Shields of Pride

Chapter 27

Christmas, 1173

An inflated pig’s bladder sailed through the air and struck the dais with a solid thump, dislodging a branch of evergreen and a pair of antlers pegging the foliage in place. The bladder bounced off the decorations and squelched into a dish of tripe on one of the lower tables. A diner fished it out and hurled it back the way it had come. Blazing a comet-trail of sticky lumps, the bladder curved across the dais and landed on the floor at Father Gregory’s feet. A look of intense revulsion on his fine-cut features, the priest nudged the improvised ball away with the edge of his boot.

With considerably more enthusiasm, a gazehound surged from beneath the table to lick at the remnants of tripe still clinging to the bladder. When a servant approached with the intention of rescuing the missile, the dog wrinkled its muzzle and snarled, then secured the bladder firmly between its forepaws and bit at the knotted end. There was a bang. The remnants of the football shot into the air and landed on the dog’s back. Ears flat, the hound scooted beneath the table and knocked Father Gregory off the bench.

Conan leaned down, flexed his forearm and hauled the unfortunate priest back on to his seat to howls of mirth and appreciation from the unruly crowd below the dais.

‘Church always does take a tumble on Twelfth Night!’ Conan laughed. ‘Never fear, you’ve got all year to take your revenge in tithe payments, Peter’s pence and penances. Isn’t that right, Josce?’

‘If you say so.’ Joscelin, resplendent in a tunic of dark-red wool trimmed with gold silk braid, toasted his uncle in mead. The garment was a Christmas gift from Linnet. Robert had one exactly the same and could not be persuaded to wear anything else.

Conan made a rude face at Joscelin’s indifferent tone of voice. ‘God, you’re getting to be as sour as your father!’ he declared. ‘Where’s your Twelfth Night spirit?’

‘Wearing thin,’ Joscelin said as one of the cook’s apprentices capered past the dais wearing a woman’s gown, a wimple set askew on his yellow curls. Twelfth Night was never any different: short of murder, everyone was given licence to behave outrageously and the rules were always stretched to their limit. Usually Joscelin would have joined the merriment, if not with alacrity, then with a reasonable degree of grace, but tonight, although he knew he should be rejoicing, he did not have the will. The residue of yet another headache burned behind his eyes.

There had been no real peace since October’s end - since Linnet had almost died of the spotted fever and shown him in her delirium what he did not wish to see. And she had no recollection of her illness beyond the first day of fever, did not know what she had said and what had changed. He had tried to behave in a normal manner while he battled his demons but, from the bewildered, almost hurt way she looked at him sometimes, he knew he was failing.

‘Oh, come on, Josce! Don’t be . . . don’t be so miserable! ’ Conan’s words were starting to slur under the powerful influence of the Welsh mead that Brien FitzRenard had sent to them as a Christmas gift in thanks for Joscelin’s aid earlier in the year. ‘Let’s . . . let’s have a game of hoodman-blind!’ He pushed himself to his feet, took a step backward and then steadied himself. ‘I’ll wear the blindfold first, if you want. Henry, lend me your hood!’

Joscelin opened his mouth to say that he did not wish to play hoodman-blind, or any other boisterous, stupid game that his uncle had in mind, but the good humour surrounding him and the look of bright anticipation on Robert’s face made him close it again and yield to Conan’s jovial bullying.

A space was cleared in the well of the hall. Conan, blindfolded by Henry’s hood, which he had donned back-to-front, was placed in the centre of the space, spun round several times to disorient him, then given a vigorous push. The object of the game was for the hoodman to try to capture someone to take his place, and for the others to poke and prod and tease him without being caught themselves.

Conan made several wild, bear-like swipes and embraced only thin air. He growled like a bear, too. Giggling, Robert ran in beneath the mercenary’s clutching arms and struck him on the leg. Conan lunged, Robert evaded him and, shrieking with glee, ran to the safety of Joscelin’s arms.

‘Papa, did you see?’

Conan struck rapidly towards the sound of the child’s excited voice. Joscelin spun Robert out of the way. Conan’s fingertips touched the soft red wool of Joscelin’s sleeve. Joscelin twisted sideways, grabbed hold of a laughing Milo and flung him straight into Conan’s path. The mercenary’s arms closed on his prey. Now all he had to do was guess whom he had caught.

‘Not a wench,’ Conan muttered, spreading his hand across the bearded face. ‘Not unless she’s standing on her head.’

‘You’d be surprised what a wench will do on Twelfth Night, Sir Conan,’ Milo said, affecting a falsetto voice that had an appreciative audience doubled up with laughter.

‘Reckon I would. In fact, I’d be downright buggered!’ Conan retorted, feeling lower across shoulders and chest until his fingers happened upon the ornate silver-gilt cross that Milo wore on a cord around his neck. ‘I’d know this anywhere. It’s bigger than anything Father Gregory’s got! Has to be you, Milo de Selsey!’ He pulled off the hood and gave a hoot of triumph.

