The Love Knot

Chapter 16

The fire was low, just the faintest glimmer of red to lend warmth to the midnight hour. In the dwelling that had been Ethel's, Catrin and Oliver lay entwined, savouring each other's body heat, the presence of living flesh joyfully confirmed in the act of love.

'I feared for you, Catrin admitted, and ran her fingers through the dusting of ruddy-gold hair on his chest. 'Ethel had some very strange visions in her last days. She swore that you were safe but I was afraid to believe her because she told me other things that made no sense.

She felt him shrug. 'You say that she had a fever. Belike she was wandering through her dreams.

'Yes, Catrin said dubiously, but more to agree with him than out of any conviction of her own. 'Yet she did tell me that you would return, and with a crown shining above you, and she was right. When I saw you ride into the bailey, you were part of the guard escorting King Stephen, and because he is a captive, Mathilda will be Queen.

He gave a non-committal grunt. 'I can remember that when I was a child, some of the women would ask her to scry for them, but I always thought that it was nonsense — like her weaving of the knots. I'm sure that she gave good advice, but I think it was wisdom rather than premonition. He angled his head to look at her. 'What else did she see?

'That is the quandary: I do not know. Frowning, Catrin told him about Ethel's warning concerning a bay horse, darkness and water. 'But what she saw, she did not say… could not, for she was dying.

He stroked her arm and was silent for a time. 'More than half the soldiers in Earl Robert's pay ride bay horses — Geoffrey FitzMar for a start. I cannot imagine him being a threat to you.

Catrin pressed close to him, absorbing the comfort of his smell, the warmth of his body. 'No, she murmured against his skin. 'My mind tells me that I am being foolish, but there has been so much death and wanton destruction of late that I cannot help but jump at shadows. She tightened her fingers in his chest hair until he flinched and hissed.

'The only wanton destruction here is what you are doing to me, he said. His tone was tender rather than playful, and he lifted her hand from his breast and kissed the fingertips. 'Sometimes good can come out of the worst happenings. If not for the raid that destroyed Penfoss, we would not be lying together now, would we?

'No, Catrin admitted, and nuzzled him. 'But I cannot see the good in losing Ethel, or in what happened to Rohese and Gawin.

Oliver was silent for a moment, pondering. Then he sighed. 'As to Ethel, it was her time, I think, he said. 'I can count upon the fingers of one hand the people I know who have reached three score and ten, and she was older than that. Rohese and Gawin… well, perhaps you are right. Only time will tell and, if it doesn't, at least it will heal.

Catrin tasted the salt on his skin with the tip of her tongue and thought how much she had missed him. 'Yes, perhaps, she conceded, and thrust from her mind the image of the white, rotting body on the wharfside.

'It doesn't matter what Ethel saw, or at least it doesn't matter now, immediately… does it? He circled her palm with the forefinger of his other hand and stroked a slow trail up the soft flesh of her inner arm.

'No, Catrin replied with a sensuous shiver, adding with forced determination, 'You are right, it doesn't matter now.

'Will your family lands soon be restored? Catrin asked. They were still in bed, sharing a cup of mead while the dawn brightened in the East.

Oliver raised himself up on his elbows to take the cup from her. 'I hope so, but I do not believe that it will be much before the summer. Despite Stephen's capture, the Fleming who holds Ashbury has not submitted to the Empress. It may be that I will have to fight for them yet.

'But with Stephen a prisoner, surely the war is almost at an end? Catrin protested.

He sighed. 'I would hope so, but it is not as simple as it first appears. Stephen might be a prisoner, but that does not mean that his supporters will kneel to the Empress. If they yield, they stand to lose the lands and the powers that they have enjoyed under his rule. Mathilda does not know the meaning of forgiveness or compromise. She will not let men submit with their pride intact; she will expect nothing less than abject surrender.

Hearing the censure and distaste in his voice, Catrin was moved to ask, 'Then why do you support her at all?

'Not her, but her cause. My family swore allegiance to the Empress as King Henry's heir, and I gave my oath of my own free will to Robert of Gloucester. I am bound by my honour to serve them.

'Bound in knots by the sound of matters, Catrin said a trifle acidly, having no bias either way. She wished both sides to perdition.

'When my brother rebelled against Stephen, his lands were taken by force of arms. I own nothing, except by Earl Robert's grace. If that be a knot, then I unravel it to my own impoverishment.

