TO DEFY A KING

TO DEFY A KING

Rough draft

Excerpt 1

Meeting Mahelt Marshal:

Caversham, Berkshire, January 1204

‘It’s not fair!’ Nine year old Mahelt Marshal scowled at her older brothers who were immersed in a boy’s game involving a pretend raid on an enemy castle. ‘I want to be a knight.’

‘Well you can’t be,’ Will answered with the superiority that came from being male, almost fourteen and heir to the Earldom of Pembroke.

‘Why not?’ She made a grab for his pony’s reins and he snatched them out of her reach.

‘Because you’re a girl,’ Will rolled his eyes, intimating that she was stupid. ‘Girls don’t go on chevauchée!’ He smirked a little. ‘Girls stay at home and do sewing and mind the babies. Only men go to war.’

Mahelt was having none of it. ‘Women have to defend the castle when their lords are away,’ she pointed out. ‘Mama always governs the estates when Papa goes to war - and you have to do as she says.’ She jutted her chin triumphantly and looked at Richard, who was twelve and could sometimes be persuaded to take her part. Just now, a broad grin was spread across his freckled face, but other than that he wasn’t leaping to her defence.

Will was ready with his retort. ‘But she has to do what our lord father says when he returns, and she doesn’t put on mail and ride off to fight. Papa doesn’t send her out with a lance in her hand while he stays at home, does he?’

Mahelt chewed her lip. ‘I can pretend. It’s all pretend anyway. You’re not a man.’

Richard’s grin brightened further, and Will flushed. ‘But I will become one,’ he said. ‘You never will. Go away.’

Mahelt stamped her foot. ‘I’ll tell!’

‘Will, let her defend the castle,’ Richard said, ever the peace-maker between his argumentative siblings. ‘She might have to do it one day when she’s married.

Will scowled but capitulated with a deep sigh. ‘All right, but she’s not a knight, and she’s not riding Equus.’

Richard shrugged agreement.

‘And she can be the French. We’re the English.’

‘That’s not fair!’ Mahelt squawked.

‘Don’t play then,’ Will said indifferently.

Mahelt narrowed her eyes. She wanted to ride Will’s new pony because it was nearly the size of a horse and had big brown spots on its silver-pale rump. She wanted to take him over jumps like Will did and see how fast she could make him go. Will had called him Equus, which he said was the Latin name the scribes wrote in their notes meaning ‘warhorse.’ Richard’s docile grey wasn’t the same challenge, and she had almost outgrown her own dumpy little chestnut, which was currently stabled up with a leg strain.

With a heavy sigh and bad grace Mahelt stumped off to defend the ‘castle’ which for the purposes of the game was the kennel keeper’s storage hut. The collars and leashes were stowed here together with old blankets, hunting horns, wooden bowls, various tools and baskets, and a shelf holding earthenware pots of salve for treating wounds sustained in the hunt. Mahelt reached to one of the pots, removed the lid of plaited straw, then recoiled from a vile stench of rancid goose grease.

‘Ready?’ She heard Richard shout.

Her left arm crooked around the pot, Mahelt emerged from the shed and watched her brothers fret heir ponies. Both boys carried makeshift lances fashioned from ash staves and gripped their practice shields at the ready. Uttering a yell, Will dug in his heels. As Equus pounded towards her, Richard following on his grey, Mahelt stood her ground, well aware they expected her to lose her courage and dash back inside the shed. She scooped up a handful of grease, feeling it cold and squidgy-soft between her fingers, and lobbed it at the oncoming horse. Will ducked and presented his shield, which took the first impact, but Mahelt released a second handful hard on the first, and it struck him over the shield rim, splattering his cloak and the side of his neck. Another scoop hit Richard’s grey and, as the pony shied, Richard had to haul on the reins, and in doing so, left his guard open for a fourth handful to hit his face.

‘Hah! You’re both dead!’ Mahelt leaped gleefully up and down. ‘I win, I win!’

Will was off his horse like lightning. Mahelt shrieked and tried to run inside the shed and slam the door, but he was too fast and caught her arm. She spun round and struck his chest with her salve-covered hand, further smearing him in rancid grease. She kicked his shins and he raised his hand to slap her.

