The Love Knot (38 page)

Catrin came to him from the hearth where she had been preparing a savoury milk broth.

'I cannot even rise from my bed but must lie here like a puling infant, supping food fit only for old men,' Stephen added with disgust as she placed the steaming cup in his hand.

Catrin reddened. 'It will help to replenish your strength, sire.'

Stephen glowered, but set the cup to his lips. 'It had better.' He took a swallow, grimaced for form's sake, and looked across at his brother and William d'Ypres. 'He'll have to be replaced immediately,' he said. 'But who can we send?'

'There's Thomas FitzWarren,' said the bishop. 'He's served me right well as a castellan in the past.'

'In the past, there you have it, Henry.' Stephen shook his head and took another swallow of the milk broth. 'He's nigh on three score years. You've already had the best out of him, brother.'

Catrin had become such a fixture of the royal bedchamber in recent weeks that she was treated as such. If she had possessed a loose tongue, she could have earned herself a fortune in silver from the things she heard. Prudently, she had spoken to no one, not even her husband. Oh, she fed him harmless details about the King's health, what he wore and what he ate. She told him about visits from the Queen and the royal offspring and seasoned the bland trivia with occasional items of gossip that were destined for the common melting pot anyway. Catrin preferred not to examine her reasons too closely. It was easier to dwell in the shallows than probe the murky depths.

Now, listening to the King and his senior advisors discussing the castellanship of Wickham, she remained nearby and, instead of being unobtrusive, deliberately clattered at her work.

Henry of Winchester threw her an irritated look. His eyes were like Stephen's in colour but were smaller and without the King's candour or good-natured twinkle. William d'Ypres followed the direction of the bishop's glower. His own gaze rested thoughtfully on Catrin, and the faintest suggestion of a smile curved beneath his moustache. 'I know of a younger man who has been chafing at the bit for some while, and to whom you owe a favour,' he said.

Stephen raised his brows. He too looked at Catrin. 'There are many men of that ilk,' he said, but his expression was considering. 'What experience?'

William d'Ypres shrugged. 'His father was commander of the garrison at Chepstow and gave him a grounding. Other than that, he's quick-witted with good soldiering abilities. Give him a chance, I say. If he proves unsuitable, then replace him.'

Stephen rubbed his beard. 'You're right,' he murmured. 'A man cannot be tried unless he's tested.' He drank down the rest of the milk broth and wiped his lips. 'Does that suit you, Mistress Grosmont?'

'Sire?' Catrin widened her eyes. She had almost choked when she heard William d'Ypres tell the King that Louis's father had been commander of a garrison, when he had been no more than a common serjeant at arms.

Stephen smiled. 'Come now, you have ears beneath your wimple and they hear very well, the times you have been at my side in the night with a cup before I have scarcely stirred. I am going to offer that husband of yours the custody of my keep at Wickham.'

Catrin knelt to him, her head lowered, her face flaming. 'Sire, I do not know what to say.' Which was true enough. She was breathless with surprise that it had been so easy; but her stomach was churning too. 'Thank you seems not enough.'

'In truth I am only repaying what I owe for my life,' Stephen said, a smug grin on his face as if the suggestion had been his in the first place. 'Go and find your man and bring him to me for confirmation. My scribes will make out the necessary letters for the constable.'

Catrin could not wait to leave the room. She knew that the King and d'Ypres were amused by her flustered response, and that Henry of Winchester was contemptuous. Whatever the angle they all thought her a foolish woman, never realising their own folly. As she descended the tower stairs, her joy for Louis warred with the tarnish of the lie he had told d'Ypres. How many other falsehoods was his reputation built upon? She tried to ignore the thought. Louis would make a good commander. What did his father's occupation matter?

A niggling voice replied that it was not his father's occupation that mattered at all. His lies were the real concern but, despite the acuteness of her hearing, or perhaps because of it, Catrin chose not to listen.

