The Love Knot (48 page)

'God speed you and bring you safely to Bristol.' She presented Godard with a pig's bladder full of ale, some bread and two hard-boiled eggs wrapped in a kerchief.

Godard took them from her, and cleared his throat. 'I do not know how to thank you,' he said gruffly. 'If I offered you silver, I know you would be insulted.'

'Indeed I would,' she sniffed and folded her arms. 'It will be thanks enough if you return the cart to me yourself when you can.'

Godard cleared his throat again. 'Assuredly I will, mistress,' he said and, with sudden bravado, leaned forward and kissed the soft expanse of her cheek.

She stood in the road and watched until the darkness swallowed up the sight of the pale horse attached to the back of the cart, and the rumbling noise of the wheels on the track had faded. Then, touching her cheek, she went slowly back to the alehouse and barred the door.

In some ways, Catrin thought, it was as if she had never left Bristol. If not for Rosamund and a collection of fevered memories, the time she had spent with Louis might never have existed. Countess Mabile accepted her back amongst her women with the minimum of questions, admired Rosamund, and then set Catrin to work making a batch of Ethel's famous green hand salve.

Catrin did not particularly like sleeping in the bower. As always, she felt stifled by its atmosphere, but it was a haven until she could find her feet and speak with Oliver. So much depended on their meeting and his response. She chewed her lip and tried to avoid the treadmill of imagining the encounter. She had lived it so often in her mind, had conjured every scenario from falling into his arms to being totally rejected and ignored, that there was no new ground, no wisdom to be gleaned.

She pounded lily of the valley, lemon balm, sage and plantain in a mortar, and when it was sufficiently macerated, added it to a blend of goose grease and almond oil. It worked better if the herbs were fresh, but in mid-winter the dried "substitutes had to suffice.

Chin propped on her hands, Edon watched her work. She was supposed to be weaving a length of braid, but had reached no further than the first six inches before putting the wooden tablets aside.

'Did you really have glass in the windows?' she asked, with a shivering glance at the oiled linen that let scanty light and a deal of cold into the bower.

Catrin smiled and sighed at the same time. 'Yes, we had glass. Yes, it was a luxury and one that I miss, but I hated it too. Louis thought people would admire him for it, that they would look up to him, but instead it made them jealous and contemptuous. They blamed me for being a demanding wife, not him for his delusions of rank and grandeur.' 'What will happen to him now?'

Catrin shrugged. 'I have no doubt that he will make his way in the world. Losing Wickham will set him back, but not for long. He will change his name, his allegiance, whatever is necessary to secure his own comfort.' Her eyelids tensed. 'Edon, I do not care, except with anger.' She used a horn spoon to scoop a dollop of the unguent into a small clay pot, her movements jerky. 'I want to forget.'

'If it was me ...' Edon began, but broke off as one of the other women entered the bower and hurried directly over to them.

'Oliver Pascal is back,' she announced breathlessly. 'His manservant's just brought him in on a cart, sore-wounded!' Edon put her hand to her throat. 'Sore-wounded?'

The woman nodded. 'Leastways he wasn't in his senses.'

Catrin had whitened at the news. Wiping her hands on a scrap of linen, she grabbed the maid's arm. 'Where is he?'

'Down in the bailey when I left. They had gone looking for a stretcher and a priest.'

'A priest!' Edon looked at Catrin with stricken eyes. 'Jesu forfend!'

'Look after Rosamund for me,' Catrin said, and with compressed lips grabbed her satchel and sped from the room. Such was her haste that she stumbled on the stairs, wrenched her ankle and burned her hand on the support rope, injuries that she was not to notice until much later. The only thought in her mind was reaching Oliver and protecting him from death.

By the time she burst into the great hall, Godard and another man were bearing Oliver in on a stretcher of laced ropes. They carried him to a side aisle where the roof supports formed a natural alcove and gently set him down.

'Godard, what has happened to him?' Catrin demanded on the same breath as she arrived.