‘It’s dishonourable to strike a lady!’ Mahelt cried. ‘Papa wouldn’t do it. I’ll tell him!’

Will lowered his hand and gave her a disgusted shove instead. ‘Do that and I’ll show him what you did to my cloak! I pity whoever gets you to wife. You’re a hoyden, not a lady.’

Mahelt looked down her nose, determined not to show remorse or let him browbeat her with words. It was always a contest between them as to who had the last one.

‘Will, let her be,’ Richard said, his own voice filled with exasperation. ‘Come away. There are better places to practice. We’d get more hurled at us in a real battle than handfuls of old grease.’

With a final glare, Will flung away from her and remounted. Watching her brothers ride off towards one of the far paddocks, Mahelt was filled with equal measures of triumph and regret. She had won the battle but lost the war because they had gone off without her and after this they wouldn’t be forgiving her in a hurry.

Excerpt 2
Meeting Hugh Bigod

Settrington, Yorkshire, February 1204

Hugh Bigod dismounted to examine the wolf he had just killed and wiped his spear in the tawny winter grass. Silver-grey fur ruffled in the wind. The fangs were bared in a bloody snarl, the amber eyes fixed in death. It was a young female and would have bred pups this year, but her swollen belly was not the result of fecundity, but of having gorged on the heavily pregnant ewe, she and her mate had brought down the previous day. Wolves were an endemic problem at lambing time, slinking round the sheepfolds, grey as twilight, waiting their moment. The shepherds and their dogs kept close watch, but they could not be everywhere at once and even brought in close to the homestead, there were still casualties among the flocks. At least with the kill of this female and her mate, Hugh knew he had prevented the formation of a new pack on his demesne.

Pellets of sleety snow drove slantwise into his face and caught in the fur collar of his cloak. Although his fingers were encased in mittens, his hands were numb. It was a frozen, hungry time of year for everyone, the dregs of winter hanging on even though the mornings were beginning earlier and the light was slower to leave the sky at night.

‘I can have a wolfskin rug for beside my bed now,’ said his brother Ralph, a gleam in his dark grey eyes.

Hugh quirked a smile at the fourteen year old who was the fire-eater of their family. If there was a brawl, Ralph was frequently at the centre. If there was excitement to be had, the same. Yet he was a good lad with a solid core of truth about him and he had kept his head and done as he was bidden during the hunt. ‘With a sheepskin the other side for balance,’ he replied, ‘and to remind you why we hunt wolves in the first place.’

‘I don’t know why you want a wolf pelt anywhere near you, they stink.’ said William, who, at sixteen was the closest of the brothers in age to Hugh.

‘Not if they’re properly tanned and aired.’ Ralph refused to be set down. ‘We don’t share beds as we did when were babies, so why should you object?’

William looked superior. ‘I wasn’t objecting. I was just saying they stink. The only good place for a wolf is a midden pit.’

Hugh was accustomed to the verbal wrangling between his brothers and paid it small heed beyond minor exasperation. It meant nothing. They squabbled cheerfully among themselves – sometimes even came to blows, but the rancour never lasted and they were always united against a common foe.

Ralph was determined to have the skins, and swung the bloodied corpses across the pack pony’s saddle. The beast flinched at its burden, nostrils flaring, but Ralph settled it with soothing words and fed it a crust of bread from the pouch at his belt.

Hugh remounted his courser. Her winter coat was as thick and plush as a fresh fall of snow. He had named her Arrow because of her speed and the way she could fly into a straight gallop from a standing start. She could outrun any wolf. He lifted his gaze to the clouds rolling across the sky like low grey smoke. The wind was as vicious as the bite of a wild animal. It was a day when any sane man would stay by his hearth and only stir outside of his door to empty his bowels – or deal with wolves.

He had been lord of Settrington for five years – ever since his father had granted him ten knights’ fees of his own following King John’s coronation. He had been seventeen then - old enough for responsibility under supervision. He had cut his teeth on these Yorkshire estates, preparing for the day when he would inherit vast tracts of fertile land and coastal villages in East Anglia and Normandy, including their castle at Framlingham with its thirteen great towers. His father was still hale and fit, but one day, Hugh would be Earl of Norfolk, and his knights’ fees would amount to a hundred and eighty.