While Wickham was not a castle of significance in the mould of Windsor or London, it was nevertheless useful to Stephen. Together with Warwick, Winchcomb and Northampton, it served as a counter to the Empress's castles at Worcester and Hereford. It was of no great size, but solidly built, and reminded Catrin of a stout man standing with feet planted apart and arms akimbo. In a way, it was almost endearing.

The June sun turned the stone blocks to a deep, ruddy gold and flashed upon the roof tiles as their entourage approached the huge wooden gates. A hundred paces from the keep, Louis drew rein and leaned back in the saddle to study his new acquisition.

'It is smaller than I thought it would be,' he murmured.

'That is because you are accustomed to the likes of Rochester,' Catrin said. 'The King would not entrust you with one of his largest keeps for your first command. Only a week ago you were a hearth soldier.'

Louis grunted, and chewed his thumbnail. 'I suppose you are going to rub that in at every opportunity.'

Catrin rolled her eyes. He was like a spoiled child sometimes. The more he got, the more he wanted. 'I am just saying that you cannot plant a seed one day and expect a full harvest the next. There has to be ripening.'

'Sensible as ever.' He gave her a mocking smile, acknowledging her concern and at the same time telling her without words that she was foolish. 'I bow to your greater wisdom. Wickham will do to start.'

Their first night in the great hall, Louis sat in the lord's chair at the high table and wore his crimson gown with the gold embroidery, insisting that Catrin wear her finery too. The best napery was fetched from the chests where it had lain yellowing for the past ten years, Humphrey de Chesham not being one for ostentation. As long as a trestle was scrubbed, it had been good enough for him, the maid told Catrin as she handed over the keys to the linen coffers.

The keep was militarily spruce, but almost completely devoid of a woman's touch. Humphrey de Chesham had been a widower who availed himself of the alehouse girls when he felt the need, and relied on the maids to see to the domestic running of Wickham.

Catrin could see that there was much to be done, but the sumptuousness of the court had been stifling and she much preferred de Chesham's style of austerity. Louis, however, had plans which involved more than just strewing fresh, scented rushes on the floor and adding a few cushions to the benches.

'A lord should be seen to live like a lord, not a peasant,' he said, when she questioned the advisability of extending the stable block, rebuilding the kitchens, and totally renovating the private quarters. 'I'll have craftsmen put glass in the upper windows and ...'

'Glass!' Catrin cried in horror. 'Do you know how much that would cost? Where would you find the coin?'

'There are ways and means,' he said with a vague wave of his hand and looked at her narrowly. 'You always were the one to measure out each half and quarter penny.'

'And you always spent what you never had,' Catrin said waspishly.

He frowned, then, with an obvious effort, shrugged off his irritation and laid his hand over hers. 'I don't want to quarrel with you, not on our first night together here. Don't spoil it, Catty.' His look became pleading, with just a hint of long-suffering to make her feel as if she was a killjoy and a shrew.

If not the first night, then when? Catrin wondered with a glimmer of foreboding. As long as she held her tongue and gambled along with him, arguments were unlikely. But if she chose the wider, safer path, instead of dancing on the precipice, they were bound to quarrel - as they had quarrelled before.

'Catty?' he cajoled and peered round into her face. His expression was suddenly mischievous and he squeezed her thigh beneath the table. 'Wouldn't you like glass in the bedchamber?'

Despite her better instincts, she was forced to smile. He had a way with him that was impossible to resist. She had heard a tale about stoats charming birds from the trees into their jaws, and she thought that Louis was a little like that.

'Whether I like it or not, we couldn't afford it,' she said, but her tone was lighter now.

'We couldn't not afford it,' he grinned, and toasted her in the keep's wine with his free hand. 'Who wants to be cold at night?'

Henry FitzEmpress, heir to his mother's disputed kingdom, adjusted to the rolling deck of the ship like a sailor born, his legs planted wide for balance as he watched the haze of England's coastline sharpening on the horizon. He was nine years old, small for his age, but stocky, with a shock of bright red hair and light, glass-grey eyes. Those old enough to remember his great-grandfather, the Conqueror, said there was a family resemblance. All Oliver knew was that the child never sat still. In fact, he never sat at all. Questions poured out of him, one after the other like water out of a leaky spigot, and most of them were unanswerable. For a child of nine, his intellect was so sharp that those around him almost bled trying to keep it fed.

