The Love Knot

Chapter 21

On the second Sunday in May, the castellan of Wickham Keep drank too much, fell off his horse, landed on his skull and killed himself. The news was delivered to Stephen in Northampton, where he lay weak as a kitten but recuperating, under the watchful eye of the Queen, his senior retainers and Catrin.

During the first week of his illness, his brother, the Bishop of Winchester, had administered the last rites to a man delirious with fever and on the brink of death. The Queen had knelt in prayer by her husband's side the night through, while Catrin laboured over him with steam inhalants, aromatic chest plasters and honey and blackcurrant tisanes.

Another twelve hours passed before the fever broke. Sweat poured out of Stephen as if he were a leaky bucket, and as swiftly as the sheets were stripped and replaced he soaked them again. By the time it was over, he was lying on a table-cloth purloined from the dais trestle in the hall, and covered with blankets borrowed from his retainers. Catrin was as exhausted as a limp sheet herself, and scarcely had the strength to feel triumph as the King opened lucid eyes for the first time in three days.

Since then he had continued to improve and a fortnight later, although still possessed of a wheezy cough and confined to bed, was conducting daily business from his chamber.

'Fell off his horse, he repeated, tossing the vellum message on the bed and scowling at the man who had brought it. 'I don't believe it. Good God, the man was almost born in the saddle! He drew his furred bedrobe around his painfully thin body.

The messenger looked at the floor and shuffled his feet. 'Sire, he mumbled.

'Oh, it's not your fault. Begone. Stephen waved his hand in terse dismissal. As the man bowed and scurried gratefully to the door, the frown deepened between Stephen's brows. Picking up the letter he studied it again, narrowing his eyes at the scribe's untidy scrawl.

'He was a good man, de Chesham, but overly fond of his wine — to his cost and ours, God rest his soul. He made the sign of the cross with the same irritation with which he had dismissed the messenger.

Catrin came to him from the hearth where she had been preparing a savoury milk broth.

'I cannot even rise from my bed but must lie here like a puling infant, supping food fit only for old men, Stephen added with disgust as she placed the steaming cup in his hand.

Catrin reddened. 'It will help to replenish your strength, sire.

Stephen glowered, but set the cup to his lips. 'It had better. He took a swallow, grimaced for form's sake, and looked across at his brother and William d'Ypres. 'He'll have to be replaced immediately, he said. 'But who can we send?

'There's Thomas FitzWarren, said the bishop. 'He's served me right well as a castellan in the past.

'In the past, there you have it, Henry. Stephen shook his head and took another swallow of the milk broth. 'He's nigh on three score years. You've already had the best out of him, brother.

Catrin had become such a fixture of the royal bedchamber in recent weeks that she was treated as such. If she had possessed a loose tongue, she could have earned herself a fortune in silver from the things she heard. Prudently, she had spoken to no one, not even her husband. Oh, she fed him harmless details about the King's health, what he wore and what he ate. She told him about visits from the Queen and the royal offspring and seasoned the bland trivia with occasional items of gossip that were destined for the common melting pot anyway. Catrin preferred not to examine her reasons too closely. It was easier to dwell in the shallows than probe the murky depths.

Now, listening to the King and his senior advisors discussing the castellanship of Wickham, she remained nearby and, instead of being unobtrusive, deliberately clattered at her work.

Henry of Winchester threw her an irritated look. His eyes were like Stephen's in colour but were smaller and without the King's candour or good-natured twinkle. William d'Ypres followed the direction of the bishop's glower. His own gaze rested thoughtfully on Catrin, and the faintest suggestion of a smile curved beneath his moustache. 'I know of a younger man who has been chafing at the bit for some while, and to whom you owe a favour, he said.

Stephen raised his brows. He too looked at Catrin. 'There are many men of that ilk, he said, but his expression was considering. 'What experience?

