The Love Knot (21 page)

He shook his head. 'All the sustenance I need is here with me now.' Taking her hand, he pulled her against him once more. Their lips met in a tingle of sleety cold, and heat spread like a sun. He crushed her close and Catrin lost her breath against the hard, steel hauberk rings. His beard scratched her and the feeling was bliss; his hands gripped and she gasped against his mouth in pleasure.

A nobleman staggered out from the hall and vomited against the keep wall. A companion followed him and stood by laughing. Oliver and Catrin broke their embrace and, by mutual consent, turned towards the haven of Ethel's dwelling.

Once within, the headlong rush towards fulfilment was curtailed by practical considerations. Whilst making love in a hauberk was merely difficult and uncomfortable, tearing one off in haste was nigh on impossible. After three attempts at unbuckling his sword belt alone, Oliver had to take several deep breaths and slow down.

'Shall I help you?'

The thought of her nimble fingers in the area of his crotch was both heaven and torture. He could see from the gleam in her eyes that her version of 'help' had wider connotations than just unfastening a buckle. She reached to the decorated strap end and tugged the excess length of leather until she had freed the latch from the hole and the belt, complete with scabbarded sword, snaked free.

She wrapped the leather around the scabbard, and propped it carefully in a corner of the room. Next came the hauberk itself. This, even for the two of them, was tricky, for the garment was full-sleeved, and clung to the gambeson beneath. Catrin was panting by the time she finally peeled it over his head and, as she took the weight, she staggered and almost fell. Gasping himself after being doubled over, Oliver grabbed it from her and laid it across the small trestle to one side of the fire. The rivets crunched and jingled on the wood.

The gambeson was simpler to remove, but it still took an effort. As Oliver laid the garment on top of his hauberk, Catrin said, 'It's like peeling an onion.'

Oliver grinned. 'Or unwrapping a gift.'

She wrinkled her nose at him, but her eyes were alight with humour. 'And do you think I'm going to like this gift, or will it wring tears from my eyes?'

'There's only one way to find out.' His fingers curled around her waist and again drew her close. This time, there was no padding of steel and quilted linen between them, no drunkards to break the moment. They kissed and clung, swayed and sat down on the bed-bench.

From the awkwardness of buckles and heavy chain-mail, Oliver found himself struggling with the pin of the round brooch at the throat of Catrin's crimson gown, and the tie on her braid belt. A part of him wanted to ignore all the complications of such intricacies, push up her skirts and take her to ease his swollen urgency, but he held off because it mattered to him that she should derive pleasure from the encounter. Besides, he sensed that any such move on his behalf would receive short shrift. Catrin was not like Emma, to murmur soothing words in his ear and shine with pride at a wifely duty successfully performed.

And so he made a game of the undressing, lightening the moment with teasing and laughter, holding back so that Catrin, in her turn, could unwind the leg bindings on his chausses and unfasten the laced drawstring on his shirt.

She nibbled his collarbone, bit his earlobe, and rubbed playfully against him. He put his hands beneath her skirts and tugged at the threading on her garters. Then he ventured higher and drew her down on top of him, spreading her legs and deftly positioning the juncture of her thighs over his swollen flesh.

She made a soft sound and rubbed upon him, their bodies separated by the thin linen of his braies and the fine wool and linen of her dress and chemise. It was too much and not enough. He groaned and tried to think of other things, but the scent of her hair and skin drove all sanity from his mind and filled it instead with raw need.

He arched his spine, thrusting up towards her, but she pulled away from him in order to remove her dress and chemise. Her breasts were high and round, with small, pinkish-brown nipples that tightened in the air. Her belly was flat, and her legs smooth and well proportioned. The sight of her took what little breath remained to Oliver. Apart from his wedding night, he had never been granted so open a view of a woman's body. Emma had preferred to make love in the dark, or wearing her chemise, and it would not have occurred to him to make a whore remove her clothes during his brief encounters with such women.

Catrin, however, was different. He had known it from the moment that she swung pillion behind him as he took her away from Penfoss. The mannerisms of nun and hoyden were inextricably combined and utterly bewitching.

