Elizabeth Chadwick - Shields of Pride

‘It will never be finished,’ he said hoarsely and braced his trembling sword arm.

‘Leave me alone!’ Martin yelled, wrenching himself free of his mother as she tried to drag him away from the two men.

Fulbert was twitching with terror but he stepped resolutely forward. ‘You do not understand,’ he wheezed at Ralf. ‘It is the constable of Nottingham who is here and Brien FitzRenard bearing the justiciar’s authority. They are in the bailey even now.’

Ralf ’s face changed. He stared at the scribe in utter disbelief and Fulbert avoided his gaze, backing hastily away.

‘What trickery is this?’ Ralf snarled.

Ivo brushed aside Montauban’s sword and went to the window. Throwing the shutters wide, he stood on tiptoe to look out on the bailey. ‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘It’s the constable and FitzRenard.’ He looked over his shoulder into the room, his expression half-afraid and half-relieved.

Uttering a roar of incandescent rage, Ralf swept Martin aside as if he were no more than a feather and attacked Joscelin, his sword a hacking, slashing blur. Joscelin parried and ducked, was forced backward, pushed and manipulated by Ralf ’s superior stamina until the dark tower stairway was at his back and he could retreat no farther.

‘I’ll send you to hell, you whoreson!’ Ralf ’s lips were drawn back from his teeth in a feral snarl as he brought up the sword.

Joscelin feinted one way, dived the other, and as he hit the floor he yanked at the length of green silk upon which Ralf had been standing. He felt the impact of a heavy blow upon his mail and a searing pain, and saw Ralf struggling to hold his balance on the very edge of the top step. Joscelin scrambled to his knees and clawed for Ralf ’s tunic to try and pull him back into the chamber. The friction of flesh on fabric burned his knuckles and Ralf ’s weight ripped back his fingernails. As Ralf fell, Joscelin was brought down the first stone steps with him, only preventing himself from falling the rest of the way by jamming his feet against the newel post and his spine against the wall.

Time thickened and slowed. Sounds caught in it were distorted and hollow. The scrape of armour grinding on stone, the thud, thump of a body rolling over and over. The scent of flowers. Silence.

Joscelin moved gingerly, his limbs feeling as if they were made of hot lead. There was pain across his shoulder and back. He could not feel the trickle of blood, but he knew that the sword must have split the hauberk from the very strength of the impact. He would have heavy bruising at the least and probably a couple of cracked bones. And Ralf ?

Like an old man he inched down the stairs to his brother. The red-gold hair gleamed in the torchlight. When he turned him, so did the blood as it trickled from ears and nostrils. Ralf ’s eyes were open, but there was only the thinnest ring of gold-flecked brown to be seen. The rest of the iris showed only the blackness of a lost soul.

‘Christ Jesu,’ Joscelin whispered and bowed his head. And behind him, he heard Agnes’ hoarse scream.

Linnet felt cold moisture on her brow and heard Maude’s comforting murmur. There was the softness of a bracken mattress beneath her and feather bolsters supporting her head. Farther into the room, she thought she could hear the low rumble of masculine conversation.

She dared to open her eyes. Pain throbbed hard at one temple and the rest of her skull ached in dull sympathy. Through blurred eyes she stared around and wondered where she was. These were not her own chambers at Rushcliffe but neither were they Agnes’ rooms. The walls were austere, whitewashed stone that hurt her eyes. For a moment she wondered if she was in a monastery, but there was not even the adornment of a crucifix to relieve the barrenness. Beneath her fingers was a thick blanket of the plaid weave common to the Scots border, the kind that she and Joscelin had on their own bed.

‘Where am I?’ she whispered and discovered that her mouth was sticky and dry.

Maude leaned over her. ‘You’re awake at last,’ she said with relief. ‘I was beginning to worry. A day and a night you’ve been asleep. You’re at Arnsby, in my brother’s rooms.’

Linnet tried to swallow but started to cough. ‘Thirsty,’ she managed to croak out, the pain rippling through her head with a vengeance. Maude helped her to sit and held a cup of watered wine to her lips.

‘Slowly, my dear, slowly,’ she soothed.

Linnet sipped and lay back against the bolsters. Her vision continued to clear and blur. She put her hand to the pain at her temple and touched gingerly. Her fingers encountered clipped hair and the thick hardness of dried blood.

‘The leech said it was best to let it heal in the open air.’ Maude said.

Linnet frowned. ‘I remember now; Ralf hit me with the door-bar when I tried to stop him from closing the door.’ Her eyes flew wide and she pulled herself to a full sitting position. ‘And then he and Joscelin were fighting and Joscelin was losing. I tried to move but I couldn’t. I don’t remember anything except Ralf and Joscelin and that open doorway . . .’ She pressed her fingers to her lips, feeling sick.

‘It’s all right, my love, don’t you worry.’ Maude enfolded Linnet in one of her smothering embraces, but not before Linnet had seen the grief brimming in the woman’s eyes. Struggling, she fought herself out of Maude’s arms.

‘What happened? Tell me!’

