Linnet had been forced to sit on a stool and watch Agnes prepare her husband to be taken down to the chapel to lie in state; to watch the woman wash his body as tenderly as a lover, dwelling upon the ravaged, calloused flesh with obscene, possessive joy. It had made Linnet sick. Twice she had had to run to the waste pit in the corner of the room, although there had been nothing to bring up but bile. And each time she returned, it was to see Agnes crooning to her husband, smiling and stroking.
‘You are mine now,’ Agnes whispered, running the rose-water cloth over the body in long, smooth strokes. ‘You cannot gainsay my will.’
Linnet shuddered at her tone. She wondered if Agnes, in her madness, would cast off her clothes and leap into bed with the body.
‘Of course, when it comes your turn to do this, your own husband will not be so presentable,’ Agnes continued as she shook out the garments, hurling small, brittle pieces of bay leaf and sage from the folds. ‘I saw a human hide once, nailed on the gates of a house in Newark. You couldn’t really tell it was human, it was all yellow and shrivelled; they mustn’t have tanned it properly.’
Linnet was overcome with nausea again, her reaction so swift and strong to Agnes’ words that she had no time to reach the garderobe and had to use her wimple.
Agnes clucked her tongue. ‘You are suffering, my dear, aren’t you?’ she said, a parody of concern in her damaged voice. ‘When is the babe due?’
‘It is you who is making me sick,’ Linnet gasped, removing her spoiled wimple. Jesu and his mother, help me, she thought, knowing she could not endure much more.
‘Your heart is too tender, as indeed mine was once. Perhaps you see yourself in me?’ Agnes cocked her head to one side, eyeing Linnet with a terrible shrewdness. ‘But you are pregnant, aren’t you? I have carried enough infants in my womb to know the signs.’
Linnet removed her stained wimple. ‘It is no concern of yours,’ she said in what she hoped was a cold tone speaking of strength, not trembling terror.
‘Oh, but it is,’ Agnes said. ‘In your belly grows the seed of Morwenna de Gael’s grandchild. We shall have to do something about that unless you lose it of your own accord. It is no use looking at the door. There is a guard on the stairs and he has instructions not to let you pass unless in my company. Come.’ She gestured. ‘Help me dress my husband for the chapel. He cannot go before the altar in his shirt. It would not be seemly.’
Sickened to her soul, Linnet backed away from Agnes’ beckoning finger, backed away until her spine struck the wall and she could go no farther. Agnes smiled and shrugged and turned to the body.
Linnet slipped down the wall until a low, dust-covered oak coffer caught the back of her knees. She slumped upon it, fighting to stay conscious, terrified of the danger to herself and her unborn child. As if from a great distance she heard Agnes directing her maid to lift and lower, pull and push, as they dressed William Ironheart in his court robes, decking him out in the finery that he had shunned in life.
‘Neither will it be seemly for you to accompany me to the chapel with your hair uncovered,’ Agnes croaked over to Linnet. ‘You will find a wimple in that coffer. Put it on and make yourself decent for the priest.’
Spots of light danced before Linnet’s eyes and the room was spinning. She wanted to snarl defiance at Agnes but knew that her only chance of escape lay in leaving this room, in persuading Ralf that she would be better guarded elsewhere if he wanted to preserve her to use as a bargaining counter.
Gingerly she turned round, knelt on the floor, and raised the lid of the coffer on which she had been sitting. The scent of faded herbs drifted to her nostrils as she looked upon folded chemises and summer linen under-gowns. Unable to find a wimple, she burrowed deeper, at last uncovering a rectangle of blue-green silk and another larger one of pale blue linen. A small securing brooch in the shape of a bronze horse was still pinned in the latter’s folds.
It was this second one that Linnet chose, but as she drew the cloth from the chest the brooch pin caught on the garment folded beneath. She lifted both out in order to untangle them and found herself looking at the gown that had been lying in the bottom of the coffer. It was made of green samite with a trim of tarnished silver thread and, when she held it up, she saw that it was cut in the style fashionable when she had been a little girl and that it had been adapted to fit a woman big with child.
‘Dear God,’ she whispered and looked over her shoulder at Agnes. The older woman was busily adorning Ironheart’s body and showed no sign that she had intended for Linnet to discover the gown. Linnet wondered if this coffer had been Morwenna’s. Had she ever worn the blue wimple and horse brooch? Was the green silk wimple the one that belonged with the gown in the bottom of the chest? With shaking hands, Linnet covered her hair with the blue linen and brought an edge across to pin beneath her throat.
Agnes turned round. Her small eyes widened as she looked at the open coffer. ‘Not that one,’ she snapped, ‘the one next to it.’ She pointed at another, larger chest standing against the wall. Then she made a gesture of dismissal. ‘It doesn’t matter. Maude never uses it anyway.’
‘It belongs to Maude?’
Agnes shrugged. ‘I told you, it does not matter.’
Linnet drew the green gown from the coffer, shook it out and held it up. ‘So this is hers?’
If Agnes had been capable of screaming, she would have done so. Mouth open, she stared at the creased green robe with its knotted hanging sleeves and rich silver borders. Her colour faded to the hue of ashes and she dragged air into her lungs with painful effort. ‘I gave orders that it should be burned!’ she wheezed. ‘The stupid, sentimental bitch. I should never have let her stay here to comfort William and the brat after the whore died. Give it to me!’ Hands extended to snatch, she stepped towards Linnet.
‘You destroyed yourself when you killed Morwenna, didn’t you?’ Linnet sidestepped to avoid Agnes. Armoured with the green gown, she was no longer afraid. ‘You kept her fresh and young for ever in your husband’s mind.’
‘Give me that gown, you harlot!’ Agnes lunged. Linnet dodged. The tarnished silver braid glittered and the green silk glowed with absorbed and reflected light as Linnet swept out of Agnes’ reach. Agnes stumbled against the larger chest. Standing on it was a small, open basket containing her tablet-weaving materials. From among the hanks of wool, she grasped her sewing shears and gripped them like a weapon. ‘You whore!’ Agnes whispered, her broken voice saturated with hatred. ‘You’ll not take him from me this time!’
Linnet jumped backwards, trying to avoid the shears as Agnes lunged. Moving sideways, dodging, Linnet tried to reach the bed in order to keep its bulk between herself and Agnes, but Agnes was too quick for her and Linnet’s direction only incensed the older woman further. ‘Keep away from him!’ Agnes hissed, striking at Linnet with the shears. The pointed blades ripped into the old green silk, shredding the front from breast to hip.
Linnet narrowly missed being gouged. The force of Agnes’ assault almost dragged the gown from her hands but she held on to it. As the shears stabbed at her again, she raised the gown on high. ‘Have it!’ she cried, tossing it over Agnes’s head, and ran to the door. She wrestled with the heavy latch, knowing that at any moment Agnes would win free of the gown and come at her again.
Sobbing with panic, she rammed the heel of her hand down on the latch and felt it give. She wrenched the door open, intending to flee down the stairs to the guard but bounced off Ralf instead.
‘Going somewhere?’ he said softly and, seizing her upper arm in a grip of steel, turned her round and pulled her back into the room. He was not alone. Ivo, four knights and the priest followed him into the chamber.