Elizabeth Chadwick - Shields of Pride

‘String him up,’ Joscelin said. ‘Village or bailey, I haven’t decided yet. Village probably. His corpse will serve notice that I’m not to be duped and that my justice is swiftly meted.’

‘And his wife and daughter?’

‘They’ve aided and abetted him and I don’t want them under my roof. Let them be put out of the keep to make their own way. There are enough troops in Nottingham to assure them of employment and the daughter certainly has talent. As long as I never see them again, I care not.’

They reached the foot of the stairs and he took her arm to guide her into the depths of the undercroft. He was aware of the closeness of her body and felt an echo of yesterday’s havoc ripple through him. It was going to be hard to keep his distance for the required three months.

Raising the lantern on high, he showed her the storeroom: its state of disarray damning evidence of sloppy housekeeping. She clucked her tongue and walked ahead of him, staring round.

‘What about supplies elsewhere?’ she asked him.

‘I’ve included them in my estimations but, even so, we’re dangerously short.’

Drawing her between the pillars, he showed her the wine casks, the salted meats and the grain. ‘See how the barrels are spread out? Close them together and you have next to nothing.’

Linnet lifted her gaze to his. Unspoken between them lay the knowledge that a war was at hand and they were woefully unprepared to face it. No supplies, a sparse demoralized garrison and villagers who were either hostile or indifferent.

Footsteps grated on the undercroft stairs and the light from a torch swirled around the walls. Joscelin turned. ‘Who’s there?’ he demanded.

‘Henry, sire. I knew you was down here; I saw you unlocking the door.’ The servant rounded the corner of the newel post and peered anxiously down. ‘There’s a messenger arrived, says he’s come from the ju—justiciar?’ He stumbled over the last unfamiliar word. ‘My sister’s given him somat to drink and settled him by the fire.’

‘Did he give his name?’

‘Yes, sire - Brien FitzRenard.’ Henry stared around the undercroft, absorbing every detail.

Joscelin nodded and moved towards the stairs. ‘I trust your discretion,’ he said to Henry with an eloquent arch of his brow.

‘I ain’t seen or heard a thing, sire.’ Henry answered blandly. ‘We’re always short o’ supplies this time o’ year.’

FitzRenard had left the bench where Henry’s sister had served him hot wine, and was restlessly prowling the hall. His garments were powdered with dust and his mouth was tight, but when he saw Joscelin he relaxed enough to smile.

‘I’m sorry to take you from your toil.’ He nodded at Joscelin’s tunic.

Glancing down, Joscelin brushed perfunctorily at the cobwebs and crumbs of old mortar festooning his tunic. ‘I’ve been seeking rats in the undercroft - two-legged ones.’

‘Ah.’ FitzRenard nodded. ‘Always a hazard when there hasn’t been anyone capable of hunting them for a while. I wish you good fortune.’

‘What brings you to Rushcliffe?’ Joscelin took the cup of wine that Linnet handed to him.

FitzRenard sighed. ‘You know Robert of Leicester was sailing for Normandy with an aid of money and men for the king? Well, he’s done what we half-suspected he would and turned rebel. He’s ridden straight for his own lands and declared for young Henry. The shore-watch has been alerted, the shire levies are being called up and every baron is required to swear his loyalty to the king. Those who do not are by default rebels and their estates forfeit. I’m riding north with the justiciar’s writ commanding the oaths of fealty and serving notice to stand to arms.’

Joscelin nodded grimly. ‘Anyone who trespasses on these lands will receive the greeting of my sword. Is my father still in London?’

FitzRenard shook his head. ‘Actually we rode part of the way here together; he was escorting his womenfolk back to Arnsby.’ Brien gave Joscelin a shrewd glance. ‘Your brothers were not with him, apart from the little one, and it was more than my life was worth to enquire after them.’

‘They’ve joined Leicester’s rebellion,’ Joscelin said, ‘and you would indeed have risked life and limb asking my father about them.’ He changed the subject. ‘Are you resting here the night or are you bound elsewhere?’

‘I’ve to go on to Newark but I was hoping for a bed and a fresh horse in the morning. My grey’s got a leg strain. I can collect him and reimburse you on the return journey.’ Brien sent a perusing glance around the great hall. ‘I had no inkling of the size of this place. You have landed on your feet indeed.’

‘I have landed’, Joscelin retorted, ‘up to my neck in dung.’

