The Love Knot

Chapter 10

The summer months ripened into autumn, and autumn in its turn yielded to the fallow season of winter. Catrin spent less time with the Countess and her women, and more in Ethel's shelter, absorbing knowledge about herbs and simples, and attending births with the elderly midwife. Catrin did not care that Ethel made her work her hands and brain to the bone, for she was learning and she was happy. The world of the bower was a stultifying cage of petty jealousies. Ethel might be grouchy and irascible on occasion, but whatever she had to say was said and then forgotten, not whispered behind her hand or left to fester.

Measuring Catrin's progress, Ethel began to delegate responsibility. In late August, Catrin delivered her first infant under Ethel's supervision. A month later, she attended the birth of one of the soldier's women on her own.

From diagnosing and treating simple ailments, she moved on to those which required more complex remedies, blending the herbs and mixing the potions under Ethel's watchful but uninterfering eye.

Oliver supped at their fire when his duties did not take him away from Bristol. Catrin warmed to his companionship and found herself missing him on the nights when he did not come by. Sometimes Ethel would retire to her bed-bench, grumbling about her old bones and late hours, leaving Catrin and Oliver talking softly over the dying fire. Other nights, they would stay in the keep, listening to the minstrels and playing at dice and tafel.

One bitter evening in late November, they were sitting over

Oliver's wooden tafel board in the great hall. The wind could not pierce the thick stonework of the castle, but it whistled in at the window embrasures with a vengeance and thrust icy fingers beneath the door at the hall's far end. The huge fireplace gave off little heat except to those sitting almost on top of the flames and belched smoke at them for the privilege.

'Emma used to hate the winter, Oliver said with a glance around the barn-like hugeness of the room. 'If she had had her way, we would all have hibernated like squirrels or hedge-pigs until April.

He occasionally spoke of his dead wife these days. Catrin had noted that when he did, it was always with a slight narrowing of his eyes, as if he were seeing her from a distance. He ought to let Emma vanish over the horizon rather than try to draw her closer, Catrin thought, but did not say so. She felt the same way about Lewis and it was easier said than done to let go of the past.

'I mislike the chilblains and the way that the days are over before they can begin, she said. 'But there is much to enjoy as well — the Christmas feast, the beauty of snow seen from within a room lit by a roaring fire, with the comfort of mulled wine. Lewis and I used to… She bit off the rest of the sentence and gave a short laugh, realising how easy it was to fall into the trap of 'once upon a time'.

'Used to what? He looked at her with a poignant half smile on his lips.

She shook her head self-consciously. 'Nothing, it doesn't matter.

'Yes, it does. What used you to do?

Catrin sighed. 'We used to lie beneath the covers, wrapped in each other's arms, while the wind howled like a wolf. There was nothing but us and the winter storm… nothing. Her throat tightened and she swallowed.

'With us it was the summer, on a cloak beneath a night thick with stars, he murmured.

They looked at each other. 'Lord, what fools, he said with a down-turned smile and a shake of his head. Without any purpose, he picked up one of the tafel pieces and turned it round in his fingers.

'I know that it is Emma in the summer mural in the Earl's chamber, she ventured cautiously. 'Richard told me. She must have been very pretty.

'She was. His expression was distant with remembering. 'I was offered the pick between Emma and Amice. Both had similar dowries and status. My family thought that I would choose Amice because she was as lovely as a ripe peach, but she held no appeal for me. I had grown up with a brother and parents all large and fair-haired. I craved difference, not more of the same. He set the tafel piece gently down. 'She was dark and fey, gentle and shy as a doe, with a way of looking at me that made me feel like the king of the world. When she died, I became a beggar.

'I know, Catrin murmured. 'It was the same for me when I lost Lewis.

Once more their eyes met and held. He started to speak, but Catrin had heard no more than: 'I still have my begging bowl, but I no longer need— when Ethel appeared at their side. Her cloak sparkled with water droplets and her ankle boots were splashed with greenish muck from the quagmire of the bailey. She was leaning heavily on a stick of carved hickory wood.

