The Love Knot (51 page)

There were precautions which lessened the likelihood of pregnancy, and until Rosamund was three Catrin had used pieces of moss or scraps of linen soaked in vinegar. But another three years had passed since then without result. Her flux was a week late this month, but it had happened several times before and on each occasion had been a false prophecy. Her lack of fecundity posed no problem to Oliver, who was quite content for her not to risk the perils of childbirth, but Catrin viewed each monthly bleed with wistful disappointment. Perhaps Belle's baby was a portent; perhaps this time it would be different.

Competently she delivered the afterbirth and made mother and baby comfortable for the inevitable stream of visitors who would begin to arrive the moment that word of the birth spread beyond the bedchamber door.

Henry was the first to appear, blowing into the room like a gale. Unlike his father he was neither tall nor handsome, but he still had so much charisma and energy that he positively blazed. He was a month shy of his sixteenth birthday, but no one thought of him as a raw youth. Prince Henry was a king in the making.

He gave Belle a robust kiss on each cheek and plucked the baby out of her arms to carry him to the candlelight. 'Hah, red like me,' he said with pleasure, and peered into the crumpled infant face with paternal pride. On the bed, his mistress smiled with weary triumph. Whatever the future held, she would always be the mother of his firstborn son.

The child in his arms, Henry turned to Catrin. 'You do know that you have employment for as long as you want it,' he grinned.

'Does that mean you are going to keep me busy, sire?' Catrin replied with a broad smile of her own.

He laughed and bounced the baby back to its mother. 'Man may plan, but heaven executes,' he said. 'Nevertheless, it will be no hardship to endeavour my best.' In high good humour, he paid her fee and gave her a ring of notched gold and garnet from his middle finger.

In high good humour herself, Catrin made her way back across the tower precincts to the small house against the outer wall that she and Oliver shared. As she approached, she heard gales of laughter and, rounding the corner, came upon her six-year-old daughter, blunt spear in hand, attacking young Richard FitzRoy. He was fending her off with his shield, while his dog leaped and barked around the two of them, its tail wagging like a flail. Leaning against the doorpost, Oliver watched the scene, an indulgent grin on his face.

'So this is how you spend your time when I'm not by,' Catrin admonished with mock severity.

Rosamund whirled, her black braid as glossy as a raven's wing in the spring sunshine. 'Richard's teaching me to fight with a spear!' Her voice was sharp with excitement and her cheeks were flushed, making her eyes look darker and brighter than ever. They were her father's legacy, as were her quickness and grace. She had a lethal quantity of his mercurial charm too.

'It's blunt,' Richard said swiftly. 'She'll come to no harm.' He stood head and shoulders above Catrin now. His adult features were developing apace and there was the lightest hint of a beard on his chin. During the last year his voice had deepened and his narrow girth increased. It was becoming very difficult for Catrin to remember the small boy whose nightmares had woken the Countess's women in Bristol after the raid on Penfoss.

'And learning to fight is more exciting than spinning wool or stitching cloth,' Catrin nodded, stifling a smile. She ruffled the dog's thick, tawny fur. 'Richard, you will be pleased to know that Prince Henry has just made you a great-uncle. Belle has borne a fine son.'

The young man pulled a face. 'I congratulate him, but the child can call me "cousin". I don't want to be anyone's "great-uncle" until I'm in my dotage!'

'What's dotage?' Rosamund demanded.

'What happens when you pass twenty,' Oliver said.

Rosamund looked at him narrowly. 'Does that mean you are in your dotage?'

'You'll have to ask your mother.' He grinned at Catrin.

The little girl frowned.

'Pay no heed,' Catrin advised her. 'Your papa's teasing. When you have finished learning how to be an Amazon, I want you to take a jar of throat syrup to Dame Quenhild in the hall.'

Rosamund screwed up her face, considering mutiny, but decided against it and nodded her head. It was fun playing with Richard, but it was also fun to watch all the coming and going in the hall.

