* * *

‘I don’t like it,’ said Ranulf FitzRanulf, garrison commander of Nottingham, as he stared out of the high tower window. Spread before his view was Nottingham’s immediate southern hinterland: the rivers Leen and Trent holding between them the broad green floodplain of the Meadows and beyond them the villages of Briggford, Wilford and Cliftun. ‘There are too many of Ferrers’s men in the city and they are bent upon mischief.’

Standing beside his former paymaster, Joscelin, too, looked out on the scene of pastoral tranquillity. The trees lining the riverbank wore new mantles of tender green and the meadowland was a lush carpet of flower-starred grass dotted by grazing cattle. Smoke twirled from the roofs of the tanneries on the banks of the Leen and a supply barge was wending its way upriver towards the castle’s wharf. ‘I noticed a lot of Ferrers’ soldiers when I was here in the autumn,’ he said.

‘Around the time of the battle of Fornham?’ FitzRanulf turned to look at Joscelin out of watery, light-blue eyes. The left one had a slight cast so that FitzRanulf never seemed to be looking directly, even when he was. It was an illusion for FitzRanulf was the most direct of men. ‘They were vultures waiting their moment to strike but it never came. When news of Leicester’s defeat arrived, they melted away.’

‘And now they are back.’

‘The winter truces are at an end. I have men enough to defend the castle but not the town. Ferrers has too much influence there. If there is trouble, the citizens will have to fend for themselves. How long are you staying?’

‘We’re only here to buy supplies. Two, three days at the most, although my father will probably leave guards at his house since it’s so close to Ferrers’.’

‘Your father’s here, too?’

‘On different errands and likely to be here a couple of days more than myself. I know he intends calling on you.’

FitzRanulf nodded, then he gave a humour-filled scowl. ‘It was the worst turn the justiciar ever did me when he gave you Linnet de Montsorrel to wife,’ he grumbled. ‘I lost the best men in my pay. Still, at least I can rely on Rushcliffe’s loyalty now. When the Montsorrels had possession, getting them to cooperate on anything was like trying to turn water into wine. Old Raymond could be as difficult as they come.’

‘Yes, I know.’

FitzRanulf cocked his head, his expression curious, but Joscelin had no intention of divulging the particular ‘difficulties’ that Raymond de Montsorrel had bequeathed to him. ‘I have to return to Rushcliffe,’ he diverted, ‘but I can leave some of my men here if you want - trained up and in full battle kit.’

‘At whose expense?’ enquired FitzRanulf, revealing that he was as shrewd about money as he was about everything else.

‘They have a contract with me until midsummer. All you need do is feed and house them and see that they receive a fair share of the booty, should the situation arise.’

‘Fair enough.’ FitzRanulf nodded. ‘I know a golden goose when it waddles over my foot. If there’s anything I can do for you in the future, let me know.’

Following his visit to FitzRanulf, Joscelin repaired to the guardroom to pay his respects there and was furnished with a piggin of the castle’s justly famous ale and some bread and new cheese. One of the guards, Odinel le Gros, so named because of his enormous gut, nudged Joscelin, his eyes gleaming with relish. ‘Josce, is it all really true about Raymond de Montsorrel, then?’

Joselin’s mouthful of bread and cheese suddenly seemed too enormous to swallow. He chewed, took a drink of ale and shrugged, affecting indifference.

‘Come on, stop teasing. You know what I mean. They say he tupped every woman on the estate between the ages of thirteen and fifty. I bet everywhere you ride, you see little bastards made in the old man’s image!’ Odinel chuckled. ‘Do you remember that wench we had who claimed he futtered her against St Mary’s wall? She said his pizzle were the biggest she’d ever seen! I reckon it should’ve been preserved when he died, just like they do with saints’ bones.’

Joscelin heard the laughter of the other soldiers but it was fuzzy, as if it were coming from a far distance. A red mist was before his eyes and sweat sprang on his body. However, he did not leap at Odinel and rip his voice from his throat, for to have done so would be to acknowledge that Raymond’s ghost still had a hold on him. As far as Joscelin was concerned, the burning of the bed had been the final exorcism.

‘You have a high imagination,’ he said when he could trust himself to speak. ‘Raymond de Montsorrel was a common lecher and whores will always tell exaggerated tales of any highborn client who passes between their thighs. It gives them a feeling of importance and makes people listen to them,’ he added pointedly.

