Elizabeth Chadwick - Shields of Pride

The doubt became a sickening suspicion. Ralf drew his sword from his belt and went to the box. The iron bindings and oiled bolts gleamed almost like a smile. He could not bear the tension and struck at the hasps but they were stoutly made and held fast. Sparks flashed in the dim light and the sound of his blade on the iron was loud enough to waken a corpse. It brought the other men running, demanding to know what he was doing.

Sobbing with effort and frustration, Ralf took one last swing. The hasps shattered and a sliver of metal from his beautiful, lovingly honed sword flew from the blade and lodged in his brow-bone. Blood streamed from the wound, blinding him. It was one of the other soldiers who opened the violated strongbox and discovered that the scuffed leather money pouches within held not silver pennies but small, round stones, smelling pungently of river and weed.

Arnaud de Corbette, Rushcliffe’s seneschal, folded his hands inside his silk-edged sleeves and rocked back and forth on his gilded leather boots. Heel and toe, heel and toe, restless with anxiety. Eyes narrowed against the wind, he stared over the wall walk towards the approaching troop. A messenger had brought him advance warning of the new lord’s arrival, together with a parchment bearing the seal of the justiciar ordering him to yield the castle into the hands of Joscelin de Gael and offer him every cooperation.

Corbette focused upon the glossy liver-chestnut stallion and the man sitting confidently astride. William de Rocher’s bastard, a man of repute in some circles and reputation in others, hand-picked by the justiciar. But this new position was a step up indeed. Obviously de Luci had selected de Gael for his ability, a thought that made Corbette ease his finger around the gilded neck band of his tunic.

Halfdan, the serjeant in command of the keep’s garrison, jutted his jaw. ‘Why can’t we just keep the drawbridge up and tell ’em to piss off ?’ he demanded.

‘If you want to end up in the forest as an outlaw you may do just that,’ Corbette said irritably. ‘If you had brains, you’d be dangerous. It is not just a piddling matter of someone’s fetch-and-carry presenting a writ of authority at our gates. It is William de Rocher and Richard de Luci; it is the King himself!’ He shook the parchment beneath Halfdan’s nose like a curse. ‘Don’t you understand!’

Halfdan stared at him blankly. Corbette gave an exasperated growl. ‘Just keep your mouth shut and stay out of the way. Let me do the talking.’

Halfdan shrugged and shambled off down the stairs. Corbette breathed deeply in and out. Old Lord Raymond had favoured Halfdan, whose muscles and fighting ability were as impressive as his intellectual capacity was lacking. Occasionally, for entertainment, Raymond had organized fights between Halfdan and other mercenaries, sometimes to the death, with money wagered upon the outcome. Corbette had found the man useful for keeping awkward castle retainers in line after Raymond’s death but this change of master had rapidly altered that perspective.

Descending to the bailey, Corbette could feel sweat chilling his armpits. The next few moments were going to be uncomfortable.

As the liver-chestnut stallion paced over the drawbridge and entered the courtyard, Corbette hastened forward to bend the knee at the new master’s stirrup. ‘Welcome, my lord, and gladly so.’ He made certain to emphasize the title.

De Gael drew rein. ‘And who might you be?’ he asked glacially.

‘Arnaud de Corbette, my lord - I am the seneschal.’

The air grew more frigid still. ‘Get up,’ said de Gael and Corbette flinched, for the new lord’s expression was carved from ice.

‘Why did you permit armed men to lie up in the coppice on the Nottingham road?’

Corbette swallowed. He had known the question was coming - de Gael’s messenger had told him what had happened - but finding an excuse was difficult. ‘I did not know they were there, my lord. Some of our soldiers were in the village yesterday, but they made no mention of—’

De Gael cast him a look of utter contempt that boded ill, and stiffly dismounted. He swept the bailey with a disparaging gaze that took in its state of untidy filth and hurled it at Corbette’s gilded leather feet. ‘Your business is to know everything that pertains to the security of this keep, especially in times of rebellion and war.’

Corbette cleared his throat. ‘Lord Raymond was a difficult master to serve in his last year and Lord Giles only came into the inheritance at Easter. I—’

‘I am not interested in your excuses. The evidence before my eyes is enough to prove to me that you’re as incompetent as your previous masters.’