She returned to the bed, squeezing in beside him on its narrowness, and now there was no barrier. His shaft pressed against the rough triangle of hair, sliding, searching blindly. He cupped her breasts and buried his face against her soap-scented throat. She arched her thigh over his flank, allowing him the merest fraction of entry, and he groaned. Her fingers stroked, gliding over his skin with the tips of her nails, and she altered her position so that he entered a little further. He felt her muscles tighten around him, squeezing gently, and strove with every shred of will not to burst there and then.

As if sensing his dilemma, she ceased to move. Oliver stared at a bunch of herbs suspended from the rafters and contemplated the texture and pattern of the dried leaves. He recited a troubadour song inside his head to try and distract himself. Blow, northerne wind, Send thou me my swetyng, Blow, northerne wind, Blow, blow, blow. The sensation of imminent crisis diminished. He ran his fingertips very lightly over her skin, teased her nipples, sucked the pulse at her throat. He ventured lower, finding the furrow in her pubic hair with his index finger and the tiny, sensitive knurl of flesh that Gawin had told him was a woman's source of pleasure. His touch was light and tentative, for he had half wondered if Gawin was telling him tales, but Catrin shuddered and moaned and he felt the sudden leap of her blood against his lips. He stroked her again and felt her clamp around him. Blow, northerne wind, Send thou me my swetyng . . . He closed and tightened his eyes; continued to rub.

Making mewing sounds in her throat, Catrin shifted her position again so that she was fully over him and, pushing down, she sheathed him completely. Oliver abandoned all attempts to divert his mind. It was futile. Nothing existed but the pleasure and pressure in his loins. Catrin was gasping above him. He seized her hips and thrust into her. Her flesh flexed, then grasped him smoothly.

'Jesu,' Oliver groaned. Unable to hold back any longer, he lunged powerfully, once, twice, and was overcome by his climax. Catrin sobbed and ground down, and he felt her fierce contractions pulsate around him.

Panting, Catrin collapsed against him, her hair brushing his face, her body moulding to his. He could feel the resilient, tender flesh of her breasts, the satin curve of her thigh, the gentler ripples of aftershock swallowing along his shaft.

'Ah, God,' she said, her breath still heaving. 'I had forgotten.'

'Forgotten what?'

She raised her head. Her hazel eyes were glazed and heavy-lidded. A pink flush stained her face, throat and breasts. He could see a reddish mark flowering where he had sucked her throat. 'What a pleasure it could be.' She tilted her head on one side, a smile curving her lips. 'You were right. I do not think a kissing bunch in the hall would have encompassed this.' She ran her finger down his wiry chest hair, following a trail down his belly towards his pubic bush, at that moment meshed with hers.

'It's not only a red beard that you sport, is it?' she teased.

'It's a sign of vigour,' he answered, in the same vein.

She laughed, and squeezed him gently with her internal muscles before rising off him. 'I'm glad to hear it, but even a vigorous man needs sustaining.' Leaving the bed, she went to a jug set near the hearth and poured golden liquid into a cup. 'Mead,' she said, 'from the clover hives in the river meadow. Ethel insists it puts a spring in her step.' She looked at his crotch with a suggestive arch of her brows.

Oliver snorted with amusement. 'If Ethel swears by it, then it must be good.'

'It is.' Catrin sat down beside him. She was totally at ease with her nudity, and this too was new for Oliver. Emma had been shy of her body, always crossing her hands in front of her breasts and refusing to look at him. Catrin was completely spontaneous, her hazel stare candid with humour and lust.

He took a sip of the sweet, golden brew, passed the cup to her and stroked her silky hair where it had loosened from its braid. The faint perfume of lavender drifted to his nostrils and mingled with the scents of love-play and mead. 'It is long and long since I was so content,' he murmured. 'Years in fact.'

Catrin drank. A drip spilled down her chin and she scooped it up on her forefinger and licked it off. 'It is the same for me too,' she said, 'perhaps more so, because I had begun to think that I was going to spend the Christmas feast alone.'

