Shields of Pride (9 page)

Beaumont made sympathetic sounds and refilled Ralf’s cup before tipping the final half-measure into his own. Then he took a contemplative swallow and set his enquiries back on their original course. ‘So how did your brother come to be a mercenary? Surely your father could have found him an heiress with lands?’

‘Originally Joscelin was going to be a priest,’ Ralf said. ‘He boarded with the monks at Lenton for three years until one of them tried to make him into his bum-boy and Joscelin knocked his teeth down his throat. My father decided that his true vocation lay with the sword and started his training.’ Ralf resumed dabbling his finger in the spilled pool of wine.

‘And?’ said Beaumont, leaning forward. His curiosity was like the tip of a knife probing an open wound. Ralf began to feel nauseated.

‘There’s little more to tell.’ He shrugged. ‘When Joscelin was fifteen, he and my father quarrelled and Joscelin ran away. My father said he would be home within a month but we didn’t see him again for seven years. When he returned, it was at the head of his own troop of mercenaries. He was treated like the prodigal son, put on a pedestal and held up to me as a shining example.’ Ralf stared at his wine-stained fingertips. ‘For seven years I had dared to dream that he was dead, out of my life for ever, amen.’

Beaumont folded his arms across his broad belly. ‘And you don’t know what happened to him in those missing seven years?’

‘He never spoke about it. I suppose he went to his mother’s brother, Conan, and learned all that was necessary for a common mercenary to survive.’ Ralf raised drink-fogged eyes to Beaumont. ‘How are you intending to kill Joscelin?’

Beaumont pursed his lips. ‘I can see a way of obtaining the Montsorrel silver without directly confronting your brother, a way that will be a far greater blow to his pride.’

‘Are you afraid to face him?’ Ralf’s voice was contemptuous.

The knight reddened. ‘I fear no one,’ he growled. ‘Fortunate for you that you’re drunk or I’d break your arm for that remark. My first concern is recovering Lord Leicester’s money. If you want to be rid of your brother, do it yourself.’ Rising from the bench, he tossed a coin on the trestle to pay for the wine.

‘Where are you going?’ Remaining seated because he did not trust the steadiness of his legs, Ralf blinked up at him.

‘To hire a boat to take me upriver. I fancy a little excursion. ’ Beaumont smiled at Ralf. ‘I’d take you with me but you’d probably puke all that wine over the side.’

Ralf watched him stride from the alehouse. For a moment he stared bleakly at the recently limewashed walls, already streaked around the sconces with candle soot. A serving girl approached to take the money and the empty flagon. Ralf fumbled in his purse for another coin and commanded another jug. There was no point in being only half-drunk.

Beaumont’s excursion consisted of paying a river Thames boatman three silver pennies to row him upriver from Leicester’s house until they were opposite the far more modest building that constituted the Montsorrel dwelling. From his bench on the prow of the boat, Beaumont studied the small shingle beach and wooden steps leading up to the unkempt garth. He heard a rooster crowing and saw hens pecking among the high grass and brambles. The buildings were of the old Saxon type - dung and plaster with thatched roofs. Only the main house was covered with the more expensive red tile. In the heat of the day, the window-shutters facing the river had been flung wide.

‘Want me to beach her, my lord?’ enquired the boatman, who was struggling to hold his craft steady on the tide.

Beaumont shook his head. ‘No. I’ve seen enough. Row me over to the Southwark side. I’ve business there now.’

The boatman arched his brow but did as he was requested without demur. You got all sorts hiring Thames boats, especially these days when so many nobles were in the city seeking permission to join the war in Normandy. The Southwark side had been very popular recently. You could purchase anything you wanted there, from a good time to one that in future you would rather forget. Souls were easily bought and sold in the dark alleyways of the Southwark stews. The boatman eyed the fancy sword and long dagger on the knight’s tooled belt, the well-fed gut hanging over it. ‘Is it a bathhouse you’re wanting, my lord? I can suggest several good ones. Nice clean country girls, no hags.’

Beaumont smiled. ‘Later perhaps. First I want you to row me to the landing nearest the Maypole. You know it?’

‘Yes, my lord.’ The boatman tipped a forefinger against the broad felt brim of his hat. He knew the Maypole, all right. It was a dingy back-alley establishment that housed the worst den of thieves and cut-throats this side of Normandy. ‘You won’t be wanting me to wait for you.’

