The Love Knot (31 page)

In the hazy light of a late summer morning, a young man groomed his horse, vigorously working the curry comb until the stallion's dark bay hide gleamed like peat water. He was stripped to the waist and well aware of the admiring glances cast in his direction by two young washerwomen, who had lingered on their way from the stream to watch him. Being accustomed to such feminine scrutiny, he played them on his line, pretending that he had not noticed them and working his arm to show his taut musculature to its best advantage.

His black, shoulder-length hair framed classical features that were preserved from effeminacy by an angular jaw and a scar high on one cheekbone. He had the dark, narrow eyes and sinuous grace of a marten, and his ready smile had opened more doors and charmed him beneath more skirts than he could remember.

He heard the women giggle and exchange loud whispers as they sought to draw his attention. Turning from the horse, he stooped to pick up his shirt and, still pretending ignorance, faced them. He knew full well that their eyes would go straight to the thin line of black pubic hair fuzzing above the drawstring of his braies, and the bulge on one side that spoke of a man well-endowed.

More gasps and giggles. He drew his shirt slowly over his head and knew that they were holding their breath, waiting for his braies to fall down or his penis to pop out of the top. The game was his; he was in control, and the women, although they fed his conceit, were of no importance. Indeed, women were only of importance when they were unavailable, and such a situation was rare.

He pulled the shirt down and tucked it inside his braies, making sure that he handled himself in front of the women, giving them a hint of what they were missing. Then, tired of the game, he donned his tunic and gambeson and led the horse down to the stream.

To his lord, William d'Ypres, Master of Kent, he was Louis de Grosmont, the grandson of a Norman border nobleman. To his men, he was Louis le Loup - the wolf - a name they liked because it rolled easily off the tongue and well-described their leader's hungry nature. They sometimes called him Louis le Colp too, in honour of the size of his manhood and his propensity for thrusting it into every sheath that came his way. Only Ewan, who had been with him in the early days, remembered him as Lewis, son of Ogier, common soldier in the Chepstow garrison and grandson of a groom; but since Ewan's identity and reputation had risen and changed as much, those days were seldom recalled. Louis had the instinct of being in the right place at the right time, a trait that had served him well during the past four years. William d'Ypres, captain of Stephen's mercenaries, had employed him among his household knights and bestowed upon him many a favour, including the costly dark bay stallion ruffling the stream with his muzzle.

Louis cupped the cold running water in his palm and splashed his face. He let the bay drink, but not too much, and returned to his horse-line to finish arming up. The laundry women had moved on, and Ewan was supervising the striking of camp. He was a small, dour Welshman; sallow of complexion, dark of eye, and horribly, and incongruously, bright red of hair.

'Ready, my lord,' he said, as Louis jumped up and down to help his mail tunic slink over his body and then donned his helm. 'We'll be dining in Winchester tonight, eh?'

'We might,' Louis said, and adjusted his swordbelt of decorated buckskin with its pattern on interlaced gilding. Everything about him spoke of wealth and exquisite taste. The best or nothing was Louis's philosophy on life. Why eat bread and be virtuous when there were delicacies and decadence to be had for the grabbing?

Those delicacies had been few since the battle of Lincoln, but his instinct had advised him to stay where he was. The tide which had turned in the Empress's favour had not swept everything before it and perhaps even now was changing. Which was why they were here in Winchester with the army of Stephen's queen. Robert of Gloucester and the Empress were hemmed within the city where they in turn were besieging Stephen's brother, Bishop Henry, in his palace. The cat stalked the mouse and the dog stalked the cat.

'Ever think about changing allegiance now that King Stephen's in prison?'

Lips pursed, Louis swung into his saddle. The Welshman's suggestion ran parallel with his thoughts, for he had been assessing the odds and trying to decide whether to stay or make himself scarce. How hard was the battle for Winchester going to be? And who would be the victor? The question begged consideration. 'What man in his senses would not think?' he said with a shrug. 'But there is small point in being too hasty. Wait and see how fortunes fare.'

Ewan nodded and a sly grin broke across his face. 'Last time you had to die before you could begin afresh.' *

Louis grunted and said nothing, but his mind flickered briefly to the time four years ago on the banks of the Monnow where Padarn ap Madoc had accused him of lying with his young wife and challenged him to combat. Louis had no desire to fight, but a very strong desire to survive. Padarn had died from a single knife wound in the chest and Louis had found it prudent to disappear, leaving evidence to suggest that he had drowned - the Welsh being notorious for their vigour in pursuing blood feuds. It was not a conscious decision, more an effort to put distance between himself and Chepstow, which had brought him to
Kent
- from west to east. Along the way, he had been adopted by Ewan, himself a fugitive from Welsh law and a Chepstow man into the bargain. They knew each other; they had things in common and things to hide.

Neither of them ever thought of returning to their native haunts. It was too dangerous. Ewan was of a nomad nature and Louis had a desire to be cock of a larger dunghill than the one awaiting him at home. His wings had been clipped by the monotony of garrison duty and the boredom of domestic routine with a wife who, although delightful, had no special tether to hold him, and who on occasion could be a nuisance with her demands on his affection and fidelity.

He thought of Catrin now, the wide hazel eyes, not quite brown, not quite green. The satin-black hair, the soft lips and the way they could tighten with displeasure or twitch with amusement. He had been fond of her . . . but not fond enough. Women were like food. They might taste different, but they all served the same purpose. He could get what he wanted from any he chose, without being bound to a single one. He wondered how hard she had grieved for him. It was an interesting thought, but one that intruded on his current need to decide how best to avoid becoming involved in a pitched battle.

