The Love Knot

Chapter 15

In years to come, Oliver would always remember Lincolnshire as a flat, waterlogged land, devoid of colour in the bleak January weather. He would see again the boggy roads over which Earl Robert's army floundered and trudged, smell the mud, taste the all-pervading frozen damp that numbed the flesh and rusted mail overnight. He would also remember the anticipation and the sense of power as Robert's army united with Chester's and marched with dogged, inexorable purpose upon Stephen and Lincoln. The cold, the discomfort, were not lessened, but they were made bearable by the knowledge that the tide was no longer running in Stephen's favour but in theirs.

To reach Lincoln, the combined armies had to find places to cross the river Witham and an ancient Roman ditch called the Fossedyke, which protected the city. Their guide, a local villager, swore that there was a shallow ford on the latter, but when he led them to it, squelching and cursing across the boggy floodplain, it proved to be a swift-running channel of brown spate-water. On the other side Stephen had set a small company of guards. As Robert of Gloucester and Rannulf of Chester approached the water's edge to try and gauge its depth, they were assaulted by a barrage of stones, clods of mud and yelled insults.

Oliver drew rein and, with frozen hands, fumbled in his saddle pouch for his wine flask. Hero was caked belly-deep in stinking marsh mud and bore scarcely any resemblance to the groomed, silver-dapple stallion that had set out from Bristol less than two weeks since.

Oliver drank from his flask and as he washed the pungent red wine around his teeth, thought that he seemed to have been on the road for ever. Although it was only Candlemas now, the peace of Christmas was a distant star on a fast vanishing horizon. His glance strayed to the woven knot of hair laced to his scabbard attachments. Catrin had given it to him on their last night together as they lay in the loft above the stables, wrapped in their cloaks and each other's arms.

The thought of her added warmth to the wine as it flowed through him, and he touched the knot. It made the physical distance between them seem less. The threads of bright copper-auburn trapped his eye, causing him to shake his head in bemusement. Strange to think that Ethel was his kin in truth. He had not known her when her hair was this colour, for she had been well past her fortieth winter when he was born, her red colouring faded to a sandy-grey. He wondered if he would have treated her differently had he known she was family and was glad that he had been unaware until now. The obligation of blood was weighted with guilt, whereas the obligation to an old woman who had once lived on his family's lands was considerably more simple. He took another drink of wine and then hastily looped his flask back on his saddle as Miles of Gloucester and a companion drove their horses into the icy, swift-flowing water of the Fossedyke.

On the other side, King Stephen's men watched with growing apprehension. Their horses backed and circled. They hurled further flurries of mud and stones as Earl Robert's men plunged into the dyke. A spear flashed in the air and fell harmlessly between the horses. Before it could sink, someone leaned down from his saddle, caught it up and cast it back at Stephen's men. It landed in front of them, its tip quivering in the mud of the far bank as both a threat and a promise. A horse panicked and flailed into one of its companions, creating mayhem. Bravado evaporating, Stephen's small band of sentries turned tail and fled to raise the alarm, leaving their post unguarded and the way free.

Oliver set his teeth and spurred Hero into the churning spate of the dyke. He had been prepared to be frozen but still the shock took his breath away as the water immersed the stallion to the saddle girth and spray flew up drenching Oliver through mail and padding. He heard Gawin cursing the icy tug of the current as his dun splashed and floundered. Any man who fell off his horse or failed to keep his feet would drown, dragged under in seconds by the weight of his mail and sodden gambeson.

The first troops to gain the opposite side set about securing a rope across the dyke for the infantry to grasp as their turn came to dare the chest-deep water. There were many Welshmen among them, accustomed to fording deep streams and plodding through inhospitable terrain as part of their daily existence. They took the crossing with such a flourish that they encouraged their less experienced English counterparts to do the same.

'Hell's mouth, I want double wages for this! declared Randal de Mohun as he rode past Oliver on his bay stallion, water spraying from the high-stepping hooves. 'No one said anything about being a fish!

'If we win, you'll doubtless get them.

