The Love Knot (22 page)

Ethel cried for her to stop but her voice was snatched by

a swirling gust of wind and her chest cramped painfully. Knowing the warning sign too well and unable to pursue, the old lady turned and made her way laboriously towards the hall.

Rohese rounded a corner of the bailey, and the full force of the wintry night slashed through her garments like a knife. Shuddering, the tears icy on her cheeks, she pressed herself against a storeshed wall and hugged her frozen arms.

With a soft jink of chain-mail, a man materialised out of the whirling darkness, a spear in his right hand, a shield on his left arm. A thick cloak blew back from his shoulders, its lining one of glossy squirrel fur.

Rohese was about to scream when she realised that it was one of the guards on his rounds.

'Well, well,' said Randal de Mohun softly. 'If I'm not mistaken, it's one of the Countess's maids, and in need of a little warming.'

Against banks of mounding white, the river Avon flowed like black glass. The snow struck its polished surface and vanished with neither sound nor trace. It was the same for the body. A single swirl and eddy in the obsidian surface, then nothing to show that it had ever been cast upon the water.

Within an hour, even the footprints had vanished, covered in a powdering of white.

The hose were woven of the softest red silk with ribbon garters of the same. Catrin gazed at them in pure delight. Fond though she had been of her old pair, these surpassed them a hundred fold.

'Another reason I was delayed.' Oliver smiled at her pleasure. 'I had to scour Gloucester for them. Fortunately, I found a hosier who fashions the Empress's undergarments.'

Winding her arms around his neck, she kissed him. 'So I'll be wearing hose fit for a queen!'

'I hazard they will look better on you than they would on Mathilda.'

'Shall I show you?'

His eyes lit up and, with a husky laugh, he gestured her to continue.

Catrin was wearing her chemise, ready to start the day. Outside, Saint Stephen's morn was dawning in pallid grey light. The fire had almost died, just the faintest glimmer of red among the ashes, and the room was cold, but she cared little for that just now. Last night had set a gloss on her world that nothing could diminish. Her only guilt was that they had denied Ethel her bed, but Catrin suspected that the old lady would be highly pleased at the turn of events.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she raised her chemise to a tantalising level, took one of the hose and arched her toes into it. Then she drew it slowly up over her calf, watching Oliver all the time. When she reached her knee, she paused. 'How good a lady's maid are you?' she enquired, and dangled one of the binding ribbons at him.

'I have small experience, but large ambition and a great willingness to learn,' he answered with a grin and, taking the ribbon, accepted her invitation to slide the hose on to her thigh and bind it in place. Of course, as she had known, he could not resist exploring further. His fingertips were delicious, but she yelped at the prickle of his beard stubble.

'By the Virgin,' came Ethel's voice from without. 'I thought if I left you two alone last night, I'd at least have my house back by the morning!'

Oliver shot backwards and up, colliding with a bunch of drying herbs tied to the rafters. Aromatic scraps of leaf showered down on him. Catrin flailed for a moment like a cast-over crab, righted herself and dragged her undershift down over her knees.

Ethel unhooked the door and stumped into the room. 'God's bones, you've been so busy kindling your own fire, you've let mine go out too!' she snorted, and cast her gimlet eye over the couple. There was a gleam in her expression, but Catrin could sense the old woman's irritation.

So too, it seemed, could Oliver. He had already been wearing his shirt and braies. Now he quickly donned his tunic and chausses, and set about rescuing the fire from the brink of extinction. Catrin flashed him a rueful glance and pulled on her dress.

'If you're going to live here, best find a space for a pallet of your own,' Ethel muttered, sitting down on her stool and glowering at the embers. 'If, of course, you've thought that far.' Her tone was so crotchety that Catrin wondered if she had misread Ethel's earlier attempts at being matchmaker.

'To be honest, neither of us have thought much beyond the moment,' Oliver replied mildly enough, but his eyes were wary as he gently piled dry twigs upon the embers.

'Hah, then you should.'

'In our own good time,' Catrin said with a frown.

Ethel chewed her lips and scowled. 'Time and tide wait for no man - and no woman neither,' she retorted ominously.

Oliver blew gently on the fire and soon tiny flames were licking and crackling around the twigs. Leaving it to gain hold, he fetched a folded-up bundle from the corner of the room and presented it to Ethel. 'What's this?'

'Your Twelfth-night gift, but I thought you should have it now to sweeten your mood. I'm sorry if we kept you from your bed last night.'

She gave him a severe look. 'I'll not be bought,' she said, but began unfolding it all the same, waving him aside with a tetchy 'I can manage,' as he stooped to help her.

Casting a glance heavenwards, Catrin swung the cauldron over the new fire. Ethel was always grouchy in the mornings but she seemed to be uncommonly so today.

Oliver had bought the old lady a mantle of fine, soft, green wool. It was warmer than a cloak for it was donned over the head, the full drapes of fabric falling to the front and back. Nor did Ethel have to fumble with a cloak pin to secure it.

'You stand need to buy me fripperies like this when your own cloak is nigh on threadbare,' Ethel said gruffly, the suspicion of a glitter in her eyes.

'The Countess has promised me a new cloak as my own Twelfth-night gift,' Oliver shrugged. 'And for escorting the Empress, I'm to receive an extra day's pay. Don't go looking gift horses in the mouth.'

'Aye, then thank you, lad, but I still say you've more money than sense.'

'And you have more pride,' Oliver retorted, and this time made her sit still while he unpinned her cloak and gently drew the mantle over her head.

Ethel's good hand stroked the soft, green wool. 'Your father would be proud of you,' she murmured. 'He always set store by seeing those who depended on him clothed and fed, God rest his soul.'

'Amen,' Oliver said, thinking that his father's soul would have small rest whilst a Flemish mercenary sat in his hall. Every time the usurpers visited the church, they would trample on his grave.

