The Love Knot (5 page)

Bristol
Castle
was overflowing with hired soldiers. In the space of five minutes, Catrin heard as many different tongues, as Oliver led her and Richard to the keep, leaving Gawin in charge of the horses and the eels.

There were men of every variety and rank, from half-naked footsoldiers and poor Welsh bowmen to toughened mercenaries and well-accoutred knights with swords at their hips. The gap between the ragged and the rich was not as vast as it seemed, for all soldiers, whatever their rank, wore the same expression of hungry expectation. Oliver walked among and through them with ease, now and then smiling a greeting to those he knew, but Catrin felt great discomfort at being in the midst of such checked voraciousness. Beside her, Richard grasped her hand and she saw his blue eyes darken. To reassure him that these men were allies stuck in her throat, for they looked no different from those who had torched Penfoss and murdered its occupants.

Their presence, their stares, the sight of weapons and grinning mouths in hard faces seemed to go on for ever like the antechamber to the hall of hell. The image was clarified in Catrin's mind by the sporadic camp fires which threatened rather than comforted her.

One soldier held two huge mastiffs on a chain and as she passed, they lunged, growling. Their owner yanked them back, laughing at her frightened eyes.

'Got yourself a tasty one there, Pascal!' he yelled, making an obscene gesture with his free fist.

'Go swive yourself, de Lorys!' Oliver snarled, with a gesture of his own.

The soldier smacked his lips over his stained teeth. 'I'd rather swive what you've got!'

Oliver's hand descended to his sword hilt and his tormentor recoiled with a show of mock terror.

Expression grim, Oliver quickened his stride.

'I see how safe Bristol truly is,' Catrin said with asperity. Both heart and head were thundering.

'Wherever fighting men gather, there are always those who are all mouth and no chausses.'

Catrin shuddered. It was not such soldiers of whom she was afraid although, God knew, they were unpleasant enough, but others of their ilk, who followed up their words with barbaric deeds of rapine and slaughter. Wherever fighting men gathered, there was always that kind too.

She passed women in smoke-grimed dresses - soldiers' wives and followers with gaunt, lithe bodies and weathered faces. She saw one young woman suckling a baby by the fire while two older children played near her skirts. Not a dozen yards from her, a whore plied her trade, offering her own breasts to be groped and suckled. Catrin pulled Richard closer, using her body to shield him from the sight.

Oliver appeared indifferent; all this must be commonplace to him, Catrin thought. But to her and Richard, it was a nightmare. She stumbled in a wheel rut and almost fell. Oliver grabbed her and bore her up. She felt the power in his arm, the bruising strength of his fingers and, although grateful, was also made uneasy.

'Not far now,' he encouraged. 'The camp is always the worst part for newcomers.'

She freed herself from his grip and dusted her skirts, noting with dismay a large, damp stain where the eel liquor had leaked from the basket. It made her realise that she must appear no different from the camp women. Sisters in the bone. There but for the grace of a fickle God. 'Then I am glad,' she said, 'for I do not think I have the stamina to endure much more.'

He gave her a brooding look in which she could see male exasperation mingled with a certain anxiety. It was clear to Catrin that he wanted her to stay on her feet until he had delivered her and Richard into Earl Robert's household and he could wash his hands of the responsibility. Then he would be free to go and eat his eel stew with his 'friend'.

The quality of the tents and shelters began to improve; there was more mail in evidence, and the accents became mainly French. The drab greys, browns and tans of the perimeter were now brightened with flashes of expensive colour and decorative embroidery. There were plenty of stares, but no one shouted out or tried to intimidate. To one side, a grey-bearded soldier was teaching some younger men how to defend themselves against the thrust of a spear, and everyone appeared to be gainfully employed.

On reaching the keep at the heart of the defences, they were challenged by fully armed guards. Oliver answered smoothly. Obviously he was a well-known face, for they were passed through into Earl Robert's great hall without demur.

