Elizabeth Chadwick - Shields of Pride

‘I have a bad feeling,’ he complained as Linnet returned to his bedside. ‘I need to go home to Arnsby.’

‘A bad feeling about what?’

‘If I could put my finger on it, I’d not be so frustrated. All I know is that I have to go home.’

‘Joscelin could go in your stead,’ she suggested.

Ironheart shook his head and the two vertical frown lines between his brows deepened with anxiety and pain. ‘It is not something Joscelin can do. I’m sick of lying here staring at the wall and swallowing that piss-faced chirurgeon’s poisonous brews. One more day and, even if I have to crawl out of here on my hands and knees, I’m leaving.’ He paused, out of breath, his skin shiny with the sweat of effort. Linnet wiped his brow, murmured soothing words until his lids drooped, and went in search of Joscelin.

She found him in a corner of the great hall sitting on an upturned half-barrel, patiently working the nicks out of his father’s sword with a small, hand-held grindstone.

‘Go and talk some sense into your father,’ she said. ‘He’s threatening to leave his sickbed and ride home to Arnsby.’

Joscelin laid the sword carefully down and wiped his hands on a linen rag. ‘I know. He spoke to me late last night.’ Seeing her pinched expression, he added, ‘Does the sight of this bother you?’

She glanced briefly at the sword, its edges bright now and unstained. ‘I can look at it without feeling sick any more, if that is what you mean,’ she said, ‘but the sight will always bother me.’

‘Once you have felt the killing force, it always does.’

A shudder rippled down her spine. They looked at each other, the weapon between them gleaming with dull, quiescent power. Joscelin rose from the barrel and, taking her by the hand, led her out of the hall into the courtyard.

‘Where’s Robert?’

‘With Conan. He’s taken him to see the hawks in the mews.’ His expression was rueful. ‘Much as I love the boy, I need some respite.’

‘He kept asking for you when we were hiding in the cellars,’ she said. ‘And when you came, he thought you were a god to have answered his cry.’

They walked across the baileys to the small herb garden, which was set in a quiet corner near one of the auxiliary kitchen buildings. ‘But I’m not,’ Joscelin said grimly. ‘My feet are as much clay as any man’s, and if he believes otherwise he is going to be terribly let down one day. He clings to me so hard that sometimes it is like being eaten alive. I need to escape for a while.’

‘And now I come to you to eat you alive with my burdens, too,’ she said. They entered the small garden and were assaulted by the scent of the various herbs basking in the sunshine.

Joscelin squeezed her hand. ‘Burden me with anything you want.’ He drew her down on to a turf seat situated under a rose vine. The flowers were just coming into bloom, the petals as pink as baby toes. Bees from the castle’s hives hummed industriously among the blossoms.

She looked at him sidelong. In the cramped confines of the castle, beset by demands from every quarter, there had been no opportunity until now for them to talk in privacy. ‘Even with another mouth to feed?’ she asked, smiling.

At first he did not understand, but she saw the moment of comprehension brighten in his eyes and then slowly spread, lighting up his whole face. He kissed her - hard first and then very tenderly. ‘You bring me not a burden but a wonderful gift,’ he said, hugging her against him. ‘How long have you known?’

‘A few days only. I had a suspicion when we were preparing to travel to Nottingham and it has grown ever stronger. I do not believe my flux will come now.’ She laughed and squeezed him back. ‘The baby will be born in midwinter, I think, between Christmastide and Candlemas. I haven’t told anyone else but your father suspects. He has a very sharp eye for all he claims never to take notice of women.’ She sighed with exasperation. ‘I did wonder about using it as a lever to keep him in his bed - the opportunity to live to see his grandchild - but I think he would just bellow at me and rupture his stitches. He’s a stubborn old ox.’

‘The news might sweeten him a little,’ Joscelin said thoughtfully, ‘but then again, if he already suspects, he’ll have spent time mulling over the prospect and it won’t keep him occupied for long.’

‘What if we told him the child was to be given his name?’

‘He would say that it was his due but be secretly flattered. I doubt it would have any deep hold on him.’ Joscelin shook his head. ‘If he wants to go home to Arnsby, then so be it. I may just be able to persuade him to be borne on a litter for most of the journey. It will be more than his pride can stomach to enter the place flat on his back, so we’ll have to provide a quiet horse for the final mile.’

‘He is very weak,’ Linnet objected. ‘He lost a great deal of blood and he hasn’t the strength to fight off the fever if it sets in. A day’s jolting in a litter would be dangerous. He says he wants to die at home in his own bed. That is surely what he will do, doubtless with his wife gloating over him.’

Joscelin sighed. ‘It is his choice. I believe he is dying anyway and if I can fulfill his wish to do so at home, then I will.’

‘So you are not going to stop him?’

‘I will talk to him but I will not gainsay his final decision.’

Linnet rose and walked to a small sundial standing as a hub in the midst of a wheel of fragrant herbs. The sun was almost directly overhead and no shadow touched the surface. She laid her palm on the warm stone. One life beginning, one drawing to a close, she thought, feeling the connection, and in between a lifetime’s wheel of light and shadow.

Joscelin came up behind her and she turned in to his arms, knowing that, for her and Joscelin, their time was now and every moment too precious to be wasted.

Leaning on his elbow in the hay of the stable loft at Arnsby, Ralf watched Hulda, a kitchen maid, tidy her hair and brush ineffectually at the stalks of straw caught in her gown. She slid him a look through her lashes. Her eyes were a bright, winter-blue and, apart from her lush white breasts, her best feature. Her nose was lumpy, her lips thin and she had crooked teeth. Still, she was athletic and accommodating, tight and moist where it mattered.

