and slantwise by turns, like the unruly river of her thoughts. The colours were supposed to be autumnal - gold, brown and soft green - but they looked sallow to her now, without enough contrast to make them interesting.

  She laid down the horn weaving-tablets on the trestle and secured them with another piece of completed braid. Her hands were smooth and adorned with gold rings as befitted a baron’s wife and the only thing of vanity left to her. She tended them assiduously, anointing them with scented white fat and trimming and buffing her nails until they gleamed. Not that William ever noticed. To him she was either invisible or an irritation that he bore with ill grace and the long-sufferance of obligation. It was all the fault of the whore.

  Sometimes in the corner of her eye Agnes would catch a glimpse of Morwenna de Gael: her luxuriant dark hair rippling down her back, her green silk gown trailing the floor rushes and her body ripe with the new life that was never to come to fruition. Morwenna’s scream as she fell on the stairs that twisted down to the great hall occasionally echoed in Agnes’ ears. Morwenna the bitch and the whore. Morwenna, who, not content with sharing William’s bed, had taken everything that he was and buried it in the faultless white tomb he had built for her, ensuring there was nothing left for his rightful wife.

  Agnes’ mind was less free to wander when her sister-in-law was in attendance. Maude’s cheerful, inquisitive nature, her sheer garrulousness, left little space for Agnes to brood. But Maude was visiting a pensioned-off servant at a convent close to Newark and would not be back for two days at least. Agnes knew that Maude found her company a trial and was always eager for moments of escape. The feeling was frequently mutual.

  A small sound in the doorway caused Agnes to jump and turn round. She screwed up her eyes the better to focus on the young woman and child standing in the threshold behind her maid. Surely she knew them, and recently so?

  ‘Lady Linnet de Montsorrel,’ the maid announced and ushered the visitors into Agnes’s chamber. Agnes frowned, remembering. Maude had been asked to take care of Linnet de Montsorrel in the days immediately following the husband’s death, caused by being rolled upon by a rogue horse at Smithfield Fair. That she was Giles de Montsorrel’s widow was a matter of supreme indifference to Agnes. That she was betrothed to the whore’s bastard and brought with her a marriage portion to elevate him at one stride from hired soldier to baron of the realm made her blood boil.

  ‘This is indeed an unlooked-for pleasure,’ she said with a stiff smile. ‘Come, my lady, be seated.’ A peremptory gesture sent another maid hurrying to plump the cushions of a barrel chair.

  ‘Thank you, Lady Agnes.’ Lady de Montsorrel smiled in return and approached the chair. The child hung back, looking over his shoulder at the door.

  Agnes scrutinized her guest. Her veil of blue silk gave emphasis to the wide mist-blue eyes, as did the subtle blue and silver-grey hues of her gown and undergown. The hem of the former was trimmed with braid such as Agnes was making but the design was more complex and the weave beautifully even. Agnes’s antipathy increased. It would have been easier to offer hospitality to Linnet de Montsorrel had she been plain and less stylishly apparelled. Agnes had no cause to like or trust women of such looks.

  ‘Have you come alone?’

  The maid went to a sideboard and poured wine into two cups.

  ‘No, my lady.’ Linnet de Montsorrel hesitated then sat down and said, ‘You must know that Joscelin is here to see his father.’

  Agnes sniffed. ‘I knew it would not be long before he came prowling to Arnsby like a starving wolf after a pen of sheep. And he was bound to bring you - his prize.’

  ‘It was a matter of courtesy that he brought me,’ Linnet replied, her smile fading. Her son clambered on to her knee and wrapped his arms tightly around her neck. ‘I see now that it was a mistake.’

  ‘Oh, no mistake on his part,’ Agnes sneered. Her skirts swished upon the rushes as she turned. ‘For thirty years I have lived with the humiliation. My sons count for nothing in William’s eyes and yet he’d move heaven and earth for the bastard of his conniving whore. I well know why Joscelin is here.’

  ‘I think you are overwrought, Lady Agnes,’ Linnet was shocked by the older woman’s bitterness. ‘Joscelin is here to talk to his father about borrowing supplies for Rushcliffe.’

  ‘Doubtless that is the excuse he would mouth to anyone gullible enough to believe such a lie. He has come because his brothers are involved in Leicester’s rebellion and he thinks to secure Arnsby’s inheritance for himself. Others may be taken in but I am no dupe.’

  Linnet stiffened. ‘You malign him, Lady Agnes. Even if Joscelin did desire Arnsby of his father, you still have another son at home and I know that he loves Martin dearly.’

