‘Corbette has a relative in Nottingham who’s a merchant. The goods go to him downriver or on pack ponies once a month. Please, messire, I beg you to be lenient. I’ll serve you faithfully, I swear it!’
‘As well as you served your two previous lords?’ Narrowing his eyes, Joscelin scrutinized the spineless blob at his feet. He had every right to hang him. At the very least he ought to have the fool stripped, flogged and put in the stocks for a week without sustenance, but as he stared an idea came to him, one that might yet save the man from himself. ‘You’re of no use to me,’ he said. ‘For your own safety and my peace of mind, I cannot keep you in this household but I know that my father, William de Rocher, is in sore need of a scribe at Arnsby. He can read and write after a fashion but he’s not fond of the quill and his eyesight is not what it was. You’ll go to him under escort, giving him your full history and a letter of recommendation from me.’
Fulbert gave a wet sniff and looked at Joscelin in abject misery.
‘It’s either that or the gibbet. Make your choice quickly before my patience comes to an end.’
‘Wh—When do I have to leave, my lord?’
‘As soon as you can pack your belongings and gather your family.’
Fulbert sat up. He was still shivering but his tears had ceased.
‘Serve William de Rocher honestly and you’ll have nothing to fear,’ Joscelin said. ‘Go now and, as you value your reprieve, say nothing to anyone.’
Whey-faced, looking as if he were about to be sick, Fulbert bowed out of the room.
Joscelin exhaled through his teeth. He began collecting the scattered tally sticks and replacing them in their drawstring bag with an untoward gentleness that spoke of rigid control.
Linnet picked up the sheet of parchment Joscelin had thrust beneath Fulbert’s nose. ‘I still don’t understand. What do you mean, the undercroft’s empty?’
‘Corbette’s been diverting the keep’s vital supplies elsewhere to his own profit and Fulbert’s been falsifying the accounts to make everything seem normal at first glance. Come, I’ll show you.’
On their way to the undercroft, Joscelin paused in the hall and spoke to two of his off-duty troops who were playing a game of merels. ‘Leave that,’ he said quietly. ‘Go and find the seneschal and bring him to the solar. I want him kept there until I’m ready to deal with him.’
‘What will you do to Corbette?’ Linnet enquired as once more Joscelin kindled his lantern and together they descended the steps into the darkness of the undercroft.
‘String him up,’ Joscelin said. ‘Village or bailey, I haven’t decided yet. Village probably. His corpse will serve notice that I’m not to be duped and that my justice is swiftly meted.’
‘And his wife and daughter?’
‘They’ve aided and abetted him and I don’t want them under my roof. Let them be put out of the keep to make their own way. There are enough troops in Nottingham to assure them of employment and the daughter certainly has talent. As long as I never see them again, I care not.’
They reached the foot of the stairs and he took her arm to guide her into the depths of the undercroft. He was aware of the closeness of her body and felt an echo of yesterday’s havoc ripple through him. It was going to be hard to keep his distance for the required three months.
Raising the lantern on high, he showed her the storeroom: its state of disarray damning evidence of sloppy housekeeping. She clucked her tongue and walked ahead of him, staring round.
‘What about supplies elsewhere?’ she asked him.
‘I’ve included them in my estimations but, even so, we’re dangerously short.’
Drawing her between the pillars, he showed her the wine casks, the salted meats and the grain. ‘See how the barrels are spread out? Close them together and you have next to nothing.’
Linnet lifted her gaze to his. Unspoken between them lay the knowledge that a war was at hand and they were woefully unprepared to face it. No supplies, a sparse demoralized garrison and villagers who were either hostile or indifferent.
Footsteps grated on the undercroft stairs and the light from a torch swirled around the walls. Joscelin turned. ‘Who’s there?’ he demanded.
‘Henry, sire. I knew you was down here; I saw you unlocking the door.’ The servant rounded the corner of the newel post and peered anxiously down. ‘There’s a messenger arrived, says he’s come from the ju—justiciar?’ He stumbled over the last unfamiliar word. ‘My sister’s given him somat to drink and settled him by the fire.’
‘Did he give his name?’
‘Yes, sire - Brien FitzRenard.’ Henry stared around the undercroft, absorbing every detail.
Joscelin nodded and moved towards the stairs. ‘I trust your discretion,’ he said to Henry with an eloquent arch of his brow.
‘I ain’t seen or heard a thing, sire.’ Henry answered blandly. ‘We’re always short o’ supplies this time o’ year.’
FitzRenard had left the bench where Henry’s sister had served him hot wine, and was restlessly prowling the hall. His garments were powdered with dust and his mouth was tight, but when he saw Joscelin he relaxed enough to smile.
‘I’m sorry to take you from your toil.’ He nodded at Joscelin’s tunic.
Glancing down, Joscelin brushed perfunctorily at the cobwebs and crumbs of old mortar festooning his tunic. ‘I’ve been seeking rats in the undercroft - two-legged ones.’
‘Ah.’ FitzRenard nodded. ‘Always a hazard when there hasn’t been anyone capable of hunting them for a while. I wish you good fortune.’
‘What brings you to Rushcliffe?’ Joscelin took the cup of wine that Linnet handed to him.
FitzRenard sighed. ‘You know Robert of Leicester was sailing for Normandy with an aid of money and men for the king? Well, he’s done what we half-suspected he would and turned rebel. He’s ridden straight for his own lands and declared for young Henry. The shore-watch has been alerted, the shire levies are being called up and every baron is required to swear his loyalty to the king. Those who do not are by default rebels and their estates forfeit. I’m riding north with the justiciar’s writ commanding the oaths of fealty and serving notice to stand to arms.’
Joscelin nodded grimly. ‘Anyone who trespasses on these lands will receive the greeting of my sword. Is my father still in London?’
FitzRenard shook his head. ‘Actually we rode part of the way here together; he was escorting his womenfolk back to Arnsby.’ Brien gave Joscelin a shrewd glance. ‘Your brothers were not with him, apart from the little one, and it was more than my life was worth to enquire after them.’
‘They’ve joined Leicester’s rebellion,’ Joscelin said, ‘and you would indeed have risked life and limb asking my father about them.’ He changed the subject. ‘Are you resting here the night or are you bound elsewhere?’
‘I’ve to go on to Newark but I was hoping for a bed and a fresh horse in the morning. My grey’s got a leg strain. I can collect him and reimburse you on the return journey.’ Brien sent a perusing glance around the great hall. ‘I had no inkling of the size of this place. You have landed on your feet indeed.’
‘I have landed’, Joscelin retorted, ‘up to my neck in dung.’
Undeceived, Brien smiled. Despite the complaint, he had heard the proprietorial note in Joscelin’s voice and seen the glance the mercenary had cast at his bride-to-be.
A knight entered the hall from the forebuilding and strode up to their group.
‘Corbette’s gone, sir,’ said Guy de Montauban, breathing hard. ‘The gate guards say he and his family rode out an hour since.’
‘And the guards did not see fit to stop them?’
‘No, sir. They assumed you had ordered Corbette to leave, because all his belongings were loaded on three pack-ponies and all the men knew that there had been strong words between you already.’