Elizabeth Chadwick - Shields of Pride

Linnet looked at his gifts, turned them over in her hands, and felt the pressure of tears at the back of her eyes. The carving on the mirror case was exquisite, depicting in miniature a man and a woman riding out with hawks and dogs. ‘They are beautiful,’ she said a little unsteadily. Giles had never given her anything. ‘He’s a member of the garrison, you said?’

‘Used to be. He lost his leg in battle and had to find a different living. He has a small booth on the weekday market up near Hologate.’ He smiled. ‘Gamel even carves his own legs now.’ Resuming his seat, he prepared to assault a dish of raisin honey-cakes. ‘I’ve commissioned him to put the carving on two new chairs for the dais.’

Linnet was about to enquire if they could afford such luxuries, then remembered what the messenger had said about the battle at Fornham. ‘Did you take many ransoms?’

He gave her a look of irritated amusement. ‘Do you want me to show you a tally of the keep’s accounts? I assure you I haggled a good bargain out of him - although not as good as yourself, I do admit, having seen you at work in London.’

She blushed but nevertheless held his gaze steadily. ‘Well, did you?’

Joscelin sighed. ‘Enough to keep Conan and his men until Easter. Enough to pay for two new chairs, a set of bridle bells for my stepson’s pony and a gift for my beautiful wife.’ He dusted crumbs from his fingers and finished the wine in his cup, adding a little pensively, ‘And enough to repay my father for what he lent to us in the summer. He has need of coin and comfort now.’ He frowned and shook his head. ‘I never thought my prowess with the sword would lead me to contribute to my brothers’ ransoms.’

Linnet ran her forefinger across the teeth of the comb. Although she disliked Joscelin’s father, she was slowly coming to understand that his brusque arrogance was the blazon on a battered shield of pride behind which lay accumulated years of lonely pain. ‘Will he find them, do you think?’

Joscelin shrugged. ‘I expect so, unless they’re at the bottom of a bog. The battle was chaos but we held the better ground and the spine of Leicester’s army was made up of untried Flemings. Once they broke and ran, it was all over.’ He pushed his hands through his hair. ‘I helped my father search among the dead and the prisoners the next day but there was no sign of Ralf or Ivo. If they escaped the killing and there is any sense in their skulls, they’ll try and make their way back to Norfolk’s keep at Framlingham.’ He turned to face her as she rose from the stool by the hearthside.

‘If we have sons other than Robert, or indeed daughters, God forbid I should ever raise them the way my father raised us. I thought his face was going to crack beneath the strain of keeping it blank when we were looking at all the bodies laid out. Do you know, the only time I’ve ever seen him weep, the tears were made of usquebaugh.’

Linnet came to him across the dimness of firelight and wrapped her arms around him. ‘You fear needlessly,’ she said. ‘Our sons and daughters, should God grant them to us, will know love and joy from the moment of their birth. Neither of us would have it otherwise because of what has gone before.’ She stood on tiptoe to kiss the side of his mouth. ‘It’s very late my husband. Come to bed.’

Drawn by the sound of gleeful squeals, Linnet left her sewing and went to look out of the unscreened window into the area of greensward between inner and outer baileys. Joscelin and Robert were playing a chasing game, a romp of duck-and-dodge, catch-and-cuddle. Her heart filled with an ache of love that was almost too much to bear and tears prickled her eyes.

Beyond the keep walls, the forest was an ocean of gold and russet leaves tossed by a frisky wind and it was with delight that she watched the tints ruffle and surge. She had Joscelin to herself for the remains of the autumn and all the long winter. No campaigning, no dangerous separations, just time to gain fulfilling knowledge. She was not in the least dismayed by the thought of short, cold days and even colder long nights. Their chamber faced south to catch the best of the light, it had a fire and they could always pile furs upon the bed if their body heat was not enough. She smiled at the thought, warmth settling in her loins.

The sound of a throat being cleared made her jump and turn quickly round.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, madam,’ said Henry from the doorway, ‘but Matthew the peddler - the man you looked at last night - well, he’s worse and I think Father Gregory ought to be fetched. Me mam gave him that willow-bark tisane like you told her but he just spewed it back up and his fever’s greater than ever.’

‘Is he so bad?’ Linnet said anxiously.

‘I fear so, my lady.’ Henry tugged at one earlobe in a worried manner. ‘When me mam looked at him there were red spots all over his chest and belly, the size of silver pieces. She reckons as it’s probably spotted fever.’

