Shields of Pride

Chapter 37

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.’

Spots of light danced before Linnet’s eyes and the room was spinning. She wanted to snarl defiance at Agnes but knew that her only chance of escape lay in leaving this room, in persuading Ralf that she would be better guarded elsewhere if he wanted to preserve her to use as a bargaining counter.

Gingerly she turned round, knelt on the floor, and raised the lid of the coffer on which she had been sitting. The scent of faded herbs drifted to her nostrils as she looked upon folded chemises and summer linen under-gowns. Unable to find a wimple, she burrowed deeper, at last uncovering a rectangle of blue-green silk and another larger one of pale blue linen. A small securing brooch in the shape of a bronze horse was still pinned in the latter’s folds.

It was this second one that Linnet chose, but as she drew the cloth from the chest the brooch pin caught on the garment folded beneath. She lifted both out in order to untangle them and found herself looking at the gown that had been lying in the bottom of the coffer. It was made of green samite with a trim of tarnished silver thread and, when she held it up, she saw that it was cut in the style fashionable when she had been a little girl and that it had been adapted to fit a woman big with child.

‘Dear God,’ she whispered and looked over her shoulder at Agnes. The older woman was busily adorning Ironheart’s body and showed no sign that she had intended for Linnet to discover the gown. Linnet wondered if this coffer had been Morwenna’s. Had she ever worn the blue wimple and horse brooch? Was the green silk wimple the one that belonged with the gown in the bottom of the chest? With shaking hands, Linnet covered her hair with the blue linen and brought an edge across to pin beneath her throat.

Agnes turned round. Her small eyes widened as she looked at the open coffer. ‘Not that one,’ she snapped, ‘the one next to it.’ She pointed at another, larger chest standing against the wall. Then she made a gesture of dismissal. ‘It doesn’t matter. Maude never uses it anyway.’

‘It belongs to Maude?’

Agnes shrugged. ‘I told you, it does not matter.’

Linnet drew the green gown from the coffer, shook it out and held it up. ‘So this is hers?’

If Agnes had been capable of screaming, she would have done so. Mouth open, she stared at the creased green robe with its knotted hanging sleeves and rich silver borders. Her colour faded to the hue of ashes and she dragged air into her lungs with painful effort. ‘I gave orders that it should be burned!’ she wheezed. ‘The stupid, sentimental bitch. I should never have let her stay here to comfort William and the brat after the whore died. Give it to me!’ Hands extended to snatch, she stepped towards Linnet.

‘You destroyed yourself when you killed Morwenna, didn’t you?’ Linnet sidestepped to avoid Agnes. Armoured with the green gown, she was no longer afraid. ‘You kept her fresh and young for ever in your husband’s mind.’

‘Give me that gown, you harlot!’ Agnes lunged. Linnet dodged. The tarnished silver braid glittered and the green silk glowed with absorbed and reflected light as Linnet swept out of Agnes’ reach. Agnes stumbled against the larger chest. Standing on it was a small, open basket containing her tablet-weaving materials. From among the hanks of wool, she grasped her sewing shears and gripped them like a weapon. ‘You whore!’ Agnes whispered, her broken voice saturated with hatred. ‘You’ll not take him from me this time!’

Linnet jumped backwards, trying to avoid the shears as Agnes lunged. Moving sideways, dodging, Linnet tried to reach the bed in order to keep its bulk between herself and Agnes, but Agnes was too quick for her and Linnet’s direction only incensed the older woman further. ‘Keep away from him!’ Agnes hissed, striking at Linnet with the shears. The pointed blades ripped into the old green silk, shredding the front from breast to hip.

Linnet narrowly missed being gouged. The force of Agnes’ assault almost dragged the gown from her hands but she held on to it. As the shears stabbed at her again, she raised the gown on high. ‘Have it!’ she cried, tossing it over Agnes’s head, and ran to the door. She wrestled with the heavy latch, knowing that at any moment Agnes would win free of the gown and come at her again.