William d'Ypres shrugged. 'His father was commander of the garrison at Chepstow and gave him a grounding. Other than that, he's quick-witted with good soldiering abilities. Give him a chance, I say. If he proves unsuitable, then replace him.

Stephen rubbed his beard. 'You're right, he murmured. 'A man cannot be tried unless he's tested. He drank down the rest of the milk broth and wiped his lips. 'Does that suit you, Mistress Grosmont?

'Sire? Catrin widened her eyes. She had almost choked when she heard William d'Ypres tell the King that Louis's father had been commander of a garrison, when he had been no more than a common serjeant at arms.

Stephen smiled. 'Come now, you have ears beneath your wimple and they hear very well, the times you have been at my side in the night with a cup before I have scarcely stirred. I am going to offer that husband of yours the custody of my keep at Wickham.

Catrin knelt to him, her head lowered, her face flaming. 'Sire, I do not know what to say. Which was true enough. She was breathless with surprise that it had been so easy; but her stomach was churning too. 'Thank you seems not enough.

'In truth I am only repaying what I owe for my life, Stephen said, a smug grin on his face as if the suggestion had been his in the first place. 'Go and find your man and bring him to me for confirmation. My scribes will make out the necessary letters for the constable.

Catrin could not wait to leave the room. She knew that the King and d'Ypres were amused by her flustered response, and that Henry of Winchester was contemptuous. Whatever the angle they all thought her a foolish woman, never realising their own folly. As she descended the tower stairs, her joy for Louis warred with the tarnish of the lie he had told d'Ypres. How many other falsehoods was his reputation built upon? She tried to ignore the thought. Louis would make a good commander. What did his father's occupation matter?

A niggling voice replied that it was not his father's occupation that mattered at all. His lies were the real concern but, despite the acuteness of her hearing, or perhaps because of it, Catrin chose not to listen.

While Wickham was not a castle of significance in the mould of Windsor or London, it was nevertheless useful to Stephen. Together with Warwick, Winchcomb and Northampton, it served as a counter to the Empress's castles at Worcester and Hereford. It was of no great size, but solidly built, and reminded Catrin of a stout man standing with feet planted apart and arms akimbo. In a way, it was almost endearing.

The June sun turned the stone blocks to a deep, ruddy gold and flashed upon the roof tiles as their entourage approached the huge wooden gates. A hundred paces from the keep, Louis drew rein and leaned back in the saddle to study his new acquisition.

'It is smaller than I thought it would be, he murmured.

'That is because you are accustomed to the likes of Rochester, Catrin said. 'The King would not entrust you with one of his largest keeps for your first command. Only a week ago you were a hearth soldier.

Louis grunted, and chewed his thumbnail. 'I suppose you are going to rub that in at every opportunity.

Catrin rolled her eyes. He was like a spoiled child sometimes. The more he got, the more he wanted. 'I am just saying that you cannot plant a seed one day and expect a full harvest the next. There has to be ripening.

'Sensible as ever. He gave her a mocking smile, acknowledging her concern and at the same time telling her without words that she was foolish. 'I bow to your greater wisdom. Wickham will do to start.

Their first night in the great hall, Louis sat in the lord's chair at the high table and wore his crimson gown with the gold embroidery, insisting that Catrin wear her finery too. The best napery was fetched from the chests where it had lain yellowing for the past ten years, Humphrey de Chesham not being one for ostentation. As long as a trestle was scrubbed, it had been good enough for him, the maid told Catrin as she handed over the keys to the linen coffers.

The keep was militarily spruce, but almost completely devoid of a woman's touch. Humphrey de Chesham had been a widower who availed himself of the alehouse girls when he felt the need, and relied on the maids to see to the domestic running of Wickham.

Catrin could see that there was much to be done, but the sumptuousness of the court had been stifling and she much preferred de Chesham's style of austerity. Louis, however, had plans which involved more than just strewing fresh, scented rushes on the floor and adding a few cushions to the benches.

