The Love Knot

Chapter 2

The morning dawned overcast, with a whisper of drizzle in the air. The stink of smoke had seeped into clothing, hair and skin. Every breath tasted of it and everyone was eager to leave the remains of Penfoss behind. It was impossible to take the dead with them or, with just three adults and a child, to dig graves here. Only Amice's body was going to Bristol. As Earl Robert's former ward and Richard's mother, it was politic to bring her for burial at the church of Saint Peter. The other corpses were laid out in the compound and covered with green branches cut from the forest by Gawin's war axe. Oliver prayed over the bodies as a mark of respect but he did not linger. A priest and burial party would come from Bristol within the next few days to perform the necessary rites.

The pack horse's load was redistributed to accommodate the burden of Amice's body. Gawin's dun bore most of the displaced supplies, and there was just enough room for Richard's narrow frame to ride pillion. Oliver watched as Gawin settled the boy on his mount's tawny rump. Richard's features were composed this morning, shunning all contact, but the anger still bristled visibly within him. It was a position Oliver understood all too well, and only hoped that the comforting security of Bristol Castle and the nearness of kin would help to break down those brittle barriers before they shattered inwards.

From his conversation with Catrin the previous night, he thought that she understood too. This morning her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy and he did not believe that it was all the result of smoke. She, at least, had learned to weep.

Oliver swung into the saddle and leaned down, offering his hand to her. 'Set your foot on mine, he commanded, 'and pull against my grip.

' I know what to do, she said brusquely, and drew a section of her skirts through her belt. 'My father and my husband were soldiers, and I could ride before I could walk.

Oliver tightened his lips on the urge to grin and make a light remark. He could see that she hated being made dependent on anyone.

The hand she slipped into his was cool and work-roughened with short nails. Two rings gleamed on her heart finger, one at the base, the other at the first knuckle joint. Both were of engraved gold. Her husband, it seemed, had been that rare entity, a rich soldier. Most scraped by, affording food and weapons with only small coin for luxuries.

He drew her up behind him and she settled — not side-on as a lady of gentle birth would have ridden but directly astride like a man.

Oliver could suppress his grin no longer and it broke across his face, brightening his dark grey eyes and setting two deep creases in his cheeks.

She glared at him. 'Something amuses you?

'No, no. It is admiration, not amusement, he replied, his grin not diminishing in the least. Her hose, he noticed, were of a wonderful, frivolous shade of red and enclosed a shapely ankle and calf.

Seeing the direction of his gaze, she made to tug her skirt down, then drew back and straightened instead. 'Gawp if you want, she said disdainfully, 'but don't let your eyes pop from your skull before you have delivered us safe to Bristol.

'Thank you, and I'll try not to, he said gravely, refusing to be cowed. 'You must blame admiration again, not so much of your hose, fine though they are, but of your mettle.

She gave him an irritated look. 'Spare your compliments, not the horse.

Still grinning, Oliver faced his mount's ears. 'Grip my belt, he said, 'I know you're a horse-woman born and bred, but if you fall off, you'll tear more than just your fetching hose.

He could almost feel her scowl deepen, but the interlude had given a moment of light relief to a grim situation and Oliver was not contrite. He gathered up the reins and Hero sidled and attempted to buck. Oliver heard a stifled oath behind him and suddenly two hands grasped his belt.

'You did that apurpose! she accused furiously.

'I swear I did not! Oliver protested, but marred his innocence with a smothered chuckle. He half expected her to snatch away her hands, but they remained, together with a stony silence, as the small party rode out of the gates and left the burned-out husk of Penfoss behind.

At first, Catrin sat behind Oliver and nursed her anger in a pet of determined self-indulgence. He neither fed her ill-humour nor sought to cajole her out of it, but left her in peace to brood.

A twelve-inch from her eyes, his mail-clad spine swayed with the rhythm of the horse. Through the riveted links she could see the quilted linen gambeson beneath and the dark streaks that the steel had smudged on it. The belt she clutched was of high-quality buckskin incised with a pattern of oak leaves. At regular intervals, small pewter pilgrim badges had been punched through the leather. She recognised the cockle-shell of Saint James, the sword of Saint Foy and the palm branch of Jerusalem. Catrin decided that he had probably visited each place and tomb himself, for his skin was weathered beyond the capabilities of the English climate.

