Shields of Pride Read online

  ‘Yes, madam.’ The woman curtseyed, her eyes downcast.

  Agnes moved in closer to Ralf’s pungent, masculine warmth. She knew he had been out in the village last night, gaming in the alehouse and wenching. A residue of his indulgences still lingered in his pores. ‘You would not put me away in a nunnery if you were master here, would you?’ she wheedled.

  His nostrils flared. ‘Of course not, Mama!’

  Agnes smiled and kissed his cheek, feeling the prickle of beard stubble under her lips where once his skin had been smooth like a petal. ‘I knew you would say that, you’re a good son.’

  A slight shudder ran through him. At first, dismayed, she thought it was because she had touched him but then he said abruptly, ‘Nottingham is going to be ravaged by Robert Ferrers.’

  Her hands fumbled with the string and she stared up at him, a red flush creeping from her throat into her face. ‘When?’

  Ralf shrugged. ‘Today, tomorrow, the day after. I don’t know exactly but it will be while my father is there. One of Ferrers’ own men brought me a warning last night. That’s why I went to the alehouse. I’ve been in contact with the rebels since I went to Ferrers’ Candlemas hunt. They are going to raze the town and, if all goes well, take the castle.’ He folded his arms and leaned against a decorated stone pillar, his eyes golden with hunger. ‘There is an understanding that were I suddenly to become master of Arnsby, there would be a handsome reward for the person who put me in that position.’

  Agnes’s wits were dull, but she possessed an innate craftiness and it did not take a scholar to unravel what Ralf was implying. ‘You’ve employed someone to kill your father?’ she whispered with a mingling of fear and exultation.

  ‘It’s more of an unspoken understanding. If I had wanted, I could have stopped him from riding out just now but why should I?’ He gave her a moody stare. ‘He has never taken the time to stop for me lest it be to bawl his disapproval. Arnsby is mine now, every stick and stone and beast in the field.’ He ran a possessive hand over the blood-red chevrons decorating the pillar.

  Agnes bit her lip and ran the knotted string through her fingers. ‘What if your father returns unharmed?’

  ‘Who’s to know? Will you tell him?’

  ‘What reason would I have after the way he has treated me all these years? You have my support and always will. One thing I will say to you: do not mention this to Ivo. He is a weak reed and not to be trusted.’

  ‘I can deal with Ivo,’ he said softly.

  ‘What about the bastard and his wife?’ she asked after a moment. ‘I heard William say that he was meeting them in Nottingham?’

  Ralf ’s mouth twisted in a dark smile. ‘I also let it be known that the custodian of Rushcliffe is a thorn in my side that I would pay handsomely to have plucked out. The woman and child won’t be harmed,’ he added magnanimously. ‘I’ve no grudge against them. They will make valuable pawns since I will be kin to the deceased with an interest in what happens to the lands.’

  Agnes had never heard him speak like this before, in so controlled and calculating a manner. She did not doubt that he would deal with Ivo, and anyone else who stood in his way, and her admiration for him increased a hundred fold. He would prove a worthy lord for Arnsby, far more so than the father he was intending to usurp.

  Chapter 29

  William Ironheart owned three houses in Nottingham on the hill that meandered down from the Derby road towards the merchant dwellings on Long Row and the poultry market. Two of the houses were leased to wine merchants. The third, his own, was maintained by Jonas and Gytha, a couple in late middle-age. While Jonas kept the house in repair, Gytha took in laundry from the merchants farther down the row and there was often a tub full of linens and steaming lye suds in the backyard.

  From the doorway, Linnet watched the pungent steam billowing skyward and felt queasy. Inside the house it was no better, the air being humid with the odour of boiled cabbages and onions from the cauldron that bubbled over the fire pit in the main room. These last three days her stomach had been unsettled. Indeed, only this morning before they set out she had almost been sick when Stephen had placed a dish of smoked herrings in front of her. Usually she enjoyed such fare but she had scarcely been able to swallow a morsel of bread without retching.