'A lord should be seen to live like a lord, not a peasant, he said, when she questioned the advisability of extending the stable block, rebuilding the kitchens, and totally renovating the private quarters. 'I'll have craftsmen put glass in the upper windows and…

'Glass! Catrin cried in horror. 'Do you know how much that would cost? Where would you find the coin?

'There are ways and means, he said with a vague wave of his hand and looked at her narrowly. 'You always were the one to measure out each half and quarter penny.

'And you always spent what you never had, Catrin said waspishly.

He frowned, then, with an obvious effort, shrugged off his irritation and laid his hand over hers. 'I don't want to quarrel with you, not on our first night together here. Don't spoil it, Catty. His look became pleading, with just a hint of long-suffering to make her feel as if she was a killjoy and a shrew.

If not the first night, then when? Catrin wondered with a glimmer of foreboding. As long as she held her tongue and gambled along with him, arguments were unlikely. But if she chose the wider, safer path, instead of dancing on the precipice, they were bound to quarrel — as they had quarrelled before.

'Catty? he cajoled and peered round into her face. His expression was suddenly mischievous and he squeezed her thigh beneath the table. 'Wouldn't you like glass in the bedchamber?

Despite her better instincts, she was forced to smile. He had a way with him that was impossible to resist. She had heard a tale about stoats charming birds from the trees into their jaws, and she thought that Louis was a little like that.

'Whether I like it or not, we couldn't afford it, she said, but her tone was lighter now.

'We couldn't not afford it, he grinned, and toasted her in the keep's wine with his free hand. 'Who wants to be cold at night?

Henry FitzEmpress, heir to his mother's disputed kingdom, adjusted to the rolling deck of the ship like a sailor born, his legs planted wide for balance as he watched the haze of England's coastline sharpening on the horizon. He was nine years old, small for his age, but stocky, with a shock of bright red hair and light, glass-grey eyes. Those old enough to remember his great-grandfather, the Conqueror, said there was a family resemblance. All Oliver knew was that the child never sat still. In fact, he never sat at all. Questions poured out of him, one after the other like water out of a leaky spigot, and most of them were unanswerable. For a child of nine, his intellect was so sharp that those around him almost bled trying to keep it fed.

Oliver viewed the approaching land with impatience. They were heading for the port of Wareham. It belonged to Earl Robert, but had been seized by Stephen's troops, the reason why they came in a convoy of fifty-two warships with three hundred knights on board. He was ready to fight. Every one of Stephen's soldiers would wear the face of Louis de Grosmont and Oliver would yield no quarter.

He had travelled to Normandy as part of Earl Robert's deputation, to plead with Mathilda's husband, Geoffrey of Anjou, to come to England and lend his aid to their cause. Geoffrey had replied that he was too busy fighting his war in Normandy, but that his 'beloved wife', the words spoken with a sarcastic eyebrow, could have the custody of their eldest son and heir designate to prop up her ailing cause.

During Robert's absence in Normandy, Stephen had recovered from his illness. Taking the initiative, he had seized Wareham and marched upon the Empress at Oxford where he was now besieging her. After a lull of almost a year, the horns were locked again.

'I can speak English, Henry announced proudly. 'Henry ist mon noma. He beamed at Oliver who was unfastening the heavy roll made by his gambeson and mail shirt. 'Do you know what that means?

'Gea, Ic cnawen, min lytel aethling. Oliver ist mon, Oliver replied, and was gratified to see the grey eyes widen and echo the open mouth. Prince Henry lost for words was a sight worth seeing.

'Do all my Uncle Robert's knights speak English? There was suitable respect in Henry's voice.

Oliver kept the smile inside his mouth and answered gravely. 'Most speak a little, like you. Not many of us are fluent.

'Then how did you learn?