'You always were a contrary wench, Catty,' he said aloud, making Ewan gaze at him askance. 'Nothing.' He shook his head and smiled ruefully. 'A memory from the time before I was dead.'

Louis was slender and not particularly tall, but it put him at no disadvantage when matched with other men for he was also wiry, fast and cunning. Such traits in mind, William d'Ypres bade him take his men out of line and ride reconnaissance along the Stockbridge road to the west of the city, to keep watch for valuable escapees, chief amongst them the Empress herself. To reach Andover, she would have to ride that way and negotiate the wooden bridge lying across the river Teste.

'There will be rich rewards for such a capture,' said d'Ypres, a cynical smile curving beneath his moustache, for while he valued Louis de Grosmont and recognised his talents, he also recognised the young man's acquisitiveness and knew his limitations. Louis was a hellion with a sword - but only to save his life or amass greater wealth.

Louis returned the smile in the same vein, showing that he understood perfectly, and saluted. 'Not so much as a mouse will cross our path unnoticed, my lord.' He swung the bay out of line, his arm sweeping in a gesture that summoned his men from the main body of troops. D'Ypres spared time to briefly raise his eyebrows before directing soldiers to cover the other main roads out of the city.

Smiling to himself, Louis set spurs to his mount's flanks. The task suited him well. He would nail his gaze to the road and stop anyone of substance riding along it, even if it involved a fight. But, if the assault on Winchester was unsuccessful and their own army was forced to flee, Louis had no intention of remaining at his post. At the first sign of disaster he would run and, if necessary, find an excuse for it later.

'Christ on the Cross!' Oliver wasted breath to swear, and parried a blow with the blade of his sword. He had lost his shield, but so too had his opponent, a frightened, but determined, young Fleming. The chaos of battle clashed around them. Earl Robert's knights were fighting a desperate rearguard action, bearing the brunt of the assault so that the Empress could flee to safety with her guard.

Oliver knew that they were buying time dearly; that they too should be running while they still had a chance. They were the only ones left. David of Scotland had fled, and Miles of Gloucester had seen his soldiers melt like butter beneath the hot stab of a Flemish knife.

Oliver aimed another cut at the youngster, a backhand blow at the right collarbone. Break that and the sword arm was disabled. The Fleming had expected the blow to come forehand to the left side, and the full power of Oliver's arm caught him square. He screamed. His guard fell and the sword dropped from his fingers. Oliver whirled Hero and spurred him back several yards to join Geoffrey FitzMar in the circle of knights protecting Earl Robert. There was no question of holding their position for long. They were too greatly outnumbered by men thirsting to avenge the battle of Lincoln and hot with indignation that King Stephen should be held in chains like a common felon.

Fighting, running, fighting, the Flemish mercenaries of

William d'Ypres nipping at their heels, Earl Robert and the remnants of his household knights retreated up the road towards the ford of the river Teste at Stockbridge. They were hoping against hope that it was either unguarded or so lightly manned that they could force their way across.

'I begin to wonder why I never took up life as a hermit!' Geoffrey gasped, as a crossbow quarrel whined past his helm.

'You wanted a life of lust and adventure!' Oliver replied, and spurred his flagging grey. Behind him, footsoldiers were discarding their armour the faster to run, and all thoughts of saving the baggage wains had long since been abandoned.

'I renounce it gladly. Go on, you nag!' Geoffrey struck his horse on the rump with the flat of his sword and the animal grunted and strained, foam flying from the bit. 'He's not going to last another mile. I . . . Sweet Christ!' He swept the bay to a standstill and stared in dismay at the road before them.

Oliver slewed to a halt. Their way was blocked by a troop of soldiers, their horses fresh, their armour and weapons fired by the golden September light. They had formed up for a charge, stirrup-to-stirrup, lances couched. 'It will take more than "Sweet Christ" to save us now,' Oliver panted, and braced his aching forearm. 'We are caught like grain between two millstones.' With pinpoint clarity, he fixed his gaze on the apparent leader of the new threat. He rode a magnificent dark bay destrier and his equipment was of the best. Here was no rag-tag Fleming but a hand-picked man in charge of other men similarly chosen. Suddenly the option was no longer to escape but to survive.

The young lord on the bay kicked his horse into a trot and approached them alone. He turned his mount side-on as he reached them, controlling the beast with hands that were slender, fine-boned and filled with lean strength. He had a thin, handsome face and eyes so dark that they were almost black. Beneath his gambeson, a tunic of dark crimson flashed, edged with gold embroidery. Not just hand-picked, Oliver thought, but of high nobility too.

'My name is Louis de Grosmont,' he shouted in a rich, carrying voice. 'I serve King Stephen and William d'Ypres,

Lord of
Kent
. My trade is bloodshed, but it is also diplomacy. If you will surrender, I will see that you are honourably treated. If not . . .' He gave a shrug and a half-smile that showed a hint of fine white teeth. 'If not, then I will see you honourably buried.' He gestured to the men behind him fretting their mounts.

Oliver heard the clamour of close pursuit and knew that they could not fight their way out, they were trapped like rats in a catcher's wheel. Perhaps they would take a few of the opposition with them when they died, but it would be a gesture as worthless as any in the war.

Earl Robert glanced over his shoulder and, as the chasing soldiers came into view, bowed to the inevitable, if not to the knight confronting him. Reversing the sword in his hand, he gave it hilt-first into the slender grasp of Louis de Grosmont. 'I am Robert de Caen, Earl of Gloucester,' he said. 'And I yield to you, but not because of your threat. If you killed me, I doubt you would live to see me "honourably buried".'