'I've to interrupt your gaming, she said, the hint of a wheeze in her voice. 'Lora the soap-maker's wife is in travail and we're needed. She touched Catrin's shoulder. 'Should be an easy birth. 'Tis her first, but she's broader in the beam than an abbot's barn. I've left everything ready by my hearth. We can pick it up as we leave.

Catrin nodded and lifted her cloak off the bench. Another gift from the Countess, it was fashioned of grey wool with a fleece lining. It insulated her excellently against the cold, and it was so thick that it took a long time for rain to penetrate. There was no hood, but Catrin had bought one of those for herself from the market place. It was a perky, bright brown with a border of scarlet and yellow braid. She pulled it on now, over her wimple.

Ethel turned away, already limping towards the door. 'Make haste, she said over her shoulder.

Oliver pushed the pieces aside. 'Do you want an escort?

Ethel paused and shook her head. 'No, they've sent the journeyman and the apprentice to fetch us. She turned fully and looked at him, the seams around her black eyes deepening. 'We'll be home 'afore cock-crow, whole, hearty and rich.

'I hope so, Oliver said woodenly.

'Folk know better than to interfere with a midwife about her lawful business. 'Tis as deep as an unspoken curse. At dawn, you come to my fire and I'll give you fresh oatcakes to break your fast. She gave him a nod of supreme confidence and went on her way.

'She's right, you know, Catrin said, and lightly touched his arm. 'Our trade endangers us, but equally it protects us.

'Just have a care. He gave her a dark look from beneath his brows.

'We always do. She tightened her grip on his sleeve for an instant, then hastened after Ethel, her midwife's satchel bouncing at her side.

'They're gaining a reputation as the best midwives this side of the Avon, and not without cause, said Geoffrey FitzMar, who had also watched the women leave the hall. He sat on the bench that Catrin had vacated, and rearranged the tafel pieces. 'I know for sure that they saved my son's life. Do you want another game?

Oliver could hardly refuse. Besides, it was probably better than nursing his worries alone with a flagon. He gestured assent.

'You must be proud of them.

'Hah, I have small say in the matter! Oliver declared somewhat bitterly.

FitzMar looked puzzled. 'I thought they were beholden to you.

Oliver opened his mouth to tell FitzMar about Ethel in precise detail, but thought the better of it before the words emerged. She frequently enraged and exasperated him, but beneath her tough exterior was an ailing and vulnerable old woman. And as to Catrin… He thought of her frowning in concentration over her next move on the tafel board because she was determined he would not defeat her. He remembered how she had squeezed his arm. 'Be that as it may, he said, 'they go their own way, and yes, I am proud of them — your move.

As Ethel had predicted, the birth of Lora's baby was simple and straightforward. The infant, a son, was large and yelled lustily the moment he emerged into the air. Lora neither tore as she pushed him out, nor bled more than a trickle, and the afterbirth emerged smooth and whole within moments of the infant's delivery.

The ecstatic father paid the midwives twice the agreed fee of a shilling each, presenting them with twenty-four silver pennies apiece. He also gave them both a jar of soap. It was not the usual grey, strong-smelling liquid used for washing linen, but was thicker, flecked with green and delicately scented with lavender and rosemary. This was a much rarer and more costly soap for washing of the person, and increased their wages twofold again.

Their thanks were waved away with a declaration that it was no more than their due, and after a warming drink of spiced mead they set out for the keep, escorted by the two manservants and in high good spirits.

They passed the church of Saint Mary and took the lane that ran through the butchers' Shambles, the crowded wattle and daub houses to their left and the Avon gleaming on their right. Fishing craft and rowing boats were moored up for the night. There were piles of nets and twists of rope, the plash of starlit water and the heavy smell of the river.

'What I would like to do, Catrin announced, touching the outline of the soap jar in her satchel, 'is to immerse myself in a steaming hot tub, and perfume my skin all over.

'Hah! Ethel wheezed. 'If you did it in this weather, my girl, you'd freeze your nipples off!

The men escorting them snorted with laughter. Catrin put her nose in the air. 'It was only a wish, she said, feeling foolish.

'Aye, well, you'd do better to sell it and buy yourself an

extra chemise for when the snow comes. 'Tis what I'm going to do. Ethel looked at her slyly. 'But then I don't have a man to impress, do I?

