The Love Knot

Chapter 12

As winter deepened its grip, Earl Robert gave Oliver command of a patrol in the Forest of Dean, its purpose to protect the Earl's interest in the iron ore diggings and forges which provided the steel to make tools and weapons for the Empress's cause. There had been raids, and the Earl judged Oliver a competent deterrent.

He had ridden out at dawn on the day following Ethel's seizure. Concerned for the women, he would rather have remained in Bristol, but orders were orders and Earl Robert's word law. It irked him that there had been no opportunity to talk to Catrin before he left — either for fighting or trysting. He missed her; he needed to know that she was safe, and was so chafed by his anxiety that he was unbearable to those around him.

'Still, we'll be back in Bristol for the Christmas feast, Gawin said, trying to lighten Oliver's heavy mood. They were riding along a forest track not far from the forge at Darkhill. The wind was bitter, sown with sleet, and the trees gave small protection, their branches winter-black and fluttering with a ragged tracery of dead leaves.

'More than three weeks away, Oliver growled, not in the least co-operative. 'And that's three more weeks of this and worse. He cast a jaundiced glare at the sky and eased his position in the saddle. 'It hasn't even been light today.

'At least we'll soon have a fire to warm our hands. Gawin's tone was placatory.

Oliver grunted. Actually, the thought of warmth and food was welcoming, albeit that he would have to spend the night rolled in his cloak guarding a cartload of horseshoe bars before the morrow's journey to the ferry barge. 'I suppose so, he yielded grudgingly, then raised his head at the sound of a furious yell from the track in front of them.

Wrestling his shield round to his left arm, Oliver drew his sword and urged Hero to a trot. Gawin fell into line at his left shoulder, and the other soldiers in the troop closed formation. Moments later, they rounded a sharp bend and came upon the sight of three ragged men with knives being held at bay by a single giant who was swinging an oak quarterstaff with accuracy and gusto. One of his attackers was on his knees, clutching his broken arm and screaming. As Oliver watched, the giant threw another one off his feet with a heave from the quarterstaff. The third man ran in low, attempting to slash the quarry's hamstring, but the quarterstaff arrived before the knife and dropped the attacker with a hefty blow to the temple.

Feeling somewhat superfluous, Oliver uttered a yell and spurred forward. The two robbers who were capable took to their heels among the trees. Oliver signalled to Gawin and two others, who detached from the troop and cantered after them.

The giant faced Oliver, his beard bristling and his quarter-staff at the ready. Sweat beaded his brow and he was visibly winded, but not to the point of being incapable of defending himself.

Oliver sheathed his sword and put his shield on its long strap to show that he posed no threat. 'What happened?

'You can see, the man said, with a brusque gesture. 'They were waiting at the roadside and they set upon me.

One of Oliver's troops had dismounted to investigate the robber in the dust. 'Dead, he announced. 'Skull's stove in. He picked up the ragamuffin's knife and handed it up to his master.

Oliver examined the weapon thoughtfully. It was an evil tool, with a bone haft and a notched blade a full handspan long. 'Fortunate that you are more handy with that staff than he was with a knife, he remarked, as he thrust it in his saddle pouch. 'Are you bound for Darkhill?

The giant narrowed his eyes at Oliver, considering, then gave a curt nod. 'To visit with my sister, he said. 'I've been absent a year and eight months.

'On pilgrimage? Oliver indicated the pewter badges stitched to the man's brown cloak.

'Rome, Jerusalem, came the shrugged reply. 'I made a promise to our father.

The stranger had given enough account of himself to gain Oliver's respect and curiosity; now feelings of empathy were roused too. The gathering murk of dusk with two miles still to cover was not, however, the place to explore their common ground. 'I too have been a pilgrim, was all he said. 'You are welcome to journey with us the rest of the way. You can use one of the re-mounts. He jerked his shoulder towards the spare horses at the rear of his line.

The man eyed him then gave a jut of his beard in assent. 'My name is Godard, he said, and offering no more information than that shouldered his quarterstaff, stepped over the body of the predator who had become a victim and advanced on the waiting horse.

The two thieves who had survived their assault on Godard proved to be outlaws who had been plotting to sneak into the village and steal some of the horseshoe bars to sell for their own gain. Whilst lying up in the forest, they had caught sight of Godard, a lone traveller, and had chanced their luck once too often. They were the sheriff's meat now and, without a doubt, would swing from a gibbet when the time came. The dead man was consigned to the care of the priest, and a length of sacking was found to make his shroud.

Godard went off to visit his family, but later that night, when all but a few rush lights had been dimmed, he returned to speak with Oliver, who was keeping warm in Darkhill's small alehouse. There was a pitcher to hand, but Oliver had taken no more than a cup from its bounty. Wits were for keeping when there was a cartload of hammered steel to be protected. His own watch was due when the hourglass had turned three times. For the moment, Gawin commanded the men on guard.

'You say you've been a pilgrim too, Godard stated without preamble, and sat down beside Oliver. For such a huge man, he moved lightly and although considered, there was nothing slow about his actions.

