Shields of Pride by Elizabeth Chadwick Page B

away to pace the floor before she was tempted to seize a pillow and press it over Giles’s face. She clenched her fists and halted as she reached the wall of whitewashed dung and plaster. Outside, the shutters rattled as a storm wind tried to gain entry, while within herself a storm fought to escape. ‘Jesu,’ she whispered, closing her eyes.
    Giles groaned her name and she returned quickly to his bedside. He tossed his head, moaning softly in the grip of a dream induced by the poppy in wine she had given him. She laid a calming hand across his forehead but his eyes jerked wide open and fixed on her, the pupils black pinpoints in the fogged blue irises.
    ‘The strongbox!’ he bubbled, and seized her wrist in a grip that was still frighteningly strong.
    ‘Lie still, my lord,’ she soothed. ‘You must conserve your strength.’
    His grip tightened painfully. ‘The strongbox . . .’ he repeated through bloodstained teeth. ‘Give it . . . to Leicester.’ He fell back against the pillows, breath rasping. His grip slackened. She snatched back her wrist and rubbed it, her own breathing loud with distress. If she permitted Leicester to take their coin, she would beggar her son’s inheritance for another man’s glory. She could not do it and yet, if young Henry’s rebellion was successful, she would face terrible repercussions for denying his cause valuable funds.
    ‘How does he fare, madam?’
    Stifling a cry she spun to face Hubert de Beaumont. Her knees almost buckled with terror. Beaumont was squat, but powerful. His ugly tenacity had always reminded her of a bull-baiting dog. ‘My husband needs rest,’ she managed to say and leaned against the wall for support.
    Beaumont considered her closely and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. ‘A bad business. The horse coper’s in the stocks and he’ll be lucky to escape the gibbet, selling a killer like that. He must have known the brute had that trick.’ Advancing to the bed, he leaned over the dying man.
    Linnet struggled for composure. ‘I beg you not to disturb him,’ she said.
    Beaumont straightened and looked at her. ‘As soon as I have possession of the silver your husband promised to Lord Leicester for his Normandy expedition, I’ll leave you both in peace.’ He removed a sealed parchment from the pouch on his belt. ‘Here’s my writ of authorization.’
    The Earl of Leicester’s seal dangled on a plaited cord, heavy with the weight of authority and obligation - far too heavy for her to accept into her own hands. ‘My husband said nothing to me of such a promise. I cannot give you what you ask.’
    Hubert’s brows drew together across the bridge of his nose. ‘Why should Giles have told you?’ he dismissed. ‘This is men’s business. You would do well to obey.’
    Linnet clasped her hands. Her eyes widened with innocent distress. ‘You are right, this is men’s business and I am unable to deal with it. Perhaps when Giles has improved—’
    ‘Improved, my arse, he’s as good as a corpse!’ Beaumont scoffed. ‘Lord Leicester wants the silver.’ His glance flickered to the money chest beside the bed.
    Linnet set her jaw. ‘My lord Leicester will have to wait on the justiciar’s yeasay,’ she said, and going to the chest sat down upon it.
    Giles made a strangling sound as he strove to sit up. Beaumont’s eyes bulged. In two strides he had reached the strongbox, seized her arm and flung her aside. ‘Where’s the key?’ he snarled.
    ‘I don’t know.’ She rubbed her bruised arm.
    Beaumont turned to the bed. ‘Key?’ he demanded of the choking Giles, who garbled his wife’s name and pointed an accusing finger.
    Linnet slowly backed away from Beaumont until her spine struck the wall and she could retreat no farther.
    Beaumont’s arm flashed out and he seized her round the neck. ‘Where is it, you whore?’ His thumb pressed against her windpipe.
    Her breath crowing in her throat, Linnet struggled but his grip was too