Shields of Pride Page 23

  ‘Now then.’ He rubbed his hands, entering the bawdy spirit of the game. ‘To catch me a coney!’

  He felt a push low on his leg and heard Robert’s squeal. The hood smelled of wool and sheep oil and very effectively blocked out the light from the sconces and candles. He tried to blot out the calls and countercalls, the disguised voices. He ignored the pushes and buffets and gave his instinct free rein. He began to turn towards the nudges and blows before they were made; he began to know whose voice it was on the first word.

  Twice he almost captured Milo, then Henry. He deliberately missed Robert, who spun away, shrieking with glee. Conan was very nearly his victim and only escaped by sheer brute strength. Joscelin staggered, unbalanced. A softness brushed against him, and a hint of summer herbs and rose petals invaded the smell of wool. Turning quickly, he grabbed and pulled, and suddenly there was a slender body in his arms and the summer scent was much stronger. Before he could begin a litany of bawdy suggestions and guesses, his victim snatched off the hood and stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the lips.

  The audience cheered and whistled. Robert screwed up his face. Linnet and Joscelin looked at each other with a mutual combination of merriment and sparking lust, and kissed again.

  Flushed, laughing, a little giddy with the mead she had drunk, Linnet hung against Joscelin, returning him kiss for kiss, then flopped onto their bed, her eyes soft with desire, with wanting, and the hope that tonight had broken the mould of the past two months.

  Ever since she had almost died of the spotted fever, Joscelin had been different; not towards Robert - he still doted on the little boy. If anything, the bond between man and child had deepened; the change was in Joscelin’s attitude to her. He treated her with the caution that had characterized the days in London when he had been a mercenary with a reluctant duty to perform and she had been a lady of high birth beyond his reach. Now and then she would find him looking at her, his expression one of frowning, almost angry bewilderment but, when she asked him what was wrong, he would shake his head and smile and pretend that he had not been brooding. She had learned not to push the point.

  But now he was neither brooding nor remote and his eyes were bright with laughter and desire. Whatever was troubling him had been banished for the moment and she intended it to remain that way. Reaching up, she unpinned her wimple and shook free her braids, then leaned forward, letting him inhale their herbal scent while their lips met and parted, met and parted. He buried his hands in her hair.

  Below in the hall, where the yule celebrations still continued, the revellers danced to pagan tunes that wore only the barest dressing of Christian decency.

  Naked, Linnet pressed herself against Joscelin, offering him her breasts, the willow slenderness of waist and flank. She parted her thighs and arched herself to welcome him, her eyes bright with anticipation. The pause extended and anticipation became impatience. A cold draught whispered between their bodies. Joscelin muttered a soft oath and, lifting himself off her, rolled on to his back.

  She stared at him in worried astonishment. ‘What’s the matter?’ Her gaze darted over him. He had been urgent and eager a moment ago but was rapidly becoming flaccid. The look on his face told her that he was well aware of the fact and was not best pleased.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said stiffly and moved to cover himself with the sheet. ‘I’m tired and I’ve drunk too much mead.’

  Linnet did not for one moment believe that the effects of drink and exhaustion had suddenly attacked him at the crucial moment. She tried to look into his eyes but he avoided the contact and stared silently up at the rafters.

  Her body clenched with pain. ‘Is it something I have done or not done?’ she asked, her throat tight. ‘In God’s name, tell me. I would rather you took your belt to me than treat me like this!’

  The silence dragged out for so long that she thought he was not going to respond, that whatever was troubling him had eaten so deeply inwards that he was unable to bring it to the surface, but at last he turned his head on the pillow and opened his eyes. ‘Raymond de Montsorrel,’ he said wearily. ‘In this very room, on this very bed.’

  Linnet gasped as if he had indeed struck her. Her stomach heaved. ‘Who told you?’ she asked weakly.

  ‘Who else knows, you mean? I assume it’s a well-kept secret since I’ve heard no rumours within the keep itself.’ His eyelids tensed with pain. ‘You told me yourself while you were wild with fever. No, that’s wrong,’ he amended grimly, ‘you acted out a scene before my eyes, begging him not to with your voice but wantonly offering your body at the same time. And then you said it was really too dangerous and suggested you satisfy him by other means, which you didn’t specify but I could well guess at.’

