The Love Knot (49 page)

His stare was as sharp and clear as glass, and Catrin could physically feel the vibration of his personality. 'My name is Catrin of Chepstow, sire. I am a healer and Sir Oliver is known to me.'

The boy frowned. 'I have heard about you.' 'For the good I hope, sire,' Catrin smiled, but her eyes were wary.

Henry shrugged as if the remark was of no consequence. Later she was to learn that having been weaned on gossip and rumour, he was largely immune to it, preferring to make up his own mind. 'When will he be well?'

'It is hard to tell, sire. The broken bones will take several weeks to mend, but they should not prevent him from being up and around within a few days. He has a difficult injury to his left arm, though, which may take a long time to heal, and he may not retain all the use that he had before.'

The boy accepted the information with a nod. The frown remained, creating two deep creases between his brows. 'But he will have recovered enough to leave with me when I go back to my father in Anjou.' It was more of a statement, than a question. The clear grey eyes fixed Catrin with a gimlet stare.

On the stretcher, Oliver stirred. 'I will be well enough, sire,' he said without opening his eyes, his lips barely moving.

'I told you not to go.' Henry stooped over the man. 'I told you that when I am King your lands will be restored.'

The ghost of a smile touched Oliver's lips. 'Honour demanded,' he murmured.

The boy gave a baffled shrug. 'Honour nearly killed you.'

'Better than dishonour, sire.'

Henry shook his head and, stepping back, turned to Catrin. 'Look after him well,' he said brusquely.

'I fully intend to, sire,' she answered, not knowing whether to be amused or irritated by his manner. Ten years old going on four score.

Henry gave her a chin-jutting nod and, as swiftly as he had arrived, swept out.

'Is there no one willing to leave me in peace?' Oliver muttered, the words slurring.

'It seems not.' Catrin was thankful for Henry's visit. It had given her the breathing space that she needed to compose herself and she was able to reply in a lighter, pragmatic manner. 'Or at least not until you're strong enough to get up and walk away.'

To which Oliver said nothing, for he was already asleep.

Oliver's fever climbed and fell, climbed and fell. He slept for most of the time, his mind and body taking refuge in oblivion. Punctuating the peace of deep sleep there were dreams and waking visions, some beautiful, some terrifying, most of them incomprehensible. His brother came and stood over him and told him that he was a fool. Emma was with him, nodding her head in agreement, the baby in her arms. They gave him no reason for their opinion, seeming to think that he should know.

Simon and Emma went away, although he could still hear the baby wailing. That was strange, because he knew that it had been born dead. There was searing pain and Catrin's voice urging him to drink. He tried to fight her off, but his limbs would not work. The brew she made him swallow was hot and sweet with a bitter aftertaste.

Richard's face loomed over him and the stink of wet dog filled his nostrils.

'He's going to live, isn't he?' the boy's voice demanded, an adolescent crack in its tone.

'God willing, of course he is,' he heard Catrin reply. 'The more he sleeps, the swifter he will heal.' Her hand on his brow was cool. The cuff of her gown was bordered with gold braid. He knew that she was here, but he could not understand why — unless she was part of the dreaming nightmare.

'Is it true that he killed Randal de Mohun?'

'Yes.' Her hand smoothed and then Oliver felt her rearrange the sheets over him. The gesture was protective, he thought. He wanted to say that it wasn't true; that Randal de Mohun had taken one risk too many and been killed by misfortune on the edge of victory, but his lips and tongue would not obey his will.

'Can he hear me?'

'Yes, I think so.'

He felt the light pressure of a hand on his shoulder, the one that did not ache. 'I'm glad de Mohun's dead, but I won't be glad if you die too,' the boy addressed him directly. 'You have to get well, Oliver. We're leaving for Anjou soon and you promised Henry you'd be well enough.'

Oliver heard Catrin's admonitory murmur and would have smiled if he could have made his lips move.

'Well, it's true, he did promise,' Richard said. 'And he's never broken one yet.'

Was that what was holding him to life, a promise? His reputation for keeping his word when all around broke theirs? How much simpler it would be to turn his back and walk away into the darkness.

'No,' he heard Catrin say, and there was a wobble in her voice. 'Only his body, mind and heart in the doing.'

He did not need to walk away from the pain. It reared up and was so huge that it brought its own darkness.

When he woke again, it was to a morning of bright winter daylight. He was lying on a pallet in the bailey shelter that had once belonged to Ethel and Catrin. A dung fire burned cleanly in the central hearth, a thin line of blue smoke twirling towards the hole in the thatch. The door curtain was tied back and he could see the bustle of bailey life. He squeezed his lids together for a moment, opened them again, and was reassured to find that the scene did not change. It seemed that for the moment he was anchored in reality.

That belief was put to the test when he heard a baby's gurgle. The sound of an infant had permeated all his dreams. Turning his head, he saw an oval rushwork basket. A small fist waved from its depths and the occupant made cooing sounds. He arrived at the conclusion that the baby was as real as his surroundings, which did not explain what he was doing lying amongst them.

Rashly he tried to sit up. Intense pain and restricted movement caused him to lie back with a gasp. An exploration with his free right hand revealed bandages from shoulder to waist, and a left arm that had been immobilised with splints and couched in a sling. He felt like a fly parcelled up in a spider's web.

There was a beaker of watered wine beside the pallet and Oliver was aware of a desperate thirst. But he couldn't drink whilst flat on his back.

