Shields of Pride

father dragged his shaking body into the saddle.

Linnet glanced at her husband now. He was riding on his father’s other side, affecting indifference but close enough to grab him if he fell. She might have thought Joscelin cold had she not witnessed his anguish in the privacy of their own chamber. ‘He hates sentiment and fuss,’ he had said, staring bleakly out of the narrow lance of window into Rushcliffe’s bailey. ‘He’s dying. Nothing can change that. I won’t break his pride.’

And for the sake of that pride, William de Rocher approached the keep his father had built to protect the lands that the de Rochers had seized at the time of the great Conquest. Like the first William de Rocher, he came astride a war-horse, a polished sword at his hip, his gaze glittering and hungry. But his ancestor had had thirty more years of life before him to build his stronghold, marry a thegn’s daughter and beget the next generation. Ironheart’s own time was measured in hours.

Scaffolding stood against Arnsby’s walls, although on a different section from last year, and the same builders, masons and painters were busy about the task of maintenance. The castle gates stood open and the road was a sunlit white ribbon disappearing into the bailey.

The grey stallion, scenting familiarity, plunged and strained at the bit and Ironheart almost lost control of him, for only one arm had any strength left in it to pull back and that was pared of flesh and fever-weakened.

Quickly Joscelin leaned over and grabbed the bridle. ‘Whoa, steady,’ he said. The stallion’s ears flickered and the skin twitched upon its sweating hide, but its pace slackened.

‘Let go, I can manage,’ Ironheart said in a hoarse, death-rattle voice. His face was grey apart from two scarlet flashes of fever upon each cheekbone.

‘Papa—’

‘Let go, I tell you!’

Joscelin released the bridle and, setting his jaw, looked away. Linnet’s heart ached for both men. She saw the glimmer of unshed tears in Joscelin’s eyes and the rapid movement of his throat. It was almost more than she could bear and she had to turn her own head.

In the bailey, the messenger’s arrival had ensured they were expected and there were people to greet them. Two serving men stood to attention beside a stretcher fashioned of latticed rope. Lady Agnes was present, attired in her best red gown and silk wimple. At her side, Martin shifted from foot to foot, his hair damp and his face freshly scrubbed. Ivo, a frown on his face, had one hand on the child’s shoulder, the other on his sword hilt, as he watched the company approach. But it was Ralf who stepped forward to take his father’s bridle; Ralf resplendent in a tunic of grass-green silk with gold braid trimmings. Ironheart’s spare sword belt - the one he never wore because he said it looked as if it ought to belong to a court whore - was buckled around Ralf’s lean hips.

Breath bubbling, Ironheart stared down at his heir. ‘Why are you trapped out like a marchpane fancy?’ he wheezed.

‘To honour your homecoming, sire,’ Ralf responded, his brown eyes reflecting golden glints from his costume. ‘To accord you the respect that is your due.’

‘You call this respect?’ Spittle appeared on the old man’s lips and his shoulders trembled with more than just the thud of his fever-driven heart. He stared round the silent group of his family and met his wife’s bitter, triumphant eyes. ‘When I am dead, then you can dance upon my grave,’ he ground out, ‘but by God, you’ll not mock me while there’s still breath in my body!’ He wheeled the grey around and dug in his spurs. The horse neighed and gave a startled leap forward before breaking into a gallop.

‘Papa!’ Joscelin tried to turn Whitesocks but his way was blocked by other mounts and he could only watch helplessly as the grey bolted towards the gateway.

It was sealed. The port culis was down and the massive oak doors had been closed behind the party and the bar drawn across. The grey reared to a halt. Too weak to hold on any longer, Ironheart was pitched from the saddle and hit the ground like a child’s doll made of rags and straw.

Linnet reined her mare aside and Joscelin was finally able to turn Whitesocks and gallop down to the gateway. The grey milled round the bailey, head high, eyes rolling, avoiding the efforts of the groom to capture it. Joscelin flung down from the saddle and knelt at his father’s side. Ironheart still breathed, his willpower holding him yet to life and consciousness.

‘Tell the guards to open the gates,’ he forced out, then stopped to cough. ‘Tell them I command it.’

