Shields of Pride (20 page)

Diamonds of colour from the windows painted Linnet’s shoulder and the drapes of stone clothing the plinth. She touched the smooth alabaster pleats of Morwenna’s robe. White, with a hint of translucence, Ironheart’s mistress lay in stone state above her mortal remains, her hands clasped in prayer. Tucked against her arm was the swaddled baby she had died bearing. Someone had recently crowned the folds of her veil with a chaplet of threaded marigolds and they cast an amber glow upon the smooth, white brow.

Ironheart and Conan had come to kneel side-by-side facing the altar. Tall candles, thick as a warrior’s wrist, stood upon it like spears and between them rose a Byzantine cross of garnet and silver-gilt, a crusading legacy of a former de Rocher. There was no sign of the priest or the nuns, although they must be nearby to tend the candles and the votive lights beside the tomb. For now, the two men were left to their silence and perhaps their healing.

Linnet quietly lit a votive candle of her own. Her lips moved in silent prayer for the soul of Morwenna de Gael. Then she said a prayer for herself, asking silently for courage and forgiveness. When she crossed herself and rose she noticed that William de Rocher’s hands bore a golden dusting of pollen, as if he had been gathering flowers.

18

September 1173

It was raining outside and pitch-dark. Joscelin cursed as he surfaced from sleep and heard the water spattering against the shutters. He pushed down the sheepskins that had been cocooning him and, shivering, sat up. The night candle had gone out. Groping, he found the coffer, and, after a moment, the tinderbox on top of it. By the time he had managed to coax a light from the two flints and the small pieces of shaved wood, a yawning Henry had appeared with a sputtering taper in his hand.

‘I’m sorry, my lord. You woke before I did,’ he apologized, kindling a steadier flame from the night candle. ‘My mam’s boiling up some pottage for the men to eat before you ride out.’

Joscelin grimaced. There had been other times like this in his days as a mercenary - foul pre-dawn mornings when any sane man would bury his head beneath the covers and hibernate. Even packed in waxed linen for travelling, mail shirts, helms and weapons would be rusty within hours, and the chill of steady rainfall would seep through garments into flesh and permeate the bones. Unfortunately, with the Scots over the border in force and rapidly heading south, granted free passage by the treacherous Bishop of Durham, there was no alternative but to ride out and intercept their ravages. The command from de Luci had arrived yesterday noon with the instruction that Joscelin was to take his men and join a preliminary muster at Nottingham.

Henry’s teeth chattered as the rain threw itself full force against the shutters. ‘Can’t say as I’m sorry to be staying here, my lord,’ he said. ‘Do you reckon they’ll get as far as Derby?’

Joscelin donned his gambeson over his shirt and tunic. ‘If we act now, I doubt it. But the Earl of Leicester is massing troops across the Narrow Sea for an invasion. It would be inconvenient if he were to strike at the same time as the Scots. That’s why de Luci said we had to move as fast as possible.’

‘I’ll pray for your safekeeping and victory, my lord,’ Henry said, crossing himself.

When Joscelin arrived in the great hall, his men and Conan’s were crowded around the fire, sipping bowls of pottage, wrapping their leggings, fastening belts, yawning and scratching. Not particularly hungry, but knowing he must eat something if he was to survive a long wet day in the saddle, Joscelin went to claim his own breakfast from Henry’s mother, Dame Winifred.

‘God send you good fortune, my lord,’ she said, presenting him with a steaming bowl. Her bright black eyes fixed on him until he had taken the first mouthful and assured her that it was good. The crone at the caldron Milo called her, but only because she guarded its contents jealously and would not permit him to go sampling them as and when he chose.

Joscelin moved among the men, speaking a brief word here and there. Conan eyed him sidelong, concealing a smile in his greying beard. ‘Seems not a moment since I was giving you the orders,’ he remarked.

‘More than five years,’ Joscelin said sharply.

Conan raised a defensive hand. ‘Pax, you pay my wages. As long as your head doesn’t swell so much that you can’t fit it through your tunic neck, I’ll not interfere.’

‘And as long as you keep your tongue behind your teeth, I’ll not be tempted to cut it out!’ Joscelin retorted. ‘When you’ve finished your pottage, you can give the order to mount up. I want to be on the road by first light.’

Conan pursed his lips. ‘You always were a grouchy sod in the mornings,’ he said, but attended to his food with increased speed.

