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.
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 around 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.’
‘Yes, madam.’ The woman curtseyed, her eyes downcast.
Agnes moved in closer to Ralf’s pungent, masculine warmth. She knew he had been out in the village last night, gaming in the alehouse and wenching. A residue of his indulgences still lingered in his pores. ‘You would not put me away in a nunnery if you were master here, would you?’ she wheedled.
His nostrils flared. ‘Of course not, Mama!’
Agnes smiled and kissed his cheek, feeling the prickle of beard stubble under her lips where once his skin had been smooth like a petal. ‘I knew you would say that, you’re a good son.’
A slight shudder ran through him. At first, dismayed, she thought it was because she had touched him but then he said abruptly, ‘Nottingham is going to be ravaged by Robert Ferrers.’
Her hands fumbled with the string and she stared up at him, a red flush creeping from her throat into her face. ‘When?’
Ralf shrugged. ‘Today, tomorrow, the day after. I don’t know exactly but it will be while my father is there. One of Ferrers’ own men brought me a warning last night. That’s why I went to the alehouse. I’ve been in contact with the rebels since I went to Ferrers’ Candlemas hunt. They are going to raze the town and, if all goes well, take the castle.’ He folded his arms and leaned against a decorated stone pillar, his eyes golden with hunger. ‘There is an understanding that were I suddenly to become master of Arnsby, there would be a handsome reward for the person who put me in that position.’
Agnes’s wits were dull, but she possessed an innate craftiness and it did not take a scholar to unravel what Ralf was implying. ‘You’ve employed someone to kill your father?’ she whispered with a mingling of fear and exultation.
‘It’s more of an unspoken understanding. If I had wanted, I could have stopped him from riding out just now but why should I?’ He gave her a moody stare. ‘He has never taken the time to stop for me lest it be to bawl his disapproval. Arnsby is mine now, every stick and stone and beast in the field.’ He ran a possessive hand over the blood-red chevrons decorating the pillar.
Agnes bit her lip and ran the knotted string through her fingers. ‘What if your father returns unharmed?’
‘Who’s to know? Will you tell him?’
‘What reason would I have after the way he has treated me all these years? You have my support and always will. One thing I will say to you: do not mention this to Ivo. He is a weak reed and not to be trusted.’
‘I can deal with Ivo,’ he said softly.
‘What about the bastard and his wife?’ she asked after a moment. ‘I heard William say that he was meeting them in Nottingham?’
Ralf ’s mouth twisted in a dark smile. ‘I also let it be known that the custodian of Rushcliffe is a thorn in my side that I would pay handsomely to have plucked out. The woman and child won’t be harmed,’ he added magnanimously. ‘I’ve no grudge against them. They will make valuable pawns since I will be kin to the deceased with an interest in what happens to the lands.’
Agnes had never heard him speak like this before, in so controlled and calculating a manner. She did not doubt that he would deal with Ivo, and anyone else who stood in his way, and her admiration for him increased a hundred fold. He would prove a worthy lord for Arnsby, far more so than the father he was intending to usurp.
Chapter 29
William Ironheart owned three houses in Nottingham on the hill that meandered down from the Derby road towards the merchant dwellings on Long Row and the poultry market. Two of the houses were leased to wine merchants. The third, his own, was maintained by Jonas and Gytha, a couple in late middle-age. While Jonas kept