Oliver pushed the jug at him. 'Rome and Jerusalem like you, and a few other places. He parted his cloak and showed Godard his pilgrim belt. 'For my wife's soul, and my own.

Godard pursed his lips and nodded. Oliver could see him struggling not to look impressed at the weight of pewter punched through the leather.

'Not that I feel any more worthy for the effort, he added, 'but I saw places and things that most men will not see in their lifetime.

'Aye, Godard agreed, and poured himself a cupful of ale. He took a long draught and then pinched moisture from his moustache. 'But you try describing a camel to a sister who's never been further than five miles in her life. A horse with a hump don't hardly fit.

'No. Oliver grinned at the thought, and his companion responded with the merest glimmer of a smile, although it was hard to tell, so thick was his beard.

For the next hour they talked of their experiences, both men reticent but with each exchange the ground thawing between them. Then, in a lull, Godard refilled his cup for the third time and pushed the pitcher aside, signifying that he would drink no more. 'Are you looking to recruit men? he asked, with an abrupt change of tack.

Oliver stared at him for a moment, nonplussed, but quickly rallied. 'Earl Robert is always looking for men, he said, and shook his head. 'This war eats them like a foul serpent and spits out their bones. Is there not a place for you at your sister's hearth? Do you have no trade?

Godard nodded. 'I'm a shepherd, but my father's wealth did not stretch to providing for eight sons and four daughters. If I lived here with my sister and her husband, I would be a madman within a sennight. We'd kill each other so we would. Reaching to his cup, he drained his ale. 'But you heard me a-wrong. I asked if you yourself were looking to recruit men.

Oliver snorted with dark amusement. 'Not unless they want paying in beans! My own patrimony lies in a stranger's hands, and until I can regain it I'm beholden to Earl Robert for the money in my pouch and the clothes on my back — Jesu, even the oats and stabling for my horse. The bitterness in his own voice surprised him. Nor was it the ale talking, for he had consumed no more than a quart.

'You're not beholden to him, Godard said in his measured way. 'You give him your service, and he only repays what is owed.

Oliver shrugged, acknowledging the point without any great conviction. His hand twitched towards the flagon and then withdrew. He looked at Godard, taking in the taciturn but honest features, and the sheer bulk of the man. All he knew of him was that he was a doughty fighter who would not cry over spilt milk, that he could look after himself, and had a healthy sense of duty, if not respect, towards members of his family. What was more important, Oliver felt that he could trust him.

'Why are you staring? Godard asked suspiciously.

Oliver folded his elbows on the ale wife's old, splintered trestle. 'I am not looking to "recruit men" as such. If I did, it would be for the Earl because, as I have said, I do not have the coin to employ them. But if you are interested, I could afford to pay you to perform a certain task for me.

The large man raised his brows. They were thick and dark, just beginning to salt with grey. 'That depends what it is.

'It might be dangerous, Oliver said, 'but it is very important to me. And told him what he intended.

Throughout a bitterly cold snap, Catrin nursed Ethel devotedly, massaging her stricken hand, keeping up her spirits, and watching with relief as the old lady began to rally and recover some of her old sparkle. Fortunately, there was a lull in her summons to women in labour. She attended a couple in the camp, both during the day, and was escorted to and from one in the town, also during the hours of daylight.

Catrin knew that the lull would not last. There were several women in the camp who were heavy with child, and she knew of at least four more in the town.

'And go you must when they summon you, Ethel admonished, wagging the forefinger of her good hand when Catrin expressed her worry. 'Don't you mind about me. You just make sure you've got someone to accompany you there and back.

But Catrin did mind. Although Ethel appeared to be on the mend, she was still visibly frailer than she had been at the onset of autumn. It was almost as if she was a tree, slowly losing its leaves one by one. It was a fancy that Catrin tried to ignore, but seeing Ethel every day made it impossible. She did her best to hide her worry, and Ethel tried to conceal her weakness from Catrin, but neither woman was deceived.

In the third week of December, Catrin returned from buying fish and vegetables in the town to find an enormous stranger sitting with Ethel and warming his hands at their fire. An imposing quarterstaff was propped outside and tied to one end was a travelling bundle.

Ethel was smiling crookedly, a tiny trickle of saliva at the corner of her mouth. When she saw Catrin, her eyes lit up and she beckoned vigorously. 'Just look what Oliver's sent us! she cackled. 'A fine, strong man!

The stranger rose to his feet, but remained hunched over since the roof of the shelter would not accommodate his massive height. 'My name is Godard, mistress, he announced in a gravelly voice. 'And I have been employed by Lord Pascal to be your protection, should you have need. He said to tell you that as far as he is concerned, my arrival here has buried the bone.

Catrin started, her mouth open. His very size was cause for wonder, but what he had just said left her speechless. She did not know whether to be pleased or indignant.

'You should bury the bone too, Ethel said from her stool and tucked her cloak more securely around her affected hand. 'No point in fighting when there ain't no need.