'But still I…

Their conversation was curtailed by a knock on the doorpost of the shelter, and Richard poked his head around the screen to peer in at them. 'Catrin, the Earl wants you. He says that you're to come to his solar and bring your satchel.

'Is he ill? Oliver demanded sharply, and reached for his shirt.

The boy shook his head. His hair was in need of barbering and fell forward over his eyes, giving him the aspect of a shaggy dog. 'No, but Stephen is. It's the manacles. One of them has a sharp edge and it has made his wrist all raw.

Turning her back on the boy for modesty's sake, Catrin tugged on her undershift and donned her ordinary brown hose. Oliver eyed Richard in consternation.

'Manacles? he queried. 'I thought Stephen was to be kept under honourable house arrest?

'Empress Mathilda says that it is not enough — that he might escape. His word's not to be trusted. She says that he deserves the weight of chains for stealing her birthright.

Oliver groaned, and rubbed his hands over his face. Catrin thought he muttered 'stupid bitch' but could not be sure.

Hastily she donned her remaining garments and grabbed her satchel from the corner. Into it, she put a pot of Ethel's goose-grease unguent and several strips of linen bandage. Kissing Oliver in farewell, she followed Richard across the bailey and into the keep.

Stephen was being held in a small, but pleasantly appointed, wall-chamber with painted murals and a sturdy charcoal brazier to keep the damp at bay. The iron ring bolted into the wall detracted incongruously from such comforts. Looped through it was a length of stout iron bear-chain which was attached at either end to the wrist manacles cuffing the prisoner. There were chains on his feet too, although only fashioned ankle to ankle rather than to the wall.

King Stephen was in early middle age, with a fleece of hair only a little darker than Oliver's. His beard was fair too, with a single badger-stripe of grey mid-chin. Stephen's eyes were weathered blue, framed in attractive creases which revealed that despite all the troubles visited upon him since his accession to the throne, he was a man accustomed to laughter. Catrin could not help thinking that Empress Mathilda was a termagant and a very foolish woman to issue the command to bind him thus. For all that he had snatched her throne, he was yet an anointed king and her cousin into the bargain.

'Ah, Catrin. Earl Robert beckoned her into the room. His colour was high and he appeared ill at ease. She swept him a curtsey and gave one to Stephen too. King or not, he was still a man of rank. The gesture earned her a thin smile from the captive.

'I have sent for you to look at a wound on Lord Stephen's wrist, Robert announced, and gestured to one of the guards.

The soldier produced a key and unlocked the right manacle.

'Not afraid that I'll make a bid for freedom, are you? Stephen mocked, a twist to his mouth.

Robert looked uncomfortable, and his eyes flickered away from his captive. 'No, I am not, but it is my sister's wish, and I abide by her ruling.

'Ah, Robert, would you jump over a cliff if she so desired? Stephen opened and closed his fist in relief at being free of the iron, no matter how briefly. 'But perhaps you already have, he added.

Robert wriggled his shoulders as if at an actual, physical discomfort. 'I will not bandy words with you, he said. 'I am sorry for your chains, but you will not otherwise have reason for complaint at my hands. He nodded to Catrin, who had been observing the interplay between the two men, noting all that went unsaid between their words. 'Tend to Lord Stephen, Catrin, and see that you are thorough.

Catrin inclined her head in deference but was stung to retort, 'I know of no other way, my lord.

Stephen snorted with amusement. Robert turned abruptly to the window embrasure, his hands tapping behind his back in nervous impatience. Catrin took Stephen's wrist to examine the abrasion. It was raw and cruel where the sharp iron edge had gouged, and she shook her head over the wound. Now she was closer to him, she could see other marks on his body — those of the battle of Lincoln, she surmised. Even his most vehement detractors respected him for his bravery and prowess on the field. There was a fading bruise on his cheekbone in hues of purple, blue and yellow, and an almost healed cut on his lip. She could not feel sorry for him, but she could feel compassion. She also found that she liked him far more than the haughty Empress Mathilda. But then, as Oliver said, that was half the problem. Where Mathilda instilled loyalty, it was fierce, as in Earl Robert's case, but there were too few disciples and she would not set herself out to win others.

'This will hurt, she warned. 'I have to clean the wound and make sure that there is no rust in it.