'My great-grandfather was English and kept his lands after Hastings. Gazing past the child, Oliver judged the distance to landfall. He had no particular fear of ships or water, but it was a fool who put on mail armour in mid-crossing. They were closing on the land now though. He could see the thatch of the houses through the haze, and the spume breaking on the shoreline. All around him, other men were quietly donning their mail and checking their weapons.

Henry watched him. 'But you've got a Norman name, he said stubbornly.

Oliver smiled through gritted teeth as he donned his gam-beson and sought out the opening in the steel shirt. 'I'm a mongrel, like you, sire.

Once more, Henry was taken aback. 'I'm not. .'he started to say, then fell silent and looked thoughtful.

'Part English, part Angevin, part Norman. Oliver began struggling into the hauberk. Absently, Henry moved to help him, tugging the mail shirt down over Oliver's gambeson with squat, competent fingers.

'Then I'm fit to rule all Saxons, all Normans and all Angevins, he said, his childish treble quite at odds with the intensity of his expression.

And instead of the freckled face of a troublesome nine-year-old boy, Oliver saw the countenance of a future king.

Earl Robert had been both worrying and hoping that Stephen would abandon the siege at Oxford and come tearing south to relieve his garrison at Wareham. It would mean a tougher fight for Robert, but it would save Mathilda from danger. Stephen, however, resisted temptation and clung like a leech to Oxford, abandoning Wareham to its fate.

Oliver's vessel took no part in the storming of the harbour, for its cargo was too precious. Leaning against the shields that lined the wash-strake, Oliver and the young prince watched the other vessels ram-in amongst Wareham's outnumbered fleet. Grapnels and spears hissed through the air, striking wood, ripping through sails and tearing flesh. The shouts of men and the clash of weapons floated clearly across the water to the prince's vessel and the four others protecting it.

The boy drank in the sight and sound of battle, his nostrils quivering and his eyes as huge as moons but as much with curiosity as fear. 'Uncle Robert will win, he said confidently.

'He's not as good a commander as my father, but he's much better than theirs.

Oliver clenched his fists on the rawhide rim of a shield and longed to be involved in the battle. He wanted to become part of its welling dark core, to strike and strike, until he found oblivion.

Henry leaned over the side of the ship. 'What's "death to our enemy" in English, Oliver?

Oliver looked at the livid marks the shield rim had imprinted on his palm. 'Deoth til urum feondum, he said, with intensity but no enthusiasm.

Henry cupped his hands and bellowed the words across the water. Very few members of the attacking force spoke English, but Henry yelled the command just the same.

Oliver watched him and wished for just a spark of that innocent vivacity. He supposed that to possess it, you had to be nine years old and supremely confident of your position in the world, items which had been missing from his own baggage for longer than he could remember.

Once Earl Robert's forces had claimed the harbour, Oliver's waiting was over. Shield on his left arm, sword in his right, he was one of the first ashore and into the town. The inhabitants cowered behind their bolted doors as the battle for control of Wareham raged through the streets towards the castle.

Oliver was a man possessed, all the pent-up rage and bitterness of the past few months flooding out upon the blade of his sword. Geoffrey FitzMar tried to stay with him but fell back, defeated by Oliver's sheer ferocity.

'Christ, man, do you want to die? he roared, avoiding the swing of a mace and ducking behind his shield.

'Why not? Oliver spared breath to respond and, slashing his own opponent out of the way, surged forward.

He might have received his wish and been sent to eternity on the thrust of an enemy spear had not an almost spent arrow struck him in the leg below his hauberk and downed him with a yell of surprise at the startled spearman's feet.

Cursing, Geoffrey sprinted and leaped to stand over Oliver, dicing with death himself as the spear thrust and jabbed. On the ground, Oliver seized one of their assailant's legs and toppled him over. More of Earl Robert's vanguard arrived and the unfortunate spear man was spitted on his own point by a Welsh knight.

'God's eyes! Geoffrey sobbed, beside himself as Oliver lurched to his feet, the arrow clean through the fleshy part of his calf. 'Kill yourself if you want, you selfish bastard, but don't expect others to die with you!