Before Catrin could find a suitably withering retort, there was a shout behind them, and they turned to see a thin, middle-aged woman in threadbare garments crying at them to stop.

'Are you the two midwives from the castle? she demanded as she ran up to them. Her breath crowed in her throat and her eyes were wild. A lantern guttered in her hand. 'Someone said they had seen you pass.

'We are. Ethel leaned on her stick and appraised the woman shrewdly.

'Then praise God. Come swiftly, I beg you, it's my daughter. She gestured over her shoulder to the maze of lanes and alleys in the darkness of the Shambles. 'I can't stop the bleeding, I don't know what to do!

'All right, calm yourself, mistress, we'll come, Ethel said, and waved her hand at the two men. 'Best return to your master. I do not know how long we will be.

The woman led them into the dark thoroughfares of the Shambles. Despite the straw that had been thrown down to make walking easier, mud still splashed their clothing and seeped through the stitches in their shoes. Behind the fairly prosperous houses that fronted the street were others which were not as well kept — mean dwellings with scarcely room for a meagre central hearth. Ethel could spare no breath to ask questions as they walked, and so it was left to Catrin to interrogate and discover that they were being called to attend not a birth, but a miscarriage.

'Four months she's been carrying, the woman said. 'My first grandchild. I'm not saying as we wanted the babe, but once she caught, we never tried to get rid of it.

'Husband? Catrin queried.

'Hasn't got one. Father could be one of several.

By which Catrin understood that they were being taken to see one of the town whores who had got herself into difficulties. It never occurred to her to baulk. Having served Amice and having seen the lot of women who were forced to sell their bodies to earn a crust, her censure was reserved for the men who used and misused them.

'If I ever catch the bastard who did this to her, said the mother, 'I will geld him with my own two hands and make him eat his own ballocks. And then I will cut his throat. She brought them to a wattle and daub dwelling, its low thatched roof rank and damp. They paddled through the muddy soup to reach the single door and entered a dark, fetid room. The smell of poverty was all-pervading and filled the air which was almost as cold within as without. A fire burned, but it fed on a single log, and there were only two pieces of split wood left in the wicker basket by the central hearth. The cooking pot that hung over the single lick of flame contained about two quarts of lukewarm water. Light, such as there was, came from the weak glow of the fire and a sputtering mutton-fat dip pinched in a rusty iron holder.

By the dim illumination, Catrin could only just make out the shape of a young woman lying on a bed-bench along the hut's side. Her knees were drawn up towards her belly, and she was stifling small, animal sounds of pain against the back of her hand.

The mother went straight to the bed and, kneeling, smoothed her daughter's wet hair. 'It's all right, sweetheart, look, I've found the midwives. They'll help you now.

Catrin joined the woman and, with a soothing murmur, drew back the threadbare blanket the girl was clutching. There was blood but, with so little light, it was hard to tell how much. Very gently, she eased the stained chemise above the young woman's hips, and then caught her breath at the sight of the bruises and bite marks on her belly and thighs. 'Jesu! she whispered, recoiling despite herself.

'Aye, said the mother grimly. 'Gelding's not good enough for the likes o' him.

Catrin swallowed, feeling nauseous. There were red lines on the girl's body too, as if someone had impressed her flesh with the mark of a sharp fingernail or the point of a knife. "Who did this?

'She won't say. He told her he'd rip her properly if she made a complaint, the hellspawn.

Ethel pushed her way forward. She was still wheezing after her brisk walk, but able enough to take command of the situation. Bringing out the pouch of coins that the soap-maker had given her, she counted some into the mother's palm. 'For firewood and candles, if you can find someone to sell them to you this time of night, she said curtly.

For a moment, the woman stared numbly at the silver in her hand, then shook herself. 'The Star might have them, she said. 'Adela works there — or she did. She looked at Ethel. 'I cannot repay you.

'Never mind about that, just go, Ethel said with an impatient wave of her hand. 'If we are to save your daughter, we need light and warmth. If you're off to an alehouse, a jug of wine wouldn't come amiss either.