He grimaced. 'I would have been here yester-eve, but I became saddled with providing part of the Empress's escort from Gloucester. We had to wait until my lady was ready to leave, and she took her own sweet time about it. Then we had to ride through the streets of Gloucester in full array for the benefit of the people, with Mathilda waving a haughty hand and casting handfuls of silver as if she despised the act.' He shook his head and drew the cup, still in her hand, to his lips.

'And yet you have sworn your oath to her.'

'Because Stephen has rewarded one of his mercenaries with my lands; because Earl Robert commands more respect in my eyes than ever Stephen could - than ever Mathilda could come to that. But she has sons to continue her line, and they could never, even in a nightmare, be any worse than Stephen's son, Eustace. If he mounts the throne, then I will return to the Holy Land and offer my sword to the King of Jerusalem.' He took another long swallow of the mead, as if swilling a bad taste from his mouth. 'Ach, I don't want to talk of rulers and their petty ways, not when there are more interesting things to discuss.'

'Such as?' She finished her drink and set the cup to one side, her eyes luminous as she knelt above him.

'Such as what do you think of Godard?' Oliver banded his arms around her and rolled her over. There was a welcome surge of heat at his groin.

'First I was angry, then I was pleased,' she answered and spread her legs invitingly. 'He is very useful to have around, and Ethel dotes on him. So do half the laundry maids.' She dug her nails into his back. 'You took a risk sending him. I find his company quite pleasing myself.'

'But not as pleasing as this?'

Her thighs clasped him. 'Ask me again in a while,' she murmured, then arched and gasped as he thrust into her.

Leaning heavily on her stick, Ethel limped across the bailey. The sleet had turned to wet snow and was settling although, behind the clouds, a haze of moon still glimmered fitfully. On reaching her dwelling, she paused outside, her head cocked on one side like a listening bird. Very carefully, she unfastened one of the hooks holding the door screen and peered inside.

By the faint red glow from the embers of the fire, she saw Oliver and Catrin entwined upon her bed, both of them sound asleep. Oliver's arm was draped protectively across Catrin's shoulder, and her head was snuggled beneath his chin.

Quietly, Ethel secured the screen and turned back towards the hall. It was warm in there, and she had no complaint about dozing by the fire with hot, spiced wine for company.

As she paused against the forebuilding to gain her breath, she saw a couple arguing in the lee of the wall. In a moment, she recognised them both. The man was young Gawin, still wearing his hauberk from escort duty, and the woman was the Countess's sempstress Rohese. She stood shivering in a dress of thin, wheat-coloured silk, no cloak to protect her from the bite of the wind.

'You've had your pleasure!' she cried in a voice high with panic and petulance. 'You can't walk away from your duty to me now!'

Ethel saw a look of impatience cross Gawin's face. She could tell that he was the worse for drink - as were more than half the young men in the hall tonight. Swaying forward, he braced his arm against the wall. 'Oh, but I can, sweetheart. It wasn't just my pleasure, don't deny it. Besides, how do I know it's my duty? More than one dog will mount a bitch in heat.'

Her hand shot out towards his face, but he caught her wrist with a soldier's reflexes and twisted it round, forcing her to her knees in the settling snow. Then he pushed her away. 'Find someone less choosy,' he sneered, and lurched back into the hall.

Ethel watched the encounter with tightening lips. Gawin was a decent, if shallow, young man when the drink was not upon him, but there was no excuse for what she had just witnessed. Knowing his personality, she could see that seducing the Countess's haughtiest maid had been a challenge impossible to resist. Now that the consequences had come home to roost, he did not want to know.

Although Rohese was about as approachable as a stinging nettle, Ethel limped forward, intending to help her up and offer comfort. 'Child, come within before you freeze,' she said gently, and extended her hand to the weeping young woman on the ground.

Rohese flung her off and struggled to her feet, her beautiful gown marred by a damp patch of melting, muddy snow. 'Leave me alone, you hag!' she sobbed, her face raw with pain. 'Your nostrums don't work! He doesn't love me and I haven't bled!' Shoving Ethel out of her way so hard that the elderly midwife staggered, Rohese fled across the snowy bailey towards the gate.