The Love Knot

Chapter 6

The black stink of smoke still hung on the air, but Oliver was almost glad, for it served to disguise the aroma of putrefying flesh. The high summer weather and the open wounds on the corpses had advanced the decomposition at a rate which would have been unbelievable had not Oliver seen its like many times during his years of pilgrimage.

The burial party worked with covered faces, and Father Kenric swung his incense burner in long, low arcs. It kept the flies away to a degree, but the sickly sweet smell of the burning spices only added to the stomach-rolling stench. Oliver had taken his turn to dig the soil. He had helped lift the bodies on to linen shrouds, and wrapped them up. Not one of them wore a single item of jewellery. Fingers had been hacked off to steal rings too tight to remove.

The sight, the smell, the silence were worse to Oliver than his first discovery of the scene. Two days ago, the fire had been a raging, living thing, and there had been survivors in its midst. Now there was nothing but distasteful, tragic duty among the ashes and the dead. At least there had been survivors, he told himself as he walked around Penfoss's perimeter stockade. If Catrin and Richard had been in the compound at the time of the attack, they too would be lying amongst the slain. He shied from that image, and thought instead of Catrin standing in Bristol's bailey, her head tilted to one side, her hazel eyes bright with suspicion as she spoke to him.

In the five years since Emma had died, there had been few women in his life; he could count the occasions on the fingers of one hand, and they had made the approaches. It was the first time since Emma's death that he had been moved to make an approach himself. He wanted to discover the Catrin behind the shield that held him at bay, but getting her to lower her defences was likely to be as difficult as lowering his own to let her in. He found himself envying men like Gawin, who had a wealth of experience with women and the brash confidence to pick and choose at will.

In the early days of his bereavement, he had entertained thoughts of becoming a monk. His brother had talked him out of the impulse, saying that he did not have the nature to dwell in the cloister. 'It takes more than a hair shirt and a scourge to make a monk, he had said. 'Christ, if every husband who lost his wife in childbed entered a monastery, half the men in England would wear tonsures.

Simon had been right, Oliver acknowledged, although at the time he had thought his brother unfeeling and obstructive. The pilgrimage had been the compromise. Oliver touched his belt, and felt beneath his fingers the pewter badges that were both proof and reminder of the time he had spent as a wanderer, changing from lost boy to man — or at least growing a hard shell over the lost boy, so that no one knew of his existence except himself.

He came to the broken gates and stared up the rutted track and into the deep green of the forest. The leaves swished and rustled softly in the breeze. Now Simon was dead in battle and his wife of the sweating sickness. A stranger sat in the great hall that had belonged to Oliver's family since before the coming of William the Conqueror. He was the last one to carry his name. Responsibilities to the dead were sometimes greater burdens than those to the living.

Impatient with himself, he was turning back to the burials when a movement caught the corner of his eye. 'Ware arms! he bellowed over his shoulder to the digging soldiers.

The compound erupted, men throwing down their spades and drawing their weapons. Oliver freed his own sword and backed within the gateway, his breathing swift and hard.

A troop of riders and footsoldiers emerged from the forest on to the track, steel hissing from scabbards, shields surging to the fore. Oliver saw that their numbers matched those of his own men, but the strangers had the advantage of horseback.

'Halt in the name of Robert, Earl of Gloucester, on whose land you trespass! Oliver cried.

'Land's for the taking these days, their leader sneered, but he drew his fine bay stallion to a stand. A new shield with bright red chevrons on a blue background covered his left side and he carried a honed lance in his right hand.

Without removing his eyes from the soldier, Oliver gestured over his shoulder. 'Then come and take six feet of earth for your grave.

'Six feet of earth, eh? The man grinned and hefted the lance. 'That would be poor payment for saving your life on the road to Jerusalem, Oliver Pascal, or do you choose! to forget old friendships and debts?

Thrown off balance, Oliver stared at his adversary. 'Randal? he said, dragging the name from the depths of the past. | 'Randal de Mohun?

'Ah, you do remember then? Tossing the lance to one of his troop, the soldier swung down from his saddle with an athletic bounce. An expensive grey mantle lined with squirrel fur swirled around his shoulders and was pinned with a silver brooch of Welsh knotwork. 'Call off your dogs; put up your sword. You don't really want to fight. His teeth flashed like a snare within the full bush of black moustache and beard.

