The Love Knot

Chapter 22

'I wish I could give you the troops and leave to besiege Ashbury, but I do not have the resources, said Robert of Gloucester. 'And you are too valuable to me here.

Oliver looked at his lord with dismay, but he was not surprised. Ashbury was not a great or strategic keep. It was true that it guarded a minor crossing of the Thames to the far west of Oxford and that it had a thriving market, but its capture was not essential to the Empress's cause.

'It is mine, he said, 'and it has been my family's since the time of King Alfred. The waiting is hard.

Earl Robert sighed and fondled the brindle head of his mastiff bitch. 'I know that, I am not blind to your need. But it cannot be. Perhaps later in the year I will be able to spare you, but not now. The great keeps need to fall before we can take the small ones.

Oliver had been fed the 'perhaps later' speech so many times that it raised not a flicker of hope. Perhaps never was the more likely outcome. He would die a hearth knight, rolled in his cloak by the fire if he was fortunate, dead of his wounds on a battlefield if he was not.

'Yes, my lord, he said, and turned from the trestle to give the next petitioner his chance at being denied. They had lost Oxford in the winter, but since then had reclaimed Wilton, defeating Stephen in a pitched battle that had almost been a repeat of Lincoln. They had captured his steward, William Martel, and Stephen had paid with Sherborne Castle for his release. The King was being held in check, and Oliver had dared to hope that his chance to regain Ashbury had arrived.

There was an ocean of restlessness in him that could not wait for time to turn Henry Plantagenet into a man.

Geoffrey FitzMar was waiting for Oliver in the hall. His two-year-old son perched on his knee chewing a hard crust of bread. The infant had a fluff of blond hair as pale as Oliver's own, and eyes the violet-blue of gentians. Edon was expecting a second child in the spring. Geoffrey had his family to keep him sane. Being a hearth knight by trade, a younger son without hope of land from the start, he had no roots dying for want of soil to plant them. Looking at his friend, the small child in his lap, Oliver knew bitter envy.

Geoffrey glanced up at him and the smile left his open features. 'He refused you, he said.

'Ashbury's not strategic enough and I'm too experienced a soldier to be given leave. If I won, I wouldn't be a hearth knight any more, would I? He pushed the toe of his boot moodily through the floor rushes. 'I can understand his reasoning, but it riles me nevertheless.

Geoffrey shook his head and looked sympathetic. 'I wish I could help.

Oliver watched the infant offer his father the sucked, soggy crust of bread. If Emma and their child had lived, his daughter would be almost eight years old by now. No wife, no child, no land. He imagined himself in years to come. A grizzled, embittered old man with a frozen heart and charity for neither man nor woman. It was a frightening prospect.

'Da, said the little boy, and jumped up and down in his father's lap. 'Da, da, da.

Oliver went outside. The late September sun was setting over the bailey in tones of rich, burnished red, and the sky was a hollow, perfect blue. Prince Henry was receiving a jousting lesson from two of the Earl's knights. Richard and Thomas were with him, and their boyish trebles rang out over the greensward as each in turn took a shortened lance and attacked the quintain post on their ponies. Oliver watched their juvenile attempts to hit the swinging shield on the end of the rotating crossbar and found a smile, remembering his own first lessons in the art. Having no desire to be drawn into the circle of good-natured advice being shouted at the youngsters, he sidled quietly along the wall of a storage shed. It was to no avail for, almost immediately, he heard his name being called.

Reluctantly he turned, and found himself being ridden down by Richard. The boy clung to his grey pony like a centaur, his face flushed with the speed and pleasure of the sport.

'There's a messenger looking for you, he said.

'For me? Oliver raised his brows. 'I do not know anyone who would send me messages.

Richard shrugged. 'They were mostly for Lord Robert, but the man asked us in passing where he could find you. The boy tilted his head. 'Do you think it could be from Catrin?

Oliver's belly churned. 'I think not, he said. 'I told her that it was best if she severed all ties.

'Yes, but what if she's in trouble?

Oliver flicked his fingers. 'Go back to your sport before your imagination runs away with you, he said brusquely, while his own imagination gathered speed.

Looking doubtful, Richard wheeled his pony. 'Tell me, won't you? he said over his shoulder.

Without answer, Oliver strode off in search of the messenger.