Sobbing with panic, she rammed the heel of her hand down on the latch and felt it give. She wrenched the door open, intending to flee down the stairs to the guard but bounced off Ralf instead.

‘Going somewhere?’ he said softly and, seizing her upper arm in a grip of steel, turned her round and pulled her back into the room. He was not alone. Ivo, four knights and the priest followed him into the chamber.

‘Your mother’s trying to kill me!’ Linnet panted, struggling against his imprisoning fingers to no avail. ‘She thinks I’m Morwenna de Gael!’

Agnes had fought free of the green gown and was glaring wildly at Linnet, the shears still tilted at a wicked angle in her hand.

‘She’s a whore!’ Agnes spat, ‘and she’s carrying a child. I’ll have no spawn of a de Gael under my roof!’

Ralf lifted his brows. ‘Mama, she is useful to us for the moment. She holds the key to the Rushcliffe estates. There is no profit to be had in killing her.’

Agnes’ complexion darkened. She compressed her lips and her fingers tightened around her shears.

Ralf gestured towards her work basket. ‘Put them down,’ he said reasonably. ‘We can discuss matters later, after the hanging. My father bought you a nun’s pension before he died. Mayhap we can use it to endow a young widow instead?’

Agnes’ lips remained tight but she obeyed Ralf and replaced the shears among the hanks of wool. ‘I only have your good at heart,’ she said.

‘I know that, Mama,’ Ralf said gently, his tone imbued with a rare warmth. Releasing Linnet’s arm, he crossed the room and looked down at his father’s body, at the wine-red court gown and the battle-hardened hands clasped in an attitude of prayer.

‘It doesn’t look like him,’ he said and rubbed his hand over his lower face in a nervous gesture. Linnet could see that his composure was brittle. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and downward tucks at the corners of his mouth.

‘It isn’t him,’ Linnet said coldly. ‘He might as well be a dressed carcass on a butcher’s slab.’

Ralf glared round at her. ‘You will keep a civil tongue in your head or I will lock you up in the undercroft,’ he snapped.

‘Is that what you are going to do to everyone who contradicts your will?’ Linnet retorted. ‘Lock them away, strike them silent - murder them?’

Ralf’s fists clenched. He swivelled and took two strides towards her.

‘Ralf, don’t,’ said Ivo in a wavering voice. ‘Not in here, with Papa . . .’ He gestured towards the bed.

Ralf stopped. A pulse thundered in his throat and his eyes were narrow and wolf-golden. Linnet refused to be intimidated. She gave him back stare for stare, knowing that her own gaze was no less wild.

Abruptly he turned his back on her. His fists remained clenched and his voice was raw with anger as he addressed Agnes. ‘Is my father prepared for the chapel?’

‘Yes, my heart,’ Agnes said. ‘See, I have dressed him fittingly in his court robes and set rings on his fingers.’

Ralf shrugged. ‘If you were to have dressed him fittingly, it would not have been like this but in his oldest tunic and cloak,’ he said.

Agnes stared at him, uncomprehending. Ralf shook his head. ‘No matter,’ he said. ‘You have done your best.’ He kissed her cheek.

Agnes started to speak, but broke off abruptly as the sound of sword on sword and a choked-off scream twisted up the stairs from the guard post at the foot of the tower.

Drawing his own blade, Ralf strode to the door and gestured one of his knights to go down and investigate. The man hurried out. Almost immediately the occupants of the room heard the clash of weapons and another cry. Ralf ’s man backed up the stairs and staggered into the room, blood pouring from his shoulder.

‘Bar the door!’ he gasped at Ralf. ‘Your brother and his men are loose and they’re armed!’ As he uttered the warning, he kicked the door shut and leaned against it.

White with shock, Ralf stooped to pick up the drawbar leaning against the wall. Seeing the hope of freedom, and then that hope about to be lost, Linnet ran to stop him from pushing the plank through the iron brackets. She blocked his way with her body, her arms outstretched. Ralf shoved her violently away. She landed heavily on her side, bruising hip and shoulder, but rolled over on the straw and grasped a handful of his long tunic. Ralf raised the plank and struck her on the side of the head with its corner.