'You shouldn't take the risk, Oliver said, but gestured his men to return to their grisly work, and sheathed his sword. However, he did not relax. For all that Randal de Mohun had saved him from certain death at the hands of brigands and been his companion on the pilgrim road for almost six months, his liking for the man had never been more than tepid. 'What are you doing in these parts?

Removing his helm, de Mohun waved his own men to dismount. Sweat glittered on his forehead and made tiny dewdrops in the thinning peak of hair on his brow. 'Riding through on the way to Bristol to seek employment. He nodded towards the compound. 'What happened here?

'A raid by a band of wandering mercenaries, Oliver said with a hard glance at de Mohun's men. 'Riding through' had

been spoken far too glibly. 'Prowling' or 'scavenging' were more appropriate descriptions. Randal de Mohun was a man with an eye to every opportunity that came his way. To judge by his manner of dress and the strength of his troop, he had been fortunate of late. 'They butchered all the occupants, plundered what they could, and torched the rest.

Randal clicked his tongue and shook his head. 'Godless, he muttered, 'the world is burning, Oliver.

They were the right words, but spoken without any degree of sincerity. 'Yes, godless, Oliver repeated. 'Where have you ridden from?

Randal gave an irritable twitch of his shoulders. 'We were employed further up the march but we were not being paid regular wages so we left. Rumour has it that Earl Robert does well by his troops.

'You look well enough paid to me.

Randal snorted. 'We persuaded His Lordship at swordpoint to open his money chest before we left, and we've found casual employment along the way. He stepped closer to Oliver and lightly punched his bicep. 'You told me to halt in the name of Robert of Gloucester. Do I take it that you are in his service already?

Somewhat reluctantly, Oliver nodded.

'Hah, then you can recommend me to him. You know from experience the kind of fighter I am, and I've twelve trained men at my back, eager and ready to do his bidding.

Oliver knew that Earl Robert would be only too pleased to employ the likes of Randal de Mohun. Seasoned warriors with good equipment were both invaluable and hard to find. In effect they could, and did, sell themselves to the highest bidder. While Oliver had no strong liking for de Mohun, he did owe the man his life.

'I will be glad to recommend you to Earl Robert, he said, but without any warmth. 'Bring your men into the compound. He stood aside so that the gateway was open and made a sweeping gesture with his hand. 'One thing though, he said, as de Mohun turned with alacrity to his horse, 'as a token of goodwill and the quicker to be quit of this place, perhaps your men could assist mine to bury the dead.

De Mohun's dark eyes narrowed and the white grin lost some of its width. But it did not disappear altogether. 'Why not, he said, and faced his men. 'It is the least we can do, isn't it, lads?

'So you stayed in the Holy Land for two more years? De Mohun whistled. 'Penance enough for ten lifetimes I would say.

Oliver smiled bleakly and watched the ferry approach from the opposite side of the river. Sunset glimmered on the Severn, turning the water to a sheet of beaten copper. Midges danced on its surface, and fish plopped in sudden ripples of white-gold. After the sight and stench of death, the fragrance and peace were incongruous but soothing. 'In the end, the penance was coming home, he said, but more to himself than to de Mohun. 'In Rome and Compostella, in Antioch and Nazareth and Jerusalem, I did not have to tread the same ground that I had trodden with Emma.

De Mohun gave a single grunt which eloquently said without words what he thought of such reasoning.

'I didn't spend all the time on my knees. I took service with King Fulke of Jerusalem for a time and joined his bodyguard. Oliver heard the defensiveness in his own voice and tightened his lips. He owed de Mohun neither explanation nor excuses and was irritated to find himself giving both.

De Mohun punched him on the arm again, reminding Oliver that it had been one of the soldier's irritating habits from their earlier acquaintance. 'That's more like it, he declared. 'Did you see much fighting?

'Enough. Oliver pointed to a small curved scar on his jawline. 'Someone tried to barber me with a scimitar in one skirmish. He did not add that it had been a fellow soldier during the throes of an ugly tavern brawl.

De Mohun grinned. 'Aye, well, you were always one for a fight, Pascal.

Oliver did not return the grin. What de Mohun said was true, and probably the reason that they had stayed together for six months. Picking fights had been a way of venting his anger at Emma's death, and he had half hoped that the sweep of an Arab blade would send him to join her. Looking back now, it was immature and foolish, but at the time it had seemed a simple solution.

'What about the women? Kept yourself cosy with a little dancing girl, eh?

Oliver watched the approach of the ferry and willed its keeper to haul it in faster to their side of the bank. 'What do you think?

'Don't be a miserly bastard. Go on, tell me.