The woman vanished and Catrin and Ethel set to work, although there was not a great deal they could do except clean the young woman, apply a pad of folded, soft linen between her thighs, and ease her pain with a tisane made from the tepid water in the cooking pot. The child, visibly a little girl and perfect in every way except her ability to exist outside the womb, was born a little after dawn. The room by then was warmer and the morning light augmented the extra rush dips burning around the bed. Catrin could see now that their patient was very young. Sixteen the mother said, but a sixteen stunted by years of malnutrition. Whoever her partners had been, their desire had been for a child, not a fully fledged woman, and what the last one had done to her to slake his lust was sickening. The girl would not speak about him. Even a gentle question brought terror to her eyes. The most they could glean, and this from the ale-wife at The Star who brought a fresh flagon of wine and a loaf of bread to break their fast, was that it had been a soldier from the castle, one of the Earl's mercenaries, and she too was reluctant to speak out.

'Even if we make a complaint, the Earl will just put it down to high spirits going too far. Fighting men have to vent their hot blood when they're not in the field. He'll not listen to the likes of us. He'll say that she knew the risks when she became a whore.

Which was probably true, Catrin thought unhappily. God might have time to see the fall of the meanest sparrow, but Earl Robert, despite his kindness to herself and Richard, was not so well disposed towards every waif and stray.

At least the girl was going to live, she thought, and then wondered how much of a blessing that was. Her mother was a widow who literally earned their bread by selling loaves on the street for a baker, in exchange for some of his produce. Adela had been selling her body for the past year to keep them warm and shod.

In a spurt of guilt and compassion, Catrin gave the girl's mother all but six pence from her twenty-four. Ethel watched and said nothing. She had parted with coins herself for light, warmth and wine.

A dull, grey November day had reached full light by the time the two women left the house and started back through the mud towards the castle.

'Good thing she lost the babe, Ethel said, leaning heavily on her stick. As she walked, the base of it disappeared in three inches of mud. 'Her hips are too small to carry a nine-months child, kill her for sure.

Catrin's eyes were so hot and gritty that it was difficult to keep them open, and one of her spectacular headaches was just waiting to pounce. She could feel it growing at the back of her skull, rather like the gathering of a thunderstorm. 'She might yet die if the fever sets in.

'Oh aye, she might, Ethel agreed, and paused for a moment to rest. The night had taken its toll on her too, and she was blue around the lips.

Catrin thought unhappily of the young whore she had seen snoring in the straw at Oliver's side in the summer. How easy it was for men to get hold of these undernourished girls to slake their lust. So easy that they did not stop to think. For the whores it was simple too; sell their bodies or starve.

Her thoughts were abruptly curtailed by the sight of two men slinking out from a noisome entry to block their path. They brandished nail-studded clubs and their garments were patched and tattered although, incongruously, one of them wore an expensive wool hat trimmed with ermine fur. Ethel tightened her grip on her stick and drew herself upright. Catrin backed up, shielding Ethel with her body.

The ruffian with the cap smiled, revealing a mouthful of worn-down teeth. 'Two plump pigeons ripe for the plucking. Give us your pouches. He thrust out his free hand.

Catrin's breathing quickened. 'We have no money. We're honest midwives about our duties. Let us go our way in peace.

'No such thing as an honest midwife, the other sneered, and took a menacing step forward. 'Come on, your money now, or you'll make the acquaintance of my cudgel.

'Touch either of us, and I will set a curse on you! spat Ethel, shaping her hand like a claw. 'I can, you know, and by Hecate, I will.

They hesitated, licking their lips, looking at each other. Catrin tried to feel for the small, sharp knife at her belt without being conspicuous. She also filled her lungs with a huge breath, ready to scream for aid at the top of her voice.

'Reckon as we're damned already, the man with the hat said. 'Your curses mean nothing, old woman, except they'll send you to hell before us. He made a grab for Ethel, whilst his companion leaped on Catrin. She released the scream, shattering the morning air with its power, and at the same time jerked her knee hard upward. Her assailant recoiled, clutching his genitals, and Catrin whipped the small dagger from its sheath, full knowing that it was an act of bravado. She could cut umbilical cords and prepare herbs with the blade, but never had she used it in aggression or even self-defence.