Odinel blinked uncertainly. There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. Joscelin wondered what on earth he was truly doing here in the guardroom. His title was a barrier as tangible as the fine braid hemming on his tunic and the beryl and amber brooch pinned high on the shoulder of his fur-lined cloak. Although he had not deliberately willed it, the situation had changed and he had become an outsider, one of ‘them’ and, because of his past status, viewed with both admiration and resentment. In his absence they would talk about him as they talked about Raymond de Montsorrel. And it was not fair to stay.

He took his leave of them quickly, with relief on both sides. As the guardroom door closed behind him, the soldiers breathed out and relaxed as if they had been standing to attention all the time he had been in the room. And on the other side of the door, Joscelin closed his eyes and inhaled deeply like a prisoner released. His only dilemma, as he started down the hill towards the Saturday, market, was where to go. Not back to Linnet, not yet, not with Odinel’s words still sliding their slime trail across his mind.

In the end, he turned his feet in Conan’s direction, which he knew of old would be the Weekday alehouse. He wound his way through narrow streets and alleys into the dip of Broad Marsh, then up the other side. The stream running down the middle of Byard Lane was blocked again, this time by a dead dog, and various residents of the cut-through were conducting a lively argument as to who was responsible for clearing the obstruction. Joscelin picked his way through the sludge at the side of the lane, easing past dark doorways that gave entrance to cramped dwellings with central fire pits and smoke holes in the roof. At one point, near the top of the hill, there were steps cut down to a series of dwellings carved out of the soft sandstone rock upon which the city was built.

A cordwainer sat outside his home, a small trestle set up to hold his tools and the cut pieces of leather he was making into shoes. Next door to him stood a small dyehouse, and as Joscelin walked past its proprietor ceased pummelling a cloth in a cauldron of dark-red water to watch him. Beside the dye shop stood a booth belonging to Rothgar the swordsmith and Joscelin paused here to examine a long dagger.

‘Best Lombardy steel, sir,’ said the proprietor, laying down his tools and coming forward.

Joscelin had known Rothgar since childhood when Ironheart had brought him in wide-eyed delight to this very same booth. Rothgar’s wife had fed him sugared figs and made a fuss of him, and Rothgar had let him handle the weapons.

The dagger he was handling today had a nine-inch blade, sharp on both edges, and a haft of plain, natural buckskin that felt good in his hands. His own dagger, which had served him since his early days as a mercenary, was wearing out. It had already been fitted with several new grips and the blade was thin.

‘How much?’

‘Five shillings,’ Rothgar immediately responded and wiped his wrist across his full moustache. ‘The materials alone cost me two and there’s my time and skill on top.’

‘I’ll give you two and a half,’ Joscelin said, testing the sharpened edge against the ball of this thumb. ‘That’s how much I’d pay on the road in Normandy.’

Rothgar shook his head. ‘Normandy’s closer to the Lombards and the steel costs less because of it. It’s a mortal long way to go for a bargain. Tell you what, being as you and your father are good customers here, I’ll let you have it for four and a half.’

‘Three,’ said Joscelin, well accustomed to the etiquette of haggling, ‘and I’ll commission a blunt sword for my stepson while I’m here.’

Rothgar tugged at his beard. ‘You drive a hard bargain, my lord. Call it three and a half and commission that sword for your stepson with half a shilling down, and we’ll call it fair.’

‘On the nail,’ Joscelin reached in his purse and put the required coins on top of the squat, flat-topped post Rothgar used for that purpose.

Rothgar counted the silver and swept it into his cupped palm. ‘You’ll need to bring the lad into the shop so I can see the size of him.’

‘Later this afternoon?’

‘Aye, that’ll do.’ Rothgar started to unlatch the toggle on his belt bag but paused and lifted his head. ‘What’s that rumpus?’

Joscelin ducked out into the street, the new dagger in hand. From the direction of the Hologate road he could hear shouting and the clash of weapons. Then louder shrieks of terror and dismay and the bright blossoming of flame.

‘God’s eyes, what’s happening?’ Rothgar peered over Joscelin’s shoulder, his forging hammer in his fist.

‘I can’t tell, except that it’s trouble. Best shut up shop and make yourself and any valuables scarce. As a weapons-smith, you’re a prime target. I’m going to the Weekday; my mercenary captain should be there.’