as Joscelin was concerned, the burning of the bed had been the final exorcism.
‘You have a high imagination,’ he said when he could trust himself to speak. ‘Raymond de Montsorrel was a common lecher and whores will always tell exaggerated tales of any highborn client who passes between their thighs. It gives them a feeling of importance and makes people listen to them,’ he added pointedly.
Odinel blinked uncertainly. There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. Joscelin wondered what on earth he was truly doing here in the guardroom. His title was a barrier as tangible as the fine braid hemming on his tunic and the beryl and amber brooch pinned high on the shoulder of his fur-lined cloak. Although he had not deliberately willed it, the situation had changed and he had become an outsider, one of ‘them’ and, because of his past status, viewed with both admiration and resentment. In his absence they would talk about him as they talked about Raymond de Montsorrel. And it was not fair to stay.
He took his leave of them quickly, with relief on both sides. As the guardroom door closed behind him, the soldiers breathed out and relaxed as if they had been standing to attention all the time he had been in the room. And on the other side of the door, Joscelin closed his eyes and inhaled deeply like a prisoner released. His only dilemma, as he started down the hill towards the Saturday, market, was where to go. Not back to Linnet, not yet, not with Odinel’s words still sliding their slime trail across his mind.
In the end, he turned his feet in Conan’s direction, which he knew of old would be the Weekday alehouse. He wound his way through narrow streets and alleys into the dip of Broad Marsh, then up the other side. The stream running down the middle of Byard Lane was blocked again, this time by a dead dog, and various residents of the cut-through were conducting a lively argument as to who was responsible for clearing the obstruction. Joscelin picked his way through the sludge at the side of the lane, easing past dark doorways that gave entrance to cramped dwellings with central fire pits and smoke holes in the roof. At one point, near the top of the hill, there were steps cut down to a series of dwellings carved out of the soft sandstone rock upon which the city was built.
A cordwainer sat outside his home, a small trestle set up to hold his tools and the cut pieces of leather he was making into shoes. Next door to him stood a small dyehouse, and as Joscelin walked past its proprietor ceased pummelling a cloth in a cauldron of dark-red water to watch him. Beside the dye shop stood a booth belonging to Rothgar the swordsmith and Joscelin paused here to examine a long dagger.
‘Best Lombardy steel, sir,’ said the proprietor, laying down his tools and coming forward.
Joscelin had known Rothgar since childhood when Ironheart had brought him in wide-eyed delight to this very same booth. Rothgar’s wife had fed him sugared figs and made a fuss of him, and Rothgar had let him handle the weapons.
The dagger he was handling today had a nine-inch blade, sharp on both edges, and a haft of plain, natural buckskin that felt good in his hands. His own dagger, which had served him since his early days as a mercenary, was wearing out. It had already been fitted with several new grips and the blade was thin.
‘How much?’
‘Five shillings,’ Rothgar immediately responded and wiped his wrist across his full moustache. ‘The materials alone cost me two and there’s my time and skill on top.’
‘I’ll give you two and a half,’ Joscelin said, testing the sharpened edge against the ball of this thumb. ‘That’s how much I’d pay on the road in Normandy.’
Rothgar shook his head. ‘Normandy’s closer to the Lombards and the steel costs less because of it. It’s a mortal long way to go for a bargain. Tell you what, being as you and your father are good customers here, I’ll let you have it for four and a half.’
‘Three,’ said Joscelin, well accustomed to the etiquette of haggling, ‘and I’ll commission a blunt sword for my stepson while I’m here.’
Rothgar tugged at his beard. ‘You drive a hard bargain, my lord. Call it three and a half and commission that sword for your stepson with half a shilling down, and we’ll call it fair.’
‘On the nail,’ Joscelin reached in his purse and put the required coins on top of the squat, flat-topped post Rothgar used for that purpose.
Rothgar counted the silver and swept it into his cupped palm. ‘You’ll need to bring the lad into the shop so I can see the size of him.’
