The Love Knot (47 page)

She arrived at dusk, Rosamund bawling fretfully in her arms, and was frowned at for her tardiness by the soldier preparing to close the gates for the night. In the castle ward, Etheldreda's shelter was occupied by a cowherd and his family, eating their supper over a fire of dried dung. Her back and buttocks aching from the saddle, her eyes gritty with weariness and strain, Catrin paid a groom to take her tired mare and made her way to the hall.

Steward Bardolf still held his position and tyrannical inclinations. Scowling like the guard at her late arrival, but otherwise not giving her a second glance, he directed her to a place on one of the lowlier trestles near the draught from the door. Through the open screens at either side of the hall, servants hurried back and forth with heaped trenchers. The meaty smells of ragout and pottage, the sight of the baskets of flat loaves on the trestle made Catrin feel faint with hunger. Obviously possessed of a similar affliction, Rosamund continued to whimper and grizzle. Catrin discreetly lifted her cloak, unfastened her gown and put her to suckle.

Grace was said and folk started to eat. Although only having one hand free, Catrin still managed to break bread and help herself to a generous bowl of mutton stew. While eating, she glanced around the hall and saw many familiar faces, but not the one she sought. But then, why should Oliver be here? As often as not he was absent on the Earl's business and a year and a half would not have changed the situation. Between courses, she asked her companions for news, but none of them were well acquainted with Oliver and they could not help her.

As supper finished and the servants cleared the trestles, Catrin made her way to the women's chambers on the upper floor. She was challenged once by a guard, but then he recognised her and, after a smile and a word of greeting, let her pass.

Catrin's breath grew short with tension as she entered rooms which were familiar to her but where she no longer had a right to be.

'Hello, lady,' said a very small boy, staring up at her from solemn hazel eyes. He had a mop of curly blond hair and there was a peeled, half-eaten apple in his hand.

'Hello,' Catrin responded. 'Who are you?'

'Effry,' he said, and looked at Rosamund bundled up in Catrin's arms. 'I've got a baby too.' He took a bite out of the apple and then offered it to Catrin.

'Geoffrey, come here, what have I told y . . .' Edon FitzMar stopped in mid-speech and stared in astonishment. 'Catrin? Holy Virgin, I do not believe my eyes!'

'I do mine,' Catrin laughed, and tears blinded her eyes. Foolish, vain, giddy Edon looked like an angel at that moment.

With a cry of delight Edon threw herself at Catrin, stopping the hug short when she saw the baby wrapped in her cloak.

'My daughter, Rosamund,' Catrin said with pride.

'A little girl!' Edon parted the blanket to look into the tiny features. 'Oh, just look at those eyelashes!' she cooed. 'Isn't she pretty!' She stroked Rosamund's petal-soft cheek and looked at Catrin. 'What are you doing in Bristol?'

Catrin shook her head. 'It is a long story. We are here seeking refuge - yet again.'

Edon gave her a look full of blatant curiosity but, to her credit and increased maturity, did not seek to have it satisfied there and then. Instead, she drew Catrin to a cushioned window seat, set the youngest maid to making up a pallet, and brought wine with her own hand. Then she stooped by a cradle and picked up a baby of a similar age to Rosamund. 'My second son, Robert,' she announced. 'I wish you had been here. The midwives weren't as good as you and Ethel. At least he came head first and without difficulty.' She popped the baby back in the cradle. The little boy came to peer and poke at his younger brother.

'I wish I had been here too,' Catrin said with a tired smile. She shed her cloak to reveal the top gown of blue wool with its lavish gold embroidery.

Edon's eyes grew huge. 'Have you been stealing from the Empress's wardrobe?' she gasped.

Catrin sipped the wine and laughed bitterly. 'My husband is a man generous beyond all belief,' she said, and flicked back the hem of the first gown to show Edon the fir-green of the second dress. 'I left three others behind. By now they will be gracing the forms of Flemish whores in return for favours.'

'Your husband . . .' Edon said hesitantly. 'Then it is true.'