He paused by the shepherd’s hut to give the herders the good news about the wolves, then rode down to the manor. As the afternoon settled towards dusk, the horses churned their way through the icy mud of the track, bitter air clouding from their nostrils and steaming from their hides. Lantern light gleamed through the cracks in the shutters of the manor house and grooms were waiting to greet the hunting party and take the horses.

‘Sire, your lord father is here,’ the head groom informed Hugh as he dismounted.

THE SCARLET LION

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Chapter 2

Longueville, Normandy, Spring 1199

Isabelle sat at her embroidery with her ladies. Pulling away from winter, the light had a pale clarity that meant more intricate sewing could be undertaken. Bending an attentive ear to the chatter, she was glad to hear a lively note in the women’s voices, for that too, like the return of the sun and the sight of birds building their nests, was a sure sign spring had arrived.

Jean D’Earley’s young wife Sybilla was stitching an exquisite design of silver scallop shells onto a tunic band. Embroidery was her particular skill and her husband was the best dressed knight of William’s mesnie. Sybilla was William’s niece, and of a quiet disposition, but Isabelle believed the creativity and dedication exhibited in her sewing were indicative of a rich internal life that didn’t need gossip and socialising to sustain it.

‘How are you feeling now?’ Isabelle asked her. The young woman had been unwell for three days running with a queasy stomach. and Isabelle had her suspicions, compounded by the way Sybilla kept looking at the cradle holding the newest addition to the Marshal family, three month old Walter.

‘A little better my lady. The infusion of ginger has helped.’ Sybilla looked pensive. ‘I…I think I may be with child, although I am not yet certain.’

Isabelle patted her arm in reassurance ‘I suspect so too. It is good news for you and Jean if it be the case.’

Sybilla looked dubious. ‘He has been much absent with the Earl and we haven’t bedded together often of late; it may be a false alarm.’

Isabelle sent a rueful glance towards the cradle herself. ‘William only has to look at me and I quicken.’

‘Aye, well you and the Earl have had plenty of practice,’ teased Elizabeth Avenal, wife to one of William’s knights. She was always eager to talk of matters bawdy or sexual when the bower ladies were gathered over their sewing, although in mixed company she was less bold. ‘Everyone knows that unless a wife experiences the same satisfaction as her husband, her seed will not descend to mix with his and she will not conceive.’ She chuckled at Sybilla. ‘If you’re feeling full enough for the sickness my girl, then your lord must have discovered the art of pleasuring you in bed.’

‘Elizabeth!’ Isabelle spluttered with a look at Sybilla who had flushed bright pink.

‘Well it’s true!’ lady Avenel defended herself. ‘Even some priests say so. The ones who don’t are juiceless old prunes who’ve never had a good fu….’

She bit off her words as the chamber door opened and William flung into the room. He glanced swiftly at the circle of women, said ‘Isabelle, a word,’ and strode over to an embrasure further down the room. Sweeping aside a motley assortment of children’s toys, he sat down on the cushioned chest under the window splay, two vertical frown lines etching the space between his brows.

Isabelle’s mirth faded. Abandoning her sewing, she left her women and hastened to William’s side. ‘What’s wrong?’

He breathed out hard and rubbed his neck. ‘Ach, nothing out of the usual. I don’t even know why I am surprised. ‘Is there any wine left, or has the sewing party drunk it all?’

Something had riled him; he didn’t usually make acerbic comments about her women. ‘No, there is plenty left to drown your woes,’ she said sweetly and fetched the cup and flagon herself, exchanging eloquent glances with her ladies as she did so.

Having taken a long drink, William rested the cup on his thigh and sighed out hard. ‘I’ve just been talking to a messenger from Baldwin de Bethuné.

Isabelle sat down beside him, plumped a fleece-filled cushion at her back and looked at him expectantly. Baldwin de Bethuné, Count of Aumale was William’s closest friend and currently with the King. Even when William was absent from the court, such contacts kept him well informed. Whatever the news was, it had certainly put a bur in her husband’s braies.

