The Love Knot (29 page)

'I have sent for you to look at a wound on Lord Stephen's wrist,' Robert announced, and gestured to one of the guards.

The soldier produced a key and unlocked the right manacle.

'Not afraid that I'll make a bid for freedom, are you?' Stephen mocked, a twist to his mouth.

Robert looked uncomfortable, and his eyes flickered away from his captive. 'No, I am not, but it is my sister's wish, and I abide by her ruling.'

'Ah, Robert, would you jump over a cliff if she so desired?' Stephen opened and closed his fist in relief at being free of the iron, no matter how briefly. 'But perhaps you already have,' he added.

Robert wriggled his shoulders as if at an actual, physical discomfort. 'I will not bandy words with you,' he said. 'I am sorry for your chains, but you will not otherwise have reason for complaint at my hands.' He nodded to Catrin, who had been observing the interplay between the two men, noting all that went unsaid between their words. 'Tend to Lord Stephen, Catrin, and see that you are thorough.'

Catrin inclined her head in deference but was stung to retort, 'I know of no other way, my lord.'

Stephen snorted with amusement. Robert turned abruptly to the window embrasure, his hands tapping behind his back in nervous impatience. Catrin took Stephen's wrist to examine the abrasion. It was raw and cruel where the sharp iron edge had gouged, and she shook her head over the wound. Now she was closer to him, she could see other marks on his body - those of the battle of Lincoln, she surmised. Even his most vehement detractors respected him for his bravery and prowess on the field. There was a fading bruise on his cheekbone in hues of purple, blue and yellow, and an almost healed cut on his lip. She could not feel sorry for him, but she could feel compassion. She also found that she liked him far more than the haughty Empress Mathilda. But then, as Oliver said, that was half the problem. Where Mathilda instilled loyalty, it was fierce, as in Earl Robert's case, but there were too few disciples and she would not set herself out to win others.

'This will hurt,' she warned. 'I have to clean the wound and make sure that there is no rust in it.'

'You cannot hurt me any more than I have been hurt already,' Stephen replied and gave her a smile that deepened her liking for him all the more. She had heard that he was devoted to his wife, Maude of Boulogne, and Catrin thought it a good thing: otherwise he would likely have as many bastard offspring as the old king.

Catrin cleansed the abrasion and, although he stiffened, he did not flinch or cry out. She anointed his wrist with Ethel's salve and then bound the area with soft linen bandages. 'If you are to wear a manacle again, then it should be of a lighter weight and filed smooth,' she said, addressing Stephen but pitching her voice towards Earl Robert.

He swung round from the embrasure and looked at her with frowning eyes. 'Do not presume to meddle,' he said.

Catrin lowered her glance. 'I would never do that, my lord, but you did ask me to tend Lord Stephen, and when I spoke it was as a healer. If the wound continues to chafe and rub, it will become a weeping sore and wound-fever might set in.'

The Earl bit his thumbnail, and then gestured brusquely. 'See to it,' he growled at the guard with the manacle key.

'My lord.' The soldier bowed and left the chamber.

Again Stephen smiled at Catrin. 'My thanks,' he said. 'You are an angel to offer me comfort in purgatory. If I could reward you, I would.'

He was quite the courtier too, Catrin thought. She could not imagine Empress Mathilda finding kind words for what she would consider her due in the same circumstances.

'I will need to return on the morrow, my lord,' she addressed Earl Robert. 'The wound must be tended and dressed with fresh ointment.'

'As you will.' Robert gave her a coin from his pouch. 'Since I did not see Oliver in the hall last night, I assume he was with you.'

'Yes, my lord.' Catrin reddened, aware that Stephen was watching her with amused interest.

'Then send him to me. I've tasks for him.' He waved his hand in dismissal.

Catrin dipped another curtsey and made her grateful escape into the cold, clean air of the stairwell.

Oliver's tasks involved delivering messages to Gloucester and several of Earl Robert's holdings in Monmouthshire. Then he was commanded to scour the countryside for as many remounts as possible to replace those lost during the march to Lincoln and the subsequent battle. It was the day after the feast of Saint Valentine when he received the orders. The Empress was preparing to leave her Gloucester base for Cirencester and then Winchester.

