The Love Knot

Chapter 3

Bristol Castle was overflowing with hired soldiers. In the space of five minutes, Catrin heard as many different tongues, as Oliver led her and Richard to the keep, leaving Gawin in charge of the horses and the eels.

There were men of every variety and rank, from half-naked footsoldiers and poor Welsh bowmen to toughened mercenaries and well-accoutred knights with swords at their hips. The gap between the ragged and the rich was not as vast as it seemed, for all soldiers, whatever their rank, wore the same expression of hungry expectation. Oliver walked among and through them with ease, now and then smiling a greeting to those he knew, but Catrin felt great discomfort at being in the midst of such checked voraciousness. Beside her, Richard grasped her hand and she saw his blue eyes darken. To reassure him that these men were allies stuck in her throat, for they looked no different from those who had torched Penfoss and murdered its occupants.

Their presence, their stares, the sight of weapons and grinning mouths in hard faces seemed to go on for ever like the antechamber to the hall of hell. The image was clarified in Catrin's mind by the sporadic camp fires which threatened rather than comforted her.

One soldier held two huge mastiffs on a chain and as she passed, they lunged, growling. Their owner yanked them back, laughing at her frightened eyes.

'Got yourself a tasty one there, Pascal! he yelled, making an obscene gesture with his free fist.

'Go swive yourself, de Lorys! Oliver snarled, with a gesture of his own.

The soldier smacked his lips over his stained teeth. 'I'd rather swive what you've got!

Oliver's hand descended to his sword hilt and his tormentor recoiled with a show of mock terror.

Expression grim, Oliver quickened his stride.

'I see how safe Bristol truly is, Catrin said with asperity. Both heart and head were thundering.

'Wherever fighting men gather, there are always those who are all mouth and no chausses.

Catrin shuddered. It was not such soldiers of whom she was afraid although, God knew, they were unpleasant enough, but others of their ilk, who followed up their words with barbaric deeds of rapine and slaughter. Wherever fighting men gathered, there was always that kind too.

She passed women in smoke-grimed dresses — soldiers' wives and followers with gaunt, lithe bodies and weathered faces. She saw one young woman suckling a baby by the fire while two older children played near her skirts. Not a dozen yards from her, a whore plied her trade, offering her own breasts to be groped and suckled. Catrin pulled Richard closer, using her body to shield him from the sight.

Oliver appeared indifferent; all this must be commonplace to him, Catrin thought. But to her and Richard, it was a nightmare. She stumbled in a wheel rut and almost fell. Oliver grabbed her and bore her up. She felt the power in his arm, the bruising strength of his fingers and, although grateful, was also made uneasy.

'Not far now, he encouraged. 'The camp is always the worst part for newcomers.

She freed herself from his grip and dusted her skirts, noting with dismay a large, damp stain where the eel liquor had leaked from the basket. It made her realise that she must appear no different from the camp women. Sisters in the bone. There but for the grace of a fickle God. 'Then I am glad, she said, 'for I do not think I have the stamina to endure much more.

He gave her a brooding look in which she could see male exasperation mingled with a certain anxiety. It was clear to Catrin that he wanted her to stay on her feet until he had delivered her and Richard into Earl Robert's household and he could wash his hands of the responsibility. Then he would be free to go and eat his eel stew with his 'friend'.

The quality of the tents and shelters began to improve; there was more mail in evidence, and the accents became mainly French. The drab greys, browns and tans of the perimeter were now brightened with flashes of expensive colour and decorative embroidery. There were plenty of stares, but no one shouted out or tried to intimidate. To one side, a grey-bearded soldier was teaching some younger men how to defend themselves against the thrust of a spear, and everyone appeared to be gainfully employed.

On reaching the keep at the heart of the defences, they were challenged by fully armed guards. Oliver answered smoothly. Obviously he was a well-known face, for they were passed through into Earl Robert's great hall without demur.