Beaumont produced another coin from his purse and held it up between forefinger and thumb where it glimmered like a fish scale. ‘I’ve got business there,’ he said. ‘I won’t be long, and it’s full daylight. This will be yours if you’re here when I come back.’

The boatman eyed the money and wondered if the Norman knew what the odds were against returning alive from the Maypole. ‘I’ll wait an hour, no longer,’ he said grudgingly and began working his boat out into the river.

10

Cheapside, London’s main marketplace, simmered with activity in the afternoon heat. From the fly-plagued butcher’s shambles at the far west side through the prestigious stalls of the goldsmiths, the drapers and the spice-sellers in the centre, to the poultry, grain and fish markets leading down to Oystergate on the east side, shopkeepers stood by their booths enticing folk to buy their wares. And buy some of them certainly did, with much alacrity and no discrimination.

Clutching a casket of sugared plums, a cage containing two black coneys, a skein of scarlet wool and a box of peppercorns, Joscelin was still marvelling at the speed with which his aunt Maude had whisked him away from his essential duties to escort her and Linnet around the stalls of the Cheap.

‘Poor girl, cooped up in that house with naught to do but worry and pray!’ Maude had clucked at him as though it were his fault - which he supposed, in the most indirect of terms, it was. ‘She needs a respite. I know that I do!’

Joscelin had opened his mouth to protest, but that was as far as he got as Maude overrode him with a look that said,
I knew you when you were a squalling brat in tail clouts, so don’t presume to know better.

‘There are things she needs to buy before she leaves - women’s things, needles and thread and the like. A man wouldn’t understand, not until his backside wore through his braies. And you need a freshening, too. Have you still got that megrim? Did you drink the betony tisane I sent down to you?’

Realizing it was impossible to swim against a flood tide, he had capitulated and now, for his inability to say no, was a sweltering packbeast for Maude’s various impulse purchases, though he had managed to persuade her out of buying a smelly goatskin from a tanner’s stall on the corner of the Jewry just because she liked the coloured pattern. By the time the women had reached the Soper’s Lane haberdashery booths in their quest for a bargain, his head was throbbing and so were his feet. The women’s stamina was prodigious and he wished he could take them on for garrison detail once he was back in the field.

Yawning widely, he leaned against a booth pole and watched them haggle. His aunt was as vociferous as a barnyard hen and the merchant parried her assaults with cheerful vigor. Linnet de Montsorrel, however, was a surprise. Instead of leaving Maude to do all the bargaining, she made offers herself and held firmly to them. When the merchant refused, Linnet’s eyes grew large and tragic and her lower lip drooped. When he conceded defeat, she transfixed him with a shy, radiant smile. The gentle mixture of pathos and coaxing achieved far more success than Maude’s blustering threats to take her custom elsewhere.

Linnet de Montsorrel looked soft and vulnerable, Joscelin thought, but there was a tough core, a will to survive. Breaca had been like that - quietly unremarkable until something kindled the flame and her spirit shone through.

Robert detached himself from Ella’s hand and came to Joscelin to look at the coneys. Their usual colour was a greyish brown but these were dark, almost black, and lustrous as sables.

‘Are you going to eat them?’ he asked Joscelin solemnly.

‘They’re not mine, they belong to Lady Maude,’ Joscelin replied, crouching to the child’s level. ‘I know for a fact that she doesn’t like the taste of coney, so I expect she has another purpose in mind.’

Robert touched the soft fur through the wickerwork bars. ‘I don’t like coney to eat, either. Papa showed me how to kill one once but I couldn’t copy him, so he beat me.’

Joscelin’s mouth tightened. No one could live through November without seeing animals slaughtered for salting-down during the winter months but the age of three or four was overly young to be taught to kill for food, especially using a coney. To a child’s eye, the rabbits were pretty and soft, something to cuddle. And Robert would not have the strength to make a clean death.

‘Papa’s dead now,’ Robert added. ‘That means he’s gone away and he won’t come back.’

There was a hint of a question in the statement, a need for reassurance that constricted Joscelin’s throat. ‘No, he won’t come back,’ he said gently.