De Mohun snorted and set about mustering his men. 'It will be us that will have to do the winning first.

Oliver shook his head and went to seek Earl Robert for orders.

It was Candlemas: the feast of the purification of the Virgin, the ceremony based on the Roman worship of the Goddess Juno Februata, and Catrin was attending another childbirth amongst the soap-makers of the city, where she and Ethel had made a reputation for themselves. It was Aline Saponier's seventh confinement, and the baby came swiftly and smoothly into the world and immediately began bawling with lungs like a set of smithy bellows.

'A fine boy, smiled Catrin, receiving him into the waiting sheet. 'You scarce needed a midwife at all, Mistress.

'I'm told your skills make for an easy delivery, Aline panted from the birthing stool. 'Has he got all his fingers and toes?

'Whole in every sense of the word. Catrin gently rubbed the infant in the towel then folded over the ends and gave him to his mother.

Aline's sweaty face creased with a surfeit of emotion as she peered into the baby's new-born, unprepossessing features. 'He's beautiful! she sniffed, and started to weep.

'He is that, Mistress, Catrin said diplomatically, as she knelt to cut the cord and competently delivered the afterbirth.

The other women of the household crowded round, cooing, touching and commenting. There were three aunts, a cousin, and a toothless grandmother, all present to help and bear witness, thus making the event a tremendous social occasion. Catrin was accustomed by now to such gatherings, but there had still been a couple of times when she could cheerfully have gagged the grandmother with a swaddling band.

One of the aunts trotted from the room to announce to the waiting household that a new son had been safely delivered. Catrin saw the mother cleaned up, made comfortable with linen pads and helped back into the freshly made family bed.

The grandmother mumbled into her gums and patted Catrin on the shoulder. 'You've not done so badly for one so young, who's never borne a babe herself, she allowed.

'Thank you, Catrin said sweetly.

'Heard about you from Mistress Hubert at the house on the end. She said as you and the old woman were competent.

Catrin gave a preoccupied smile and set about returning her midwife's tools to her satchel, of which only the oil and the sharp knife had been required.

'But you came alone, her assailant persisted.

'My companion is not well enough to make the journey into the city, Catrin replied. 'The winter and her years weigh heavily on her. She compressed her lips. Ethel had been sneezing all morning and, despite being crouched over the fire wrapped in both her green mantle and a cloak, had been shivering fit to slough the flesh from her bones.

'Aye, well, I'm nigh on three-score-and-ten winters myself and I've had a cough worse than a dog's bark, said the old woman, not to be outdone. 'I tell you, sometimes it is as much as I can do to ease myself from my bed in a morning.

Which Catrin took with a substantial pinch of salt. She glanced round. Two of the aunts were bathing the baby in a silver basin while the cousin aired its swaddling before the charcoal brazier. A serving maid went round the room lighting the candles from a long taper. Catrin noted that the light was provided not by spindly, tallow dips but proper, heavy wax candles, the kind that burned in the Countess's bower.

Seeing the direction of her gaze, the old woman went to an aumbry in the wall and returned with three more of the candles, their surfaces smooth and creamily glossed. 'Here, take these, she said, 'in honour of the blessed Virgin whose feast it is.

Catrin accepted them with pleasure. She knew how fond Ethel was of beeswax candles. The gifts and tokens that grateful householders presented were one of the more pleasant aspects of being a midwife.

Outside, the February daylight was dull grey, and the wind was sharp on Catrin's face. She tugged her hood up over her wimple and secured the clasp on her cloak, her teeth chattering with cold. The church of Saint Mary le Port rang out the hour of Nones and was joined by the bells of Saint Peter. She thought of Oliver and wondered what he was doing. Was he riding blue-fingered in the cold or had they reached their destination? Was there peace or bloodshed? Two weeks of silence on the matter had shredded her equilibrium. She had taken to biting her nails and, despite Ethel's assurances that he would return, she worried constantly.

