The Love Knot (46 page)

That was not strictly true, she admitted to herself as she lay in the great bed, her body curled protectively around her tiny daughter. Whatever rumours he strewed abroad concerning the child's paternity, he had given her Rosamund and he had given her heartsickness and grief.

Perhaps he would return within the week with a force to relieve the siege, but she knew in her heart that he would not. As always he had left others to pay his price, including a defenceless infant. She pressed her lips against Rosamund's brow and vowed to keep the baby safe whatever the cost.

The promised week came and went with no sign of a relieving force. Once their gates were almost breached and only a timely deluge of boiling water and the splitting of the ram log saved Wickham from being overrun. Their supplies dwindled and the stew became progressively less nourishing. The last bundles of arrows were brought from the undercroft and the soldiers muttered behind their hands.

Apart from the time she spent in her chamber suckling and tending Rosamund, Catrin made herself conspicuous around the keep. She took all of her meals in the hall and made a point of mingling with all the castle folk, from the ageing knight left in command of the garrison to the youngest laundry maid, and even Wulfhild, her husband's young mistress. His former mistress now, Catrin thought, as the ninth day dawned without sight or sign of help.

'He promised me a silk dress,' Wulfhild sniffed, knuckling her eyes. Her hair fell in snarled blond tangles and had clearly not been combed or tended for several days, and her face had the gaunt, hollow look that came from lack of food and sleep. A mound of laundry gave off a sweaty smell beside a cauldron that had yet to be kindled. 'He promised me a house of my own with hens and geese and a cow.'

'If that is all he promised, then you are fortunate,' Catrin said grimly. 'You're not the first, and I doubt you'll be the last.' Kneeling down, she set about lighting the fire herself.

'He will come back, won't he?'

Catrin looked at the snuffling young woman, and tried to convince herself that the conversation was real. Louis's mistress asking his wife for sympathy and reassurance. Small licks of flame fluttered beneath the cauldron as the dry twigs caught fire. Standing up, Catrin dusted off her hands. 'If he does, then I will not be here, and if you had the tiniest morsel of sense, you would not cry another tear.'

'What do you mean, you won't be here?' The girl's eyes widened.

Catrin rubbed her thumb on her forefinger. 'We cannot hold out for many more days, and why should we?' She tightened her lips. 'I won't let people starve for my husband's selfishness.'

'But . . . but what about the soldiers out there? What will they do to us if we let them in?' Wulfhild put her hand to her throat.

'We're not just going to "let them in",' Catrin said. 'We'll bargain with them first.' She clicked her fingers at the laundry tub. 'You do what you are paid for and see to that mound of linen. It's not as if we're going to run out of water, is it?'

Leaving the laundry, she went to her chamber and made swift preparations. Her actions had been brewing in her mind for some while. Time and again she had imagined them, so now each movement was clear. What she had not imagined was the overwhelming sense of impatience and urgency. She had to go, and immediately. If not, Louis might just appear on the horizon and blight her entire future.

She donned her two best dresses, one over the other, two pairs of hose, two loin-cloths, two braided girdles. After Penfoss, she was wary of possessing only one set of clothes. Besides, the weather was bitterly cold and she needed all the protection she could get. Her cloak came next, its lining made of fleece, and she pulled her brown hood over the top of her wimple.

Gently and tenderly, she lifted Rosamund from her cradle and wrapped the baby in her blankets until all that could be seen was a tiny triangle of eyes, nose and mouth. Placid as ever, Rosamund gurgled and blew bubbles at her mother. For the briefest moment, Catrin was distracted from her purpose and cooed at her daughter, but urgency was swift to return.

Without a backward glance at the rich hangings, the silk bedcover and tear-grey window glass, she swept from the room to find Berold, the captain of the garrison.

He gazed at her askance when she ordered him to ride out with her under a flag of truce to parley with the enemy commander. 'Lord Louis said that we were to hold out until his return,' he said, and put his hand on his sword hilt in a gesture both defensive and aggressive.

'Judgement day will come before that happens,' Catrin answered with asperity. 'Within the week, he said, but since when has a week lasted ten days?' She looked at the balding, middle-aged knight and, amidst her irritation, felt a softening of compassion. Louis had promoted Berold beyond his competence. He was a good follower, but had no flair for leading men. 'You served old Lord Humphrey, didn't you?'

'Aye, for nigh on twenty years.' He bristled his sparse silver beard at her. 'What of it? Are you saying that I'm not fit to serve Lord Louis?'

'No,' she soothed quickly. 'I commend your experience. What I am saying is that Lord Louis is not fit to be your master.'

He gave her a suspicious look and fingered the hilt of his sword.

Catrin struggled to swallow her impatience. 'Tell me, in all honesty, do you believe that Lord Louis will return with more troops?'

He chewed his lower lip. 'He entrusted me with the defence of this keep. I would not want to pay him in false coin.'

'It is you who is being paid in false coin,' Catrin said sharply. 'To my husband, loyalty is just another side of a

die, and if fortune throws it face down he will try his luck at another game.'

The knight rubbed a slick, white scar on his cheek. 'I do not know . . .' he prevaricated. 'What if he arrives on the morrow and discovers that we have yielded the keep?'

Catrin gritted her teeth. 'He is not returning, Berold. I doubt that we can hold out until the morrow anyway. I have to do my best for these people, my daughter and myself.'

Grudgingly the old man nodded. 'But what if their terms are not lenient?'

'They will be,' she said, with far more confidence than she felt. 'I am not without influence of my own.'

Berold pinched his scar and frowned. 'Aye, but I had heard that it was influence with King Stephen. These men are all for the Empress.'