She dodged a blow from the cudgel, but was not fast enough, and it caught her arm, breaking no bones but severely bruising. As Ethel was thrown to the ground by the other thief, Catrin screamed again in desperation and prayed for doors to open and people to come.

Oliver spent a restless, uncomfortable night. Being one of the Earl's hearth knights meant just that, and he had to sleep beside the fire in the great hall, rolled in his cloak. The snores and coughs of the other men kept him awake, as did the knowledge that Ethel and Catrin were abroad in the city. The fact that they had an escort dampened his worry, but did not quench it entirely. They were still so vulnerable. And yet he dared not protest too hard lest he be accused of obstructing and stifling.

'Women, he muttered to himself as he turned over for what seemed the hundredth time.

'Aye, bless them, muttered Geoffrey FitzMar who was rolled up beside him.

Despite himself, Oliver gave a short laugh. 'Aye, bless them, he repeated, and closed his eyes.

For a while he slept, and chased brightly coloured images through his dreams. He was in a garden looking for Emma, but he could not find her. Amice was there and she kept pointing towards a grove of apple trees. But when he entered the grove in search of his wife, all he discovered was a mound of green earth that looked like an overgrown grave. He turned away, but when he looked back Catrin was sitting on it, stark naked except for her masses of raven-black hair and her crimson hose which ended just above her knees, in bright contrast to the white flesh of her thighs.

With a gasp, he snapped awake to find himself tangled in his cloak. Dull heat pulsed at his crotch and his body was damp with sweat. It was not the first erotic nightmare he had ever had, but it was certainly the most disturbing. The man beside him still slept, oblivious, but all around him others were rising. The fire in the hearth was blazing strongly and tendrils of steam rose from the cooking pot set over the flames. A glance at the high windows showed him that dawn had broken.

Untangling himself from his cloak, he went outside to piss and then washed his hands and face at the trough by the well. It was a murky November morning with a hint of drizzle that swiftly cooled the sweat on his body and banished any carnal residue from his dream. Although it was not long past dawn, a steady exchange of traffic between castle and town was well under way. Supplies and traders entered. Soldiers left.

Oliver watched the activity while he pinned his cloak and accustomed himself to the idea of being awake. His stomach rumbled, and he thought with anticipation of Ethel's hot griddle cakes, smeared with honey and butter — far better fare than the bowl of gruel he could expect in the hall. But it was not the thought of breakfast alone that sent him in the direction of Ethel's shelter. As he walked, he smoothed his hair and plucked a stray stalk of straw from his cloak. He also cupped his chin and grimaced to feel the prick of stubble. He should have taken the time to shave, but it was too late now.

With a swift step and rapid heart, he approached Ethel's shelter. The woven hanging was drawn across, but when he parted it to glance inside and see if the women were sleeping, it was empty, the hearth cold, and the coverlet on the bed-bench neatly arranged.

'They're not here, said one of the laundry women as she passed by with a basket of soiled linen. 'I called at first light for something to cure me toothache and there was no sign.

'They've been out all night then, Oliver said, with a sinking heart.

'Like as not. I ain't seen 'em for certes, but I wish they'd hurry back. Me gob's killing me. She went on her way, leaving Oliver gazing around the shelter. Despite the cheerful bedcovering, the rows of jars, sealed pig bladders and bunches of herbs, the place looked forlorn without its occupants. Ethel had said that they would return by daybreak. He glanced at the sky which had been light for perhaps an hour. They were not unduly late, but he could feel the apprehension gathering within him.

He forced himself to return to the hall and act as if this was just another morning. He ate a bowl of hot gruel without any enthusiasm, barbered his stubble, and returned to check on the shelter, but it was still as empty as before. Thoroughly unsettled by now, Oliver hitched his belt and set off at a determined pace towards the castle gates.

Once in the city, he made his way to the home of Payne the soap-maker and was greeted first with surprise, and then some consternation when the household learned of his enquiry. The manservant and journeyman were fetched from their tasks and made to tell their tale about the poor woman who had come begging Ethel and Catrin's help in the Shambles.

