was never to come to fruition. Morwenna’s scream as she fell on the stairs that twisted down to the great hall occasionally echoed in Agnes’ ears. Morwenna the bitch and the whore. Morwenna, who, not content with sharing William’s bed, had taken everything that he was and buried it in the faultless white tomb he had built for her, ensuring there was nothing left for his rightful wife.
Agnes’ mind was less free to wander when her sister-in-law was in attendance. Maude’s cheerful, inquisitive nature, her sheer garrulousness, left little space for Agnes to brood. But Maude was visiting a pensioned-off servant at a convent close to Newark and would not be back for two days at least. Agnes knew that Maude found her company a trial and was always eager for moments of escape. The feeling was frequently mutual.
A small sound in the doorway caused Agnes to jump and turn round. She screwed up her eyes the better to focus on the young woman and child standing in the threshold behind her maid. Surely she knew them, and recently so?
‘Lady Linnet de Montsorrel,’ the maid announced and ushered the visitors into Agnes’s chamber. Agnes frowned, remembering. Maude had been asked to take care of Linnet de Montsorrel in the days immediately following the husband’s death, caused by being rolled upon by a rogue horse at Smithfield Fair. That she was Giles de Montsorrel’s widow was a matter of supreme indifference to Agnes. That she was betrothed to the whore’s bastard and brought with her a marriage portion to elevate him at one stride from hired soldier to baron of the realm made her blood boil.
‘This is indeed an unlooked-for pleasure,’ she said with a stiff smile. ‘Come, my lady, be seated.’ A peremptory gesture sent another maid hurrying to plump the cushions of a barrel chair.
‘Thank you, Lady Agnes.’ Lady de Montsorrel smiled in return and approached the chair. The child hung back, looking over his shoulder at the door.
Agnes scrutinized her guest. Her veil of blue silk gave emphasis to the wide mist-blue eyes, as did the subtle blue and silver-grey hues of her gown and undergown. The hem of the former was trimmed with braid such as Agnes was making but the design was more complex and the weave beautifully even. Agnes’s antipathy increased. It would have been easier to offer hospitality to Linnet de Montsorrel had she been plain and less stylishly apparelled. Agnes had no cause to like or trust women of such looks.
‘Have you come alone?’
The maid went to a sideboard and poured wine into two cups.
‘No, my lady.’ Linnet de Montsorrel hesitated then sat down and said, ‘You must know that Joscelin is here to see his father.’
Agnes sniffed. ‘I knew it would not be long before he came prowling to Arnsby like a starving wolf after a pen of sheep. And he was bound to bring you - his prize.’
‘It was a matter of courtesy that he brought me,’ Linnet replied, her smile fading. Her son clambered on to her knee and wrapped his arms tightly around her neck. ‘I see now that it was a mistake.’
‘Oh, no mistake on
‘I think you are overwrought, Lady Agnes,’ Linnet was shocked by the older woman’s bitterness. ‘Joscelin is here to talk to his father about borrowing supplies for Rushcliffe.’
‘Doubtless that is the excuse he would mouth to anyone gullible enough to believe such a lie. He has come because his brothers are involved in Leicester’s rebellion and he thinks to secure Arnsby’s inheritance for himself. Others may be taken in but I am no dupe.’
Linnet stiffened. ‘You malign him, Lady Agnes. Even if Joscelin did desire Arnsby of his father, you still have another son at home and I know that he loves Martin dearly.’
‘Martin is a child, not yet nine years old,’ Agnes snapped. ‘He’s hardly a threat.’
‘Even so, I know that Joscelin is not here with the intention of disinheriting his brothers,’ Linnet defended. She thought, but didn’t add, that they were quite capable of accomplishing that feat themselves. ‘The only other reason we are here is that Joscelin has brought his uncle, Conan de Gael, to make his peace with Lord William.’
Agnes’s face drained of colour. ‘You dare to come here to my private chamber and utter the name of that hell-begotten, swindling whoremonger?’ she hissed and took two threatening steps towards Linnet.
Linnet hastily rose from the chair, afraid that Agnes was going to assault her and Robert. The maid, who had been about to present Linnet with a cup of wine, quickly sidestepped to avoid spilling it. With Robert in her arms, Linnet headed towards the door. ‘I think it best if I leave, my lady,’ she said. ‘You are obviously unwell.’
‘No, you will hear me out first.’ Agnes continued to advance on Linnet but the sole of her shoe caught in the hem of her undergown and sent her sprawling.
The maid, a look of horror on her face, set the cups aside and stooped to her mistress. Linnet hesitated on the threshold, desiring nothing more than to make her escape but prevented by her conscience. Supposing Agnes had broken a bone or was having a seizure?
She set Robert on his feet. ‘Do you think you can go down to the hall and find Conan and Joscelin?’
Robert looked up at her. ‘You come, too.’ He tugged on her hand.
‘I cannot. Lady Agnes needs help. Find Joscelin and stay with him until I come. Yes?’
Robert nodded, his underlip caught in his teeth.
‘Good boy. Go on then, quickly.’ Linnet hugged him and shooed him on his way. It was astonishing how Joscelin’s name had become a talisman to the child. Mention it and a hundred doors opened where doors had not existed before. Here he was in a place he did not know, turning from the security of her skirts because Joscelin was the prize.
Giving brisk orders to the frightened maid, Linnet checked Agnes for broken bones. Thankfully there were none and she helped Agnes to rise and wobble to her bed. The sheets had a stale smell and there were smears and crumbs upon the coverlet. Linnet urged a cup of wine upon Agnes. Grey-faced, the woman sipped and gradually her colour began to return. Her eyes cleared and focused on Linnet. ‘How I envy your innocence,’ she said wearily. ‘I, too, was innocent once. I can see it in your eyes; you think I am mad, don’t you?’
‘I certainly think you are ill,’ Linnet said, pity softening her attitude.
Agnes looked bleakly at the wall where a plasterwork scene depicted two lovers seated at a merels board in a garden. ‘William wants to lock me up in a nunnery. I’m past childbearing and naught but a burden to him, but I would have him carry his burden until it kills him and then may he rot in hell with his precious whore!’
When Linnet rose to leave, Agnes did not try again to stop her but rocked gently back and forth in her bed, cradling her cup, and muttering softly to herself.
It had been more than twenty years since the last encounter between William de Rocher and Conan de Gael. On that occasion, William had taken his sword and fought Conan from tower to tower, room to room, across the ward and out of Arnsby’s gates. Then he had slammed them in the mercenary’s face and ordered him never to return on pain of hanging.
Now, face-to-face, eyes on a level, they confronted each other.
‘Going to string me up, then?’ Conan asked, lounging upon his sword hip.
‘Don’t tempt me,’ William growled. His hands gripped his belt in lieu of Conan’s throat. ‘What are you doing here except to cause trouble?’
Conan looked reproachful. ‘You do me an injustice, William, but that’s nothing new. You’ve always believed my motives to be the worst in the world. Don’t worry, I’m not staying long. I’ve about as much taste for your company as you have for mine.’
‘Then why are you here at all?’
‘He’s working for me,’ Joscelin said. ‘I need seasoned men with the trouble that’s brewing and Rushcliffe’s garrison is as magnificent a collection of oafs and lack-wits as ever graced a fool’s banquet.’
‘You must be one of them if you’re hiring him!’ William snapped.
‘Not so much that I would cut off my nose to spite my face.’ Joscelin fixed his father with a hard stare. ‘Would you rather he sold his sword to the rebellion?’
Ironheart ground such teeth as remained to him.
Conan smiled, the creases at the corners of his eyes deepening with sardonic humour. ‘I think he would,’ he
