The Love Knot (17 page)

The woman led them into the dark thoroughfares of the Shambles. Despite the straw that had been thrown down to make walking easier, mud still splashed their clothing and seeped through the stitches in their shoes. Behind the fairly prosperous houses that fronted the street were others which were not as well kept - mean dwellings with scarcely room for a meagre central hearth. Ethel could spare no breath to ask questions as they walked, and so it was left to Catrin to interrogate and discover that they were being called to attend not a birth, but a miscarriage.

'Four months she's been carrying,' the woman said. 'My first grandchild. I'm not saying as we wanted the babe, but once she caught, we never tried to get rid of it.'

'Husband?' Catrin queried.

'Hasn't got one. Father could be one of several.'

By which Catrin understood that they were being taken to see one of the town whores who had got herself into difficulties. It never occurred to her to baulk. Having served Amice and having seen the lot of women who were forced to sell their bodies to earn a crust, her censure was reserved for the men who used and misused them.

'If I ever catch the bastard who did this to her,' said the mother, 'I will geld him with my own two hands and make him eat his own ballocks. And then I will cut his throat.' She brought them to a wattle and daub dwelling, its low thatched roof rank and damp. They paddled through the muddy soup to reach the single door and entered a dark, fetid room. The smell of poverty was all-pervading and filled the air which was almost as cold within as without. A fire burned, but it fed on a single log, and there were only two pieces of split wood left in the wicker basket by the central hearth. The cooking pot that hung over the single lick of flame contained about two quarts of lukewarm water. Light, such as there was, came from the weak glow of the fire and a sputtering mutton-fat dip pinched in a rusty iron holder.

By the dim illumination, Catrin could only just make out the shape of a young woman lying on a bed-bench along the hut's side. Her knees were drawn up towards her belly, and she was stifling small, animal sounds of pain against the back of her hand.

The mother went straight to the bed and, kneeling, smoothed her daughter's wet hair. 'It's all right, sweetheart, look, I've found the midwives. They'll help you now.'

Catrin joined the woman and, with a soothing murmur, drew back the threadbare blanket the girl was clutching. There was blood but, with so little light, it was hard to tell how much. Very gently, she eased the stained chemise above the young woman's hips, and then caught her breath at the sight of the bruises and bite marks on her belly and thighs. 'Jesu!' she whispered, recoiling despite herself.

'Aye,' said the mother grimly. 'Gelding's not good enough for the likes o' him.'

Catrin swallowed, feeling nauseous. There were red lines on the girl's body too, as if someone had impressed her flesh with the mark of a sharp fingernail or the point of a knife. "Who did this?'

'She won't say. He told her he'd rip her properly if she made a complaint, the hellspawn.'

Ethel pushed her way forward. She was still wheezing after her brisk walk, but able enough to take command of the situation. Bringing out the pouch of coins that the soap-maker had given her, she counted some into the mother's palm. 'For firewood and candles, if you can find someone to sell them to you this time of night,' she said curtly.

For a moment, the woman stared numbly at the silver in her hand, then shook herself. 'The Star might have them,' she said. 'Adela works there - or she did.' She looked at Ethel. 'I cannot repay you.'

'Never mind about that, just go,' Ethel said with an impatient wave of her hand. 'If we are to save your daughter, we need light and warmth. If you're off to an alehouse, a jug of wine wouldn't come amiss either.'

The woman vanished and Catrin and Ethel set to work, although there was not a great deal they could do except clean the young woman, apply a pad of folded, soft linen between her thighs, and ease her pain with a tisane made from the tepid water in the cooking pot. The child, visibly a little girl and perfect in every way except her ability to exist outside the womb, was born a little after dawn. The room by then was warmer and the morning light augmented the extra rush dips burning around the bed. Catrin could see now that their patient was very young. Sixteen the mother said, but a sixteen stunted by years of malnutrition. Whoever her partners had been, their desire had been for a child, not a fully fledged woman, and what the last one had done to her to slake his lust was sickening. The girl would not speak about him. Even a gentle question brought terror to her eyes. The most they could glean, and this from the ale-wife at The Star who brought a fresh flagon of wine and a loaf of bread to break their fast, was that it had been a soldier from the castle, one of the Earl's mercenaries, and she too was reluctant to speak out.

