The Love Knot (14 page)

'So I might, but there is no cause for you to go shortening the odds with this lunatic folly. Did Ethel also tell you how she came to Bristol?' he asked brutally. 'How she was burned out of her cot for witchcraft? Did she tell you about journeys through the worst parts of the camp and the town in the middle of the night? Of the thieves and pimps to whom a young woman alone would be easy prey? Christ on the Cross, I didn't bring you to Bristol to see you squander your life down some stinking alley and wind up just another corpse in the river!' Unfolding his arms, he took her by the shoulders to emphasise his point.

'Then for what purpose did you bring me?' she spat. 'To sit among the Countess's women until the pettiness and boredom drives me to cast myself out of the bower window to a "clean death"! If I had known you were going to make a chattel of me, I'd have stayed amongst the cinders!'

'If I had known you were going to be so foolish, I'd have left you there!'

She glared at him. 'You do not own me. The choice is mine and freely made. If you had my welfare at heart, you would wish me well, not seek to strew stones in my path.

Now let me go. Ethel needs help to unpack her belongings.' She shrugged him off, her frame bristling with anger. 'Face yourself, not me!' Turning on her heel she stalked off, the red hose flashing with each step.

'Hellcat!' Oliver choked in her wake, and kicked at the blameless storeshed wall. The action rebounded on him, for he stubbed his toe and thus felt all the more aggrieved. It was a long, long time since his control had been so precarious, but then it had been a long, long time since anyone had so thoroughly upset his equilibrium, and never before had it been a woman. Emma had been too gentle and obedient to criticise her adolescent husband, and his relationships since her death had been transitory and, for the most part, conducted between the sheets.

For a moment he almost strode after Catrin to continue the exchange, but when he did move it was in the opposite direction. As she said, the choice was hers and freely made. Well and good, let her stew in her own soup. His pace lengthened with determination as he set off to find Randal de Mohun and relay Earl Robert's message about the tiltyard.

'You were right, he did burst his hauberk,' Catrin said ruefully, as she swept the beaten-earth floor of the shelter with a birch besom and then covered it with a thick layer of straw. 'I even feared that he was going to strike me.'

'He didn't raise his hand against you?' Ethel ceased feeding twigs to the first fire in her new hearth and looked at Catrin sharply.

'No, only his voice. And to my credit, or shame, I shouted straight back at him, told him to face himself instead of railing at me.'

Ethel gave a small snort through her nose and, nodding to herself, continued to build up her fire. 'Aye, you're the one,' she said with a note of satisfaction.

'What do you mean?' Catrin demanded suspiciously. But Ethel only shook her head and chuckled softly to herself. When Catrin persisted, Ethel made her set up the iron tripod and cooking pot over the fire and put her off by showing her a recipe for building up a mother's strength in the days after the birth.

'Hah, double sixes, I win!' Randal de Mohun clenched his fists in triumph and scooped the silver pennies off the table and into his pouch. If the dice had not belonged to someone else, Oliver would have sworn that they were loaded, for Randal's luck that evening had been phenomenal. But then the mercenary had been enjoying good fortune all day, and this drinking session in The Mermaid, a dockside alehouse of unsavoury repute, was to celebrate the hiring of his sword by Robert of Gloucester. Oliver would not usually have stayed in such a place beyond the obligatory first cup to toast Randal's success, but tonight a second cup had followed the first, and the third was well on its way to joining them.

Sharp edges of colour and noise grew comfortably blurred. Weak jests suddenly became hilarious, and the serving wenches seemed far more attractive than when he first entered the place. So much so, that one of them was soon sitting in his lap and helping him to finish his wine. She had a loose plait of greasy brown hair, and pale blue eyes. Her giggle was irritating, but her figure was ample, and she seemed thoroughly willing to share its delights with him. He ordered a fresh flagon. The dice rattled across the trestle and Randal's laugh rang out, huge and confident. Oliver laughed, echoing the sound, but it rang hollowly in his own ears, and he muffled it within the girl's abundant breasts. The flagon arrived, brimming with cool red oblivion, and Oliver sought it greedily.

He woke to a blinding headache and a stomach that was boiling like a dyer's vat. The sound of someone pissing nearby set up a fierce aching in the pit of his belly.

'Jesu,' he groaned and, against his better judgement, opened his lids a crack. Daylight seared his eyeballs and for a moment he was insensible to anything but the pain. The noise of urination went on and on. Turning his head he saw Randal de Mohun taking a piss against the bailey wall. Oliver stared blankly. He had no recollection whatsoever of leaving The

Mermaid and returning here, but must have done so, although apparently he had not reached the hall, for his bed was a heap of stable straw pulled down from a wagon standing in the bailey. The last time he had been as drunk as this had been during his pilgrimage, when a chirurgeon had drawn an abscessed tooth. Back then he had not known which pain was worse; now he did.

Trying to ignore the clamour from his bladder, he dragged his cloak high around his shoulders, closed his eyes and rolled over. The straw rustled and there was a soft murmur of protest. Oliver's lids shot up again and he stared in dismay at the girl from The Mermaid. In the pitiless morning light, she was a sight less appetising than she had been the previous evening. Her hair straggled about her face and he could see the lice wandering amongst its strands. The stink of her breath almost made him gag, but he knew that his own must be no sweeter. Three quarts of Gascony's worst red and a pottage bowl full of leek and garlic stew were not ingredients for freshening the mouth.

