The Love Knot (15 page)

Over the following weeks, Catrin threw herself into learning her new trade. She assisted at births and was told which prayers to recite and which saints to invoke. Ethel showed her how to perform external examinations to gauge the position of the child within the womb. The old woman took her around the market place and the dockside in search of herbs and remedies, and together they sought among the fields for fresh plants and herbs to make unguents and poultices.

When she was not busy with Ethel, Catrin served the Countess. There were always errands to run and tasks to perform, from simple pieces of sewing to strewing the rushes with toadflax after a sudden plague of fleas. Catrin's days were so full that she had small time to think beyond her physical duties. When she fell into bed at night, it was to deep and dreamless sleep. In the morning, she would awaken refreshed and hungry for the experiences of a new day.

Occasionally the thought of Oliver crossed her mind, but she had no time to dwell on him. The sight of him sprawled beside the whore in a heap of straw had filled her with contempt, but no great degree of surprise. She had told him to face himself and he had chosen a wine cup as his mirror and a slut to aid his forgetfulness. Still, she had been disappointed, for she had thought better of him. She had half expected him to seek her out before he left on the Earl's business, but he had not and she had put him aside for more worthwhile concerns.

The thought of Oliver made one of its brief, troublesome appearances now as she attended the Countess in Earl

Robert's solar. Thomas and Richard were present in their capacity as pages to pour the wine and run errands, should the need arise. Richard was self-consciously resplendent in a new tunic of holly-green wool with scarlet braid. Although he tried to keep a straight face, a grin kept threatening his mouth corners whenever he looked at Catrin. She had not seen a great deal of him since he had migrated to the squires' dorter, but enough to know that he was happy in his new position and making rapid progress.

He served her wine, and the grin split all the way across his face. Catrin yearned to give him a big hug, but made do with complimenting him on his fine new clothes and the polished manners he was acquiring.

'He's learned all that he knows from me,' Thomas interrupted cheekily as he returned his own flagon to the enormous carved sideboard.

'Well, that's a mixed blessing,' Catrin said dryly.

Richard was summoned away to put fresh logs on the fire. Catrin's gaze drifted to the garden mural of the two young women. Some of the paint had begun to flake. The dark girl's yellow dress was in need of refurbishment, and the blond one had lost part of her hand, but still their vibrancy dominated the room.

Richard went the rounds with the flagon, returning to her last. 'That's my mother,' he said, seeing the direction of her gaze.

Catrin was startled. 'How do you know?'

'Earl Robert told me. He said he had it painted when she lived here as his ward.'

'Truly?' Catrin stared at the mural with new eyes. Apart from the swirling blond hair, there was a slight resemblance to Amice, although it was more of essence than actual physical feature.

'Truly,' nodded the boy. 'The Earl says that I can come and look whenever I want.'

Behind Amice the second girl danced, a chaplet of flowers in her winding, dark tresses. Her features were thin and sharp, and she had the darting quality of a bird in flight. 'Who is her companion?' Catrin asked, and thought that she already knew.

'Her name's Emma and she used to be the Earl's ward too. She married Sir Oliver, but then she died.' The boy gave a small shrug and departed to another summons from the Earl.

Catrin stared at Emma Pascal and thought of Oliver, of what it must be like to see his dead wife's effigy every time he had to attend upon the Earl. Small wonder if his wounds were slow to heal.

She was still pondering the matter when the Countess dismissed her, so it was a shock to enter the courtyard and almost bump into Oliver himself, his garments travel-stained and his eyes red-rimmed by the irritation of dust.

Catrin greeted him in a flustered fashion, feeling embarrassed and guilty, emotions she would certainly not have experienced had Richard not told her about the painting. It was as if she had poked into a private corner of Oliver's life and been caught in the act.

He returned her greeting politely, but avoided her eyes and showed no inclination to stop and talk. 'I have to report to the Earl,' he said.