As they rode, her anger began to evaporate. She reviewed the moment when she had straddled the horse and his eyes had widened on both her posture and her scarlet hose. Her mouth twitched with grudging amusement as she saw the humour in the situation. Lewis would have laughed too, she thought. Then he would have slid his hand up her leg and… Catrin tightened her fingers in Oliver Pascal's handsome belt and mentally shook herself. Scarlet hose as may be, such imaginings were not for now.

He must have felt the sudden grip against his spine, for he half turned to look at her. Catrin quickly lowered her lids, avoiding all eye contact, and so did not see the glance he cast at her scarlet legs, or the smile that he swallowed before facing forward again.

The drizzle ceased and the clouds began to shred, allowing peeks of sunlit blue between. Catrin gazed at her surroundings. There were so many shades of green in the early summer forest that they dazzled her eyes; in addition to the individual hues of each variety of tree the play of light and sunlight altered their leaves from pale gold to dark emerald in the passing of a cloud.

A flash of a barred blue wing and the harsh shriek of a jay made her jump. Somewhere a cuckoo sought a mate, the two notes of its song monotonous and sleepy, and a woodpecker drummed for insects beneath the bark of an ash tree. She glanced sidelong at Richard, bumping along behind the other knight's saddle, and saw that he too was observing the woods with an air of concentration.

Last night in the darkness he had curled up against her in a light ball and her throat had ached. When she had wept, it had been as much for him as his mother. In defending Amice, Catrin had told Oliver the truth whilst withholding the facts. Amice had indeed cared for her son, but as she would care for a puppy or a special trinket. He was petted, loved and cuddled, until something distracted her — usually a man — and then cast aside until the distraction had lost its novelty. Catrin had done her best, but knew that her steadiness had made Amice's whims all the more bewildering to the child. Small wonder if he was angry.

And in Bristol the unknown awaited in the form of his royal kin. What kind of welcome were she and Richard going to receive — if any? It was not impossible that they would be cast out to beg for their living among the camp followers and whores who servicedGloucester's troops. She supposed that they could travel to King Stephen's camp. He was, after all, Richard's cousin, and Catrin had no strong feelings against him. It mattered little to her who ruled the country, just as long as there was peace. Her mind filled with images of yesterday's slaughter and she squeezed her lids together to make them go away. When she opened her ryes, an expanding shimmer of light obliterated the corner of her vision and, with dismay, she recognised the onset of a debilitating headache.

Ever since the first bleed of her womanhood she had been burdened by the affliction. It came upon her without warning, but usually when she was tired or upset. The headaches were so excruciating and left her so drained that she dreaded the first flickering glimmers. Sometimes in high summer, the sparkle of sun on water would leave its reflection on her eye and she would panic, believing one of her megrims was imminent. The flood of relief when she realised her mistake was enormous. But today there was no reprieve. The shimmer spread inwards, obscuring her vision, and her stomach began to lurch with each stride of the horse. Pain flickered delicately across her brows, probing for a place to settle. When she closed her eyes, the shimmer turned black with frilly, silver edges. Her heart thundered in her ears, each beat driving needles into her skull. Despite her clenched teeth, saliva filled her mouth.

'Stop! she gulped at Oliver. 'Now!

He drew rein and slewed round in the saddle. 'What's wr… he started to ask, but Catrin had already bolted from the grey's back and was braced against a tree, retching violently.

Even after she had been sick, Catrin felt little better. Pain surged over her in great rolling waves, crushing her skull like a shell against a rock. All she could do was huddle over herself and gasp.

Frozen by shock, Oliver stared at her and wondered if she was in the grip of some contagion that would bring sickness to all who had contact with her. Spotted fever started just like this. There had been an outbreak in the crusader port of Jaffa three years ago and hundreds had died.

'What ails her? Gawin's voice and widened eyes held the same fear that Oliver was silently entertaining.

'I don't know. If she has a contagion then it is too late to keep our distance now. Either we'll catch it or we won't, at the whim of God. Somewhat abruptly, filled with self-irritation, he dismounted.

Richard wriggled down from his perch behind Gawin.

'It's only one of her headaches, he said scornfully. 'There's nothing to fear.

'One of her headaches? Oliver repeated, and felt ashamed as the boy went to Catrin and put his arm around her.

'She gets them sometimes, and then she has to lie down in the dark to make them go away. A leech told her that if she cut open a frog while it still lived and placed its entrails on her brow, they would draw out all the evil humours, but she wouldn't do it.