He found him breaking his fast in the kitchens with a beaker of milk and a heaped platter of new bread and curd cheese. The man was flirting with one of the kitchen maids, but broke off his teasing to present Oliver with a rolled-up strip of vellum secured with a length of braid. The seal bore the ubiquitous design of a warrior astride a horse, his sword raised on high. The letters around the outside of the seal were smudged and illegible.

'Who gave you this?

'A merchant from over Winchcomb way. He took a gulp of milk and sleeved his mouth. 'Brought it to Gloucester last night. Said he'd been paid to carry it by one of Stephen's lords.

Oliver gave the messenger a penny, broke the seal and went outside. The letter was slightly travel-stained at the edges and bore a late August date. It was a scribe's writing, fluid and precise, and it wasn't from Catrin. It was from her husband, informing him in triumphant detail about Catrin's new status as lady of a fine keep. He was maintaining her in the manner of a queen; they were both ecstatically happy and anticipating the birth of their first son.

Oliver stared until the words danced on the page and lost their meaning. He knew that this letter was not Catrin's doing. Probably she was unaware that her husband had even sent it. Louis de Grosmont possessed a nature that took pleasure in torment. A tweak here, a pull there, a subtle manipulation of the truth. Catrin would not care whether she was kept as a queen or not. Indeed, her spirit needed freedom to be whole. The thought of her bearing a child was sheer torment. Had it been his own child he would have been frightened enough, but the thought of her carrying and bearing Louis's offspring so distant from him numbed Oliver completely.

Returning to the kitchen, he approached the fire and the two huge cauldrons bubbling over the flames. Crumpling the letter, he tossed it into the blaze and watched the vellum blacken and curl, the red seal melt and sizzle, until his eyes were hot and dry and nothing was left.

Louis de Grosmont was going to have a son. Never had such a child been born before, if the expectant father was to be believed. All and sundry were made aware of the fact; from the poorest serf struggling on the demesne land to feed his family, to William d'Ypres and King Stephen.

"Twill be an easy labour, one of the midwives assured Catrin cheerfully. 'You're young and strong with good wide hips.

Two had been installed for her lying in, the best that Louis could not afford. They were skilled, sensible women, and Catrin liked them both, but she would have preferred just one and less of Louis's bragging. After the first months of utter sickness, her body had adjusted and her pregnancy had passed without incident. She was untroubled by swelling ankles or giddiness. Her appetite was excellent, and she slept moderately well. Now the first twinges of threatened labour had started, but as yet there was no real pain.

'The labour does not bother me. She stroked the taut mound of her belly. 'I know what to expect; I have delivered enough babies myself. But I don't want Louis to know until it is necessary.

'He is very keen, my lady, said the other midwife with an indulgent smile.

Catrin said nothing. She knew that her husband's fervour depended upon her producing a healthy son — to be named Stephen in honour of the King. He had refused to countenance the prospect of a daughter. It would be a boy because that was what he wanted. Fortune, he said, was running in his favour. But Catrin had her suspicions that it was not fortune which was running, but Louis, and as hard as he could to keep up.

Another pain, deeper than the last, tightened around her belly and squeezed.

Rising from the cushioned window seat, she paced the chamber restlessly. Walking helped. She counted her paces and breathed deeply, easing herself over the contraction.

Louis appeared an hour later, the news having leaked down to the hall where he was presiding over the quarter-day rents and exacting heavy fines from those who were not prompt to pay. He burst into the bedchamber where Catrin was still pacing and counting and pulled her into his arms, her swollen belly mounding between them.

'How long? he demanded, his eyes bright with impatience.

'How long have I been in travail, or how long will it continue to be? Catrin asked, and tried not to tense as her womb tightened.

'How long until I see my son, of course.

Stripped of its gilding by his eagerness, Louis's selfish nature was laid bare to the bone.

'It will be a while yet, my lord, the older midwife spoke out. 'First babes can take two or more days to show themselves to the world.

'Two days! Louis looked aghast.

'If waiting is all you have to do, then you are fortunate, Catrin said waspishly. 'Go and make yourself busy. The time will pass.

'No, it won't, it'll stand still. He looked at the women as though they were involved in a conspiracy.

'Of course, the midwife added quickly, 'it is frequently much sooner than that. Examining my lady, I would say that come eventide you will have cause to celebrate.

'Eventide, Louis said, grasping the word like a lifeline across a river in spate. He squeezed Catrin's hands in an echo of the muscular squeezing of her womb. 'Make haste, Catty. I'm eager to see my son.

'I will do my best, she replied, but her sarcastic tone was wasted on him as he bounced out of the door with the eagerness of a puppy.