'You cannot hurt me any more than I have been hurt already, Stephen replied and gave her a smile that deepened her liking for him all the more. She had heard that he was devoted to his wife, Maude of Boulogne, and Catrin thought it a good thing: otherwise he would likely have as many bastard offspring as the old king.

Catrin cleansed the abrasion and, although he stiffened, he did not flinch or cry out. She anointed his wrist with Ethel's salve and then bound the area with soft linen bandages. 'If you are to wear a manacle again, then it should be of a lighter weight and filed smooth, she said, addressing Stephen but pitching her voice towards Earl Robert.

He swung round from the embrasure and looked at her with frowning eyes. 'Do not presume to meddle, he said.

Catrin lowered her glance. 'I would never do that, my lord, but you did ask me to tend Lord Stephen, and when I spoke it was as a healer. If the wound continues to chafe and rub, it will become a weeping sore and wound-fever might set in.

The Earl bit his thumbnail, and then gestured brusquely. 'See to it, he growled at the guard with the manacle key.

'My lord. The soldier bowed and left the chamber.

Again Stephen smiled at Catrin. 'My thanks, he said. 'You are an angel to offer me comfort in purgatory. If I could reward you, I would.

He was quite the courtier too, Catrin thought. She could not imagine Empress Mathilda finding kind words for what she would consider her due in the same circumstances.

'I will need to return on the morrow, my lord, she addressed Earl Robert. 'The wound must be tended and dressed with fresh ointment.

'As you will. Robert gave her a coin from his pouch. 'Since I did not see Oliver in the hall last night, I assume he was with you.

'Yes, my lord. Catrin reddened, aware that Stephen was watching her with amused interest.

'Then send him to me. I've tasks for him. He waved his hand in dismissal.

Catrin dipped another curtsey and made her grateful escape into the cold, clean air of the stairwell.

Oliver's tasks involved delivering messages to Gloucester and several of Earl Robert's holdings in Monmouthshire. Then he was commanded to scour the countryside for as many re-mounts as possible to replace those lost during the march to Lincoln and the subsequent battle. It was the day after the feast of Saint Valentine when he received the orders. The Empress was preparing to leave her Gloucester base for Cirencester and then Winchester.

'So you're not bringing the horses back to Bristol? Catrin asked, as he marched around the shelter stuffing a clean shirt and tunic in his saddle roll and leaving behind his old shirt for Agatha to wash. Her voice was careful and she managed to keep the worst of the disappointment to herself.

'No. I've to find the horses and bring them on to our camp, wherever it might be. He curled his lip. 'It will be like seeking for snow in July. People who have animals will hide them the moment they hear of my approach, or else they'll try and sell them for an outrageous price. The war has already taken the best beasts. Naught but nags remain.

'Can you not tell the Earl?

'Oh, he knows it already. It is his sister who refuses to listen.

Catrin narrowed her eyes. The more she heard and saw of the Empress Mathilda, the more she disliked her. Even her sympathy for a woman's struggle in a man's world was wearing thin. 'Then no one will have time for her in the end, she said, and handed him his hood which had been lying under the basket of linen laundry awaiting Agatha's collection.

Oliver shook his head. 'We do our best with what we have, he said grimly. 'Look, I have to go. Geoffrey FitzMar's coming with me and I don't know where he is. Pulling her close, he kissed her hard and she kissed him back, her fingers tangling for a moment in his wheatsheaf hair.

'Have a care to yourself.

'And you, he added, with wry meaning and a glance at her satchel where lay the knife he had given her last winter.

'Of course. Her lips still tingling from the force of the kiss, she watched him stride off across the bailey and then, with a small sigh, turned to her own tasks.

Five minutes later, Richard dropped by, his young alaunt gambolling at his side, and begged one of the honey sweetmeats that Ethel had always kept in an earthenware jar for his visits.

The last batch, made by Ethel the week before her death, was almost all gone, and Catrin realised that she would have to continue the tradition and make some more. The sight of the few sticky golden lumps in the bottom of the jar made her blink and bite her lip. The boy sat for a moment on the stool by the fire. Cheek bulging, he fondled the hound's muzzle.

'If I go back to the hall, the Earl will only find me something else to do, he said, looking aggrieved. 'I've been a pack mule all morning. I hate it on the day before an army moves.

