The Love Knot (32 page)

The young man took the sword and held it to the light, admiring its quality. 'I doubt it too,' he said, but there was a gleam in his eyes, and if he had been a cat he would have been licking cream from his whiskers.

Seventy miles away in Bristol, Catrin was in the women's chambers, sewing her wedding gown with Edon to help her. Countess Mabile had given her a bolt of finely woven, mulberry-coloured wool, and a bag full of seed pearls with which to trim the sleeves, throat and hem. Not that her wedding was any closer than it had been four months ago. The Empress's gathering of support was a protracted affair. London remained loyal to Stephen's queen, and now the Bishop of Winchester, whose backing was vital to Mathilda, had grown lukewarm. He was King Stephen's brother and his loyalties blew with the direction of the wind.

Messengers rode in and out of Bristol every day, bringing news to the Countess and to the men whose task it was to keep the Earl's administration running smoothly. Sometimes Oliver would appear with demands for supplies, but it was never for more than a day. There was scarcely even time to speak to each other, let alone consider the matter of a wedding.

'But surely they will all be home soon,' Edon said with a sigh in her voice. 'They have been at war all summer long. Geoffrey says that Stephen's supporters will have to accept Mathilda in the end.'

Catrin pulled a face, and not just because the seam she was sewing refused to lie straight. 'The bitter end,' she said to Edon. 'And they look as if they'll fight until they reach it.' She bit off the thread and examined her work with a depressed eye, knowing that she would have to unpick it and start again.

'I don't care, as long as it's soon.' There was petulance in Edon's voice. 'At least you see Oliver now and again. I haven't set eyes on Geoffrey the summer long.'

Knowing Edon well enough by now to recognise the signs, Catrin put her sewing aside. Making the excuse that she had promised to visit a groom's wife who was heavily pregnant, she left the bower. A storm of tears was the last thing that she needed, for she was liable to join Edon and weep her heart out.

At her dwelling in the bailey she paused to collect the things she needed. Godard had left kindling at the hearth, and the room was heavily scented with the cumulative aroma of smoke and drying herbs. As Catrin drew her satchel on to her shoulder, she was aware of another scent too, elusive, dry; one that had been absent from the house for seven months. The hair rose delicately on the nape of her neck.

'Ethel?' she whispered, and stared round. Undisturbed, the jars and bunches of herbs met her eye, but the scent remained in her nostrils and the air around her was suddenly as cold as ice. Her mind formed a picture of Ethel sitting by the hearth in the green mantle that Oliver had given to her at the winter feast. For a moment it was so vivid that she almost believed in its physical reality. Her heart began to thump and her armpits were moist with cold sweat.

'Mistress Catrin?' Godard's shadow darkened the doorway and almost made her jump out of her skin.

'Jesu, God!' she swore roundly, her hand at her throat, and glared at him. 'How can someone so large be so silent?'

He blinked at her vehement response. 'Didn't mean to frighten you.'

'Well, you did,' Catrin snapped, then, feeling slightly ashamed, she curbed her anger. 'Can you smell anything in here, Godard?'

Looking puzzled, he inhaled deeply. 'Smell anything, mistress?' He shook his great head slowly from side to side. 'Only the herbs and the hearth. Is there something amiss?'

Catrin drew a deep breath. The scent had gone and the atmosphere was equable. 'No, nothing,' she answered with a tight smile. 'Were you seeking me?'

'I've just seen two soldiers ride in at the gate, one of them wounded. There is news, mistress. I heard one of them say that Winchester is lost and the Empress put to flight. The Earl's been taken prisoner by the Flemings.'

The iciness returned, but it came from within. Catrin stared at Godard and felt herself freeze. 'Oliver,' she whispered. 'What of Oliver?'

Godard scratched his shaggy head. 'I am sorry, mistress, I could glean no more. The grooms took their horses, and they were escorted to the hall near-dead on their feet.'

'I have to find out.' She shook off the cold before it could engulf her and dashed to the keep as fast as her hampering skirts would allow.

Having been raised at Chepstow, Louis was accustomed to imposing castles, but Rochester still managed to impress him with its combination of comfort and impregnable solidity. It was a young keep, less than twenty years old, and all the private chambers had a decorated fireplace and adequate window light when the shutters were not latched against the weather. There was a well on every level, which was far more convenient than drawing water from the undercroft or the bailey. There were numerous garderobes too, negating the need to go outside for a piss in the freezing dark.

It was the sort of keep that Louis would have chosen for himself. He knew that it was an ambition he would never realise, but there was no reason why he should not be given the custody of a smaller keep. He was in high favour with Stephen and d'Ypres for taking Robert of Gloucester's surrender.

His personal wealth was guaranteed too, since the ransom fees of Robert's knights belonged to him. On the strength of such fortune he had ordered himself a new tunic of the best Flemish wool in an expensive shade of lapis lazuli blue, a colour not usually seen on anyone less than a baron. The tunic was bordered with blue and white braid, the pattern a continuous chain of letter 'L's. Men said that fine feathers did not make fine birds, but Louis knew differently. To dress like a groom or a common soldier was to be treated as one. To dress like a noble was to be afforded respect and granted opportunities.

But Louis did not make the mistake of over-indulgence. He did not want men to see him as a fop. There were no rings on his fingers, and he made a point of telling folk that he did not wear them because they marred his grip on his sword. He frequently wore his quilted gambeson into the hall with only his tunic hem showing beneath to emphasise the fact that he was a soldier first. It was done with subtlety and it won him approval, even from his captives, who were kept under house arrest with their lord in one of the upper chambers.

