Shields of Pride (10 page)

‘Whoever it was can’t have gone far,’ he said, quickly assessing the span of time that had passed between now and the fire starting, and setting it against the sheer weight and bulk of the goods that had been taken.

‘No one has gone out of the front entrance on to the street; I’d swear my life on it!’ Milo’s voice was hoarse with shock but he was a mercenary, a man who lived by the sword, and his thinking processes remained sharp. ‘The only way to get such weight out in a hurry is by the river!’

‘Fetch six men, take them off the bucket chain if you have to, and meet me at the wharf,’ Joscelin ordered. ‘And post another one here; a servant will do, but tell him on no account to allow the women into the room, and especially not the child.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Joscelin ran down the stairs, sprinted across the neglected garden and down through the small orchard to the wharf bordering the rear of the property. A set of slippery, weed-covered steps descended to the gravel shoreline where several small rowing boats in varying stages of decrepitude were beached.

The tide was out and, on the shingle, two men, their tunics drawn high through their belts, were striving to push a beached Thames shallow boat into deeper water. A third man sat aft of the boat upon the missing strongbox, urging them to greater effort. Before him were heaped several waxed linen sacks, probably containing the other missing items, which were easily worth their weight in silver. The rower’s exhortations suddenly changed to a cry of warning as he noticed Joscelin’s approach. The men on the beach looked over their shoulders and then began to push harder, trying to free the boat.

Joscelin half-ran, half-slithered down the weed-green stairs, only saved from falling by the firm grip of his boot soles. He thrust with his toes on the final step, sprinted across the shingle and launched himself upon the thief to his left. So hard and swift was the impact that the man had no chance of remaining upright and tumbled into the river with Joscelin on top of him. The chill water rapidly saturated their garments and hampered every movement. They thrashed and floundered. Joscelin, having landed uppermost, used the advantage to push his opponent’s head under the water. He lost his grip and the thief broke the surface, choking, but by then Joscelin’s troops had arrived and the man was seized and dragged ashore.

The second thief had succeeded in pushing the boat free but had lost his footing as he tried to scramble into it and had been caught by Milo and another panting soldier. The rower worked frantically to scull his craft into deep water, away from the danger on the bank.

Stripping his sodden tunic and shirt, Joscelin plunged into the river and swam towards his quarry - it was quicker than trying to run, for he was armpit-deep by the time he laid his hands to the prow and hauled himself on board like a dripping merman. The small vessel yawed as the robber rose to a crouching stand and raised an oar to strike at Joscelin. Joscelin ducked and the oar missed his skull but landed a bruising blow across one shoulder. His attacker struck at him again and the boat see-sawed as if in a gale, water sloshing over the sides to form a deep puddle in the caulked bottom.

Joscelin lashed out with his feet and the oarsman staggered backward and landed hard against the side. Immediately Joscelin was upon him, using the oar between them to bear down and crush the man’s thorax. Panic-stricken, the thief kicked frantically. Joscelin grunted in pain as his body absorbed the blows but he did not yield his inexorable pressure. The resistance slackened; the thief choked. Joscelin held him within a hair’s breadth of death. One more push and the windpipe would collapse. His victim went limp as he lost consciousness. Joscelin threw the oar aside and unbuckling the belt around the man’s waist, rolled him on to his stomach and lashed his hands firmly behind his back, jerking the latch viciously on to the last hole of the leather. The thief groaned as he started to recover his senses. His head moved feebly as he tried to avoid the water pooling in the bottom of the boat.

‘Don’t give me any trouble,’ Joscelin said, lifting his victim’s head by the hair and shoving Giles’s hauberk beneath it to prevent him from drowning. ‘I’m quite likely to throw you to the fish, and in that padded jerkin you’d sink like a chest full of silver, wouldn’t you?’ Patting the strongbox, he seated himself upon it, retrieved the oars and turned the boat for shore.

It was well past compline before Joscelin was sufficiently free of his responsibilities to sit down with the women and take a cup of wine and a cold venison pasty - one of a batch fetched by Stephen from a cook shop on King Street, the Montsorrel kitchens being little more than smouldering ruins.