Catrin stared round at a simmering bustle that offered small respite to her ragged wits. There were clerks seated at tables, busy with quill and ink; there were groups of soldiers talking, gaming, fondling hounds. Two women tended a cauldron set over the fire, their children playing a boisterous game of chase among the trestles which were being assembled for the late afternoon meal. Servants scurried to and fro with baskets of bread and jugs of ale. Near the dais, four minstrels tuned their instruments. On the dais itself, a retainer was spreading an embroidered linen cloth on the board and setting out cups of exquisite, tinted glass.

A slender, elegant man wearing a blue tunic halted in mid-stride and swung around to approach Oliver's small group. 'Do you have business here? His nostrils flared fastidiously.

'With the Earl, yes, Oliver answered, his expression taut with controlled irritation.

Catrin was all too aware of the man's disparaging gaze as he took in the dishevelled appearance of herself and Richard, but it was beyond her energy to return his look with the scorn it deserved.

'The Earl never sees anyone before he has dined, he said haughtily. 'I might be able to find you a place at the bottom of the hall on one of the spare trestles if…

'You're his understeward, not his spokesman, Oliver said coldly. 'He will see me, I promise you that. Now, you can either send someone to announce me, or I will go above and announce myself of my own accord.

'You cannot! A look of horror crossed the steward's face.

'Then do something about it or lose your living.

The servant drew himself up, but Oliver remained the taller. When the man's gaze flickered towards the off-duty knights, Oliver caught it and drew it back to his own. 'Have me thrown out, he said on a rising snarl, 'and I will cut out your voice and cast it to those hounds. Earl Robert's hunting lodge at Penfoss has been destroyed by raiders, and the only witnesses are this woman and the child, who just happens to have royal kin. If it affects the Earl's digestion then I am sorry, but my own belly is full to the gorge!

Heads turned. The steward licked his lips. 'A moment, he said and, with his head on high, stalked away in the direction of the tower stairs.

'Conceited arsewipe, Oliver muttered. 'He thinks because he sees to the placing of the salt and the finger bowls in the Earl's hall that he has dominion over all else.

Catrin said nothing. The steward's attitude had only served to compound her fears about the kind of welcome she and Richard would receive from Earl Robert.

'Do you want to sit down? Oliver indicated the benches running along the side of the hall.

Catrin shook her head. 'If I do, I won't rise again — not for an earl or anyone else.

The steward returned, very much on his dignity, and his nose, although out of joint, still up in the air. 'It is your great good fortune that the Earl has agreed to see you, he said with obvious disapproval, and beckoned to a boy with a shining mop of chestnut hair and a peppering of sandy freckles across his snub nose. 'Thomas will conduct you to his chamber.

Hands behind his back in a manner of attentive respect,

the boy acknowledged the steward's command with a deep bow and addressed him as 'my lord.

Somewhat mollified, the steward departed to chivvy the servant who was setting the table on the high dais. The boy wrinkled his nose at the turned, blue back and, unclasping his hands, produced the chunk of bread he had been hiding.

'It's for Bran, my pony, he confided as he tucked it down inside his tunic. 'Old Bardolf will whip me if he finds out. He jerked his head in the steward's direction.

'Are you whipped often? Oliver asked with amusement.

Thomas shook his head. 'I'm too fast, he said confidently, and led them out of the hall and up the stairs to the private living-quarters on the floor above. Now and again he cast an inquisitive glance at Richard and Catrin. It was plain that he was bursting with a curiosity which manners made impossible to satisfy. Instead he told them about himself. His name was Thomas FitzRainald, and he was the bastard son of Rainald, Earl of Cornwall, who in his turn was the bastard son of the old king. He was cheerfully proud of his ancestry. 'And my Uncle Robert is fostering me in his household and teaching me to become a knight, he finished with a triumphant look at Richard as they halted before a solid oak door bound with wrought-iron bands and guarded by a soldier in full mail.

'Steward Bardolf said to bring these guests to my lord, he announced in a confident treble.

The guard thumped on the door with his fist. 'You are expected, he said to Oliver and, with a wink, wafted his spear at Thomas. 'Go on, shaveling, away to your dinner.

The boy wrinkled his nose again, but this time in play, no insult intended. He bowed beautifully to Oliver, Richard and Catrin, then ran off towards the stairs.