'I can look after myself, Catrin said, the words emerging with the flatness of oft-repeated litany. Ethel's mention of 'fighting' made her think of 'trysting' too, and she knew without recourse to a gazing glass that her cheeks were pink.

The huge man stooped a little further in acknowledgement. 'My lord told me that I was not to interfere with your independence, only that I should make sure you lived to enjoy it.

Ethel gave a snort of amusement and Catrin scowled in her direction.

'Bend, girl, before you break, Ethel warned, and again the forefinger wagged.

Catrin sighed heavily, but she knew in her heart that Ethel was right. And if the truth were known, the thought of having such a giant at her side, if she had need to go out into the city at night, was comforting. 'Then be welcome, and best be seated before you break your back. She gestured at the stool, and wondered where on earth he was going to sleep. There was certainly no room in Ethel's shelter to house his great bulk.

As if reading her mind, he said, 'I've arranged to lodge with the kennel-keeper. His daughters have not long married and there's sleeping space on his floor. It's only across the bailey should you need to summon.

Catrin nodded, feeling relieved. 'Oliv… Lord Pascal, is he well? She ignored the sudden sharpness of Ethel's stare.

'Indeed he is, mistress. Godard held out his hands to the fire. 'He said to tell you that he is sorry that he cannot be here himself to continue with your lessons… He frowned, seeking the memorised words. 'He said that you make far better company than wagonloads of horseshoe bars and he hopes to be home before the Christmas feast.

This time the pinkness in Catrin's cheeks was accompanied by a flush of warmth through her body. 'I'll be pleased to see him, she murmured and looked down at her hands where Lewis's gold rings still shone on her finger.

Godard took his leave shortly after that, and Catrin made Ethel a hot posset of milk and honey, sprinkled with nutmeg. 'Only ten days to the Christmas feast. Ethel looked thoughtfully at Catrin. 'Be a good excuse to use that scented soap you were given, eh?

Catrin scowled at Ethel from beneath her brows. 'What is that supposed to mean?

'Whatever you take it to mean, girl, but I think you know. Ethel laboriously raised her left hand and held it against the hot side of her cup. Her eyes gleamed. 'He's sent you your first gift early.

Catrin glanced over her shoulder. 'My bodyguard, you mean?

'Aye. Ethel took a one-sided sip of the hot posset. 'The question is… what are you going to offer him for the twelve days of giving, in return?

Fortunately, at that juncture, a woman came asking for some cough syrup for her sick child, and Catrin was spared the problem of answering.

Christmas Eve arrived and there was no sign of Oliver. Despite, or perhaps because of, the continuing civil war, Bristol was in a fever of anticipation and celebration. Rumour abounded that Empress Mathilda herself was coming to Bristol for the Christmas feast. The cooks were run off their feet, their cauldrons and ovens so busy that they had no time to feel the bone-deep cold that settled in a white mantle of hoar over the land. Cartloads of firewood and charcoal made their way through the keep gates daily and were devoured by the numerous fires — great logs for the hall, smaller pieces of split branch for the fires in the private chambers, and charcoal for the braziers and the forge.

Catrin attended at several more childbirths, and was glad of Godard's company. He spoke little, but his very presence was comforting, and her initial indignation at Oliver's sending him vanished. Sometimes he would eat at their fire, but even then he was about as forthcoming as an ox. He split wood for them and drew water. When Richard came visiting he showed him how to wrestle with a quarterstaff, much to the boy's delight, and near dusk on Christmas Eve presented him with a cut-down version of the weapon.

When thanked, he just shrugged and looked a trifle sheepish. 'I've nephews of your age, he said gruffly and turned away to pump the fire with the bellows, signifying that the matter was at an end.

Not long after that, Catrin was called away to a labouring woman. When she returned it was almost midnight, clear, bright and cold. Ethel was sound asleep beneath her covers and the fire had been banked by a neighbour to last until dawn. Godard took his leave and retired to his own bed.

Lantern in hand, Catrin gazed around the bailey. Apart from the guards on patrol and a pen of sheep awaiting slaughter, it was empty, everyone buried under their blankets for warmth. It was one of the strands of a midwife's existence, seeing a world that others slept through. Tonight, on the eve of the celebration of the Christ child's birth, she should have felt a sense of quiet satisfaction, but her pleasure was marred by a stronger sensation of emptiness. Oliver had not come, and anticipation was becoming anxiety and disappointment. She could not celebrate without him. The realisation hit her like a lungful of the crystalline air. It was too late to step back; she was trapped.

With a heavy sigh, she turned to push aside the screen, and had to stifle a scream as she realised she was not alone. A cowled figure was standing beside one of the shelter's wooden supports.

'Who is it… Rohese? Catrin held up her lantern and peered, her other hand at her throat to steady the leaping of her heart. 'What do you want?

'I have to speak with the old one, said Rohese de Bayvel, and glanced anxiously round. Within the depths of her cowl, her face was narrow and pinched. Catrin had not been much in the bower this last month; most of her time had been taken up with nursing Ethel, and she was shocked at how ill Rohese looked.