  Linnet gave a soft cry. She felt sick and anguished but even so there was relief - as at the bursting of a deep abscess. ‘I thought it was finished - buried,’ she said, her whole frame shuddering. ‘If I could undo it, I swear I would.’

  ‘So it is true?’ His jaw clenched. ‘I would have asked you before, but while I was ignorant at least I could cling to the hope that it was a delusion of your fever.’

  ‘Yes, I lay with him.’ Her breath caught on a sob. ‘He was so kind compared to Giles. I - I thought he really cared for me but all he wanted to do was prove to Giles that he could better him in everything, that he could even have his wife just for the crooking of his little finger.’

  Joscelin’s nostrils flared. ‘You lay with him because he was kind to you?’

  Linnet swallowed. ‘Yes. I mean, no - I don’t really remember.’ Panic surged through her as she saw the disgust flicker across Joscelin’s face. This was horrible: far worse than the beatings she had endured at Giles’s hands. ‘Giles was away,’ she said. ‘Probably jousting in France. I don’t remember the reason, only that he was not at Rushcliffe. Raymond was good to me, spent time with me and did not shout or become impatient. How was I to know he was baiting his trap? I was little more than a child. One evening he came to my chamber to talk about a feast he was planning for when Giles came home, so he said.’ She paused to shudder. ‘He brought a flagon of wine with him - not the ordinary household stuff, but something stronger and mixed with spices. I can still taste it now.’ She heaved and almost retched. ‘By the time I realized what he was about, it was too late and I was incapable of stopping him, nor did I wish to, God help me.

  ‘When I woke in the morning he was not there beside me, but I knew what we had done.’ Shivering, she risked a glance at Joscelin’s face but his expression was as unreadable as stone. ‘I had the maids prepare a tub and almost scrubbed my skin off, but it didn’t do any good. I dared not confess my sin to Father Gregory, so I kept it to myself.’ She rose from the bed and, pulling on her bedrobe, began to pace the room as if it were a cage. She rubbed her palms together and felt cold sweat between them. She would far rather have faced physical torture than have to reveal this shame to Joscelin. ‘Raymond said if I didn’t let him have his will whenever he wanted, he would tell Giles about what had happened in his absence and I knew that if he found out, Giles would kill me.’

  A grimace crossed Joscelin’s face. ‘How long did you endure this?’

  ‘A little over a year - until my pregnancy started to show. He left me alone then. Corbette’s daughter Helwis was becoming a woman and he had started to notice. He had a new innocence to corrupt then.’

  The question, unspoken, loomed between them. ‘I am almost certain that Robert is Giles’s,’ she said. ‘Raymond was away much of the month when I conceived, and the times he did pester me I managed to persuade him that other ways could be just as rewarding.’

  Joscelin grimaced again.

  ‘I was trapped, don’t you understand!’ she cried, rounding on him in frustration. ‘If it had not been a mortal sin, I would have thrown myself off the battlements! How dare you sit there and judge me when you know nothing of what I suffered because I was helpless. How dare you!’

  He shook his head. ‘I know you were Ra
ymond de Montsorrel’s victim. The lack is within me. I keep seeing you with the vile lecher. I tell myself it doesn’t matter, the past should be buried. I don’t have to look further than my own father for proof of that.’

  Linnet bowed her head. ‘Then where do we go from here, if you loathe me,’ she said, her voice cracking.

  Joscelin’s heart wrenched as she began to weep. Unable to bear the anguish - his or hers - he pulled her against him and enfolded her in his arms. He could not tell her that it did not matter - it did. He was as susceptible as Giles to the torments of jealousy, suspicion and pride. But holding her now, he vowed that they were not going to ruin his life or Linnet’s. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I love you and that’s why it hurts. My heart was lost that first day on the road when you faced down Giles and myself for the sake of your child and I saw your courage.’ His lips tightened with determination. ‘I’ll be damned if Raymond de Montsorrel is going to defeat us from beyond the grave. Tomorrow I’ll burn this bed and all that has gone before and commission a new one that will be ours alone.’