‘Prince John is under suspicion of conspiracy and Richard’s in a quarrelsome mood. I tell you, Isabelle, sometimes I want to knock their heads together until their brains run out of their ears - not that it would make any difference except to my own satisfaction.’

‘What do you mean, under suspicion?’

He eyed her sombrely. ‘Philip of France claims to have letters implicating John in treason. John’s supposed to have asked Philip’s aid to mount a rebellion against Richard – who is not best pleased.’

‘It was only a matter of time,’ she said.

His nostrils flared. ‘Why is everyone prepared to believe the worst of John and not allow that he might just have learned his lesson and matured?’

‘So you don’t believe it is true?’ She managed to school her voice to calm enquiry, avoiding the flat note that usually entered it when they spoke of Richard’s brother.

‘Of course it isn’t,’ he said impatiently. ‘Philip’s as wily as a fox and false rumours like this are a fine way of creating discord. John might be devious and self-seeking, but he’s not mad and he would have to be insane to go conniving with Philip. The last time he dabbled in conspiracy, Richard was locked up in a German prison. John won’t risk anything with Richard close enough to breath down his neck. ’ He drank again, his movements swift with displeasure. ‘Whatever his flaws as a man, John has been a model of loyalty to Richard these past five years.

‘So what will happen now?’

‘It’s already happening. John’s gone off in a fury at being accused and God alone knows where.’

‘Perhaps to Paris,’ she said with pessimism. ‘Perhaps the King of France has succeeded anyway.’

William’s shot her an irritated look. ‘I sincerely doubt he’d turned to Philip, but he might just be sufficiently annoyed to go and plot some mischief by way of revenge.’

‘Has Richard done anything about it?

‘Not yet from what Baldwin says. He’s decided John probably isn’t guilty, but he’s not entirely sure. Why would he leave court unless he had something to fear? If ever our sons start behaving like Richard and John, I will drown them, I swear I will.’ He heaved a deep sigh. ‘Richard is going on campaign in the Limousin to work off his anger and hunt for gold to fill his coffers. Some vassal of Aymer de Lusignan has dug up an ancient hoard on his lands and he’s refusing to give it up. Richard needs funds and the idea of a spring campaign to make the sap rise appeals to him.’ He picked up one of Mahelt’s poupées, the one of himself as a warrior in the green and yellow surcoat and eyed it thoughtfully.

Isabelle’s stomach lurched. ‘You are not going with him?’

‘No, I’m still due to sit on the Bench of Justices with Hubert Walter at Vaudreil. De Braose, de Burgh and Mercadier are attending on Richard. He says John can wait until his return…I’m not sure he can, but it’s a decision for Richard’s cup, not mine.’ He put aside the poupée in the surcoat and picked up the one of himself in court garb of red twill embroidered with silver thread. ‘Jesu, another tunic,’ he said with a shake of his head, making it clear which of the two figures he would rather be. ‘I am in danger of becoming a fop.’

Isabelle’s heart lightened with relief that King Richard was not summoning him on yet another campaign. ‘Sybilla made it for her. She’s so quick and skilled with a needle that it takes her no time.’ She lowered he voice and added, ‘Sybilla thinks she may be with child.’

‘So that’s what you were gossiping about when I came in?’

She smiled demurely. ‘More or less.’

He grunted with amusement. ‘Lady Elizabeth has a loud voice,’ he said. ‘It is good news for them. Jean will be pleased.’ He rose to his feet and stretched. Isabelle was glad to see the tension had gone out of him, glad too that he had come to her to ease and share his burden. Not all marriages were thus.

‘I suppose if I am leaving for Vaudreil on the morrow I had better find my two eldest sons. I promised them a jousting lesson.’ A regretful expression crossed his face. ‘It doesn’t seem a moment since I was their age and my father was teaching me my sword strokes at the pell.’

‘While doubtless your mother looked on with her heart in her mouth.’

‘Not in the least. She knew the only way I was going to make my way in the world was by learning to use the tools of my trade. Besides, she had already had her moment of anguish when I was five years old and King Stephen almost hanged me from a gibbet.’