Catrin gave her the jar of syrup and watched Rosamund set off, Richard escorting her for he too had business in that direction. The little girl carried her burden carefully, her black braid swinging as she walked. Catrin shook her head and smiled, her vitals gripped by a sharp pang of love. 'She is growing fast,' she murmured to Oliver. 'Too fast for me in my "dotage",' he agreed and sat down on the pallet they shared.

Catrin gave him a sidelong glance. For an instant she contemplated telling him that her flux was late, that there might be another child to watch over as it grew from helpless infancy to sturdy independence, but she dismissed the idea almost immediately. It was too soon to tell. Besides, knowing Oliver's qualms about the entire matter of childbirth, it was probably best to keep him in ignorance until she was thoroughly sure herself, and that might take several months.

The glance she had given him was met by a considering one of his own, as if he too was deciding whether to speak. Catrin saw that he was unconsciously rubbing his left elbow. Six years after his wounding, he had regained reasonable use of the limb and could even hold a full-sized kite shield for short periods, but it still pained him on occasion. Rubbing it was either a sign that the bone was aching or that he had something on his mind. After the way he had looked at her, she thought it was the latter.

'What's wrong?' she asked.

'Nothing.' Oliver shook his head, but his expression did not lighten and he continued to massage his elbow. 'Did Prince Henry say anything when you saw him?'

'Not a great deal; only that he was pleased with the child and that I was granted employment for life. Why?' Moving three of Rosamund's hair ribbons, a distaff with some neatly spun wool and a doll made of fabric stuffed with fleece, she sat down at Oliver's side.

'He said nothing about England?'

'No.' Catrin gave him a sharp look. 'He's not contemplating an escapade like the last one?' Two years ago Henry had taken it into his head to cross the Narrow Sea with a raiding party of friends and mercenaries. It was an ill-planned expedition, funded by youthful high spirits and little else. Oliver had been at his wits' end over the matter, for Henry had viewed all pleas for prudence as nothing more than the procrastination of old men who had outlived their daring. Oliver had felt the criticism keenly. To all intents and purposes he was Henry's quartermaster, responsible for ensuring that there were enough supplies to sustain the soldiers of his household whether at home or on campaign. Two years ago, Henry had overridden Oliver's protests that they were not sufficiently prepared and had set out to claim England as if he were going to play skittles at a summer feast.

The 'invasion' had been an unmitigated disaster with coin and supplies evaporating more rapidly than summer mist. A plea to his mother and Earl Robert for funds to pay his soldiers had been met with stony refusal in order to teach Henry a lesson. In the event, he did not learn the sort of lesson they had hoped, for the fourteen-year-old had gone to his other uncle, King Stephen, to ask for money. Taken aback but amused by Henry's sheer audacity, Stephen had provided the finances on the understanding that Henry leave England immediately. Henry had done so, his mood chastened but not entirely subdued.

'He's two years older and wiser now,' Oliver said drily. 'And sixteen is closer to man than boy. I know he makes me tear out my hair on occasion, but I will say that Henry learns by his mistakes.'

Catrin picked up her daughter's doll and gazed at its slipshod grin. Rosamund had sewn the face herself using scraps of brown wool. It was a good effort for the five-year-old she had been at the time. 'At sixteen there is still too much to learn,' she said, 'often at the expense of others.'

Oliver shrugged. 'He's not travelling under his own sail this time - or at least, not entirely. It's at the behest of King David of Scotland and Rannulf of Chester. He's to be invested with his knighthood and officially take up arms against Stephen.' He ceased rubbing his arm and leaned on his thighs. 'He's coming of age, Catrin, love, and if he does not succeed in England now, he never will. But, God help me, the time ahead is daunting. Do you know how many quarters of wheat and pecks of oats it takes to keep even a small conroi in the field for a week?' Catrin shook her head and slipped her arm around his waist. Already she could see that his mind was adrift in calculation, his lips moving silently. 'No, but I know that you do, and that you are full capable of garnering whatever supplies are needed, if Henry gives you the chance,' she said, to boost his confidence and because it was true. 'How long do you have?'