The day progressed. Almost every hour, Louis sent to discover how the labour was advancing, and as dusk approached Louis himself took to haunting the landing outside the bedchamber door.

Panting upon the birthing stool, her body drenched with effort, her thighs streaked with blood and birthing fluid, Catrin gave the midwives a mirthless grin. 'Let him in, she panted. 'Let him see me. All men should witness this.

The women looked shocked and took her words as a jest. 'My lady, no man may enter a birthing chamber. It is not proper!

'No, of course not, she laughed savagely. 'But what kind of farmer sows the seed and then absconds the harvest?

'My lady, you are distraught, you do not know what you are saying.

'Yes, I do, Catrin retorted. The pain returned and seared so hard that it destroyed all coherent thought. The mid-wives had given her various nostrums to drink, but none that had had much effect. She knew that she must be in the final stage of labour, for with each pain there was an overbearing urge to push down. It was now that the truth would be known. If the child was lying the wrong way in her womb or her pelvis was too small, then both of them would die. She grasped the smooth wooden sides of the birthing stool and bore down with all her strength. It was like trying to move a mountain, but the women encouraged her.

'Almost there, my lady, I can see the head. He's got dark hair, so he has.

Catrin sobbed and, with the next contraction, pushed again. 'Oliver! she screamed, the name surfacing from nowhere and bouncing off the walls.

'Is that to be his name? one of the midwives enquired. 'I thought your husband had chosen Stephen.

Catrin shook her head, beyond speech, beyond anything but the final struggle to push the child from her body and have relief. She was not even aware of the name she had screamed, only that it had been a cry for help.

Another surge, and the baby slithered from her body into the waiting, warmed towel, and immediately began a lusty bawling.

The midwives cut the cord and gently rubbed mucus and fluid from the infant's tiny body. Its furious wails filled the room, but there was no other sound. The women looked at each other in silence.

'What is it, what's wrong? Catrin demanded with a sudden lurch of fear. 'Give me my baby, let me see.

'No, my lady, one of the women said quickly, 'nothing is wrong. See, you have a perfect little daughter. She handed the screeching bundle into Catrin's arms.

The baby waved irate little fists and roared as if she had been insulted. She had masses of thick black hair and tiny, snub features. For Catrin it was love at first sight and, mingled with that love, a great flood of protectiveness. 'I wanted a daughter, she whispered with a tearful smile.

Louis had been listening at the door and, as the raucous screams of the baby continued, his control snapped. Unable to wait any longer, he burst into the room. 'Let me see my son! he cried, and advanced on Catrin, his arms outstretched to take the baby. She still sat on the birthing stool, the afterbirth as yet undelivered, her hair loose to her hips and sweat-soaked at the brow.

She tightened her grip on the bundle she held and immediately the new-born ceased to screech as loudly. 'Your daughter, you mean, she said. 'Louis, we have a girl child.

He stopped as if he had run into a castle wall and his arms dropped to his sides. 'A girl child? he repeated, the joy freezing, then falling from his face to leave an expression of deep affront. 'That is impossible. My line always breeds boys.

'Well, God has seen fit to bless you with a daughter. Louis glared narrow-eyed at the baby in Catrin's arms. 'This is your doing, you bitch. Any other woman would have borne me a son. You have thwarted me deliberately with your wise-woman's tricks.

Catrin opened her mouth to deny that she had done any Much thing, but found that she was too weary to stand against his petulance and rage. She just wanted him to go away. 'You have thwarted yourself, she said, 'at every turn. Louis clenched his fists. For an appalling moment, Catrin thought that he was going to strike her while she sat on the birthing stool, still in the last stage of labour. Raising her eyes to his, she saw the intent, but some tiny spark of control held him in check. Abruptly he turned from her, let out his breath with harsh contempt and strode from the room, slamming the door in a shudder of cold air.

Catrin hung her head over her tiny daughter. 'I chose the wrong man, she whispered. 'God forgive me, I chose the wrong man.

' Now then, mistress, don't you worry. He'll come around in time, said the older midwife. Her face was pale with shock, but she had rallied bravely. 'Men need daughters to make good marriage alliances. He'll be right proud of her once she comes into her looks, you mark me.

'His pride is the problem, Catrin said, as her womb began to cramp and expel the afterbirth. 'He has boasted far and wide that he will soon have a son to follow him. He will blame me for failing him, not God for ordering. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and pushed down. The pains were not as bad, but they were still deeply uncomfortable.