'And no blame to her either, Oliver said with a grimace. Turning to his horse, he unfastened a deerskin bag from a thong on the saddle. The bag, stained and worn, had travelled as far as Oliver in the past four years. It contained a tourniquet cord, linen swaddling bands to make bandages and slings, a small pair of shears and needle and thread. There were also various dried herbs in small linen pouches, their identity separated by different coloured woollen strands tying the necks of the pouches.

'Make a fire, he commanded Gawin. 'A tisane of betony and feverfew might help her. Ethel always swears by it. Opening one of the pouches, he crumbled some dried stalks and flower-heads into a small cooking vessel fetched from the supplies on the pack pony. Then he walked a short distance into the forest and returned with the leaves and flower-heads of a wood betony plant. This too went into the pot. He covered the herbs with water from his leather flask and set the mixture to infuse over the fire that Gawin had made out of tinder and a swift collection of dry twigs.

Catrin leaned against the trunk of a young beech, her complexion made greener than ever by the reflection of the leaf canopy.

'How often is "sometimes"? Oliver enquired, as the liquid began to steam and the water turned deep gold.

Richard shrugged. 'I don't know. Whenever there was rouble, I suppose. 'The priest used to say that I had devils in my head, Catrin mumbled, her eyes tightly closed. 'He said that they should be eaten out of me, but Lady Amice refused to let him try. 'When I was in Rome, a chirurgeon told me that the best

cure for devils in the head was to shave off the victim's hair and make a hole in the skull to force the demons out, Oliver mused. 'Loth as I am to doubt the word of a learned man, I prefer to use the betony and feverfew myself. They certainly work for me on the morning after a night with the wine.

Catrin shuddered delicately and half opened her eyes. They were cloudy, as if she had just woken from sleep, and although she tried to focus on him her gaze slipped away. 'If you so much as go near my head, I will kill you.

'My knife's blunt anyway, he said cheerfully as he removed the pot from the fire with a folded wad of his cloak and poured the brew into his drinking horn. While he blew on the tisane and swirled it round to cool, Gawin stamped out the fire and went to the horses.

'Here, drink. Oliver knelt beside Catrin.

Her nose wrinkled at the smell carried in the steam. 'You bastard, she whimpered, but nevertheless took the cup from him and raised it shakily to her lips, almost missing them. The taste was as foul as she had expected and made her gag, but somehow she forced it down.

'I know it tastes vile, but I promise it will ease the pain, he said with such optimism that she loathed him. 'Can you remount, or shall I pick you up?

Catrin swallowed. Her sight was now obliterated by ripples of swimming light and whether or not the tisane would remain in her stomach hung in a very delicate balance.

'I can manage, she said through her teeth. Forcing her will to overcome the agony, she accepted his hand to rise and staggered over to the grey. The stallion's flank seemed like the wall of a huge cliff. She watched Oliver gain the saddle in one easy motion, his foot scarcely bearing down on the stirrup iron. To one side, Gawin and Richard were already mounted and waiting.

Catrin closed her eyes, put her foot where she thought Oliver's should be, and felt the muscular tug of his arm as he hauled her up. She landed across the grey's rump like a sack of cabbages and grasped Oliver's pilgrim belt for dear life as the horse snorted in alarm and bunched his hind quarters.

Oliver soothed his mount with a murmur, then let out the reins to ease him forward. 'It isn't as far as it seems, he said, by way of reassurance. 'We'll cross the river at the Sharpness ferry then ride on down to Bristol.

Catrin moaned softly. Any distance was too far just now.

After crossing the Severn, it took another five hours at a gentle plod to reach the city of Bristol. Oliver could have covered the ground in half the time, but he schooled himself to patience and let the warmth of the emerging sun soak into his bones. He talked to Richard of the kin to whom he was being taken: Robert de Caen, Earl of Gloucester, and his wife, the Countess Mabile. He described their great household and the magnificent new keep that dominated the fortifications of Bristol castle. The boy said little, but now and again Oliver would see the lift of an eyebrow or a brightening half glance that told him he was not talking entirely to himself. Catrin went to sleep, leaning against his back. Occasionally she gave a soft little snore but did not awaken, even when he paused to drink from his water flask and eat an oatcake from his travelling rations. She had been sick again at the ferry but not as badly, and a little of her colour had returned.

