Ralf shrugged. ‘If you were to have dressed him fittingly, it would not have been like this but in his oldest tunic and cloak,’ he said.
Agnes stared at him, uncomprehending. Ralf shook his head. ‘No matter,’ he said. ‘You have done your best.’ He kissed her cheek.
Agnes started to speak, but broke off abruptly as the sound of sword on sword and a choked-off scream twisted up the stairs from the guard post at the foot of the tower.
Drawing his own blade, Ralf strode to the door and gestured one of his knights to go down and investigate. The man hurried out. Almost immediately the occupants of the room heard the clash of weapons and another cry. Ralf ’s man backed up the stairs and staggered into the room, blood pouring from his shoulder.
‘Bar the door!’ he gasped at Ralf. ‘Your brother and his men are loose and they’re armed!’ As he uttered the warning, he kicked the door shut and leaned against it.
White with shock, Ralf stooped to pick up the drawbar leaning against the wall. Seeing the hope of freedom, and then that hope about to be lost, Linnet ran to stop him from pushing the plank through the iron brackets. She blocked his way with her body, her arms outstretched. Ralf shoved her violently away. She landed heavily on her side, bruising hip and shoulder, but rolled over on the straw and grasped a handful of his long tunic. Ralf raised the plank and struck her on the side of the head with its corner.
Black stars burst in front of Linnet’s eyes. Her grip weakened and Ralf tore free. Through swimming eyes she saw him lift the draw bar to slot it into position just as the door was smashed wide by Joscelin and Guy de Montauban.
The wounded knight was thrown to the floor and rolled back and forth, clutching his shoulder. Ralf dropped the wood and leaped backwards with the speed of a bounding deer. The sword he had sheathed while he manipulated the draw bar he now snatched from his scabbard in a rapid flash of steel as he turned in a battle-crouch to face Joscelin.
The run upstairs had winded Joscelin and he was close to the limit of his endurance. He saw Linnet near the door. She struggled to sit up, her mouth working as if she wanted to cry out to him but no sound emerged and she sagged back to the floor. Blood masked one side of her face, staining her wimple and gown. Joscelin’s rage boiled over and, with a howl, he flung himself at Ralf. The blow was made of white-hot fury, mistimed and without control. Ralf parried easily and made a smooth counterstrike, his own breathing calm and deep. The sword edge shrieked upon the ill-fitting mail shirt that Joscelin had purloined from one of the Flemings in the undercroft. He had the Fleming’s sword, too, the hilt worn and slippery in his grasp.
The room filled with the clash and glitter of weapons. The priest sidled quickly out of the door, delicately stepping over Linnet. Ivo allowed himself to be made Guy de Montauban’s prisoner without even a token show of protest.
Ralf ’s strength forced Joscelin backward and Ralf pressed his advantage, using his sword two-handed, swinging it almost as though it were a battle-axe. ‘Side by side in the chapel,’ Ralf panted as he fought Joscelin into a corner. ‘You and our sainted father - wouldn’t that be fitting!’
Joscelin stumbled against a coffer and knew that it must be his last move on earth, but Ralf lost his own footing upon a puddle of green silk that was bunched on the floor and his blow went awry, slicing the coffer instead of Joscelin’s skull. The impetus brought Ralf to his knees, his sword lodged in the wood. Before he could recover and free the blade, Joscelin leaped upon him, bearing him to the ground beneath his weight. The air burst out of Ralf ’s lungs. His head struck the rushes, but he succeeded in landing a knee in Joscelin’s groin, and as Joscelin recoiled Ralf was able to twist free and grasp his sword once more. Both hands to the leather grip, he went all out to take Joscelin.
His sword rang out great hammer blows on Joscelin’s blade as he beat at it, striving to win past the slender bar of steel and cut out Joscelin’s heart. And Joscelin, on the edge of exhaustion, could barely hold him off; his body had taken too much punishment this past night and day to serve him through another bout. His vision started to blur and hot pain seared through his limbs as he parried and defended.
Sensing Joscelin’s weakness, Ralf gathered himself for a final, killing flurry and, in that moment, poised on the brink of his triumph, Martin burst into the room followed by Fulbert the scribe, who was wheezing like a set of bagpipes with the unaccustomed exertion.
‘Soldiers!’ Fulbert gasped out, clutching his side, his face purple. ‘Demanding entry. The seneschal’s just raising the bridge!’
Martin shot between his two brothers. ‘Stop, you have to stop!’ he shrieked, his face white. ‘You can’t kill each other!’