Undeceived, Brien smiled. Despite the complaint, he had heard the proprietorial note in Joscelin’s voice and seen the glance the mercenary had cast at his bride-to-be.

A knight entered the hall from the forebuilding and strode up to their group.

‘Corbette’s gone, sir,’ said Guy de Montauban, breathing hard. ‘The gate guards say he and his family rode out an hour since.’

‘And the guards did not see fit to stop them?’

‘No, sir. They assumed you had ordered Corbette to leave, because all his belongings were loaded on three pack-ponies and all the men knew that there had been strong words between you already.’

Joscelin swore. He could not blame the guards for their action. He had given them no instructions to detain the seneschal until now and their reasoning was logical. ‘All right, Guy. Tell the grooms to saddle up the horses. We should still be able to pick up their trail.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Montauban saluted and hurried away.

Brien cocked an enquiring brow. ‘Trouble?’

Joscelin shook his head. ‘The seneschal’s been bleeding Rushcliffe white for the past year and a half at least. He knows I’m wise to him so he’s run, doubtless with his pockets crammed at Rushcliffe’s expense. I should have arrested him last night, not waited until I had evidence.’

‘Lend me a horse and I’ll come with you.’ Brien put his cup down on the nearest trestle.

‘Be welcome,’ Joscelin said with a brisk nod then turned to Linnet, who was staring at him in dismay. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘You’re as battered and bruised as a tiltyard dummy!’ she protested. ‘What of your shoulder? If you are pulling yourself in and out of a saddle and controlling a war-horse, you’ll tear the wound open again. Even now it should be in a sling.’

He gave her a lop-sided shrug. ‘It will hold up for what needs to be done.’

‘Let Milo go in your stead. He’s unscathed.’

‘No, the responsibility is mine. Some things I can delegate elsewhere but not this. I’ll be careful.’

She set her jaw. ‘Then let me at least add some more padding to your bandages - for my peace of mind if not yours.’

Joscelin drew breath to deny that he required any such tending but Linnet was quicker.

‘You have to come to the bedchamber anyway to put on your hauberk and it won’t take a moment.’

His lips closed and then slowly curved in a smile. He inclined his head in amused capitulation. ‘If you were a swordsman, you’d be deadly,’ he said.

Linnet went pink and turned away to the stairs.

‘You’ve seen some fighting already then?’ asked Brien.

‘A skirmish,’ Joscelin said, down-playing yesterday’s assault. His gaze followed the sway of Linnet’s hips. ‘I’ll tell you about it while we ride.’

Finding Corbette’s trail was a simple matter for a seasoned troop of mercenaries who, like wolves, were accustomed to hunting in a cooperative pack, their senses sharpened by the proximity of their prey.

Corbette could only have taken the one road and all that Joscelin had to decide was whether to pursue it to Newark or Nottingham. The latter led through the village and, since Corbette was heartily disliked there, Joscelin sent Guy de Montauban to question the people. Henry accompanied the soldier to reassure the occupants and translate as Guy had few words of English. A bag of silver went with them, too, to loosen reluctant tongues. Joscelin took his own suspicions towards Newark at a rapid trot.

Within two miles those suspicions were confirmed when they came across a lame pony grazing among a flock of sheep. It still wore a rope pack-bridle and there were sweaty cinch marks branded on its belly. When it saw the soldiers’ horses, it nickered and limped eagerly to greet them. The pony bore a distinctive star marking on his forehead and Joscelin recognized it as one of the sturdy pack beasts that had carried supplies on the journey between London and Rushcliffe.

The wind ruffled the grass. A small shred of colour fluttered upon the spikes of a young hawthorn bush growing against a crumbled wall. Dismounting, Joscelin went to investigate and discovered a veil of blue silk and nearby a linen bolster stuffed with women’s clothing.

‘They’ve had to lighten their load,’ Joscelin said to Brien with satisfaction. ‘We’re on the right track. Jean, return to the village and fetch Sir Guy.’ Joscelin remounted and strapped the bundle to his crupper.

A mile farther on, a narrow cart track branched off the road to give access to one of the granges beholden to the castle. Thick woodland lay to one side of the track, open fields to the other. Huddled in the sheltered corner of a dip in the undulating wolds stood the farm buildings - a longhouse in the old Saxon style, together with a barn and outbuildings. The longhouse was on fire. As the breeze backed and eddied, the smell of smoke reached the riders. Ripples of heat zigzagged and shimmered, giving the burning building the illusion of being underwater.