The Love Knot (23 page)

'You know how to protect yourself, girl?' Ethel demanded, once Oliver had gone. 'I don't think for one moment that he's like yon young wastrel, but it's best not to bear a babe unless you're sure you want to.'

'Yes, I know.' Catrin managed not to sound impatient. 'Sheep's wool or moss soaked in vinegar. Besides, it's not as if I'm blessed with fertility. I was wed to Lewis for a year and a half and never once did I miss a flux.'

'Hmph, t'aint always the woman's fault.'

'I know that.' Catrin smoothed the crimson gown beneath her fingers and looked at the grain of the fabric. 'But I know that my former husband's seed was fertile because he confessed to me that he had got one of the kitchen maids at Chepstow with child - although she miscarried in the third month.' She raised her head and gave Ethel a look both candid and sad. 'He found it difficult to resist a pretty face, and they, most certainly, had few defences against him. He could have charmed the very birds down from the trees had he so chosen.' Suddenly there was heat behind her eyes. How foolish to be mourning Lewis when she should be rejoicing that she had Oliver. 'Let the past lie,' she said with a toss of her head, 'I take your advice to heart and I will be careful.' Surreptitiously she rubbed her eyes, but Ethel was sharp and saw.

'I doubt such a man is worth weeping for,' she said.

'I'm not weeping. It's the smoke from the fire.'

'Oh, aye, it is that,' Ethel said with double meaning that caused Catrin to flounce on her stool.

Unrepentant, Ethel sucked her teeth. 'So tell me, will Oliver move his pallet in here or will you go to him?'

'It is too early to make a decision like that.' Ethel was making her feel ever more defensive. Catrin would neither be led nor pushed. Her own free will or nothing. Between her and Oliver there was respect, liking and sheer, honest lust, but it was too new, too soon.

Her face must have shown her thoughts, for Ethel ceased to badger her, saying only, 'You are the daughter I never bore. I want to see you settled and happy.' 'Of which I am both - Mother.'

Ethel gave a tired smile and patted Catrin's cheek. 'I think I'll rest for a while.' She went to lie down on her pallet.

Catrin watched her with a mingling of affection, exasperation and concern.

She knew that Ethel was failing. The unspoken knowledge lay between them, but not for one moment would the old lady admit that each day was becoming more of a struggle. Ethel too was stubborn and in that, indeed, they were as mother and daughter.

Catrin leaned forward to mend the fire and add two more pieces of split log. A shadow darkened the entrance. Glancing up, a welcome on her lips for either Oliver or Godard, she was surprised and alarmed to see a different man blocking her light. He was not one that she had noticed before, but then she paid small heed to the Earl's mercenaries except to be cautious of them and keep her distance.

He was taller than Oliver with thick, black hair and beard, the latter salted with grey. Attractive creases defined his eye-corners and his lips were thin, cruel and sensual. He wore a rust-streaked gambeson and beneath it a tunic of very fine blue wool with a hem of red and gold braid. The design on the latter looked familiar, but there were several braid weavers in Bristol who had their own personal colours and patterns.

Catrin stood up and dusted chips of bark from her hands. 'Can I help you, sir?' Usually it was women who came to her and Ethel. Soldiers were a rarity, for which she was glad. His height and the way he looked at her as if she was a morsel to be devoured, were intimidating.

He showed his bandaged right hand. 'A dog bit me and the wound is festering,' he said. 'I have heard that your healing skills are without compare in Bristol.'

'A dog?' With some misgiving, she gestured him over her threshold.

'One of the bitches in the hall.' He entered the dwelling, glanced round, and sat down before the fire, the brass tip of his scabbard scraping on the rushes. On the bed-bench, Ethel did not stir. 'How long ago?'

'Yesterday eve.' He glanced up at her. The look in his eyes clung to her like oil.

Catrin wanted to say that she could not help him and bid him leave, but since she had not even looked at the wound, it would have been a patent lie, and ousting him, she suspected, would not be as easy as inviting him in. Swallowing her misgivings, she asked for his hand and unwrapped the grubby linen bandage. Beneath his gambeson, the cuff of his tunic bore the same braid pattern as the hem, and again she was struck by an elusive sense of familiarity.