Isabelle shuddered. Whenever William mentioned the episode from his infancy when King Stephen had taken him hostage for his father’s good behaviour, she felt cold. His father had gone back on his word and Stephen had threatened to string William up in full view of the besieged garrison. ‘And no surprise. If any man tried to do that to one of ours, I would bar his way with a naked sword in my hand,’ she said with intensity.

He said wryly, ‘I do believe you would, my love. I know she never forgave my father for telling King Stephen to go on and hang me – that he had the anvils and hammers to get more and better sons than the one he lost.’

Indignation shone in Isabelle’s eyes. ‘And I would use my naked sword to ensure that his boasts about hammers and anvils were short-lived indeed. If I had been wed to him, I would have killed him.’

He gave a humourless smile. ‘I think my mother came close to it on occasion. He lived very close to the edge….died in his bed though, and of old age.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘Don’t look so worried. No one is going to take our sons as hostages.’ Leaning past her, he picked up the representation of Isabelle from Mahelt’s collection of poupées. ‘New clothes for you as well, I see.’ He pursed his lips in assessment. ‘I like the cloak.’

‘It’s Irish plaid,’ Isabelle said, eyeing him.

‘I noticed – even if you think I don’t know anything about Ireland When Richard returns from his campaign I’ll ask his leave to visit Leinster. You have waited long enough - if I am being fair too long.’

Isabelle stared at him. Her heart kicked, then soared with elation. She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him on the mouth. ‘Thank you!’ she gasped, ‘thank you!’

Grinning, he squeezed her waist. ‘I intend to thoroughly exploit your gratitude,’ he said. ‘Be warned.’

She watched him leave the room, his tread buoyant now that he had shared his burden with her, then she turned back to her women, her face flushed and her eyes alight.

Elizabeth Avenel was waiting to pounce. ‘Jesu, I see what you mean about him only having to look at you and you quicken,’ she quipped. ‘You look like a woman who has just been thoroughly pleasured.’

Isabelle laughed and clapped her hands. ‘I have. ‘We’re going to Leinster!’

The expression on lady Elizabeth’s face was priceless.
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"An extraordinary, wonderful true story...I really felt that I had walked with William Marshal and that my own life was enriched." Richard Lee: Founder of the Historical Novel Society

Extract from SHIELDS OF PRIDE

Extract from SHIELDS OF PRIDE


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CHAPTER 1

Summer 1173

Swearing through his teeth, Joscelin de Gael drew rein at the head of his mercenary troop and scowled at the covered baggage wain that was slewed across the Clerkenwell road, blocking the way. He had been in the saddle since dawn. It was late afternoon now, had been raining all day, and the comfort of his father’s London house was still five miles away on the other side of the obstruction.

An assortment of knights and men-at-arms surrounded the wain like witnesses clustering around a fresh corpse. A man was crouched, examining a damaged wheel. His cloak was trimmed with sable, his boots were of red leather and the horse his squire held was clean-limbed and glossy. A handful of women huddled together, anonymous in mantles and hoods and watched the men from beneath the dubious shelter of an ash tree overhanging the road.

Dismounting, Joscelin tossed his reins to his own squire and approached the crippled wain. The soldiers stiffened, hands descending to sword hilts and fingers tightening upon spear shafts. The crouching man stood up and his gaze narrowed as he recognized Joscelin.

Joscelin eyed Giles de Monstsorrel with similar disfavour. The baron was distantly related to the Earl of Leicester, and thus considered himself a man of high standing. He viewed Joscelin, the bastard of a warrior who had carved his own nobility by the sword, as dung beneath his boots. They had encountered each other occasionally on the French tourney circuits, but no amity had sprung from these meetings, Montsorrel not being the kind to forgive being bowled from the saddle on the end of a blunted jousting lance.