'Ethel is sleeping, she said. 'She is very frail and I do not want to wake her. Can you not wait until the morning?

Rohese shook her head. 'I need her now. Wake her up.

'Ethel can do nothing for you that I cannot, said Catrin. 'If it's more of that love philtre you want, then I am sure I can mix it for you.

Rohese stiffened. 'I want nothing from you, she said with a curl of her lip.

'Then come back when it's light. Catrin held her ground. Although not as tall as Rohese, she was more than her match in stubborn courage.

Rohese chewed her lip. 'It is a private matter.

By which Catrin judged that it was more than a simple love philtre that Rohese required.

'How can a biddy sleep with all that noise? The hanging was tugged aside and Ethel poked her nose into the biting cold. She was clutching a blanket to her bosom and her hair swung in a heavy grey braid.

Catrin glared at Rohese. 'I'm sorry we woke you.

'Don't matter, I was wakeful anyway. Ethel opened the hanging wider. 'Won't you come in, my lady.

Picking her way daintily like a skittish horse, Rohese entered the shelter. 'I want to see you alone, she murmured, with a meaningful glance at Catrin.

It was with some difficulty that Catrin kept her tongue behind her teeth. Ethel, however, had no such nicety of restraint. 'What's meant for my ears is meant for hers too. Like it or leave it, my lady. I promise we'll not spread tales. Dragging herself over to the fire, she began to poke it to life with a long iron bar. Catrin knew better than to try and take it from her. Instead, she dusted off the stools, which were clean anyway, and kindled a rush light.

Rohese fidgeted and even cast her eyes across the bailey towards the gleam of the whitewashed keep as if she would return to the bower. But then, with a sigh, she stepped across the threshold and dropped the curtain. 'I need something to bring on my flux, she announced. 'I'm more than two weeks late.

Catrin compressed her lips. Small wonder that Rohese did not want her present after all that the woman had said about Amice. An unmarried woman whose flux did not come was wading in deep water.

'Well, what can you do for me? Rohese snapped.

'Depends on the reason you haven't bled. Ethel leaned the poker against the small spit at the side of the tripod and went to consult her jars and bundles of herbs. 'Is it likely that you're with child?

'No, of course not! Even in the dim light of the shelter, Catrin could see that Rohese's complexion was dusky. 'How can you say such a thing!

'Easy. 'Tis the most likely cause. Only other ones I know are starvation or a deadly sickness of the vitals.

'I tell you, I am not with child!

'Suit yourself, my lady.

Catrin watched Ethel reach to the bag containing the penny royal and gromwell. They were herbs used to promote menstruation in women whose fluxes had ceased for whatever reason. Sometimes they worked, but their efficacy was haphazard. Stronger herbs carried stronger penalties such as vomiting, purging and even death. Ethel only gave them when a woman was certain to die anyway if she carried a child to term.

'Take three pinches, my lady, in a cup of wine, and say a prayer to Saint Margaret, Ethel instructed, handing Rohese a twist of linen. 'I'm not saying that it will work, but happen you might be fortunate.

Rohese took the pouch, put a silver quarter penny into Ethel's cold, left palm and, without looking at Catrin, swept out.

'Well, well. Wonder who the father is? Ethel fetched a blanket and seated herself at the hearth. She transferred the penny from her bad hand to her good, then tucked her fists in her sleeves.

Catrin thought of the occasion she had seen Rohese slipping away into the camp and shook her head. 'Will she bleed?

'Might, but I doubt it. Ethel clucked her tongue. 'No good playing with fire and not expecting to be singed.

'No. Catrin drew her cloak around her body and stared into the revived red embers.

'Still, Ethel murmured, 'a little singeing on occasion is no bad thing.

Catrin watched the flames licking the life from the wood and wondered if she was right.

Following mass on Christmas morning, there was feasting and merriment in the keep's great hall. Outside, the air sparkled with a clarity that hurt the eyes. Inside, it was a smoky fug, scented with apple-wood from the fire, with evergreen from the branches of holly and fir adorning the walls, and with the aroma of spices from the numerous dishes that crowded the trestles. The bailey was deserted, for almost every member of Bristol keep not on duty was in the hall feasting and merry-making.

Ethel had been found a relatively quiet corner by the fire with others who were elderly or infirm. There was a jug of hot wassail wine to keep them occupied, and several platters of small delicacies — cheese-wafers, slices of smoked sausage, small salted biscuits, fried nuts, and candied fruit. Tucked in a new blanket, that had been a gift from the Countess, Ethel was highly content with life.

Catrin, however, was less so. 'He's not coming, she said, sitting on the bench at Ethel's side. Before going to mass, she had washed from crown to toe in the scented soap and donned a new undershift of soft embroidered linen, topped by the gown of crimson and gold that Oliver had yet to see. While still damp, she had bound her black hair in braids and secured the ends with fillets of enamelled bronze. She knew, with a certain degree of pride, that she could match any woman present in the hall today, but it was swiftly becoming an empty triumph.