‘I’ll come at once and yes, you had better send for Father Gregory.’ She hastened to follow Henry down to the hall, her joy evaporating like morning mist.

On inspecting the sick peddler, Linnet’s fears were both increased and diminished. Matthew did indeed appear to be close to death. His breathing was ragged and harsh, and the only colour on his face was provided by the two bright-red fever streaks on each cheekbone and the smudged caverns of his eye sockets. A glance at the spots Henry had mentioned, however, revealed that they were not pus-filled and angry as was usual in cases of the deadliest kind of spotted fever. If victims survived, they were nearly always left with scarred, pitted skin. These blemishes were pustule-free, more of a rash.

There was nothing to be done for him except to keep him lightly covered with a blanket, isolate him in a corner of the hall and try to make him drink brews of feverfew and willow bark to keep the fever down.

‘Don’t let Robert go near him,’ she told Henry as she left the peddler to Father Gregory’s spiritual care. ‘He’s plainly surrounded by evil vapours.’

Henry bit his lip and looked away. ‘No, my lady,’ he said. 

The peddler’s fever did not abate; his lungs continued to fill with fluid and he died at dawn the next morning. The words ‘spotted fever’ spread from mouth to mouth faster than plague itself. Women gathered herbs to burn to ward off the sickness. Rushcliffe’s village wisewoman suddenly found herself inundated with worried customers. So did Father Gregory. Confessions poured into his ears by the bucket-load, quite gluing them up. Holy relics and badges competed for space on people’s belts with nosegays and pomanders. Lurid stories of previous epidemics were related by sundry generations of survivors.

On the day that Matthew was buried in the churchyard, the laundress and her daughter complained of feeling ill, and by the evening of that same day, were both huddled upon their pallets with high fevers and blinding headaches. A report arrived via a pack-train from Newark that the spotted fever was raging there, too, and that several villages between the town and Rushcliffe had also been struck. The only good news was that most victims appeared to be recovering from the disease and that it was only dangerous to the old, the very young, the weak and the occasional unfortunates of whom Matthew seemed to be one.

Feeling tired and apprehensive, Linnet sent Ella away to bed and sat down on the couch in the bedchamber to finish sewing the hem of a new tunic she was making for Joscelin. He was in the antechamber talking business with Milo, Henry, Malcolm and Conan, the men who were fast becoming the nucleus of Rushcliffe’s administration. Conan was present in a military capacity, being responsible for the garrison and patrols. Milo straddled a bridge between the duties of seneschal and steward, with Malcolm as his adjutant and Henry ensuring that all ran smoothly on a practical level.

The arrangement appeared to be working well. It was less than six months since Joscelin had taken up the reins of government but there was already a marked difference in people’s attitudes. They had a sense of purpose and knew that if they took pride in their work their new lord would take pride in them and reward them accordingly.

The men left and Joscelin came into the bedchamber, arms stretched above his head to ease a stiff muscle. ‘My brothers have been ransomed,’ he told her. ‘Apparently they were captured in the forest not far from the battlefield and held by some enterprising villagers in the apple cellar of the local alehouse.’ Lowering his arms, he set them around her from behind and kissed her cheek.

‘What happens now?’

‘The usual,’ he said and she felt his shrug before he released her and sat down on the great bed. ‘They’ll all snarl at each other but my father will snarl the loudest and Ralf will be forced to back down - for a while, at least. As soon as he sees my father’s attention wandering, he’ll up and cause mischief again and Ivo will follow him.’

Linnet yawned and, leaving her sewing, followed him to the bed. Her limbs felt heavy and she was a little cold, as if it were the time of her monthly flux, although that was not due for another week at least. Her mind upon the relationships between Joscelin, his father and his brothers, she asked, ‘Why did you run away to Normandy when you were fifteen?’

He paused in the act of removing his boot. ‘Because if I hadn’t, either I would have killed Ralf or he would have killed me. Our father used to intervene - he put us in the dungeon once, in different cells, and left us there for three days. But that only made us hate him as well as each other. Running away was the only means of breaking the chain. When I came home, it was on my terms, not my father’s, and I had outgrown Ralf.’ He finished removing his boots and leaned his forearms upon his thighs. ‘Ralf ’s still trying to break his chain but his struggles just bind him all the more tightly.’