'But if you shirk your duties, someone else will have to do double, Catrin pointed out.

'Only for a short while, and probably Thomas. I helped him with a load of shields earlier. He swapped cheeks and sucked loudly. 'I'll go back when I've finished this.

She offered him the jar. 'Best take the last two then, one for you and one for Thomas.

He started to delve in, then raised his head and stared. Catrin turned round.

'Seen Oliver anywhere? asked Randal de Mohun. He was leaning against the doorpost, one hand on his hip, the other braced on the wood.

Fear flashed through Catrin, but she stiffened her spine. 'He went to the hall, she said, without expression.

De Mohun looked her up and down, and Catrin tightened her grip on the sweetmeat jar and thought about striking him with it — although it would be a pity to damage the attractive yellow glaze. Godard had gone to his lodging so there was no rescue from his reassuring bulk. The young mastiff growled, showing his teeth at the mercenary.

'That's what I like about this particular hearth, de Mohun said, 'always a warm welcome. Grinning, he uncoiled from the doorpost and walked away across the bailey. An involuntary shiver rippled down Catrin's spine.

'Who was that? Richard demanded.

His tone was peculiar — thin and frightened. Catrin looked at him and saw that his face was ashen and his eyes so wide that the pupils were entirely ringed with white.

'His name's Randal de Mohun and he's a mercenary. What's the matter?

'I remember him from Penfoss, Richard said faintly. 'He was their leader.

Catrin stared at him and felt as if she had been drinking ice. 'What makes you so sure?

'His tunic. I recognised his tunic. It belonged to Lord Aimery, and they stripped it from his body before they cut his throat. I remember the red braid. My mother sewed it on for him not two weeks before and there was enough left over to trim my hat. He rummaged in the pouch on his belt and produced a somewhat squashed and worse-for-wear phrygian cap. Sure enough, grubby but discernible, the opening was trimmed with the same braid. But he need not have shown her; Catrin could quite clearly recall Amice stitching both tunic and cap. She knew now why de Mohun's clothing had seemed so familiar.

'They might have sold the tunic, she said, trying to be fair even through her revulsion. 'De Mohun's horse is a bay and his shield is blue. The man we saw rode a chestnut and his shield was green. As she spoke, Ethel's warning rang in her ears: Beware a man on a bay horse. Nausea churned her stomach, not least at the thought that he was, or had been, Oliver's friend.

'Perhaps he sold them instead, or perhaps the horse was injured and the shield damaged and he had to get rid of them. It's always happening to the Earl. He's resting up his Lincoln destrier because of a foreleg strain and he'll have to ride out on the morrow with his second-string dun.

'But de Mohun would not sell his bridle and saddle, Catrin said. 'Do you remember his saddle-cloth? It was made of black and white cowhide. Two proofs are more damning than one.

They gazed at each other. 'We could always go and look at his equipment, Richard said. 'It would not take long, and then we'd know for sure. He won't be at his camp, he's gone to find Oliver in the hall.

Against her better judgement, but driven by a need to know, Catrin donned her cloak, grabbed her satchel and went to the door. 'No, she said, as Richard began to follow her. 'Go and fetch Godard and tell him to come to me.

'But…

'Quickly now. She shooed him out in front of her, and as he ran off, the dog bounding at his heels, she took her own more pensive route towards the mercenary horse-lines.

Many of the soldiers knew her by now. She and Ethel had tended their women, and being a midwife, with women's secrets at her fingertips, guaranteed her a certain amount of protection. That she was known to have dealings with the Earl's wife and was betrothed to a disinherited knight counted in her favour too. Some of the comments made as she passed were ribald, but cheerfully so, and Catrin forced herself to retort in kind with a mock tilting of her nose and an admonishing finger.

De Mohun's serjeant was in camp and he watched her approach with narrowed eyes. She told him that she had been sent by de Mohun himself to look at a saddle sore on his mount's withers.

'First I know of it, said the grizzle-haired mercenary suspiciously.

'He came especially to see me on his way to the hall, Catrin answered steadily enough, although her heart was in her mouth. 'How else would I know where he was going?

'Aye, well, the beast is there. The man gestured brusquely to the tall, bay stallion.

Trying to appear calm and authoritative, Catrin approached the horse. It rolled its eyes and sidled. 'How long has Sir Randal had him?