Oliver blinked. 'What? Oh, I don't know yet. Henry was too busy rushing off to look at his son to tell me, but I dare say I'll know by tonight.'

'England,' Catrin murmured, and gazed out of the hut door. In many respects, living in Rouen was not dissimilar to living in Bristol. Both cities were major ports, dependent on the river for their trade. The main language of the nobility was French as it had been in England, but there were still so many things she missed. The softness of a West-wind rain from Wales, yeasty, golden ale tasting of elder-flowers, oatcakes flavoured with honey and sprinkled with poppy seeds. They scarcely grew oats in Normandy, except to give to horses, and viewed anyone who ate them as coarse and rustic.

'Rosamund and I are going with you,' she said firmly. Two years ago the expedition had been sprung without warning by the Prince. There had been no time to garner camp followers — probably a blessing in hindsight - but this was different. If Henry was going to be knighted and then make a serious play for his crown, the absence from Normandy was likely to be a long one.

Oliver's expression was suddenly neutral. 'I am not sure that it is wise.'

'Neither am I, but you will not dissuade me,' Catrin said

quickly, before he could launch into a dozen reasons why she should remain behind. 'I have been content here because you have been content, but Rouen is not my home - or yours. Don't you long to hear English spoken again other than on the wharf sides where the London merchants unload?'

He made a brief, but by no means enthusiastic, gesture of assent.

'I want Rosamund to grow up speaking both tongues, but all she can manage in English is to ask for wine and swear!'

'That's not true!' There was laughter amidst Oliver's indignation.

'Well, no,' Catrin conceded, 'but I miss England. I want to go home.'

Oliver shook his head. 'We will be on the road much of the time, love,' he said. 'And we may be in danger. I do not like to think of you and Rosamund living as camp followers. Here you have your own dwelling and place in the world.'

'Yes,' she nodded slowly. 'Yes, we do, but that's all it is, a dwelling. Home is where the heart lies. I don't want to be parted from you for month upon month.' She frowned at him. 'You want me to stay here because you fear for my safety, but I want to come because I fear for yours.'

'But there's small reason for you to fear,' he said, and rotated his left arm and flexed his hand. 'I am not likely to be thrown into the forefront of battle, am I?'

'Perhaps not, but you know as well as I do how easy it is to become involved by accident. You might be waiting with the baggage wagons, the enemy breaks through, and suddenly you find yourself in the thick of the fray.'

'All the more reason for my wife to stay in safety. If the baggage wagons are attacked then any woman — or child -among them is fair game.'

Absently she noticed that he had referred to her as his wife, a habit of such long-standing now that everyone in Rouen assumed that they were full-wedded in law and that Rosamund was his daughter. But she wasn't his wife and she was free to do as she chose. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him as much but she held back, for it would have inflicted a wound on flesh that was already too thin and scarred. 'You might frighten me with such tales,' she said, angrily, 'but you will not stop me. When you sail for England, Rosamund and I sail with you.'

Oliver breathed out heavily. 'As stubborn as a mule does not even begin to describe you,' he said with exasperation.

'No, it doesn't.' She saw that she had won. There was resignation in his eyes, and perhaps a spark of pride. But if she had been wary of telling him about the suspected pregnancy before, she knew now that it was impossible. Wife or not, he would have her locked up in the highest room of Rouen's tower for the full nine months. While she would not lie to him, she was not above committing a sin of omission.

'Besides,' she said, as much to herself as to him, 'if the danger becomes too great, I can take Rosamund to Bristol. We'll be safe there, and I know that Edon and Geoffrey will welcome us.'

'I am sure they will,' he said, but it was an unthinking response and his eyes were distant again. She wondered if her mention of Bristol had brought back memories of living there. It had all changed now. Earl Robert had died of clogged lungs a few months after Prince Henry's invasion escapade and his eldest son, Philip, was now earl in his place. Oliver's position in Henry's household had become embedded, his loyalty was to the Prince alone rather than the house of Gloucester. It would be a poignant revisiting.