‘Yes, sir.’ Milo turned away and began shouting commands.
The uninjured men in his troop began the depressing task of tying their lifeless companions across spare horses like slaughtered deer at the end of a day’s hunting. Four dead in all and four too badly injured to ride with competence - almost a third of his troop. He picked his way among the men, talking, helping, until he came to Linnet who was bending beside one of the sorely wounded, comforting him while he waited his turn to be lifted onto the wain.
‘Malcolm?’ Joscelin crouched beside the young mercenary and looked at the bloody spear gouge that had ripped open the milky, freckled skin from collarbone to bicep.
‘I wasn’t fast enough, sir . . .’ Malcolm’s teeth clenched in a rictus of pain. Tears oozed from his eyes and trickled into the red hair fluffing around his ears. ‘There were two of them and I was stuck between them like a fox in a trap.’ He stared from Joscelin to Linnet, who was holding his blood-soaked shirt in her hand. ‘I’m going to die, aren’t I?’
‘Of course not!’ Joscelin snapped.
‘I’ll admit it is a nasty tear—’ Linnet’s voice was firm as she bent over him ‘but no worse than holes I’ve had to mend in my gowns. It can be darned and you’ll live to fight another day. See, it’s only of the flesh; no vital part has been touched.’
Beneath her calm authority, Malcolm’s breathing eased. ‘Ye must think I’m a bairn!’ he lamented.
‘No worse than any man,’ she said. ‘It’s going to hurt when they lift you but, God willing, you’ll soon be comfortable in a bed.’
As Malcolm was gently raised by two soldiers and taken to the wain, Joscelin laid his hand upon Linnet’s sleeve. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
She shrugged. ‘It was the truth. If he does not take the stiffening sickness and if the wound stays clean, he’ll survive with barely a scar.’
Her pragmatic tone sat completely at odds with her earlier hysteria over her son but Joscelin knew only too well how fierce the bond between mother and child could be. A glance showed him Robert cuddled in the maid’s arms, his eyes as huge as moons in his thin, pale face.
‘I am sorry I shouted at you,’ he said as he turned to mount up. ‘In the heat of battle, everything happens so fast.’
She shook her head and smiled ruefully. ‘You made me so angry that you killed my terror.’
He acknowledged their pax with a brief smile of his own but quickly sobered. ‘Hubert de Beaumont was leading them, so they must have been acting on Leicester’s orders.’ He looked grim. ‘My brother Ralf was with them, too.’
‘I’m sorry, it must be a grief to you.’
He shook his head. ‘I have never known Ralf as anything but my enemy. The grief is all my father’s.’
‘They took the strongbox.’
‘Yes, they took it.’ A look of understanding flashed between them. ‘And also five casks of vinegar and two of scouring sand for cleaning mail. Nothing of value.’ The hangings and tapestries, household goods and trinkets, were stored at Nottingham and would arrive later that week down the Trent by slow barge. Grimacing, he turned his stallion. ‘Nothing of value,’ he repeated bleakly, ‘but the lives of four good men. The life of Hubert de Beaumont is scarcely adequate recompense.’
Waiting impatiently for the ferry on the wooded banks of the Trent, Ralf looked over his shoulder, ears straining for the sound of pursuit, but the horizon remained innocent. He returned his stare to the sullen sheet of grey water. The ferry was a dark wedge on the opposite side of the river, and the two ferrymen were taking their own good time about pulling their craft across.
Ralf chewed his thumbnail and cursed under his breath. He could still see Hubert de Beaumont’s eyes wide open in disbelief as Joscelin’s sword entered his body and the image within his mind’s eye made him queasy. He glanced at the baggage wain. His instructions had been to capture Montsorrel’s strongbox and deliver it to the Earl of Leicester, its rightful owner. Success should have elated him but he was assailed by nagging doubts. Something stank like rotten fish. He eyed the strongbox where it stood, squat and stolid amid various casks and barrels. Joscelin had been entrusted with its safety and it was more than his hide was worth to lose it. So why had he not pursued?
The doubt became a sickening suspicion. Ralf drew his sword from his belt and went to the box. The iron bindings and oiled bolts gleamed almost like a smile. He could not bear the tension and struck at the hasps but they were stoutly made and held fast. Sparks flashed in the dim light and the sound of his blade on the iron was loud enough to waken a corpse. It brought the other men running, demanding to know what he was doing.
Sobbing with effort and frustration, Ralf took one last swing. The hasps shattered and a sliver of metal from his beautiful, lovingly honed sword flew from the blade and lodged in his brow-bone. Blood streamed from the wound, blinding him. It was one of the other soldiers who opened the violated strongbox and discovered that the scuffed leather money pouches within held not silver pennies but small, round stones, smelling pungently of river and weed.
Chapter 12
Arnaud de Corbette, Rushcliffe’s seneschal, folded his hands inside his silk-edged sleeves and rocked back and forth on his gilded leather boots. Heel and toe, heel and toe, restless with anxiety. Eyes narrowed against the wind, he stared over the wall walk towards the approaching troop. A messenger had brought him advance warning of the new lord’s arrival, together with a parchment bearing the seal of the justiciar ordering him to yield the castle into the hands of Joscelin de Gael and offer him every cooperation.
Corbette focused upon the glossy liver-chestnut stallion and the man sitting confidently astride. William de Rocher’s bastard, a man of repute in some circles and reputation in others, hand-picked by the justiciar. But this new position was a step up indeed. Obviously de Luci had selected de Gael for his ability, a thought that made Corbette ease his finger around the gilded neck band of his tunic.
Halfdan, the serjeant in command of the keep’s garrison, jutted his jaw. ‘Why can’t we just keep the drawbridge up and tell ’em to piss off ?’ he demanded.
‘If you want to end up in the forest as an outlaw you may do just that,’ Corbette said irritably. ‘If you had brains, you’d be dangerous. It is not just a piddling matter of someone’s fetch-and-carry presenting a writ of authority at our gates. It is William de Rocher and Richard de Luci; it is the King himself!’ He shook the parchment beneath Halfdan’s nose like a curse. ‘Don’t you understand!’
Halfdan stared at him blankly. Corbette gave an exasperated growl. ‘Just keep your mouth shut and stay out of the way. Let me do the talking.’
Halfdan shrugged and shambled off down the stairs. Corbette breathed deeply in and out. Old Lord Raymond had favoured Halfdan, whose muscles and fighting ability were as impressive as his intellectual capacity was lacking. Occasionally, for entertainment, Raymond had organized fights between Halfdan and other mercenaries, sometimes to the death, with money wagered upon the outcome. Corbette had found the man useful for keeping awkward castle retainers in line after Raymond’s death but this change of master had rapidly altered that perspective.
Descending to the bailey, Corbette could feel sweat chilling his armpits. The next few moments were going to be uncomfortable.
As the liver-chestnut stallion paced over the drawbridge and entered the courtyard, Corbette hastened forward to bend the knee at the new master’s stirrup. ‘Welcome, my lord, and gladly so.’ He made certain to emphasize the title.
De Gael drew rein. ‘And who might you be?’ he asked glacially.
‘Arnaud de Corbette, my lord - I am the seneschal.’
The air grew more frigid still. ‘Get up,’ said de Gael and Corbette flinched, for the new lord’s expression was carved from ice.
‘Why did you permit armed men to lie up in the coppice on the Nottingham road?’
