Read Online Shields of Pride by Elizabeth Chadwick - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Chadwick
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she will come.’
His eyes remained guarded but his mouth softened a little. He bowed to her, crossed his breast to the priest and left. She heard his footsteps clattering down the stairs, as Giles’s had done only yesterday and would never do again.
8
It was midmorning when Joscelin had the dream. He was riding through a forest of mature hazel and birch trees, dusty sunlight diffusing through the foliage, turning the world a luminous green-gold. He could hear birdsong, the drone of bees and the chock of a woodsman’s axe muted by distance.
A woman was riding beside him. Breaca, he thought at first, but when she turned to speak to him her eyes were not brown but a quiet blue-grey and filled with a world of sad experience. Behind them his troop escorted a coffin on which there was neither lid nor pall. Open to the air, Giles de Montsorrel stared up at the green lacework of branches with dry, dead eyes. Initially Joscelin thought that the corpse was wearing a hauberk but then he realized, his scalp crawling, that Giles was clad in a mesh of silver pennies. The coins flashed and slithered and Joscelin felt a scream gathering in his throat as the corpse slowly started to sit up. The linen jaw bandage slipped from its anchoring and Giles’s mouth laughed open.
The woman spoke anxiously to Joscelin. Struck dumb with horror, he couldn’t respond. The birds ceased to sing and the flash of sun on steel in the trees ahead caught the corner of his eye. Too late he realized he had ridden into an ambush. Even while the thought staggered through his brain, the attack was launched. His shield was still on its long strap at his back, his sword still in its scabbard, when the bright blade of a hand axe took him square in the chest. He screamed his denial and woke shivering and drenched in cold sweat. Disoriented, he stared at the smoke-blackened rafters and the curtain screening his pallet from the main room. The clatter and bustle of a busy domestic household rang in his ears together with the fading echo of his cry.
Sitting up, he pressed his face into his palms and shuddered. The dream had been horribly real, and the fading images still held their colours and emotions. A blinding pain thumped behind his eyes.
The curtain parted and Stephen entered the tiny alcove, bearing a horn cup of watered wine. ‘Justiciar de Luci is waiting to see you,’ he announced as he presented the drink.
Joscelin took a tentative swallow and his stomach churned. He stifled a retch.
‘Is something wrong, sir?’
Joscelin fumbled for his undergown and tunic. They were still creased and damp from last night’s rain. His body ached with bruises from his fight with Ralf and the whip welt on his face was throbbing. ‘I slept badly and I can do without my father and the justiciar this morning.’ He caught his breath with pain as he raised his arm to don his shirt. Stephen made haste to help him but, even so, by the time he had finished dressing, Joscelin was pale and sweating. He pressed his hands over his eyes for a moment.
‘Go and ask one of the maids for a willow bark potion before my skull splits in two,’ he said, swallowing hard.
The youth left at a run. Joscelin’s own gait was a slow shamble as he followed him into the hall. A hound scented the fear still lingering on his body and growled softly. He ignored the dog and the gossiping serving women who pretended to be busy while he passed and then returned to their chatter. Two priests and a clerk sat at a trestle, breaking their fast on bread and fat bacon. A scribe had set up his lectern on the dais and was writing steadily. Joscelin walked gingerly to the hearth, trying not to jolt his precarious stomach and even more precarious skull. Richard de Luci and his father were deep in conversation but, when they saw him approaching, they broke off and looked quickly at each other like a pair of conspirators.
‘You wished to speak to me, my lord?’ Joscelin said, hoping that de Luci
His eyes remained guarded but his mouth softened a little. He bowed to her, crossed his breast to the priest and left. She heard his footsteps clattering down the stairs, as Giles’s had done only yesterday and would never do again.
8
It was midmorning when Joscelin had the dream. He was riding through a forest of mature hazel and birch trees, dusty sunlight diffusing through the foliage, turning the world a luminous green-gold. He could hear birdsong, the drone of bees and the chock of a woodsman’s axe muted by distance.
A woman was riding beside him. Breaca, he thought at first, but when she turned to speak to him her eyes were not brown but a quiet blue-grey and filled with a world of sad experience. Behind them his troop escorted a coffin on which there was neither lid nor pall. Open to the air, Giles de Montsorrel stared up at the green lacework of branches with dry, dead eyes. Initially Joscelin thought that the corpse was wearing a hauberk but then he realized, his scalp crawling, that Giles was clad in a mesh of silver pennies. The coins flashed and slithered and Joscelin felt a scream gathering in his throat as the corpse slowly started to sit up. The linen jaw bandage slipped from its anchoring and Giles’s mouth laughed open.
The woman spoke anxiously to Joscelin. Struck dumb with horror, he couldn’t respond. The birds ceased to sing and the flash of sun on steel in the trees ahead caught the corner of his eye. Too late he realized he had ridden into an ambush. Even while the thought staggered through his brain, the attack was launched. His shield was still on its long strap at his back, his sword still in its scabbard, when the bright blade of a hand axe took him square in the chest. He screamed his denial and woke shivering and drenched in cold sweat. Disoriented, he stared at the smoke-blackened rafters and the curtain screening his pallet from the main room. The clatter and bustle of a busy domestic household rang in his ears together with the fading echo of his cry.
Sitting up, he pressed his face into his palms and shuddered. The dream had been horribly real, and the fading images still held their colours and emotions. A blinding pain thumped behind his eyes.
The curtain parted and Stephen entered the tiny alcove, bearing a horn cup of watered wine. ‘Justiciar de Luci is waiting to see you,’ he announced as he presented the drink.
Joscelin took a tentative swallow and his stomach churned. He stifled a retch.
‘Is something wrong, sir?’
Joscelin fumbled for his undergown and tunic. They were still creased and damp from last night’s rain. His body ached with bruises from his fight with Ralf and the whip welt on his face was throbbing. ‘I slept badly and I can do without my father and the justiciar this morning.’ He caught his breath with pain as he raised his arm to don his shirt. Stephen made haste to help him but, even so, by the time he had finished dressing, Joscelin was pale and sweating. He pressed his hands over his eyes for a moment.
‘Go and ask one of the maids for a willow bark potion before my skull splits in two,’ he said, swallowing hard.
The youth left at a run. Joscelin’s own gait was a slow shamble as he followed him into the hall. A hound scented the fear still lingering on his body and growled softly. He ignored the dog and the gossiping serving women who pretended to be busy while he passed and then returned to their chatter. Two priests and a clerk sat at a trestle, breaking their fast on bread and fat bacon. A scribe had set up his lectern on the dais and was writing steadily. Joscelin walked gingerly to the hearth, trying not to jolt his precarious stomach and even more precarious skull. Richard de Luci and his father were deep in conversation but, when they saw him approaching, they broke off and looked quickly at each other like a pair of conspirators.
‘You wished to speak to me, my lord?’ Joscelin said, hoping that de Luci