Catrin stared round at a simmering bustle that offered small respite to her ragged wits. There were clerks seated at tables, busy with quill and ink; there were groups of soldiers talking, gaming, fondling hounds. Two women tended a cauldron set over the fire, their children playing a boisterous game of chase among the trestles which were being assembled for the late afternoon meal. Servants scurried to and fro with baskets of bread and jugs of ale. Near the dais, four minstrels tuned their instruments. On the dais itself, a retainer was spreading an embroidered linen cloth on the board and setting out cups of exquisite, tinted glass.

A slender, elegant man wearing a blue tunic halted in mid-stride and swung around to approach Oliver's small group. 'Do you have business here?' His nostrils flared fastidiously.

'With the Earl, yes,' Oliver answered, his expression taut with controlled irritation.

Catrin was all too aware of the man's disparaging gaze as he took in the dishevelled appearance of herself and Richard, but it was beyond her energy to return his look with the scorn it deserved.

'The Earl never sees anyone before he has dined,' he said haughtily. 'I might be able to find you a place at the bottom of the hall on one of the spare trestles if . . .'

'You're his understeward, not his spokesman,' Oliver said coldly. 'He will see me, I promise you that. Now, you can either send someone to announce me, or I will go above and announce myself of my own accord.'

'You cannot!' A look of horror crossed the steward's face.

'Then do something about it or lose your living.'

The servant drew himself up, but Oliver remained the taller. When the man's gaze flickered towards the off-duty knights, Oliver caught it and drew it back to his own. 'Have me thrown out,' he said on a rising snarl, 'and I will cut out your voice and cast it to those hounds. Earl Robert's hunting lodge at Penfoss has been destroyed by raiders, and the only witnesses are this woman and the child, who just happens to have royal kin. If it affects the Earl's digestion then I am sorry, but my own belly is full to the gorge!'

Heads turned. The steward licked his lips. 'A moment,' he said and, with his head on high, stalked away in the direction of the tower stairs.

'Conceited arsewipe,' Oliver muttered. 'He thinks because he sees to the placing of the salt and the finger bowls in the Earl's hall that he has dominion over all else.'

Catrin said nothing. The steward's attitude had only served to compound her fears about the kind of welcome she and Richard would receive from Earl Robert.

'Do you want to sit down?' Oliver indicated the benches running along the side of the hall.

Catrin shook her head. 'If I do, I won't rise again - not for an earl or anyone else.'

The steward returned, very much on his dignity, and his nose, although out of joint, still up in the air. 'It is your great good fortune that the Earl has agreed to see you,' he said with obvious disapproval, and beckoned to a boy with a shining mop of chestnut hair and a peppering of sandy freckles across his snub nose. 'Thomas will conduct you to his chamber.'

Hands behind his back in a manner of attentive respect,

the boy acknowledged the steward's command with a deep bow and addressed him as 'my lord.'

Somewhat mollified, the steward departed to chivvy the servant who was setting the table on the high dais. The boy wrinkled his nose at the turned, blue back and, unclasping his hands, produced the chunk of bread he had been hiding.

'It's for Bran, my pony,' he confided as he tucked it down inside his tunic. 'Old Bardolf will whip me if he finds out.' He jerked his head in the steward's direction.

'Are you whipped often?' Oliver asked with amusement.

Thomas shook his head. 'I'm too fast,' he said confidently, and led them out of the hall and up the stairs to the private living-quarters on the floor above. Now and again he cast an inquisitive glance at Richard and Catrin. It was plain that he was bursting with a curiosity which manners made impossible to satisfy. Instead he told them about himself. His name was Thomas FitzRainald, and he was the bastard son of Rainald, Earl of Cornwall, who in his turn was the bastard son of the old king. He was cheerfully proud of his ancestry. 'And my Uncle Robert is fostering me in his household and teaching me to become a knight,' he finished with a triumphant look at Richard as they halted before a solid oak door bound with wrought-iron bands and guarded by a soldier in full mail.

'Steward Bardolf said to bring these guests to my lord,' he announced in a confident treble.

The guard thumped on the door with his fist. 'You are expected,' he said to Oliver and, with a wink, wafted his spear at Thomas. 'Go on, shaveling, away to your dinner.'