'Time aplenty yet, Ethel answered around a mouthful of cheese-wafer. 'Besides, there's plenty more fish in the sea for an attractive young woman. Do you a world of good to dangle one on your line.

Catrin pulled a face. Several men had inveigled her to dance or tried to manoeuvre her beneath the mistletoe to steal a kiss, but she had kept her distance. One or two would be quite interesting to 'dangle on her line', but Catrin was wary of hooking a fish larger than she could handle. It was one of the reasons why she was sitting here amongst the old and the infirm, instead of joining in the games and dancing at the hall's centre. Indeed, if the truth were known, the merriment daunted her a little, for there was a wild undercurrent, a predatory edge to the playing that could so easily turn a crowd into a mob.

She watched Richard and Thomas FitzRainald. The boys were playing a boisterous game of hoodman-blind with some other youngsters, and thoroughly enjoying every moment. She smiled wistfully at their pleasure and helped herself to a cup of the wassail wine, welcoming the trickle of the hot liquid down her throat. She thought of the last Christmas when Lewis had been alive. Her feet had not touched the floor for dancing. She had been one of the crowd out there, brimming with laughter, giddy with drink… probably insensible in the end too, for the memories would not focus, remaining a colourful blur.

'Go on, wench. Ethel gave Catrin a nudge and almost spilled the wassail wine. 'Get you gone. Spend your life waiting and it'll be over before you know it.

With a small sigh, Catrin drank down the wine to the spicy dregs and stood up, pondering where to go next in search of a haven. Perhaps she ought to stand beneath a kissing bunch and let fate take its course.

A sudden fanfare at the hall door made her swing round in surprise. People began falling to their knees and bowing their heads, almost like wheat beneath a reaper's scythe. Catrin stared, wide-eyed.

'The Empress Mathilda, someone hissed and, tugging on her sleeve, dragged her down. For a moment, she held the same pose as everyone else, but then could not resist a half glance upward.

The sole-surviving legitimate child of the old king was a little shy of forty years old. There were few lines on her face, but those that did exist were deeply graven, like sharp pen strokes. She was gorgeously dressed in royal purple and gold, with a lining of ermine tails to her cloak. Escorted by her half-brother, Earl Robert, she walked with a regal glide, her head carried as high as those of her subjects were bowed. The pride, the elegance, the very severity of feature led to an impression of beauty, but in the way that a killing winter day was beautiful. To touch was to freeze.

Reaching the dais and mounting it, Mathilda sat down upon the high-backed chair that had been appointed for her.

She surveyed the hall without expression and, having taken her due from those who bowed, she flicked her fingers in dismissal. Catrin continued to regard her, thinking it small wonder that many of the barons chose to support King Stephen instead. Hauteur of such a degree was unlikely to endear men to her cause, men who were already suspicious of taking orders from a woman. A smile, a word, would have cost nothing and repaid the effort tenfold.

'Take more than a cup of wassail wine to prize that one out of the ice, Ethel muttered. 'Still, if I had the husband she's got and that pack of fools for followers, I'd be frozen too.

'Her husband's supposed to be one of the most handsome men in Christendom, Catrin said. 'Geoffrey le Bel, they call him.

'Geoffrey the ten years younger and as tricky as they come, Ethel snorted. 'They've fought ever since they've been wed.

'Yes, I'd heard the rumours and the scandal. She looked again at the Empress, who was leaning to listen to her brother, her white fingers curled around the stem of a fine silver goblet. How much pain, Catrin wondered, did that cold facade conceal? How deep was the ice? Her first husband had been an emperor. Recalled home at his death to become the heir to England and Normandy, she had been forced into marriage with Geoffrey of Anjou, the mere son of a count and still in adolescence. The marriage had foundered, but parental pressure had shored the broken edges and forced it to hold together in mangled shards. Three sons later it still did, but everyone could see the gaping holes beneath the shoring. If not for their children, if not for their political need of each other, Geoffrey le Bel and Mathilda Domina Anglorum would gladly have let their marriage sink.

'I would not change places with her for the world, she murmured.

Ethel gave another little snort. 'Speak for yourself. I'd change places in return for a night with Geoffrey le Bel. 'Ethel, you're drunk!

The old woman chuckled and did not deny the accusation.

Catrin felt a tug on her sleeve and turned to find Richard and Thomas at her elbow. Both of them must have been outside, for their cheeks were red with cold, and there were sparkles of melting snow on their tunics.

'You've to play a game! Richard cried, wafting the hood at her from the hoodman-blind.

'Ah, no, Catrin laughed, starting to shake her head, but she did not really mean it. Having viewed Mathilda's coldness, she needed the relief of laughter.

The boys dropped the hood over her head, so that the face opening was at the back, and her vision cut off by a layer of itchy, dark wool. Then they spun her three times round, but instead of releasing her to feel her way and try to capture one of them, they took her arms and drew her where they wanted. For a horrified moment, Catrin thought they were leading her up to the dais to present her to the Empress. But then she felt cold air on her skin and the delicate sting of sleet.