A door had been improvised out of planks from one of the rowing boats on the shoreline and the floor had been laid with new rushes borrowed from a neighbour. All traces of blood had either been removed or covered up. Out of sight but not out of mind, Joscelin thought as he sat down on a stool and leaned his back against the wall. The stolen hanging had been replaced and it cushioned his spine from the scrubbed, damp patch on the plaster. Once he had eaten and reassured the women, he had to go and spend at least the small hours in vigil over Walter’s body. His men were the outer ring of his family and to lose one hurt him. Walter had been a staunch companion, one of the first to join his banner the year that Juhel died.

‘I have three men below in the hall, guarding the strongbox,’ he said. ‘And more within immediate reach should the necessity arise, although I do not believe we’ll be troubled again in London. Leicester and his retinue are leaving at first light, so I gather.’

‘Have you spoken to Richard de Luci yet?’ asked Maude.

Joscelin dusted crumbs from his spare tunic. It was more threadbare than the one he had ruined in the river, and only just respectable. It was better for a mercenary to invest his coin in the best weapons and horses he could afford rather than in fine clothing. ‘No, he wasn’t at home. It can wait until morning now. His prisoners are securely confined, although I doubt he’ll get much out of them before they swing.’ He fell silent for a moment and stared into his half-empty cup. When he spoke again it was to Linnet, not his aunt.

‘Perhaps you will tell me now about Hubert de Beaumont, about this “private quarrel” of yours. I think that perhaps it is not so private after all.’

Linnet raised her hand to the spectacular necklet of bruises at her throat. A red burn mark showed livid where Beaumont had tried to tear off the leather cord upon which the strongbox key had hung. Joscelin was its custodian now. ‘If you had made an issue of it, there would have been a scandal and I would have been branded a harlot at the least. Hubert de Beaumont has a murky reputation and there have been several incidents involving other men’s wives. You ride the tourney circuits, you know the type.’

Joscelin inwardly flinched. Being a tourney champion and an itinerant mercenary he was, by association, linked to such men. He did indeed know the type. Besides, he couldn’t claim to be a lily-white innocent himself.

‘He wanted the silver. It was Giles’s wish, too, but I denied them both. I had to decide how to act in my own interests and my son’s, since the strongbox belongs to him now. I’m not sure I have done the right thing. There is no surety that King Henry will emerge from this rebellion the victor. To lean too far in either direction seems dangerous to me.’

Joscelin had been taking a drink of wine and he almost choked at hearing her deliver these less than honourable sentiments in a thoughtful, pragmatic voice. ‘Playing a double game is even more dangerous,’ he croaked.

She dipped her head and smoothed her gown over her knees. All he could see was the curve of her cheek and her lowered lashes. After a moment, she drew a deep breath and lifted her gaze to his. ‘And sometimes safer, I do believe. No, please, hear me out.’ She lifted her hand quickly to stay his protest. ‘I have a suggestion to put to you about tomorrow’s journey.’

Joscelin looked at the hand she had stretched out to him. It was a quick and capable hand with short-clipped nails. A practical hand, not that of a languid noble lady. ‘Yes?’ he said cautiously.

‘The strongbox is obviously a target. Leicester knows that if he takes his claim to court, he is likely to lose. He also knows that we are leaving for Rushcliffe tomorrow and that we will have to travel through lands where his influence is almost as powerful as the justiciar’s.’

‘Yes,’ Joscelin said again, beginning to frown.

‘What I suggest is that to protect my son’s inheritance, we take—’ She stopped speaking abruptly, her gaze darting to the makeshift door as it was heavily thumped by the fist of the guard outside.

‘Come,’ Joscelin commanded.

Malcolm the Scot poked his head around the door, his flaming hair standing up in spiky tufts. ‘The justiciar and your lord father have arrived, sir, and want a word.’

Joscelin sighed and rose to his feet. ‘All right, I’ll be there directly.’ He turned to Linnet. ‘I’ll be interested to hear what you have to say when I return,’ he said, adding ruefully, ‘If I can stay awake that long.’

Arriving in the main hall, Joscelin found his father and the justiciar waiting for him. Ironheart’s expression was smug and Joscelin was immediately put on his guard. It was a relief to have the culprits under lock and key awaiting interrogation. Against that small triumph, though, a man had died and the kitchens and stables were naught but heaps of smoking cinders - nothing to foster a smug expression.