‘Get out of the way, whelp,’ Ralf snarled, his eyes never leaving Joscelin. ‘You heard the scribe,’ he spat. ‘My allies have come. Either we finish this now or you swing on a gibbet for their entertainment. Which is it to be?’
Joscelin stared dully at Ralf. Every nerve and fibre of his body was sodden with exhaustion; there was nothing he wanted to do more than let the weight of his sword hit the floor, but he knew that he would rather die by the grim mercy of a blade, here and now, than by throttling on a rope before a host of witnesses.
‘It will never be finished,’ he said hoarsely and braced his trembling sword arm.
‘Leave me alone!’ Martin yelled, wrenching himself free of his mother as she tried to drag him away from the two men.
Fulbert was twitching with terror but he stepped resolutely forward. ‘You do not understand,’ he wheezed at Ralf. ‘It is the constable of Nottingham who is here and Brien FitzRenard bearing the justiciar’s authority. They are in the bailey even now.’
Ralf ’s face changed. He stared at the scribe in utter disbelief and Fulbert avoided his gaze, backing hastily away.
‘What trickery is this?’ Ralf snarled.
Ivo brushed aside Montauban’s sword and went to the window. Throwing the shutters wide, he stood on tiptoe to look out on the bailey. ‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘It’s the constable and FitzRenard.’ He looked over his shoulder into the room, his expression half-afraid and half-relieved.
Uttering a roar of incandescent rage, Ralf swept Martin aside as if he were no more than a feather and attacked Joscelin, his sword a hacking, slashing blur. Joscelin parried and ducked, was forced backward, pushed and manipulated by Ralf ’s superior stamina until the dark tower stairway was at his back and he could retreat no farther.
‘I’ll send you to hell, you whoreson!’ Ralf ’s lips were drawn back from his teeth in a feral snarl as he brought up the sword.
Joscelin feinted one way, dived the other, and as he hit the floor he yanked at the length of green silk upon which Ralf had been standing. He felt the impact of a heavy blow upon his mail and a searing pain, and saw Ralf struggling to hold his balance on the very edge of the top step. Joscelin scrambled to his knees and clawed for Ralf ’s tunic to try and pull him back into the chamber. The friction of flesh on fabric burned his knuckles and Ralf ’s weight ripped back his fingernails. As Ralf fell, Joscelin was brought down the first stone steps with him, only preventing himself from falling the rest of the way by jamming his feet against the newel post and his spine against the wall.
Time thickened and slowed. Sounds caught in it were distorted and hollow. The scrape of armour grinding on stone, the thud, thump of a body rolling over and over. The scent of flowers. Silence.
Joscelin moved gingerly, his limbs feeling as if they were made of hot lead. There was pain across his shoulder and back. He could not feel the trickle of blood, but he knew that the sword must have split the hauberk from the very strength of the impact. He would have heavy bruising at the least and probably a couple of cracked bones. And Ralf ?
Like an old man he inched down the stairs to his brother. The red-gold hair gleamed in the torchlight. When he turned him, so did the blood as it trickled from ears and nostrils. Ralf ’s eyes were open, but there was only the thinnest ring of gold-flecked brown to be seen. The rest of the iris showed only the blackness of a lost soul.
‘Christ Jesu,’ Joscelin whispered and bowed his head. And behind him, he heard Agnes’ hoarse scream.
38
Linnet felt cold moisture on her brow and heard Maude’s comforting murmur. There was the softness of a bracken mattress beneath her and feather bolsters supporting her head. Farther into the room, she thought she could hear the low rumble of masculine conversation.
She dared to open her eyes. Pain throbbed hard at one temple and the rest of her skull ached in dull sympathy. Through blurred eyes she stared around and wondered where she was. These were not her own chambers at Rushcliffe but neither were they Agnes’ rooms. The walls were austere, whitewashed stone that hurt her eyes. For a moment she wondered if she was in a monastery, but there was not even the adornment of a crucifix to relieve the barrenness. Beneath her fingers was a thick blanket of the plaid weave common to the Scots border, the kind that she and Joscelin had on their own bed.
‘Where am I?’ she whispered and discovered that her mouth was sticky and dry.
Maude leaned over her. ‘You’re awake at last,’ she said with relief. ‘I was beginning to worry. A day and a night you’ve been asleep. You’re at Arnsby, in my brother’s rooms.’