'There's nothing to tell that you don't already know for yourself. Oliver rose to attend to his horse as the ferry pulled mercifully closer.

'All right then. What about the women at Bristol? Are there enough for my men? I don't want them falling out over whose turn it is.

Oliver concealed a grimace of distaste within his mouth. He was indebted to this man for his life, and de Mohun had helped to dig the graves with a strong and willing arm. 'There are enough women, he said, thinking of the outskirts of the camp where the whores plied their trade in exchange for their daily bread. 'You'll find what you want.

Yet again, de Mohun thumped Oliver's shoulder. 'Fortune favours the bold, eh?

Grasping the grey's bridle and leading him down to the water's edge, Oliver harboured his own thoughts about the favours of fortune and fate.

Richard stood quietly beside Catrin as his mother's shrouded body was lowered into the grave. He threw the obligatory handful of soil into the hole with everyone else, and at the end tossed in the chaplet of gillyflowers that Catrin gave to him. Then he wiped his fingers down his tunic and abruptly turned away.

Catrin watched him with folded lips and a frown in her eyes, for she did not know how to reach him. That part of his life had been shut away, but Catrin could almost see it hammering on the door to be let out. Until it was, she did not think that Richard would have any peace. Running after him, she set her arm around his shoulders.

'It's all right, she murmured. 'I understand.

Richard shook his head. 'No, you don't. He kicked at the ground.

'Then tell me, so that I do.

He looked up at her, his eyes dark with misery. 'I can't. 'Well, when you can, I'm ready to listen, Catrin said gently.

He fought with himself for a moment, his throat working, then he blurted out, 'I wished them both dead. I saw them go into the bedchamber together and set the dog across the door, and I wished them both dead. Then I went into the forest to practise with my bow, and when I returned the soldiers were there. It's all my fault.

'Oh, Richard, sweeting, of course it isn't! Catrin was appalled, but she understood his guilt all too well. If she had not turned her back on Lewis on that last morning and refused him her lips, perhaps he would still be alive now. Knowing that such thoughts were foolish did not prevent her from thinking them in moments of melancholy. She tightened her arm around the child's shoulders. 'If it was possible for wishes to harm people, then there wouldn't be anyone left in the world at all. How many times have you said "Devil take you" to me when you've been in a bad mood — oh, behind my back I know, she added with a laugh that was tight in her throat, 'but I'm still here, aren't I?

'Yes, but…

'No buts. I know that you did not like some of your mama's «friends» but you have no more power to put a death wish on someone than… than that pile of dung over there has to grow legs and walk and talk!

Richard grimaced and wriggled free of her embrace. 'But I still wished it.

'Then confess it to a priest and put it behind you. If you want to explain it to your mother, perhaps you could go and pray at her graveside. I'm sure she will hear you.

Richard's expression grew thoughtful. 'Do you think so?

'I am sure of it, Catrin said in a strong, positive tone.

'Can I go and tell her now?

Catrin stopped and turned round so that they were facing the graveyard. 'The sooner the better, she said. 'Do you want me to come with you?

He shook his head. 'I'll be all right on my own.

She watched him retrace his steps, and compressed her lips to steady the wobble of her chin. Distance made him seem smaller and more vulnerable. She wanted to run after him and wrap him in her arms, but held back, respecting his pride and privacy. Strange and sad to think that for the first time in his life, he had his mother to himself.

The time Richard spent at Amice's graveside was obviously a catharsis for the boy. That night, as the women prepared for bed, he seemed relaxed and sleepy rather than strung with exhaustion. Catrin still made him drink Etheldreda's potion after she had tucked him beneath the linen sheet and woven blanket on his pallet.

'No dreams, she promised, crossing her fingers behind her back and trying not to imagine how the Countess's women would react to a second disturbed night in a row.

Richard handed the cup to her and lay back on the pillow. 'Can I sleep in the squires' dorter with Thomas tomorrow? He said that I could.

Catrin smoothed the dark hair from his brow. 'You seem to have made a friend in him, don't you? she murmured.

'He's going to teach me to throw a spear tomorrow. There was relish in Richard's voice which did nothing to soothe the alarm his statement had roused in Catrin.

'On your own?

'Oh no, with the other squires and one of the Earl's serjeants. I can go, can't I? Alarm filled Richard's own voice. 'I don't have to stay here with all these women?

Catrin did not know whether to be annoyed or amused. A typical male, she thought, wishing that she was one too and could abandon the bower for the freedom of a grassy field and a lesson in spear throwing. At least he would be occupied and benefiting from the experience. 'No, she said with a smile, 'you don't have to stay.