With increasing apprehension, Oliver turned his feet in that direction, but he had little idea where to look among all the back entrances that twisted through the quarter like the animal guts from which the Shambles took its name. Enquiries led him nowhere. The butchers had all been abed in the early hours, and those who had not had good reason to avoid a man with a sword.

His right hand on its hilt, Oliver left the main thoroughfares and entered the narrower alleys, his shoes squelching in mud and dung. A dog growled as it dashed past him, a dead rat dangling from its jaws. Two grimy little boys contemplated throwing pats of mud at him, but changed their minds when he drew an inch of blade from his scabbard. A door opened a crack and then slammed shut. Oliver drew another inch of steel, both as a warning to any hidden watchers and as a reassurance to himself.

Then he heard the scream over to his left, piercing and shrill. Cursing, he began to run — something of a feat in the November sludge of Bristol's back alleys. A second scream brought him to a narrow thoroughfare and a scene that drew his blade clean out of the scabbard in a single rasp of steel. The two men turned, cudgels raised, but on seeing the calibre and rage of their opposition, took to their heels.

Already breathless from his run, Oliver didn't pursue. Sword still in his right hand, he used his left to raise Ethel gently to her feet. Her breath wheezed in her throat, and she was trembling from head to toe. She braced herself upon her stick for support, but her eyes were bright and black with the light of battle.

'They'll come to bad ends, the both of them, she panted. 'And I need neither my wise-woman's sight nor a curse to predict that certainty. She gave him a sharp look. 'How did you know?

'You said you would be home before cock-crow. When you weren't, I came looking for you. His tone bore no expression, for he knew that if he began to rant at the women he would never stop, and this time there would be no healing the breach.

He looked at Catrin. Her hood was down, her wimple askew, baring her black braids. A spot of colour branded each cheekbone, and there was a small knife clenched so tightly in her hand that her knuckles were bone-white on the wooden haft. She was still gasping like a man on a battlefield.

The street had begun to fill with people, both the concerned and the morbidly curious. Ethel was offered a drink of ale, and someone brought out a three-legged stool so that she could sit down. Oliver returned his sword to his scabbard. 'Put up your knife, he said quietly to Catrin, with a nod at her right hand.

'What? She gazed at the small weapon blankly for a moment, then with trembling fingers did as he bade. A wooden beaker of ale was pressed into her hand. Everyone was talking at once, but their chatter meant nothing to her.

'A young woman had been raped by one of the castle soldiers and was miscarrying her child, she said defensively. 'We couldn't just leave her to die.

'No, of course you couldn't.

Her jaw tightened. She looked at him with glittering eyes.

'I mean it, Oliver deflected swiftly. 'It is no less than I expected you to say, although I suspect that this, he gestured at Ethel, 'is more than you had in mind.

'We were unfortunate, Catrin said stiffly.

'To the contrary, you are more lucky than you know. When she opened her mouth to argue, he laid a forefinger against her lips. 'No more, or we will both say things that we will regret. For now, my priority is to see you and Ethel safe back to the keep and alert the watch about those two ruffians.

She swallowed and nodded. Then she swallowed again and compressed her lips, her complexion greenish-white.

His gaze sharpened and he swore softly beneath his breath. Turning to the woman who had brought the ale and the stool, he haggled the use of her donkey for a penny and deliberated which of the two women was going to sit on it.

'I can manage, Catrin said grimly between clenched teeth. 'Let Ethel ride.

Oliver studied her, then nodded. Pride, if nothing else, would keep her upright until they reached the castle.

While the woman held the ass, he helped Ethel on to its bony, scooped back. He had always viewed the old woman as being physically solid and strong. In his youth, the back-swipe of her arm had floored a village brat on many an occasion, so he was disconcerted to discover that she weighed next to nothing. She was like a bird, her bones hollow for the flight of her soul. Her spirit, however, had no intention of departing just yet, and it was with relief that he heard her remark tartly that she was not a sack of cabbages.

Clicking his tongue to the donkey, he turned it round. 'A sack of cabbages would not cause me so much trouble, he retorted, and held out his arm for Catrin to lean on. It was a measure of her own wretchedness that she took it without demur.