  She had begun to toy with the suspicion that she was with child but, since it was indeed no more than a suspicion, she had said nothing to Joscelin. Her flux was scarcely more than a week late and in her previous marriage she had been slow to conceive. She smiled through the nausea, thinking of their new bed with its coverings of plain linen, sheepskin and blankets of plaid. All ostentation had been consigned to the pyre in the bailey where together she and Joscelin had watched the burning of the Montsorrel family bed until it was naught but ashes, blowing away in the wind.

  Joscelin was up at the castle visiting acquaintances from his garrison days and she did not expect him home until late afternoon. Robert had fretted at not being allowed to go with his hero, but Joscelin’s promise to take him round the market booths on the morrow had mollified him a little. He was playing in a corner of the yard with a young tabby cat that Gytha had bought at the Weekday market to deal with the local rat and mouse problem.

  Linnet watched her son and felt a deep tenderness well up within her. She still feared for his future as a natural part of her maternal instinct, but there was hope now too - bright and steady as a clean-burning candle. She could dare to believe that all would be well. Now she had Joscelin, she could dare to believe anything.

  She had just turned to go back inside the house when Ironheart arrived back from his errand to a wool factor who lived close by the city wall.

  ‘Daughter,’ he greeted her with a gruff nod.

  Linnet inclined her head in response and going into the house, dutifully offered him wine. Since her illness in the autumn, their relationship had subtly altered. She knew that Ironheart had been present at the crisis of her fever for Joscelin’s sake and that he had remained at Rushcliffe until it was certain that she would recover, his support silent but solid as rock. She no longer thought of him as a threat, nor did she have to stiffen her spine in his presence to control her fear. Yes, he had his flaws, some of them deep and ugly, but beyond them was the rock and to that she trusted.

  For his part, Joscelin’s father had tempered his aggression towards her and in rare moments displayed a clumsy tenderness in his dealings. He had ceased speaking darkly to Joscelin of beating and bedding, and while she and Ironheart seldom held prolonged conversations at least they could communicate with each other without bristling up like cat and dog.

  ‘Joscelin not back yet?’ Ironheart asked. His long nose wrinkled in the direction of the cauldron. ‘You can never tell whether it’s her washing or the dinner you can smell when you come in the door,’ he commented.

  ‘No, he said he might be late.’

  ‘Gossiping with his old cronies, I daresay.’

  ‘Yes.’ She gave him a wan smile.

  Ironheart eyed her from beneath his brows. ‘You’re as green as a new cheese,’ he said abruptly. ‘Is something the matter?’

  ‘No, Father.’ Linnet moved away from the bubbling cauldron. ‘A mild stomach upset, nothing more.’

  ‘Hah!’ He continued to eye her, not in the face but up and down. Linnet blushed and quickly put her hand to her belly, the gesture giving her away. Ironheart, however, did not press the point. ‘You need to go and rest, then,’ he said mildly. ‘Dry bread and sweet wine are good for such an ailment.’ He jerked his head. ‘Go on, get you to the loft for an hour. I’ll watch the boy.’

  Linnet hesitated for a moment, but another pungent waft of steam from the cooking pot caused her stomach to lurch and she accepted the offer with a grateful smile.

  * * *

  ‘I don’t like it,’ said Ranulf FitzRanulf, garrison commander of Nottingham, as he stared out of the high tower window. Spread before his view was Nottingham’s immediate southern hinterland: t
he rivers Leen and Trent holding between them the broad green floodplain of the Meadows and beyond them the villages of Briggford, Wilford and Cliftun. ‘There are too many of Ferrers’s men in the city and they are bent upon mischief.’

  Standing beside his former paymaster, Joscelin, too, looked out on the scene of pastoral tranquillity. The trees lining the riverbank wore new mantles of tender green and the meadowland was a lush carpet of flower-starred grass dotted by grazing cattle. Smoke twirled from the roofs of the tanneries on the banks of the Leen and a supply barge was wending its way upriver towards the castle’s wharf. ‘I noticed a lot of Ferrers’ soldiers when I was here in the autumn,’ he said.

  ‘Around the time of the battle of Fornham?’ FitzRanulf turned to look at Joscelin out of watery, light-blue eyes. The left one had a slight cast so that FitzRanulf never seemed to be looking directly, even when he was. It was an illusion for FitzRanulf was the most direct of men. ‘They were vultures waiting their moment to strike but it never came. When news of Leicester’s defeat arrived, they melted away.’