'Things will seem better in the morning, the woman soothed. 'Now, we need a name for this little lass.

Catrin parted the linen towel and looked down into the baby's tiny, crumpled features. While she owed her a great debt, she could not saddle the infant with a name like

Etheldreda. 'Rosamund, she said, 'after my mother, her grandmother. She gave the slightest of bitter smiles. 'Our line always runs to girls.

Louis stared down at his small daughter in her cherry-wood cradle. She was sound asleep, her eyelids no larger than telin shells and seeming too delicate for their edging of dense black lashes. Her name suited her; she was as pink and soft as a rose. Over the past six weeks some of his initial disappointment had waned. As several people had pointed out in the process of commiseration, daughters were useful providing you did not have too many, and at least Catrin had proved that she could bear children with relative ease. Only a few days after the birth she had been chafing at her enforced confinement in the bower. The next one would be a boy for certain. Catrin had been churched that morning and thus was free to take up her wifely duties again, amongst them those of the bedchamber. Not that Louis had been on short rations during her confinement. Wulfhild, the kitchen maid, had been most accommodating in the stables, and there were a couple of women in the village too. If Catrin suspected, she had said nothing. Since the baby had been born, there appeared to be no room in her life for anything else, including him.

Usurped by a puling infant, and a girl at that. Louis's lip curled. She had even insisted on feeding the baby herself, like a peasant woman, instead of doing what was proper to her rank and obtaining a wet nurse. When he protested, she stood her ground so firmly that he had been forced to retreat and sulk in the stables for an hour with Wulfhild.

'I am a midwife; I know what is best for my daughter, she had said with quiet assertion, no blaze of temper on which he could feed his own. She was a bitch, a contrary, irritating bitch, but she was also comely and, despite his other amours, he still desired her, not least because of the way she ignored him.

She entered the room now, clothed in her undergown and chemise, her black hair curtaining her shoulders. It was not as long as it had been during her pregnancy. The child had apparently taken the strength from her hair, and she had shorn off a good six inches. Still, it did not detract from her looks. At least if Rosamund inherited them she would make an appetising marriage prospect.

Louis sat on their bed and began disrobing. Catrin went to the cradle and looked down at the swaddled baby. An expression of melting tenderness filled her face. It was a look that Louis recognised because once, back in the days at Chepstow, it had been bestowed on him.

'She's asleep, he said brusquely. 'Come to bed.

Catrin raised her head and looked at him, the softness lading. 'May I not check upon my own daughter?

'I've checked already. That cradle is like a shackle around your ankles. You're never more than a pace from it.

'That is not true. She left the baby and approached the bed. He could sense the reluctance in her step, and it was made all the more galling for the alacrity with which she had approached the cradle.

'If you had done as I said and employed a wet nurse, we could still have the bedchamber to ourselves, he complained.

'You need not sleep here if it troubles you so much. She gave him a cool stare and pulled off her undergown, then, more reluctantly, her chemise.

He snorted. 'I'll not be thrown out of my own chamber by a couple of women! Her body glimmered in the candlelight. Her breasts were full from suckling the baby. She had recovered her trim waist, if anything she was more slender than before. There were a few small, silvery stretch marks on her belly, and an area of raised pinkish-white flesh on her side from the sword wound she had sustained at Bristol. The scar itself never ceased to fascinate him, because it was the sort of wound seen frequently on men but never on a woman.

Taking her hand, he pulled her down beside him on the cold silk coverlet. She shivered and gazed past him at the rafters. Louis ran his thumb delicately along the scar and kissed her cold, goose-pimpled skin. 'Two months, Catty, he murmured against her throat. 'It's been a long, dry wait.

She shifted slightly beneath him and her hands clasped behind his neck. 'Don't tell lies, she murmured. 'I know you've been drinking at different fountains.

He thought about making a vehement denial, but decided that it would begin another quarrel and he had patience for neither argument nor placation. 'Only because I could not have the one I wanted, he muttered against her breasts. 'Open for me, Catty, let me in.

Obligingly she raised and spread her thighs. He felt their satin touch against his flanks and then the clinging, liquid heat of her inner body.

'This time it will be a boy, he panted as he worked himself deep inside her. Her body swayed with his movements, but she made no response of her own, except to wriggle a little and interrupt his rhythm now and again as if she was uncomfortable. When he looked into her face it was blank, apart from a slight frown between her eyes and the catching of her underlip in her teeth.

