‘I apologize,’ she said to Joscelin. ‘Your aunt will be most welcome if she will come.’
His eyes remained guarded but his mouth softened a little. He bowed to her, crossed his breast to the priest and left. She heard his footsteps clattering down the stairs, as Giles’s had done only yesterday and would never do again.
8
It was midmorning when Joscelin had the dream. He was riding through a forest of mature hazel and birch trees, dusty sunlight diffusing through the foliage, turning the world a luminous green-gold. He could hear birdsong, the drone of bees and the chock of a woodsman’s axe muted by distance.
A woman was riding beside him. Breaca, he thought at first, but when she turned to speak to him her eyes were not brown but a quiet blue-grey and filled with a world of sad experience. Behind them his troop escorted a coffin on which there was neither lid nor pall. Open to the air, Giles de Montsorrel stared up at the green lacework of branches with dry, dead eyes. Initially Joscelin thought that the corpse was wearing a hauberk but then he realized, his scalp crawling, that Giles was clad in a mesh of silver pennies. The coins flashed and slithered and Joscelin felt a scream gathering in his throat as the corpse slowly started to sit up. The linen jaw bandage slipped from its anchoring and Giles’s mouth laughed open.
The woman spoke anxiously to Joscelin. Struck dumb with horror, he couldn’t respond. The birds ceased to sing and the flash of sun on steel in the trees ahead caught the corner of his eye. Too late he realized he had ridden into an ambush. Even while the thought staggered through his brain, the attack was launched. His shield was still on its long strap at his back, his sword still in its scabbard, when the bright blade of a hand axe took him square in the chest. He screamed his denial and woke shivering and drenched in cold sweat. Disoriented, he stared at the smoke-blackened rafters and the curtain screening his pallet from the main room. The clatter and bustle of a busy domestic household rang in his ears together with the fading echo of his cry.
Sitting up, he pressed his face into his palms and shuddered. The dream had been horribly real, and the fading images still held their colours and emotions. A blinding pain thumped behind his eyes.
The curtain parted and Stephen entered the tiny alcove, bearing a horn cup of watered wine. ‘Justiciar de Luci is waiting to see you,’ he announced as he presented the drink.
Joscelin took a tentative swallow and his stomach churned. He stifled a retch.
‘Is something wrong, sir?’
Joscelin fumbled for his undergown and tunic. They were still creased and damp from last night’s rain. His body ached with bruises from his fight with Ralf and the whip welt on his face was throbbing. ‘I slept badly and I can do without my father and the justiciar this morning.’ He caught his breath with pain as he raised his arm to don his shirt. Stephen made haste to help him but, even so, by the time he had finished dressing, Joscelin was pale and sweating. He pressed his hands over his eyes for a moment.
‘Go and ask one of the maids for a willow bark potion before my skull splits in two,’ he said, swallowing hard.
The youth left at a run. Joscelin’s own gait was a slow shamble as he followed him into the hall. A hound scented the fear still lingering on his body and growled softly. He ignored the dog and the gossiping serving women who pretended to be busy while he passed and then returned to their chatter. Two priests and a clerk sat at a trestle, breaking their fast on bread and fat bacon. A scribe had set up his lectern on the dais and was writing steadily. Joscelin walked gingerly to the hearth, trying not to jolt his precarious stomach and even more precarious skull. Richard de Luci and his father were deep in conversation but, when they saw him approaching, they broke off and looked quickly at each other like a pair of conspirators.
‘You wished to speak to me, my lord?’ Joscelin said, hoping that de Luci was not going to procrastinate.
De Luci looked Joscelin up and down with concern. ‘It has been a rough night,’ he said.
Joscelin winced a reply and rubbed his aching forehead. He had not finished reporting to de Luci until after midnight, and by the time he had come off duty and arrived at his father’s house the matins bells had been ringing in the dawn.
‘Leicester’s claiming the blood-right to be the warden of Montsorrel’s heir,’ de Luci said. ‘He served me notice at first light and I told him that the Crown’s right was greater and that either myself or the king would appoint the right man to the post in our own good time.’
Joscelin struggled to concentrate. His wits had not gone wool-gathering - they were the wool itself: grey, fuzzy and tangled. De Luci was looking at him expectantly. What was he supposed to say? ‘What about the silver?’ he asked.
