Shields of Pride (16 page)

A castle was built to hold supplies, to be self-sufficient for long stretches of time. As a mercenary, he knew just how vital the principle was. Run out of salt beef, stock fish and wine, and you ran out of morale. Run out of bread and you were finished. Cursing under his breath, he picked his way across coils of rope and a broken eel-trap to the stores of winnowed grain. It appeared to be plentiful and of a high quality. He examined all the bins, thrusting his arm well down into the golden harvest to make sure that it was not just a thin layer of wholegrain poured on top of chaff. All appeared to be well until he stepped back and realized that it in no way tallied with the written accounts. Standing there, staring at yet more evidence of not only mismanagement but outright thievery, he remembered the previous evening in the hall and Corbette’s urgent conversation with Fulbert, the scribe. His temper ignited and he stormed from the undercroft and upstairs to the bower.

His wounded soldiers gaped at him in astonishment as he strode past them without a word.

‘Someone’s in for it,’ muttered Malcolm. ‘I’ve never seen him look sae fashed before.’

Joscelin strode across the bower to the corner where Linnet and Fulbert were working on a parchment. Jaw clenched, he flung the most damning of the evidence across Fulbert’s lectern. The pot of goose quills flew across the room and smashed on the laver, and the ink tipped over, ruining the exquisitely formed letters on the parchment.

‘What’s wrong?’ Linnet stared at Joscelin in astonishment.

‘Ask this turd here!’

Fulbert’s neck reddened against his fine linen shirt. ‘I do not know what you mean, my lord,’ he said, his gaze sliding off Joscelin’s as though it were a sheer glass wall.

‘These accounts are in your hand, I presume?’

Silence.

Joscelin slammed his good fist down on the lectern, causing the remaining sheets of parchment to slide off on to the floor. ‘Answer me!’ he bellowed.

‘I’m only a scribe, my lord!’ Fulbert gibbered. ‘I write what the seneschal tells me and the rest is none of my business!’

Joscelin clutched a fistful of Fulbert’s thick mulberry-red tunic. ‘Your clothes sing a different tune, scribe. You dress more finely than the king himself!’

Unleashing the power in his bunched arm, he shoved Fulbert away as if the man’s deceit had physically soiled his hands.

The force of the thrust sent Fulbert to his knees. He did not rise, but stayed there, weeping. ‘I had no choice, my lord. If I had protested, Corbette would have set Halfdan upon me and my family. Lord Raymond was not in his right wits at the end and no one could make him understand what was happening. And where Corbette’s influence didn’t run, his daughter’s did, if you take my meaning.’

‘In God’s name, will you tell me what is happening?’ Linnet demanded, rising to her feet.

‘Thievery on a vast scale,’ Joscelin said tersely. ‘The undercroft’s near-empty and, if I’m not mistaken about the grain tally, about to be emptier still.’

Her eyes met his, appalled, then settled on the weeping Fulbert.

Joscelin breathed out hard. As he looked down at Fulbert’s pathetic snivelling form, his anger dampened into disgusted irritation. He remembered building castles of mud as a child and then pissing on them from a height to watch them collapse. ‘I doubt marching you down to the cells is going to be of benefit to anyone, including myself,’ he said in a more normal tone of voice. ‘I’m very tempted to swing you from the battlements but there are things I need to know and perhaps you would like to barter your hide for the answers?’

Fulbert nodded. ‘Ask of me what you will. I’ve a wife and four children, the youngest is only a babe in arms. They will starve if I hang.’

‘You should have taken thought for that earlier,’ Joscelin said icily. ‘Where are the stolen goods sold?’

‘Corbette has a relative in Nottingham who’s a merchant. The goods go to him downriver or on pack ponies once a month. Please, messire, I beg you to be lenient. I’ll serve you faithfully, I swear it!’

‘As well as you served your two previous lords?’ Narrowing his eyes, Joscelin scrutinized the spineless blob at his feet. He had every right to hang him. At the very least he ought to have the fool stripped, flogged and put in the stocks for a week without sustenance, but as he stared an idea came to him, one that might yet save the man from himself. ‘You’re of no use to me,’ he said. ‘For your own safety and my peace of mind, I cannot keep you in this household but I know that my father, William de Rocher, is in sore need of a scribe at Arnsby. He can read and write after a fashion but he’s not fond of the quill and his eyesight is not what it was. You’ll go to him under escort, giving him your full history and a letter of recommendation from me.’

