Shields of Pride Page 27

  As Ferrers’ hirelings pulled Linnet out of the yard, more men came running up the alleyway from the direction of Ironheart’s house, their swords drawn. Linnet dug in her heels and stared. Her heart pounded in swift hammer strokes. ‘Joscelin!’ she screamed. ‘Joscelin, Conan, help me!’

  The soldier holding the rope swore and turned to strike her with his sword-hilt. Linnet dodged the blow and kicked him as hard as she could in the testicles. Unbalanced by her tied hands and the rope at her waist, the force of her effort toppled her and sent her sprawling in the alley’s filth. The soldier grunted and hunched over, for while she was only wearing soft indoor slippers, his gambeson was on the short side and at least part of the blow had connected. Before he could straighten and turn, Joscelin was upon him with a single killing blow. Linnet screamed and rolled away as the body struck the ground at her side. She struggled to her knees. Joscelin pulled her to her feet and freed her wrists, untied the the rope at her waist, then pulled her fiercely into his arms.

  She clung to him, shaking. One man had fled up the alley towards Organ Lane, the others lay dead. Linnet could smell their lifelessness as though they were already putrefying. The stench invaded her nostrils and descended to her stomach, bringing on a lurching nausea. Then she realized that Joscelin’s garments were the source of the stink and that they were naught but infested rags.

  ‘Are you all right?’ He held her a little away to study her face. His hand gently touched the swollen mark where the soldier had hit her. ‘Where are the others? Once they’ve done looting and burning, they’ll turn on anything that moves and even the size of Conan’s troop might not deter them. We have to reach the castle as quickly as we can.’

  Linnet nodded jerkily. She was far from being all right but for the nonce she could cope because she had to. She compressed her lips as the stench of his garments continued to agitate her stomach. ‘We hid in the house cellars. The others are still there.’ She swallowed and swallowed again, then pushed out of his arms. ‘Your father’s been wounded - badly, I think. It was very hard to tell in the dark. We had to leave him in the passageway between the caves - he could go no further. I bandaged him as best I could and left him a pitcher of wine to ease his thirst and his pain. He gave me his sword, and I—’ She shook her head and refused to think in that direction. She needed all of her faculties until they were safe. Averting her gaze from the corpse at her feet, she stumbled towards the vintner’s backyard. ‘I will take you to him,’ she said.

  Pausing only to give Conan orders and send a soldier in search of a hand cart to carry the wounded Ironheart, Joscelin hastened after her.

  Chapter 31

  ‘If I’m going to die,’ Ironheart grumbled, ‘I’m going to do it at Arnsby in the bed where I was conceived and born, not on some poxy borrowed pallet in this godforsaken place!’

  Linnet eyed him with exasperation as she cleaned the razor with which she had just finished shaving him and went to empty the laver bowl of scummy water down the waste shaft. ‘This godforsaken place’ was a comfortable private room in the tower of the castle and had been vacated by a senior officer at some considerable inconvenience. The bed, far from being poxy or a pallet, was a sumptuous affair, large enough to hold six people, and boasted crisp linen sheets and the finest Flemish coverings. In the three days since he had been placed there, Ironheart had gone from grey-faced docility to his current state of febrile crabbiness in which he was impossible to please.

  ‘You’re too lively to think of dying, Father,’ she said briskly. ‘If you would only keep still and cease complaining, the wound would pain you less.’

  ‘It’s the pain that tells me I’m still alive!’ he retorted, shifting irritably against the pillows. His left arm was caged in a leather sling and beneath it he was padded with swathes of bandage. The constable had sent his own physician to attend Ironheart. According to the good doctor, who had stitched the tear, Ironheart was suffering from an excess of choler and the wound had only served to further unbalance his humours. Linnet had had to bite her tongue on the comment that her father-in-law’s humours had always been out of balance. Fortunately, the physician had owned the good sense not to suggest bleeding as a remedy, otherwise she would have been bound to speak up since, in her opinion, Ironheart’s wound had already bled him white.