'Then go away! Oliver snarled back. 'I didn't ask you to stay and save my life!

'You didn't have to ask, Geoffrey said tersely. 'I'm your friend, for what that counts with you.

'Hah, if you were my friend, you'd have let him finish me.

Geoffrey's jaw made chewing motions while he gained control of himself. 'Not to fulfil your own self-pity, I wouldn't. Your life's worth more than a wanton squandering in this miserable, muddy little port. Geoffrey levered his shoulder beneath Oliver's. 'You can't fight on, he added with grim satisfaction. 'At least that's a blessing in disguise.

'It's a curse, Oliver said bitterly.

By eventide they had taken Wareham castle and their victory was complete. Prince Henry dined in the keep's great hall, two cushions on the lord's chair to boost him above the table, and the gold circlet of royalty on his brow — a fact about which he complained in great detail. It hurt, it made his skin itch, it gave him a headache.

'When I'm King, no one will make me wear my crown unless I want to, he said mutinously to his uncle.

Robert of Gloucester gave him a stern look. 'You may not yet wear one at all, he said. 'And it is graceless to complain when so many good people have sacrificed themselves for your cause.

Henry looked down at the table-cloth. His complexion reddened and his lips pursed mutinously. But as swiftly as the rebellion surged, it was gone. He touched the circlet on his brow. 'I am sorry, he said simply, then looked beyond Earl Robert.

'Oliver, what's crown in English?

'Cynehelm, sire, Oliver inclined his head. He felt awkward. Henry had insisted that he be given a place at the high table instead of at one of the side trestles with Geoffrey and the other hearth knights. His leg was throbbing where the leech had removed the arrow-head and cleaned and bound the wound. All he wanted to do was lie down and sleep but, for the nonce, he was Prince Henry's pet, and the child was still as bright and fresh as a new-minted coin.

'Good. Henry nodded. 'Ic wille awerian min cynehelm. He looked at his uncle. 'That means "I will wear my crown. "

Robert gave a pained smile. 'What's "time for bed"? he asked Oliver.

For the next few days, Oliver was confined to the hall by his leg. It was healing well and showed very little sign of festering, although that might have had something to do with the fact that Oliver was treating it himself. The time to die had been during the battle, from a swift spear thrust. Not even a man desperate for death would choose to die from the lingering agony of a poisoned wound.

After the arrow-head had been pulled out, he had raided the pouch of supplies in his saddle bag. There was a perverse sort of comfort in anointing the injury with Catrin's goose-grease balm, one of the first recipes of her own. He had fond memories of watching her mash a paste of healing herbs into the pale fat, and then carefully pile the resultant mixture into small pots, one of which she had given to him.

'Kill or cure, he had teased, as he took it from her hand.

Now he said the words to himself and his throat tightened even while there was a smile on his lips.

Prince Henry was fascinated by the little wooden pot of salve. 'What's that?

'Ointment to heal my wound.

'Where did you get it? Henry sniffed at the green, pleasant-scented concoction and took a dab to rub between his fingers. 'From a friend — a wise-woman.

'I've never met a wise-woman. Hopeful curiosity entered the boy's eyes. 'Does she live close by?

Oliver shook his head. 'Only in my heart, he said.

'Oh, she bewitched you?

Oliver laughed bitterly and was about to agree with the boy when common sense stopped him. There was already enough prejudice surrounding midwives and wise-women without him adding more, particularly where the future king of England was concerned. 'No, no. He shook his head. 'She was a widow and we were betrothed, but then the husband she thought lost returned from the dead. Jesu, that sounded just as bad. He could almost see the word 'necromancy' written in the child's eyes.

'Sit down, he said, 'and I'll try to explain.

Henry sat and, to his credit, scarcely fidgeted as Oliver told him about himself and Catrin. There was painful comfort in that too, Oliver discovered, as if the pressure of an abscessed wound had been relieved.

