if I wish. You can come with me or go to Lower Broadheath. Will you come?’ A little smile touched her lips as she watched Petronilla consider, knowing the outcome. Of course her mother would come. She would admit that to change Rosamund’s mind would be like trying to change the direction of the wind, and she might as well save her breath, but she was not so careless a parent as to allow her only child to journey into the wild terrain in the west unaccompanied.
‘I will come with you,’ Petronilla confirmed. ‘Of course I will. Do you need to ask?’ And then, with a sigh as reality struck, ‘But Gilbert will stop you.’
‘No, he won’t. I have a plan.’
‘But, Rose, it’s so far.’
‘Exactly! Far enough to get me out of the marriage with Ralph de Morgan. Once there, I’ll be safe. I can live as I wish.’ Rosamund’s eyes gleamed with indomitable courage and sheer excitement at the planned adventure. ‘If I flee to Clifford, rejecting all ties with Salisbury, Gilbert—and Ralph too—might just write me off as a lost cause. I doubt either of them will bother to send a force after us, to drag me back to Salisbury in chains or lock me in a dungeon until I am obedient. We shall both be free of the selfish demands of opinionated men. Which, I think, will suit both of us very well.’
Chapter Two
Fitz Osbern arrived in Hereford as the winter night closed in, rain still falling steadily. He settled his men as usual into the range of buildings that made up the Blue Boar, stayed only for a cup of ale, a platter of bread and tough meat of dubious origin, then replaced cloak and hood to begin a round of the ale houses and taverns.
Knowing the habits of his quarry, it did not take long. In the Red Lion he caught sight of just the man who would answer his needs. A thickset soldier with years of experience on his shoulders, he was in the act of raising a tankard to his lips, Fitz Osbern strode up behind him and clapped him on the back. He choked over the ale.
‘God damn it!’ The irate drinker wheeled round, tankard discarded so that it rolled wetly on the table. His hand flashed to the dagger at his waist, all the honed instincts of a hardened campaigner, until he grunted, grinned as he wiped his hand down over the front of his ale-spotted tunic. ‘Ger! I might have known. But you might value your life …’ Hugh de Mortimer swept the point of the short-bladed dagger in a menacing circle, before placing it on the table top and pushing forward a stool with one booted foot.
‘As if you could stick me with that pretty toy, before I had you on the floor under my boot.’ Gervase sat, cast off his cloak. ‘Still frequenting stews such as this for your entertainment?’ His lips curled at the rank smoke, the unpleasant mix of scents of rancid onions and sour ale, of damp and unwashed humanity. Hugh’s weathered face softened into a smile of easy camaraderie of long standing, which Gervase returned as they finally clasped hands in greeting. Hugh continued to wear his years well. There were a good dozen years between them, but they had fought side by side over those years to keep the March at peace. Grizzled, stocky, the Marcher lord enforced his authority with steely blue eyes and a common touch that made him popular and easy to approach.
‘For your information, Ger, I’m here for any news of interest,’ the Marcher lord chided gently, yet with the authority of experience and the scattering of grey in his hair. From his power base in Hereford, Hugh de Mortimer had taken it upon himself to keep his finger on the tumultuous pulse of the March in the name of the King. ‘I had a meeting with one of my informants here.’ Hugh eyed Gervase, the growth of beard, the black, rain-matted hair. ‘Thought you were in Anjou.’
‘I was. Just returned.’ Stretching out his right leg, a groan indicating a recent injury from a fall from his horse, one that still ached in cold wet weather, Gervase ran his hand over his rough chin and cheeks with distaste. ‘Some hard travelling with little time for home comforts. As for the crossing …’ His expression said it all. ‘I was bound for Monmouth. And then I heard some interesting news on the road this side of Gloucester.’
A gleam lit the keen blue eyes. ‘Salisbury?
‘Salisbury. That’s why I’m here. I thought you’d know more if there was anything to know. Your lines of communication are excellent. Tell me what’s afoot.’
‘Salisbury’s dead,’ Hugh confirmed, turning smartly to business. ‘That’s what you wanted to hear.’
‘So it’s true.’
‘And you are thinking of the future of Clifford.’
‘How would I not?’
‘That this is your chance to get it back?’
‘I don’t know. I doubt it. The son and heir has as much an iron fist as his father. The lands will be held secure. I doubt the change in ownership will make much difference. And I’m too far stretched with the Anjou possessions to engage in a major conflict, however much I might desire the castle.’
Hugh’s hand closed over the Fitz Osbern’s wrist, pulled him closer. ‘But listen, Ger. Rumour has it that the new Earl’s primary interest will not be in the March after all. That he has not inherited Clifford, or the other two border castles. Nor has his brother Walter.’
Gervase paused, ale halfway between table and lips. Blood sang through his veins, a sudden bubble of warmth to lift his spirits.
‘If not Gilbert, then who?’
‘The Earl’s daughter. A girl from his second marriage. He married Petronilla de Clare a dozen years ago. So this daughter must be young—a mere child, I think.’
‘A child?’ Gervase tapped his fingers against the cup at the new slant on affairs.
‘That’s what my sources tell me. It might be in your interest after all to spy out the land.’ A sly smile on Hugh’s face, at odds with the ingenuous open stare.
‘It might. Well, now! Clifford in the hands of a child, a girl.’
Fitz Osbern sat and thought, staring down into his ale.
Clifford. The name had been engraved on his consciousness when a small child, written there in a forceful hand by his father. By rights the little border fortress was his, part of the Fitz Osbern estates. He knew it well, had once lived there for a short period when he was first wed to Matilda de Vaughan. Urgently, he pushed that unwelcome memory away to concentrate on what he recalled of the stronghold itself. For the most part a rough-and-ready, timber-and-earth construction, with only a token rebuilding in stone to provide basic living accommodation. But that was not important. What was, was that it held a strategic position on the River Wye, where the river could be forded, and was one of the original Fitz Osbern lands granted to his ancestor after the Conquest by the grateful Conqueror. It was undeniably part of his inheritance.
But then Clifford had been filched from his father, Henry, Lord Fitz Osbern, by the Earl of Salisbury when Lord Henry was campaigning in Anjou and he, Gervase, was holding court in his father’s name in Monmouth. All was done and dusted by the time his father returned, or before he could raise his own force and march to Clifford from Monmouth. By that time Salisbury was smirking from behind the walls.
And so Clifford had become a constant thorn in the Fitz Osbern flesh, of loss and humiliation that had worn his father down. Not in the best of health, he had seen it as a disgrace, a stain on his honour. A suppurating sword wound had carried him off to his grave only twelve months after. Gervase’s frown grew heavier. Any attempt by Gervase to recover