Forced by circumstance to be civil, Montsorrel gave Joscelin an icy nod which Joscelin returned in the same spirit before fixing his attention on the broken wheel. Not just broken, he could see now, but with a hopelessly shattered rim. ‘You haven’t a hope in hell of cobbling a repair here,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to hire another cart from the nearest village. Clerkenwell isn’t far.’ He walked slowly around the stricken wain, examining it from all angles before halting in front of the three sturdy cobs still harnessed in line between the shafts. ‘How much weight do you carry?’

‘None of your business!’ Montsorrel snapped.

‘Oh, but it is,’ Joscelin said. ‘I cannot bring my own wain past while yours is obstructing the road. If it’s not too heavy, I’d be more than willing to help you drag it to one side.’

Montsorrel glared. ‘You think I’m going to stand aside for hired scum like you?’

Joscelin thumbed the side of his jaw. Suddenly he was very aware of the pressure of his sword hilt against his hip. ‘Hired scum?’ he repeated softly.

One of the women murmured to her companions and, detaching herself from their group, stepped forward to place herself between the two men. She faced Joscelin, forcing him to divert his attention from Montsorrel. She had delicate features and unfathomable grey-blue eyes that held his for a moment before she turned to indicate the broken wain.

‘Messire, by the time we have found a wheelwright or hired another cart, the city gates will have closed for the night.’ She hesitated. ‘Forgive me, but I notice your own wain is larger than ours and but lightly laden. I am sure if you lent it to us of a kindness, my husband would compensate you for your inconvenience.’

Joscelin stared at her in surprise. He was accustomed to being propositioned by women, but in different social circumstances and for different reasons it had to be said, and never in front of their husbands. She looked down, a flush brightening her cheekbones. The rain continued to fall in a steady, cloth-soaking drizzle.

‘Linnet!’ Montsorrel’s anger diverted from Joscelin to his wife. ‘Do you dare to interfere?’

She flinched, but her voice was steady as she turned to him. ‘I was thinking of your son, my lord. He must not catch a chill.’

Montsorrel cast an irritated glare in the direction of the other women. Joscelin looked, too. One of the bundled figures under the tree was a small child. A little hand was held in the grasp of a nursemaid and Joscelin received the impression of wide, frightened eyes and a snub nose set in a wan, small face. Amid anger at finding himself trapped because he could not for shame refuse the woman, he felt a thread of pity for the infant.

Montsorrel said stiffly to Joscelin, ‘Very well, you’re a mercenary. I’ll pay you the rate to deliver the goods to my house.’

Joscelin bit back the urge to retort that he was not so much of a mercenary that he would allow the likes of Giles de Montsorrel to buy his obedience. ‘I’ll not serve you,’ he said derisively, ‘but your lady did speak of compensation. Perhaps we can reach an agreement.’

Montsorrel clenched his fists and looked as if he might burst.

‘No?’ Shrugging, Joscelin started to turn away.

‘Christ’s Wounds, just get on with it!’ Montsorrel snarled.

Joscelin gave a sarcastic flourish and sauntered away to instruct his men to strip and reload his own sound wain.

Linnet de Montsorrel rejoined the women. Her stomach was queasy with fear. Everything had its price, and she knew she would have to pay hers later when she and Giles were alone.

‘I’m cold, Mama,’ her son whimpered, and abandoned his nurse to cling to Linnet’s damp skirts.

She stooped to chafe his hands, noting with concern that his eyes were heavy and his complexion pale with exhaustion. ‘It won’t be long now, sweetheart,’ she comforted. She folded him beneath the protection of her cloak like a mother hen spreading her wing over a chick.

‘Madam, I know that man.’ Ella, her personal maid, jutted her chin toward the mercenary whom Linnet had just shamed into helping them. ‘It’s Joscelin de Gael, son of William Ironheart.’

‘Oh?’ Linnet knew of William Ironheart by reputation. They said he was so hard, he pissed nails, that he was stubborn, embittered, and dangerous to cross. Linnet studied de Gael. ‘How do you come to be acquainted with such a one?’ she asked in a neutral tone.

Ella blushed. ‘I only know him by sight, madam. He was at my sister’s wedding in the spring as a friend of the groom. They were both garrison soldiers at Nottingham castle.’

Linnet assessed de Gael thoughtfully. She judged him to be in his late twenties. ‘What is he doing in the mercenary trade if he’s Ironheart’s son?’