The soldier shrugged. 'Since last midsummer.

'And before that? She walked around the bay, pretending to look. A flicker of her eyes revealed a bridle and saddle to one side, protected from the ground by a folded-up blanket.

'Why do you want to know?

'It's important for the charm to work.

The man snorted, displaying what he thought of that notion. 'A chestnut with white markings, he said.

'And did they wear the same saddle?

The soldier rolled his eyes and gestured to the one in the corner. Catrin went over to it and bent down. The saddle-cloth peeped out from beneath the polished wood and leather — it was green with a border of red tassels.

Catrin stared, feeling disappointed. She had been so sure. She touched one of the tassels and then, to make it seem that she was conducting a necessary examination, she looked at the underside of the saddle-cloth.

'Something the matter? enquired the soldier.

The cowhide was coarse against her thumb, black and white as she remembered it, but a little more bald with wear. 'No, nothing, she said, and stood up, wiping her hand on her gown. 'Sir Randal used to have a green shield with a red cross, did he not?

'What of it?

'He did though, didn't he?

The soldier gave a grudging nod. 'It got split in a fight, he said. 'What is it to you?

'I'll tell you what it is, Randal de Mohun said, advancing to his horse-line, his movements casual and dangerous. 'It is meddling in affairs that are best left alone. Is that not so, Mistress midwife?

Catrin's legs were suddenly weak. Her heart began to pound. She hoped against hope that Richard had found Godard. 'I do not know what you mean, she said, and did not have to look at his face to know how feeble her defence was. 'I came looking for Oliver, that's all.

'She said your horse was sick and that you'd asked her to tend it, the soldier spoke out and stepped sideways, blocking her escape. Left and right, she was now hemmed in.

'Her and the boy are the only survivors from Penfoss, de Mohun said over his shoulder, then looked broodingly at Catrin. 'Oliver told me. Full of pride he was, the fool.

'It was you. Catrin's voice quavered.

De Mohun lifted his brows. 'So you claim, but whose word will be considered law? He stroked his beard in a parody of reasonable thought. 'There is room to negotiate. Tide's in, the river's high. A walk along the wharf should resolve matters.

An image of Rohese de Bayvel's remains filled Catrin's mind; the ragged white flesh dragged up from the depths of the river. Her hand lay on top of her satchel and the latch was unfastened. She tensed her wrist and took a step back. 'Other people know where I am. They will raise the hue and cry against you, she warned.

De Mohun snorted. 'You were never here. None of us ever saw you. He took a step towards her, arms outstretched. 'You went out into the city, to a birth, and never returned.

As he lunged, so too did Catrin, striking with the knife as Oliver had shown her. De Mohun recoiled with an involuntary cry of surprise and pain, blood dripping from a deep gash in the back of his hand. With a snarl, he drew his sword.

Catrin screamed at the top of her lungs. The other soldier made a grab at her arm and fetched up the same as his master with a bone-deep wound. But then the sword connected. Catrin swung desperately to avoid it. Her satchel caught the bulk of the blow and split open, spilling entrails of herb sachets, linen bandages, jars of ointment and oil, and a small plaster image of Saint Margaret which shattered on the straw-covered ground. The last of the blow bit through flesh to bone and although there was no pain, Catrin felt the heat of blood flooding her side. She screamed again, and her voice was answered by a huge, masculine bellow.

The sword glittered in the air again, but this time it was turned on the blade of another weapon. She saw a quarterstaff flail the air and heard the deep grunt of someone struck in the midriff. Oliver and Godard, she thought hazily, and swayed and fell. The smell of dung and straw filled her nostrils. It was very tempting to close her eyes and let the world disappear. Get up, she scolded herself, get away before it's too late.

There was pain now as she scrabbled to her hands and knees; hot, scalding, trickling pain, but it told her that she was still alive. She heard cries, the sound of running feet. A hand touched her shoulder and a woman's face, wide-eyed with shock, peered round into hers. "Tis the young midwife, she's wounded! she cried over her shoulder to her companion. 'Help me with her.

Between them, the two women lifted Catrin to her feet and bore her over to their tent, where they laid her down on a straw pallet.