  ‘And now they are back.’

  ‘The winter truces are at an end. I have men enough to defend the castle but not the town. Ferrers has too much influence there. If there is trouble, the citizens will have to fend for themselves. How long are you staying?’

  ‘We’re only here to buy supplies. Two, three days at the most, although my father will probably leave guards at his house since it’s so close to Ferrers’.’

  ‘Your father’s here, too?’

  ‘On different errands and likely to be here a couple of days more than myself. I know he intends calling on you.’

  FitzRanulf nodded, then he gave a humour-filled scowl. ‘It was the worst turn the justiciar ever did me when he gave you Linnet de Montsorrel to wife,’ he grumbled. ‘I lost the best men in my pay. Still, at least I can rely on Rushcliffe’s loyalty now. When the Montsorrels had possession, getting them to cooperate on anything was like trying to turn water into wine. Old Raymond could be as difficult as they come.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  FitzRanulf cocked his head, his expression curious, but Joscelin had no intention of divulging the particular ‘difficulties’ that Raymond de Montsorrel had bequeathed to him. ‘I have to return to Rushcliffe,’ he diverted, ‘but I can leave some of my men here if you want - trained up and in full battle kit.’

  ‘At whose expense?’ enquired FitzRanulf, revealing that he was as shrewd about money as he was about everything else.

  ‘They have a contract with me until midsummer. All you need do is feed and house them and see that they receive a fair share of the booty, should the situation arise.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ FitzRanulf nodded. ‘I know a golden goose when it waddles over my foot. If there’s anything I can do for you in the future, let me know.’

  Following his visit to FitzRanulf, Joscelin repaired to the guardroom to pay his respects there and was furnished with a piggin of the castle’s justly famous ale and some bread and new cheese. One of the guards, Odinel le Gros, so named because of his enormous gut, nudged Joscelin, his eyes gleaming with relish. ‘Josce, is it all really true about Raymond de Montsorrel, then?’

  Joselin’s mouthful of bread and cheese suddenly seemed too enormous to swallow. He chewed, took a drink of ale and shrugged, affecting indifference.

  ‘Come on, stop teasing. You know what I mean. They say he tupped every woman on the estate between the ages of thirteen and fifty. I bet everywhere you ride, you see little bastards made in the old man’s image!’ Odinel chuckled. ‘Do you remember that wench we had who claimed he futtered her against St Mary’s wall? She said his pizzle were the biggest she’d ever seen! I reckon it should’ve been preserved when he died, just like they do with saints’ bones.’

  Joscelin heard the laughter of the other soldiers but it was fuzzy, as if it were coming from a far distance. A red mist was before his eyes and sweat sprang on his body. However, he did not leap at Odinel and rip his voice from his throat, for to have done so would be to acknowledge that Raymond’s ghost still had a hold on him. As far as Joscelin was concerned, the burning of the bed had been the final exorcism.

  ‘You have a high imagination,’ he said when he could trust himself to speak. ‘Raymond de Montsorrel was a common lecher and whores will always tell exaggerated tales of any highborn client who passes between their thighs. It gives them a feeling of importance and makes people listen to them,’ he added pointedly.

  Odinel blinked uncertainly. There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. Joscelin wondered what on earth he was truly doing here in the guardroom. His title was a barrier as tangible as the fine braid hemming on his tunic and the beryl and amber brooch pinned high on the shoulder of his fur-lined cloak. Although he had not deliberately willed it, the situation had changed and he had become an outsider, one of ‘them’ and, because of his past status, viewed with both admiration and resentment. In his absence they would talk about him as they talked about Raymond de Montsorrel. And it was not fair to stay.

  He took his leave of them quickly, with relief on both sides. As the guardroom door closed behind him, the soldiers breathed out and relaxed as if they had been standing to attention all the time he had been in the room. And on the other side of the door, Joscelin closed his eyes and inhaled deeply like a prisoner released. His only dilemma, as he started down the hill towards the Saturday, market, was where to go. Not back to Linnet, not yet, not with Odinel’s words still sliding their slime trail across his mind.