The guard hid a chuckle in his beard and, at a command from within, opened the door and ushered them inside.

To Catrin, it was like entering a page from an illuminated tale of romance. Embroideries clothed the walls in opulent shades of crimson, green and gold and, where there were no hangings, the walls were painted with exquisite murals of scenes from the four seasons. Dried river-reeds strewn with sweet-scented herbs and slivers of cinnamon bark carpeted the floor, while all the coffers and benches wore the melted-honey sheen of mellowing oak. Candles of the costliest beeswax had been lit to augment the light. Their scent stroked the air, mingling with that of the herbs as they were bruised by her footsteps.

The man who rose from his high-backed chair and approached them was a little above average height, his stocky build emphasised by his costly tunic of embroidered maroon wool. He had receding dark hair and pleasant, plain features. Had he been wearing ordinary clothes, no one would have given him a second look, but he was King Henry's first-born son, the man whom many said should have been king at his father's death despite the stigma of his illegitimacy. He had rejected the crown in support of his wedlock-born sister, Mathilda, and was now her staunchest supporter against Stephen of Blois, the man who had stolen her kingdom.

Catrin curtseyed and almost fell. Regaining her balance, she locked her knees. At her side Oliver bowed, and Richard copied his example, dipping quickly like a bird at a pond.

The Earl glanced between them with eyes deep set and shrewd. 'Best be seated before you fall down, he said to Catrin, and gestured to one of the carved benches which was strewn with beautifully embroidered cushions. 'Sander, bring wine. He summoned a squire who had been standing unobtrusively in a corner.

Catrin was furnished with a brimming cup in which the wine was the colour of blood. Its taste was rich and metallic and her stomach recoiled. She knew that if she drank more than a sip, she would be sick.

'Do I understand that Penfoss has been destroyed? demanded the Earl.

'Yes, my lord, said Oliver. 'Looted and burned. Myself and Gawin de Brionne came upon the aftermath on our way to the Severn ferry. Lady Catrin and Master Richard are the only survivors.

While Oliver relayed the close details of the happening in a voice succinct and devoid of emotion, Catrin stared at the wall, trying to immerse herself in the painted scene of two young women playing ball in a garden. One girl's gown was a vivid shade of blue and her hair was a loose tumble of gold that reminded Catrin of Amice. Her companion wore daffodil-yellow and her hair was black.

'You have no idea who did the deed? Earl Robert leaned forward, cutting off Catrin's contemplation. 'No one who wished your mistress or master ill?

'No, my lord. I am not aware that they had enemies. I recognised none of the soldiers. Some wore mail, others were clad in little more than rags, but they were enough to overrun us. They took what they wanted and torched the rest. In her own ears, her voice sounded as dispassionate as Oliver's, but that was not how she felt inside. Deep down, too far to be dug out, there was hurt and fury. She could have struck out at Robert de Caen just for asking the question, just for being a man, safe in his opulent chambers, guarded and served by men little different from the wolves who had destroyed Penfoss.

'Would you recognise any of them if you saw them again?

Catrin rubbed her forehead wearily. 'The reason I survived is that I saw the raid from the trees outside the compound. They were of a kind… it is hard to remember. Their leader, if you can call him that, rode a chestnut horse with four white legs and a white face.

'Was there a device on his shield?

Catrin shook her head. She did not want to draw her mind close to the horror. 'It was green, I think.

'With a red cross, Richard added, and outlined the shape on the palm of his hand. 'And his saddle-cloth was made of black and white cowhide.

Robert of Gloucester sighed. 'Lawless bands are multiplying like flies in a dungheap. Even in my own heartlands I constantly hear of atrocities like this. It is too easy for them. They raid, then slip across the border into Wales, or into another territory where my writ does not run. Three times in the last month I've had farms burned by Stephen's mercenaries raiding out from Malmesbury.

The war had made it too easy for them, Catrin thought. In King Henry's day, there had been peace, with few outlaws and the King's writ both feared and respected. Now, it was every man to his own gain, and devil take the hindmost. 'So you have small hope of capturing them? she asked.

