Shields of Pride

Chapter 32

Leaning on his elbow in the hay of the stable loft at Arnsby, Ralf watched Hulda, a kitchen maid, tidy her hair and brush ineffectually at the stalks of straw caught in her gown. She slid him a look through her lashes. Her eyes were a bright, winter-blue and, apart from her lush white breasts, her best feature. Her nose was lumpy, her lips thin and she had crooked teeth. Still, she was athletic and accommodating, tight and moist where it mattered.

Hulda was frequently sought out by the castle soldiers because, not only was she willing to lie with them for a pittance, she had the added attraction of being barren. No man was going to plant his seed and then find a woman whining at his tunic hem, demanding financial support for her growing belly. This being the case, the lady Agnes turned a blind eye to Hulda’s copulatory industriousness and only groused if it interfered with her work in the kitchens.

‘I heard Cook say your father’s gone into Nottingham to find you a bride,’ she fished as she secured her braid with a leather cord.

Ralf said nothing and stretched. Tufts of red-gold hair sprouted in his armpits.

‘Is it true?’ Hulda pursued. ‘Are you really going to take a wife?’

Her eyes were avid and made him smile and bite the inside of his mouth. To lie with the lord’s son was a source of power in itself but to have snippets of information straight from his own lips was even more useful.

‘When the time comes,’ he said with a shrug and picked his shirt off the straw. ‘Here’s a penny for you to spend next time the new packman comes calling.’

She took the coin willingly enough, but he saw the sulky droop of her lower lip. His own mouth tightened. The slut need not think he was going to pay her with information.

‘Go on, back to the kitchens; you’ve been away from them long enough!’ He gave her rump a stinging slap.

She squealed and, rubbing her buttock, said reproachfully, ‘You was the one who took me from my duties and kept me here so long.’

Ralf laughed. ‘If you’d wanted a short ride, you should have let Ivo mount you!’

‘P’rhaps I will.’ She set her foot upon the top rung of the ladder. There was a loud commotion in the stable below, and after briefly looking down, she tossed her head at Ralf. ‘I’ll ask him now, shall I?’

In the stable, a hard-ridden horse was blowing loudly as the groom unsaddled it. Hulda descended to the bottom step and stood aside, hands behind her back, eyes coyly weighing up Ivo who had just dismounted.

‘Where’s Ralf ?’ he snapped at her. She rolled her eyes towards the loft hatch. Ivo brushed her aside and shouted up. ‘Ralf, in Jesu’s name, come down. There’s news!’

Alerted by Ivo’s flushed face and his breathing, which was louder than that of his hard-ridden courser, Ralf came to the trap and stood fastening his braies. ‘Oh yes?’

Ivo peered up at him, chestnut hair sweat-dark on his brow. ‘I met one of our messengers on the road. He’ll be here soon, but his horse was tiring and mine was still fresh. It’s Papa, Ralf - he’s been wounded in a fight and they’re bringing him home.’

Ralf ’s complexion flooded with colour and his brown eyes turned to liquid gold. ‘Who is “they”?’ he demanded. ‘Move out of the way, let me come down.’

‘Joscelin and that wife of his.’ Ivo was almost leaping up and down with excitement. ‘They stopped off at Rushcliffe on their way to leave the brat and his nurse, so the messenger says. Joscelin’s wife’s insisted on attending Papa all the way to Arnsby because he’s in such a bad state. What’s more, they’re on their way here from the whore’s chapel. Papa wanted to be taken there. He’s dying, Ralf.’

Ralf descended the ladder and strode from the stables towards the keep. Elation surged through him. Ivo, shorter in the leg, had to run to keep up. ‘Ferrers attacked Nottingham. Apparently our houses were sacked but Papa escaped with the women into the cellars of the house next door.’

‘How was he wounded, then?’

‘In a sword fight defending them - a deep cut to the left shoulder.’

Ralf grunted. If it was not all that he had hoped for, then it was still excellent news. Joscelin was bringing the old man home to die. They would ride through Arnsby’s gates and never leave again. He glanced sharply at his scurrying brother. ‘You didn’t ride back along the road to greet them yourself, then?’

‘No, I came straight to tell you.’

Ralf nodded with satisfaction. As a younger son, Ivo’s inheritance was slim and likely to stay so unless he married well. He was dependent on the goodwill of the head of the household and obviously he had decided which way the wind was blowing.

‘Go and give Mama the tidings, will you?’ Ralf said. ‘She will need to prepare the bedchamber if our father is as bad as you say.’ And strew it with wormwood, gall and deadly nightshade, he thought. Maude was absent on one of her frequent visits to friends in convents and not expected home until the end of the week. His mother was always worse without Maude’s presence to lend an absorbent ear.

Ivo glowered. ‘What are you going to be doing?’ he asked in a disgruntled voice.

Ralf parted his lips in a narrow, white grin. ‘Preparing a welcoming committee, what else?’