  In the end, he turned his feet in Conan’s direction, which he knew of old would be the Weekday alehouse. He wound his way through narrow streets and alleys into the dip of Broad Marsh, then up the other side. The stream running down the middle of Byard Lane was blocked again, this time by a dead dog, and various residents of the cut-through were conducting a lively argument as to who was responsible for clearing the obstruction. Joscelin picked his way through the sludge at the side of the lane, easing past dark doorways that gave entrance to cramped dwellings with central fire pits and smoke holes in the roof. At one point, near the top of the hill, there were steps cut down to a series of dwellings carved out of the soft sandstone rock upon which the city was built.

  A cordwainer sat outside his home, a small trestle set up to hold his tools and the cut pieces of leather he was making into shoes. Next door to him stood a small dyehouse, and as Joscelin walked past its proprietor ceased pummelling a cloth in a cauldron of dark-red water to watch him. Beside the dye shop stood a booth belonging to Rothgar the swordsmith and Joscelin paused here to examine a long dagger.

  ‘Best Lombardy steel, sir,’ said the proprietor, laying down his tools and coming forward.

  Joscelin had known Rothgar since childhood when Ironheart had brought him in wide-eyed delight to this very same booth. Rothgar’s wife had fed him sugared figs and made a fuss of him, and Rothgar had let him handle the weapons.

  The dagger he was handling today had a nine-inch blade, sharp on both edges, and a haft of plain, natural buckskin that felt good in his hands. His own dagger, which had served him since his early days as a mercenary, was wearing out. It had already been fitted with several new grips and the blade was thin.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Five shillings,’ Rothgar immediately responded and wiped his wrist across his full moustache. ‘The materials alone cost me two and there’s my time and skill on top.’

  ‘I’ll give you two and a half,’ Joscelin said, testing the sharpened edge against the ball of this thumb. ‘That’s how much I’d pay on the road in Normandy.’

  Rothgar shook his head. ‘Normandy’s closer to the Lombards and the steel costs less because of it. It’s a mortal long way to go for a bargain. Tell you what, being as you and your father are good customers here, I’ll let you have it for four and a half.’

  ‘Three,’ said Joscelin, well accustomed to the etiquette of haggling, ‘and I’ll commission a blunt sword for my stepson while I’
m here.’

  Rothgar tugged at his beard. ‘You drive a hard bargain, my lord. Call it three and a half and commission that sword for your stepson with half a shilling down, and we’ll call it fair.’

  ‘On the nail,’ Joscelin reached in his purse and put the required coins on top of the squat, flat-topped post Rothgar used for that purpose.

  Rothgar counted the silver and swept it into his cupped palm. ‘You’ll need to bring the lad into the shop so I can see the size of him.’

  ‘Later this afternoon?’

  ‘Aye, that’ll do.’ Rothgar started to unlatch the toggle on his belt bag but paused and lifted his head. ‘What’s that rumpus?’

  Joscelin ducked out into the street, the new dagger in hand. From the direction of the Hologate road he could hear shouting and the clash of weapons. Then louder shrieks of terror and dismay and the bright blossoming of flame.

  ‘God’s eyes, what’s happening?’ Rothgar peered over Joscelin’s shoulder, his forging hammer in his fist.

  ‘I can’t tell, except that it’s trouble. Best shut up shop and make yourself and any valuables scarce. As a weapons-smith, you’re a prime target. I’m going to the Weekday; my mercenary captain should be there.’

  Rothgar nodded and hastened back into his shop, bellowing for his apprentice.

  Joscelin moved quickly across the narrow, muddy street and started up the hill towards the alehouse. Folk were emerging from their shops and houses, exclaiming, looking anxious, demanding to know what was happening. Other townsfolk were pouring down the hill away from the marketplace, fleeing in panic.

  ‘Soldiers!’ A panting merchant paused to cry warning. Tucked under his arm, a goose wildly paddled its orange feet. ‘Derby’s men. Save yourselves!’

  Joscelin thrust himself against the tide of panicking humanity, shouldering through them until he reached the Weekday. The evergreen bush that was usually suspended on a horizontal pole from the gable, advertising the place as an alehouse, was trampled down outside the door, and smoke billowed in thick clouds from the interior. The empty yard showed no sign of the landlord’s guard dog, only its kennel and the length of bear chain that usually leashed it.