The servant turned to look at her out of eyes that were dark-ringed with exhaustion. 'Sword fight,' he said succinctly. 'Broken bones and a mangled shield arm. I don't know how bad.'

Catrin dropped to her knees at Oliver's side. His face was flushed and he was running a slight fever. Very carefully she began to peel away the blankets. He twitched and moaned but his eyes remained shut.

'I do not know what you are doing here, mistress,' Godard said, 'but I'm right glad. If anyone can help him, it is you.'

'It's not a tale for the telling now,' Catrin said without looking round, all her attention for the wounded man. 'Were you with him when it happened?'

'No, mistress.' Briefly Godard gave her the gist as he knew it.

'I hope Randal de Mohun fries in hell for ever,' she said viciously, and with extreme gentleness unfastened the final binding of the blanket. Beneath it, Oliver still wore his gambeson, tunic and shirt, although all three had been cut away on his left arm. She gasped at the sight of the wound that had scored and torn his flesh.

'I had to stitch his arm,' Godard said with a worried frown. 'I know it's badly cobbled, but I poured usquebaugh over the wound like you and Ethel showed me.' 'You did your best,' Catrin said unsteadily. She wanted to cry but bit back the tears, knowing that she needed clear vision and a steady hand. Later she would weep. For now she had to be strong. 'I need hot water and a strong pair of shears.'

Godard disappeared to fetch them. Catrin laid her hand against Oliver's brow and felt the heat of fever. Knowing that this would probably never have happened if she had stayed at Bristol filled her with guilt. It was not fair that one wrong choice could have such far-reaching consequences. But when had life ever been fair?

Beneath her palm, she felt his skin twitch. He opened his eyes. For a moment they were opaque, as blind as stones, then they cleared and showed a sea-grey spark of life.

'Catrin?' he said hoarsely, and a mirthless smile twisted his lips. 'Holy Christ, now I know that I am truly out of my wits.'

'No, I'm here.' She touched his hand. 'Never mind why. That can be told when you have recovered.' 'You think I'm going to recover?'

'Of course!' Catrin cried with indignation and a touch of fear. 'I will not deny that you have made a mess of yourself, but nothing that time cannot heal. I have treated worse injuries.'

'Ah, time the healer.' He grimaced at her. 'First Godard, then you. Have you not done enough already? Is there no mercy in you to let me die in peace?'

Catrin bit her lip. A single tear rolled down her cheek. 'No, there isn't,' she said brutally. 'Not when you have so much left to live for. Not when I need you. Not when your worst enemy is your own self-pity!'

His eyes sparked again and colour flooded across the sharpness of his cheekbones. 'My worst enemy is my tender heart,' he said. 'Ripped out and impaled for the "needs" of others. Small wonder if my body desires to follow it into death . . . my lady.' He turned his head from her and closed his eyes.

Catrin tightened her grip on his hand. 'The gulf between us is already too wide,' she said desperately. 'I do not want death to stretch that distance for ever. Oliver, please!'

His eyes remained shut.

'I'm not with Louis any more,' she ventured. 'I came to find you. I thought that if you ... if you still ..." She could not continue as her throat closed and she choked on tears.

Oliver gave no sign that he had heard. He was waxen pale, the last flare of emotion having drained his strength. Catrin dashed at the tears spilling down her cheeks and swallowed hard. If she was going to nurse him back to health then she had to detach herself. A few more exchanges like the last one and he likely would die, but she had to give him the will to live.

Godard returned with the hot water and shears and Catrin set about cutting the garments from Oliver's body. The gambeson was the worst, for it was made of two layers of thick linen packed with felted fleece and quilted with heavy stitches. Her thumb was throbbing by the time she had slit it up the middle. Oliver lay silent and unresponding throughout the operation and she did not know if he was aware or not.

When finally she exposed his torso to the air, she sat back with a gasp of horrified pity. There was no torn flesh, no wounds to be stitched, but his entire chest and ribs were covered in purplish-red impact bruises. From the shallowness of his breathing and the way he groaned as she gently laid her hand on him, she could tell that he had sustained broken ribs. Beneath her fingers she felt the swellings of damaged bone. The pattern of the bruising led her to inspect his collarbone and discover that it too was broken on the shield arm side.