‘My lord, I’m not seeking to absolve—’ Corbette began, and broke off with relief as a roan mare entered the bailey, pacing daintily beside a wain that bore a pall-covered coffin and several wounded soldiers. ‘My lady,’ he murmured, flourishing a bow and silently thanking God for the distraction.

‘Messire Corbette,’ she acknowledged with a cool nod.

‘I am sorry to hear the news about my young lord, God rest his soul.’ Corbette crossed himself. ‘It is a shock to all of us.’

‘I have no doubt it is,’ de Gael interrupted curtly. ‘I promise you that more than dust is going to fly in this place before I am finished and I will talk to you of what’s to be done very soon. For now, I want a priest to minister to such of my men as are in need and food and rest for all.’

‘My lord,’ Corbette said, and gestured to a servant. De Gael was right. Something would have to be done, and very soon.

Linnet looked up from the row of pallets occupied by the men of Joscelin’s troop too sorely wounded to return to their duties, and saw their commander standing in the doorway. It was late. Dusk had fallen and rush dips flickered in the gloom. The tallow in which they had been dipped was so coarse and salty that there was more sputter and smoke than flame and the room was filled with the stink of burning mutton fat.

‘I thought you were not coming.’ She turned away to pick up her shears.

He moved stiffly into the room and, unlatching his belt, laid it across a bench. ‘I’ve been inspecting the keep. The structure is sound but the rest is little better than a butcher’s shambles.’

‘Giles’s father had no wife to keep the place in order.’ She turned the shears in her hands and studied the dull gleam of the tempered iron. ‘After he and Giles quarrelled, we did not visit to see how he lived - not even when Raymond was on his deathbed.’

‘What about Corbette’s wife? I assume he has one?’

‘Oh yes.’ Linnet wrinkled her nose. ‘The lady Mabel. She was always conspicuous by her absence whenever there was work to be done and I doubt she’s changed. I haven’t seen her in the sickroom once, nor her daughter, but the moment the dinner-horn sounds they’ll be first at the trough.’

‘In my troop, the men who don’t work don’t eat,’ he said grimly, and went to the row of wounded men to address each one in turn and speak words of comfort.

Linnet could see from the manner with which he carried himself that he was tired and in pain, but he did not skimp his duty. He lingered at Malcolm’s pallet and she heard their low exchange of words and then wry laughter. Joscelin was still grinning broadly and shaking his head when he returned to her.

‘Malcolm says I’m nae to fash myself, you’ve a touch like an angel,’ he declared in appalling mimicry of a Lowland Scots accent and sat down on the padded cover of a clothing chest.

Linnet opened and closed the shears and smiled. ‘Did you believe him?’

‘He’s a notorious fibber but I reckon you’re bound to be gentler than Milo, who’d act the chirurgeon otherwise. ’ He started to remove his surcoat, but desisted with a gasp of pain.

Quickly Linnet moved to help him, easing the garment over his shoulders. The mail shirt proved more difficult for it was heavy and the sleeves fitted closely over the padded undergarment. The intimacy was disturbing; the heat of his body, the acrid smell of battle sweat. The proximity made her feel stifled and panicky. She had too many memories of this room and what had happened here, and it was with relief that she finally succeeded in divesting him of his mail and gambeson and was able to step away.

His head was bowed, his breathing harsh with pain. When it eased, he looked up at her through sweat-tangled hair. ‘Is there any wine before we go further?’

She laid his garments on the coffer and fetched a pitcher and cup from a trestle by the embrasure. ‘It’s last year’s,’ she apologized, pouring him a cloudy measure. ‘It tastes more like verjuice than wine but it’s all we have according to Corbette’s manservant. I will check myself when I have time.’ She gave the cup to him and tried to conquer her feelings of oppression.

‘It doesn’t matter.’ He took several fast swallows.

His shirt was glued to his shoulder-wound by dried blood. Linnet started to soak it away with firm, careful strokes, watching his face for indications that she was hurting him too much. ‘You’re fortunate it wasn’t much worse,’ she murmured. ‘It looks as if you’ve only cut a surface flap of skin. The rest is bruising.’

‘What did Giles and Raymond quarrel about?’

Linnet ceased bathing his wound and turned away to wring the pad out in a bowl of scented water. The droplets plinked over the surface and were absorbed into the shimmering whole. Her fingers started to hurt as she twisted the linen. Her womb, her lights, the center of pleasure in her loins, were twisting, too. By asking her a question to take his mind from pain, he had inadvertently touched her own wounds.