Joscelin avoided de Luci’s sparkling gaze and wished himself a hundred miles away and dreamlessly asleep. ‘Hubert de Beaumont’s business was not legitimate,’ he said. ‘The only reason I did not arrest him was that Lady de Montsorrel pleaded for leniency.’

‘Oh, I applaud your diligence,’ said the justiciar. ‘That coin no more belongs to Leicester than does the boy’s wardship and I have no intention of letting it go to Normandy.’

‘Just how much is there?’ Ironheart asked curiously. ‘Have you had a chance to find out?’

‘Indeed yes, Linnet de Montsorrel was very cooperative. Including the plate, I would say about two hundred marks.’

Ironheart whistled through his chipped teeth. ‘That’s as much as the inheritance relief on two baronies.’

‘I confess I did not realize the extent of the sum myself until I opened the chest.’ De Luci thoughtfully rubbed his chin. ‘Joscelin, I want you and your troop to escort the widow and her household to the keep at Rushcliffe. You are to remain there as acting castellan and hold the place in the name of the king until you receive further orders. The strongbox will travel with you since it is the boy’s inheritance and you’ll need monies to run the place. You can cast accounts, can’t you?’ It was a rhetorical question, for de Luci was fully aware of Joscelin’s abilities. ‘I am told that the coffin will be ready the day after tomorrow.’ There was an expectant silence. Joscelin knew the justiciar was waiting for him to reply decisively and with gratitude but in his mind’s eye he was seeing the open coffin of his dream and feeling very sick indeed.

De Luci looked at him and frowned. ‘Of course, if the commission is not to your taste, I can always find someone else.’

Joscelin struggled to focus. ‘My lord, I’ll be pleased to fulfill any commission that you lay to me,’ he said sluggishly. ‘Have I your leave to go and make preparations?’

De Luci stared at him in open amazement. ‘What in God’s name is wrong with you? Anyone would have thought I’d kicked you in the teeth, not offered your career a substantial hoist.’

‘It’s not that, my lord. Truly, I’m grateful . . .’ Joscelin swallowed jerkily.

Ironheart said quickly, ‘Let the boy go, Richard, before he’s sick all over your boots. You’ll get more sense out of him later, I promise.’

The justiciar frowned but allowed Ironheart his way. ‘Very well,’ he said and dismissed Joscelin with a curt nod. ‘I will speak with you at dinner. Best get yourself pulled together by then.’

Hardly bothering to bow, the young man staggered from the room.

De Luci turned to Ironheart. ‘If he’s going to let me down, then I’ll allot the task elsewhere,’ he said grimly.

‘He won’t fail you,’ Ironheart replied. ‘What you saw now was an affliction he gets sometimes - like Becket used to. A sickness comes upon him and a headache worse than anything you’d get out of a flagon of bad wine. All he needs to do is sleep it off. His mother was the same.’

De Luci shook his head, not entirely convinced. ‘Nevertheless, he seemed disturbed at the command.’

‘That’s because he’s attracted to the widow and knows that if he abandoned his honour and the trust you have in him, he could have her out from beneath your nose and her fortune, too.’

‘He told you this?’ De Luci’s nostrils flared.

William laughed sourly. ‘Christ, my sons never tell me anything! But I have eyes in my head. Joscelin’s not like Ralf to rut all over the town. He’ll do without rather than take anything just for the sake of sheathing his sword. Your young widow appeals to him and she’s only just beyond his reach. If he stole out on a limb, he might just touch her.’

De Luci stroked his chin. Clever and shrewd was William de Rocher and he loved his bastard son with an intensity he tried not to parade, and didn’t always succeed. De Luci well knew his friend’s vulnerability - and his ambition. He was aiming high for Joscelin, but not hopelessly so given de Luci’s own opinion of the young man.

‘This needs thinking about more deeply than I have time for just now, William,’ he said to give himself a breathing space, then he smiled knowingly. ‘You wouldn’t have planted that notion in my mind unless you thought it had a chance of taking root.’

Ironheart returned the smile and did not attempt to press the matter further. ‘I think we know each other well enough by now,’ he said.

Chapter 9

Stripped to the waist, Ralf worked at putting an edge on his sword: smoothing the oiled Lombardy steel over the grindstone, honing out the nicks, brightening the edge until it shone bluish silver like the underbelly of a fish. Honing a blade was something Ralf did well if he was in the mood to be patient and even a professional craftsman would not have bettered his work today.