'I will do what I can — increase patrols and alert all my vassals and tenants. Like as not they're Malmesbury men. He tightened his fists, and his gold rings gleamed. 'They will be brought to justice, I swear it.

Well, that was true if he was referring to judgement-day. 'Thank you, my lord. Once more she stared beyond him at the mural of the women in the garden. Oliver glanced at it too, but his gaze did not linger and he turned his shoulder so that the wall painting was not in his direct line of vision.

'I have brought Lady Amice here to Bristol in the hope that she might lie in the chapel and be vouchsafed a grave here, he said. 'It was her dying request that you grant refuge to her son, and to her companion, Mistress Catrin of Chepstow.

The Earl rose from his chair to pace the chamber. At the window embrasure he stopped and looked out over the narrow glimpse of the river Frome and the lush green cow pasture beyond. Then he turned round. 'Dying requests should not be ignored. There was a slight frown between his eyes, deepening the lines of habit. He paced back across the room and, halting in front of Richard, tilted the boy's chin towards the light. 'Do you know who your father was?

'Yes, sir, King Henry.

'Then you must also know that I am your kin, your half-brother. He gave a slight grimace as he spoke. The age difference of forty years was a telling reminder that their father's carnal weakness had not diminished with the passage of time.

Once more Richard nodded. 'Mama said I should remember that I was a king's son because I might have need of it one day.

Robert looked vaguely surprised. 'I never thought her capable of looking further than the next summer's day, he murmured, more than half to himself.

'She did the best by her lights for Richard. Catrin spoke up in her dead mistress's defence, as again she heard undertones of judgement in a masculine voice.

'The best by her lights, Robert repeated, looking at her and stroking his dark beard. 'Then I suppose it behoves me to do the best by mine. Let her be laid out in the chapel and the proper rituals observed. He gestured with an open hand. 'I will provide both you and the boy with a place in my household. Sander, go and find out if the Countess has returned from the town.

The squire bowed and left.

Catrin murmured dutiful thanks. Just now she cared not where her place was, only that it was quiet and dark and solitary. A prison cell would have been ideal, she thought wryly. A sidelong glance showed her that Oliver had drunk his wine to the lees. When the Earl turned to pace the room again, she tugged the cup from his hand and quickly replaced it with her own full one. After the first moment of resistance and a blink of surprise, Oliver let her have her way.

The Earl paused beside a gaming board and shuffled the agate pieces at random. 'Pascal, I want you to head the burial escort to Penfoss.

Oliver took a deep gulp from the second cup of wine. 'When, my lord?

'On the morrow. Take Father Kenric and as many foot-soldiers and Serjeants as you deem necessary. Report back to me as soon as you return. He waved his hand in dismissal.

'Yes, my lord. Oliver swallowed down the rest of his wine and started towards the door, but before reaching it swung round to Catrin and Richard. 'I'll come and plague you with my presence, he said, ruffling Richard's dark hair. 'I told you, I keep my promises.

The boy gave him an enigmatic look and the smallest of nods that said he was not prepared to trust beyond the day.

Catrin produced a wan smile, the merest stretching of her lips. 'Thank you for what you have done.

'I doubt it is enough, he answered heavily. 'Let me know if you are in need and I will do what I can.

She nodded, her smile warming.

As Earl Robert raised his head and stared, Oliver bowed and left the room.

A clear summer dusk had fallen by the time Oliver emerged from the keep. Grey-winged gulls clamoured in the skies over the Frome and the Avon, escorting fishing craft to their moorings. Others plundered the midden heaps and gutters, arguing raucously over the scraps.

Oliver breathed deeply of the evening air, uncaring that some of the scents were less than delightful. He would far rather the aroma of fish guts, smoke, and boiling mutton fat from the soap-makers' establishments, than the more civilised atmosphere of Earl Robert's private solar. It was not the Earl to whom he objected, he would never have given his oath of loyalty if he had; it was the room, and that mural of the two women in the garden. Although stylised in the court fashion, it had been painted from life more than ten years ago when Amice and Emma had dwelt here. The painter had been taken with their dissimilar beauty — Amice statuesque, golden-haired and blue-eyed, Emma fey and dark — and had used them as his models for that particular scene.

