Bestowing his mount’s reins upon the lad, he stooped under the lintel and, hands on hips, regarded the additions. A handsome liver-chestnut with distinctive white markings swung its head from the manger and regarded him with a liquid, intelligent eye. He knew Whitesocks well, for he had bred him from his own stud herd and gifted him to Joscelin four years ago as a leggy, untrained colt.
Agnes sniffed furiously. ‘How long are these animals going to eat us out of house and home?’ she demanded, goaded by resentment to a boldness that she would not usually have dared.
‘It will only be for a couple of days. He’ll be stabling them at the Crown’s expense after that,’ William answered in a preoccupied voice.
The mildness of his response encouraged Agnes to press harder. ‘You know that Ralf and Joscelin hate the sight of each other. This is just asking for a confrontation. ’
‘And I am master in this house. There will be no trouble.’ He stroked the satin liver-chestnut hide. ‘Besides, Ralf ’s not here. He’s out wasting his substance in some den of fools.’
Agnes glared at her husband’s long, straight spine and mane of unkempt, badger-grey hair. As a bride of sixteen, she had loved him so hard that even to look at him had made her queasy with joy. And in those first months he had been kind enough for her to imagine that he at least returned a measure of her affection. She had borne him four daughters in as many years and became pregnant again within three months of Adele’s birth. Exhausted, sick and miserable, she had watched William ride away to war and every day she had prayed for him, callousing her knees on the cold chapel floor.
Her pleas to God had been answered after a fashion, for three months later he had returned unscathed, bringing with him a contingent of Breton mercenaries to garrison their castle. He had also brought a woman, the sister of one of the mercenaries. The glow of early pregnancy had been upon her, making her shine like a candle among common rush dips. She had been dark-haired, green-eyed and regal of bearing, and she had given William his first son to replace Agnes’s own stillborn baby boy. It was then, seeing the blaze of joy, triumph and naked love in William’s eyes, that Agnes had begun to learn hatred.
Three sons she had given him since then but her success was tarnished. The shadow of Morwenna and her bastard had made all her own efforts dross. ‘There is always trouble when Joscelin shows his face,’ she said bitterly.
William rounded on her with angry eyes. ‘Watch your tongue or you’ll be wearing a scold’s bridle to curb it,’ he growled.
Compressing her lips, she turned from him and marched angrily across the yard and up the exterior stairs to the upper floor of the house. She would not go into the hall, for that would have meant acknowledging Joscelin. A maid opened the door for her but it was Agnes who slammed it shut, the sound reverberating across the soft summer dusk.
William’s eyelids tensed. He knew he was not being fair but he didn’t care enough to change his attitude. When he entered the hall, Joscelin was lounging on a bench before the central hearth. His squire sat on a foot-stool nearby, fair head bent over a dagger grip he was rebinding with new strips of hide. A different dagger twisted in William’s heart as he approached the fire and his eldest son raised his head. God’s life, he was so much like his mother. The green-hazel eyes and the expression in them were all hers and flooded Ironheart with unbearable bittersweet memories.
Joscelin sprang to his feet and engulfed his father in a bone-crunching embrace. They were of a height and similar build, for William still had a tough, muscular body on which no softness had been allowed to encroach.
‘I swear you grow more like a plough ox every time I see you!’ Ironheart gasped and, thrusting his son aside, prowled to the hearth. The squire scrambled to his feet in deference, blue eyes wary.
‘Fetch wine,’ William commanded, ‘two cups.’ He glanced at the cloak spread upon the chair and spilling to the floor. ‘I trust you’ll stay to drink a measure with your old father?’
Joscelin’s colour heightened. ‘Of course, sir. I was waiting for you.’
William grunted and gave him an eloquent stare but said nothing. If Joscelin intended going out into the city at night it was none of his business but, nevertheless, he was curious. Joscelin was not usually one for the vices that were to be found in the alehouses and stews on the wrong side of curfew.
The squire returned with the wine.
‘Was your journey free of hazard?’
Joscelin looked at the floor for a moment before raising laughter-bright eyes. ‘How do you always know where to strike a nut to crack the shell and come to the meat?’
‘Call it grim experience.’
For the second time that evening Joscelin related the tale of his encounter with Giles de Montsorrel. ‘It stinks like a barrel of rotten fish,’ he concluded. ‘Why should he want to bring his worldly wealth all the way to London?’
From the upper floor came the muffled sound of women’s voices and the loud thud of a coffer lid opening and slamming. William flickered an irritated glance aloft. ‘He’s related to Robert of Leicester, is he not? And Leicester has obtained de Luci’s permission to sail for Normandy in the next week or so with men and money to succour King Henry, or so Leicester would have us believe. Myself, I’ve heard more truth in a minstrel’s lay.’
Joscelin nodded thoughtfully. ‘And Montsorrel is contributing his bit to Leicester’s endeavor. From what I know of Giles, if he was going to take sides I would say that he would choose young Henry’s.’
Ironheart gave a disparaging shake of his head. ‘I certainly wouldn’t chance my all on an untried youth of sixteen with a reputation for being as fickle as a Southwark whore, both on the battlefield and off. Mind you, it’s easier to manipulate a vain, spoiled boy than it is to obtain satisfaction from a man well versed in statecraft who’s had his backside on the throne for the past twenty years.’ William took a swallow of wine. ‘Giles de Montsorrel is a fool.’
‘A wealthy fool with the Rushcliffe inheritance new in his purse,’ Joscelin said.
‘Hah, not for long,’ Ironheart said. ‘He’s already squandered most of the money his wife brought to their marriage bed. I knew her father, Robert de Courcelles - too soft for his own good, but decent enough.’ He gave his son a shrewd look and changed the subject. ‘De Luci informs me he’s keeping you on through the summer.’
Joscelin shrugged. ‘The rewards are greater on the tourney circuits, but so are the risks. Garrison duty’s usually boring but if there’s food in my belly and money in my pouch, I won’t grumble.’
William winced. There was no rancour in Joscelin’s tone, no intent to complain, but still the older man was struck by guilt. This was his firstborn son, the only child Morwenna had given him, and because he was bastard born debarred from inheriting any of the de Rocher lands. Joscelin had had to make his own way in the world and that meant either by the priesthood or by the sword. William had done his best, educated Joscelin for both vocations and furnished him with the tools of his chosen trade, but it would never be enough for his bleeding conscience.
‘I doubt you’ll have time for boredom to be a hazard,’ he said as Joscelin drained his cup and reached for his cloak. ‘De Luci didn’t say much but I gather he’s got more in mind for you than just garrison duty.’
Joscelin forced his cloak pin through the good woollen cloth. ‘Such as?’
‘That’s for de Luci to tell you.’
Joscelin’s brows arched. ‘I’d best make the most of my freedom, then,’ he said, and gestured round. ‘As you’ve noticed by the emptiness in the hall, my men are already about it with gusto.’