'Even if we make a complaint, the Earl will just put it down to high spirits going too far. Fighting men have to vent their hot blood when they're not in the field. He'll not listen to the likes of us. He'll say that she knew the risks when she became a whore.'

Which was probably true, Catrin thought unhappily. God might have time to see the fall of the meanest sparrow, but Earl Robert, despite his kindness to herself and Richard, was not so well disposed towards every waif and stray.

At least the girl was going to live, she thought, and then wondered how much of a blessing that was. Her mother was a widow who literally earned their bread by selling loaves on the street for a baker, in exchange for some of his produce. Adela had been selling her body for the past year to keep them warm and shod.

In a spurt of guilt and compassion, Catrin gave the girl's mother all but six pence from her twenty-four. Ethel watched and said nothing. She had parted with coins herself for light, warmth and wine.

A dull, grey November day had reached full light by the time the two women left the house and started back through the mud towards the castle.

'Good thing she lost the babe,' Ethel said, leaning heavily on her stick. As she walked, the base of it disappeared in three inches of mud. 'Her hips are too small to carry a nine-months child, kill her for sure.'

Catrin's eyes were so hot and gritty that it was difficult to keep them open, and one of her spectacular headaches was just waiting to pounce. She could feel it growing at the back of her skull, rather like the gathering of a thunderstorm. 'She might yet die if the fever sets in.'

'Oh aye, she might,' Ethel agreed, and paused for a moment to rest. The night had taken its toll on her too, and she was blue around the lips.

Catrin thought unhappily of the young whore she had seen snoring in the straw at Oliver's side in the summer. How easy it was for men to get hold of these undernourished girls to slake their lust. So easy that they did not stop to think. For the whores it was simple too; sell their bodies or starve.

Her thoughts were abruptly curtailed by the sight of two men slinking out from a noisome entry to block their path. They brandished nail-studded clubs and their garments were patched and tattered although, incongruously, one of them wore an expensive wool hat trimmed with ermine fur. Ethel tightened her grip on her stick and drew herself upright. Catrin backed up, shielding Ethel with her body.

The ruffian with the cap smiled, revealing a mouthful of worn-down teeth. 'Two plump pigeons ripe for the plucking. Give us your pouches.' He thrust out his free hand.

Catrin's breathing quickened. 'We have no money. We're honest midwives about our duties. Let us go our way in peace.'

'No such thing as an honest midwife,' the other sneered, and took a menacing step forward. 'Come on, your money now, or you'll make the acquaintance of my cudgel.'

'Touch either of us, and I will set a curse on you!' spat Ethel, shaping her hand like a claw. 'I can, you know, and by Hecate, I will.'

They hesitated, licking their lips, looking at each other. Catrin tried to feel for the small, sharp knife at her belt without being conspicuous. She also filled her lungs with a huge breath, ready to scream for aid at the top of her voice.

'Reckon as we're damned already,' the man with the hat said. 'Your curses mean nothing, old woman, except they'll send you to hell before us.' He made a grab for Ethel, whilst his companion leaped on Catrin. She released the scream, shattering the morning air with its power, and at the same time jerked her knee hard upward. Her assailant recoiled, clutching his genitals, and Catrin whipped the small dagger from its sheath, full knowing that it was an act of bravado. She could cut umbilical cords and prepare herbs with the blade, but never had she used it in aggression or even self-defence.

She dodged a blow from the cudgel, but was not fast enough, and it caught her arm, breaking no bones but severely bruising. As Ethel was thrown to the ground by the other thief, Catrin screamed again in desperation and prayed for doors to open and people to come.

Oliver spent a restless, uncomfortable night. Being one of the Earl's hearth knights meant just that, and he had to sleep beside the fire in the great hall, rolled in his cloak. The snores and coughs of the other men kept him awake, as did the knowledge that Ethel and Catrin were abroad in the city. The fact that they had an escort dampened his worry, but did not quench it entirely. They were still so vulnerable. And yet he dared not protest too hard lest he be accused of obstructing and stifling.

'Women,' he muttered to himself as he turned over for what seemed the hundredth time.

'Aye, bless them,' muttered Geoffrey FitzMar who was rolled up beside him.

Despite himself, Oliver gave a short laugh. 'Aye, bless them,' he repeated, and closed his eyes.