Oliver had visited the Earl's solar on several occasions since swearing him allegiance. He tried not to look at the mural, but it always taunted the corner of his eye and made everything else seem insignificant.

As the dusk deepened, Oliver supervised the conveyance of Amice's body to Earl Robert's chapel, and there saw it laid out decently before the altar, but he did not linger. He had sat in vigil the previous night and said his private prayers and farewells. Others would pray over her now and give her a fitting burial. Two girls in a garden and both now dead, one in childbirth, one in miscarriage. But their images still danced unchanged on Earl Robert's wall.

His thoughts strayed to the other young woman he had left in that room. Like Emma she was dark of feature, although not so fey of build or sweet-natured. He knew that she must still be suffering from a severe headache. Such maladies did not just disappear, and he admired the way that she had pushed her will through the pain. A vision of the red stockings filled his mind, and of the set of her jaw as she tugged the eel basket out of his hand. Without being aware, he started to smile, the grin deepening as he remembered how she had exchanged their goblets and made him drink both measures of wine. It burned in his blood now, making him a little giddy, for he had not eaten since a hasty noonday meal of stale oatcakes.

In the hall, the Earl's household would be sitting down to a feast of at least three courses — twice as many on the high table. Oliver could have claimed a place at a trestle and eaten until he burst if that had been his will. His will, however, took him not to a bench in the hall, beneath the pompous gaze of Steward Bardolf, but through the camp, between the tents and woodsmoke fires, until he arrived at one shelter in particular.

There was no sign of Gawin, but his dun stallion and Oliver's grey were tethered nearby, their noses in feedbags. An elderly woman was crouching by the fire and stirring the contents of a cooking pot. Her gown was of homespun wool, plain but clean. Deep wrinkles carved her face, and her expression was set awry by a slight dragging of the muscles on the left side. Whiskers sprouted from her chin and the corners of her upper lip, but her bones were fine and there was a lively gleam in her eyes.

'I'd almost given up on you, my lad, she announced in a firm voice that had weathered the years better than her flesh. Holding a bowl over the cauldron, she shook in the chopped, skinned eels. 'Gawin's gone to find a dish more to his taste in the town — her name's Aveline.

Oliver snorted. 'It was Helvi last week. Gawin's sown enough wild oats to cover a five-acre!

'Aye, well, this war makes folks live their lives all in a day lest they don't see the next sunrise. She gave the cooking pot a vigorous stir. Her hands were straight and smooth, with short, clean nails, and showed small sign of her seventy-four years, except for her favouring of the left one. Until a recent seizure in the winter, she had dwelt in excellent health.

Oliver had known Ethel all his life. She had delivered both him and his brother Simon into the world, and had held a prestigious position in the Pascal household as nurse, wise-woman and midwife to the women of castle and village. Ethel it was, who had fought tooth and nail to save Emma and the baby too large to descend her narrow pelvis, and when she had failed had grieved deeply. There had been no more infants to deliver after that, for Simon's wife was barren. When the Pascal family were disinherited of their lands, Ethel was branded an English witch by the new lord's Flemish wife, and forced to flee before she was hanged. It was a common tale and Bristol was full of such refugees.

Oliver sat on a small stool and looked at the steam rising from the cauldron's surface. 'Did Gawin tell you what happened at Penfoss?

'Aye, he did. Ethel shook her head and sucked on her teeth. Most of them were worn to stumps by a lifetime of eating coarse bread made from flour adulterated with minute grains of millstone grit. 'And it's right sorry I am. Nowhere is safe any more. If you stay in your village, the soldiers come plundering, and if you flee to a town, either they burn that too, or the cut-purses take your last penny and leave you in the gutter to starve. Don't suppose you know who did it?

Oliver shrugged. 'A band of routiers led by a man on a chestnut stallion. Could be one of a thousand such.

'Aye, and that makes me right sorry too, she said with a sigh, then cocked him a bright glance from beneath her brows. 'Gawin also spoke of the woman and boy you brought out o' the place. Old King Henry's last bastard whelp, eh?