Catrin nodded. He would go to the Earl's solar, she thought, and be forced to gaze upon that mural. Perhaps she was misjudging him. Perhaps it gave him comfort. How would she feel if a wall in the keep bore the image of Lewis? She did not know. Before she could speak and break the awkwardness between them, Oliver excused himself and hastened on his way.

Catrin gnawed her lip and wondered if he had decided to wash his hands of her after their last volatile encounter. That would explain why he had avoided her before he left and his aloofness now. But she would rather he 'burst his hauberk' than keep her at arm's length.

Later that afternoon she was simmering honey and wine with powdered mustard seed to make a soothing syrup for sore throats when Oliver came to the shelter. Ethel had hobbled off to visit a newly delivered mother and had dissuaded Catrin from accompanying her. Catrin was amused at the midwife's insistence that she remain behind and mix potions. It was gratifying that Ethel trusted her to make the easy ones on her own, but she knew that it also gave the old woman a chance to sit and gossip with the new infant's grandmother who was a particular friend.

Catrin stirred the mixture and used a thick woollen mitt to set it on the hot hearth tiles to simmer. Then she stole a dribble of honeycomb and smeared it on an oatcake. It still lacked a couple of hours to the evening meal and she was already starving.

A shadow darkened the entrance of the shelter. Her mouth bulging, crumbs on her bosom and her fingers and cheeks sticky with honey, she gave a squeak of alarm and stared at Oliver with huge eyes.

'I didn't mean to startle you,' he said. 'I've come looking for Ethel.' He still wore his quilted gambeson and sword belt but had removed his mail.

Catrin shook her head and, putting the syrup to one side, pointed to her mouth.

He looked at her and his lips twitched. Glancing around the shelter, he located the bowl of oatcakes and helped himself to one. 'She's been busy with the baking stone, I see,' he remarked.

Unable to speak, Catrin chewed frantically and forced herself to swallow, almost choking in the process. Jesu, why couldn't he appear just once when she was neat and presentable? She poured herself a beaker of water and helped the last remnants down her throat. 'Ethel won't be back for a while. She's gone to check on a mother and stayed to gossip with the relatives.'

'And left you to mind the fire?'

She shrugged. 'It's no hardship.'

'With these for company, I can see why.' He bit into the oatcake.

'There's honey if you want.' She brought him the comb, her embarrassment fading. At least he was meeting her gaze and speaking to her. Perhaps looking at the mural of his wife had been of benefit after all.

Actually, Catrin was closer to the truth than she realised. When he had encountered her in the bailey, Oliver had been preoccupied with the report he had to make. He had also been caught off his guard, unsure of his reception after the way they had parted, and he had opted for distance. Standing in the Earl's solar, confronted once again by the mural's macabre charisma, he had cursed himself for a fool. If not buried, the past was dead. It was stupid to yearn after a two-dimensional portrait rendered by another hand when the full-blooded colours of life were all around him. 'Why did you want Ethel?'

'Lice,' he said. 'I've been bitten to death the past fortnight, and one of them has rubbed on my gambeson and turned septic. I need to take a staves-acre bath.'

'Lice?' Her eyebrows rose towards her kerchief, and then she pursed her lips. 'Serves you right,' she said. 'I'll warrant you caught them off that whore.'

He cleared his throat. 'Likely I did.' There was no point in making excuses. 'I suppose she had to give me something for my money.'

Catrin sniffed and turned away to seek amongst Ethel's earthenware pots and jars. 'Well, if lice are all that you got, you can count yourself fortunate. There is a disease going around the dockside whores that rots the private parts of any man who lies with them, and Ethel says that there's no cure.'

'I lay beside her, not inside her,' Oliver defended, his complexion darkening, for even to think of the incident filled him with chagrin. 'Christ knows, I was too deep in my cups to have either the will or the way when it came to the act.'

'Praise God for small mercies,' she muttered sarcastically. 'It's the first time I've heard drunkenness extolled as a salvation.'