'You heard but only half the tale.' She started towards the hall door, knowing that if she did not move she would scream. 'And that is the problem with listening to my husband. I cannot pull victory out of defeat but I hope I can lessen the damage.'

The leader of the attacking troops was a hard-bitten Welshman called Madoc. He was somewhat surprised, not to say indignant, at being asked to parley with a woman, a swaddled infant and a small, scarred knight with about as much presence as a dead chicken.

'Is this a mark of Wickham's respect or the best you can do?' he scoffed.

? 'You should not mock our best, since it has held you at bay for longer than you wish,' Catrin replied with spirit. 'The snow will come soon and it will be difficult to keep your men in the field.'

'Oh, I intend to be within Wickham's walls long before the first flakes fall.' Fists clenched in his swordbelt, the soldier studied her. 'But you have come to parley, not to bandy words. What is it you want?'

Catrin shifted Rosamund's sleepy weight on her arm. Beside her she could feel Berold's tension. He was far from happy with the situation but could see that they had small choice. 'In return for a guarantee of safety for everyone in Wickham from the richest to poorest, I will yield the castle to you.'

The Welshman considered her. He had coppery hair and eyes of a narrow, flint-grey. No battle scars marred his face but it was pitted by the old marks of spotted fever. 'You will yield the castle?' He raised his brows. 'Is yours then the sole authority? What of the lord of this place?'

'He is not here,' she said, and met his gaze steadily.

'Ah.' He looked thoughtful. 'Now we come to the meat of the matter. Does that mean that he has not been here at all for the duration of the siege, or that he has seen fit to make himself scarce in consideration of his own hide?'

'It would not be seemly for me to answer that question,' Catrin said. 'You may draw your own conclusions. All that concerns me is the safety of these people and my daughter.'

The Welshman pursed his lips. 'I would have to think about that,' he said. 'The lads are owed some compensation for freezing their balls off these past three weeks.'

Catrin shrugged indifferently. 'There is plunder enough in the keep to pay a hundred ransoms,' she said, 'although I would counsel you against harming anyone within.'

Madoc gave a disbelieving snort. 'You would, eh?'

Catrin drew herself up. 'It is true that my husband is one of Stephen's knights, but in the recent past I have been a chamber lady to the Countess of Gloucester and I am known personally to Earl Robert. For a time I was nurse to his youngest half-brother, one of the old King's sons. I have powerful connections.'

She watched him consider whether to believe her. Catrin knew that she had slightly overstated her case concerning her influence, but all the rest was true.

A soldier who had been standing in the background came forward and whispered in his commander's ear, his eyes upon her.

Madoc listened and nodded. A glint of wintry humour entered his eyes. 'Ascelin here was at Bristol too,' he said to her. 'He remembers you well, and kindly so it seems.'

Catrin did not recognise the man, but then so many of them looked the same in their mail and helms.

'You were at my wife's lying in,' the soldier said. 'You and the old woman delivered our son. He's going on two years old now and sturdy as a young oak.'

Catrin smiled whilst panicking about what else he was going to reveal. 'I'm glad to hear it,' she murmured.

'You had that shelter in the bailey.' He frowned. 'I thought that you were betrothed to that hearth knight of the Earl's.'

'I was. It is a long tale, and not a happy one. But you can confirm the fact that I was at Bristol and known to the Earl and Countess.'

'Indeed, my lady.'

She looked down at the sleeping baby in her arms and then at Madoc who had been listening to the exchange with interest. 'I care little for either side in this war. All I crave is that my daughter should grow up in peace without constantly having to look over her shoulder or worry that each night might be her last on earth.'

'Then best send her to a nunnery,' Madoc said, but she sensed a softening of his attitude.

'Would she be any safer there?' Catrin retorted, holding her own. 'Wherwell nunnery was razed to the ground at the siege of Winchester.'

He conceded the point with a twitch of his lips and a spread hand. 'Go where you will, my lady, it matters little to me save that I do not have to spend another night under the sky.' 'Then you agree to the bargain? The keys of the castle in exchange for the lives and livelihood of all within?'

He sucked his teeth and pondered, finally granting her a curt nod. 'Let it be done. War is war, but why burn and destroy that which is useful?'

'Why indeed?' Catrin replied, her brow raised in irony.

The Virgo creaked and heaved at her moorings, her stirring ever more restless as the incoming tide lapped her sides. Stars sparkled in the frosty night, and on deck the passengers had wrapped themselves in their cloaks for warmth.

A pouch of silver hung in heavy comfort from Louis's belt.

He had sold his horse and the dice had smiled on him in alehouse and tavern. There were better horses to be had in the Holy Land, swift stallions of hot Arab blood. Swift mares too, dark-eyed, slim-flanked and wild for the riding. There were fortunes to be made, hearts to be won and broken.

If he thought of Wickham at all, it was with the relief of a prisoner unfettered from his chains.

As the wind bellied the sails and the Master's shout sent a sailor to free the mooring and the steersman to take the rudder, Louis de Grosmont cast off his name like a snake shedding an outworn skin. From this moment forth, he was Louis le Pelerin - Louis the Pilgrim.

It was a long, cold road from Wickham to Bristol. Although the distance was little more than fifty miles, it took Catrin over a week to cover it. The roads were unsafe for folk of all rank and those who had to travel did so in groups for protection. On the second day, she joined three monks, a wool merchant and two young men with spears heading for Gloucester. The weather was atrocious and progress so slow through a mizzle of sleet and rain that it was not until the fifth day that they arrived in the city. Two more passed before Catrin felt fit enough to set out on the last leg to Bristol.