Elizabeth Chadwick - Shields of Pride

When his vision cleared, he saw that whoever had dropped the rope had left a candle burning on a pricket to give him light and beside it was an old scramaseax - a common Englishman’s weapon, midway between a sword and a knife. However, it was good and sharp and made light work of severing the rope from the barrel of sand around which his rescuer had double-looped it to bear Joscelin’s weight. He cast the rope back down into the oubliette, and after what seemed an eternity, heard it splash in the water below. His heart was still pounding like a runaway horse but his breathing was easier now and the fiery ache was leaving his muscles.

Tucking the scramaseax in his belt, he closed the trapdoor over the oubliette and refastened the iron double bolts so that, to the casual observer, all would seem normal. Who, he wondered, could have given him the grace of this chance to avoid death? He was certain that his first visitor had been Ralf. He had felt him, blood and bone and dark bitter hatred. But the second time? There were several people in the keep who might have sprung the trap for him - he was Ironheart’s favoured son and well known to the family retainers - but he doubted they would have been permitted past Ralf’s Flemish guards.

It was a mystery, and likely to remain so, for his rescuer appeared to desire anonymity - nor could he blame him. Joscelin picked up the candle and snuffed it out. Thus might his life have been quenched on the morrow. Thus might it still happen unless he succeeded in making his escape and freeing his men from the cells.

He moved tentatively through the undercroft, feeling his way past barrels and sheaves, laundry tubs and sacks. Each footstep had to be carefully negotiated for the darkness was almost complete, and if he knocked anything over he knew Ralf’s guards would hasten to investigate.

He found one of the stone columns that rose in an arch supporting the undercroft roof. Carefully he measured his paces between it and the next one. Ten. And another ten to the one after that. He knew that the dimensions of the undercroft roughly corresponded to those of the hall above, and that if he followed the pillars they would lead him eventually to the stairs.

Another ten paces, another column, and beneath his fingertips he felt lines cut in the sandstone. Investigation revealed that someone had carved out a gaming board. There was the outlining square, the two inner squares and the peg holes at intervals. Every sense stood on edge as Joscelin realized he must be very close to the cells now. The carving would have been made by one of the guards at some time to stave off the boredom of a long stint of duty.

Joscelin moved to the next column, took another five steps and came up against some barrels. Wine for the hall, he thought. That was always close to the entrance because of frequent use. Besides, he could see the dim outline of the casks. Beyond the next pillar two candle lanterns were hung from pegs in the wall and radiated a diffuse golden light. He caught the sound of voices, the rattle of dice in a cup.

He crept sideways along the row of casks until a short trestle table came into view between the pillars. Seated at either end was a guard. There was more light now, for a half-burned candle stood in the centre of the trestle. A mutilated loaf stood on a wooden trencher and there was a pitcher beside it. The men were not drinking at the moment because one of the cups was being used as a shaker for their dice.

He could see that each man wore a sword and that their spears were propped against the cell walls. The cells themselves were barred from the outside with stout oak planks and had small iron grilles at the top. Guy de Montauban was looking out of one of them, watching the game.

‘How long until dawn?’ Montauban asked the guards.

‘An hour, less perhaps,’ answered one of them in a strong Flemish accent. ‘Eager to see the hanging and flaying, are you?’

‘It will be cold-blooded murder. If you are a party to it, you will have signed your own death warrant.’

The Fleming laughed, shook the dice and rattled them across the trestle. ‘At least you’ll keep warm on all the hot air coming from your mouth,’ he said and rubbed his hands. ‘Seven again, Joachim, that’s your belt you owe me.’

The other guard groaned and, removing his scabbard, unlatched the handsome tooled belt from around his waist.

Joscelin rose silently from behind the barrels. Guy de Montauban saw him and his eyes widened in surprise. Then he began to shout and howl and scream as if possessed. The guard who had been rolling the dice leaped to his feet and went to the cell to see what was happening. Joscelin ran round the barrels and attacked the other Fleming. The man had no time to defend himself. Belt still in hand, mouth open in astonishment, he turned to face Joscelin. Joscelin aimed not at his mail-clad torso but at his legs, which were only covered by woollen chausses and leggings. The scramaseax was sharp and the Fleming fell as Joscelin hamstrung him in a single swipe. His companion drew his sword and flung round to face Joscelin.

Casting aside the scramaseax because the Fleming’s sword would far outreach it, Joscelin leaped over the bleeding soldier and grabbed one of the propped spears. Then he moved in again to the attack, jabbing and thrusting with the sharp iron point while, behind him, the other guard screamed and thrashed on the floor.

The Fleming parried a couple of times, cast a rapid glance over his shoulder at the distance to the stairs and cried, ‘I yield, I yield!’ and dropped his weapon.

Joscelin did not lower the spear. ‘Unbar the cells,’ he commanded, jerking the point.

The Fleming did as he was told, fumbling in his haste to lift the heavy wooden beams out of their slots.

‘Now attend to your friend before he dies,’ Joscelin said as the prisoners within pushed open their doors and burst out to freedom. ‘Use that belt you so prized to strap off the bleeding.’

‘Lord Joscelin!’ Guy de Montauban’s eyes were glowing with exultation and an excess of wild anger. ‘How did you manage to escape?’

‘Someone opened the oubliette trap and dropped down a rope. I don’t know who; he did not wait to make himself known. Did you see anyone go past?’

‘Ralf came before midnight, walking as if he owned the world, the whoreson,’ Montauban spat, as if mention of the name had fouled his mouth.

‘No one else?’