'And I can sleep in the dorter?

'The Earl will have to be asked about that, and the Countess too, but I cannot see that they will object. On the morrow, I will ask them. Time for rest now. She arranged the blanket over his shoulder and gave his hair a final smooth. Then she went to prepare herself for bed. By the time she had removed her wimple and gown, he was sound asleep.

'Bless him, said Edon, glancing his way with a soft look. 'Let us hope he sleeps sound tonight.

'Etheldreda said that her potion would ease his slumber.

'Then it will. She might look like a hag, but she knows her nostrums. Do you want me to comb out your hair?

It was on the tip of Catrin's tongue to say that she could manage. Since Lewis had died, no one had touched her hair. Lewis had loved to comb it and then spread it over his lean, brown hands. In those days she had scented it with rosemary and jasmine, and dressed her braids with bright ribbons and bindings. 'If you wish, she said. At least it was clean. Before Amice's funeral that afternoon, she had begged a small container of the Countess's scented soap, purloined a pail of warm water from the kitchens, and scrubbed herself from crown to toe. A mark of respect to the dead, she had told the others when they looked at her askance, but it had been more than that, the cleansing almost a self-baptism as she began another life.

Unfastening the strip of leather at the tail of her plait, she pulled her fingers through her braid to loosen the twists, then sat still for Edon to do the rest.

'Your hair's quite pretty to say that it's black, Edon remarked as she began to draw the comb down through Catrin's tresses. 'I wish mine was as shiny. She fingered one of her own locks. 'Still, I should not complain. Mine is fair, and that's the sort that all the troubadours worship. Geoffrey says it reminds him of a cornfield rippling in the wind. She gave her head a small toss.

Catrin remembered Lewis saying that her hair put him in mind of black silk, but she kept her silence. She had no intention of using her dead husband to compete with the paragon Geoffrey. Besides, it was true that to conform to the romantic ideal of beauty, a woman needed hair the colour of a parsnip, eyes of insipid pale blue, and a nature as sweet as a nectar-filled flower. Possessing none of these traits, Catrin had long since learned to live with what she had, and good luck to those more fortunate.

Still, it was pleasant to have someone dress her hair, and when Edon finished Catrin reciprocated gladly.

At the far end of the room, Rohese de Bayvel and another young woman were performing the same task for each other, whispering and giggling.

Edon cast a glance in their direction. 'Rumour has it that Rohese has a lover among the castle knights, she murmured, leaning back at the tug of the comb, 'but no one knows who it is. I asked Geoffrey, but he said he had no truck with women's gossip.

'No, Catrin said drily.

'I wonder who it could be. Edon caught her full lower lip in her teeth. 'She was betrothed until last year, but he changed allegiance and married someone from Stephen's party. For all her airs and graces, she has but a small dowry.

Catrin was disgusted to find herself enjoying these details at Rohese's expense. The atmosphere of the bower, the pleasure in gossip was insidious and harmful. 'Finished, she said with a last smoothing stroke of the comb, and handed it back to Edon in a manner that was almost brusque.

Edon seemed not to notice. She stowed the comb in her small personal coffer of carved beech wood. 'Did you see old Etheldreda give her that flask? Any guess that it's a love philtre. Ethel must have sold one to nearly every woman in the keep by now.

Catrin shook her head. 'I would not want a man if I had to resort to love potions to make him desire me.

Edon reddened slightly, making Catrin suspect that her companion had not been above slipping a little persuasion into Geoffrey the Wonderful's wine. Involuntarily she raised her hand to touch the cord at her throat. Women's magic. Maiden, Mother and Crone.

'I'm tired, Edon said querulously, and then arched her spine. 'Jesu, but my back aches tonight. It must have been all that sewing earlier. I should not have sat for so long.

'Best retire to bed then, Catrin said solicitously, managing to keep the irritation from her voice. 'I am grateful for the help you gave me today. Which she was, but thought it unfair that Edon should blame it for her aching back. All women in the last month of pregnancy suffered thus. Catrin did not have to be a skilled midwife to know that; it was common female knowledge.

Edon gave her a smile, her mouth corners tight and, still rubbing her back, went to her pallet. Catrin raised the covers on her own mattress and lay down beneath them. The linen was scratchy against her bare shins, and the pillow had a musty smell, threaded through with the scent of dried lavender. This wasn't home, she thought dismally; she could never belong here, and yet, as she closed her eyes and courted sleep, she could not think of anywhere else that she had belonged, except perhaps Penfoss which, like the rest of her past life, no longer existed.

