‘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 Raymond 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