‘Later this afternoon?’
‘Aye, that’ll do.’ Rothgar started to unlatch the toggle on his belt bag but paused and lifted his head. ‘What’s that rumpus?’
Joscelin ducked out into the street, the new dagger in hand. From the direction of the Hologate road he could hear shouting and the clash of weapons. Then louder shrieks of terror and dismay and the bright blossoming of flame.
‘God’s eyes, what’s happening?’ Rothgar peered over Joscelin’s shoulder, his forging hammer in his fist.
‘I can’t tell, except that it’s trouble. Best shut up shop and make yourself and any valuables scarce. As a weapons-smith, you’re a prime target. I’m going to the Weekday; my mercenary captain should be there.’
Rothgar nodded and hastened back into his shop, bellowing for his apprentice.
Joscelin moved quickly across the narrow, muddy street and started up the hill towards the alehouse. Folk were emerging from their shops and houses, exclaiming, looking anxious, demanding to know what was happening. Other townsfolk were pouring down the hill away from the marketplace, fleeing in panic.
‘Soldiers!’ A panting merchant paused to cry warning. Tucked under his arm, a goose wildly paddled its orange feet. ‘Derby’s men. Save yourselves!’
Joscelin thrust himself against the tide of panicking humanity, shouldering through them until he reached the Weekday. The evergreen bush that was usually suspended on a horizontal pole from the gable, advertising the place as an alehouse, was trampled down outside the door, and smoke billowed in thick clouds from the interior. The empty yard showed no sign of the landlord’s guard dog, only its kennel and the length of bear chain that usually leashed it.
People streamed away from the marketplace, heading for the sanctuary of the churches. Smoke belched from a row of merchants’ houses on the King’s road leading to St Mary’s. Fire crowned the thatch in sudden licks of flame but no one stopped to organize a bucket chain. With life and limb at stake, houses could burn.
Joscelin was buffeted like a rock in the midst of a turbulent sea by the crowds milling around him. Then he saw the soldiers. Reflected fire from the torches they held glinted on their helms and mail. In and out of houses and shops they darted, setting alight thatch and straw, kicking apart hearths, scattering embers to consume homes and shops in the fury of flame.
He came across two bodies sprawled in the street. One of them was a whore, her gaudy yellow gown splashed with blood. The other, his arm still across her body, was Gamel. His carpentry tools were scattered across the street and his wooden leg stuck out at an awkward angle. Appalled, Joscelin crouched and made the sign of the cross over the bodies, closed Gamel’s staring eyes and rose to his feet. Fear and anger surged through him. Where in God’s name was Conan?
Church bells clamoured from all quarters. His thoughts flashed to Linnet and Robert. With his father absent on business and just a few servants in the house, they were vulnerable. His father’s townhouses stood almost on top of Derby’s. That might protect the dwellings from fire but it also meant there would be a high concentration of Derby’s men in the area.
He began to force his way along the narrow street, pushing himself against the tide of humanity striving towards the sanctuary of St Peter’s church. The ground underfoot was muddy and he slipped and skidded. Behind him there was panic as a barrel of pitch in a carpenter’s workshop exploded, showering the crowd with flaming debris. A globule landed on his hand and sizzled into his flesh before he was able to brush it off. He was pushed and jostled, almost forced by the surge of the crowd to enter St Peter’s, but managed to thrust his way out of the press and across the street to a narrow passageway that progressed in a crooked dogleg to the backs of the houses lining the Saturday market square.
Here, too, there was chaos, and Joscelin realized with a renewed leap of fear that the assault on the city was widespread. Surrounded by the sounds of looting and burning, he crouched for a moment in the garden of one of the houses to recover his breath. He wondered if the constable would send soldiers into the city or just hold fast to the castle and hope that Ferrers’s attack was more an act of spite and bile than an attempt to subjugate city and castle to his will.
