The Love Knot (52 page)

But Oliver's thoughts were not on Bristol. 'I will not push a boulder uphill and try to stop you,' he said, 'but what if. . .' He chewed his lower lip and looked at her, his grey eyes quenched and dark. 'What if you encounter Louis again?'

The crux of the matter blazed out like dry grass catching fire from a tinder spark and caught her utterly by surprise. It was not his fear of losing her in a raid on the baggage wains that made him protest at her desire to go with him; it was his fear of losing her to Louis.

'He is less than nothing to me,' she said with all the vehemence that she could muster. It was ground they had often trodden before, frequently without words. She turned his face on the palm of her hand and spoke close to his mouth.

'You are the world. Yes, I thought I loved him once, but it was only lust in disguise and I have long outgrown the empty trappings that are all he ever offered.'

He took her hand from his face, closing his fingers around hers, and kissed her. She felt his possession and anxiety and for a moment kissed him back with fervour. Then she broke away. 'You have to trust me, Oliver. If you don't, then our life together has been as nothing.'

He swallowed. 'I do trust you. It is him I do not. Supposing. . . supposing he wants Rosamund. She is his daughter by right.'

'He gave up all right to her long ago,' Catrin said, and then shook her head to remove the dread of the thought. 'Our paths are unlikely to cross and, if they do, I am no lamb to the slaughter this time.' She gazed through the doorway and watched Rosamund returning from her errand, her face bright with sunlight and a spring in her step. 'I will kill him before I yield so much as an inch of ground, let alone my . . . our daughter,' she said softly, but with utter conviction.

In Caesarea, Roxanne lay on her bed and wept bitter tears at the perfidy of men.

Outside the walls of Jerusalem, by the pool of Siloam, Louis let his horse and pack pony drink their fill and smiled at the sloe-eyed woman with gold bracelets clinking on her wrists. She gazed back at him, letting him know that she thought him insolent but that it was not an insurmountable barrier, and then she turned away, snapping her fingers at her servants.

He watched them bear her towards the city in a litter decorated with red and gold silk tassels. The exotic scent of sandalwood and patchouli filled his nostrils and stirred his hunting instincts. The curtains of the litter parted and the woman glanced out to see if he was following.

In his own good time, Louis took his horses and did so.

It was May when Henry Plantagenet set sail for his Uncle David's court in Scotland where he was to receive his knighthood and plan the claiming of a kingdom.

Although the crossing was moderately gentle, Catrin was wretchedly sick throughout. She hung over the wash strake, the cold, green water striking and bursting in silver bubbles mere inches from her face. She had tried sucking ginger root which was usually very effective at stemming nausea, but to no avail. Six years ago she had been seasick on the journey across the Narrow Sea, although not with this appalling ferocity. But then on that occasion, she had not been pregnant.

She was sure now. The time of her second flux had come and gone four days' since without so much as a spot of blood. Her breasts were full and tender, she felt bloated, and the sickness had begun with a vengeance. Fortunately, Oliver thought it was due to the sea-crossing, which in part it was, or else he would never have allowed her on board ship. Catrin endured as best she could, telling herself that it would pass as soon as she quickened.

Rosamund was completely unaffected by the rolling of the ship, and as brightly unsympathetic as only a six-year-old could be. 'It doesn't make me sick, Mama,' she announced, peering over the side, then leaned over the gunwale trying to reach the water and trail a hand. Catrin struggled upright and, with aching stomach, dragged her daughter from harm's way. 'No, but you might drown,' she said crossly. Rosamund pouted. 'I only want to see if the water's green in my hand.'

'No, it isn't, it's just water-coloured,' Catrin said shortly. Nausea surged. She clutched the side and closed her eyes. 'Then why does it look green?'

'Because of the way the light shines through it, because of the way that darkness is never really black but many different colours,' Oliver said, coming to Catrin's rescue. Sweeping Rosamund up, he tucked her under his right arm so that she squealed. 'I could always throw you overboard to find out,' he teased.

Rosamund pummelled him but to no avail, he had her fast. 'Feeling no better?' he said to Catrin.

She shook her head. It was beyond her to speak. If she opened her mouth she would be sick.

'I came to say that we'll be making landfall in a few hours. The lookout has sighted the Scottish coast in the distance.'

'Where, where, let me see!' Rosamund demanded.

Catrin leaned over the side again and felt the salt spray tingle on her face. Oliver took Rosamund to the prow of the vessel and pointed out the distant smudge of coastline. Other vessels ploughed alongside theirs, each of them bearing a cargo of men and supplies. Prince Henry's ship fluttered a red and gold banner bearing a device of three lions, a blazon adopted from his father. On board with Henry was Roger, Earl of Hereford, who was also to be knighted at the ceremony on Pentecost Sunday. The bright colours of tunics and cloaks glowed against the brown and white of the ship.

Henry had left Belle and baby William in Normandy. For all her earlier determination to follow Oliver, Catrin found herself wishing that at this precise moment she was back in Normandy too, lying on a bed that did not move.

Even when Henry's entourage disembarked from their ships, Catrin's nightmare was not over. The journey by sea had to be continued by land to Carlisle. Riding in a baggage wain meant that she could lie down with a lavender-scented cloth across her forehead, but the lurching of the cart over successive potholes in the road made it almost as bad as being at sea. She sucked more ginger root and fought her rebellious stomach. Rosamund sat with the driver and chattered nineteen to the dozen about all the things they saw along their way. The border country was wild and green whereas Normandy's greenness was lush and padded. The Scots lowlands hinted at the bones of rock beneath the soil. Among the fields of corn there were as many fields of oats, and the cows were smaller and tougher than the great slab-sided cattle of Normandy.