‘He’s only Lord William’s bastard. His mother was a common camp follower so rumour says.’ Ella folded her arms, hugging her shawl against her body. ‘Apparently when de Gael’s mother died in childbed, Lord William went mad with grief and tried to kill himself, but his sword shattered and he was only wounded. After that, men started calling him Ironheart because his breast was stronger than the steel. I’d say Brokenheart was more appropriate.’ Ella’s gaze returned to their reluctant rescuer, who was now standing back from the wain, one hand on his sword hilt, the other pushing his rain-soaked hair off his forehead.

Linnet, all romantic notions literally knocked out of her head by six years of marriage to Giles, said nothing, her feeling one of irritation rather than pity. She knew what it was like to be usurped by another woman in your own hall, and how much that other woman’s status also depended on arrogant masculine whim.

Two panting men-at-arms struggled out of the broken wain carrying a large, ironbound chest between them.

‘Make haste!’ Giles snapped, and Linnet saw him scowl at de Gael, who was eyeing the chest with open speculation.

‘I see now the kind of weight you carry,’ de Gael remarked. ‘Small wonder that your wheel broke.’ In his own good time withdrew his scrutiny and approached the women.

Linnet retreated behind downcast lids, knowing she would be the one to suffer if de Gael chose to take his impertinence further. Giles might think twice about assaulting a man of the mercenary’s undoubted ability, but no such restraint would prevent him from beating her. She heard the men puffing and swearing as their strongbox was manoeuvred into de Gael’s wain. Giles’s voice was querulous with impatience and bad temper, and inwardly she quailed.

De Gael crouched on his heels and gently peeled aside a wet fold of her cloak. ‘And who have we here?’ he asked.

‘My son, Robert.’ She flashed a rapid glance at her husband. He was still occupied in ranting at his guards, but in a moment he would turn round.

De Gael did not miss her look. ‘You have a high courage, my lady,’ he murmured. ‘I won’t make it harder for you than it already is.’ Plucking the child from beneath her cloak, he swept him up in his arms. ‘Come my young soldier, there’s a dry corner prepared especially for you in my cart.’

Linnet stretched her arms toward her son with an involuntary cry. Robert peered at his mother over de Gael’s shoulder, his eyes wide with shock, but the move had been so sudden that he had no time to cry, and by the time he did let out a wail of protest, he was being placed on a dry blanket in the good wain with a lambskin rug tucked up to his chin.

Linnet, following hard on de Gael’s heels, found herself taken by the elbow and helped up beside her son. Robert stopped crying and began to knead the lamb’s wool like a nursing kitten. Linnet stroked his brow and looked at de Gael. ‘You have my gratitude,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

The mercenary shrugged ‘No sense in keeping him out in that downpour when he can be warm in here. I expect your husband’s compensation to reflect my care of his goods.’ He started to withdraw. ‘There is room for your women, too, my lady. I’ll tell them, shall I?’

Rain pattered on the roof of the wain. She looked out through a canvas arch on a tableau of hazy green and brown. The smell of her wet garments clogged her nostrils. De Gael walked across to her maids. He moved with a wolf’s ungainly elegance, and she did not think that the similarity stopped there. And yet he had been considerate beyond the bounds of most men of her acquaintance.

On the death of her father at nine years old, she had become a ward of the Earl of Leicester, who had sold her marriage to his kinsman, Giles de Montsorrel, heir to the estates and castle of Rushcliffe. She had been wed at thirteen, as soon as her monthly bleeds were an established fact.

Linnet eyed her husband and felt queasy at the sight of his fists clenched around his belt. She had tried to be a good wife to him but he was difficult to please and she dwelt in a constant state of trepidation, wondering from which angle of his nature the next small cruelty would come. He always found a scapegoat to blame; nothing was ever his fault, and in the household that scapegoat was usually her.

Behind her, at the other end of the wain, their soldiers were depositing the clothing coffers with much bumping and cursing. Robert’s eyelids drooped and closed. Linnet leaned her head against her son’s, her arm around him, and wearily shut her own eyes.