'I don't know. What have you heard?' A defensive note entered Catrin's voice.

'That he was not dead, that you had found him again. Geoffrey said that he was a noble man. He treated the prisoners honourably and they liked him. Geoffrey was sorry for Oliver and pleased for you.' She swept to her feet and grabbed her eldest son. 'No, sweetheart, not in his eye, there's a good boy.'

'Louis can make anyone like him if he tries,' Catrin said dully. 'He swore to me that he had changed but he hadn't, and I was still too blind to see through his charm. He demanded all my attention like a greedy child, but once he had it, he lost interest. He wanted a son and I disappointed him with a daughter, for which he has not forgiven me - not that I care for such things.' She shook her head. 'It was the same with Wickham. First the passion and desire, then the desertion.'

'He deserted you?' Edon wrestled with her struggling son and looked perplexed.

Catrin shrugged. 'Yes, he did, but this time I did not spend a year in grief before I took up the threads of my life.' Briefly, and against the background of a thwarted, screaming two-year-old, she told Edon about the siege and how she came to be at Bristol. 'So,' she defended herself with a vulnerable half-smile, 'I have come to find Oliver and beg his forgiveness on bended knees.'

The youngest maid had finished making up the pallet and offered to show Edon's son the caged finches in the adjoining chamber. As she led him away and peace was restored, Edon readjusted her skewed wimple. 'He doesn't take after me,' she said with firm denial, and then she sighed. 'It nearly broke Oliver when he lost you. It was all my Geoffrey could do to prevent him from drinking himself stupid every night or seeking his own death in battle.'

Her words deepened Catrin's feeling of guilt and renewed her apprehension. Perhaps Oliver would not forgive her, or even want to see her. 'I had to choose,' she said. 'And I would not wish that kind of choosing on any woman.' She bit her lip. 'In the event, I made the wrong decision.'

There was a brief silence. Catrin glanced at Edon and said, 'Do you think it too late to make amends?'

Edon wrinkled her nose and looked perplexed. 'I do not know. Oliver has not taken up with any other women, but he never speaks of you. Geoffrey says that in the summer Oliver received a message to say that you were very happy with your husband and that you were with child. I think until then he had started to recover, but that news disturbed him greatly.'

Catrin whitened. 'I knew nothing of it,' she said, 'but I would not put it past my husband's malice.'

'Why choose such a man above Oliver?' Edon asked in total bewilderment. 'Why throw away gold for dross?'

'Sometimes your eyes are too dazzled by old shine to know the difference.' Catrin shook her head and wiped at a tear. 'I thought that Louis had the right. Now I know that he had no right at all.' She gazed pensively at Edon. 'I looked for Oliver in the hall at dinner but I did not see him. Is he here?'

Edon wrinkled her brow in thought. 'No,' she said at length. 'I think not. But we do not see so much of Oliver these days since he has been seconded to Prince Henry's household.'

'Prince Henry?'

'If you were in the hall at dinner you would have seen him at the high table. The boy with red hair and a severe dose of the fidgets.'

'Vaguely,' Catrin said. 'We had heard that he was in England, but I never put the two together.'

'Well, he's adopted Oliver as his "pet Saxon",' Edon said. 'When he returns to his father in Anjou, Oliver will be going with him as part of his retinue.'

Catrin absorbed this information with surprise and a frisson of dismay. She mentally scolded herself for the latter. Time and people did not stand still. It was selfish to expect Oliver to remain in the same place, solid as a rock for her convenience. But right or wrong, it was how she had imagined him and now she was thrown off balance.

'And you do not know where he is now?'

'No.' Eden screwed up her eyes in thought. 'I seem to remember Geoffrey mentioning that Oliver had business of his own to attend to - another pilgrimage or something - that he wanted to perform before he committed himself entirely to Prince Henry's service. He'll probably be here by the end of the week, and you know you'll be more than welcome to stay among the women. The Countess was only saying the other day how much she missed your green ointment for sore hands.'