The girl began to snore, a thin string of drool at the corner of her mouth. Oliver groaned and turned on his back. He could not remember lying with her. Surreptitiously he groped beneath his cloak. He was still wearing his braies and his hose were still attached, apart from one fastening. He was also sporting a magnificent, swollen erection. Of course that did not mean he had refrained from fornication last night, it was just a measure of how badly he needed to piss. The girl's gown was rucked and stained and her body stank of vigorous effort.

Struggling to his feet, he lurched over to the wall and joined de Mohun who was shaking the last drops from his organ.

'Rough night.' De Mohun's broad grin and gleaming eyes revealed that he was in considerably better case than Oliver. 'I hazard you've a head as thick as a thundercloud after the amount of wine you sank.'

Oliver gave an inarticulate murmur and Randal's grin became an outright guffaw. 'I had to carry you back, more or less. God's bones, you didn't even stir when I tupped the wench and she started screaming like a vixen on heat. Should have stayed sober, man, we could have shared. Not a beauty, I'll admit, but she's got a grip like a vice.' He thrust his right forefinger expressively into the cupped fist of his left.

Trapped by the slow emptying of his overfull bladder, Oliver could only stand and wait. Like the wine, de Mohun's company had been considerably more acceptable the night before. 'I've forsworn women and drink,' he said shortly. 'Have you paid the wench?'

'Three times and then some,' Randal said with a flash of his brows.

Oliver grimaced.

'Hah, knew you'd turn priest on me the moment you sobered up! Good Christ, man, there's nothing wrong with wenches and wine.'

'There is when you can't remember either, except to know that they were both bad bargains,' Oliver retorted. Relieved to have finished, he adjusted his clothing and walked away as fast as his pounding head would allow.

Randal watched him through narrowed lids, then walked back to the girl and seized her roughly by the elbow. 'Come on, slut, you've outlived your use,' he growled, jerking her to her feet, and slapping her face when she was slow to waken and take her own weight. When she protested, he slapped her harder and, dragging her to the gates, threw her out.

She screamed invective at him and shook her fist, but when he lunged after her she took to her heels.

Randal returned to her sleeping place and stooped to pick up her purse from the straw. He lost the few silver coins it contained in his broad, scarred palm, and tossed the purse away. She had not been worth the payment and he considered himself owed a refund.

Walking across the bailey, he saw Oliver's young adjutant, Gawin, making his own fond farewells to his leman. A braid of chestnut-red hair peeped from beneath her wimple and her features were thin and fine. There were rings on the fingers that curved around her lover's neck, and the edge of her gown beneath her green woollen cloak was embroidered with silks. Envy curdled in Randal's gut as he contrasted this thoroughbred creature with his partner of the night before.

He watched her break away from Gawin, and hurry in the direction of the main household, her head down and cloak folded high around her face. A highborn woman seeking a little coarse cloth to make her silks less boring, he thought. She ought to know how it felt to have a real man hard up inside her instead of playing with boys like Gawin.

'A remedy, eh?' Ethel peered at Oliver through a haze of woodsmoke. 'Would that be for a sot's head, or the more incurable disease of cracked wits?'

'I'm here for your help, not to be sliced into little pieces by your tongue.'

'Humph,' Ethel said, and pointed to a low stool. 'Sit.' Taking a cup, she set about mixing the same betony and feverfew tisane that Oliver had given to Catrin on the road.

Oliver watched her and nursed his thundering skull. It did not help matters that he had received orders from the Earl, and was expected to depart Bristol with letters for Gloucester as soon as he had saddled up. Even the thought of wearing a helm was beyond bearing. The only mercy was that he would not be riding with de Mohun who was being sent out in a different direction.

'Drink,' Ethel commanded, and handed him the steaming cup.

Grimacing, he took it from her. She had closed her lips on further sour remarks, but her expression spoke instead. Avoiding her gimlet stare, he glanced around the neatly arranged shelter and the bed-bench at the back covered with a cosy woven rug. 'I thought Catrin might be here,' he said.

'Well, you thought wrong. She's sleeping wi' the other women and keeping an eye on Edon FitzMar to save my old legs those stairs.' Ethel cocked her head on one side. 'But if you want to apologise to the lass, it'll be worth the climb to fetch her.'

'Apologise!' Oliver choked, then clutched his bursting skull with his free hand. 'Good Christ, her tongue's sharper than yours!'

'In self-defence,' Ethel retorted, folding her arms. 'Your own ain't slow to clear the scabbard . . . my lord.' She sucked her teeth and considered him, the look in her eyes softening. 'Think carefully about what you will say when you see her next. The lass can match you, word for word, but she is wounded as much as she wounds. You went out in the city, had three skins too many in bad company and bedded a whore for your comfort.'

'What of it?' he said defensively.

'The lass came down at dawn to report to me on Edon. Then she went across the ward to the bake house and saw you snoring in a sodden heap beside that slut from The Mermaid. If you angered her yesterday, then she has nothing but contempt for you this morn, and I cannot say I blame her.'

Oliver cursed softly and sipped the hot brew. He could hardly say that it was Catrin's fault that he had drunk himself out of his senses. It might be true, but it was also a feeble excuse. It had been easier to set his back teeth awash with wine than 'face himself.

'I just want her to be safe,' he said. 'And taking your place will put her in all manner of jeopardy.'

'Aye, so it will, but a gilded cage is your desire, not hers. She has the gift and she has the need. If you want to keep her respect, let alone her friendship, then you have to accept that.'

'I'm not sure I can.' Oliver finished the brew, screwing up his face at the particles of herb in the dregs, and rose to his feet.

Ethel gave him a hard look. 'Try,' she said, and turned her back on him to make herself busy with her pestle and mortar.

His head still pounding fit to burst, Oliver took his leave.