Joscelin narrowed his eyes but let the comment pass. At a tug on his gambeson hem, he looked down to find Robert standing at his side. The child’s hair was still sleep-ruffled and his tunic had been put on back-to-front and inside out. Juhel had often stood thus but his hair had been black and he had had the dark eyes of a faun.

Joscelin crouched. ‘Shouldn’t you still be in bed, young man?’

‘I wanted to see you - to tell you not to go.’

Joscelin took Robert’s icy hands in his, then drew the shivering little boy into the circle of his arms and perched him on his thigh. ‘We spoke about this last night, didn’t we?’ he said gently. ‘I have to leave for a short while at least. The man who asked me to take care of you and your mother needs my help.’

‘But if you go to him, you won’t be here to look after us.’

‘Milo is staying. You know Milo; he won’t let anything happen to you. And Malcolm will be here, too. His wound’s almost better but not quite enough for a long ride. I won’t be gone long, I promise.’

Robert was quiet for a moment, but not in acquiescence. Joscelin could almost see his mind working, seeking reasons for Joscelin not to leave. ‘Mama doesn’t want you to go either,’ he said.

‘But she knows that I must.’

‘She was crying last night. She thought I was asleep but I wasn’t. She told Ella she did not know what she would do if you were killed.’ Robert flung his arms around Joscelin’s neck in a throttling grip. ‘I don’t want you to die.’

Joscelin swallowed and held him close. ‘I’m not going to die. There’s too much to live for.’

The boy trembled and shook his head. ‘I don’t want you to go,’ he repeated.

Joscelin delved inside his various layers of clothing and pulled out a leather thong upon which was threaded a small wooden cross. ‘I’ve had this since I was sixteen. It was given to me by someone very special and I’ve not taken it off once. It protects me in battle.’ A lie, since Joscelin relied on nothing in battle except his own skill and the speed of his responses. But the child had need of magic and talismans. Breaca had given the token to him as they lay on sheepskins beneath the stars on the road to Falaise. His first time with a woman. A piece of the true cross, she had said, her mouth both scornful and tender.

Robert touched the dark, crudely carved wood and seemed to derive some comfort from it, for Joscelin felt him relax slightly. ‘Does it really protect you?’

‘I swear it,’ Joscelin said solemnly. ‘But it will help its power if you pray for me, too, every day after Mass.’

Robert nodded and wriggled, his attention wandering now that his fears were a little allayed.

‘And when I return, I expect you to be able to canter your pony round the tiltyard all by yourself.’

‘I can nearly do that now!’

‘I know, but I won’t be gone long. Now then, you had better go and find some warmer clothes if you’re coming out to see us on the road.’ He gave Robert a final hug and set him on his feet. Then he rose to his own as Linnet and her maid entered the hall. Ella immediately took Robert in hand, scolding him gently as she led him away to be properly dressed.

Joscelin tucked the old wooden cross back down inside his tunic and looked at Linnet. There were shadows beneath her eyes as if she had not slept well and she was very pale. He thought about what Robert had said and wondered how he should go about calming her fears. It was hardly politic to do as he had done with Robert and show her Breaca’s cross.

The men were drifting from the comfort of the fire and their now-empty bowls. Joscelin was aware of time trickling all too rapidly through his hands. So much to say and the words all stuck in limbo.

‘I’ve still got a knife in my boot,’ he smiled, ‘and Conan riding at my left shoulder.’ Reaching out, he touched her face. ‘In another week, the three months of your mourning will be over. When I come home, we’ll hold a wedding celebration. Take some silver and make yourself a fine gown.’

She bit her lip and suddenly looked both guilty and afraid.

‘Linnet?’

Her colour rose. She met his eyes and then looked quickly away. ‘I already have some silver - thirty marks, to be precise.’

‘What?’ He had been about to set his arm around her waist but stopped in mid-motion. ‘Where from?’

She drew a deep breath. ‘The strongbox. No, wait, hear me out. I took the money in London between the time when Giles died and Richard de Luci gave you custody of the coin. When you and he counted it, I had already removed the money. I did not know what was to become of myself and Robert. It was his inheritance and I wanted to secure some of it at least.’

Joscelin did not know whether to laugh or rail. Certainly he was unsettled.

‘Why tell me?’ he asked warily. ‘You could have said nothing and I would never have suspected a thing.’