For a while he slept, and chased brightly coloured images through his dreams. He was in a garden looking for Emma, but he could not find her. Amice was there and she kept pointing towards a grove of apple trees. But when he entered the grove in search of his wife, all he discovered was a mound of green earth that looked like an overgrown grave. He turned away, but when he looked back Catrin was sitting on it, stark naked except for her masses of raven-black hair and her crimson hose which ended just above her knees, in bright contrast to the white flesh of her thighs.

With a gasp, he snapped awake to find himself tangled in his cloak. Dull heat pulsed at his crotch and his body was damp with sweat. It was not the first erotic nightmare he had ever had, but it was certainly the most disturbing. The man beside him still slept, oblivious, but all around him others were rising. The fire in the hearth was blazing strongly and tendrils of steam rose from the cooking pot set over the flames. A glance at the high windows showed him that dawn had broken.

Untangling himself from his cloak, he went outside to piss and then washed his hands and face at the trough by the well. It was a murky November morning with a hint of drizzle that swiftly cooled the sweat on his body and banished any carnal residue from his dream. Although it was not long past dawn, a steady exchange of traffic between castle and town was well under way. Supplies and traders entered. Soldiers left.

Oliver watched the activity while he pinned his cloak and accustomed himself to the idea of being awake. His stomach rumbled, and he thought with anticipation of Ethel's hot griddle cakes, smeared with honey and butter - far better fare than the bowl of gruel he could expect in the hall. But it was not the thought of breakfast alone that sent him in the direction of Ethel's shelter. As he walked, he smoothed his hair and plucked a stray stalk of straw from his cloak. He also cupped his chin and grimaced to feel the prick of stubble. He should have taken the time to shave, but it was too late now.

With a swift step and rapid heart, he approached Ethel's shelter. The woven hanging was drawn across, but when he parted it to glance inside and see if the women were sleeping, it was empty, the hearth cold, and the coverlet on the bed-bench neatly arranged.

'They're not here,' said one of the laundry women as she passed by with a basket of soiled linen. 'I called at first light for something to cure me toothache and there was no sign.'

'They've been out all night then,' Oliver said, with a sinking heart.

'Like as not. I ain't seen 'em for certes, but I wish they'd hurry back. Me gob's killing me.' She went on her way, leaving Oliver gazing around the shelter. Despite the cheerful bedcovering, the rows of jars, sealed pig bladders and bunches of herbs, the place looked forlorn without its occupants. Ethel had said that they would return by daybreak. He glanced at the sky which had been light for perhaps an hour. They were not unduly late, but he could feel the apprehension gathering within him.

He forced himself to return to the hall and act as if this was just another morning. He ate a bowl of hot gruel without any enthusiasm, barbered his stubble, and returned to check on the shelter, but it was still as empty as before. Thoroughly unsettled by now, Oliver hitched his belt and set off at a determined pace towards the castle gates.

Once in the city, he made his way to the home of Payne the soap-maker and was greeted first with surprise, and then some consternation when the household learned of his enquiry. The manservant and journeyman were fetched from their tasks and made to tell their tale about the poor woman who had come begging Ethel and Catrin's help in the Shambles.

With increasing apprehension, Oliver turned his feet in that direction, but he had little idea where to look among all the back entrances that twisted through the quarter like the animal guts from which the Shambles took its name. Enquiries led him nowhere. The butchers had all been abed in the early hours, and those who had not had good reason to avoid a man with a sword.

His right hand on its hilt, Oliver left the main thoroughfares and entered the narrower alleys, his shoes squelching in mud and dung. A dog growled as it dashed past him, a dead rat dangling from its jaws. Two grimy little boys contemplated throwing pats of mud at him, but changed their minds when he drew an inch of blade from his scabbard. A door opened a crack and then slammed shut. Oliver drew another inch of steel, both as a warning to any hidden watchers and as a reassurance to himself.

Then he heard the scream over to his left, piercing and shrill. Cursing, he began to run - something of a feat in the November sludge of Bristol's back alleys. A second scream brought him to a narrow thoroughfare and a scene that drew his blade clean out of the scabbard in a single rasp of steel. The two men turned, cudgels raised, but on seeing the calibre and rage of their opposition, took to their heels.