Maude dashed one pudgy hand across her eyes. ‘Joscelin is safe,’ she said in a quivering voice. ‘Never think that he isn’t. Indeed, I will fetch him to tell you himself. I am upset for my brother, that is all . . . for the tragedy.’ She gave a loud sniff. ‘William and Ralf both. I know that he deserved it but he was still my nephew. And Agnes has not spoken a word since, just lies on her bed, her face all twisted to one side. She had a seizure, you know, the poor soul.’

‘Ralf is dead?’ Linnet’s head spun.

‘He fell down the stairs while they were fighting and cracked open his skull. We arrived moments after it happened. William’s seneschal opened the gates to us when he saw the justiciar’s writ - he had no choice. I almost feel sorry for the poor man. Conan and Brien FitzRenard were the first into the keep and they found Ralf dead and Joscelin collapsed on the stairs to Agnes’ rooms.’

Linnet bit her lip, trying to remember. Her mind was like an autumn scene with areas of drifting fog changing the landscape from moment to moment. ‘But how did you know to come?’

‘I was on my way here and decided to stop at Rushcliffe for the night. That young red-haired Scotsman of yours, Malcolm, told me that William was dreadfully ill with a deep sword wound and that you and Joscelin had taken him to Arnsby. Then the messenger came with your cry for help, so we set off straight away. Apparently William’s scribe used to be yours and took his life in his hands to send out the messages.’

Linnet gave a tremulous smile. ‘I thought I had failed with him. I asked him to help me, but he would not meet my eyes when he said he would see what he could do. I will have to go to him and be humble now.’

‘He is rather basking in his glory,’ Maude admitted. She patted Linnet’s hand and then looked round and rose to her feet as Joscelin approached the bedside. His eyes were all for Linnet and Maude tactfully made her excuses and left. The kiss she bestowed on her nephew’s stubbled cheek before she departed was affectionate and understanding, her embrace for Linnet tender.

When she had gone, Linnet and Joscelin looked at each other then, in a sudden simultaneous move, were in each other’s arms, kissing, holding tight. ‘Holy Virgin,’ Linnet sobbed, ‘I truly thought you were going to die!’

‘So did I,’ he muttered into the hair on her good side. ‘If it had not been for Ivo, I would have done.’

‘Ivo!’

He drew back and showed her the blistered weals on his hands. ‘Ivo threw a rope down into the oubliette so that I could climb out. He says that it was the only rope on which he wanted to see me swing.’

‘I thought he hated you.’

‘Not as much as he loves the mortal state of his soul. Fraternal rivalry is one matter. Cold-blooded murder is another.’

Linnet shivered and pressed her cheek against his tunic, savouring a closeness she thought she had lost. ‘And now Ivo is lord of Arnsby?’

‘Not for long.’

She raised her head and looked quickly into his tired, unshaven face. ‘You do not mean to dispute with him?’

‘No. He says that he intends taking the cross and that, providing he can have Papa’s hunting lodge and manor house near Melton, he’ll pass over his right in Martin’s favour.’ He stroked her hair. ‘It’s not as strange as it sounds. Ivo’s always trotted around in someone else’s shadow. He does not know how to stand in the light.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I want to go home to Rushcliffe, I want to see Robert and sleep with you at my side for a week.’ He paused, his hand clasped over hers, and added quietly, ‘I want to forget. Why do we always want the impossible?’

Without speaking, for her throat was tight, she took his calloused hand and placed it against her womb, upon the hidden promise of new life.

Spring 1175

The white chapel held two effigies, side by side, one a woman wearing a crown of saffron crocuses upon her pale stone brow. Her companion wore mail and a surcoat, his sword carved at rest beside him and his hands clasped, not in an attitude of prayer, but holding a shield bearing the comet blazon of his family line.

‘It looks like Papa,’ Martin said judiciously and ran his forefinger over the stone ripples and folds. ‘He’ll be happy here, I know he will.’

Robert copied him by setting his own smaller hand upon the effigy’s spurs.

Joscelin lightly touched Martin’s shoulder and considered Ironheart’s tomb. He had had to search hard among Nottingham’s fraternity of alabaster craftsmen to find one who could carve the effigy as he wanted. No pious positioning of the hands or rigid garments confining the essence. He wanted Ironheart the restless, brusque warrior, not Ironheart the saint. By and large the man had succeeded, although his father’s hair had never succumbed to a comb the way it had succumbed in stone to the craftsman’s chisel. Ralf had a tomb, too, in the chapel at Arnsby, and that was rigidly conventional and blessedly resembled his brother not in the slightest. The same went for Agnes’ memorial, although that was not yet finished for she had only died the week before Candlemas of yet another seizure.

He would not dwell on the past. Linnet would rebuke him if she thought he was brooding, although she allowed him his moments of solitude and introspection. He heard her footfall now and turned to watch her walk up the nave towards him. She was wearing her thick winter cloak for, despite the sunshine, there was still a sharpness in the air and she had her burden to protect, but she walked gracefully, and he felt his heart and gut swoop together, producing a feeling of elation.

The others would be coming soon to fill the church and attend this Mass that was to be said for the souls of William de Rocher and Morwenna de Gael, but Joscelin had allowed a space of time for the solitude of his own immediate family, for the peace and breathing space to stand before the tombs of his mother and father and present to them their three-month-old granddaughter, dark of hair, green of eye - Morwenna.