'So you're not bringing the horses back to Bristol?' Catrin asked, as he marched around the shelter stuffing a clean shirt and tunic in his saddle roll and leaving behind his old shirt for Agatha to wash. Her voice was careful and she managed to keep the worst of the disappointment to herself.

'No. I've to find the horses and bring them on to our camp, wherever it might be.' He curled his lip. 'It will be like seeking for snow in July. People who have animals will hide them the moment they hear of my approach, or else they'll try and sell them for an outrageous price. The war has already taken the best beasts. Naught but nags remain.'

'Can you not tell the Earl?'

'Oh, he knows it already. It is his sister who refuses to listen.'

Catrin narrowed her eyes. The more she heard and saw of the Empress Mathilda, the more she disliked her. Even her sympathy for a woman's struggle in a man's world was wearing thin. 'Then no one will have time for her in the end,' she said, and handed him his hood which had been lying under the basket of linen laundry awaiting Agatha's collection.

Oliver shook his head. 'We do our best with what we have,' he said grimly. 'Look, I have to go. Geoffrey FitzMar's coming with me and I don't know where he is.' Pulling her close, he kissed her hard and she kissed him back, her fingers tangling for a moment in his wheatsheaf hair.

'Have a care to yourself.'

'And you,' he added, with wry meaning and a glance at her satchel where lay the knife he had given her last winter.

'Of course.' Her lips still tingling from the force of the kiss, she watched him stride off across the bailey and then, with a small sigh, turned to her own tasks.

Five minutes later, Richard dropped by, his young alaunt gambolling at his side, and begged one of the honey sweetmeats that Ethel had always kept in an earthenware jar for his visits.

The last batch, made by Ethel the week before her death, was almost all gone, and Catrin realised that she would have to continue the tradition and make some more. The sight of the few sticky golden lumps in the bottom of the jar made her blink and bite her lip. The boy sat for a moment on the stool by the fire. Cheek bulging, he fondled the hound's muzzle.

'If I go back to the hall, the Earl will only find me something else to do,' he said, looking aggrieved. 'I've been a pack mule all morning. I hate it on the day before an army moves.'

'But if you shirk your duties, someone else will have to do double,' Catrin pointed out.

'Only for a short while, and probably Thomas. I helped him with a load of shields earlier.' He swapped cheeks and sucked loudly. 'I'll go back when I've finished this.'

She offered him the jar. 'Best take the last two then, one for you and one for Thomas.'

He started to delve in, then raised his head and stared. Catrin turned round.

'Seen Oliver anywhere?' asked Randal de Mohun. He was leaning against the doorpost, one hand on his hip, the other braced on the wood.

Fear flashed through Catrin, but she stiffened her spine. 'He went to the hall,' she said, without expression.

De Mohun looked her up and down, and Catrin tightened her grip on the sweetmeat jar and thought about striking him with it - although it would be a pity to damage the attractive yellow glaze. Godard had gone to his lodging so there was no rescue from his reassuring bulk. The young mastiff growled, showing his teeth at the mercenary.

'That's what I like about this particular hearth,' de Mohun said, 'always a warm welcome.' Grinning, he uncoiled from the doorpost and walked away across the bailey. An involuntary shiver rippled down Catrin's spine.

'Who was that?' Richard demanded.

His tone was peculiar - thin and frightened. Catrin looked at him and saw that his face was ashen and his eyes so wide that the pupils were entirely ringed with white.

'His name's Randal de Mohun and he's a mercenary. What's the matter?'

'I remember him from Penfoss,' Richard said faintly. 'He was their leader.'

Catrin stared at him and felt as if she had been drinking ice. 'What makes you so sure?'