‘I know you enough to trust you now.’ She looked up at him through her lashes. ‘You would not do anything to diminish Robert’s inheritance.’

Joscelin laughed inside himself with admiration at the way she had disarmed him. Her timing was superb. He had no opportunity for indignation and by the time he returned the matter would be half-forgotten, its cutting edge blunted. ‘I don’t think I would dare,’ he said wryly.

‘Then you are not angry?’

‘I didn’t say that.’ He drew her into his arms and kissed her long and thoroughly.

Behind them, Conan cleared his throat. ‘Do you want me to instruct the men to bide awhile while you finish your breakfast?’

Joscelin lifted his head and looked round at his grinning uncle. ‘No, tell them to mount up. I’m coming now.’ He kissed Linnet again, as hard as the rain that was sweeping down outside.

‘God keep you safe, my lord,’ she gasped as he released her. Her eyes were very bright, holding the suspicion of unshed tears.

It was the first time she had ever afforded him that title and it was not yet his right. Perhaps it was a placebo aimed at smoothing his ruffled feathers but he did not think so. Her response to his kiss had been too spontaneous. ‘If ever there was a reason to hasten home in one piece, I’m looking at it now,’ he said before he swept on his cloak and headed towards the door.

19

‘Christ’s nails,’ Ironheart wheezed before his voice was robbed from him by the innocuous-looking clear liquid in his cup. ‘What is this stuff ?’

‘Don’t tell me you’ve never sampled usquebaugh before!’ scoffed Conan, sloshing a liberal amount into his own drinking horn and passing the flask to Joscelin. It was part of the meager spoils bludgeoned from a party of Galwegians earlier in the day as the Scots retreated over the Tees, pursued by de Luci’s hastily mustered army.

Ironheart rubbed his throat. ‘God, it’s barbaric!’

Conan laughed. ‘Give it time, my lord. Their usquebaugh’s like their women - rough at first, but soon your blood’s so hot that you don’t notice.’

‘That depends where you keep your brains.’

‘Same place as yours.’ Conan straddled a camp stool. ‘I saw you eyeing up that laundry wench when we were setting up camp.’

Ironheart made a disparaging sound and took another tentative sip of the fiery pale-yellow brew. This time his throat did not burn quite so much. A warm glow was spreading from his stomach into his veins, comforting him against the evening chill. Autumn came earlier in the north. Up here on the Scots border, the leaves and bracken were already burnished gold. He stared into the heart of the fire until the heat made him blink and acknowledged that he was becoming too old to go on campaign. His body ached with the effort of keeping pace with younger men and his mood was tetchy. Knowing his limitations did not make accepting them any easier. Perhaps he ought to spread the laundry wench on his cloak and comfort himself with her softness, except that he had an aversion to the women of the camp, an aversion rooted in deep fear. He raised his cup to his lips, took a full swallow this time and told Joscelin to pass the flask.

His son darted a look at Conan but handed it over without comment.

‘What’s wrong, don’t you believe I can handle my drink?’ Ironheart snapped. ‘Good God, the night you were whelped, Conan’ll tell you I drank him under the trestle and walked away damned near sober.’

‘Usquebaugh is not wine, sir. You’d not be able to stand up if you drank that flask to the dregs.’

Ironheart was tempted to prove the opposite but resisted. Joscelin had spoken with the conviction of experience. ‘Where did you learn that, as if I didn’t know?’ He scowled at Conan.

Joscelin’s eyelids tensed. ‘In a disease-ridden camp on the road to Falaise,’ he said. ‘It bought me oblivion for a time.’ Rising to his feet, he left the fire and went to check their horses. Ironheart watched him pause at a captured Galloway pony tethered beside the packhorses and destriers. It was a young but sweet-natured mare with a fox-chestnut hide and silver mane and tail. Ironheart knew that Joscelin intended her as a mount for Robert de Montsorrel, knew everything and more than he wanted to know about the woman and child because Joscelin talked of little else - a besotted fool. The usquebaugh burned in Ironheart’s stomach like a hot stone - or perhaps it was bitter envy mixed with the corrosive lees of memory.

Sparks hoisted their way into the darkness on ropes of smoke. A soldier softly played the mournful tune of ‘Bird on a Briar’ on his bone flute. Conan took out his needle and thread and began mending a tear in his hose. Nearby, two soldiers played dice, gambling for quarter pennies. Joscelin returned to the fire, threw on a couple more branches, and sat down.