Black stars burst in front of Linnet’s eyes. Her grip weakened and Ralf tore free. Through swimming eyes she saw him lift the draw bar to slot it into position just as the door was smashed wide by Joscelin and Guy de Montauban.

The wounded knight was thrown to the floor and rolled back and forth, clutching his shoulder. Ralf dropped the wood and leaped backwards with the speed of a bounding deer. The sword he had sheathed while he manipulated the draw bar he now snatched from his scabbard in a rapid flash of steel as he turned in a battle-crouch to face Joscelin.

The run upstairs had winded Joscelin and he was close to the limit of his endurance. He saw Linnet near the door. She struggled to sit up, her mouth working as if she wanted to cry out to him but no sound emerged and she sagged back to the floor. Blood masked one side of her face, staining her wimple and gown. Joscelin’s rage boiled over and, with a howl, he flung himself at Ralf. The blow was made of white-hot fury, mistimed and without control. Ralf parried easily and made a smooth counterstrike, his own breathing calm and deep. The sword edge shrieked upon the ill-fitting mail shirt that Joscelin had purloined from one of the Flemings in the undercroft. He had the Fleming’s sword, too, the hilt worn and slippery in his grasp.

The room filled with the clash and glitter of weapons. The priest sidled quickly out of the door, delicately stepping over Linnet. Ivo allowed himself to be made Guy de Montauban’s prisoner without even a token show of protest.

Ralf ’s strength forced Joscelin backward and Ralf pressed his advantage, using his sword two-handed, swinging it almost as though it were a battle-axe. ‘Side by side in the chapel,’ Ralf panted as he fought Joscelin into a corner. ‘You and our sainted father - wouldn’t that be fitting!’

Joscelin stumbled against a coffer and knew that it must be his last move on earth, but Ralf lost his own footing upon a puddle of green silk that was bunched on the floor and his blow went awry, slicing the coffer instead of Joscelin’s skull. The impetus brought Ralf to his knees, his sword lodged in the wood. Before he could recover and free the blade, Joscelin leaped upon him, bearing him to the ground beneath his weight. The air burst out of Ralf ’s lungs. His head struck the rushes, but he succeeded in landing a knee in Joscelin’s groin, and as Joscelin recoiled Ralf was able to twist free and grasp his sword once more. Both hands to the leather grip, he went all out to take Joscelin.

His sword rang out great hammer blows on Joscelin’s blade as he beat at it, striving to win past the slender bar of steel and cut out Joscelin’s heart. And Joscelin, on the edge of exhaustion, could barely hold him off; his body had taken too much punishment this past night and day to serve him through another bout. His vision started to blur and hot pain seared through his limbs as he parried and defended.

Sensing Joscelin’s weakness, Ralf gathered himself for a final, killing flurry and, in that moment, poised on the brink of his triumph, Martin burst into the room followed by Fulbert the scribe, who was wheezing like a set of bagpipes with the unaccustomed exertion.

‘Soldiers!’ Fulbert gasped out, clutching his side, his face purple. ‘Demanding entry. The seneschal’s just raising the bridge!’

Martin shot between his two brothers. ‘Stop, you have to stop!’ he shrieked, his face white. ‘You can’t kill each other!’

‘Get out of the way, whelp,’ Ralf snarled, his eyes never leaving Joscelin. ‘You heard the scribe,’ he spat. ‘My allies have come. Either we finish this now or you swing on a gibbet for their entertainment. Which is it to be?’

Joscelin stared dully at Ralf. Every nerve and fibre of his body was sodden with exhaustion; there was nothing he wanted to do more than let the weight of his sword hit the floor, but he knew that he would rather die by the grim mercy of a blade, here and now, than by throttling on a rope before a host of witnesses.

‘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.