  The doctor had applied a token leech or two to Ironheart’s arms and prescribed an infusion of Black Alder and agrimony to soothe the choler and help balance the humours. He had drawn up a strict diet for the wounded man, consisting of broth made from oxblood and dark bread soaked in milk, sprinkled with iron filings from a sword blade. It was small wonder that the invalid baulked every time he saw her or her maid approaching him with a bowl and spoon.

  ‘I have a bad feeling,’ he complained as Linnet returned to his bedside. ‘I need to go home to Arnsby.’

  ‘A bad feeling about what?’

  ‘If I could put my finger on it, I’d not be so frustrated. All I know is that I have to go home.’

  ‘Joscelin could go in your stead,’ she suggested.

  Ironheart shook his head and the two vertical frown lines between his brows deepened with anxiety and pain. ‘It is not something Joscelin can do. I’m sick of lying here staring at the wall and swallowing that piss-faced chirurgeon’s poisonous brews. One more day and, even if I have to crawl out of here on my hands and knees, I’m leaving.’ He paused, out of breath, his skin shiny with the sweat of effort. Linnet wiped his brow, murmured soothing words until his lids drooped, and went in search of Joscelin.

  She found him in a corner of the great hall sitting on an upturned half-barrel, patiently working the nicks out of his father’s sword with a small, hand-held grindstone.

  ‘Go and talk some sense into your father,’ she said. ‘He’s threatening to leave his sickbed and ride home to Arnsby.’

  Joscelin laid the sword carefully down and wiped his hands on a linen rag. ‘I know. He spoke to me late last night.’ Seeing her pinched expression, he added, ‘Does the sight of this bother you?’

  She glanced briefly at the sword, its edges bright now and unstained. ‘I can look at it without feeling sick any more, if that is what you mean,’ she said, ‘but the sight will always bother me.’

  ‘Once you have felt the killing force, it always does.’

  A shudder rippled down her spine. They looked at each other, the weapon between them gleaming with dull, quiescent power. Joscelin rose from the barrel and, taking her by the hand, led her out of the hall into the courtyard.

  ‘Where’s Robert?’

  ‘With Conan. He’s taken him to see the hawks in the mews.’ His expression was rueful. ‘Much as I love the boy, I need some respite.’

  ‘He kept asking for you when we were hiding in the cellars,’ she said. ‘And when you came, he thought you were a god to have answered his cry.’

  They walked across the baileys to the small herb garden, which was set in a quiet corner near one of the auxiliary kitchen buildings. ‘But I’m not,’ Joscelin said grimly. ‘My feet are as much clay as any man’s, and if he believes otherwise he is going to be terribly let down one day. He clings to me so hard that sometimes it is like being eaten alive. I need to escape for a while.’

  ‘And now I come to you to eat you alive with my burdens, too,’ she said. They entered the small garden and were assaulted by the scent of the various herbs basking in the sunshine.

  Joscelin squeezed her hand. ‘Burden me with anything you want.’ He drew her down on to a turf seat situated under a rose vine. The flowers were just coming into bloom, the petals as pink as baby toes. Bees from the castle’s hives hummed industriously among the blossoms.

  She looked at him sidelong. In the cramped confines of the castle, beset by demands from every quarter, there had been no opportunity until now for them to talk in privacy. ‘Even with another mouth to feed?’ she asked, smiling.

  At first he did not understand, but she saw the moment of comprehension brighten in his eyes
and then slowly spread, lighting up his whole face. He kissed her - hard first and then very tenderly. ‘You bring me not a burden but a wonderful gift,’ he said, hugging her against him. ‘How long have you known?’

  ‘A few days only. I had a suspicion when we were preparing to travel to Nottingham and it has grown ever stronger. I do not believe my flux will come now.’ She laughed and squeezed him back. ‘The baby will be born in midwinter, I think, between Christmastide and Candlemas. I haven’t told anyone else but your father suspects. He has a very sharp eye for all he claims never to take notice of women.’ She sighed with exasperation. ‘I did wonder about using it as a lever to keep him in his bed - the opportunity to live to see his grandchild - but I think he would just bellow at me and rupture his stitches. He’s a stubborn old ox.’

  ‘The news might sweeten him a little,’ Joscelin said thoughtfully, ‘but then again, if he already suspects, he’ll have spent time mulling over the prospect and it won’t keep him occupied for long.’