Godard's dark shape loomed out of the shadows at the side of the Saponiers' dwelling and he fell into step beside her, as huge and solid as a walking wall. She was grateful for his presence and his taciturnity. Talk for talk's sake only set her teeth on edge, when all she longed for, and dreaded, was news of Earl Robert's army.

They walked along the path between the riverbank and the boundaries of Saint Peter's church. Fishing craft and galleys bobbed on the tide and seagulls wheeled like detached portions of cloud, their cries poignant and harsh.

A sea-going cog had docked at the castle's wharf to be unburdened of its cargo of casks and barrels. It was a scene re-enacted every day, and at first Catrin took small notice. But as she and Godard drew nearer, she saw that no one was working, that all the men were gathered around something on the ground. One of the younger labourers had staggered away and was vomiting into the water. Others had drawn cloaks and capes around their mouths.

Natural curiosity drew Catrin to go and look at what the men had found. She suspected that it was probably a porpoise or a whale. Such creatures were occasionally washed up along the river in the tidal flow and they were always a cause for wonder — and disgust if they were dead and their corpses had begun to rot. She craned her neck at the white thing she could see lying on the dock between the legs of the men. It seemed too small to be a porpoise, or even a baby whale — too insubstantial.

'Mistress, come away, Godard said suddenly and grasped her arm, but it was too late for she had already seen the gleam of bone through shredded flesh and realised that the form they were all looking at was — or had been — human. A length of hemp rope was snagged around what had been one of its legs, and twisted around the rope was a rag of pink cloth, embroidered with a darker pink flower motif. Strands of hair still adhered to its skull, which had broken away from the body as the men had lifted it free from where it had lain, caught in the mesh of a lost fishing net. The colour, streaming with water, was the same hue as the red hair woven into the knot that Catrin had given to Oliver, but when dry it would be a lighter, more chestnut shade. Catrin felt bile rise in her own throat. Now she knew what had happened to Rohese de Bayvel.

'It is the Countess's sempstress, she said jerkily to the gathered men. 'She vanished on Christmas Eve and no one knew what had become of her. Her throat was so tight that it was hard to speak. 'For decency's sake, cover her and fetch a priest.

Oliver positioned his shield on his left arm and drew his sword. All around him men were fretting their mounts and preparing for the charge. The bitter wind cut through his garments, still sodden from the crossing of the Fossedyke, but he was too focused on the coming battle to feel the cold. He had fought in skirmishes before but this was his first taste of a major engagement. It was the same for many of the men sizing each other up across the flat stretch of land to the west of the city. Despite the state of constant warfare in England, battles on a large scale were rare. All or nothing casts of the dice were impractical… unless, of course, the dice were loaded in your favour, or you were cornered and there was no other way out. Today, Earl Robert had the luck of the throw and Stephen was cornered, but both armies were evenly matched in number and fighting skill. It was not yet a foregone conclusion.

On the hill above, Oliver could see the banners on the keep walls, bravely fluttering the colours of Chester and Gloucester in defiance of Stephen's siege engines. Stephen himself had come roaring out of Lincoln with his entire army when he heard the news that the ford at the Fossedyke had been breached.

'He wasn't expecting our arrival on his threshold so soon and in such great numbers, Gawin said scornfully, as Stephen's troops fell into hasty formation opposite their own.

Oliver nodded agreement. 'No, and because we've caught him unprepared, he's reacted with his gut. He blew on his frozen fingers. 'If I was Stephen, I would stay behind the town defences and force us to bring the battle to him — make us charge up the hill. He's thrown away his advantage by facing us on the level. He looked round at the solid position of his section of Robert's force on the left flank. The Earl had assembled most of the disinherited knights and barons in that sector. Opposing them were the forces of Stephen's earls and magnates — Richmond, Norfolk, Northampton, Surrey and Worcester. Rannulf of Chester held the centre, facing Stephen and his infantry, and Earl Robert had taken the right flank with the Welsh levies to face Stephen's Flemish mercenary troops.

Rhetoric was spouted and commanders rode up and down their lines, inciting the men, raising them to battle fever. Earl

Robert's voice was a strong, carrying baritone. In contrast, Stephen's voice was so thin and husky that one of his barons, Baldwin FitzGilbert, had to deputise.