Once more, screams tore the night and roused everyone from sleep. This time the culprit was not Richard but Edon, her mouth open in a square wail of pain, and her chemise drenched in birthing fluid.

'God save us, she's started early with her pains, said Dame Aldgith, the most senior of the women. The Countess was abed with her husband and therefore beyond summoning.

'I don't want to have a baby! Edon screeched. 'It hurts, it hurts! The final word ended on a hair-raising note of pure hysteria, and she threw herself back on her pallet, clutching at her taut belly and drumming her heels.

'Want or not, you're in travail, my girl, said Aldgith, and swung round to the other women who were gathered round the bed, eyes huge with shock. 'Don't all stand there like sheep. Poke up the fire, set the cauldron over the hearth and find some old linen.

Rohese gave the older woman a murderous look before sweeping away in a cloud of red-chestnut hair.

'I'll fetch Mistress Etheldreda, Catrin murmured, and quickly set about dressing again. Borrowing a cloak, she threw it around her shoulders and, draping a scarf over her hair, hurried from the room.

Running down to the great hall, she realised that she did not know where to find the elderly midwife. Somewhere in the camp was her vague notion. None of the other women would know either, so it was pointless turning back to ask. No respectable lady would step beyond the forebuilding door unescorted. The thought of venturing amongst the soldiers and camp followers made her baulk, but Etheldreda had to be, summoned.

In the hall, she approached the guard on duty and told him of her difficulty.

Narrowing his eyes, he looked her up and down, then strode from his post to kick one of the knights who was rolled in his cloak near the fire. 'Hoi, Geoff, that little wife of yours has started with the babe. Take this lass and find the midwife.

A young man sat up, yawning and knuckling his eyes. He had a mass of sleep-mussed curly blond hair and regular, but plain, features. When he stood up, he was a little below average height and stockily built, the hint of a bow to his short legs. Catrin warmed to him immediately. Edon's paragon was an ordinary man, his Adonis-like appearance a figment of his wife's over-fertile imagination.

'Edon, is she all right? he demanded anxiously as he stumbled over the other sleepers and, latching his swordbelt, arrived at Catrin's side.

'Yes, of course she is, Catrin said, with a silent apology to God for the lie. 'But she needs the midwife, and I have to find her.

He dropped his scabbard with a clatter and, stifling an oath, picked it up again, fumbling with the lacings and causing Catrin to wonder anew at the human propensity for self-deception.

'It's too soon, isn't it? Still fastening the leather strips, he followed her out into the summer darkness.

'Babies come when they will, Catrin answered evasively. 'It is always hard to tell in the last month.

'Is she in pain?

'A little back-ache. Do you know where to find Dame Etheldreda?

He nodded and led her across the bailey at a rapid walk, his anxiety tangible. Clearly Edon's worship was reciprocated and Geoffrey FitzMar saw his wife as a fair and flawless lady dwelling in her ivory tower. And how each viewed the other probably increased their confidence to face the world.

He led her to the second bailey. Fire embers glowed red, and here and there people were still awake. A fractious infant wailed. Dice clattered in a wooden cup and wine sloshed from flagon to drinking horn. Under a blanket, two forms moved together, one moaning softly on each upward stroke.

Geoffrey cleared his throat and steered her aside from the lovemaking couple.

They came to Etheldreda's fire. The old woman was still wide awake and busy grinding dried leaves with a pestle and mortar, but she set her work down the moment that she saw Catrin and her escort. Almost before Catrin had told her the news, she was reaching for her satchel and cloak.

'Always come in the dead of night, they do, Ethel said, and then gave Geoffrey a nudge. 'Mind you, with a first babe, you'll be lucky to greet the sprog much before next dusk. Slow down, young man. My legs don't have the same spring as yours.

Catrin and Ethel left a thoroughly unsettled Geoffrey in the great hall, and mounted the stairs to the bower. Ethel paused frequently to rest and breathlessly cursed her own failing body. 'Once I'd ha' run up these like a deer, she panted. 'Time and past time I had someone to help me. Fumbling in her satchel, she unstoppered a small flask and took several swallows. 'Lily of the valley, she said. 'Sometimes it works, sometimes it don't. Come, wench, we've a babe to deliver.

Harbouring misgivings at the 'we', Catrin led Etheldreda into the women's bower.