'Regular injury,' Godard said, watching her examination. 'If you can disable a man in the shoulder so that he cannot hold his shield, then you can move in closer and do what you like with him.'

Catrin winced. It was not a detail that she particularly wanted to know. 'The ribs will need to be bound in swaddling bands for support and a sling will deal with both the shoulder and the arm,' she said briskly.

'He is going to live then?'

Catrin looked at Oliver. She could not be sure if his closed eyes meant that he was shunning her, or that he was just out of his senses with exhaustion and pain. The latter she thought, but in case he could hear said, 'Yes, I think so, although it is as much a matter of his spirit as his body. The arm wound is the thing that bothers me the most. It will have to be opened and stitched again, and from the damage done I do not know how much use will remain in it.'

'I did my best, mistress,' Godard said anxiously.

She nodded and found a wan smile. 'I know you did. Like as not you saved his life at the time.'

'Is there anything else I can do?'

'Pray,' she said grimly. 'Pray as you have never done before.'

Steeling herself, she set about the task of cutting open and restitching his arm wound. The pain revived the injured man and Godard had to hold him down. Catrin bit her lip and concentrated upon keeping her hand steady while Oliver railed at her and cursed.

'At least he still has the will and the strength to fight,' Godard said wryly.

Catrin looked dubiously at the wound she had just restitched. Oliver was insensible again and breathing swiftly. 'Then let us pray he keeps it,' she murmured. 'You will have to raise him up so that I can bind his ribs. If we do this all at once then we can leave him to rest.' She blinked fiercely.

Mistaking her emotion, Godard said brusquely, 'He does not mean the things he says. They are only the ramblings of a man with wound-sickness.'

'Oh he means them at the moment, I am sure.' Catrin smiled through a new welling of tears. 'If I am weeping, it is for the pain I have to inflict in the name of healing. Come, the sooner done, the sooner finished.' She picked up the yards of swaddling band.

Binding Oliver's broken ribs was swiftly accomplished. The closeness, the pungency of his body, the terrible bruising made Catrin feel nauseous and faint. Nursing was easier with a detached mind. Once she had run her hands over his lean, unblemished skin in the act of love, had been as close to him as now, touching with pleasure instead of anxious pity.

'Mistress, are you all right?' Godard asked in concern as they gently lowered Oliver back down on to the rope stretcher.

Catrin shook her head. 'No, but I can manage.' Raising her head she gave him a fierce stare. 'I would not have anyone else take my place. He is mine now.'

Godard nodded gravely and reached to the pouch at his waist. 'He was before,' he said. 'You'll be wanting this.' He gave her the knot of hair that Ethel had woven in what now seemed like another life.

Catrin took it from him and noticed the charring on one edge.

'It fell in the fire,' Godard said with a dismissive shrug. 'My lord was not disposed to keep it, but I thought that one day he would regret its loss, so I took it upon myself to be a guardian.'

She rubbed her thumb over the intertwined pattern. 'You see a great deal, don't you?'

Godard shrugged again and looked uncomfortable. 'I'm a simple man, mistress. I only see what's in front of my nose.'

Catrin flashed him a sad smile. 'That's what I mean. I . . .' She broke off and turned, her words curtailed by the peremptory arrival of a stocky child with flaming red hair and brilliant, pale grey eyes. He wore a somewhat dusty tunic with a torn hem, but the embroidery on it was of gold thread and his cloak clasp was set with gems.

'Where's Oliver, what's happened to him?' the boy demanded imperiously. He pushed forward to the side of the stretcher and gazed at the wounded knight.

'He was attacked by mercenaries - sire,' Catrin said, adding the last word with the diplomacy of guesswork. This could be none other than the precocious Prince Henry. 'He's sore-wounded, but not unto death.'

The boy grunted and put his hands on his hips. They were square with grubby fingernails. Reddish freckles dusted their backs. 'Who are you?'