Linnet tried to swallow but started to cough. ‘Thirsty,’ she managed to croak out, the pain rippling through her head with a vengeance. Maude helped her to sit and held a cup of watered wine to her lips.
‘Slowly, my dear, slowly,’ she soothed.
Linnet sipped and lay back against the bolsters. Her vision continued to clear and blur. She put her hand to the pain at her temple and touched gingerly. Her fingers encountered clipped hair and the thick hardness of dried blood.
‘The leech said it was best to let it heal in the open air.’ Maude said.
Linnet frowned. ‘I remember now; Ralf hit me with the door-bar when I tried to stop him from closing the door.’ Her eyes flew wide and she pulled herself to a full sitting position. ‘And then he and Joscelin were fighting and Joscelin was losing. I tried to move but I couldn’t. I don’t remember anything except Ralf and Joscelin and that open doorway . . .’ She pressed her fingers to her lips, feeling sick.
‘It’s all right, my love, don’t you worry.’ Maude enfolded Linnet in one of her smothering embraces, but not before Linnet had seen the grief brimming in the woman’s eyes. Struggling, she fought herself out of Maude’s arms.
‘What happened? Tell me!’
Maude dashed one pudgy hand across her eyes. ‘Joscelin is safe,’ she said in a quivering voice. ‘Never think that he isn’t. Indeed, I will fetch him to tell you himself. I am upset for my brother, that is all . . . for the tragedy.’ She gave a loud sniff. ‘William and Ralf both. I know that he deserved it but he was still my nephew. And Agnes has not spoken a word since, just lies on her bed, her face all twisted to one side. She had a seizure, you know, the poor soul.’
‘Ralf is dead?’ Linnet’s head spun.
‘He fell down the stairs while they were fighting and cracked open his skull. We arrived moments after it happened. William’s seneschal opened the gates to us when he saw the justiciar’s writ - he had no choice. I almost feel sorry for the poor man. Conan and Brien FitzRenard were the first into the keep and they found Ralf dead and Joscelin collapsed on the stairs to Agnes’ rooms.’
Linnet bit her lip, trying to remember. Her mind was like an autumn scene with areas of drifting fog changing the landscape from moment to moment. ‘But how did you know to come?’
‘I was on my way here and decided to stop at Rushcliffe for the night. That young red-haired Scotsman of yours, Malcolm, told me that William was dreadfully ill with a deep sword wound and that you and Joscelin had taken him to Arnsby. Then the messenger came with your cry for help, so we set off straight away. Apparently William’s scribe used to be yours and took his life in his hands to send out the messages.’
Linnet gave a tremulous smile. ‘I thought I had failed with him. I asked him to help me, but he would not meet my eyes when he said he would see what he could do. I will have to go to him and be humble now.’
‘He is rather basking in his glory,’ Maude admitted. She patted Linnet’s hand and then looked round and rose to her feet as Joscelin approached the bedside. His eyes were all for Linnet and Maude tactfully made her excuses and left. The kiss she bestowed on her nephew’s stubbled cheek before she departed was affectionate and understanding, her embrace for Linnet tender.
When she had gone, Linnet and Joscelin looked at each other then, in a sudden simultaneous move, were in each other’s arms, kissing, holding tight. ‘Holy Virgin,’ Linnet sobbed, ‘I truly thought you were going to die!’
‘So did I,’ he muttered into the hair on her good side. ‘If it had not been for Ivo, I would have done.’
‘Ivo!’
He drew back and showed her the blistered weals on his hands. ‘Ivo threw a rope down into the oubliette so that I could climb out. He says that it was the only rope on which he wanted to see me swing.’
‘I thought he hated you.’
‘Not as much as he loves the mortal state of his soul. Fraternal rivalry is one matter. Cold-blooded murder is another.’
Linnet shivered and pressed her cheek against his tunic, savouring a closeness she thought she had lost. ‘And now Ivo is lord of Arnsby?’
‘Not for long.’
She raised her head and looked quickly into his tired, unshaven face. ‘You do not mean to dispute with him?’
‘No. He says that he intends taking the cross and that, providing he can have Papa’s hunting lodge and manor house near Melton, he’ll pass over his right in Martin’s favour.’ He stroked her hair. ‘It’s not as strange as it sounds. Ivo’s always trotted around in someone else’s shadow. He does not know how to stand in the light.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I want to go home to Rushcliffe, I want to see Robert and sleep with you at my side for a week.’ He paused, his hand clasped over hers, and added quietly, ‘I want to forget. Why do we always want the impossible?’