The game progressed, becoming more boisterous. People swapped clothing to confuse the hoodman, although when Robert was captured by Henry and had to wear the hood, everyone gentled their performance and Joscelin allowed Robert to catch him, although not too quickly, for the sake of the child’s pride.

As the hood was secured around his head, Joscelin discovered that he was actually enjoying the sport. It was like the tourney field where all thought was bent upon controlling the body in order to survive and no space was left for introversion and brooding.

‘Now then.’ He rubbed his hands, entering the bawdy spirit of the game. ‘To catch me a coney!’

He felt a push low on his leg and heard Robert’s squeal. The hood smelled of wool and sheep oil and very effectively blocked out the light from the sconces and candles. He tried to blot out the calls and countercalls, the disguised voices. He ignored the pushes and buffets and gave his instinct free rein. He began to turn towards the nudges and blows before they were made; he began to know whose voice it was on the first word.

Twice he almost captured Milo, then Henry. He deliberately missed Robert, who spun away, shrieking with glee. Conan was very nearly his victim and only escaped by sheer brute strength. Joscelin staggered, unbalanced. A softness brushed against him, and a hint of summer herbs and rose petals invaded the smell of wool. Turning quickly, he grabbed and pulled, and suddenly there was a slender body in his arms and the summer scent was much stronger. Before he could begin a litany of bawdy suggestions and guesses, his victim snatched off the hood and stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the lips.

The audience cheered and whistled. Robert screwed up his face. Linnet and Joscelin looked at each other with a mutual combination of merriment and sparking lust, and kissed again.

Flushed, laughing, a little giddy with the mead she had drunk, Linnet hung against Joscelin, returning him kiss for kiss, then flopped onto their bed, her eyes soft with desire, with wanting, and the hope that tonight had broken the mould of the past two months.

Ever since she had almost died of the spotted fever, Joscelin had been different; not towards Robert - he still doted on the little boy. If anything, the bond between man and child had deepened; the change was in Joscelin’s attitude to her. He treated her with the caution that had characterized the days in London when he had been a mercenary with a reluctant duty to perform and she had been a lady of high birth beyond his reach. Now and then she would find him looking at her, his expression one of frowning, almost angry bewilderment but, when she asked him what was wrong, he would shake his head and smile and pretend that he had not been brooding. She had learned not to push the point.

But now he was neither brooding nor remote and his eyes were bright with laughter and desire. Whatever was troubling him had been banished for the moment and she intended it to remain that way. Reaching up, she unpinned her wimple and shook free her braids, then leaned forward, letting him inhale their herbal scent while their lips met and parted, met and parted. He buried his hands in her hair.

Below in the hall, where the yule celebrations still continued, the revellers danced to pagan tunes that wore only the barest dressing of Christian decency.

Naked, Linnet pressed herself against Joscelin, offering him her breasts, the willow slenderness of waist and flank. She parted her thighs and arched herself to welcome him, her eyes bright with anticipation. The pause extended and anticipation became impatience. A cold draught whispered between their bodies. Joscelin muttered a soft oath and, lifting himself off her, rolled on to his back.

She stared at him in worried astonishment. ‘What’s the matter?’ Her gaze darted over him. He had been urgent and eager a moment ago but was rapidly becoming flaccid. The look on his face told her that he was well aware of the fact and was not best pleased.

‘Nothing,’ he said stiffly and moved to cover himself with the sheet. ‘I’m tired and I’ve drunk too much mead.’

Linnet did not for one moment believe that the effects of drink and exhaustion had suddenly attacked him at the crucial moment. She tried to look into his eyes but he avoided the contact and stared silently up at the rafters.

Her body clenched with pain. ‘Is it something I have done or not done?’ she asked, her throat tight. ‘In God’s name, tell me. I would rather you took your belt to me than treat me like this!’

The silence dragged out for so long that she thought he was not going to respond, that whatever was troubling him had eaten so deeply inwards that he was unable to bring it to the surface, but at last he turned his head on the pillow and opened his eyes. ‘Raymond de Montsorrel,’ he said wearily. ‘In this very room, on this very bed.’

Linnet gasped as if he had indeed struck her. Her stomach heaved. ‘Who told you?’ she asked weakly.

‘Who else knows, you mean? I assume it’s a well-kept secret since I’ve heard no rumours within the keep itself.’ His eyelids tensed with pain. ‘You told me yourself while you were wild with fever. No, that’s wrong,’ he amended grimly, ‘you acted out a scene before my eyes, begging him not to with your voice but wantonly offering your body at the same time. And then you said it was really too dangerous and suggested you satisfy him by other means, which you didn’t specify but I could well guess at.’

Linnet gave a soft cry. She felt sick and anguished but even so there was relief - as at the bursting of a deep abscess. ‘I thought it was finished - buried,’ she said, her whole frame shuddering. ‘If I could undo it, I swear I would.’