‘I don’t know. I think I must have slept some of the time. The rattle of their dice woke me up. What about you, Alain?’ Montauban turned to a bowlegged, sandy-haired man. ‘Did you see anyone?’

‘Someone did come.’ Alain rubbed the side of his nose. ‘But I didn’t see his face. He was wearing a cloak and a short hood - a blue one, I remember. The guards knew him and weren’t bothered.’

‘Ivo!’ Joscelin said with surprise. ‘I always thought he was Ralf’s minion.’ But then, perhaps Ivo was no longer prepared to follow where Ralf chose to lead. ‘How many of us are there?’ He took a swift headcount. Six of his father’s men, six of his own and himself. Thirteen, the unlucky number of the last supper. He grimaced.

‘We have two swords, two daggers, two spears, a scram and a pair of mail shirts,’ said Montauban, casting his eyes over the weaponry.

‘There are spare lance shafts stowed over there; they can be used as quarterstaffs.’ Joscelin pointed to a stack of shaped ash staves leaning against a wall. ‘We won’t have to tackle every soldier in the keep, only the mercenaries loyal to Ralf and, even then, their resistance is likely to be half-hearted.’ He cast a look over his shoulder at the two Flemings. ‘Ralf is the target. Down him and the resistance dies.’

‘You want him dead?’ Montauban licked his lips.

Joscelin drew a harsh breath through his teeth. Every nerve and desire directed him to answer yes, but he held back, afraid of the blackness at his core, as deep and dark as the oubliette in which Ralf had cast him. ‘Hold back unless there is no other way,’ he replied. ‘Better if he is taken alive and dealt with by the justiciar.’ His expression became bleak. ‘Otherwise I am no better than he.’

Linnet watched Agnes de Rocher raise a coffer lid, take from it a pile of garments and bring them over to the bed where Ironheart lay. His hands were crossed upon his breast and his badger-grey hair was parted in the middle, combed and oiled as Linnet had never seen it in life. It had always been swept back from his forehead in leonine disorder and very seldom had he used a comb to tame it.

Death had softened some of the harsh lines graven into his face but, without flesh or colour, he was already a cadaver, bearing little resemblance to the living man she wanted to remember. And Agnes was revelling in her moment of glory. She was like an eager bride, her face radiant and her eyes sparkling as she went about her death-chamber duties.

Linnet had been escorted back from the chapel by two of Ralf’s Flemish guards and informed that if she wandered off again, she would be tied up. Agnes had recovered from her near-choking, although her voice was nothing more than a harsh whisper, and she had exchanged the light silk wimple of earlier for a fuller one of linen that swathed her throat and shoulders, concealing all marks.

Linnet had been forced to sit on a stool and watch Agnes prepare her husband to be taken down to the chapel to lie in state; to watch the woman wash his body as tenderly as a lover, dwelling upon the ravaged, calloused flesh with obscene, possessive joy. It had made Linnet sick. Twice she had had to run to the waste pit in the corner of the room, although there had been nothing to bring up but bile. And each time she returned, it was to see Agnes crooning to her husband, smiling and stroking.

‘You are mine now,’ Agnes whispered, running the rose-water cloth over the body in long, smooth strokes. ‘You cannot gainsay my will.’

Linnet shuddered at her tone. She wondered if Agnes, in her madness, would cast off her clothes and leap into bed with the body.

‘Of course, when it comes your turn to do this, your own husband will not be so presentable,’ Agnes continued as she shook out the garments, hurling small, brittle pieces of bay leaf and sage from the folds. ‘I saw a human hide once, nailed on the gates of a house in Newark. You couldn’t really tell it was human, it was all yellow and shrivelled; they mustn’t have tanned it properly.’

Linnet was overcome with nausea again, her reaction so swift and strong to Agnes’ words that she had no time to reach the garderobe and had to use her wimple.

Agnes clucked her tongue. ‘You are suffering, my dear, aren’t you?’ she said, a parody of concern in her damaged voice. ‘When is the babe due?’

‘It is you who is making me sick,’ Linnet gasped, removing her spoiled wimple. Jesu and his mother, help me, she thought, knowing she could not endure much more.

‘Your heart is too tender, as indeed mine was once. Perhaps you see yourself in me?’ Agnes cocked her head to one side, eyeing Linnet with a terrible shrewdness. ‘But you are pregnant, aren’t you? I have carried enough infants in my womb to know the signs.’

Linnet removed her stained wimple. ‘It is no concern of yours,’ she said in what she hoped was a cold tone speaking of strength, not trembling terror.

‘Oh, but it is,’ Agnes said. ‘In your belly grows the seed of Morwenna de Gael’s grandchild. We shall have to do something about that unless you lose it of your own accord. It is no use looking at the door. There is a guard on the stairs and he has instructions not to let you pass unless in my company. Come.’ She gestured. ‘Help me dress my husband for the chapel. He cannot go before the altar in his shirt. It would not be seemly.’

Sickened to her soul, Linnet backed away from Agnes’ beckoning finger, backed away until her spine struck the wall and she could go no farther. Agnes smiled and shrugged and turned to the body.

Linnet slipped down the wall until a low, dust-covered oak coffer caught the back of her knees. She slumped upon it, fighting to stay conscious, terrified of the danger to herself and her unborn child. As if from a great distance she heard Agnes directing her maid to lift and lower, pull and push, as they dressed William Ironheart in his court robes, decking him out in the finery that he had shunned in life.

‘Neither will it be seemly for you to accompany me to the chapel with your hair uncovered,’ Agnes croaked over to Linnet. ‘You will find a wimple in that coffer. Put it on and make yourself decent for the priest.’