Shields of Pride

Chapter 28

Raising his head, the buck sifted the wind, ears and eyes alert, jaws moving rhythmically on a mouthful of birch bark strips. Something had disturbed the deep forest but he was unsure yet as to what it was and whether it was dangerous. His breath vaporized in the frozen February air and beneath his dainty cloven hooves the ground wore a dusting of snow. Tiny flakes, needle-sharp, fell from a flat blanket of grey cloud, making it difficult for the buck to absorb any scent. He remained nervous, facing the east where the light was brightest and from which direction he sensed the disturbance came. The other bucks in the herd had stopped eating too and were staring eastwards with flickering ears and switching scuts. Faint but clear and true on the breeze, threading through the particles of snow, the buck heard the call of a hunting horn and scented the rank, terrifying odour of dogs and men. Within seconds, the clearing was empty as the deer bounded into Sherwood’s dark heart, but their spoor remained and the snow was falling too softly to cover it.

Chest heaving with the exertion of the chase, eyes bright with the lust of having witnessed the death of the magnificent buck, it took Ralf a moment to realize he was being addressed by Robert Ferrers, Earl of Derby.

‘I’m sorry, my lord, I was still caught up in the chase.’

‘So I see,’ Ferrers said with amusement. ‘I asked how your lord father was these days.’

‘He is well, sire,’ Ralf answered, suddenly on his guard. Robert Ferrers was not the kind who made small talk with relative strangers who were only here on the hunt because they happened to be friends with one of his knights.

Ferrers nodded and toyed with a loose thread on his saddle cloth. ‘He seems to have emerged from last year’s troubles gilded with honour.’

Ralf shot Ferrers a puzzled look, wondering whether he was being baited or courted here.

The kennel keepers were whipping the dogs to heel and two bearers were tying the buck upside down to a carrying pole. ‘Ride with me awhile,’ Ferrers commanded, and reined his horse out of the ring of trees where they had brought the stag to bay. The snow had all been trampled away, leaving churned soil and bloody leaf mould. When his squires made to follow, he gestured them to stay back.

The forest closed around them, the light a luminous grey filled with small, stinging barbs of ice. The heat of the chase began to seep from Ralf ’s veins, leaving him aware of the numbing cold. Weather like this always cursed the borders of spring.

Ferrers regarded him with pursed lips. ‘You and Sir William are reconciled, so I am led to believe?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ Ralf said warily.

‘And your half-brother, the one who married into such good fortune, are you and he on speaking terms?’

Ralf swallowed. Beneath him his horse paced smoothly, hoofbeats thud-thudding like his heart. ‘I haven’t seen him since we met in London last summer.’

Robert Ferrers grunted. ‘It is a pity your father did not try to obtain Linnet de Montsorrel for you instead of him,’ he said, watching Ralf closely. ‘I would have thought it was the natural thing to do, you being the heir.’

Ralf said nothing. He might hate Joscelin and feel scalding resentment for the way their father favoured his precious bastard over his legitimate sons, but his rebellion had taught him caution. Hearts and hatreds were not to 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. What was won can soon be lost? He looked over his shoulder. Men were riding along the path behind them, fellow guests, equerries, beaters and foresters, keeping their distance but obviously concerned by the increasing heaviness of the snow. ‘What do you want of me, my lord?’

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.