not yours.’
Joscelin drew breath to deny that he required any such tending but Linnet was quicker.
‘You have to come to the bedchamber anyway to put on your hauberk and it won’t take a moment.’
His lips closed and then slowly curved in a smile. He inclined his head in amused capitulation. ‘If you were a swordsman, you’d be deadly,’ he said.
Linnet went pink and turned away to the stairs.
‘You’ve seen some fighting already then?’ asked Brien.
‘A skirmish,’ Joscelin said, down-playing yesterday’s assault. His gaze followed the sway of Linnet’s hips. ‘I’ll tell you about it while we ride.’
Chapter 15
Finding Corbette’s trail was a simple matter for a seasoned troop of mercenaries who, like wolves, were accustomed to hunting in a cooperative pack, their senses sharpened by the proximity of their prey.
Corbette could only have taken the one road and all that Joscelin had to decide was whether to pursue it to Newark or Nottingham. The latter led through the village and, since Corbette was heartily disliked there, Joscelin sent Guy de Montauban to question the people. Henry accompanied the soldier to reassure the occupants and translate as Guy had few words of English. A bag of silver went with them, too, to loosen reluctant tongues. Joscelin took his own suspicions towards Newark at a rapid trot.
Within two miles those suspicions were confirmed when they came across a lame pony grazing among a flock of sheep. It still wore a rope pack-bridle and there were sweaty cinch marks branded on its belly. When it saw the soldiers’ horses, it nickered and limped eagerly to greet them. The pony bore a distinctive star marking on his forehead and Joscelin recognized it as one of the sturdy pack beasts that had carried supplies on the journey between London and Rushcliffe.
The wind ruffled the grass. A small shred of colour fluttered upon the spikes of a young hawthorn bush growing against a crumbled wall. Dismounting, Joscelin went to investigate and discovered a veil of blue silk and nearby a linen bolster stuffed with women’s clothing.
‘They’ve had to lighten their load,’ Joscelin said to Brien with satisfaction. ‘We’re on the right track. Jean, return to the village and fetch Sir Guy.’ Joscelin remounted and strapped the bundle to his crupper.
A mile farther on, a narrow cart track branched off the road to give access to one of the granges beholden to the castle. Thick woodland lay to one side of the track, open fields to the other. Huddled in the sheltered corner of a dip in the undulating wolds stood the farm buildings - a longhouse in the old Saxon style, together with a barn and outbuildings. The longhouse was on fire. As the breeze backed and eddied, the smell of smoke reached the riders. Ripples of heat zigzagged and shimmered, giving the burning building the illusion of being underwater.
‘It doesn’t look as if someone’s just been careless with a cooking fire.’ Brien unstrapped his helm from his saddle.
Joscelin heard the tension in Brien’s voice. The thought of Leicester’s rebellion was uppermost in everyone’s mind but surely it was too soon for that kind of trouble - unless it was concerned with the skirmish on the road yesterday. Perhaps it was by way of revenge. Joscelin shook the reins and urged Whitesocks towards the farmstead. The eddies of smoke strengthened and the stallion pranced and plunged. Joscelin almost lost control of him when they came upon the body of a horse stretched across the track. It was a palfrey this time, a dainty black barb mare. Her foreleg was broken and someone had cut her throat. A thick cloud of flies buzzed around the blackening wound. Of harness there was no sign, although her hide still bore the impression of bridle and saddle.
His spine prickling, Joscelin steadied Whitesocks and rode on. The smell of burning was woven with the crackle of feeding flames. In places, all the flesh of the longhouse had been devoured and the wooden bones were enveloped in greedy tongues of scarlet fire. Beside the track, facedown in the grass, a body sprawled.
Arnaud de Corbette had been stripped of his fine garments and was clad in naught but his linen braies. Three diagonal slashes were carved across his corpse as if he were a fish on a griddle. One eye glared. The other was concealed against the bloodied earth. Joscelin dismounted and, holding the reins fast in one hand, crouched to examine Corbette’s wounds.
Brien’s face twisted. ‘What are you doing?’
Joscelin looked up. ‘Seeking answers. Look at these cuts. Whoever did this had a good sword and some useful weight behind his swing. An axe or a club would have left different marks.’
Brien’s gaze was full of fastidious distaste. ‘So why does it matter how he was killed?’
Joscelin stood up. ‘It matters because only a man of wealth or professional fighting ability would own a sword and only a man who sells his services would strip a body like this. I’ve done it myself in winters past when an extra cloak means the difference between living and freezing.’
‘So you think this is the work of mercenaries?’
‘Very likely.’ Joscelin remounted and rode towards the palisade surrounding the burning farm. A stifled sob close on the left made Whitesocks throw up his head and snort with alarm. Joscelin calmed the horse and stared at the reeds and sedge bordering the muddy ditch at the foot of the palisade slope. ‘Come out where I can see you,’ he commanded in English. ‘You will not be harmed. I am Joscelin de Gael, appointed by the Crown to govern here.’
Two women, one young and very pregnant, the other older but still handsome, emerged from their hiding place in a clump of feather reeds. Their gown hems were mud-stained and heavy with water. The younger woman was sobbing and clutching her gravid belly. Her companion gripped a knife in her right hand and suspiciously eyed Joscelin and his troop.
‘What has happened here?’ he asked. ‘Where are your menfolk?’
The older woman shook her head. ‘Soldiers came with weapons,’ she said. ‘Their tongue was foreign but not French like they speak at the castle. We saw them coming, heard them too, the bastards, because they was chasing the seneschal, and he was screaming like a coney. Our menfolk are at the mill, else they’d be dead, too.’ She put her arm around the younger woman, who continued to snuffle and sob. ‘Me and Alfreda was outside feeding the poultry when we heard the commotion and we saw the seneschal and his family being attacked and robbed by soldiers. I made Alfreda drop everything and we hid in the ditch. We could hear them yelling and boasting.’ She shuddered. ‘The women were screaming and I was sure they’d discover us, they was so close, but we prayed to the blessed Saint Edmund and we was spared.’ The woman’s eyes glittered with angry, unshed tears. ‘Although God knows what for. How are we supposed to live now with the rent due at Michaelmas and our house and half our stores gone?’
‘You need not worry about that. I’ll see to it that you’re not destitute.’ Joscelin tried to keep the impatience out of his voice. Their concerns were obviously vital of this moment to them. ‘How many soldiers did you see?’
‘I don’t know, only got a couple o’ glimpses.’ She counted laboriously on her fingers. ‘’Bout a score, I suppose, but only half of them had horses. They took the seneschal’s destrier and madam’s palfrey. They’d have had our old cob, too, if Rob and Will hadn’t taken him this morning.’ She surveyed the burning building dismally. ‘We’d heard rumours o’ trouble, but we thought it was all ale-talk. King Henry won’t stand for no nonsense from his sons, we said.’ Her chin wobbled and she compressed her lips and glared at Joscelin.
‘I am responsible for the king’s justice on these lands,’ Joscelin replied. ‘If there are bands of routiers at large of whatever faction, I will deal with them and swiftly.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ She looked sceptical. And then her eyes widened and focused on a point beyond Joscelin. The younger woman shrieked and fell to her knees.
Turning in the saddle, Joscelin saw a motley assortment of horsemen and foot soldiers advancing towards them from the direction of the woods. The leading horse was the seneschal’s handsome piebald stallion and the warrior astride it had the raddled face of a fallen angel. A scar running from left mouth corner to mutilated left ear tilted and creased his grin, transforming it into a leer as he drew rein before Joscelin.
‘Greetings, nephew,’ said Conan de Gael, performing a mocking salute with the hilt of his drawn sword.