Opposite Oliver, a challenge to joust went out from Stephen's magnates, who appeared to favour a formal opening to the

'Hah, as if they think it's a feast day, growled Randal de Mohun in Oliver's ear. Although not one of the dispossessed, he had elected to fight with them — in the hopes of being given a fief of his own, Oliver suspected.

'To them, it is, Oliver replied, without taking his eyes off the opposing line. He wondered if the man who had usurped Ashbury was numbered among the troops that Waleran of Worcester had brought on campaign. 'To them we are nothing but landless mercenaries, and that invitation is a mockery. He watched the opposing knights prancing and prinking in their bright colours, and did not need the rhetoric of the battle captains to fuel the smoulder of his anger. It was to feed the ambition of the men he was facing that his brother had died and he had been made a rebel, dependent on his sword for his income. Well, by God, today he was going to earn his wages.

He pushed his way forward, offering to reply to the challenge to joust. Randal de Mohun lined up beside him, his lance couched.

'I'm going to rend holes in that fancy mail of theirs that no armourer will ever mend. De Mohun licked his lips hungrily. His eyes were bright and his breathing swift.

Oliver looked at de Mohun. The mercenary had slackened the reins on all that vicious aggression lying beneath the surface. And why not? Oliver reached down to the fire in his own belly and allowed it to spread through his veins. A little behind him, he could hear Gawin breathing swiftly through his mouth. A glance showed him that the young man was trembling, but more with anger and excitement than fear.

'Ready? Oliver asked.

'More than, Gawin replied, and fretted his horse with rein and spur.

In front of them, their commander, Miles FitzWalter,

Sheriff of Gloucester, rose in his stirrups and bellowed aloud. 'Laissez Corree! Vanquez le Stor!

Oliver clapped spurs to Hero's flanks and together with Gawin, de Mohun and thirty knights, thundered over the soft ground towards the posturing opposition. Instead of courteously drawing their blows and making a chivalrous play of the encounter, they attacked in earnest, their charge never slackening and their weapons driving for their enemies' vitals and punching through.

King Stephen's languid cavalry found themselves at the mercy of men carried forward on an impetus of rage and outrage. Each blow aimed was intended to disable or kill, rather than politely take for ransom — of which the latter had been custom throughout the war. No quarter was given. Steel bit, then bit deeper still. Earl Robert's left flank surged in the wake of the first, vicious charge and hammered home a second assault.

It did not matter that the numbers were about even; Stephen's men could not compete with the ferocity of their opponents. Oliver found himself fighting thin air, for no one would make a stand and meet him blow for blow. To a man, the five earls who should have held Earl Robert's cavalry at bay fled the field with their troops, leaving the men of Gloucester in control and Stephen hopelessly outflanked.

Catrin replaced the ordinary rush tapers of daily use with the fat wax candles that old Mistress Saponier had given to her. Light blossomed in Ethel's dwelling, clear, bright and perfumed with the honey smell of summer. Catrin inhaled deeply, trying to banish the stench of the wharfside discovery from her nostrils.

Propped up on two bolsters to ease her congested breathing, Ethel watched her from the bed. 'So she threw herself into the river, she wheezed, as Catrin told her about Rohese. 'Well, 'tis no surprise. Too much pride to live with the shame.

Catrin shuddered. 'But she was vain as well, and she liked the fine things of life. I cannot imagine that she would do that to herself. Besides, it was too soon. There was still a chance that she might have bled.

Ethel gave her a shrewd look. 'There but for the grace of God, she said, her cracked voice soft. 'Was that how it was for you?

Catrin drew a sharp breath at Ethel's uncanny intuition. For a moment she was cast back to the days immediately following Lewis's death. She saw an image of herself standing on Chepstow's battlements at dusk, staring down into the sleek, dark waters of the river Wye. 'I didn't drown myself, she said tautly. 'I thought about it, I admit, but only for an instant.