When it came his turn to guard them, he often sat in their company exchanging soldiers' tales, winning them over with his wry, self-deprecating humour.

'You are not a Fleming,' said a flaxen-haired knight, as Louis drank wine with them one evening. His name was Oliver Pascal, and Louis sensed a certain reserve in the man. He was not as ready to be drawn in as the others. He was thus a challenge and Louis set out to woo him, entertaining a private wager that he would have Pascal eating out of his hand by the time the ransom was agreed.

'There are many in Lord William's contingent who are not,' Louis replied with a smile and a shrug, and poured wine into Pascal's cup.

The grey-dark eyes watched him shrewdly, their thoughts veiled. Thrusting his back against the wall, stretching his legs on the bench, Pascal said, 'Perhaps that is true; I do not have a great acquaintance with your lord's other men, but I wonder who you are and how you came to serve him.'

'Why should I arouse such interest?' Louis asked lightly.

It was Pascal's turn to smile and shrug. 'Why not? What else is there to do to while away the time except gamble and drink and gossip? Would you not want to know about the man who held your future in his hands?'

Louis laughed and combed back his hair with his fingers, exposing the taut, handsome lines of his face. 'I am not sure that I would.'

'Then we are different.'

A brief silence fell in which Louis deliberated between telling the truth, a pack of lies, or saying nothing at all. Pascal circled his finger around the slightly uneven rim of his clay goblet and waited the moment out with apparent aplomb. Louis narrowed his eyes, but it did not help him see through his captive any the better. Still, that was part of the challenge.

'Yes, I suppose we are.' He took a drink from his cup then set it to one side, for he had no desire to give his tongue a wine-loose rein. 'But since you ask, I will permit you the bones, if not the meat, of it.'

The lids widened, the grey eyes assessed then flickered down.

Louis spread his hands in a disarming gesture. 'There was some difficulty on my home territory. I killed a man I should not have done. Even though it was in fair fight, I knew that if I stayed my days were numbered. So I falsified my death - took my enemy's sword and left my own by the riverside where we had fought, together with one of my shoes.' He forced a grin. 'It was early spring and the weather as cold as witch's tit. But rather chilblains than death by a knife in the back. I travelled across England, heard that William d'Ypres was hiring, and I have been in his service ever since.' He spread his hands in an open gesture to show that was all there was. 'I have knelt in confession and paid my penance. Now you see a washed lamb.'

Geoffrey FitzMar had been listening to one side and now he leaned forward, his open gaze huge with surprise. 'But I thought you were high born with lands of your own!'

Louis gave a wry chuckle. 'High born certainly,' he said, 'but there are never many scraps for a younger son to glean. Lands of my own? I shall have them in the fullness of time.' The smile hardened at the edges. He looked at Oliver. 'Was it worth the asking?' The challenge in his tone surprised him with its defensiveness.

'Oh, I think so,' Oliver answered, and for the first time the eyes gleamed with humour. But Louis did not congratulate himself, for Oliver's expression was hard at the edges too, and he was still giving nothing away, while Louis had revealed rather more than was comfortable.

'Washed lamb, my backside,' Oliver said, when Louis had gone. 'A wolf in sheep's clothing, I think.' 'Do you not like him?'

Geoffrey looked so much like an anxious child that Oliver was moved to thaw. With a shake of his head, he laughed at himself. 'It is not so much that,' he admitted. 'I do not like being cooped up here in Rochester, knowing nothing -or only what they feed us. I have never been one to kick my heels with grace.' He grimaced. 'Yes, Louis de Grosmont is good company. It's all I can do not to laugh my belly out at some of his tales. That one about the woman and the parrot!' He snorted with reluctant amusement at the memory. 'Then why don't you?'

'Because it is what he expects. You can see him watching us, playing us like fish on his line. Well, this particular fish does not want to be hooked.'

'But why should he do that?' Geoffrey wrinkled his brow. 'What is there to be gained?'

'Esteem. Power. Do you not notice the way he feeds on us?'

'No.' Geoffrey looked more baffled than ever.

Oliver sighed and, rising to his feet, took his drink to the window embrasure. The sheds and workshops in the bailey were splashed with gold from the late October sunshine. Five pigs were being driven towards the pen near the kitchens. It was almost November, the month of slaughter and salting in preparation for winter. He should have been a married man by now. If fortune had smiled, he and Catrin would have been preparing to keep the Christmas feast in Ashbury's great hall. Instead, he was mured up in Rochester, with no more prospects than he had possessed on the day he returned from pilgrimage. He thrust his shoulder against the stone embrasure wall, watched Louis de Grosmont stride on his free and purposeful way, and knew jealousy.

'Well, I like him,' Geoffrey said, almost defiantly.

Oliver finished his wine and turned round. 'That's not difficult,' he said. 'You like anyone as long as they've a smile on their face.'

'Than that denies you,' Geoffrey retorted. 'You're so sour you'd curdle fresh milk in a dairy!'

Oliver arched his brow at this sharpness from Geoffrey, who was normally as mild as fresh milk.

Geoffrey swore and propped his feet on a bench. 'We are turning into a bowerful of women,' he said in disgust.

'Nothing to do but pick petty quarrels with each other to pass on the time. I want to go home. I want to see Edon and my son.'

Oliver's exasperation with Geoffrey was replaced by pangs of affection and empathy as he watched the young knight rub his hands together and then place his clasped palms against his lips.

'You've to dance at a wedding when we do,' he said by way of reconciliation, and somehow managed the all-important smile. 'I want you to be my groomsman.'