Henry looked at him thoughtfully, but with little comprehension. His own parents had lived apart for much of his young life, and when they were together they fought like cat and dog. His father had mistresses who came and went. Henry had a half-brother, Hamelin, from one such liaison. 'There are other women. He gestured in the direction of three knight's wives who were gossiping over their embroidery. A tinkling laugh rang out and a hand preened at a wimple.

Oliver shook his head. 'In truth too many, sire.

Henry narrowed his eyes, then nodded decisively. 'When I am King, I will restore your lands in full measure and give you a wealthy heiress in marriage.

Oliver gave a pained smile.

Henry bristled. 'You do not believe me?

'No, sire, I believe you entirely. It is just that I would be content with the lands alone.

Henry shrugged. 'But you'd need a wife to provide sons to continue the line, he said practically, and wiped his fingers on his chausses.

Oliver was spared from answering as Henry's tutor, Master Matthew, came looking for his charge, and the child was removed to the world of Aristotle, Vegetius and Thomas Aquinas.

Oliver gazed after the prince, watching his energetic bounce down the hall. He supposed that Henry was right. Would a wealthy heiress be so bad? Coin and companionship, the common yoke of duty. Gently he pressed the stopper into the neck of the wooden jar. He knew all about duty.

Catrin's face was as green as the window glass through which the spring sunshine stained the floor rushes. She leaned over the wooden latrine board and retched agonisingly down the fetid hole. It was the third morning in a row that she had been sick and her flux was almost a month late.

Amfrid, her maid, presented her with a damp, lavender-scented cloth, and Catrin wiped her face. Her stomach quivered and gingerly settled. Although she knew that women suffered from sickness in the early months of pregnancy, although she knew the herbs and simples that helped to ease the discomfort, she had not been prepared for the overwhelming attacks of nausea and the permanent exhaustion.

Pressing her face into the cloth, she walked back into the bedchamber. The walls were hung with Flemish tapestries in shades so deep and opulent that they put her in mind of Earl Robert's solar at Bristol. There was a silk coverlet on the bed. Apparently it had come from the plundering of Winchester following Earl Robert's capture. There was a singe-mark along one edge where a piece of burning thatch had dropped on it as it was snatched to safety by Louis's acquisitive hands. The flagon had come from Winchester too. It was fashioned of silver, with amethysts encircling its base. Catrin hated it, and the coverlet too. They were gains made from someone else's disaster, or even death.

'Spoils of war, Louis called them with a shrug and a smile, unable to comprehend her distaste.

His plunder had included some silver too, and he had spent it profligately. Not only was there glass in the windows but, for the first time in her life, Catrin was able to see her own reflection in a Saracen mirror of polished steel. Louis had not told her the cost, but Catrin knew that it must have been expensive beyond all dreaming. Not even Countess Mabile possessed such in her private chamber.

She was learning to be blind again; she was learning not to ask for fear of discovery. Staring at herself, she saw a trapped creature, hollow-cheeked and gaunt-eyed.

'I was much happier when I had nothing, she murmured.

'My lady?

Catrin shook her head at Amfrid, threw back the slippery silk coverlet and sat down on the linen bed sheet. She glanced at the bolster which still bore the imprint of Louis's head. Oh yes, there were still moments when he set her world alight, but so often it was here, in the bed. He would cajole, he would make her laugh, he would melt her, but it was all a part of the learning and the forgetting. All her worries were answered with kisses, with playful dismissal, with silence. If she persisted, she was punished with petulance and slammed doors.

Amfrid brought her a gown of blue wool, embroidered with golden lozenges. Catrin looked at it, sighed, and tugged it over her head. Donning her wimple and ignoring the hated mirror, she crossed the room and freed the window catch. Cold spring air blew into her face and filled her lungs. The sky was a tumultuous chase of streaky grey-and-white cloud.