Fulbert gave a wet sniff and looked at Joscelin in abject misery.

‘It’s either that or the gibbet. Make your choice quickly before my patience comes to an end.’

‘Wh—When do I have to leave, my lord?’

‘As soon as you can pack your belongings and gather your family.’

Fulbert sat up. He was still shivering but his tears had ceased.

‘Serve William de Rocher honestly and you’ll have nothing to fear,’ Joscelin said. ‘Go now and, as you value your reprieve, say nothing to anyone.’

Whey-faced, looking as if he were about to be sick, Fulbert bowed out of the room.

Joscelin exhaled through his teeth. He began collecting the scattered tally sticks and replacing them in their drawstring bag with an untoward gentleness that spoke of rigid control.

Linnet picked up the sheet of parchment Joscelin had thrust beneath Fulbert’s nose. ‘I still don’t understand. What do you mean, the undercroft’s empty?’

‘Corbette’s been diverting the keep’s vital supplies elsewhere to his own profit and Fulbert’s been falsifying the accounts to make everything seem normal at first glance. Come, I’ll show you.’

On their way to the undercroft, Joscelin paused in the hall and spoke to two of his off-duty troops who were playing a game of merels. ‘Leave that,’ he said quietly. ‘Go and find the seneschal and bring him to the solar. I want him kept there until I’m ready to deal with him.’

‘What will you do to Corbette?’ Linnet enquired as once more Joscelin kindled his lantern and together they descended the steps into the darkness of the undercroft.

‘String him up,’ Joscelin said. ‘Village or bailey, I haven’t decided yet. Village probably. His corpse will serve notice that I’m not to be duped and that my justice is swiftly meted.’

‘And his wife and daughter?’

‘They’ve aided and abetted him and I don’t want them under my roof. Let them be put out of the keep to make their own way. There are enough troops in Nottingham to assure them of employment and the daughter certainly has talent. As long as I never see them again, I care not.’

They reached the foot of the stairs and he took her arm to guide her into the depths of the undercroft. He was aware of the closeness of her body and felt an echo of yesterday’s havoc ripple through him. It was going to be hard to keep his distance for the required three months.

Raising the lantern on high, he showed her the storeroom: its state of disarray damning evidence of sloppy housekeeping. She clucked her tongue and walked ahead of him, staring round.

‘What about supplies elsewhere?’ she asked him.

‘I’ve included them in my estimations but, even so, we’re dangerously short.’

Drawing her between the pillars, he showed her the wine casks, the salted meats and the grain. ‘See how the barrels are spread out? Close them together and you have next to nothing.’

Linnet lifted her gaze to his. Unspoken between them lay the knowledge that a war was at hand and they were woefully unprepared to face it. No supplies, a sparse demoralized garrison and villagers who were either hostile or indifferent.

Footsteps grated on the undercroft stairs and the light from a torch swirled around the walls. Joscelin turned. ‘Who’s there?’ he demanded.

‘Henry, sire. I knew you was down here; I saw you unlocking the door.’ The servant rounded the corner of the newel post and peered anxiously down. ‘There’s a messenger arrived, says he’s come from the ju—justiciar?’ He stumbled over the last unfamiliar word. ‘My sister’s given him somat to drink and settled him by the fire.’

‘Did he give his name?’

‘Yes, sire - Brien FitzRenard.’ Henry stared around the undercroft, absorbing every detail.

Joscelin nodded and moved towards the stairs. ‘I trust your discretion,’ he said to Henry with an eloquent arch of his brow.

‘I ain’t seen or heard a thing, sire.’ Henry answered blandly. ‘We’re always short o’ supplies this time o’ year.’

FitzRenard had left the bench where Henry’s sister had served him hot wine, and was restlessly prowling the hall. His garments were powdered with dust and his mouth was tight, but when he saw Joscelin he relaxed enough to smile.

‘I’m sorry to take you from your toil.’ He nodded at Joscelin’s tunic.

Glancing down, Joscelin brushed perfunctorily at the cobwebs and crumbs of old mortar festooning his tunic. ‘I’ve been seeking rats in the undercroft - two-legged ones.’

‘Ah.’ FitzRenard nodded. ‘Always a hazard when there hasn’t been anyone capable of hunting them for a while. I wish you good fortune.’

‘What brings you to Rushcliffe?’ Joscelin took the cup of wine that Linnet handed to him.