The boy wrinkled his nose again, but this time in play, no insult intended. He bowed beautifully to Oliver, Richard and Catrin, then ran off towards the stairs.

The guard hid a chuckle in his beard and, at a command from within, opened the door and ushered them inside.

To Catrin, it was like entering a page from an illuminated tale of romance. Embroideries clothed the walls in opulent shades of crimson, green and gold and, where there were no hangings, the walls were painted with exquisite murals of scenes from the four seasons. Dried river-reeds strewn with sweet-scented herbs and slivers of cinnamon bark carpeted the floor, while all the coffers and benches wore the melted-honey sheen of mellowing oak. Candles of the costliest beeswax had been lit to augment the light. Their scent stroked the air, mingling with that of the herbs as they were bruised by her footsteps.

The man who rose from his high-backed chair and approached them was a little above average height, his stocky build emphasised by his costly tunic of embroidered maroon wool. He had receding dark hair and pleasant, plain features. Had he been wearing ordinary clothes, no one would have given him a second look, but he was King Henry's firstborn son, the man whom many said should have been king at his father's death despite the stigma of his illegitimacy. He had rejected the crown in support of his wedlock-born sister, Mathilda, and was now her staunchest supporter against Stephen of Blois, the man who had stolen her kingdom.

Catrin curtseyed and almost fell. Regaining her balance, she locked her knees. At her side Oliver bowed, and Richard copied his example, dipping quickly like a bird at a pond.

The Earl glanced between them with eyes deep set and shrewd. 'Best be seated before you fall down,' he said to Catrin, and gestured to one of the carved benches which was strewn with beautifully embroidered cushions. 'Sander, bring wine.' He summoned a squire who had been standing unobtrusively in a corner.

Catrin was furnished with a brimming cup in which the wine was the colour of blood. Its taste was rich and metallic and her stomach recoiled. She knew that if she drank more than a sip, she would be sick.

'Do I understand that Penfoss has been destroyed?' demanded the Earl.

'Yes, my lord,' said Oliver. 'Looted and burned. Myself and Gawin de Brionne came upon the aftermath on our way to the Severn ferry. Lady Catrin and Master Richard are the only survivors.'

While Oliver relayed the close details of the happening in a voice succinct and devoid of emotion, Catrin stared at the wall, trying to immerse herself in the painted scene of two young women playing ball in a garden. One girl's gown was a vivid shade of blue and her hair was a loose tumble of gold that reminded Catrin of Amice. Her companion wore daffodil-yellow and her hair was black.

'You have no idea who did the deed?' Earl Robert leaned forward, cutting off Catrin's contemplation. 'No one who wished your mistress or master ill?'

'No, my lord. I am not aware that they had enemies. I recognised none of the soldiers. Some wore mail, others were clad in little more than rags, but they were enough to overrun us. They took what they wanted and torched the rest.' In her own ears, her voice sounded as dispassionate as Oliver's, but that was not how she felt inside. Deep down, too far to be dug out, there was hurt and fury. She could have struck out at Robert de Caen just for asking the question, just for being a man, safe in his opulent chambers, guarded and served by men little different from the wolves who had destroyed Penfoss.

'Would you recognise any of them if you saw them again?'

Catrin rubbed her forehead wearily. 'The reason I survived is that I saw the raid from the trees outside the compound. They were of a kind ... it is hard to remember. Their leader, if you can call him that, rode a chestnut horse with four white legs and a white face.'

'Was there a device on his shield?'

Catrin shook her head. She did not want to draw her mind close to the horror. 'It was green, I think.'

'With a red cross,' Richard added, and outlined the shape on the palm of his hand. 'And his saddle-cloth was made of black and white cowhide.'

Robert of Gloucester sighed. 'Lawless bands are multiplying like flies in a dungheap. Even in my own heartlands I constantly hear of atrocities like this. It is too easy for them. They raid, then slip across the border into
Wales
, or into another territory where my writ does not run. Three times in the last month I've had farms burned by Stephen's mercenaries raiding out from Malmesbury.'