After the thread-seller had been bartered down to his lowest price, Linnet and Maude assaulted another stallholder to purchase needles and then moved on to a draper’s booth to buy necessary supplies of linen and trimmings. Maude’s ankles started to swell. Robert, who had been very good all afternoon, was drooping with fatigue. Joscelin lifted him on to his shoulders and gave him custody of the sugared plums as finally they turned towards home.

Linnet returned to Joscelin the purse of silver he had given her at the outset. ‘You will need to make a record for the justiciar of how much I have spent,’ she said. ‘I obtained the best bargains that I could.’

‘So I noticed.’

She turned a delicate shade of pink but smiled.

Joscelin handed her the purse. ‘Keep the coin. I’ve already set it down in the accounts for your personal use. “One mark to the lady Montsorrel for the purchase of household items.” Not that I’ve been watching all you have bought but I reckon you’ve not spent more than ten shillings.’

Her colour deepened. ‘You are generous, messire.’

He gave her a sharp look, unsure whether to take her remark at face value or read sarcasm into it. Her lids were downcast and she had turned her head a little to one side, ensuring that their eyes would not meet. He saw not so much anger as embarrassment, and was intrigued. However, the opportunity to question her was not forthcoming for, when they arrived at the Montsorrel house, the sight of smoke and flames rising in thick gouts from the kitchen building banished all other considerations from his mind. Men were passing leather buckets furiously from the water trough in the yard to the source of the fire, while others used long hooked poles to drag the burning thatch off the roof. Joscelin’s troops were battling to prevent the fire from spreading to the stables. In the garth the grooms were trying to control the frightened horses, which had been removed there to safety.

‘Dear Holy Virgin!’ gasped Maude, a half-eaten sugarplum suspended on its way to her mouth.

Joscelin ran across the yard to the bucket chain. ‘Milo, what in God’s name’s happening?’ he demanded of his senior serjeant who was toiling hard with the other men.

‘Kitchen fire, sir!’ Milo panted, and stepped out of line for a moment. He was long of body and ungainly like a heron. His linen robe was soaked with water from the buckets he had been helping to carry. ‘Started not long after nones - a stray spark in the kindling for the bread-oven, so the cook thinks. He went to inspect the wares of an oystermonger and when he returned the kitchens were well ablaze.’ He rubbed his long jaw, leaving behind a black smear. ‘A good thing the main house is roofed with tile the way the wind’s blowing, else we’d all be sleeping in the almshouse tonight.’

Kitchen fires were a common enough way for a blaze to start but Joscelin’s scalp prickled. He looked along the row of men on the bucket chain and his unease deepened. ‘You took Gilbert off guarding the strongbox?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Milo said, confident of his decision. ‘I gave Walter the task instead. He’d have been no use on the buckets with that bad shoulder of his.’

‘Leave that, come with me.’ Joscelin stalked towards the main building.

Milo ran at his side. ‘What’s wrong, sir?’

‘Nothing, I hope.’ Joscelin mounted the external stairs to the upper chamber. The door at the top was closed, a good sign, but matters deteriorated the moment Joscelin set his hand to the latch. Although it yielded to his pressure, the door would not budge, as if there was something behind it, blocking entry.

‘Walter, open up!’ Milo bellowed. He thudded the door with his fist, receiving only the vibration of the blow in response. Together with Joscelin, he threw his weight at the door. It gave way the tiniest crack, not even enough to see through with one eye.

‘I’ll get an axe,’ Milo said and pelted away down the stairs. Joscelin hurled himself at the door again, venting his frustration and anger, then took a grip on himself, breathing hard. Milo returned at the run, brandishing a Dane axe. Joscelin grabbed the weapon from him, swung it and sank the blade into the door, close to the hinges. Splinters leaped out of the wood like white javelins. Joscelin wrenched the axe-head free and launched it again with all the strength in his upper arms. A split opened in the oak and he worked on this. A couple more strokes north and south, and wood parted from metal. Milo thrust at the door with his shoulder and it fell inward, slamming down like a drawbridge upon the corpse that had been lying behind it.

‘Christ on the cross!’ Milo leaped over the door and, together with Joscelin, heaved it off the body. Walter’s throat had been cut; the walls bore bright splashes of blood and the room reeked like a slaughterhouse. Making a mental inventory of the room, Joscelin saw that the strongbox was gone from its place beside the great bed. Other items had been taken, too - Giles’s hauberk was no longer on its pole and the fine Flemish hangings had been stripped from the walls.