  ‘What if we told him the child was to be given his name?’

  ‘He would say that it was his due but be secretly flattered. I doubt it would have any deep hold on him.’ Joscelin shook his head. ‘If he wants to go home to Arnsby, then so be it. I may just be able to persuade him to be borne on a litter for most of the journey. It will be more than his pride can stomach to enter the place flat on his back, so we’ll have to provide a quiet horse for the final mile.’

  ‘He is very weak,’ Linnet objected. ‘He lost a great deal of blood and he hasn’t the strength to fight off the fever if it sets in. A day’s jolting in a litter would be dangerous. He says he wants to die at home in his own bed. That is surely what he will do, doubtless with his wife gloating over him.’

  Joscelin sighed. ‘It is his choice. I believe he is dying anyway and if I can fulfill his wish to do so at home, then I will.’

  ‘So you are not going to stop him?’

  ‘I will talk to him but I will not gainsay his final decision.’

  Linnet rose and walked to a small sundial standing as a hub in the midst of a wheel of fragrant herbs. The sun was almost directly overhead and no shadow touched the surface. She laid her palm on the warm stone. One life beginning, one drawing to a close, she thought, feeling the connection, and in between a lifetime’s wheel of light and shadow.

  Joscelin came up behind her and she turned in to his arms, knowing that, for her and Joscelin, their time was now and every moment too precious to be wasted.

  Chapter 32

  Leaning on his elbow in the hay of the stable loft at Arnsby, Ralf watched Hulda, a kitchen maid, tidy her hair and brush ineffectually at the stalks of straw caught in her gown. She slid him a look through her lashes. Her eyes were a bright, winter-blue and, apart from her lush white breasts, her best feature. Her nose was lumpy, her lips thin and she had crooked teeth. Still, she was athletic and accommodating, tight and moist where it mattered.

  Hulda was frequently sought out by the castle soldiers because, not only was she willing to lie with them for a pittance, she had the added attraction of being barren. No man was going to plant his seed and then find a woman whining at his tunic hem, demanding financial support for her growing belly. This being the case, the lady Agnes turned a blind eye to Hulda’s copulatory industriousness and only groused if it interfered with her work in the kitchens.

  ‘I heard Cook say your father’s gone into Nottingham to find you a bride,’ she fished as she secured her braid with a leather cord.

  Ralf said nothing and stretched. Tufts of red-gold hair sprouted in his armpits.

  ‘Is it true?’ Hulda pursued. ‘Are you really going to take a wife?’

  Her eyes were avid and made him smile and bite the inside of his mouth. To lie with the lord’s son was a source of power in itself but to have snippets of information straight from his own lips was even more useful.

  ‘When the time comes,’ he said with a shrug and picked his shirt off the straw. ‘Here’s a penny for you to spend next time the new packman comes calling.’

  She took the coin willingly enough, but he saw the sulky droop of her lower lip. His own mouth tightened. The slut need not think he was going to pay her with information.

  ‘Go on, back to the kitchens; you’ve been away from them long enough!’ He gave her rump a stinging slap.

  She squealed and, rubbing her buttock, said reproachfully, ‘You was the one who took me from my duties and kept me here so long.’

  Ralf laughed. ‘If you’d wanted a short ride, you should have let Ivo mount you!’

  ‘P’rhaps I will.’ She set her foot upon the top rung of the ladder. There was a loud commotion in the stable below, and after briefly looking down, she tossed her head at Ralf. ‘I’ll ask him now, shall I?’

  In the stable, a hard-ridden horse was blowing loudly as the groom unsaddled it. Hulda descended to the bottom step and stood aside, hands behind her back, eyes coyly weighing up Ivo who had just dismounted.

  ‘Where’s Ralf ?’ he snapped at her. She rolled her eyes towards the loft hatch. Ivo brushed her aside and shouted up. ‘Ralf, in Jesu’s name, come down. There’s news!’

  Alerted by Ivo’s flushed face and his breathing, which was louder than that of his hard-ridden courser, Ralf came to the trap and stood fastening his braies. ‘Oh yes?’