‘So it is true?’ His jaw clenched. ‘I would have asked you before, but while I was ignorant at least I could cling to the hope that it was a delusion of your fever.’

‘Yes, I lay with him.’ Her breath caught on a sob. ‘He was so kind compared to Giles. I - I thought he really cared for me but all he wanted to do was prove to Giles that he could better him in everything, that he could even have his wife just for the crooking of his little finger.’

Joscelin’s nostrils flared. ‘You lay with him because he was kind to you?’

Linnet swallowed. ‘Yes. I mean, no - I don’t really remember.’ Panic surged through her as she saw the disgust flicker across Joscelin’s face. This was horrible: far worse than the beatings she had endured at Giles’s hands. ‘Giles was away,’ she said. ‘Probably jousting in France. I don’t remember the reason, only that he was not at Rushcliffe. Raymond was good to me, spent time with me and did not shout or become impatient. How was I to know he was baiting his trap? I was little more than a child. One evening he came to my chamber to talk about a feast he was planning for when Giles came home, so he said.’ She paused to shudder. ‘He brought a flagon of wine with him - not the ordinary household stuff, but something stronger and mixed with spices. I can still taste it now.’ She heaved and almost retched. ‘By the time I realized what he was about, it was too late and I was incapable of stopping him, nor did I wish to, God help me.

‘When I woke in the morning he was not there beside me, but I knew what we had done.’ Shivering, she risked a glance at Joscelin’s face but his expression was as unreadable as stone. ‘I had the maids prepare a tub and almost scrubbed my skin off, but it didn’t do any good. I dared not confess my sin to Father Gregory, so I kept it to myself.’ She rose from the bed and, pulling on her bedrobe, began to pace the room as if it were a cage. She rubbed her palms together and felt cold sweat between them. She would far rather have faced physical torture than have to reveal this shame to Joscelin. ‘Raymond said if I didn’t let him have his will whenever he wanted, he would tell Giles about what had happened in his absence and I knew that if he found out, Giles would kill me.’

A grimace crossed Joscelin’s face. ‘How long did you endure this?’

‘A little over a year - until my pregnancy started to show. He left me alone then. Corbette’s daughter Helwis was becoming a woman and he had started to notice. He had a new innocence to corrupt then.’

The question, unspoken, loomed between them. ‘I am almost certain that Robert is Giles’s,’ she said. ‘Raymond was away much of the month when I conceived, and the times he did pester me I managed to persuade him that other ways could be just as rewarding.’

Joscelin grimaced again.

‘I was trapped, don’t you understand!’ she cried, rounding on him in frustration. ‘If it had not been a mortal sin, I would have thrown myself off the battlements! How dare you sit there and judge me when you know nothing of what I suffered because I was helpless. How dare you!’

He shook his head. ‘I know you were Raymond de Montsorrel’s victim. The lack is within me. I keep seeing you with the vile lecher. I tell myself it doesn’t matter, the past should be buried. I don’t have to look further than my own father for proof of that.’

Linnet bowed her head. ‘Then where do we go from here, if you loathe me,’ she said, her voice cracking.

Joscelin’s heart wrenched as she began to weep. Unable to bear the anguish - his or hers - he pulled her against him and enfolded her in his arms. He could not tell her that it did not matter - it did. He was as susceptible as Giles to the torments of jealousy, suspicion and pride. But holding her now, he vowed that they were not going to ruin his life or Linnet’s. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I love you and that’s why it hurts. My heart was lost that first day on the road when you faced down Giles and myself for the sake of your child and I saw your courage.’ His lips tightened with determination. ‘I’ll be damned if Raymond de Montsorrel is going to defeat us from beyond the grave. Tomorrow I’ll burn this bed and all that has gone before and commission a new one that will be ours alone.’

Linnet raised her tear-streaked face, and upon it he saw the mingling of desperate hope and abject doubt.

‘For tonight you can sleep like a true mercenary’s woman,’ he added, ‘on skins by the fire.’ Without more ado, he tugged the fur coverlet from the bed and his cloak from his clothing pole. Catching her hand in his, he pulled her to the banked hearth. It was the work of a moment to spread his cloak upon the floor, lay her down upon it and cover them both with the coney-skin canopy.

She pressed against him, seeking reassurance and comfort. He curved his arm around her waist. The warmth of her breath fluttered at his throat. Beneath his hand, her skin was like silk and he felt the welcome renewed stir of desire. He blotted Raymond de Montsorrel from his mind by thinking of a summer night beneath the stars, of the champing of destriers at the horse lines and the mournful sound of a soldier’s bone flute. His hands moved in slow tandem with his thoughts. Linnet’s breath quickened but she remained very still. He could feel her tension, the inner coiling of her body in response to his touch. He parted her thighs, kneeling up as he entered her, teasing her with his thumb until her reticence was broken and, arching, she cried out. Her pleasure became his and, with a soft groan, he thrust fully home, claiming her for ever from Raymond de Montsorrel.