'It was better than facing myself,' he said deliberately, his eyes on her spine as she swooped in triumph on two small blue jars.

Her back remained turned, but he saw her pause. 'Not better,' she said, 'but easier.'

'Jesu, you're hard. I come to make amends and all you do is assault me with your scold's tongue.'

Now she did turn round, hazel eyes flashing. 'Amends?' she said scathingly. 'I thought you were here to rid yourself of lice. Am I supposed to heal your sore conscience as well?'

'You could try not grinding salt into it for a start.'

She glared at him, then made a small sound through her teeth and thrust one of the blue jars into his hand. 'Fill a tub with water as hot as you can bear, and mix this in,' she said. 'Then bathe in it until it grows cold. You will need to take daily baths until the lice are no more.'

He cupped the jar in his hands, and wondered if it was a dismissal. He did not want it to be.

She removed the stopper from the other jar and looked at him with pursed lips. 'Show me where the bites are septic'

'They're under my shirt.'

'Well, take it off then,' she said with laboured patience. 'How can I treat the place without seeing it?'

Oliver set his jar on the floor and stood up. Unlatching his sword belt, he removed his gambeson, tunic and shirt. He was uncomfortably aware of people pausing to stare as they went about their business. There was a woven hanging that acted as a screen, but it was tied up out of the way.

'Don't scowl, it's bad for custom,' Catrin said tartly, and indicated that he should be seated again. 'I need the light to see what I'm doing,' she added, as if reading his mind.

The fresh air was cool on his naked skin and soothed the hot itchiness of the rash. He heard Catrin cluck her tongue as she looked at the patch which his gambeson had inflamed. 'If you're riding out again, you'll need to keep it bandaged, but otherwise you must leave it open to the air as much as you can.'

'You mean walk around shirtless?'

'Yes.'

He heard a glimmer of amusement in her voice. Her hand on the back of his neck was cool and sent a small shiver through him, but not of cold.

'This will hurt,' she murmured, 'but only for a moment.'

'I knew you were going to say that.' He braced himself, but still hissed in pain as she cleaned the affected area with a cloth soaked in astringent lotion.

'Salt water with scabious,' she told him. 'Then I'll put on a light smearing of comfrey ointment to soothe the itching. After you have bathed, you must anoint yourself again or, if you cannot reach, get someone to do it for you.'

The stinging pain of the first lotion was replaced by the soothing cool of the balm. He felt the gentle touch of her fingertips, and sensed her closeness behind him. 'You have learned a great deal in a very short space of time,' he said, probing gently at the subject which had caused their quarrel, seeking an opening.

'I am keen to learn and Ethel is a good teacher.' Her voice was suddenly wary.

Keeping his own voice quiet and reasonable, he said, 'I know that it is your chosen path and I have no doubt that in time you will make a worthy successor to Ethel, but I meant what I said before.'

'Which part?' Hostility had joined the wariness now.

He turned on the stool to face her so that she could see his expression was open and candid. 'The part about midwifery and herb-lore being dangerous trades. No, hear me out.' He raised his hand as she drew breath to argue. 'I admit, I would far rather that you stayed in the bower or took up ale-brewing or spinning to support your widowhood, but it's not worth the quarrel. Trying to change you would be like warping a loom out of true, and I doubt I would like the end result.' He glanced down at her feet, prepared to make a humorous comment concerning her scarlet hose, but she wasn't wearing any at all.

'But you don't like the one presented to you either,' Catrin said, eyeing him narrowly.

'Only part of it, and I would rather learn to live with it than without the whole.'

Colour flooded Catrin's face. She moved behind him again and continued smearing the salve. 'And if I say like it all or nothing?'

'Then you also would be warping a loom out of true.'

There was a long silence. Catrin attended to her task with a thoroughness that insulated her. He felt the touch of her fingers, but not of her mind.