Shields of Pride Read Online Free PDF Page B

embellishment.
    ‘I already have a commission,’ Joscelin replied. ‘I’m not so poor that I cannot choose a decent paymaster.’
    ‘Oh ho!’ Ralf gave a mocking grin. ‘Living on principles, are we?’
    Ivo laughed nervously. ‘Have you ever known a mercenary with principles?’ His glance sidled between Ralf and Joscelin and anticipation gleamed through his sandy lashes.
    ‘You wouldn’t know a principle, Ivo, if it walked up to you and bit you on the backside,’ Joscelin said with disdain.
    The girl returned with a pitcher and refilled the empty cups at the trestle with rough red wine. Ralf caught her wrist and swung her round on to his lap. She squealed but did not resist as his arm encircled her waist and his hand took liberties upwards.
    ‘So you’re already commissioned?’ Ralf asked.
    ‘To the justiciar until Michaelmas.’ Joscelin took a gulp of the wine.
    Ralf fondled the girl’s breasts. ‘You reckon you’re going to live that long?’
    ‘Longer than you.’ Joscelin swept a contemptuous gaze around the crowded trestles. ‘If you think this expedition to Normandy is the easy way to glory, then your brains must dwell in your arse.’
    Ivo sniggered.
    ‘Don’t judge me by your own baseborn abilities,’ Ralf growled. ‘What would you know of brains?’ Ralf ’s focus suddenly altered and fixed on the heavily set man easing past their trestle. ‘Hubert.’ He set a detaining arm on the man’s sleeve. ‘Have you met my brother Joscelin?’
    Hubert de Beaumont paused to give Joscelin a brusque nod of acknowledgement. ‘Your face looks familiar,’ he said. ‘Didn’t I see you in Paris at Easter?’
    ‘Try the midsummer joust at Anet last year.’
    Beaumont frowned. His lips moved, repeating Joscelin’s words, and his expression suddenly changed. ‘Yes, I remember.’ His tone was not altogether complimentary. He turned back to Ralf. ‘He’s your brother, you say?’
    ‘Only my half-brother,’ Ralf replied and added with malicious delight, relishing each word, ‘He’s my father’s bastard out of a tourney whore who’d had more lances in her target than an old quintain shield by the time she came to his bed.’
    The serving girl screamed as she was sent flying and the brothers hit the trestle, Joscelin uppermost, fist raised. Cups flew in all directions, their contents splattering far and wide. The pitcher crashed on its side, bleeding a lake of wine across the scrubbed oak. The brothers rocked for a moment on the board, the red Anjou soaking like a huge bloodstain into Ralf ’s tunic, and then they crashed to the floor, rolling amid the rushes.
    Open-mouthed, Hubert de Beaumont stared. Ivo brushed wine from his tunic with the palm of one hand and shifted his position the better to watch the brawl, his complexion flushed with glee.
    Ralf came uppermost, his hand flashing to his dagger-hilt. Nine inches of greased steel sparkled free. Joscelin brought up his knee and kicked hard, hurling Ralf back towards the fire pit. Ralf sprawled his head, almost striking a hearthstone, but he recovered swiftly, regained his feet and attacked. Joscelin wove under the slashing assault and again thrust Ralf backward. His own hand streaked to his dagger, closed on the leather grip, then stopped, holding hard, for Ralf lay where he had landed and a soldier was crushing a booted foot down upon Ralf ’s wrist.
    Joscelin recognized Brien FitzRenard of Ravenstow, one of de Luci’s retainers - a knight skilled in both reconnaisance and diplomacy. He was tall and powerfully built with exquisitely barbered blond hair and shrewd grey eyes surrounded by fine weather-lines.
    ‘Enough,’ FitzRenard said and stooped to remove the offending weapon from Ralf ’s hand. He looked at Joscelin, his gaze irritated, but not unfriendly. ‘Best if you leave now before anything uglier develops.’ His voice, like his movements, was measured without being in the least slow.
    Joscelin glanced round the room. A low hum