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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.’
    Ironheart could sense the undercurrent of turbulence in Joscelin’s manner - probably a residue of the meeting with Montsorrel and his wife that afternoon. A night in an alehouse might settle it, or a woman who knew her trade, but it was a dangerous burden to bear into London after curfew. ‘Have a care, my son,’ he said with a warning stare.
    ‘As always.’ Joscelin dismissed the caution far too lightly for his father’s liking and, with a casual salute, disappeared into the night.
    William heaved a sigh. Gesturing the wide-eyed squire away to his pallet, he sat down before the banked hearth to finish his wine. His thoughts, of their own volition, strayed to Joscelin’s mother. Morwenna. Even now, the mere thought of her name twisted his vitals.
    She had been a mercenary’s sister whose favours he had bought one spring evening in 1144 while on campaign. Until Morwenna, he thought he had women in perspective but she had broken all rules and moulds and finally his heart. Five years it had lasted, from the night she unbound her hair for him at an army campfire to the night they combed it down over the cold breast of her corpse, a swaddled stillborn daughter in the crook of her arm. Nothing of her existence had remained except a bewildered little boy and an even more bewildered man of four-and-thirty.
    Dear Christ, how he had hated Agnes in the months following Morwenna’s death. All the tolerance in his nature had died, all the gentleness too. He should have been delighted at how swiftly his wife quickened with child, at how easily she was delivered, but he had felt nothing but cursed. He knew he treated his dogs better than he did Agnes but it was ingrained now. Every time he looked at her, he saw Morwenna’s