‘Ah, yes, the silver.’ Smile creases deepened at the corners of de Luci’s eyes. ‘Lord Leicester was not slow to raise the subject either, nor the fact that when his representative went to the Montsorrel house last night to make enquiries he was summarily seen off the premises by one of my men. “A rustic trouble-causing oaf ” you were described to me.’
Joscelin avoided de Luci’s sparkling gaze and wished himself a hundred miles away and dreamlessly asleep. ‘Hubert de Beaumont’s business was not legitimate,’ he said. ‘The only reason I did not arrest him was that Lady de Montsorrel pleaded for leniency.’
‘Oh, I applaud your diligence,’ said the justiciar. ‘That coin no more belongs to Leicester than does the boy’s wardship and I have no intention of letting it go to Normandy.’
‘Just how much is there?’ Ironheart asked curiously. ‘Have you had a chance to find out?’
‘Indeed yes, Linnet de Montsorrel was very cooperative. Including the plate, I would say about two hundred marks.’
Ironheart whistled through his chipped teeth. ‘That’s as much as the inheritance relief on two baronies.’
‘I confess I did not realize the extent of the sum myself until I opened the chest.’ De Luci thoughtfully rubbed his chin. ‘Joscelin, I want you and your troop to escort the widow and her household to the keep at Rushcliffe. You are to remain there as acting castellan and hold the place in the name of the king until you receive further orders. The strongbox will travel with you since it is the boy’s inheritance and you’ll need monies to run the place. You can cast accounts, can’t you?’ It was a rhetorical question, for de Luci was fully aware of Joscelin’s abilities. ‘I am told that the coffin will be ready the day after tomorrow.’ There was an expectant silence. Joscelin knew the justiciar was waiting for him to reply decisively and with gratitude but in his mind’s eye he was seeing the open coffin of his dream and feeling very sick indeed.
De Luci looked at him and frowned. ‘Of course, if the commission is not to your taste, I can always find someone else.’
Joscelin struggled to focus. ‘My lord, I’ll be pleased to fulfill any commission that you lay to me,’ he said sluggishly. ‘Have I your leave to go and make preparations?’
De Luci stared at him in open amazement. ‘What in God’s name is wrong with you? Anyone would have thought I’d kicked you in the teeth, not offered your career a substantial hoist.’
‘It’s not that, my lord. Truly, I’m grateful . . .’ Joscelin swallowed jerkily.
Ironheart said quickly, ‘Let the boy go, Richard, before he’s sick all over your boots. You’ll get more sense out of him later, I promise.’
The justiciar frowned but allowed Ironheart his way. ‘Very well,’ he said and dismissed Joscelin with a curt nod. ‘I will speak with you at dinner. Best get yourself pulled together by then.’
Hardly bothering to bow, the young man staggered from the room.
De Luci turned to Ironheart. ‘If he’s going to let me down, then I’ll allot the task elsewhere,’ he said grimly.
‘He won’t fail you,’ Ironheart replied. ‘What you saw now was an affliction he gets sometimes - like Becket used to. A sickness comes upon him and a headache worse than anything you’d get out of a flagon of bad wine. All he needs to do is sleep it off. His mother was the same.’
De Luci shook his head, not entirely convinced. ‘Nevertheless, he seemed disturbed at the command.’
‘That’s because he’s attracted to the widow and knows that if he abandoned his honour and the trust you have in him, he could have her out from beneath your nose and her fortune, too.’
‘He told you this?’ De Luci’s nostrils flared.
William laughed sourly. ‘Christ, my sons never tell me anything! But I have eyes in my head. Joscelin’s not like Ralf to rut all over the town. He’ll do without rather than take anything just for the sake of sheathing his sword. Your young widow appeals to him and she’s only just beyond his reach. If he stole out on a limb, he might just touch her.’
De Luci stroked his chin. Clever and shrewd was William de Rocher and he loved his bastard son with an intensity he tried not to parade, and didn’t always succeed. De Luci well knew his friend’s vulnerability - and his ambition. He was aiming high for Joscelin, but not hopelessly so given de Luci’s own opinion of the young man.
‘This needs thinking about more deeply than I have time for just now, William,’ he said to give himself a breathing space, then he smiled knowingly. ‘You wouldn’t have planted that notion in my mind unless you thought it had a chance of taking root.’
Ironheart returned the smile and did not attempt to press the matter further. ‘I think we know each other well enough by now,’ he said.
