Elizabeth Chadwick - Shields of Pride

‘I thought that was your intent since you swallowed the last three with a swiller’s skill.’

He made a face. ‘I’d not have eaten my dinner else. We have enough tosspots in this hall already to drink an alehouse dry.’ He stared at the serjeant Halfdan who was arm-wrestling with another guard, lighted candle stubs set to either side of their straining wrists. Halfdan was using his free hand to raise a cup to his lips, egged on by his cronies.

Abruptly Joscelin rose to his feet and, leaving the dais, set out to mingle with the people gathered in the hall. It was not a conventional move and earned him glances of suspicion and hostility as well as approval. Raymond and Giles de Montsorrel would have retired to the private rooms on the floor above long since. However, for the moment, the new lord was a gardener in diligent search of weeds to uproot and plants to nurture.

Joscelin passed close to Corbette. The seneschal had ceased his vehement conversation with the scribe and bowed in deference to his new lord. His wife curtseyed and batted her lashes at Joscelin but she had run to seed and her flirting did not have quite the same effect on him as her daughter’s had done. Moving into the well of the hall, Joscelin sought the fletcher and immersed himself in a conversation about the possibility of making arrows to suit the Welsh bows he was thinking about introducing to the castle’s armoury.

The shouts of the soldiers watching the arm-wrestling contest drowned out what the fletcher was saying. Frowning, Joscelin lifted his head and stared down the long trestle to the chanting men. Halfdan was about to press his victim’s knuckles into the molten tallow of the burning candle-end. Fists pounded on the board in unison with the chanting. The wood vibrated. Cups leaped up and down. Halfdan applied a last burst of pressure and seared his opponent’s wrist into the hot wax. Then he held him there as if branding a beast. The other soldier gasped through clenched teeth. A stronger stink of tallow smoke thickened the air as a grinning Halfdan released his victim and scooped up his winnings to unanimous cheers. No one wanted to be on the wrong side of such a man. Flexing his powerful shoulders, Halfdan stared round the ring of fixed smiles and saw, beyond them, an unsmiling Joscelin.

‘Want to challenge me?’ Halfdan extended a meaty paw. ‘Or are you too frightened?’

A silence fell - as loud as the shouting that had preceded it. One by one the smiles fell away.

‘You’ve more words than wits, man,’ Joscelin said with quiet contempt. ‘It’s the drink in you talking; you’d not last a minute against me.’ Rising from the trestle, he turned his back and started to walk away.

‘Coward!’ Halfdan shouted. ‘Weakling!’

There was an audible gasp from the men at the board.

Joscelin paused, weighing up the risks. He could ignore the comment and by doing so display his scorn. That was the prudent thing to do. He was tired and sore, did not relish a confrontation tonight with a man of Halfdan’s bulk; yet if he passed it over, those words would stick. Whatever he did, there were going to be repercussions. Slowly he turned round and, with a measured walk, returned to the trestle.

Halfdan gave a triumphant grin. His companions were notably more circumspect. One of them relit the candle stubs from a rushlight and then retreated, giving the adversaries room.

Joscelin seated himself opposite Halfdan. ‘You have a death wish,’ he said in a conversational tone of voice and held out his hand.

Halfdan wiped his hand down his chausses and fortified himself with another drink of ale, adding to the gallon he had already consumed. ‘I am not the one who will die,’ he answered. Planting his elbow solidly on the scuffed oak board, he clasped Joscelin’s hand within his enormous fist.

Joscelin resisted as Halfdan started to push, and smiled into the soldier’s face. He was no stranger to this game himself, for he and his uncle Conan had played it constantly on campaign, sometimes for stones when there was no money. There was a skill to it, brute force alone was not enough, and Joscelin knew that Halfdan’s reactions must be impaired by the amount of ale in his belly.

Their forearms remained at the starting point. Halfdan’s muscles tightened and bulged with strain but he moved Joscelin scarcely an inch towards the candle. Struggling, he held his breath and pushed with all the force of a woman in the last throes of childbirth. His efforts bore no fruit and, as he expended the last of his breath on a sob and drew more air, Joscelin began to apply slow, inexorable pressure of his own, bearing down smoothly. Halfdan grimaced, then he howled, his whole arm rigid and shaking with the effort of keeping his pride out of the molten wax. Flesh and flame made tenuous contact. It was too much for Halfdan to bear and, with a bellow of rage, he tore himself free of Joscelin’s grip and towered to his feet.

‘Bastard spawn of a whoring bitch!’ he roared and, throwing himself across the trestle, seized Joscelin by the throat. Joscelin knew his death was seconds away. He jerked his knee hard into Halfdan’s groin, freed the boot knife that no self-respecting mercenary was ever without and drove it upwards and forwards with all the strength in his body. Halfdan bucked and sagged forward, following the knife as Joscelin withdrew it. His hands lost their grip. He struck the trestle and rolled off it, landing with a thud amid the filthy floor rushes.

‘My lord, are you all right?’ Sword in hand, expression grim, Milo reached Joscelin.

Between coughs, Joscelin nodded brusquely. He might just have been half-strangled, his shoulder might be screaming with pain, but he was still alive and he had made a lasting impression on the boggle-eyed witnesses. They would not dare to challenge his authority now that their champion had been sacrificed across his own profane altar.

‘Get rid of this,’ he said huskily, gesturing to Halfdan’s corpse. ‘The men can dig a grave in the morning.’ Pivoting on his heel, he returned to the dais, making sure to stalk disdainfully, although in truth he wanted to crawl. He sat down in the lord’s chair, propped his dagger-boot on the edge of the table in fine vagabond style, and stared out over his domain. Conversation started again, raggedly at first but rapidly gaining volume. Halfdan’s corpse was dragged from the hall by its heels like a carcass fit only for the hounds.