'You know that you two will pay for this, she said with a shiver, as her shoes slipped in the soft, dark mud of the bailey floor.

The response was a muffled giggle. One of them let her go, but the other tightened his grip on her arm.

'How much had you in mind? a deep voice demanded with amusement.

Catrin seized the hood in her free hand and dragged it off her head, the movement taking her wimple and circlet too. 'Oliver! Suddenly her breath was short and, despite the cold, her cheeks were burning. Giggling, his two accomplices ran off back to the hall.

He laughed and swept her up in his arms, crushing her face against the sodden wool of his cloak and the hard rivets of his mail hauberk. 'I suppose you'd given up on me.

'The thought of you never crossed my mind, she retorted with spirit, as he set her back on her feet. 'I've had no lack of offers to stand beneath a kissing bunch, you know.

He sucked in his cheeks. There was a grizzle of beard encircling his mouth and pricking his jawline, its colour copper-blond in the light from the blazing pitch torches guttering in the wall sconces. 'Taken any of them up? he enquired.

'What do you think?

He looked at her a moment longer, the sleet glimmering silver and fire-gold between them. 'I think, he said softly, 'that I have missed you beyond all reason, and that there is not a kissing bunch large enough in that hall to show you how much.

Catrin swallowed. Jesu, she wanted him, and not just beneath a sprig of evergreen and mistletoe. 'Ethel has one in her dwelling that might suffice, she offered, looking at him through her lashes, and was gratified to hear his hoarse intake of breath. She circled her toe on the muddy ground of the bailey floor. 'Unless of course you'd rather join the feast and try the others.

He shook his head. 'All the sustenance I need is here with me now. Taking her hand, he pulled her against him once more. Their lips met in a tingle of sleety cold, and heat spread like a sun. He crushed her close and Catrin lost her breath against the hard, steel hauberk rings. His beard scratched her and the feeling was bliss; his hands gripped and she gasped against his mouth in pleasure.

A nobleman staggered out from the hall and vomited against the keep wall. A companion followed him and stood by laughing. Oliver and Catrin broke their embrace and, by mutual consent, turned towards the haven of Ethel's dwelling.

Once within, the headlong rush towards fulfilment was curtailed by practical considerations. Whilst making love in a hauberk was merely difficult and uncomfortable, tearing one off in haste was nigh on impossible. After three attempts at unbuckling his sword belt alone, Oliver had to take several deep breaths and slow down.

'Shall I help you?

The thought of her nimble fingers in the area of his crotch was both heaven and torture. He could see from the gleam in her eyes that her version of 'help' had wider connotations than just unfastening a buckle. She reached to the decorated strap end and tugged the excess length of leather until she had freed the latch from the hole and the belt, complete with scabbarded sword, snaked free.

She wrapped the leather around the scabbard, and propped it carefully in a corner of the room. Next came the hauberk itself. This, even for the two of them, was tricky, for the garment was full-sleeved, and clung to the gambeson beneath. Catrin was panting by the time she finally peeled it over his head and, as she took the weight, she staggered and almost fell. Gasping himself after being doubled over, Oliver grabbed it from her and laid it across the small trestle to one side of the fire. The rivets crunched and jingled on the wood.

The gambeson was simpler to remove, but it still took an effort. As Oliver laid the garment on top of his hauberk, Catrin said, 'It's like peeling an onion.

Oliver grinned. 'Or unwrapping a gift.

She wrinkled her nose at him, but her eyes were alight with humour. 'And do you think I'm going to like this gift, or will it wring tears from my eyes?

'There's only one way to find out. His fingers curled around her waist and again drew her close. This time, there was no padding of steel and quilted linen between them, no drunkards to break the moment. They kissed and clung, swayed and sat down on the bed-bench.

From the awkwardness of buckles and heavy chain-mail, Oliver found himself struggling with the pin of the round brooch at the throat of Catrin's crimson gown, and the tie on her braid belt. A part of him wanted to ignore all the complications of such intricacies, push up her skirts and take her to ease his swollen urgency, but he held off because it mattered to him that she should derive pleasure from the encounter. Besides, he sensed that any such move on his behalf would receive short shrift. Catrin was not like Emma, to murmur soothing words in his ear and shine with pride at a wifely duty successfully performed.

And so he made a game of the undressing, lightening the moment with teasing and laughter, holding back so that Catrin, in her turn, could unwind the leg bindings on his chausses and unfasten the laced drawstring on his shirt.

She nibbled his collarbone, bit his earlobe, and rubbed playfully against him. He put his hands beneath her skirts and tugged at the threading on her garters. Then he ventured higher and drew her down on top of him, spreading her legs and deftly positioning the juncture of her thighs over his swollen flesh.