'An instant is all that it takes, one slip of the foot on a wet stone. Ethel closed her eyes.

Catrin gave a little shiver. 'How did you know?

'Your fear, the way you spoke. I sensed a link with water… dark water, flowing fast. Her voice sank to a mumble. 'And I saw a man too, dark of hair and eye.

Catrin felt cold to her marrow. 'Lewis, she whispered.

Ethel spoke again, a single word, clear and bright as the candle flame. 'Beware.

Catrin went forward to the bed, intent on asking her what she meant, but Ethel did not answer except by way of a chesty snore.

Lincoln Castle was ablaze with light as the leaders of the Empress's army celebrated their victory. Lincoln town was ablaze too — with fire — as the common troops plundered the wealth of the citizens who had made an error of judgement in choosing Stephen as their protector.

Oliver had declined to follow Randal de Mohun into the streets of Lincoln in search of gain. To fight men on a battlefield was one thing. To harry women and children out of their houses, steal their goods and burn their dwellings, was another matter entirely. In every woman's face, he would have seen Catrin's, in every child's, Richard's. All war was dark, but this part stank as well, and Oliver remained within the castle precincts, his single act of plunder the appropriation of a flagon of the finest Gascon wine intended for the high table.

Despite his distaste, he was in high spirits. The ease of their victory and the capture of Stephen himself meant that the tide had well and truly turned in the Empress's favour. If the impetus continued, then he would be lord of his own lands before many more months were out. It was a hope worth toasting in the rich, dark wine. He would celebrate the next Christmas feast at Ashbury's high table as his father and his brother had done: with a gilded wassail tree, great rejoicing and Catrin crowned in evergreen at his side.

For the moment, he was content with a simple trestle at the side of the hall and the company of Geoffrey FitzMar and a handful of other knights who had declined to venture into the town. They relived the battle blow by blow, as they had each seen it, exalting in the moment when Stephen, abandoned by his earls, abandoned by his mercenaries, had stood alone, swinging his Dane axe at all comers, until finally downed by a lucky blow to the helm which had stunned him for long enough to be taken and bound. He was now locked in one of the upper rooms. His wounds had been tended, he was treated with courtesy, but guarded so heavily that not even a spider could crawl under his door without being noticed.

'I'm to stand my turn of duty later, Geoffrey said, declining Oliver's offer of wine. 'I'll need a clear head.

'Hah, he's unlikely to break free, is he? scoffed one of the others.

'Mayhap not, but Earl Robert's just as unlikely to tolerate a drunkard on duty.

Oliver's own turn of duty was set for the following dawn. He could afford to drink but not to the point of inebriation. Filling his cup for the third and final time, he handed the flask to the others to finish. Despite his desire to see Stephen overthrown, he had to admire the man's bravery and his dignified conduct in defeat. Perhaps for the first time in his reign, Stephen was displaying the qualities of a king — although that still did not give him the right to be one.

'To victory. He raised his cup. 'May it sweeten daily.

'Victory, Geoffrey repeated, and swallowed the last of his own wine. Wiping his mouth he looked around. 'Where's Gawin tonight?

Oliver shook his head. 'In the town with de Mohun.

Geoffrey picked his helm off the table and rose to his feet. 'I'm glad my duty to the Earl keeps me here tonight, he said grimly. 'We are told that the townsfolk need teaching a lesson but I have no stomach for being a tutor. He rumpled his free hand through his tawny curls and frowned. 'In truth, I would not have thought Gawin of that ilk either.

'He isn't, Oliver defended, without meeting his friend's gaze. 'He is just unsettled at the moment. I tried to make him stay but he would have none of it, not with de Mohun dangling the promise of treasure before his eyes.

'Yes, well, one day de Mohun is going to trim his sails that bit too close to the wind. Disgust curled Geoffrey's lip. 'Why you tolerate his company, God alone knows.

'God alone does, Oliver answered heavily, thinking of a bare mountain road near Jerusalem and the man to whom misfortune had made him indebted.