'His tunic. I recognised his tunic. It belonged to Lord Aimery, and they stripped it from his body before they cut his throat. I remember the red braid. My mother sewed it on for him not two weeks before and there was enough left over to trim my hat.' He rummaged in the pouch on his belt and produced a somewhat squashed and worse-for-wear phrygian cap. Sure enough, grubby but discernible, the opening was trimmed with the same braid. But he need not have shown her; Catrin could quite clearly recall Amice stitching both tunic and cap. She knew now why de Mohun's clothing had seemed so familiar.

'They might have sold the tunic,' she said, trying to be fair even through her revulsion. 'De Mohun's horse is a bay and his shield is blue. The man we saw rode a chestnut and his shield was green.' As she spoke, Ethel's warning rang in her ears: Beware a man on a bay horse. Nausea churned her stomach, not least at the thought that he was, or had been, Oliver's friend.

'Perhaps he sold them instead, or perhaps the horse was injured and the shield damaged and he had to get rid of them. It's always happening to the Earl. He's resting up his Lincoln destrier because of a foreleg strain and he'll have to ride out on the morrow with his second-string dun.'

'But de Mohun would not sell his bridle and saddle,' Catrin said. 'Do you remember his saddle-cloth? It was made of black and white cowhide. Two proofs are more damning than one.'

They gazed at each other. 'We could always go and look at his equipment,' Richard said. 'It would not take long, and then we'd know for sure. He won't be at his camp, he's gone to find Oliver in the hall.'

Against her better judgement, but driven by a need to know, Catrin donned her cloak, grabbed her satchel and went to the door. 'No,' she said, as Richard began to follow her. 'Go and fetch Godard and tell him to come to me.'

'But . . .'

'Quickly now.' She shooed him out in front of her, and as he ran off, the dog bounding at his heels, she took her own more pensive route towards the mercenary horse-lines.

Many of the soldiers knew her by now. She and Ethel had tended their women, and being a midwife, with women's secrets at her fingertips, guaranteed her a certain amount of protection. That she was known to have dealings with the Earl's wife and was betrothed to a disinherited knight counted in her favour too. Some of the comments made as she passed were ribald, but cheerfully so, and Catrin forced herself to retort in kind with a mock tilting of her nose and an admonishing finger.

De Mohun's serjeant was in camp and he watched her approach with narrowed eyes. She told him that she had been sent by de Mohun himself to look at a saddle sore on his mount's withers.

'First I know of it,' said the grizzle-haired mercenary suspiciously.

'He came especially to see me on his way to the hall,' Catrin answered steadily enough, although her heart was in her mouth. 'How else would I know where he was going?'

'Aye, well, the beast is there.' The man gestured brusquely to the tall, bay stallion.

Trying to appear calm and authoritative, Catrin approached the horse. It rolled its eyes and sidled. 'How long has Sir Randal had him?'

The soldier shrugged. 'Since last midsummer.'

'And before that?' She walked around the bay, pretending to look. A flicker of her eyes revealed a bridle and saddle to one side, protected from the ground by a folded-up blanket.

'Why do you want to know?'

'It's important for the charm to work.'

The man snorted, displaying what he thought of that notion. 'A chestnut with white markings,' he said.

'And did they wear the same saddle?'

The soldier rolled his eyes and gestured to the one in the corner. Catrin went over to it and bent down. The saddle-cloth peeped out from beneath the polished wood and leather - it was green with a border of red tassels.

Catrin stared, feeling disappointed. She had been so sure. She touched one of the tassels and then, to make it seem that she was conducting a necessary examination, she looked at the underside of the saddle-cloth.

'Something the matter?' enquired the soldier.

The cowhide was coarse against her thumb, black and white as she remembered it, but a little more bald with wear. 'No, nothing,' she said, and stood up, wiping her hand on her gown. 'Sir Randal used to have a green shield with a red cross, did he not?'

'What of it?'

'He did though, didn't he?'

The soldier gave a grudging nod. 'It got split in a fight,' he said. 'What is it to you?'

'I'll tell you what it is,' Randal de Mohun said, advancing to his horse-line, his movements casual and dangerous. 'It is meddling in affairs that are best left alone. Is that not so, Mistress midwife?'