FitzRenard sighed. ‘You know Robert of Leicester was sailing for Normandy with an aid of money and men for the king? Well, he’s done what we half-suspected he would and turned rebel. He’s ridden straight for his own lands and declared for young Henry. The shore-watch has been alerted, the shire levies are being called up and every baron is required to swear his loyalty to the king. Those who do not are by default rebels and their estates forfeit. I’m riding north with the justiciar’s writ commanding the oaths of fealty and serving notice to stand to arms.’

Joscelin nodded grimly. ‘Anyone who trespasses on these lands will receive the greeting of my sword. Is my father still in London?’

FitzRenard shook his head. ‘Actually we rode part of the way here together; he was escorting his womenfolk back to Arnsby.’ Brien gave Joscelin a shrewd glance. ‘Your brothers were not with him, apart from the little one, and it was more than my life was worth to enquire after them.’

‘They’ve joined Leicester’s rebellion,’ Joscelin said, ‘and you would indeed have risked life and limb asking my father about them.’ He changed the subject. ‘Are you resting here the night or are you bound elsewhere?’

‘I’ve to go on to Newark but I was hoping for a bed and a fresh horse in the morning. My grey’s got a leg strain. I can collect him and reimburse you on the return journey.’ Brien sent a perusing glance around the great hall. ‘I had no inkling of the size of this place. You have landed on your feet indeed.’

‘I have landed’, Joscelin retorted, ‘up to my neck in dung.’

Undeceived, Brien smiled. Despite the complaint, he had heard the proprietorial note in Joscelin’s voice and seen the glance the mercenary had cast at his bride-to-be.

A knight entered the hall from the forebuilding and strode up to their group.

‘Corbette’s gone, sir,’ said Guy de Montauban, breathing hard. ‘The gate guards say he and his family rode out an hour since.’

‘And the guards did not see fit to stop them?’

‘No, sir. They assumed you had ordered Corbette to leave, because all his belongings were loaded on three pack-ponies and all the men knew that there had been strong words between you already.’

Joscelin swore. He could not blame the guards for their action. He had given them no instructions to detain the seneschal until now and their reasoning was logical. ‘All right, Guy. Tell the grooms to saddle up the horses. We should still be able to pick up their trail.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Montauban saluted and hurried away.

Brien cocked an enquiring brow. ‘Trouble?’

Joscelin shook his head. ‘The seneschal’s been bleeding Rushcliffe white for the past year and a half at least. He knows I’m wise to him so he’s run, doubtless with his pockets crammed at Rushcliffe’s expense. I should have arrested him last night, not waited until I had evidence.’

‘Lend me a horse and I’ll come with you.’ Brien put his cup down on the nearest trestle.

‘Be welcome,’ Joscelin said with a brisk nod then turned to Linnet, who was staring at him in dismay. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘You’re as battered and bruised as a tiltyard dummy!’ she protested. ‘What of your shoulder? If you are pulling yourself in and out of a saddle and controlling a war-horse, you’ll tear the wound open again. Even now it should be in a sling.’

He gave her a lop-sided shrug. ‘It will hold up for what needs to be done.’

‘Let Milo go in your stead. He’s unscathed.’

‘No, the responsibility is mine. Some things I can delegate elsewhere but not this. I’ll be careful.’

She set her jaw. ‘Then let me at least add some more padding to your bandages - for my peace of mind if not yours.’

Joscelin drew breath to deny that he required any such tending but Linnet was quicker.

‘You have to come to the bedchamber anyway to put on your hauberk and it won’t take a moment.’

His lips closed and then slowly curved in a smile. He inclined his head in amused capitulation. ‘If you were a swordsman, you’d be deadly,’ he said.

Linnet went pink and turned away to the stairs.

‘You’ve seen some fighting already then?’ asked Brien.

‘A skirmish,’ Joscelin said, down-playing yesterday’s assault. His gaze followed the sway of Linnet’s hips. ‘I’ll tell you about it while we ride.’

15

Finding Corbette’s trail was a simple matter for a seasoned troop of mercenaries who, like wolves, were accustomed to hunting in a cooperative pack, their senses sharpened by the proximity of their prey.

Corbette could only have taken the one road and all that Joscelin had to decide was whether to pursue it to Newark or Nottingham. The latter led through the village and, since Corbette was heartily disliked there, Joscelin sent Guy de Montauban to question the people. Henry accompanied the soldier to reassure the occupants and translate as Guy had few words of English. A bag of silver went with them, too, to loosen reluctant tongues. Joscelin took his own suspicions towards Newark at a rapid trot.