She ladled the eel stew into two bowls and, while they ate, Oliver told her about Richard and Catrin. Ethel's expression grew thoughtful as she listened. She nodded her approval at his use of the betony and feverfew tisane, and the humour lines deepened around her eyes when he mentioned the scarlet hose and the way Catrin had straddled the grey.

'Sounds an uncommon young woman, she remarked, watching him scrape the bottom of his bowl. 'Is she married?

'Widowed. He sucked the spoon. 'She lost her husband three years ago.

Ethel absorbed this with a sympathetic murmur. 'You won't just abandon her and the lad now that you've delivered them safe, will you? She tapped his knee with her spoon.

'No, of course not! He looked at her with indignation. He still rose to her bait, although he knew that Ethel's badgering did not stem from doubt in his morals, but from long habit and her need to see decency in a world gone morally awry. 'My duties permitting, I'll visit as often as I can until they're both settled.

'See that you do, she said in a tone that made him feel as if he were still in tail clouts. But then she abandoned her attack. There was a gleam in her eyes that made him suspicious, but of what he did not know. Ethel was a law unto herself — half the reason why Ashbury's new Flemish lord had hounded her out of the cottage she kept against the castle wall.

The meal finished and respects paid, Oliver rose to leave. As he stretched his arms above his head to ease a kink, one of the castle's young laundry maids approached out of the shadows. She had a round, freckled face, ample proportions and chapped, red hands.

Noticing Oliver, she hesitated, and half turned to leave. Ethel held up a forefinger and, bidding her wait, rummaged in the copious leather satchel beside her stool. From it she produced a knot, woven from three colours of double-strand wool. There was also a scrap of linen tied in a small pouch with a twist of scarlet thread.

'I ain't saying this will work, Wulfrune, it don't always, but I've had more successes in my time than failures.

The girl looked sidelong at Oliver as she exchanged a coin for the objects in Ethel's hand.

'Mind and make sure you ask the blessing of Saint Valentine before you use them, Ethel said sternly. 'And don't forget to rub that cream I gave you into your hands.

The girl nodded a promise and with another swift glance at Oliver hurried away.

Ethel chuckled and folded her arms. 'There's a lad she's after — sells charcoal by the postern gate.

'And you think she'll catch him with love knots and other ensorcelments? Oliver gave her a disapproving look.

'Mayhap she will, mayhap she won't. Even with help the course of true love's about as straight as a dog's hind leg. Ethel stowed the coin in a leather pouch around her neck. 'It does no harm, she added, as he continued to glower, 'and it earns me enough to eat.

'What about the fact that you were harried from your home by accusations of witchcraft?

'Why do you think I warned her to invoke the help of a good Christian saint? she sniffed. 'Besides, it's tradition. Every wise-woman worth her salt knows about knot magic and love philtres. You can buy 'em anywhere. Show me a single sailor that don't have a herb-wife's knot in his sea-chest to control the winds, or a housewife who don't have one of scarlet thread for stanching nosebleeds. She patted his arm. 'I keep within the bounds of what's permitted. That whoreson, Odinel the Fleming, chased me from my home because I would not acknowledge him as Lord of Ashbury, God rot his ballocks to a mush. Her eyes gleamed.

Knowing better than to argue with her in one of her incorrigible moods, Oliver used the excuse of stabling his horse to make his escape and set about untethering the grey. His fingers were clumsy on the knot and he swore to himself, for his difficulty almost seemed like a portent. The skill of weaving cords, threads and rope into intricate knots was an ancient one, rife with superstition. At the making of the knot, a charm was spoken three times, thus binding great power into the curves and twirls. And when they were released, so was the power of the charm — for good or evil. He had no belief in such magic, or so he told himself, but he was glad when the tether slipped free.

Ethel waved him on his way with a smile, and called out her thanks for the eels. Then she sat down again beside her fire and, delving in her satchel, took out three spindles holding yards of thread — white, red and black. With patience and dexterity, despite her weaker left hand, she began to braid and tie, all the time murmuring to herself.