He blotted his sweating brow on his forearm and paused to rest. The courtyard was bustling for the earl was preparing to leave London for Southampton tomorrow dawn. The girl Aelflin smiled intimately at him across the yard, her arms piled high with linens for the countess Petronilla. Ralf looked in the opposite direction, watching a wain that had become stuck in the muddy wheel ruts by the gateway. Pleasure he had had from her in the stables not an hour since but, as far as he was concerned, the silver penny he had given her was a release from obligation.

The sun disappeared into shadow as Hubert de Beaumont arrived to stand over him. ‘May I?’ he asked and, without waiting for Ralf’s consent, took the bare sword from the latter’s knee and hefted it, testing the balance and then the edge. ‘Excellent,’ he said, then grinned. ‘You could make your fortune as a swordsmith.’

Ralf snorted. ‘Do I look like an artisan?’

Beaumont eyed him up and down. ‘I suppose not. You’re too disreputable by far without half your clothes and sporting that purple eye.’ He returned the sword.

Ralf applied more oil to the stone. He wondered why Beaumont had sought him out. The knight was a seasoned member of Leicester’s mesnie and not given to applying the lard of friendship to newcomers unless he had wheels to grease.

‘That half-brother of yours is fast on his feet for one so tall,’ Beaumont remarked.

Ralf scowled and touched his tender eye socket. ‘I’d have got the better of him if Brien of Ravenstow hadn’t poked his nose where it didn’t belong.’

‘Doubtless you would, but I was thinking of my own tangle with him yesterday evening.’

Ralf laid the sword edge to the grindstone and rasped it across. He almost smiled because, while he might detest Joscelin, there was satisfaction in seeing the de Rocher blood triumph in a fight. ‘What’s your interest in him?’

Beaumont watched the steady rhythm of Ralf’s arm. ‘Lord Leicester wants the Montsorrel silver for our cause and your brother is its guardian.’

‘Ah.’

‘Is he open to bribery?’

The sword sparkled on the grindstone as Ralf choked on mirth. ‘Good Christ, no!’ he spluttered. ‘Why do you think he’s in such high favour with the justiciar? Whatever you offered him would not be enough to make him bend his precious honour. He knows that you are Leicester’s man through and through.’ He scabbarded the sword. ‘The only way you’ll get that silver out of Joscelin is over his dead body.’

Beaumont wrapped his fist around his own sword-hilt. ‘That can be arranged,’ he said, ‘but he is my adversary and I need to know more.’

‘You are taking a risk by asking me.’

‘I don’t think so. I saw the “brotherly love” you have for each other two nights ago. Look, come to the Peacock and we’ll talk over a jug of wine.’ Beaumont jingled the purse lying against his dagger sheathe.

‘Is that by way of a bribe to me?’ Ralf pushed his sweaty hair off his forehead. ‘Do you think I am more easily bought than my brother?’

‘You appear to have finished your work for the moment and you look thirsty.’

Suddenly Ralf smiled, revealing fine white teeth that no chirurgeon’s pincers had ever been near. ‘The Peacock, you said. It just so happens that I am indeed a very thirsty man.’


‘Joscelin’s always been my father’s favourite,’ Ralf said and drew the shape of a dragon in a puddle of spilled wine on the trestle. His other hand propped up his head, which felt far too heavy for his neck. The task of sharpening his sword in the hot yard had made him so dry that he had gulped the first two cups of wine without moderation. The third had followed more slowly, matching pace with Beaumont, and he was now more than halfway down his fourth. ‘I know that if the Arnsby lands were not mine by right of legitimacy, he would give them to Joscelin - his precious do-no-wrong firstborn son.’ A querulous frown appeared between his eyes.

‘You said the other night his mother was a whore.’

‘She was. My father picked her up among the loose women of the army camp during some battle campaign. Supposedly she was a baron’s daughter but no decent woman follows the troops for a livelihood.’ Ralf lifted his cup and gulped. ‘After she died in childbed, my father built a chapel to her memory and endowed a chantry of nuns to sing her praises forever. God’s death, do you know how much it sticks in my craw to see him riding off to visit the place like a damned pilgrim? She wasn’t a saint, she was a witch!’

Beaumont made sympathetic sounds and refilled Ralf’s cup before tipping the final half-measure into his own. Then he took a contemplative swallow and set his enquiries back on their original course. ‘So how did your brother come to be a mercenary? Surely your father could have found him an heiress with lands?’

‘Originally Joscelin was going to be a priest,’ Ralf said. ‘He boarded with the monks at Lenton for three years until one of them tried to make him into his bum-boy and Joscelin knocked his teeth down his throat. My father decided that his true vocation lay with the sword and started his training.’ Ralf resumed dabbling his finger in the spilled pool of wine.