His hand was that of a seasoned soldier; its texture halfway to leather and marked with the stigmata of a swordsman's blisters. It was also marked at the moment by a nasty bite wound. The teeth had gouged deep and the whole area was red and inflamed. It looked unlike any dog bite that Catrin had seen before, but she held her tongue on that score.

'It needs to be cleaned,' she said, 'and then anointed with woundwort.'

He gestured brusquely for her to do so. As she turned away to inspect the stores of herbs, she knew that he was watching her, sizing her up like a wolf planning its next meal.

'I thought that wise-women were all old hags,' he said, when she came back to him and held open the jagged lips of the wound to receive a swabbing of strong, salt water. His tendons grew tight at the pain, but his face revealed none of it.

'Well, now you know differently.' Catrin's tone was as brusque as her motions. 'Oh, indeed I do.'

Tight-lipped, Catrin rubbed woundwort ointment into the injury, positive now that no animal had bitten him. The shape of the teeth, the angles were all wrong. She bound a fresh linen strip around his hand and tied it off neatly. 'You must try and keep it clean or it will fester.'

He flexed his palm. 'It's the slack season; I won't be wielding a sword for a while . . . well, not one of steel anyway.' Rising to his feet, he stood over Catrin. 'Well, Mistress Wise-woman, how much do I owe you?'

'A halfpenny is the usual fee.' She swallowed, hating the closeness.

'A halfpenny,' he repeated, and paid her a coin from his pouch. 'But I hazard that I am not a usual customer, sweetheart. Perhaps, since it is Christmas, I should give you a gift to honour the season.'

Catrin could see what was coming. Even as he took a step towards her, she took one back and grabbed the iron poker resting against the spit bar.

He stared at her, then he laughed with genuine amusement. 'Surely a small kiss is not cause for such fuss. I'll pay you the other half of the penny for it.'

'I sell healing, sir,' Catrin said icily, 'not myself.'

He snorted. 'Every woman has her price.'

'You could not afford mine.' Catrin tightened her grip on the poker.

He laughed again but this time the sound was unpleasant. 'What do you think you could do against me with that little stick? I could break your wrist with a single snap if I so chose.'

It was with the utter weakness of relief that Catrin saw Oliver walking up, and behind him, chopping-axe on shoulder, the massive form of Godard.

Sensing someone behind him, the mercenary turned, but to Catrin's dismay, instead of making himself scarce, he threw open his arms and embraced Oliver heartily, slapping his back. 'Pascal, you whoreson! Where have you been lying low!'

Catrin watched Oliver return the embrace with considerably less enthusiasm, his entire body stiff and the smile on his face strained. But nevertheless, it was a smile. 'Nowhere. I've been on the Earl's business. And you, Randal?' His eyes went to Catrin and she gave an infinitesimal shake of her head.

The mercenary shrugged. 'Got bitten by a dog, so I had the wench here take a look at it.' He grinned. 'Her charity's as cold as an arse on a winter latrine though. Threatened me with that poker when I offered her the compliments of the season.'

'It was no compliment, but an insult,' Catrin said with revulsion.

'How can that be? Every pretty woman expects to be kissed more than once beneath the mistletoe.' He flashed his eyes at her and grinned.

Oliver pushed past Randal de Mohun and joined Catrin. Godard began to split some fresh logs for the fire, one eye cocked for trouble. 'Not this one,' Oliver said tersely. 'I will warn you now that she is under my protection and her life is mine.'

The mercenary stared at him with narrowing eyes. Oliver stared coldly back, and the tension bristled between the two men like a wall of spines. Then de Mohun shrugged. 'And your life is mine, Pascal, or have you forgotten the road to Jerusalem?'

'I forget nothing, but I'll not have you calling in the debt for every petty whim and fancy. There are women aplenty in Bristol if that be your need.'

'But this one is too good for me, is that what you're saying?'

'I am saying that she does not appear to want you.'

'Women never know what they want,' said the mercenary with scorn. Then he shrugged and a forced, white grin appeared beneath his moustache. 'It is the feast of Saint Stephen, our beloved King - a lost cause if ever there was one. I won't quarrel with you on this day and, besides, my sword hand is out of commission.'