He made another attempt to sit up, this time using his legs as a lever, and was successful but not without a deal of pain. The problem now was that he had to lean over and pick up the beaker. Legs again, he thought, and swung them off the pallet. In a kneeling position he shuffled to the cup and managed to pick it up. For the nonce he trusted neither his strength nor balance to stand. It was victory enough to have reached the drink. He took a long, triumphant swallow.

The baby's gurgle developed a fretful note and the fist waved with increased vigour. Oliver lowered his cup and, inching over to the basket, looked within. The baby stopped screaming immediately. Oliver quite rightly attributed its behaviour to shock rather than his way with infants. It had beautiful dark brown eyes and a few wispy black curls peeped out from beneath its cap. With its colouring so like Emma's, it might have been the child he had lost unborn.

'And who might you be?' he enquired.

The baby opened its mouth and bawled its identity for all it was worth, quite drowning out Oliver's attempt to soothe it. He finished the wine and tried rocking the basket, but its occupant was not to be diverted. Oliver wondered if he had the strength to shuffle to the door and fetch help before his eardrums burst.

Just as he was about to try, Catrin swept over the threshold, her face flushed from running. 'Jesu,' she puffed. 'I cannot even leave to visit the privy!' Stooping with a graceful ease that filled Oliver with envy, she scooped the baby from the cradle, hooked up a three-legged stool with her ankle and sat down. 'All right, all right, I know you're hungry.' She unpinned the neck of her gown and put the furious baby to suck.

Oliver stared. The tiny fist, waving in temper a moment since, now opened like a star and kneaded the creamy globe of her breast. 'Yours?' he said faintly.

'Her name is Rosamund,' Catrin said. 'And yes, she is mine.' There was a powerful emphasis on the last word that gave it the meaning of 'mine alone'. She looked down at the baby with great tenderness, then at him with slightly narrowed eyes which put him in mind of a feral cat defending its kitten. Then the expression was gone, replaced by concern and irritation.

'What are you doing out of bed?'

'I wanted a drink, and then your daughter introduced herself in no uncertain terms.'

'She was hungry.' Catrin captured the kneading hand in hers. Loud sucking sounds filled the room.

'I can see that.' He watched for a moment and felt a twisting sensation of pleasure and pain beneath his heart. She could have been mine too, he wanted to say, but in the light of her protectiveness he held his tongue on the words and concentrated instead on returning to the pallet. Pride forced him to his feet to walk the few steps required, but he was sweating and shaking by the time he sat down on the bed.

Catrin put the baby on the other side to suckle. 'At least you are in your senses now,' she murmured. 'For a full week you had the wound-fever so badly that I feared only a priest could help you. Prince Henry has been to visit you every day. He even arranged for the family living here to move to one of his uncle's manors so that I could have privacy to nurse you and brew my nostrums.'

Oliver shook his head. 'It is so hard to separate the nightmares of fever from the waking reality that I will have to say that I remember nothing,' he said, as the trembling eased and the pain subsided from his ribs and arm. He frowned at her. 'I saw you in my dreams, but I scarce thought you were real. Catrin, what are you doing here?'

She did not answer at first, all her attention given to the baby. 'Is it not obvious?' she said at last, as she took Rosamund from her breast and laid the child over her shoulder.

He eyed her warily. 'No, it is not. You could have a hundred different reasons.'

'I don't.' Gently patting the baby's back, she rose and went to look out of the door at the busy courtyard.

'Where's your husband?'

The baby watched him with sated, sleepy, dark eyes. Catrin stayed where she was, gazing out on the activity in the bailey. 'I do not know,' she said, her voice cold and hard. 'In hell I hope, but I doubt it.'

Oliver's breathing quickened, and with it the pain in his ribs. Or perhaps it was the beating of his cracked heart.

'He abandoned me again,' she said, 'except that this time it was "us" he threw to the wolves, his own flesh and blood.' She nuzzled the baby's head. 'Girls are expendable, especially when you have boasted to all and sundry that your manhood is proved in sons. So are wives when they mock that manhood by bearing a daughter.' She turned round, her eyes aglitter with unshed tears. 'He left us under siege by Oxford's men, swore he would return with a relieving force, but I knew he would not. I waited ten days and then I yielded up the keep with which Stephen had entrusted him and I came here.'

Had he possessed the strength, Oliver would have gone to her, but he was drained. There was so much he needed to know. He would like to have sworn that circumstances and reasons did not matter, but after Rochester they did. 'Your husband abandoned everything?'

She gave a small shrug. 'He reached a point where he decided that the game was not worth the candle. Being lord of a keep was not all that he imagined. It brought more responsibility than his shoulders could bear. In one thing, though, he and I were alike.' Rosamund had fallen asleep. Softly Catrin laid her down in the cradle and tucked in the fleece coverlet.

'And what was that?'

'We were both duped into seeing gold where there was none, him with his keep and me with old dreams.' She drew an impatient sleeve across her eyes. 'It is finished now.'

'But you are still his wife by law.'

'Not my law.' Her face was suddenly tight with anger. 'If he walked in here now and commanded me to go with him, I would spit in his face. Priests say that it is God's rule that a woman should submit to her husband. All her worldly goods become his. They say that if she transgresses, he has the right to beat her.' She drew a deep breath. 'Well, I tell you that neither my daughter nor I are going to live by such rules. No woman should do so.'

Her pain and rage surged at him, but he did not recoil from its intensity for he could match it. 'I agree,' he said. 'But if you had stayed with me, you need not have suffered.'