Catrin responded with a wan smile. Impatience and apprehension churned inside her. She wanted to see Oliver now, not at the end of the week. Waiting was impossible, but she had no other course. 'Then I'll be pleased to make her some and whatever else she wishes. Edon, if I do not have something to occupy my time, I swear I will go mad.'

Godard and Edith laid Oliver down on a pallet arranged near the fire. Curious drinkers gathered round until Edith sent them off to their homes with a communal flea in the ear and barred the door.

Together she and Godard gently stripped Oliver's hauberk and gambeson. He drifted in and out of consciousness, making a continuous low moaning sound. Blood had saturated his left arm, and when Godard slit open the shirt and tunic with Edith's shears, both of them winced at the mess that de Mohun's sword had made.

'Have you needle and thread?' Godard asked. 'It'll have to be stitched.'

She bit her lip and unfastened her small leather needle case from her belt. 'It's more than a flesh wound,' she said doubtfully. 'There's displaced bone too.'

'I know. I'll just have to do my best.'

She looked at him curiously. 'Can you knit bone and sew flesh then?'

Godard nodded, but with more confidence than he felt and there was a waxy sheen to his skin. 'Done it on sheep a hundred times,' he exaggerated. Actually it was more like two or three.

'There must be other damage too. Look at all the swelling and bruises.'

Godard grunted. 'Nothing I can do about that,' he said as he threaded the needle. 'I once knew two women who could, but one's dead and the other's long gone.' He grimaced. 'He cannot remain here. It's too close to Ashbury and they will come looking for him. As soon as I've stitched this wound, we'll have to leave.'

'We?' Edith arched her brows.

'Myself and Lord Oliver.'

'I see.' She gave him a look sidelong, but it was totally lost on Godard who was steeling himself to stitch Oliver's wound.

'The state he's in, he may well die before you have gone more than a mile,' she said.

'He will die of a certainty if they find him here. It will be dangerous for you too. I have seen what soldiers do with very little provocation.'

'I suppose you are right,' she said thoughtfully. 'The men ride out from Ashbury on occasion to drink and whore. My brew ensures their goodwill, but they would not turn a blind eye to such as this.' She gestured at Oliver's prone form. 'How far do you intend taking him?'

'Bristol. There are chirurgeons there, and he is deeply regarded by young Prince Henry himself.'

Edith put her hands on her hips. 'You did not tell me you were the servants of a prince!'

'A future king,' Godard said in a preoccupied way, as he brought out the flask of usquebaugh and removed the stopper. 'Does it make a difference?'

She cocked her head. 'It does to the hearth tales that people come to tell and have told over their ale,' she answered, then continued in a brisk, practical tone, 'You will never get him to Bristol on horseback. I'll lend you my cart, providing you promise to return it within the week.'

Godard nodded acceptance and, for a while, all conversation ceased as he poured the raw usquebaugh over Oliver's wound, and the injured man screamed and went rigid. 'Hold him for me,' Godard commanded, his own teeth gritted. Edith moved into position, although it was difficult to know where to grip since there was scarcely a part of the knight's upper torso that was not damaged. His muscles bunched against her for an instant and then slackened as once again he sank into the mercy of oblivion.

'Lady Catrin used to say that it helped to clean out the badness,' Godard said, as he began to stitch. 'But I reckon as the cure's almost as bad as the wounding.' 'Who's Lady Catrin?'

'A healer. My lord was once betrothed to her, but they were parted before they could wed.'

'She belonged to him then, not to you,' Edith said slowly and clearly.

'No, not to me,' said Godard, with a masculine lack of comprehension.

Edith nodded, a gleam in her eyes. When she saw that the lord would not require further holding, she went to hardness Godard's gelding to her cart, tethering the grey stallion behind.

Godard did what he could for Oliver, which was not much beyond stitching and binding the gashed arm, and then wrapping him tightly in two blankets like a swaddled infant to keep his limbs immobile for the journey ahead.

Edith backed the horse and cart up to the alehouse door and Godard tenderly bore Oliver out and placed him on the piled bed of straw which she had made in the back.