Reversing his sword, Gawin hacked open the lock with the hilt, shoved back the heavy oak lid and gazed into a coffer crammed with pieces of scrap silver ready for melting down. The house belonged to a goldsmith and the pickings were rich. He lifted the coffer, which was about the size and weight of a young pig, and staggered outside to the waiting pack horse.

Houses were burning, filling the sky with a lurid red light, the heat and gush of sparks making it seem to Gawin that he was standing in the mouth of hell. He felt that way too, but as if he was the sinner, not the people on whom this punishment was being visited. With a grim will, he shook off his doubts. Even if he was a sinner, he was going to be a rich one. That coffer of silver was worth a year's wages, and it was only the tip of the plunder. In the dwelling next door, he could hear de Mohun's men at work, prising up the hearth bricks in search of hidden wealth. No one had challenged them. The citizens had more sense than to resist mercenaries and had fled to take shelter in the churches or remote outbuildings of no interest to the looters.

Gawin led his horse back inside the house so that no one would steal his find and set about hacking open a second coffer a clothing chest by its size. The lock quickly gave but the

lid refused to open, as if held down from the inside. Gawin wedged his sword beneath the lid and heard a muffled cry of terror. Withdrawing the sword, he grasped the wooden edge in both hands and wrenched it back.

A young woman screamed and cowered down, her hands over her head. She had long fair hair tied back with a strip of braid. Her features were delicate, just beginning to emerge from the roundness of adolescence. Tear streaks had left clean white tracks through the grime on her face and she wore the ragged, threadbare dress of a servant.

'Stand up! Gawin commanded. He flickered a glance around, but there was no evidence of anyone else in the house. For whatever reason, she had been left behind to take her chance with the routiers. Protectiveness and rage warred within him. 'I said stand up! he snarled, when she did not move and, lunging forward, he seized her arm.

Sobbing, screaming, she lurched to her feet, and Gawin saw the reason why she had been unable to flee. She had a deformity of the hip that made it nigh on impossible to walk, let alone run, all her weight taken upon one side.

'Christ, are you witless, girl, as well as a cripple? he demanded, his anger making him cruel.

She shook her head and wailed all the louder, her dirty blond hair tumbling around her face. He could feel the swift rise and fall of her shoulder against his arm as she breathed, the starved slightness of her bones. All the guilt and rage from Christmas flooded over him. He wanted to strike her to the ground and yet he held his hand. Perhaps if he saved her life it would somehow redress the balance that had been lost when Rohese disappeared. 'Can you sit a horse?

She looked at him with frightened eyes and whimpered.

'Christ Jesu, I don't have the time, Gawin said and, swinging her up in his arms, turned towards his mount. Then he stopped dead. She screamed, then buried her face against the mesh of his hauberk.

'Now then, what have we here? Randal de Mohun shouldered through the doorway and, with feigned nonchalance, eyed Gawin and the girl. 'A wench, eh? Aren't you the lucky one?

Gawin tightened his grip on her gown. 'She's mine, he said quietly.

De Mohun entered the room and walked around the horse's rump. His gaze flickered to the ornately carved coffer strapped to the saddle and, behind it, a fine piece of blue Flemish wool. 'It's share and share alike amongst us, my lad, he answered, in a tone equally quiet. 'The lass and the other loot both.

The girl wept and huddled into Gawin's neck. He could feel her hair against his jaw, feel the terror in the bone-hard grip of her fingers. 'I'm not one of you, he said. 'Your code is not mine.

De Mohun narrowed his eyes. 'Then you should not be here, lad. Sheep that run with wolves end up being devoured. Almost casually, he drew his sword.

Gawin uncurled the girl's clinging fingers from around his neck. She slumped to the ground, sobbing and screaming, as he drew his own blade. 'You promised Oliver that you would watch out for me! he said, mouth open, breath coming hard.

'So I did, and I have kept my word, have I not? Every step of the way.

Gawin licked his lips. 'Take the silver then. Do what you want with it, but leave the girl. You wouldn't want her, she's a useless cripple.