The water in the cauldron started to steam and Catrin made them all an infusion of elderberry and rosehip, sweetened with honey. Ethel took the first, warming swallow and, closing her eyes, sighed.

'Shall I tell you why I'm being a cantankerous old woman?'

'I had scarce noticed any different,' Oliver said flippantly, then sobered as her gaze opened on him with a spark of warning. 'I thought it was because of Catrin and me - because we had stolen your bed and become lovers?'

Ethel shook her head. 'Don't be so foolish. I've been hoping for that since the day you told me about her. It's been all I could do sometimes to stop myself from knocking your two stubborn heads together. No, what's set me on edge is that foolish young adjutant of yours.'

'Gawin?'

'Aye, Gawin.' Her tone was eloquent. 'He's been bedding one o' the Countess's women and got her with child.'

Oliver's eyes widened and his jaw dropped. Catrin ceased patting out oatcakes for the griddle and stared. 'It's Rohese de Bayvel, isn't it?'

Ethel sucked her teeth. 'Saw them together last night and they was arguing like cat and dog. She was all for calling him to account and he was having none of it. Soused as a pickled herring he was, but that ain't no excuse for the way he treated the lass, forcing her to her knees in the snow and calling her a slut. She might be a haughty bitch but she deserves better than he gave last night.'

Oliver sighed. 'I'll speak with him as soon as I've broken my fast, for what good it will do. You know his morals where women are concerned.'

'Speaking's no good,' Ethel said sourly. 'Just take him by the scruff and dunk him in the nearest horse-trough. That's what he deserves.'

Gawin looked blearily at Oliver. 'It's none of your business,' he said belligerently. 'I'm only seconded to you, you're not my feudal lord.' His breath was heavy and sour and he was still drunk.

Around them, the hall was groaning to life, everyone sluggish and the worse for wine. It would be the same again on the morrow, and the morrow after that, all the way to the twelfth and last day of the Christmas feast.

'If I was, your back would be flayed raw,' Oliver replied coldly. They were sitting at the trestle near the door. A freezing draught fluttered the rushes on the floor and helped to dispel the vinegary stench of stale wine. 'Rohese de Bayvel is not some Shambles whore you can toss a coin and forget. She's one of the Countess's own maids.'

'I know that.' Gawin's voice was an irritated snarl. He pushed his fingers through his hair.

'From what Ethel overheard last night, I would doubt it.'

'Look, she pursued me.' Gawin gestured impatiently. 'Good God, she even put one of that hag's disgusting love philtres in my drink.' He glared at Oliver. 'If you push me, I will claim that I was bewitched, and then see what happens to yonder midwife and her assistant.'

Oliver saw red. Seizing Gawin by the tunic, he drew him face-to-face. 'If anything happens to Ethel or Catrin, you will pay the reckoning to me, in blood. If you cannot tell honour from shame, I do not want you riding at my side!' Throwing Gawin down, he strode from the hall into the clean air of the bailey where he leaned against the forebuilding wall, breathing hard, mastering his fury.

When Gawin was sober and had his nose to the grindstone, Oliver would have trusted him with his life. But given leisure and a cup, the young man's personality degenerated with alarming speed. Usually his follies were set right with a handful of silver and a visit to the confessional, but getting Rohese de Bayvel with child and then spurning her was a different matter entirely - as was the petty, vindictive threat against Ethel and Catrin. Oliver was not sure that he could forgive him for that.

The Earl's younger squires and pages were out in the bailey having a boisterous snowball fight. As his breathing slowed, Oliver became aware of them; the flung snow, the joyful shouts. Thomas FitzRainald and Richard were part of the throng and playing their part to the hilt. A half-grown tan mastiff lolloped between the boys chasing the missiles and tossing lumps of snow between its black jaws. Oliver was spied and became an immediate target for both dog and boys. Sweeping up his own ball, he answered vigorously, flinging the last of his anger from him, before he retreated behind raised hands, begging for mercy and spluttering on showered snow.

The dog jumped up at him, barking and scrabbling with blunt claws. Richard grasped its collar and dragged the animal down. 'His name's Finn,' he said. 'Earl Robert gave him to me for a Christmas gift. He's even allowed to sleep with me in the dorter.'

Oliver dutifully admired the brute, slapping its taut, golden hide, and wiping his hands on his cloak after it slobbered upon him. He accepted that dogs had their role to play in castle life, but he was not particularly fond of them, much preferring the independent aloofness of the cats that stalked the kitchens and stables and occasionally found houseroom as pets. Still, if Robert had given the pup to the boy, it was a mark of how seriously he was treating the blood bond between them.

Richard turned to run back to his snow game but paused and looked hesitantly at Oliver. 'Will you come with me later to visit my mother's grave and lay a wreath of evergreen?'

Oliver was touched. 'Of course I will, lad. I'm glad that you think of her.'

Richard shrugged. 'It's my duty,' he said, then redeemed himself by adding, 'I don't want her to be lonely.'

There was a hint of forlornness in the boy's voice that told Oliver more than words. 'We'll pray for her.' He squeezed Richard's shoulder. 'I know that if she were here, she would be very proud of you.'

Richard nodded and squirmed, embarrassed by the sudden moment of intimacy. Pulling away from Oliver, he ran to join the others, his dog gambolling at his side.

Oliver watched them for a moment, then made his way across the bailey to Ethel's dwelling. Richard's mention of his mother's grave made him think of Emma's. Was it still attended, or had the passage of time and the new Flemish lord caused it to be neglected and forgotten? A pang went through him, wistful and forlorn like the boy's. But in the same manner he was also aware of the life flowing in his veins. How could he not be after the previous night? Head up, a curve to his lips, he approached the small house.