As she gazed out, Louis returned from patrol, his dark bay horse lathered and fretting the bit. She watched the graceful way he dismounted, light even in chain-mail; his rumpled black hair as he removed his helm, the ready smile on his lips. Despite her misgivings, the flame swept through her. He was so lithe, so glowing and handsome. Other women would give their eye-teeth for a husband like hers.

She was about to turn away from the window when Wulfhild, one of the kitchen girls, came walking across the ward. Her hips swung seductively, and on her arm there was a basket of honeycakes. Her hair, blond as new butter, was tied back from her face by a kerchief, but hung loose below it, supposedly in token of her virginity, but everyone knew she had left that behind in a ditch some time ago.

Beneath Catrin's narrowing gaze, Wulfhild approached Louis. She said something to him, and he laughed and snatched one of the honeycakes from her basket. Then he stooped and murmured in her ear. Wulfhild giggled, covering her mouth with the palm of her hand. Then she sauntered on her way, pausing once to look over her shoulder, her expression full of suggestion and promise. Louis grinned from ear to ear and saluted her with his half-eaten honeycake.

Catrin tightened her lips and slammed the window shut. It meant nothing, she told herself. It had always been his way to flirt. But he had promised he had changed, and there had been more than flirtation in Wulfhild's eyes.

Louis was still chewing the last of the honeycake as he entered their chamber. Although panting a little from his run up the stairs, his stride was brisk and there was a gleam in his eye.

'Stirring at last, I see, he said as he unfastened his belt and began to shrug out of his hauberk like a snake shedding its skin. 'I thought when I did not see you in the hall that you had chosen to become a slug-abed for the rest of the day.

She came to help him with the heavy garment. 'I am sure you could find things to keep yourself amused.

He eyed her quizzically and ran his tongue around his mouth to dislodge a fragment of honeycake. 'Such as?

'Such as Wulfhild.

He rolled his eyes. 'Jesu, she's a simple kitchen wench. I cozened a sweetmeat from her in passing. 'Is that all you cozened?

He made an impatient sound. 'Am I to have my every movement watched and judged from that window? I spoke to her, I took a cake from her basket. God's bones, what is the matter with you? Are you going to help me or not?

Catrin compressed her lips and laid hold of the hauberk skirt. 'Your patrol went well? she enquired tightly.

'Well enough, he said, his voice muffled as he stooped over. 'The people never have anything to report. Too busy cowering behind their doors or hiding their best animals from my view, but I saw no signs of trouble. He stood straight, his complexion slightly flushed. 'Besides, Mathilda's party are finished after what happened in Oxford at Christmas — Madam High-and-Mighty forced to flee through the snow in her night-gown… He licked his lips and grinned. 'That would have been a sight worth seeing.

'Apparently no one did, Catrin answered shortly. She did not like Mathilda, but it did not prevent her from giving the woman her due against the mockery she heard in Louis's tone. 'From what I understood, she fled not in her night-gown but in a white robe so that she would seem a part of the landscape — and she succeeded.

'Yes, but Oxford is Stephen's now. She has lost any initiative that she once possessed. It can only be a matter of time. The gold braid on his robe sparkled as he crossed to the window embrasure and poured wine into a goblet. 'Oh, she is to be admired for her fight, but it's futile. She might as well take ship for Anjou and return to that husband of hers. At least he had the good sense not to leave his own shores.

Catrin watched her husband drink the wine and was irritated by his confident posture and the glib contempt in his voice. 'I do not think she will do that, she contradicted with a toss of her head. 'Earl Robert is as good a commander as Stephen, if not better, and each year that she holds her position, her son grows older.

'I doubt she can cling on for another nine years. Louis took a gulp of wine. 'Want some? He held out the cup.

Catrin shook her head and fought a renewed surge of nausea.

'Of course, it will be a pity for her supporters, he remarked, watching her narrowly. 'They will lose their lands, and those already dispossessed will have to find other employment. She won't need an army when she goes back to Anjou.