He ceased to move and rose on braced elbows. 'What is wrong with you tonight? You're as welcoming as a lump of venison on a slab.

'Does it matter, as long as you obtain the son you desire? She looked at him, her hazel eyes weary.

'Of course it matters, he said furiously. 'I'm your husband. In the past I've made you scream like a banshee at the gates of hell. You know how much it pleasures me.

She sighed. 'You want me to scream?

'God damn you, woman, I want you to want me! He felt himself begin to wilt inside her; something that had never, ever happened to him before with any woman. He lunged desperately, but the heat and strength had gone and he slipped from her body with a wet plop.

'Jesu, you witch, what have you done? He looked down at his softened organ in growing horror.

'Nothing, she said scornfully. 'It is your own mind that unmans you. You cannot always have what you want for the smiling, Louis. It is your right as my husband to command my body, but do not look for desire when all you desire is to slake your lust and beget yourself a son.

'Christ, that would be the desire of any man. You put something in my wine, didn't you? He seized a handful of her glossy, black hair. 'Didn't you!

'Don't be so stupid! she flared back. 'If I had put anything in your wine, it would have been wolfsbane and you wouldn't be worrying about a limp cock, you'd be dead!

He wound her hair around his fist and seriously thought about strangling her. Heat pulsed in his groin as he imagined the act; her struggle. He pushed her flat, his wrist across her throat, sought, fumbled, and plunged.

This time she did scream, after a fashion, and her body arched against him. Louis fixed his eyes on her face, watching the war between her fury and fear. He had never taken a woman in rape before and the experience was so novel, his pleasure so great that it was almost a pain.

Catrin continued to spit and struggle, but Louis was in no hurry to complete the act and took his time, holding back, toying with the delightful sensations. Begetting his son was going to be a pleasure after all.

In her cradle, Rosamund started to cry. Catrin's struggles became desperate.

'Lie still! Louis snarled, tightening his grip until she choked.

Above the sound of Catrin's fight for air, his grunts of pleasure and the baby's wails, came a vigorous pounding on the bedchamber door.

'Go away! Louis yelled.

My lord, come quickly, we are under siege! an agitated voice responded. 'There is an army outside our walls! 'What?

An army, my lord, with siege machinery! the voice repeated, and pounded the door again.

For the second time, Louis lost his erection. 'All right, all right, he bellowed. 'Keep the skin on your knuckles! Releasing Catrin, he levered himself off her and flung on his clothes. 'We'll finish this later, he snapped over his shoulder and, pushing his feet into his shoes, strode to the door and banged out of the room.

Coughing and choking, Catrin sat up, her black hair spilling wild. There was a raw throb between her thighs and her scalp was sore. She lurched to her feet and staggered to the cradle where Rosamund was now bawling for all she was worth. Stars

fluctuated before her eyes and she had to steady herself for a moment before she was able to stoop and lift the screaming infant from the cradle.

'Hush, she soothed, 'hush, not knowing if she was talking to the child or herself. Holding Rosamund to her breast, she rocked the baby back and forth, her hand cupping the tiny, fragile skull. Rosamund rooted against her flesh. Catrin cradled her and put her to suck.

Until recently she would not have thought Louis capable of the kind of violence he had shown just now. Too late, she was coming to understand that the changes he had promised her were not for the better. The child in him was too strong for the man to defeat, and a wilful child in a man's body was so dangerous it was terrifying.

She brushed her forefinger over Rosamund's downy, dark hair, and wondered with quiet desperation what she was going to do. She could live the lie and play his soul-destroying game, or she could fight him every step of the way as she had fought tonight and lose not her soul but her life. Or she could, as she had taunted, put wolfsbane in his cup.

Afraid of her own emotions, she wrapped her cloak around herself and the suckling baby and, going to the bower window overlooking the gate house, freed the catch.

A bitter, rain-laden wind beat into her face. The fields were brown, the winter trees dark and skeletal. Where smoke should have been rising in gentle twirls from the village houses, there were thick black gouts instead, interspersed with the red lick of fire. Closer to the keep, she could make out the forms of the soldiers, both mounted and on foot. They were spreading out to encircle the castle and they had brought siege machinery with them.