Already breathless from his run, Oliver didn't pursue. Sword still in his right hand, he used his left to raise Ethel gently to her feet. Her breath wheezed in her throat, and she was trembling from head to toe. She braced herself upon her stick for support, but her eyes were bright and black with the light of battle.

'They'll come to bad ends, the both of them,' she panted. 'And I need neither my wise-woman's sight nor a curse to predict that certainty.' She gave him a sharp look. 'How did you know?'

'You said you would be home before cock-crow. When you weren't, I came looking for you.' His tone bore no expression, for he knew that if he began to rant at the women he would never stop, and this time there would be no healing the breach.

He looked at Catrin. Her hood was down, her wimple askew, baring her black braids. A spot of colour branded each cheekbone, and there was a small knife clenched so tightly in her hand that her knuckles were bone-white on the wooden haft. She was still gasping like a man on a battlefield.

The street had begun to fill with people, both the concerned and the morbidly curious. Ethel was offered a drink of ale, and someone brought out a three-legged stool so that she could sit down. Oliver returned his sword to his scabbard. 'Put up your knife,' he said quietly to Catrin, with a nod at her right hand.

'What?' She gazed at the small weapon blankly for a moment, then with trembling fingers did as he bade. A wooden beaker of ale was pressed into her hand. Everyone was talking at once, but their chatter meant nothing to her.

'A young woman had been raped by one of the castle soldiers and was miscarrying her child,' she said defensively. 'We couldn't just leave her to die.'

'No, of course you couldn't.'

Her jaw tightened. She looked at him with glittering eyes.

'I mean it,' Oliver deflected swiftly. 'It is no less than I expected you to say, although I suspect that this,' he gestured at Ethel, 'is more than you had in mind.'

'We were unfortunate,' Catrin said stiffly.

'To the contrary, you are more lucky than you know.' When she opened her mouth to argue, he laid a forefinger against her lips. 'No more, or we will both say things that we will regret. For now, my priority is to see you and Ethel safe back to the keep and alert the watch about those two ruffians.'

She swallowed and nodded. Then she swallowed again and compressed her lips, her complexion greenish-white.

His gaze sharpened and he swore softly beneath his breath. Turning to the woman who had brought the ale and the stool, he haggled the use of her donkey for a penny and deliberated which of the two women was going to sit on it.

'I can manage,' Catrin said grimly between clenched teeth. 'Let Ethel ride.'

Oliver studied her, then nodded. Pride, if nothing else, would keep her upright until they reached the castle.

While the woman held the ass, he helped Ethel on to its bony, scooped back. He had always viewed the old woman as being physically solid and strong. In his youth, the back-swipe of her arm had floored a village brat on many an occasion, so he was disconcerted to discover that she weighed next to nothing. She was like a bird, her bones hollow for the flight of her soul. Her spirit, however, had no intention of departing just yet, and it was with relief that he heard her remark tartly that she was not a sack of cabbages.

Clicking his tongue to the donkey, he turned it round. 'A sack of cabbages would not cause me so much trouble,' he retorted, and held out his arm for Catrin to lean on. It was a measure of her own wretchedness that she took it without demur.

'Go on, say it,' Catrin challenged.

'Say what?' Oliver spread his hands, his breath clouding the air. Around them frost glittered like loaf sugar. Ice, a fingernail thick, lay in clear, angular patterns on the waterbutts and troughs, and the mud in the bailey had become a pliable, white-crusted clay.

'That you were right and I was wrong.'

'About what?'

'About being open to attack.' She stamped her feet, with both impatience and cold. She could see that he was going to make her pay by drawing the incident out. He had been absent on the Earl's business yesterday. She and Ethel had stayed by the fire, nursing their bruises. 'You told me that I was vulnerable, and I ignored you.'

'No less than I expected.' He blew on his cupped hands. 'You were bound to learn the hard way.'

'I hate you,' she said calmly.

'That's no less than I expected either. How's your head today?'

'It aches, but it belongs to me again.' She touched her forehead and grimaced slightly at the niggle of pain still lingering behind her eyes.

'And Ethel?'

'Somewhat shaken despite all her brave words. I've left her by the fire with a hot tisane and one of her gossips for company - old Agatha from the laundry.'

'So your time is your own for a little while?'

'Unless the Countess sends for me.' Catrin cocked her head on one side and eyed him suspiciously. 'Why?'

'I have something for you.' He took her arm, and led her across the bailey towards the Countess's garden.