Oliver viewed the approaching land with impatience. They were heading for the port of Wareham. It belonged to Earl Robert, but had been seized by Stephen's troops, the reason why they came in a convoy of fifty-two warships with three hundred knights on board. He was ready to fight. Every one of Stephen's soldiers would wear the face of Louis de Grosmont and Oliver would yield no quarter.

He had travelled to Normandy as part of Earl Robert's deputation, to plead with Mathilda's husband, Geoffrey of Anjou, to come to England and lend his aid to their cause. Geoffrey had replied that he was too busy fighting his war in Normandy, but that his 'beloved wife', the words spoken with a sarcastic eyebrow, could have the custody of their eldest son and heir designate to prop up her ailing cause.

During Robert's absence in Normandy, Stephen had recovered from his illness. Taking the initiative, he had seized Wareham and marched upon the Empress at Oxford where he was now besieging her. After a lull of almost a year, the horns were locked again.

'I can speak English,' Henry announced proudly. 'Henry ist mon noma.' He beamed at Oliver who was unfastening the heavy roll made by his gambeson and mail shirt. 'Do you know what that means?'

'Gea, Ic cnawen, min lytel aethling. Oliver ist mon,' Oliver replied, and was gratified to see the grey eyes widen and echo the open mouth. Prince Henry lost for words was a sight worth seeing.

'Do all my Uncle Robert's knights speak English?' There was suitable respect in Henry's voice.

Oliver kept the smile inside his mouth and answered gravely. 'Most speak a little, like you. Not many of us are fluent.'

'Then how did you learn?'

'My great-grandfather was English and kept his lands after Hastings.' Gazing past the child, Oliver judged the distance to landfall. He had no particular fear of ships or water, but it was a fool who put on mail armour in mid-crossing. They were closing on the land now though. He could see the thatch of the houses through the haze, and the spume breaking on the shoreline. All around him, other men were quietly donning their mail and checking their weapons.

Henry watched him. 'But you've got a Norman name,' he said stubbornly.

Oliver smiled through gritted teeth as he donned his gambeson and sought out the opening in the steel shirt. 'I'm a mongrel, like you, sire.'

Once more, Henry was taken aback. 'I'm not. . .'he started to say, then fell silent and looked thoughtful.

'Part English, part Angevin, part Norman.' Oliver began struggling into the hauberk. Absently, Henry moved to help him, tugging the mail shirt down over Oliver's gambeson with squat, competent fingers.

'Then I'm fit to rule all Saxons, all Normans and all Angevins,' he said, his childish treble quite at odds with the intensity of his expression.

And instead of the freckled face of a troublesome nine-year-old boy, Oliver saw the countenance of a future king.

Earl Robert had been both worrying and hoping that Stephen would abandon the siege at Oxford and come tearing south to relieve his garrison at Wareham. It would mean a tougher fight for Robert, but it would save Mathilda from danger. Stephen, however, resisted temptation and clung like a leech to Oxford, abandoning Wareham to its fate.

Oliver's vessel took no part in the storming of the harbour, for its cargo was too precious. Leaning against the shields that lined the wash-strake, Oliver and the young prince watched the other vessels ram-in amongst Wareham's outnumbered fleet. Grapnels and spears hissed through the air, striking wood, ripping through sails and tearing flesh. The shouts of men and the clash of weapons floated clearly across the water to the prince's vessel and the four others protecting it.

The boy drank in the sight and sound of battle, his nostrils quivering and his eyes as huge as moons but as much with curiosity as fear. 'Uncle Robert will win,' he said confidently.

'He's not as good a commander as my father, but he's much better than theirs.'

Oliver clenched his fists on the rawhide rim of a shield and longed to be involved in the battle. He wanted to become part of its welling dark core, to strike and strike, until he found oblivion.