  Linnet raised her tear-streaked face, and upon it he saw the mingling of desperate hope and abject doubt.

  ‘For tonight you can sleep like a true mercenary’s woman,’ he added, ‘on skins by the fire.’ Without more ado, he tugged the fur coverlet from the bed and his cloak from his clothing pole. Catching her hand in his, he pulled her to the banked hearth. It was the work of a moment to spread his cloak upon the floor, lay her down upon it and cover them both with the coney-skin canopy.

  She pressed against him, seeking reassurance and comfort. He curved his arm around her waist. The warmth of her breath fluttered at his throat. Beneath his hand, her skin was like silk and he felt the welcome renewed stir of desire. He blotted Raymond de Montsorrel from his mind by thinking of a summer night beneath the stars, of the champing of destriers at the horse lines and the mournful sound of a soldier’s bone flute. His hands moved in slow tandem with his thoughts. Linnet’s breath quickened but she remained very still. He could feel her tension, the inner coiling of her body in response to his touch. He parted her thighs, kneeling up as he entered her, teasing her with his thumb until her reticence was broken and, arching, she cried out. Her pleasure became his and, with a soft groan, he thrust fully home, claiming her for ever from Raymond de Montsorrel.

  Chapter 28

  Raising his head, the buck sifted the wind, ears and eyes alert, jaws moving rhythmically on a mouthful of birch bark strips. Something had disturbed the deep forest but he was unsure yet as to what it was and whether it was dangerous. His breath vaporized in the frozen February air and beneath his dainty cloven hooves the ground wore a dusting of snow. Tiny flakes, needle-sharp, fell from a flat blanket of grey cloud, making it difficult for the buck to absorb any scent. He remained nervous, facing the east where the light was brightest and from which direction he sensed the disturbance came. The other bucks in the herd had stopped eating too and were staring eastwards with flickering ears and switching scuts. Faint but clear and true on the breeze, threading through the particles of snow, the buck heard the call of a hunting horn and scented the rank, terrifying odour of dogs and men. Within seconds, the clearing was empty as the deer bounded into Sherwood’s dark heart, but their spoor remained and the snow was falling too softly to cover it.

  * * *

  Chest heaving with the exertion of the chase, eyes bright with the lust of having witnessed the death of the magnificent buck, it took Ralf a moment to realize he was being addressed by Robert Ferrers, Earl of Derby.

  ‘I’m sorry, my lord, I was still caught up in the chase.’

  ‘So I see,’ Ferrers said with amusement. ‘I asked how your lord father was these days.’

  ‘He is well, sire,’ Ralf answered, suddenly on his guard. Robert Ferrers was not the kind who made small talk with relative strangers who were only here on the hunt because they happened to be friends with one of his knights.

  Ferrers nodded and toyed with a loose thread on his saddle cloth. ‘He seems to have emerged from last year’s troubles gilded with honour.’

  Ralf shot Ferrers a puzzled look, wondering whether he was being baited or courted here.

  The kennel keepers were whipping the dogs to heel and two bearers were tying the buck upside down to a carrying pole. ‘Ride with me awhile,’ Ferrers commanded, and reined his horse out of the ring of trees where they had brought the stag to bay. The snow had all been trampled away, leaving churned soil and bloody leaf mould. When his squires made to follow, he gestured them to stay back.

  The forest closed around them, the light a luminous grey filled with small, stinging barbs of ice. The heat of the chase began to seep from Ralf ’s veins, leaving him aware of the numbing cold. Weather like this always cursed the borders of spring.

  Ferrers regarded him with pursed lips. ‘You and Sir William are reconciled, so I am led to believe?’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ Ralf said warily.

  ‘And your half-brother, the one who married into such good fortune, are you and he on speaking terms?’

  Ralf swallowed. Beneath him his horse paced smoothly, hoofbeats thud-thudding like his heart. ‘I haven’t seen him since we met in London last summer.’

  Robert Ferrers grunted. ‘It is a pity your father did not try to obtain Linnet de Montsorrel for you instead of him,’ he said, watching Ralf closely. ‘I would have thought it was the natural thing to do, you being the heir.’