'You mean Oliver, don't you? Her voice was hard with anger.

He spread his hands. 'I mean them all. In truth, I feel lor their misfortune. He cast a complacent look around his magnificent bedchamber. 'I gambled, Catty, I won.

Her belly churned at the note of self-satisfaction in his voice. He said that he felt for their misfortune, but it was probably pleasure, not compassion. 'Yes, you won, she said, her lip curling with disgust, 'but how long before you have to gamble again, Louis? She swept her hand around the bedchamber, encompassing everything that his look had done. 'How long will you keep this? You bleed the villages dry to support your pleasures. You spent the wool clip before the sheep were even sheared.

He stiffened and his nostrils flared. 'I am the lord of a castle. I have to make a display of my wealth. Anyone would think that you prefer to live in a hovel.

'I did once, and I still do! she flung at him. 'You display wealth that is not yours. You're living a lie, Lewis of Chepstow, a paltry, pathetic lie! The last word ended on a cut-off scream as he strode across the room and struck her across the face.

'Shut your mouth, you shrew! he roared. 'It is a wife's duty to honour and respect her husband, and I see very little of either from you!

'I'll give it where it's due! Catrin spat back, her cheek numb where he had struck her. With growing fear and anger, she watched him reach for his sword belt.

'No, my lord. Amfrid stepped forward, a look of horror on her round, homely face.

'Get out! Louis snarled, repeating the command on a full-throated bellow when she hesitated. With a frightened glance at her mistress, Amfrid ran from the room.

Catrin faced her husband, her breathing harsh and swift, her stomach so curdled that her throat made small retching motions as she struggled not to heave.

'Give me a single reason why I should not beat the venom out of you, he said, curling the leather through his slender fingers.

She tightened her lips. While she would not yield to save her own hide, there was more at stake now. She could give him all the reason in the world, if she could but manage the words. Cold sweat stood out on her brow, and the room tilted and swayed like the deck of a ship.

'Well, he queried with an arched brow, 'has the leather got your tongue?

She shook her head and swallowed. 'No, Louis. But before you mark me, you had best know that I am with child.

He coiled the tongue around his fist. 'You're what? His look changed from one of dominant, masculine challenge to delighted astonishment.

'With child, she repeated, and fell to her knees, dry-heaving into the rushes.

Louis threw the belt away from him as if it were a poisonous snake and knelt beside her, his expression suddenly full of concern and tenderness. 'Why didn't you tell me?

She shuddered and retched against the supporting strength of his arm, a strength that had almost struck her down for telling the truth. 'I have only just discovered it myself, she said. 'I wanted to be sure.

'I wondered what had made you so crotchety of late. Now I know, I can forgive you.

Catrin was too wretched to treat his reply as it deserved. Besides, she did not have the strength to continue the fight.

'A son, Louis said, his voice deep with exultation. 'I am going to have a son. His hand possessively on her arm, he looked into her green, wan face. 'When, Catty, when will he be born?

'It might be a girl, she said, with a last flicker of perversity.

'No, it will be a boy. Louis shook his head vigorously. 'My line always breeds sons. When?

'November, I think, around the feast of Saint Martin.

Gently, he raised her from the floor and bore her back to their bed. He took the damp, lavender-scented cloth from the bowl on the coffer and bathed her temples. 'I was hoping for such news, he said, 'what man would not? You did not quicken in the first year of our marriage and I thought that you might be barren.

'So now I am worth more to you than ever?

He did not hear the sarcasm in her tone. 'Beyond value, he said. 'You are carrying our son. I will hold a great celebration in your honour and I will send word to the King and William d'Ypres. They are bound to send christening gifts.

Catrin closed her eyes. She was suddenly so weary that even breathing was a burden. Instead of being cause to plan steadily for the future, the tiny seed growing within her was just another reason for Louis to scatter the largesse he did not have.