Frozen to the marrow as much by what she saw as by the weather, Catrin jerked the window shut and, nursing her daughter, turned to the small charcoal brazier burning in the middle of the room. Part of her fear was for herself, but most of her terror was for the baby lying in her arms. The sight of the smoke and the soldiers flooded her mind with the images of what had happened at Penfoss. Only it was not Aimery de Sens who sprawled across the gateway with a cut throat but Louis, and she was lying where Amice had lain. She had heard the tales of what Welsh and Flemish mercenaries did to the small babies whose mothers they had raped and butchered. It did not help her state of mind that while Louis was a good reconnaissance soldier, he had never been faced with this kind of challenge before.

'Jesu, be silent! she snapped at herself. Gently prising a sleepy Rosamund from her nipple, she returned the baby to the cradle and donned a chemise and warm gown. Worrying would only make the situation worse. If the maids saw her panic then they would panic too.

She bound her hair in a wimple, took Rosamund and carried her from the room and down the stairs. If the village was in flames, there were bound to be people seeking succour within the keep.

They were the soldiers of Aubrey de Vere, Earl of Oxford, Catrin was told by a weeping village woman, who had watched them take her cow and her pig and set fire to her cottage.

'One of 'em says to me, "tell your lord that the Earl of Oxford's come to call. " She stared round the great hall, her body rocking back and forth in a rhythm of grief. 'He said that they'd cut the right hand off every man in the village.

'Soldiers often make empty boasts. He said it to frighten you. Catrin set her arm around the woman's shoulders and tried to ignore her own misgivings.

' Even if he did, they'll still burn it all to the ground and leave us nothing. My animals gone, my home a heap of ashes! The woman rocked harder and wailed. 'I'll starve!

'Of course you won't, Lord Louis will see that you do not.

'He ain't done nothing but take from us since he came, she answered and turned her head away, refusing all Catrin's efforts to comfort.

Leaving her in the care of another village woman, Catrin went to the large iron cauldron set over the hearth and helped to dish out pottage and sympathy but quickly realised that it was a fruitless exercise. The villagers might have been forced to take refuge in the keep, but they had closed ranks. It swiftly became obvious to Catrin that they hated Louis and had much preferred their previous, irascible, wine-swilling lord. At least he had not dwelt in luxury while they strove to eke a living from their fields. Catrin discovered that they blamed her too. Old Lord Humphrey had not been married and he had never shown a desire for fancy hangings or glass in the windows.

Unable to bear the sidelong hostile glances any more, Catrin left the baby with Amfrid and went up to the battlements to speak with Louis.

The wind bore the acrid stink of smoke, and beneath their walls the soldiers were setting up camp and preparing to roast a yearling calf. Loaded on baggage wains were shaped sections of wood and lengths of rope which would be assembled into siege machinery.

Louis's complexion was greenish-white as he peered out of one of the wooden crossbow towers jutting out from the wall walk. 'The whoresons, he spat. 'The stinking whoresons.

'We were always going to come under threat of attack. Catrin watched the busy purpose of the men below and contrasted it with the stunned shock of the troops within the keep. 'They look as if they know their business, she murmured.

Louis stiffened and threw her a narrow look. 'Since when have you been so knowledgeable on military matters?

She felt the anger in him, his need to bolster his confidence by striking out. 'I don't need vast experience to believe the proof of my eyes.

He made a curt gesture of dismissal. 'Your place isn't up here. You should be with the other women tending your sewing and rocking your precious cradle.

Catrin tightened her lips. 'With all the villagers taking refuge within these walls, my place is everywhere, she pointed out. 'You read meaning into my words that does not exist. I came to look, nothing more.

'Then if you have seen enough, you can go. His gaze flickered sidelong as a soldier approached.

Catrin lowered her eyes. She had sense enough not to continue the argument in front of others, especially when every ounce of morale was required. Besides, he was sure to find ways of twisting whatever she said.

'Yes, my lord, she said sweetly, dipping him a curtsey, which she never did, and left the battlements, her head high and her spine as stiff as a spear.

Louis watched her for a moment, a frown on his face, then he turned to the soldier. It was the Welshman, Ewan, his red hair standing on end in the breeze, his features impassive.

'She's right, he said in his lilting accent. 'They do know their business.

Louis gnawed on his thumbnail, chewing away at the quick. 'Meaning?

Ewan shrugged. 'I've always been the hunter, never the prey.

Louis stared at the gathering soldiers, not one of them within crossbow range. The walls gave him no sense of security, but made him feel as if he had been brought to bay. Trapped. 'Neither have I, he said as blood welled in the bed of his thumbnail. 'And I don't like it.