Catrin watched all of this from a detached distance. She was aware of Oliver riding beside the wain and peering anxiously inside. She managed to give him a wan smile and, turning on her side, fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

Carlisle was a grey border town with a fine new keep defending the approach to Galloway and standing proud against Cumbria. To honour its king and greet Prince Henry, his nephew, the castle had been decked with horn lanterns and the barbaric splendour of pine pitch torches. A fanfare of trumpets welcomed the arrival of Henry and his entourage and they were escorted into the castle by King David and his knights in the full splendour of court dress. A great feast was set out in the hall with glistening roasts, whole tender sucking pigs, and pies made with chopped venison and spices. Banners and weapons gilded the walls and a fortune in gold plate was laid out upon an embroidered cloth on the high table.

Catrin ignored all the rich, fatty meat. The sight of it made her ravenous and sick at the same time and she knew that if she ate it, she would only purge it back later. While Rosamund gorged herself, her small face shiny with grease, Catrin made do with plain bread and oatcakes, washed down with a little wine. Luckily Oliver had too many duties to spend much time with her, but Catrin knew that eventually he would notice, and if she continued to be ill she no longer had the excuse of a brisk sea crossing.

Fortunately, by the end of the week Catrin was slightly better. Although she was still being sick, especially in the mornings, she could at least eat plain food during the day without vomiting, and she was still managing to conceal her indisposition from Oliver. He was too preoccupied with Henry's intended strike at Stephen's positions in northern England to notice her lethargy and pallor and she did her best not to call it to his attention. She would pile her trencher in the hall, eat some, leave some for the alms basket and slip the rest to the dogs which always lurked under the tables ready to snap up offerings.

To put more colour in her cheeks, she sat close to the hearth, or dabbed her cheeks with the merest hint of red powder. The latter was the resort of older women trying to recapture their youth and younger ones who were advertising their attractions, so she had to be very careful.

She soon came to the conclusion that she need not have bothered, for all the notice that Oliver took. Henry, now a fully fledged knight, was planning to advance to Lancaster to meet Earl Rannulf of Chester, and from there to march upon York, one of the major strongholds of the north country. Henry's designs had to be supported by supplies and Oliver was kept busy from dawn to dusk securing the wherewithal to march an army.

'There are to be no camp followers,' he said to Catrin on their last evening in Carlisle. They were lying side by side in the hall, Rosamund cocooned in her cloak beside them. 'Henry intends to move with all haste - and that means with the minimum of baggage. Once we reach Lancaster, you must either stay there or continue to Bristol if you prefer familiar territory.'

'You are saying that I cannot go with you?' Catrin half-raised her head. In the grainy light cast by the night candle, she could see the pale gleam of his hair and the thin line of his nose.

'Not to York.' He slipped his arm around her waist, softening the blow. 'Much as I want you by my side, I would find you and Rosamund a hindrance too. I would be fearing for your safety instead of concentrating on the task at hand.'

His fingers moved back and forth at her waist and Catrin sucked in her stomach and wondered if he would notice the thickening there.

'Stay in Carlisle, if you want,' he added. 'As soon as he has the victory, Henry will advance his full household.'

Catrin folded one of her hands over his and stilled his motion. She felt the curve of his knuckles, the length of bone, the shortness of nail. He had argued for her and

Rosamund to stay in Normandy; now he was preventing them from following him to York. But this time she was more disposed to listen. There would be distance between them, but less than the Narrow Sea, and now that her pregnancy was fact, not speculation, she had the baby's welfare to consider. The fight for York was only the beginning. If Henry was successful, his army would push on to the next city and the next. If Henry lost, then he would have to retreat to one of the loyal strongholds - Carlisle, Bristol, Devizes.

The truly logical step was to remain in Carlisle, but the place did not call to her in the way of home. People had been kind, but there was a reserve in them, a cool buffer which they set up between themselves and what they saw as 'Norman' strangers. If Catrin was going to build a nest, then she wanted to build it in Bristol where there was familiarity and a kinder climate.

'No,' she said. 'I will go to Bristol. Although I hate to be parted from you, I can see the sense in what you say.'

'Well, there's a miracle,' he muttered against her hair. She pinched him and he recoiled with a muffled yelp.

'In Bristol,' she said in a firm tone, overriding his sarcasm, 'I know the people and the surroundings. It will be good to see Edon again.'

'And you enjoy your gossip.'

Catrin used her elbow this time. 'Besides, Henry is bound to bring his army to Bristol sooner or later, although why I should cite that as a reason I do not begin to know.' She sniffed at him.

'Of course you do. For the joy and pleasure of having me in your arms.' He tightened his hold to prevent her from attacking him again and pressed his lips over hers. Catrin put up a mock fight and then softened her mouth beneath his.

'Don't let it be too long.'

'I think you need have no fear on that score,' he murmured against her lips.

Catrin arrived in Bristol during the first week of June. The weather was balmy and so saturated with the scent of bursting green growth that it seemed about to split asunder.

Full summer heat had. yet to smother the land and the scents and stenches of the city were merely ripe and evocative rather than overpowering. The same fishwife, more wizened and leathery with the passage of years, offered Catrin and Rosamund a basket of eels using the same words: 'Fresh caught, not an hour old!'