'Will Catrin be allowed to stay with me? Richard demanded as he washed down his portion of oatcake with a swig from Oliver's flask.

'Of course she will.

The boy gave him such a hard stare that Oliver was moved to cross his breast and swear on his honour. 'But you have to do what they say.

Oliver pursed his lips. 'I have sworn an oath to the Earl of Gloucester to be his man, and to the Empress Mathilda that I will uphold her as my rightful queen, but my oath to your mother to see you and Catrin safe is equally as binding on my honour. He risked tousling the boy's dark hair as he retrieved his flask and looped it around the saddle. 'Don't fret. I promise I won't wash my hands of you the moment we reach Bristol's gates.

The hard stare remained, and as Oliver clicked his tongue to the grey, he remembered Richard saying by firelight that promises came easily.

Catrin was woken by someone bellowing in her ear. 'Avon eels, mistress! Fresh caught, not an hour old!

Her eyes flew open to be confronted by a glistening, slithering mass that filled a rush basket not a foot from her face. The raucous voice belonged to a stout woman clad in a frayed homespun gown, who was thrusting her wares at passers-by and extolling their virtues. Catrin shot upright and recoiled. Pain lanced through her skull and her stomach turned at the sight and smell of the fish.

'Avon eels, master, straight from the river! The woman ran alongside the stallion, shoving her basket beneath Oliver's nose.

Catrin stared round, first in the dazed bewilderment of the newly awakened, and then in the dawning realisation that they had arrived in Bristol. The noise and bustle of the port and town that Robert of Gloucester had made his headquarters struck her like a physical blow. She rubbed her forehead. Her cheek was numb, and when she touched it her fingertips discovered the circular indentations left by hauberk rings.

'Find a basket to put them in and I'll have a dozen, Oliver told the woman and glanced over his shoulder at Catrin. 'Awake I see. Did the potion work?

'My head is like a bell tower after Easter Sunday and I could still sleep for a week, Catrin replied, 'but at least I can think again.

'Are you capable of holding a basket of eels?

The woman returned in triumphant possession of a small rushwork pannier in which she deposited twelve shining, slippery bodies.

'Do I have a choice? Catrin asked as he paid for them.

'You could refuse.

Catrin cast her eyes heavenwards and grabbed the pannier. 'Give them to me.

'God bless you, sir, and your lady wife. Them eels'll make a dish fit for a king!

Oliver thanked the woman with amusement in his voice and rode on. Catrin avoided looking at his purchase and averted her head so as not to inhale its essence.

Oliver laughed darkly. 'Those traders, he said. 'The wonder is that they ever live to tell the tale. Did you hear what she said?

Catrin's face burned. 'Yes, but she just made a mistake. 'A mistake?

'About us being husband and wife.

'Oh, that. He gestured dismissively. 'No, I was talking about the eels. Old King Henry died after gorging himself on a plate of bad ones. They weren't just "fit for a king", they killed a king and started this entire bloody war. You could even argue that a dish of lampreys cost the Pascals their inheritance, since my brother Simon was overthrown and killed for supporting the Empress Mathilda.

'And you still want to eat them?

He pulled a face, acknowledging her point. 'They're a gift for a friend, he explained. 'But yes, I'll still devour them, despite the ill-fortune visited on me and mine. Etheldreda makes the best eel stew in Christendom — there's no resisting.

'Oh, Catrin said. She was filled with a mixture of relief and disappointment to discover that there was a woman who cooked and cared for him at Bristol. The way he had spoken last night at Penfoss, she had thought him still alone. The sounds, sights and smells of the city engulfed her as they rode single-file through its narrow alleys towards the castle. The last time she had visited Bristol was with Lewis in the first year of their marriage. He had bought her a brass circlet and a square of raw silk to make a veil. He had kissed her in the street, his dark eyes laughing, and she had thought herself the luckiest of women. Now she was riding down the same street, bumping along behind a man she barely knew, a basket of mud-smelling eels in her hands, her head pounding fit to burst, and her mistress's body tied in a blanket across a pack pony's withers.

The ghost of Lewis watched her ride past and did not recognise her. Her gaze on the castle walls and the bright gonfanons flying from the battlements, Catrin thought that she did not recognise herself either — except perhaps for the scarlet hose peeping in defiance from beneath her gown.