Randal de Mohun parried Oliver's blow. A vicious upswing sent chips of steel sparking from Oliver's blade. As he flinched from the flying fragments, de Mohun grabbed a saddled horse belonging to one of his troop, clawed himself across its back, and rammed spurs into its flanks. Oliver lunged for the bridle, but just as swiftly snatched his hand back as Randal's sword chopped down and the horse lashed out. Then the mercenary was free, thundering across the bailey and through the open castle gates, leaving the guards staring in blank astonishment.

Most of Randal's men made their escape in the mayhem and confusion, the majority of them sneaking out as word spread. Randal's hefty serjeant was constrained to stay, as Godard finally got an arm lock on him, bore him to the ground and sat on him.

'Don't kill him, Oliver panted. 'He has a song to sing to the Earl.

'Do my best, Godard growled, 'but I make no promises.

Oliver nodded and, sheathing his sword, ran to the tent where the women were beckoning.

Catrin was ashen, her eyes dilated with pain. Her gown was soaked in blood from armpit to hip.

'Christ, only you could be so foolish and stubborn as to walk into the den of a hardened mercenary like Randal de Mohun! He knelt at her side, his voice ragged and his hand trembling as he drew his dagger to slash the green wool, north and south.

'I'll need a new gown now, Catrin jested weakly.

'In my estimation, you need new wits. Catrin, I swear you will be the death of me, if you do not kill yourself first! Working rapidly, he tore open the dress and chemise and was flooded with both relief and anxiety when he saw the gash that de Mohun's sword had opened. It was long and moderately deep but, as far as he could tell, it had struck no

vital organ and the blood was only seeping now. But still it required stitching, and quickly. After that came the dangers of wound-fever and the stiffening sickness, either of which could kill in short order.

Thanking the women for their care, he wrapped Catrin in his cloak and bore her back to the house against the bailey wall. In a faint voice she told him the nostrums to mix to ease her pain and clean the wound. Earl Robert's chirurgeon was sent for to do the stitching.

'I only wanted to look at his saddle-cloth, to find out if it was fashioned of black and white cowhide, she said. 'I thought he was safely away in the hall.

'He came to the hall, but did not stop for long. Oliver chafed her hands, wishing her flesh was not so cold. 'He wanted to ask me about some new spear heads I'd promised to get him when I ordered mine. Just after he'd gone, Godard found me and gave me Richard's message. Fortunate for you that we did not delay in following de Mohun to his camp.

'Will the Earl raise the hue and cry against him?

'Of a certainty, Oliver said, but the words were bitter in his mouth for he knew that there was small likelihood of Randal de Mohun being captured. Earl Robert's army was almost ready to leave Bristol and begin campaigning towards Winchester and London. There was little time and even fewer men available to hunt down a rebel mercenary. Good riddance would be Earl Robert's philosophy on the matter. Besides, they had de Mohun's second-in-command to make a confession and become a scapegoat for the rest.

The look in Catrin's eyes told him that she had about as much faith as himself in Randal de Mohun being brought to justice.

Oliver turned his head aside. 'I regret ever bringing him to the Earl's attention, he said, his voice filled with loathing. 'You were not to know.

'I knew his kind, which is almost as bad. He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. 'I could have lost you, and for no more than a sense of foolish obligation long outgrown.

'But you haven't and you won't, Catrin said fiercely, and drew herself up on the bolster, her eyes dark and bright in her otherwise bloodless face. 'Randal de Mohun's days are numbered. Ours are not. She drew his face down to hers and kissed him with a vigour that revealed how strongly the life still flowed in her. And it was in that embrace that Earl Robert's chirurgeon found them as he arrived with his needle and thread.

'I don't want to go, Oliver said.

He was sitting on the side of their bed, stamping his foot into an ankle shoe as he spoke. The warmth of the spring sun filtered through the door curtain and laid a sparkle of gold on the hair springing from the back of his wrists.

Catrin eased herself up on the bolster and felt the uncomfortable tug of skin where her wound had been stitched. Six weeks had passed since the incident with de Mohun but she still felt pain from the cut and, although it was healing well, the scar was a deep red welt against her pale skin. For a few days after the attack, she had been very ill indeed; not at death's door, but running a high fever filled with delirious, senseless dreams in which she was pursued by a faceless man on a bay horse. When the fever broke, it left her as weak as a new-born lamb, and it was only now that she was beginning to rediscover her original, robust self.