Oliver regarded him stonily.

'But I warn you,' de Mohun wagged a finger, 'taking waifs and strays under your wing is a dangerous occupation, especially when you prefer them over old comrades to whom you owe your very life.'

'I'd rather live with the danger.'

Still grinning, with contempt now, de Mohun shook his head and turned away. 'You're a self-righteous fool, Pascal. No woman's worth it, even on her back. Seek me out when you come to your senses and we'll share a flagon at The Mermaid.' He touched his temple in farewell. 'Since I'm generous at heart, I'll leave you to enjoy your waif in peace.'

He took off across the ward, his stride jaunty and arrogant.

Catrin shuddered. 'Who is he, Oliver?'

He grimaced. 'You remember I spoke in the summer about a band of mercenaries who happened upon us digging graves at Penfoss and stopped to help? Well, that is their leader, Randal de Mohun.'

'The one who saved your life when you were a pilgrim?' She recalled the conversation very well, since it had almost ended in a quarrel, with Oliver defending de Mohun's reputation. At the time, he had told her not to judge. Now that she had had opportunity she found little to commend.

'Unfortunately, yes.' His expression hardened. 'The years have not improved him. When I knew him in the Holy Land, he was not so brutish.

'There is something familiar about him,' she murmured with a frown, 'but I don't know what, and it disturbs me.'

'He's been employed by the Earl since midsummer and, like me, in and out of Bristol all the time. You have probably seen him in passing. He will not trouble you again, that I promise.'

Catrin smiled without humour. 'Another of your "promises"?

'Do I not always keep them?' He slipped his arm around her waist and drew her hip-to-hip against him. Then he smoothed the frown from her brow with the tip of his finger and kissed her. Beneath his lips, hers curved into a smile and, for a moment, the world blurred at the edges.

Catrin pressed against Oliver, taking refuge from her anxiety in physical sensation until both of them were hot and gasping. Unfortunately, there was no bed to hand, unless they went looking for an unoccupied hay loft, and it was too cold a day to make love against a wall or spread a cloak in the fields. By mutual consent they broke apart. Holding her hand, Oliver sat on Ethel's stool before the fire and drew her on to his lap. She wriggled playfully and he squeezed her buttocks, but it was an ending, rather than a prelude, to their sport, for they were both aware of the sleeping old woman. Not that Ethel would have been much shocked, but she needed her rest, and they were loath to disturb her.

'Did you speak to Gawin?' Catrin left his knee to pour them each a cup of mead.

Oliver sighed. 'Yes, for what good it did. He was still in his cups and not inclined to pay any heed. Indeed, he went so far as to say that if I pushed him, he would claim that he had been bewitched by Ethel's potions.'

'But that's not true!' Catrin flashed a look over her shoulder, but Ethel slept on oblivious, the coverlet drawn up to her withered cheek. 'There's nothing in her love philtres that could cause anyone to be bewitched. It's only rose petals and cinnamon steeped in water. What nonsense!'

'That depends on your belief,' Oliver said. 'I told her that it was dangerous to meddle in such things.'

'Do you think Gawin believes?' Catrin asked shortly.

'Of course not, it is just a convenient excuse to abstain from responsibility for his actions.' He took the drink that she handed him and made a dismissive gesture. 'It was the wine talking. I threatened him with death in return and told him what I thought of his character. Whether it will be of any benefit once he sobers, or have no more effect than water off a duck's back, remains to be seen.'

Avoiding the temptation of Oliver's lap, Catrin sat in the straw at his feet and, cupping her hands around the hot mead, gazed into the red heart of the fire. 'I feel sorry for Rohese,' she murmured.

'I thought you disliked her.'

Catrin looked at him. 'That does not mean I cannot have compassion for her situation. I admit we have not been friends, but I don't hate her. Countess Mabile will likely send her to a convent for the birth and then to live as a penitent for the rest of her life. Unless Rohese has a vocation, her life will be a living hell.' She shook her head and her lips were twisted, as if the sweet mead had suddenly turned to vinegar in her mouth. 'Men such as Gawin act on their lust and think later, if they think at all. My husband was a little like Gawin, I know the kind.'