Hulda was frequently sought out by the castle soldiers because, not only was she willing to lie with them for a pittance, she had the added attraction of being barren. No man was going to plant his seed and then find a woman whining at his tunic hem, demanding financial support for her growing belly. This being the case, the lady Agnes turned a blind eye to Hulda’s copulatory industriousness and only groused if it interfered with her work in the kitchens.

‘I heard Cook say your father’s gone into Nottingham to find you a bride,’ she fished as she secured her braid with a leather cord.

Ralf said nothing and stretched. Tufts of red-gold hair sprouted in his armpits.

‘Is it true?’ Hulda pursued. ‘Are you really going to take a wife?’

Her eyes were avid and made him smile and bite the inside of his mouth. To lie with the lord’s son was a source of power in itself but to have snippets of information straight from his own lips was even more useful.

‘When the time comes,’ he said with a shrug and picked his shirt off the straw. ‘Here’s a penny for you to spend next time the new packman comes calling.’

She took the coin willingly enough, but he saw the sulky droop of her lower lip. His own mouth tightened. The slut need not think he was going to pay her with information.

‘Go on, back to the kitchens; you’ve been away from them long enough!’ He gave her rump a stinging slap.

She squealed and, rubbing her buttock, said reproachfully, ‘You was the one who took me from my duties and kept me here so long.’

Ralf laughed. ‘If you’d wanted a short ride, you should have let Ivo mount you!’

‘P’rhaps I will.’ She set her foot upon the top rung of the ladder. There was a loud commotion in the stable below, and after briefly looking down, she tossed her head at Ralf. ‘I’ll ask him now, shall I?’

In the stable, a hard-ridden horse was blowing loudly as the groom unsaddled it. Hulda descended to the bottom step and stood aside, hands behind her back, eyes coyly weighing up Ivo who had just dismounted.

‘Where’s Ralf ?’ he snapped at her. She rolled her eyes towards the loft hatch. Ivo brushed her aside and shouted up. ‘Ralf, in Jesu’s name, come down. There’s news!’

Alerted by Ivo’s flushed face and his breathing, which was louder than that of his hard-ridden courser, Ralf came to the trap and stood fastening his braies. ‘Oh yes?’

Ivo peered up at him, chestnut hair sweat-dark on his brow. ‘I met one of our messengers on the road. He’ll be here soon, but his horse was tiring and mine was still fresh. It’s Papa, Ralf - he’s been wounded in a fight and they’re bringing him home.’

Ralf ’s complexion flooded with colour and his brown eyes turned to liquid gold. ‘Who is “they”?’ he demanded. ‘Move out of the way, let me come down.’

‘Joscelin and that wife of his.’ Ivo was almost leaping up and down with excitement. ‘They stopped off at Rushcliffe on their way to leave the brat and his nurse, so the messenger says. Joscelin’s wife’s insisted on attending Papa all the way to Arnsby because he’s in such a bad state. What’s more, they’re on their way here from the whore’s chapel. Papa wanted to be taken there. He’s dying, Ralf.’

Ralf descended the ladder and strode from the stables towards the keep. Elation surged through him. Ivo, shorter in the leg, had to run to keep up. ‘Ferrers attacked Nottingham. Apparently our houses were sacked but Papa escaped with the women into the cellars of the house next door.’

‘How was he wounded, then?’

‘In a sword fight defending them - a deep cut to the left shoulder.’

Ralf grunted. If it was not all that he had hoped for, then it was still excellent news. Joscelin was bringing the old man home to die. They would ride through Arnsby’s gates and never leave again. He glanced sharply at his scurrying brother. ‘You didn’t ride back along the road to greet them yourself, then?’

‘No, I came straight to tell you.’

Ralf nodded with satisfaction. As a younger son, Ivo’s inheritance was slim and likely to stay so unless he married well. He was dependent on the goodwill of the head of the household and obviously he had decided which way the wind was blowing.

‘Go and give Mama the tidings, will you?’ Ralf said. ‘She will need to prepare the bedchamber if our father is as bad as you say.’ And strew it with wormwood, gall and deadly nightshade, he thought. Maude was absent on one of her frequent visits to friends in convents and not expected home until the end of the week. His mother was always worse without Maude’s presence to lend an absorbent ear.

Ivo glowered. ‘What are you going to be doing?’ he asked in a disgruntled voice.

Ralf parted his lips in a narrow, white grin. ‘Preparing a welcoming committee, what else?’

‘Blast you, woman, leave me alone, I’m all right, I tell you!’ Ironheart snapped at Linnet.

‘I haven’t said a word!’ she protested.

‘It’s the way you keep looking at me. God’s arse, I could ride before I was out of napkins. I’ve lived in the saddle all my life, and if I die in one I’ll be a damned sight more happy than lying on a litter like an old woman!’

Linnet pressed her lips together and somehow kept silent. Ironheart looked dreadful. His eyes were sunken and their dangerous glitter was as much fever as rage. She had managed to get him to swallow a cup of willow-bark tisane when they were at Morwenna’s chapel, but he had refused to the point of apoplexy to be borne in a litter and had forced his will beyond his broken, dying body in order to mount his grey stallion at the block by the chapel door. As she had watched him wrestle with the horse, a lump had ached in her throat and she had had to fight hard to suppress tearful words at his stupidity. Joscelin had said nothing, just held the horse steady while his father dragged his shaking body into the saddle.

Linnet glanced at her husband now. He was riding on his father’s other side, affecting indifference but close enough to grab him if he fell. She might have thought Joscelin cold had she not witnessed his anguish in the privacy of their own chamber. ‘He hates sentiment and fuss,’ he had said, staring bleakly out of the narrow lance of window into Rushcliffe’s bailey. ‘He’s dying. Nothing can change that. I won’t break his pride.’