De Mohun raised his sword and scratched his chin gently with the side of the hilt. 'You have a point there, and I can't say as I'm not tempted, but if I break the rule for you, then I'll have to break it for anyone who takes the whim to keep something for himself and that's not good for discipline. I tell you what. He lowered the hilt and pointed it at Gawin. 'You can have first turn at her, and we'll let her live when we've all done.

Gawin almost retched. What would remain of the girl after a dozen men had taken their turn would be worse than death. 'Just take the silver and be content. You can buy all the women you want without resorting to rape! He braced his sword, protecting himself and the young woman.

De Mohun grimaced. 'You don't understand, do you? Buying anything is a blasphemy to me. The flames from the burning houses around them gleamed on his sword as the blade came up.

Since there was no proof as to how Rohese de Bayvel had died, her death was recorded as a tragic accident and she was buried with all haste and ceremony in the grounds of Saint Peter's, her funeral attended by the Countess and all the ladies of the bower.

Edon FitzMar saturated her linen kerchief with tears and was so distressed that it fell to Catrin to make her a soothing tisane.

'I cannot believe it, Edon wept, cuddling her small son on her knee. 'I thought that she had just run off.

Not thought but wished, Catrin guessed, and in that endeavour, Edon was the same as everyone else. 'At least she has been found and granted Christian burial, she said, mouthing the platitude with a grimace at her own hypocrisy. Perhaps the not knowing had been kinder than the reality.

'I wish Geoffrey was here. Edon nuzzled the top of her baby's head.

Catrin nodded and thought of Oliver. They heard occasional reports from the Countess's messengers, but the information that filtered through was scant and did not mention the individual names that each woman wanted to hear. Geoffrey FitzMar and Oliver Pascal were minor cogs in the great mill wheels of Earl Robert's army. 'At least you have a keepsake, she said, looking at the infant.

'Who might never see his father again, Edon sniffed, and fresh tears sprang to her eyes. Cursing Edon's sensitivity and her own thoughtless tongue, Catrin urged more of the tisane on the young woman, soothed her with more platitudes and, as soon as it was possible, made her escape. She had a good excuse; Ethel's winter ague had thickened on her chest and she had a fever. Catrin did not like to leave her for too long.

Agatha, the laundress, was sitting with Ethel. Now and then she moistened the old woman's lips with a spoonful of watered wine, but there was little more she could do for her. Ethel hovered on the periphery of consciousness and each breath she drew made deep hollows of effort beneath her rib cage.

'I've sent for the priest, Agatha sniffed, her double chins wobbling. She blotted her eyes on her gown. 'I'm not a healer but I know the signs, poor soul.

Catrin gave the laundress a mute look and, sitting down at Ethel's side, took the old woman's good hand between hers, dismayed at how swiftly her condition had deteriorated. 'Ethel?

The eyelids fluttered and the fingers found a squeeze of life. 'Catrin… Ethel swallowed, the sound a dry rattle.

'I'm here. Save your strength, Agatha has sent for the priest.

Ethel's face contorted. 'Don't need a priest, you know that.

' Yes, but the rest of the world would rather see you shriven.

Ethel made a wheezing sound that might have been a laugh or just a struggle for breath. Then she grasped Catrin's sleeve and strained towards her. 'He will ruin you if you are not careful. She licked her lips. 'I dreamed of a man on a bay horse. He is a danger to you and to Oliver. Take great care. The effort left her panting for breath, her lips blue.

'Lie still, Ethel, don't…

But Ethel struggled against Catrin's restraining words and hands. 'There was water and darkness. You must not go near him!

'I won't, I swear I won't, Catrin said in a frantic attempt to calm Ethel's agitation. The old woman fought to breathe, her chest rattling, her grip like a bird's claw.

The priest arrived at a run and, taking one look at Ethel, set about the task of shriving with unprecedented speed, his Latin gabbled so swiftly that even another priest would have been hard pressed to understand him.

Even as he pronounced 'amen' Ethel slumped against Catrin, the holy oil trickling down her brow and sliding across one withered cheek like a tear.