  Ivo peered up at him, chestnut hair sweat-dark on his brow. ‘I met one of our messengers on the road. He’ll be here soon, but his horse was tiring and mine was still fresh. It’s Papa, Ralf - he’s been wounded in a fight and they’re bringing him home.’

  Ralf ’s complexion flooded with colour and his brown eyes turned to liquid gold. ‘Who is “they”?’ he demanded. ‘Move out of the way, let me come down.’

  ‘Joscelin and that wife of his.’ Ivo was almost leaping up and down with excitement. ‘They stopped off at Rushcliffe on their way to leave the brat and his nurse, so the messenger says. Joscelin’s wife’s insisted on attending Papa all the way to Arnsby because he’s in such a bad state. What’s more, they’re on their way here from the whore’s chapel. Papa wanted to be taken there. He’s dying, Ralf.’

  Ralf descended the ladder and strode from the stables towards the keep. Elation surged through him. Ivo, shorter in the leg, had to run to keep up. ‘Ferrers attacked Nottingham. Apparently our houses were sacked but Papa escaped with the women into the cellars of the house next door.’

  ‘How was he wounded, then?’

  ‘In a sword fight defending them - a deep cut to the left shoulder.’

  Ralf grunted. If it was not all that he had hoped for, then it was still excellent news. Joscelin was bringing the old man home to die. They would ride through Arnsby’s gates and never leave again. He glanced sharply at his scurrying brother. ‘You didn’t ride back along the road to greet them yourself, then?’

  ‘No, I came straight to tell you.’

  Ralf nodded with satisfaction. As a younger son, Ivo’s inheritance was slim and likely to stay so unless he married well. He was dependent on the goodwill of the head of the household and obviously he had decided which way the wind was blowing.

  ‘Go and give Mama the tidings, will you?’ Ralf said. ‘She will need to prepare the bedchamber if our father is as bad as you say.’ And strew it with wormwood, gall and deadly nightshade, he thought. Maude was absent on one of her frequent visits to friends in convents and not expected home until the end of the week. His mother was always worse without Maude’s presence to lend an absorbent ear.

  Ivo glowered. ‘What are you going to be doing?’ he asked in a disgruntled voice.

  Ralf parted his lips in a narrow, white grin. ‘Preparing a welcoming committee, what else?’

  Chapter 33

  ‘Blast you, woman, leave me alone, I’m all right, I tell you!’ Ironheart snapped at Linnet.

  ‘I haven’t said a word!’ she protested.

  ‘It’s the way you keep looking at me. God’s arse, I could ride before I was out of napkin
s. I’ve lived in the saddle all my life, and if I die in one I’ll be a damned sight more happy than lying on a litter like an old woman!’

  Linnet pressed her lips together and somehow kept silent. Ironheart looked dreadful. His eyes were sunken and their dangerous glitter was as much fever as rage. She had managed to get him to swallow a cup of willow-bark tisane when they were at Morwenna’s chapel, but he had refused to the point of apoplexy to be borne in a litter and had forced his will beyond his broken, dying body in order to mount his grey stallion at the block by the chapel door. As she had watched him wrestle with the horse, a lump had ached in her throat and she had had to fight hard to suppress tearful words at his stupidity. Joscelin had said nothing, just held the horse steady while his father dragged his shaking body into the saddle.

  Linnet glanced at her husband now. He was riding on his father’s other side, affecting indifference but close enough to grab him if he fell. She might have thought Joscelin cold had she not witnessed his anguish in the privacy of their own chamber. ‘He hates sentiment and fuss,’ he had said, staring bleakly out of the narrow lance of window into Rushcliffe’s bailey. ‘He’s dying. Nothing can change that. I won’t break his pride.’

  And for the sake of that pride, William de Rocher approached the keep his father had built to protect the lands that the de Rochers had seized at the time of the great Conquest. Like the first William de Rocher, he came astride a war-horse, a polished sword at his hip, his gaze glittering and hungry. But his ancestor had had thirty more years of life before him to build his stronghold, marry a thegn’s daughter and beget the next generation. Ironheart’s own time was measured in hours.

  Scaffolding stood against Arnsby’s walls, although on a different section from last year, and the same builders, masons and painters were busy about the task of maintenance. The castle gates stood open and the road was a sunlit white ribbon disappearing into the bailey.