swept him up in his arms.
‘And he has learned to write his name, too!’ Linnet added, laughing, and, coming into the curve of Joscelin’s free arm, received a hard, scratchy kiss. ‘I’ve set the laundry tubs boiling, so you’ll be able to bathe, and there’s mulled wine in the chamber.’
‘You’ll turn him soft, wench,’ said a harsh voice and Linnet turned on Joscelin’s arm, her eyes widening with a dismay she was not quite swift enough to conceal. William de Rocher’s presence was a shock. Having had eyes only for Joscelin, she had not realized until he spoke that his father was with him.
‘I doubt it, my lord.’ An icy civility entered her tone. William de Rocher set her teeth on edge with his attitude. His look upon her was that of a merchant eyeing up a doubtful piece of ware. And he was soon to be her father-in-law. ‘Surely it is the duty of any chatelaine to offer her lord such comforts on his return.’
Ironheart grunted, unimpressed. ‘You’ve learned duty since midsummer then?’ he said.
‘And I didn’t even have to beat her.’ Joscelin put himself between his father and Linnet. ‘Don’t you want a goblet of mulled wine and a hot tub to take away the aches of the road? I know that I do. And if that’s turning me soft then I can live with it.’
‘Pah!’ Ironheart snapped and, without being invited, stalked towards the hall, his gait marred by a noticeable limp.
‘Pay no heed,’ Joscelin said. ‘The damp weather gives him joint ache and makes his temper worse than a mangy bear. If his pride wasn’t so touchy, he’d accept everything you offered.’ He shrugged and sighed. ‘It has not been the easiest campaign. Conan and my father haven’t really made their peace and I won’t become embroiled in their battle to blame each other for what happened in the past.’ He looked at the child in his arms and changed the subject.
‘That’s a fine new tunic to greet my return,’ he admired.
‘It was supposed to be kept for our wedding,’ Linnet said, ‘but he wanted to wear it and today is a day of celebration. Who knows when the next one will be.’
He gave her a sharp look. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Brien FitzRenard rode in earlier with parchments for you, and they do not bode well, I think.’
Joscelin groaned softly and turned to walk into the hall. On the threshold, while they were still alone, he turned to Linnet. ‘Marry me now,’ he said. ‘Today.’
His words sent a ripple of shock through her but the after-effect was one of pleasant warmth. ‘If that is your wish, then it is mine too,’ she said demurely, but knew from the eager look on his face that he was not deceived by her very proper response.
‘The Earl of Leicester has landed an army on the east coast,’ Brien FitzRenard grimly announced and drew his stool up to the edge of the large, oval bathtub. ‘And Hugh Bigod of Norfolk is giving him all the aid he requires.’
‘Bigod? He must be seventy if he’s a day!’ Joscelin rested his arms along the sides of the tub. The water contained crushed salt to ease the aches of hard riding and was deliciously hot, almost unbearable.
Brien tiredly pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘He’s a perennial rebel. If there’s a brew of trouble, you’ll find Hugh Bigod taking a turn at stirring it. I’ve got parchments in my baggage for you to read - and you, too, my lord de Rocher.’ His glance went to Ironheart, who was sitting on a coffer, condescending with bad grace but a copious thirst to drink Linnet’s mulled wine. ‘Hugh de Bohun, the constable, is mustering an army to prevent Leicester from striking across the Midlands to join his allies. You are commanded to respond as soon as you can.’
Joscelin sipped the hot wine and watched Linnet and a maid warming towels at the hearth and laying out clean garments for him to wear. Linnet stopped in the act of unfolding a shirt and stared his way, a look of dismay on her face.
‘The horses are in no fit shape,’ Ironheart said tersely. ‘We’ve pushed them up hill and down dale these past three weeks. What do you want, blood out of a stone?’
‘If we don’t stop them now, it will be worse later.’ Brien’s voice was laden with weariness. ‘I need not remind you, my lord, that Arnsby and Rushcliffe will be prime targets for Leicester to attempt should he gain a solid footing in the region.’
Ironheart gulped down the wine and stalked across to the hearth to replenish his cup. Robert skipped nervously out of his way and ran to the side of the bathtub. Joscelin gently tousled the boy’s thistledown hair. He could not remember the anarchy of King Stephen’s reign, since he had only been a small boy himself when it had ended. He had, however, heard enough from his father and seen the lasting effect of its ravages to have a healthy fear of the like ever happening again.
‘Give me a night and a day to get married and I’ll put the troops on the road,’ Joscelin sighed to Brien. ‘As my father says, the horses need to be rested but I daresay I can commandeer some fresh mounts round and about.’
Brien looked from Joscelin to Linnet and spread his hands in a gesture of apology. ‘I know it is a lot to ask but if we can break Leicester now then I do believe we have a chance of peace.’
When Brien had gone, Joscelin looked at his father. ‘If you want to stay behind, I’ll take your men,’ he suggested.
‘I’m not in my dotage yet!’ Ironheart said indignantly. ‘All right, I would rather not go chasing across the country but Ralf and Ivo are with Leicester and it is past time they weren’t. I have given them free rein to no avail. Now let them feel the weight of my displeasure.’
Joscelin bit his tongue and attended to his ablutions, knowing that his words would only be wasted on his father’s current mood. To Ralf and Ivo, the weight of Ironheart’s displeasure would probably seem little different to the way he usually treated them.
Drying himself, Joscelin stepped from the tub and donned the new clothes that Linnet had laid out - a shirt of softened linen, an undertunic also of linen in a mustard colour and a tunic of dark-green wool. All were new, and while there had been no time for Linnet to do any embroidery they were embellished with braid and far finer than anything he had owned before.
‘Fine feathers,’ Ironheart said sourly.
‘Very fine,’ Joscelin smiled at Linnet.
With an impatient sound, Ironheart turned away and, shrugging off his cloak, began unlatching his belt. ‘There’s no point in wasting this bathwater, it’s still hot enough to boil an egg. Lay me out some fresh towels, will you?’
Beside him, Joscelin felt Linnet stiffen. Her eyes narrowed. Oblivious, Ironheart continued to tug off his clothes and toss them on the floor. In a quiet, cold voice, she told her maid to see to the towels and find fresh clothes for Ironheart to wear. Then, on the pretext of checking that the dinner arrangements were in hand, she excused herself.
Ironheart scowled after her. ‘She’s a wayward wench,’ he said.
Joscelin eyed his father with no small degree of irritation. ‘I think she had had enough of you,’ he said. ‘To have played bath maid, as duty insists, would have been too much. She might have drowned you. I know I certainly would.’
‘Where’s Mama gone?’ Robert sidled nervously around Ironheart.
Joscelin picked him up. ‘To talk to the cook. Do you want to come to the stables and see what I’ve brought you all the way from the north?’
Robert nodded vigorously.
Ironheart shook his head and, naked, went to the hearth to pour another cup of hot wine before stepping into the bath.
It had been October when Linnet had married Giles: fine, clear weather, scented with the pungent mulch from the harvest of cider apples and the trees all russet and golden in the beauty of their dying leaves. She had worn a chaplet woven with ears of grain as a fertility charm representing the ploughing of the virgin soil and the scattering of seed in hope of abundant harvest, and had felt dead inside.
It was October again: the cider harvest under way and the grain stacked in the barns. The weather this time was grey and damp, her bridal chaplet was a simple band of silver-woven braid and feelings were flowing through her, some of them with the same kind of discomfort that came to a cramped limb when unfolded.