The two menservants approached with the litter, Ralf pacing beside them.

Joscelin glanced at the four men on gate duty. They returned his stare with a blankness that penetrated his gut. He had never seen them before and, from the way their hands hovered over their weapons, he did not believe that they would respond to any command but Ralf’s.

‘The fever has overset his wits.’ Ralf shook his head sadly and glanced over his shoulder. ‘Mama, you had best take him to your chamber and care for him there. Obviously he has been neglected to the point of death.’

Ironheart made a choking sound. Joscelin jerked to his feet and faced Ralf’s gleaming smile. ‘How long have you been planning this?’

‘Planning what?’ Ralf gave a laconic shrug. ‘I’m a dutiful son. Ever since I came home in the autumn, I haven’t set a foot wrong. The gates are closed for a good reason.’

Ironheart groaned as he was lifted on to the rope stretcher and Agnes de Rocher smiled at the sound.

Joscelin stared at Ralf. ‘What reason?’

Ralf shrugged. ‘My father is too weak and sick to go anywhere and in such dangerous times it behoves me to keep those gates shut. The Scots are over the border again, did you know? And the Flemish will be sailing any day for Norfolk.’

‘The gates were wide open when we arrived,’ Joscelin said icily.

‘Indeed and how better to defend myself than by capturing my enemies? I have the proof of what you have done to my poor father. In the name of King Henry the Younger, I arrest you for treason and attempted parricide. ’

Joscelin began to shake. ‘You stinking, conniving, treacherous nithing!’ he spat and leaped, bearing Ralf to the bailey floor. He succeeded in making of his brother’s nose a scarlet squelch before the gate guards managed to drag him off. Joscelin’s soldiers were prevented from joining the affray by more of Ralf ’s hired men. The ordinary castle guards who had always owed their loyalty to Ironheart looked on and did nothing. Ralf might be overstepping his authority, and Joscelin might be Ironheart’s favourite son, but their lord was dying and in the future they would look to Ralf to pay their wages.

Ralf regained his feet. Blood dribbled from his nose, masking his mouth and chin and dripping ruinously onto the green silk. Joscelin struggled in the rough embrace of the gate guards. ‘You have no authority!’ he spat.

‘I have all the authority I need,’ Ralf retorted nasally. ‘And to prove it, at noon tomorrow, I am going to hang you from the battlements. Then I’m going to have you flayed and your hide nailed to Arnsby’s gates.’ He flicked a brusque gesture at the guards. ‘Take him away and put him in the oubliette. Mama, I leave you to make arrangements for my father and Lady de Montsorrel.’ He dabbed his bloody nose with his sleeve.

Agnes stared at Ralf as if he had descended from the heavens in a cloud of light. Slowly she folded him a deep curtsey. Open-mouthed, Ivo gaped at her, then at his brother. Beneath his frozen hand, Martin’s shoulder quivered.

‘I won’t let you hang, Joscelin, I won’t!’ the child burst out. ‘He hasn’t done anything, you just want him out of the way because he’s better than you are!’ He flung himself at Ralf, screaming and pummelling.

‘Hold your tongue, brat!’ Ralf sent Martin reeling with a clout to the side of his head. ‘It’s not your place to speak of matters you know nothing about. Ivo, get him out of my sight!’

Looking dazed, Ivo took Martin by the scruff and dragged him away, still kicking and shrieking. The guards stripped Joscelin of sword, dagger and purse. Then they manhandled him towards the keep, jabbing him roughly with their spear butts to make him move.

Linnet screamed his name and rode her mare at the guards but she was intercepted, the bridle was grasped, and she was pulled down off the horse. Agnes de Rocher seized her arm in a vicious grip. ‘You don’t want to go where he’s going, my dear,’ she hissed. ‘The oubliette’s no place for a lady of gentle breeding.’ Her voice oozed venom. ‘Come with me to the bower and learn from me how a sick man should truly be nursed.’ Her gaze gloated upon Ironheart.

Linnet struggled to wrench herself free but Agnes held fast. Hanged and then flayed. Burning nausea rose in