Joscelin made a concise report that bordered on the curt. He was tired, but the sharper he became the more his father’s lips curved. De Luci, too, seemed to find it necessary to smile as he seated himself on a padded bench along the wall of the room. Beside him was a wicker cage lined with straw and inside it, curled at the back, Robert’s two black rabbits slept nose-to-tail.

‘Food for your journey?’ de Luci asked, peering inside.

‘They are a gift from my aunt to Robert de Montsorrel,’ Joscelin answered neutrally.

Ironheart made a contemptuous sound. ‘Maude’s got more wool in her head than a downland sheep has fleece.’

‘And more sense than most,’ Joscelin snapped and then, aware that both men were staring at him, shrugged. ‘I lost a good man today and got thoroughly belaboured by an oar when I went after the strongbox on the boat. Between one and the other, I’m not fit company.’

De Luci sobered. ‘It is always a grief to lose a companion. I will pay for masses to be said for him once you are gone. We won’t keep you long but I have a proposal to set before you, one that is very much to your advantage, and it has a direct bearing on the task I have set you.’ His gaze flickered briefly to Ironheart and back to Joscelin.

It was a night for proposals, Joscelin thought. He saw that his father was openly grinning now.

De Luci steepled his fingers beneath his jaw. ‘Originally I wanted you to escort Linnet de Montsorrel and her son back to Rushcliffe and take up the position of castellan while I found a suitable warden for the boy. Well, it seems that it’s my good fortune to have found one already.’

Joscelin eyed de Luci. How could that be of advantage to him unless de Luci was offering him a higher post, which he very much doubted? The qualifications for such a position were means, breeding and influence, and he possessed none of these. ‘My lord?’ he questioned, because it was required of him to play the game out.

‘I am here to offer you the wardship of Robert de Montsorrel by right of marriage to the widow.’

The words entered Joscelin’s consciousness but made little sense to his reeling mind. His eyes widened and his lips moved, silently repeating what the justiciar had said.

De Luci gave a self-satisfied smile. He enjoyed tossing surprises like snakes and then watching his victims juggle frantically. ‘There will be a fine to pay to the Crown for the right to take the lady to wife, but you’ll still have enough to live on while you set the lands to rights.’ He chuckled softly. ‘Don’t look so stunned. If I did not believe you capable of donning baronial robes, I’d not have offered you Rushcliffe to administer. Of course, it will only be yours until the lad comes of age but there is still his mother’s dower property and that’s worth a decent sum. What do you say?’

Joscelin swallowed. His mind was so full of conflicting thoughts and emotions that he was at a loss. ‘I do not know what to say, my lord.’

De Luci laughed. ‘I have thought for some time that you should settle down and breed some sons to follow you in service to the Crown.’

‘Women should be kept busy,’ Ironheart agreed, exposing his chipped teeth and cavities in a broad grin. ‘The bed, the distaff and the cradle: that’s the way to run your household.’

Having seen what the bed, distaff and cradle had done for his father’s wife, Joscelin wondered if Ironheart really believed what he was advocating or whether he spouted it blindly from force of habit. ‘I would rather not season my dinner with wormwood,’ he replied, and turned to de Luci. ‘My lord, I will be pleased to accept what you offer me, providing the lady is willing.’

‘She has no choice in the matter,’ Ironheart growled.

‘Then I am giving her one.’ Joscelin looked defiantly at his father until Ironheart dropped his gaze and spat his disapproval into the rushes.

‘Very well,’ said de Luci with a grave face but a twinkle in his eye, ‘only if the lady is willing but I expect you to persuade her on that score.’ His own wife had had no say in the matter of their marriage but he remembered wanting her to agree to the match of her own volition. First and foremost, it was pride. De Luci did not believe there was the slightest possibility of Joscelin giving up an opportunity like this for the sake of a woman’s word. He wagged an admonitory finger at Ironheart. ‘It damages a man’s esteem, William, to think he has to force his bride to marry him.’

‘It never damaged mine,’ Ironheart snapped. ‘Good Christ, if anything, Agnes was forced on me, the sulky bitch.’

‘And if you had had to force my mother?’ Joscelin asked.

A shadow crossed William’s face. ‘Then perhaps she would still be alive,’ he said bitterly. ‘I warned her to be careful while she was with child but she went her own way, as usual, and I was idiot enough to let her.’