She made a soft sound and rubbed upon him, their bodies separated by the thin linen of his braies and the fine wool and linen of her dress and chemise. It was too much and not enough. He groaned and tried to think of other things, but the scent of her hair and skin drove all sanity from his mind and filled it instead with raw need.

He arched his spine, thrusting up towards her, but she pulled away from him in order to remove her dress and chemise. Her breasts were high and round, with small, pinkish-brown nipples that tightened in the air. Her belly was flat, and her legs smooth and well proportioned. The sight of her took what little breath remained to Oliver. Apart from his wedding night, he had never been granted so open a view of a woman's body. Emma had preferred to make love in the dark, or wearing her chemise, and it would not have occurred to him to make a whore remove her clothes during his brief encounters with such women.

Catrin, however, was different. He had known it from the moment that she swung pillion behind him as he took her away from Penfoss. The mannerisms of nun and hoyden were inextricably combined and utterly bewitching.

She returned to the bed, squeezing in beside him on its narrowness, and now there was no barrier. His shaft pressed against the rough triangle of hair, sliding, searching blindly. He cupped her breasts and buried his face against her soap-scented throat. She arched her thigh over his flank, allowing him the merest fraction of entry, and he groaned. Her fingers stroked, gliding over his skin with the tips of her nails, and she altered her position so that he entered a little further. He felt her muscles tighten around him, squeezing gently, and strove with every shred of will not to burst there and then.

As if sensing his dilemma, she ceased to move. Oliver stared at a bunch of herbs suspended from the rafters and contemplated the texture and pattern of the dried leaves. He recited a troubadour song inside his head to try and distract himself. Blow, northerne wind, Send thou me my swetyng, Blow, northerne wind, Blow, blow, blow. The sensation of imminent crisis diminished. He ran his fingertips very lightly over her skin, teased her nipples, sucked the pulse at her throat. He ventured lower, finding the furrow in her pubic hair with his index finger and the tiny, sensitive knurl of flesh that Gawin had told him was a woman's source of pleasure. His touch was light and tentative, for he had half wondered if Gawin was telling him tales, but Catrin shuddered and moaned and he felt the sudden leap of her blood against his lips. He stroked her again and felt her clamp around him. Blow, northerne wind, Send thou me my swetyng… He closed and tightened his eyes; continued to rub.

Making mewing sounds in her throat, Catrin shifted her position again so that she was fully over him and, pushing down, she sheathed him completely. Oliver abandoned all attempts to divert his mind. It was futile. Nothing existed but the pleasure and pressure in his loins. Catrin was gasping above him. He seized her hips and thrust into her. Her flesh flexed, then grasped him smoothly.

'Jesu, Oliver groaned. Unable to hold back any longer, he lunged powerfully, once, twice, and was overcome by his climax. Catrin sobbed and ground down, and he felt her fierce contractions pulsate around him.

Panting, Catrin collapsed against him, her hair brushing his face, her body moulding to his. He could feel the resilient, tender flesh of her breasts, the satin curve of her thigh, the gentler ripples of after-shock swallowing along his shaft.

'Ah, God, she said, her breath still heaving. 'I had forgotten.

'Forgotten what?

She raised her head. Her hazel eyes were glazed and heavy-lidded. A pink flush stained her face, throat and breasts. He could see a reddish mark flowering where he had sucked her throat. 'What a pleasure it could be. She tilted her head on one side, a smile curving her lips. 'You were right. I do not think a kissing bunch in the hall would have encompassed this. She ran her finger down his wiry chest hair, following a trail down his belly towards his pubic bush, at that moment meshed with hers.

'It's not only a red beard that you sport, is it? she teased.

'It's a sign of vigour, he answered, in the same vein.

She laughed, and squeezed him gently with her internal muscles before rising off him. 'I'm glad to hear it, but even a vigorous man needs sustaining. Leaving the bed, she went to a jug set near the hearth and poured golden liquid into a cup. 'Mead, she said, 'from the clover hives in the river meadow. Ethel insists it puts a spring in her step. She looked at his crotch with a suggestive arch of her brows.

Oliver snorted with amusement. 'If Ethel swears by it, then it must be good.

'It is. Catrin sat down beside him. She was totally at ease with her nudity, and this too was new for Oliver. Emma had been shy of her body, always crossing her hands in front of her breasts and refusing to look at him. Catrin was completely spontaneous, her hazel stare candid with humour and lust.

He took a sip of the sweet, golden brew, passed the cup to her and stroked her silky hair where it had loosened from its braid. The faint perfume of lavender drifted to his nostrils and mingled with the scents of love-play and mead. 'It is long and long since I was so content, he murmured. 'Years in fact.

Catrin drank. A drip spilled down her chin and she scooped it up on her forefinger and licked it off. 'It is the same for me too, she said, 'perhaps more so, because I had begun to think that I was going to spend the Christmas feast alone.

He grimaced. 'I would have been here yester-eve, but I became saddled with providing part of the Empress's escort from Gloucester. We had to wait until my lady was ready to leave, and she took her own sweet time about it. Then we had to ride through the streets of Gloucester in full array for the benefit of the people, with Mathilda waving a haughty hand and casting handfuls of silver as if she despised the act. He shook his head and drew the cup, still in her hand, to his lips.

