Elizabeth Chadwick - Shields of Pride

Ironheart could sense the undercurrent of turbulence in Joscelin’s manner - probably a residue of the meeting with Montsorrel and his wife that afternoon. A night in an alehouse might settle it, or a woman who knew her trade, but it was a dangerous burden to bear into London after curfew. ‘Have a care, my son,’ he said with a warning stare.

‘As always.’ Joscelin dismissed the caution far too lightly for his father’s liking and, with a casual salute, disappeared into the night.

William heaved a sigh. Gesturing the wide-eyed squire away to his pallet, he sat down before the banked hearth to finish his wine. His thoughts, of their own volition, strayed to Joscelin’s mother. Morwenna. Even now, the mere thought of her name twisted his vitals.

She had been a mercenary’s sister whose favours he had bought one spring evening in 1144 while on campaign. Until Morwenna, he thought he had women in perspective but she had broken all rules and moulds and finally his heart. Five years it had lasted, from the night she unbound her hair for him at an army campfire to the night they combed it down over the cold breast of her corpse, a swaddled stillborn daughter in the crook of her arm. Nothing of her existence had remained except a bewildered little boy and an even more bewildered man of four-and-thirty.

Dear Christ, how he had hated Agnes in the months following Morwenna’s death. All the tolerance in his nature had died, all the gentleness too. He should have been delighted at how swiftly his wife quickened with child, at how easily she was delivered, but he had felt nothing but cursed. He knew he treated his dogs better than he did Agnes but it was ingrained now. Every time he looked at her, he saw Morwenna’s lifeless body and grieved anew. They said that it was a tragic accident, that fall downstairs so late into her pregnancy. The afterbirth came away, she started to bleed, and she and the baby had died. He hadn’t reached her in time even to have the grace of a last farewell.

The candle on the pricket near him sputtered and he emerged from his dismal reverie with a start. In the shadows beyond the light, the servants were asleep on straw mattresses. Normally they would have drawn nearer to the fire, but no one dared to encroach on his solitude. Ironheart heaved himself to his feet, tossed the wine dregs into the flames where they hissed into vapour, and wearily sought his bed.

Farther along the Strand, the Earl of Leicester’s house stood open to the last of the gloaming. It was a new dwelling, constructed of traditional plaster and timber with a red-tiled roof. Tiles were more expensive than thatch but a symbol of status and far less of a fire hazard. Both indoors and out, torches blazed in high wall-brackets, illuminating the revellers who either sat at long trestles in the puddle-filled courtyard or crowded into the main room, jostling one another for elbow room. Herb-seasoned mutton, shiny with grease, hissed over fire pits in the garth, tended by a spit-boy half-drunk on cider. He wavered erratically between the carcasses, a cup in one hand, basting ladle in the other.

Joscelin hesitated. He could see some of the justiciar’s men at one of the trestles - soldiers of his acquaintance who would welcome him among their number. The light and laughter beckoned. So did a girl with slumberous dark eyes and the slender body of a weasel. She smiled at Joscelin and lounged on one hip in blatant invitation. Against his better judgement but susceptible to the lure tonight, he stepped across the threshold and entered the crowded room.

The tables lining the walls were packed with Leicester’s knights and retainers. He saw a Flemish mercenary captain he knew from the tourney circuits and two renowned jousters who had been overwintering at the earl’s board. On the dais at the far end of the room, beneath crisscrossed gilded banners, sat Leicester himself. He was a fleshy man in his early thirties, handsome in an overblown, florid way that did not bode well for his looks and health in his later years. An arm was draped in camaraderie across the shoulders of his guest Giles de Montsorrel and the latter was well on the way to being drunk if his exaggerated gestures and overloud voice were any indication. At his other side, hunched forward listening to the conversation, sat another distant relative of Leicester’s, Hubert de Beaumont. Joscelin knew him vaguely - a disreputable roisterer who would cling like a leech to any lord prepared to sponsor him in the tourneys, although he’d had precious little success on the circuit.

Deciding that the girl was not worth the discomfort of drinking in such a rancid den of rebels, even with a leavening of de Luci’s men present, Joscelin turned to leave.

‘Ho, peasant!’ crowed a mocking voice he knew only too well and his shoulder was thumped with bruising force. ‘Come scrounging like the rest, have you?’

Joscelin turned slowly to face his half-brother.

‘Aelflin, fetch wine for our exalted guest!’ commanded Ralf de Rocher with a sarcastic flourish.

The dark-eyed girl fluttered her eyelashes and swayed off to do his bidding. Ralf reseated himself and made room for Joscelin on the crowded bench but the gesture held more challenge than generosity. At the same table among other young knights and squires sat Ivo, younger than Ralf by two years and a shadowy replica of his copper-haired brother.

‘Have you come to hire out your sword?’ Ralf asked. ‘Leicester’s paying good rates and you look as if you need the coin.’ His light-brown stare disparaged Joscelin’s garments which, although of good-quality wool, showed evidence of hard wear and were devoid of embroidery or embellishment.

‘I already have a commission,’ Joscelin replied. ‘I’m not so poor that I cannot choose a decent paymaster.’

‘Oh ho!’ Ralf gave a mocking grin. ‘Living on principles, are we?’

Ivo laughed nervously. ‘Have you ever known a mercenary with principles?’ His glance sidled between Ralf and Joscelin and anticipation gleamed through his sandy lashes.

‘You wouldn’t know a principle, Ivo, if it walked up to you and bit you on the backside,’ Joscelin said with disdain.

The girl returned with a pitcher and refilled the empty cups at the trestle with rough red wine. Ralf caught her wrist and swung her round on to his lap. She squealed but did not resist as his arm encircled her waist and his hand took liberties upwards.

‘So you’re already commissioned?’ Ralf asked.

‘To the justiciar until Michaelmas.’ Joscelin took a gulp of the wine.

Ralf fondled the girl’s breasts. ‘You reckon you’re going to live that long?’

‘Longer than you.’ Joscelin swept a contemptuous gaze around the crowded trestles. ‘If you think this expedition to Normandy is the easy way to glory, then your brains must dwell in your arse.’

Ivo sniggered.

‘Don’t judge me by your own baseborn abilities,’ Ralf growled. ‘What would you know of brains?’ Ralf ’s focus suddenly altered and fixed on the heavily set man easing past their trestle. ‘Hubert.’ He set a detaining arm on the man’s sleeve. ‘Have you met my brother Joscelin?’

Hubert de Beaumont paused to give Joscelin a brusque nod of acknowledgement. ‘Your face looks familiar,’ he said. ‘Didn’t I see you in Paris at Easter?’

‘Try the midsummer joust at Anet last year.’

Beaumont frowned. His lips moved, repeating Joscelin’s words, and his expression suddenly changed. ‘Yes, I remember.’ His tone was not altogether complimentary. He turned back to Ralf. ‘He’s your brother, you say?’

‘Only my half-brother,’ Ralf replied and added with malicious delight, relishing each word, ‘He’s my father’s bastard out of a tourney whore who’d had more lances in her target than an old quintain shield by the time she came to his bed.’