9
Stripped to the waist, Ralf worked at putting an edge on his sword: smoothing the oiled Lombardy steel over the grindstone, honing out the nicks, brightening the edge until it shone bluish silver like the underbelly of a fish. Honing a blade was something Ralf did well if he was in the mood to be patient and even a professional craftsman would not have bettered his work today.
He blotted his sweating brow on his forearm and paused to rest. The courtyard was bustling for the earl was preparing to leave London for Southampton tomorrow dawn. The girl Aelflin smiled intimately at him across the yard, her arms piled high with linens for the countess Petronilla. Ralf looked in the opposite direction, watching a wain that had become stuck in the muddy wheel ruts by the gateway. Pleasure he had had from her in the stables not an hour since but, as far as he was concerned, the silver penny he had given her was a release from obligation.
The sun disappeared into shadow as Hubert de Beaumont arrived to stand over him. ‘May I?’ he asked and, without waiting for Ralf’s consent, took the bare sword from the latter’s knee and hefted it, testing the balance and then the edge. ‘Excellent,’ he said, then grinned. ‘You could make your fortune as a swordsmith.’
Ralf snorted. ‘Do I look like an artisan?’
Beaumont eyed him up and down. ‘I suppose not. You’re too disreputable by far without half your clothes and sporting that purple eye.’ He returned the sword.
Ralf applied more oil to the stone. He wondered why Beaumont had sought him out. The knight was a seasoned member of Leicester’s mesnie and not given to applying the lard of friendship to newcomers unless he had wheels to grease.
‘That half-brother of yours is fast on his feet for one so tall,’ Beaumont remarked.
Ralf scowled and touched his tender eye socket. ‘I’d have got the better of him if Brien of Ravenstow hadn’t poked his nose where it didn’t belong.’
‘Doubtless you would, but I was thinking of my own tangle with him yesterday evening.’
Ralf laid the sword edge to the grindstone and rasped it across. He almost smiled because, while he might detest Joscelin, there was satisfaction in seeing the de Rocher blood triumph in a fight. ‘What’s your interest in him?’
Beaumont watched the steady rhythm of Ralf’s arm. ‘Lord Leicester wants the Montsorrel silver for our cause and your brother is its guardian.’
‘Ah.’
‘Is he open to bribery?’
The sword sparkled on the grindstone as Ralf choked on mirth. ‘Good Christ, no!’ he spluttered. ‘Why do you think he’s in such high favour with the justiciar? Whatever you offered him would not be enough to make him bend his precious honour. He knows that you are Leicester’s man through and through.’ He scabbarded the sword. ‘The only way you’ll get that silver out of Joscelin is over his dead body.’
Beaumont wrapped his fist around his own sword-hilt. ‘That can be arranged,’ he said, ‘but he is my adversary and I need to know more.’
‘You are taking a risk by asking me.’
‘I don’t think so. I saw the “brotherly love” you have for each other two nights ago. Look, come to the Peacock and we’ll talk over a jug of wine.’ Beaumont jingled the purse lying against his dagger sheathe.
‘Is that by way of a bribe to me?’ Ralf pushed his sweaty hair off his forehead. ‘Do you think I am more easily bought than my brother?’
‘You appear to have finished your work for the moment and you look thirsty.’
Suddenly Ralf smiled, revealing fine white teeth that no chirurgeon’s pincers had ever been near. ‘The Peacock, you said. It just so happens that I am indeed a very thirsty man.’
‘Joscelin’s always been my father’s favourite,’ Ralf said and drew the shape of a dragon in a puddle of spilled wine on the trestle. His other hand propped up his head, which felt far too heavy for his neck. The task of sharpening his sword in the hot yard had made him so dry that he had gulped the first two cups of wine without moderation. The third had followed more slowly, matching pace with Beaumont, and he was now more than halfway down his fourth. ‘I know that if the Arnsby lands were not mine by right of legitimacy, he would give them to Joscelin - his precious do-no-wrong firstborn son.’ A querulous frown appeared between his eyes.
‘You said the other night his mother was a whore.’
‘She was. My father picked her up among the loose women of the army camp during some battle campaign. Supposedly she was a baron’s daughter but no decent woman follows the troops for a livelihood.’ Ralf lifted his cup and gulped. ‘After she died in childbed, my father built a chapel to her memory and endowed a chantry of nuns to sing her praises forever. God’s death, do you know how much it sticks in my craw to see him riding off to visit the place like a damned pilgrim? She wasn’t a saint, she was a witch!’