Catrin held the old woman close, her head bowed against the wasted body, her nostrils filled with odours of incense, horehound and death. Agatha sobbed through her praying hands and the priest murmured softly, the Latin words offering the comfort of ritual.

Catrin heard the sounds but they had no meaning. Relinquishing her hold, she crossed Ethel's arms upon her breast and drew up the coverlet. The body was so hot with fever that it still bore the illusion of life. Ethel might only have been asleep was it not for the stillness of her chest. 'I will do what has to be done, Catrin told the priest, her voice calm and practical.

'I'll help you too, Mistress, Agatha snuffled. 'She were a good friend to me, God bless her soul.

With a wordless nod, Catrin turned away and stepped outside to inhale the respite of the sharp February dusk. Light glimmered on the puddles in the dips of the bailey floor, and breath rose in curlicues of steam from a pen of sheep against one of the walls. Unseen, someone was whistling as they hammered at a task. It was all so ordinary, so unchanged from the morning, but now everything was different, distorted as if seen through thick green window glass.

The evening tranquillity was shattered as a courier rode in at the gallop, his tired horse splashing through the puddles, breaking the light on their surface, before staggering to a halt not far from Ethel's shelter. A groom came running to take the bridle, and Catrin found herself squinting at the animal in the poor light to see if it was the bay from Ethel's vision. Later she was to take herself to task, but at the time grief made sense of her action.

'Victory! the messenger announced to the groom as he flung down from the saddle. 'Lincoln is ours and King Stephen taken prisoner. There was a pitched battle and we broke his army like straws in the wind! Slapping the groom on the shoulder, the messenger ran on towards the keep.

Catrin gazed after him, his words ringing in her head without being absorbed. It was too much, too great a swing of emotion to encompass. All that she could salvage was that, as Ethel had predicted, Oliver would be returning, but the joy was marred.

'Why couldn't you have waited? she said over her shoulder in the direction of Ethel's dwelling, and was so appalled at the anger she felt that she was immediately contrite. 'I didn't mean it, I'm sorry, she whispered, and knew that even in opening her mouth she had told a lie. She did mean it, deny it as she might. 'Tell me how I am to be guided now, she demanded, raising her face to the drizzly evening sky. Tears stung her eyes, brimmed and spilled, and she began to weep.

It was late in the morning when Oliver was fetched from guard duty and brought to the castle's chapel to identify Gawin's body.

'I told him to stay close, but he strayed off into a house on his own and was murdered by a citizen who had stayed to guard his hoard. Randal de Mohun spread his hands in a gesture that absolved himself of all blame.

Oliver chewed the inside of his mouth. In the smallest corner at the back of his mind he had been expecting something like this to happen. He looked at Gawin's lifeless body with sorrow and anger but without disbelief. 'Where did this happen?

'On the hill down from the Minster. The house is a ruin now. A spark from another roof caught the thatch and it went up so fast I only just got out alive. De Mohun showed Oliver a patch of burned, blistered skin on the back of his right hand, and the charred cuff of his tunic. 'Don't look at me like that, I'm not a nursemaid. You should be grateful that I brought his corpse out of the accursed place instead of leaving him to burn!

Oliver stared at Gawin's grey flesh, at the ugly slash in his throat that had bled his life away. 'I am damning your hide for ever taking him with you, he said icily. 'And damning mine for ever allowing him to go.

'Go swive a sheep, Pascal! de Mohun retorted, curling his fists around his belt. 'He was seasoned enough to know the risks!

Oliver looked from Gawin's torn throat to de Mohun's wolf-narrow eyes. 'I wonder if he was.

'Hah, he's dead. There's no point in wondering, unless you want to bleed too. He took a chance, he died, God rest his purblind soul! Turning on his heel, de Mohun stalked out of the chapel without even pausing to light a candle.

Staring in his wake, Oliver silently absolved himself of the debt he owed to Randal de Mohun. He did not think that Gawin's 'purblind' soul was going to rest easy with the end that his mortal body had received.