  ‘Martin is a child, not yet nine years old,’ Agnes snapped. ‘He’s hardly a threat.’

  ‘Even so, I know that Joscelin is not here with the intention of disinheriting his brothers,’ Linnet defended. She thought, but didn’t add, that they were quite capable of accomplishing that feat themselves. ‘The only other reason we are here is that Joscelin has brought his uncle, Conan de Gael, to make his peace with Lord William.’

  Agnes’s face drained of colour. ‘You dare to come here to my private chamber and utter the name of that hell-begotten, swindling whoremonger?’ she hissed and took two threatening steps towards Linnet.

  Linnet hastily rose from the chair, afraid that Agnes was going to assault her and Robert. The maid, who had been about to present Linnet with a cup of wine, quickly sidestepped to avoid spilling it. With Robert in her arms, Linnet headed towards the door. ‘I think it best if I leave, my lady,’ she said. ‘You are obviously unwell.’

  ‘No, you will hear me out first.’ Agnes continued to advance on Linnet but the sole of her shoe caught in the hem of her undergown and sent her sprawling.

  The maid, a look of horror on her face, set the cups aside and stooped to her mistress. Linnet hesitated on the threshold, desiring nothing more than to make her escape but prevented by her conscience. Supposing Agnes had broken a bone or was having a seizure?

  She set Robert on his feet. ‘Do you think you can go down to the hall and find Conan and Joscelin?’

  Robert looked up at her. ‘You come, too.’ He tugged on her hand.

  ‘I cannot. Lady Agnes needs help. Find Joscelin and stay with him until I come. Yes?’

  Robert nodded, his underlip caught in his teeth.

  ‘Good boy. Go on then, quickly.’ Linnet hugged him and shooed him on his way. It was astonishing how Joscelin’s name had become a talisman to the child. Mention it and a hundred doors opened where doors had not existed before. Here he was in a place he did not know, turning from the security of her skirts because Joscelin was the prize.

  Giving brisk orders to the frightened maid, Linnet checked Agnes for broken bones. Thankfully there were none and she helped Agnes to rise and wobble to her bed. The sheets had a stale smell and there were smears and crumbs upon the coverlet. Linnet urged a cup of wine upon Agnes. Grey-faced, the woman sipped and gradually her colour began to return. Her eyes cleared and focused on Linnet. ‘How I envy your innocence,’ she said wearily. ‘I, too, was innocent once. I can see it in your eyes; you think I am mad, don’t you?’

  ‘I certainly think you are ill,’ Linnet said, pity softening her attitude.

  Agnes looked bleakly at the wall where a plasterwork scene depicted two lovers seated at a merels board in a garden.
‘William wants to lock me up in a nunnery. I’m past childbearing and naught but a burden to him, but I would have him carry his burden until it kills him and then may he rot in hell with his precious whore!’

  When Linnet rose to leave, Agnes did not try again to stop her but rocked gently back and forth in her bed, cradling her cup, and muttering softly to herself.

  It had been more than twenty years since the last encounter between William de Rocher and Conan de Gael. On that occasion, William had taken his sword and fought Conan from tower to tower, room to room, across the ward and out of Arnsby’s gates. Then he had slammed them in the mercenary’s face and ordered him never to return on pain of hanging.

  Now, face-to-face, eyes on a level, they confronted each other.

  ‘Going to string me up, then?’ Conan asked, lounging upon his sword hip.

  ‘Don’t tempt me,’ William growled. His hands gripped his belt in lieu of Conan’s throat. ‘What are you doing here except to cause trouble?’

  Conan looked reproachful. ‘You do me an injustice, William, but that’s nothing new. You’ve always believed my motives to be the worst in the world. Don’t worry, I’m not staying long. I’ve about as much taste for your company as you have for mine.’

  ‘Then why are you here at all?’

  ‘He’s working for me,’ Joscelin said. ‘I need seasoned men with the trouble that’s brewing and Rushcliffe’s garrison is as magnificent a collection of oafs and lack-wits as ever graced a fool’s banquet.’

  ‘You must be one of them if you’re hiring him!’ William snapped.

  ‘Not so much that I would cut off my nose to spite my face.’ Joscelin fixed his father with a hard stare. ‘Would you rather he sold his sword to the rebellion?’

  Ironheart ground such teeth as remained to him.

  Conan smiled, the creases at the corners of his eyes deepening with sardonic humour. ‘I think he would,’ he said to Joscelin. ‘I could keep my eyes open for Ralf and Ivo then, couldn’t I?’