Persuaded to talk, de Mohun's Serjeant had spun a horrific tale of murder and atrocity. Not only Penfoss, but several smaller hamlets had been destroyed, the mercenaries circling and raiding like a pack of wolves. Rohese de Bayvel had been their victim, and so had Gawin.

'I don't want you to go. She laid a hand on his back and felt the warmth of his flesh through his linen shirt.

'Then I won't. Turning round, he rolled over on top of her, careful to avoid her injured side, and for a moment they kissed and nuzzled. He pressed his hips down and she raised hers and then clasped her legs around him, only half in play. For a moment he groaned and almost yielded to temptation then, with a sigh, he sat up and pushed his fingers through his hair.

'Now look what you've done. Is that any way to send a man off on the road?

Catrin giggled. 'The only way, she said. 'You'll come home the quicker for the rest.

'I had not suspected you of such cruelty.

'Love is always cruel, Catrin said, not quite in jest.

'And not always to be kind, he retorted, and leaned over to fasten the toggles on his shoes.

'I will send you off with something else too, Catrin said, her eyes upon the curve of his spine. 'The promise that when you return, we will be wed.

He straightened and turned so swiftly that she actually heard the sinew crack in his neck the moment before he winced in pain. 'Jesu, that is grinding salt into a wound, he said.

'Why?

'Because I want to return even before I have gone, and I do not know how long I will be away this time. He rubbed his neck. 'This damned, gory war creeps on and on like a leper dragging his useless limbs. The Londoners hate Mathilda. I do not blame them after the manner in which she dealt with them; she does not know the meaning of diplomacy. Every foothold gained is slippery and only made with the most arduous toil. I begin to think that Earl Robert is not losing his hair from age and wisdom, but from tearing it out in clumps at his sister's folly! He shook his head and gave her a hopeless look. 'But I am locked to her cause. What else can I do?

To which Catrin did not have an answer. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck and laid her cheek against his. 'Whatever you think now, it cannot last for ever. My talk of marriage was intended to cheer you and instead I have set you to brooding.

'Nay. Without you, and the thought of you, I would have gone mad long before now. They kissed and clung for a moment, but the dawn was brightening outside, and it was with reluctance that they broke apart. 'You will be Lady Pascal — a titled woman without lands, he tried to jest.

Catrin smiled and gave a little shrug. 'I can live without them. More easily than Oliver she thought, with a shrewd look at her betrothed through her lashes. 'But I know how much it irks you that a stranger sits in your hall and milks your estates.

Rising from their bed, he donned his quilted gambeson and reached for his hauberk. 'Ashbury would not have been mine if my brother had lived, I freely admit it, but now he is dead the inheritance has fallen to me.

'But surely Ashbury is only yours by right of Conquest in the first place? Catrin ventured. 'Did not your grandfather or great-grandfather come to England with the Conqueror?

'No. He shook his head. 'My great-grandfather's name was Osmund, son of Leofric, and my family has held Ashbury time out of mind. He swore allegiance to the Conqueror and married a Norman noblewoman, Nichola de Pascal. Then, because all things French were in fashion, and he wanted to live, he changed his name to his wife's and christened his sons with Norman names. My colouring is true Saxon. He tugged at a lock of his pale blond hair. 'Ashbury is mine by right of generations.

'Why haven't you told me before? Catrin eyed him curiously.

He shrugged. 'No reason why I should. It is not something that my family has ever bandied abroad. We are proud, but within ourselves. His upper lip curled wryly. 'Or should I say within myself, since I am the only Pascal — the only Osmundsson — remaining.

Catrin nodded thoughtfully. The pride was kept hidden because it went hand-in-glove with shame. Three generations after the Conquest, the nobility was dominated by men of French-speaking Norman extraction. It was true that their offspring were suckled by English wet nurses, and that their sons and daughters grew up speaking both tongues, but French was the language of the court and it was considered vulgar to admit to any great knowledge of English. Saxons were peasants and traders, occasionally merchants. Any who displayed overt signs of wealth were treated with suspicion and frequently harassed. For a man of rank to admit to Saxon heritage in public would be like throwing down a challenge to his peers. Older blood. A stronger claim, based on heredity not robbery.

She kept her perceptions to herself. To have spoken them aloud would have been cruel. Oliver must have them too. There was no need for words.

'Then our children will be true mongrels, she said instead with a smile. 'Welsh and Breton from me, English and Norman from you.