'Where are we going?' Utterly baffled, Catrin hung back a little. She hardly thought that he was going to present her with a flower in this bleak weather, or take her for a stroll around the dormant herb beds. If he wanted somewhere private to talk, there were warmer places than a pleasance at the end of November.

But his direction did not alter, and within moments they had entered through the gate and into a world on the edge of dormancy. The soil was turned and brown, each clod wearing a frill of hoar. The herb beds still held tinges of colour, the sage and lavender standing bravely against the cold. The mint was straggly and the tansy and rue had bowed their heads. Of the gardener, the only sign was the scent of frying bacon wafting from the tiny thatched hut on the far right near the rows of leeks and cabbages.

'Well?' Catrin repeated.

He led her down one of the marked-out paths to a grassy ring, surrounded by stone benches. The Countess's women often came here in summer to sew and weave. Occasionally Mabile would hold small feasts and entertainments for selected guests. They would sit out until the moon rose in the sky, cooking morsels of marinated food over an open fire. Today the place was frozen and deserted, the grass blades wearing a white scaling of frost, and the stone benches bleak grey, untouched by any kindness of sun.

'Oliver, why have you brought me here?' she persisted, and hugged herself with cold.

For answer he reached beneath his cloak, tugged at his belt, and presented her with a knife - not one for eating or midwifery work, but a man's weapon with a sharp blue edge and a haft of decorated bone. 'I want you to carry this with you for protection when you go out into the city at night,' he said.

Catrin took the weapon but could not prevent a shudder. 'I don't know how to use it.'

'That's why you're here now - to learn. I saw the way you were holding that blade of yours when you were attacked. If you are going to draw a knife on someone, you have to know how to fight - not only that, but how to survive.'

Catrin shook her head. 'Oliver, I cannot ..."

'No such word,' he said in a tone that refuted argument, and handed her a piece of wood which had been carved to the same shape as the knife. From his belt, he drew a similar piece. 'It's a skill as indispensable as any that Ethel's taught you.'

For the next hour, Catrin was instructed in the art of self-defence. At first she was self-conscious and unsure, her lunges half-hearted, because she felt foolish. 'Christ, who's to see you?' Oliver demanded. 'Why do you think I chose the gardens? There's only the old man and he's too busy breaking his fast to pay any attention to us! If it does not bother me, then it shouldn't bother you.'

'You're a man,' she said. 'This is customary to you.'

He rolled his eyes in disbelief. 'And it was a man who attacked you in the street! You are doing this for your life, woman. Don't tell me it is not in your nature to fight back. I know full well the measure of your mulishness.' He looked at her broodingly for a moment. 'Imagine that I am a robber, out for your purse and perhaps other things in the dead of night. How would you fight me off?'

'Throw pepper in your face and run,' she said quickly.

'With Ethel at your side?' he snorted. 'Or supposing I emerged from a side alley too swiftly for you to reach in your satchel for the pepper? If it was your intent the other morning, you failed miserably.'

Catrin reddened, but could not deny the truth of what he said. There had indeed been a pouch of pepper in her satchel, but buried near the bottom.

'Come at me again,' he said, beckoning.

Catrin sighed, pursed her lips and thrust with the wooden knife. Grey eyes dark with anger, Oliver grabbed her wrist and twisted it round, making her drop the knife; then he hooked his leg around hers and brought her down hard on the frozen grass. Straddling her, pinning her wrists above her head, he snarled, 'This is what could happen to you, and in no more space than an eye-blink . . . and worse.'

Catrin swallowed and stared up at the harsh planes of his face, mere angry inches from hers. The frozen grass struck through her clothes and chilled her flesh. His grip was bruising, his weight took her breath. 'Let me go,' she said shakily.

'You know what an attacker would say,' he answered grimly, and held her down a moment longer before relaxing his grip and drawing her to her feet. Her teeth chattering, she glared at him as he brushed the frost from her cloak with the flat of his hand.

'Jesu, Catrin, I don't want to lose you. If you must go abroad in the street, then at least let it not be like a lamb to the slaughter. For all your fire and spirit, you would not survive as you are now. I am not suggesting that you become an Amazon, only that you should learn to defend yourself long enough to live. If you cannot unbend enough to do that, then what chance do you have?' His voice took on a pleading note.