'And yet you have sworn your oath to her.

'Because Stephen has rewarded one of his mercenaries with my lands; because Earl Robert commands more respect in my eyes than ever Stephen could — than ever Mathilda could come to that. But she has sons to continue her line, and they could never, even in a nightmare, be any worse than Stephen's son, Eustace. If he mounts the throne, then I will return to the Holy Land and offer my sword to the King of Jerusalem. He took another long swallow of the mead, as if swilling a bad taste from his mouth. 'Ach, I don't want to talk of rulers and their petty ways, not when there are more interesting things to discuss.

'Such as? She finished her drink and set the cup to one side, her eyes luminous as she knelt above him.

'Such as what do you think of Godard? Oliver banded his arms around her and rolled her over. There was a welcome surge of heat at his groin.

'First I was angry, then I was pleased, she answered and spread her legs invitingly. 'He is very useful to have around, and Ethel dotes on him. So do half the laundry maids. She dug her nails into his back. 'You took a risk sending him. I find his company quite pleasing myself.

'But not as pleasing as this?

Her thighs clasped him. 'Ask me again in a while, she murmured, then arched and gasped as he thrust into her.

Leaning heavily on her stick, Ethel limped across the bailey. The sleet had turned to wet snow and was settling although, behind the clouds, a haze of moon still glimmered fitfully. On reaching her dwelling, she paused outside, her head cocked on one side like a listening bird. Very carefully, she unfastened one of the hooks holding the door screen and peered inside.

By the faint red glow from the embers of the fire, she saw Oliver and Catrin entwined upon her bed, both of them sound asleep. Oliver's arm was draped protectively across Catrin's shoulder, and her head was snuggled beneath his chin.

Quietly, Ethel secured the screen and turned back towards the hall. It was warm in there, and she had no complaint about dozing by the fire with hot, spiced wine for company.

As she paused against the forebuilding to gain her breath, she saw a couple arguing in the lee of the wall. In a moment, she recognised them both. The man was young Gawin, still wearing his hauberk from escort duty, and the woman was the Countess's sempstress Rohese. She stood shivering in a dress of thin, wheat-coloured silk, no cloak to protect her from the bite of the wind.

'You've had your pleasure! she cried in a voice high with panic and petulance. 'You can't walk away from your duty to me now!

Ethel saw a look of impatience cross Gawin's face. She could tell that he was the worse for drink — as were more than half the young men in the hall tonight. Swaying forward, he braced his arm against the wall. 'Oh, but I can, sweetheart. It wasn't just my pleasure, don't deny it. Besides, how do I know it's my duty? More than one dog will mount a bitch in heat.

Her hand shot out towards his face, but he caught her wrist with a soldier's reflexes and twisted it round, forcing her to her knees in the settling snow. Then he pushed her away. 'Find someone less choosy, he sneered, and lurched back into the hall.

Ethel watched the encounter with tightening lips. Gawin was a decent, if shallow, young man when the drink was not upon him, but there was no excuse for what she had just witnessed. Knowing his personality, she could see that seducing the Countess's haughtiest maid had been a challenge impossible to resist. Now that the consequences had come home to roost, he did not want to know.

Although Rohese was about as approachable as a stinging nettle, Ethel limped forward, intending to help her up and offer comfort. 'Child, come within before you freeze, she said gently, and extended her hand to the weeping young woman on the ground.

Rohese flung her off and struggled to her feet, her beautiful gown marred by a damp patch of melting, muddy snow. 'Leave me alone, you hag! she sobbed, her face raw with pain. 'Your nostrums don't work! He doesn't love me and I haven't bled! Shoving Ethel out of her way so hard that the elderly midwife staggered, Rohese fled across the snowy bailey towards the gate.

Ethel cried for her to stop but her voice was snatched by

a swirling gust of wind and her chest cramped painfully. Knowing the warning sign too well and unable to pursue, the old lady turned and made her way laboriously towards the hall.

Rohese rounded a corner of the bailey, and the full force of the wintry night slashed through her garments like a knife. Shuddering, the tears icy on her cheeks, she pressed herself against a storeshed wall and hugged her frozen arms.

With a soft jink of chain-mail, a man materialised out of the whirling darkness, a spear in his right hand, a shield on his left arm. A thick cloak blew back from his shoulders, its lining one of glossy squirrel fur.

Rohese was about to scream when she realised that it was one of the guards on his rounds.

'Well, well, said Randal de Mohun softly. 'If I'm not mistaken, it's one of the Countess's maids, and in need of a little warming.

Against banks of mounding white, the river Avon flowed like black glass. The snow struck its polished surface and vanished with neither sound nor trace. It was the same for the body. A single swirl and eddy in the obsidian surface, then nothing to show that it had ever been cast upon the water.

Within an hour, even the footprints had vanished, covered in a powdering of white.