‘They’ll be searching his belongings already for what they can scrounge,’ Joscelin said with weary distaste.

‘You should not have ventured below,’ Linnet remonstrated as he coughed again. ‘You were almost killed.’

‘There was need.’ This time he did not refuse when she directed a servant to replenish his cup. ‘To know Rushcliffe, I must know its backbone and root out the rot. If I am known as a man who does not stand on ceremony, I become more approachable and my task is made simpler.’

‘You also become known as a man who carries a dagger in his boot,’ she said.

‘Indeed, and a man who plans for adversity and has the wit and will to overcome it.’ His tone was light but the words themselves carried conviction. He gave her a twisted smiled and raised a toast. ‘You’re a woman of a similar breed yourself. Here’s to our wedding bed, all hundred and fifty marks’ worth.’

Linnet blushed as she lifted her own cup.

The first business of the morning was Giles’s funeral, a short unpleasant affair. The weather was warm and, despite having been well salted and divested of internal organs, the corpse had defied attempts at preservation and was riper than an overhung pheasant. Perfumed smoke rippled from the censers in the chapel but did nothing to conceal the stench of rotting meat.

Helwis de Corbette fainted and had to be carried out. Linnet suspected that it was a deliberate ploy on her behalf to avoid the smell. Indeed, Linnet doubted that Helwis had been anywhere near Giles’s coffin yesterday, despite her professions of piety.

The ceremony was hastily concluded by the ashen-faced priest, and the coffin was borne away to the crypt and placed beside the tomb of Raymond de Montsorrel. Father and son were together in death as they had never been in life, Linnet thought and shivered, feeling as if a bony finger had run down her spine. As soon as it was decently possible, she made her excuses and went to attend to her patients in the bower.

As she changed dressings and administered medicines, she swore to herself that she would expunge every trace of Giles and his father from the living core of the castle. However, that involved pacifying the dead with a show of duty. Having reassured herself of the condition of her charges, she left them in the hands of her maids. Retiring to a corner of the bower near the window, she sent for Fulbert, the scribe. When he arrived with his quills, ink and sheets of vellum, she set about composing a letter to a noted Nottingham stonemason. She would have effigies carved and set upon the tombs. Let no one accuse her of a lack of respect. She would pay to have prayers said, too, so that all could rest - the dead and the living. Dear Holy Mary, let this be an end and a new beginning.

Joscelin studied the men drawn up before him in the courtyard. On first sight, they appeared to be a flabby collection of dregs and gutter sweepings: sullen, defensive and afraid. Watching them shuffle and mutter, he wondered whether he ought to dismiss them all and ride into Nottingham to recruit anew. But then, he reminded himself, even the best troop in the world could suffer from bad leadership and he could not spare the time to go picking through Nottingham’s alleyways and alehouses for likely men.

Hands on hips, he delivered the gathered soldiers a brief lecture on what he expected of them, what they could expect of him in return and what would happen should they break the codes under which they would now be living.

‘You have a month to prove yourselves,’ he told them. ‘After that, any man who has shown himself worthy will be guaranteed his wages for the rest of the year. Those who do not measure up will be dismissed. Any questions?’

When he left them in Milo’s tender care, he knew that their eyes were pursuing him into the keep. He was aware that many of them would fail the test but there were others who just needed the fire rekindling and who, with some intensive training, would do well enough.

‘When I’m talking, you pay attention!’ Milo roared, striding forward to fill their vision, a spear brandished in his fist. ‘Anyone know what this is? No, it’s not for leaning on while you fall asleep or ogle a serving girl’s tits! You, stop smirking and come here. Show me how you’d beat down a sword attack with one of these.’

Smothering a grin, Joscelin left his captain in full flow and went to the small chamber off the hall where the account rolls, tally sticks and exchequer cloth were stored. Taking the key that Corbette had reluctantly handed to him the previous evening, he unlocked an ironbound chest, removed the top layer of parchments, the tally bags and chequer cloth, and bade a young manservant bring him a waxed tablet and stylus.

‘Shall I fetch Sir Arnaud to attend you, sire?’ asked the man as Joscelin loosened the drawstring on the tally bag and tipped the notched sticks it contained onto the trestle.

‘I’m quite capable of deciphering these without the seneschal’s aid,’ Joscelin replied, then gave the servant a wintry smile. ‘A pitcher of ale would be useful, though. Doubtless there’s a recent brewing if the state of the men in the hall last night was any indication.’

‘Yes, sire.’ The young man hurried out, his manner one of cheerful alacrity that was refreshing after the dull indifference that Joscelin had generally encountered thus far. He returned promptly with the requested articles and poured Joscelin a horn beaker full of golden-brown ale. ‘You’ll get none better between here and Newark, my lord,’ he announced with pride. ‘And I doesn’t say that just because my aunt’s the brewster.’

Joscelin took a deep swallow and savoured the complex, malty bouquet. ‘You’re right,’ he said with a smile and a toast of the horn. ‘My compliments to your aunt. She’s a skilled woman.’ He smoothed out the chequer cloth.

The serving man, who had yet to be dismissed, eyed him quizzically. ‘Do you really know how to use one of those, sire?’ He indicated the cloth.

Joscelin shrugged. ‘There is no mystery once you have learned the principle. I was taught by the monks at Lenton when I was a boy. We used to count the flocks when they came in for shearing.’