  Ralf said nothing. He might hate Joscelin and feel scalding resentment for the way their father favoured his precious bastard over his legitimate sons, but his rebellion had taught him caution. Hearts and hatreds were not to be worn on the sleeve, and he could play as cagey a game as Ferrers.

  ‘Perhaps your father has a wife in mind for you, also?’

  ‘I do not know, my lord.’ Good God, was he going to be offered a wife of Ferrers’s blood? His gut churned.

  Ferrers sighed down his thin, sharp nose. The snow was falling with determination now, the flakes penny-sized and dry, the kind that would settle and remain on the ground for weeks unless it thawed. ‘I can understand your suspicion,’ he said. ‘I suppose being locked in an apple cellar for two days and nights by a horde of ignorant peasants must have knocked some of the stuffing out of you, but there is no need to be on tenterhooks with me.’

  There was every need, Ralf thought, but his curiosity must have shown on his face because Ferrers smiled and leaned intimately across his saddle. ‘The winter truces end soon. Robert of Leicester might be in prison but he was only one wave on a flood tide. What will King Henry do when France, Flanders and Scotland take up arms against him in the spring? What was won can soon be lost.’

  Ralf looked into the gleaming, predatory eyes. What was won can soon be lost? He looked over his shoulder. Men were riding along the path behind them, fellow guests, equerries, beaters and foresters, keeping their distance but obviously concerned by the increasing heaviness of the snow. ‘What do you want of me, my lord?’

  Ferrers smoothed the corners of his mouth between forefinger and thumb. ‘I believe we might be useful to each other in the future. Running to my banner as you ran to Leicester’s would be downright foolish and a waste of time to us both but if you were lord of Arnsby, matters might be different.’

  Ralf ’s voice was suddenly hoarse. ‘You mean if my father were to die?’ What was Ferrers suggesting? In his mind’s eye he saw a vision of himself waiting in a dark stairwell with a dagger in his hand or tipping a vial of poison into a flagon of wine.

  Ferrers saw him baulk and laid a hand quickly on his sleeve. ‘In the fullness of time, of course,’ he soothed, but his eyes told a different story.

  Ralf looked at Ferrers, both drawn and repelled by what he was intimating. It was like the times he had committed rape: the excitement of the struggle, the subjugation, the final tremendous thrust and then the revulsion and self-disgust.

  ‘We’ll talk again later,’ Ferrers said, and turned his horse aro
und to join his companions. Ralf sat where he was until the bearers came past him with the body of the deer. Snow fell, making new spots on its fallow hide, and was melted away by the residual body heat. Blood dripped in slow, black clots from its muzzle and stained the forest floor. Ralf gasped and spurred away from the sight of death to join his fellow huntsmen, seeking their company, their loud, trivial banter, to take the darkness from his mind.

  * * *

  ‘A nunnery!’ Agnes said furiously to Ralf. ‘I’ll see him in hell first!’ Her tone was pitched low, making the hatred with which it smouldered all the more intense. Her maid, who had become accustomed to the low muttering these past few days, did not respond to it except to make herself as inconspicuous as possible.

  Agnes left the window splay where she had been sitting to watch William and his entourage ride away in the direction of the Nottingham road. ‘He cannot force me. I’ll not be put aside like a worn-out rag.’ She faced her son, who was in her chamber to be fitted for a new tunic. He was standing somewhat impatiently for the seamstress, who was taking note of his measurements by making knots in lengths of string.

  ‘No, Mama,’ Ralf said, a glazed look in his eye, and stretched his arm horizontally to be measured from armpit to wrist.

  Agnes regarded his broad, handsome strength and the gleam of light on his red-gold hair. William wanted to obtain a wife for Ralf and was looking around for a suitable girl. Agnes feared that she understood his reasoning. Martin would soon be squiring in Richard de Luci’s household and her nest would be empty of chicks. She was of no more use to him. He would replace her in the household with Ralf ’s young wife. Jealousy and fear gnawed at her. If she were placed in a nunnery, she would not be able to keep an eye on the girl - as she had kept an eye on Morwenna.

  With an irritated sound, she grabbed the string from the seamstress and waved her away. ‘I’ll do it myself!’ she snapped. ‘Go and look in the coffers to see what fabric we have.’