The Love Knot (55 page)

Edith sat him at one of the trestles and brought a huge bowl of chicken stew and half a freshly baked loaf. Then she stood over him and watched him eat like a mother with a finicky child. She need not have bothered for Oliver was ravenous. The pickings of the last few days had been unappetising to say the least, and Edith was as good a cook as any who served the Prince.

'So Mistress Catrin and the lass are in Bristol,' she said, as she removed his scraped bowl and set down another one containing an apple dumpling. A jug of thick yellow cream and a pot of honey joined it on the side.

Nodding, Oliver picked up his spoon and prepared to tackle the dish. 'I saw them off from Lancaster with an escort. Catrin didn't want to stay in the north, and I did not want her with me on the road to York lest anything happened.' He grimaced. 'As you can see, I was wise. I'll join them on the morrow, God willing.'

Edith watched him in silence for a while. 'How's your arm?' she asked at length.

Oliver stopped eating and pushed up the loose left sleeve of Godard's tunic to show her the knotted white scar. 'It aches in the winter,' he said, 'and it tires more swiftly than my right, but there are days when I do not think of it even once.'

'When I first saw you, I thought you would die.'

'I thought it too.' He smiled at her. 'Catrin wouldn't let me, and I'm glad now, although I cursed her for it at the time.'

'Do you think that ..." Edith broke off and looked round as Godard flung open the door.

'Soldiers,' he said without preamble. 'It will look suspicious if you hide. Go out and be ready to take the leaders' horses if they decide to stay.'

Oliver spooned up a last mouthful of the apple dumpling and Edith whisked away his bowl. 'My name's Osmund,' he said to Godard. 'I've been working here for the past two years ever since my village was destroyed. I'm your second cousin, so you felt a duty to give me house room.'

Godard nodded brusquely. 'That should satisfy them, although I doubt they'll ask.'

Oliver went out into the road. Other folk from the hamlet were poking their noses out of doors to watch the troops ride through. While people were wary, there were no signs of panic. Their settlement owed its rents and dues to the Abbey at Malmesbury and although church lands were not immune from attack, soldiers tended to think twice before jeopardising their souls.

Godard shaded his eyes against the sun and watched their approach. Oliver stood a little way back, his expression calm, almost bovine, but his heart thumping like a drum. In the alehouse, he could hear Edith singing as she tipped fresh water in the cauldron and filled the jugs with new ale.

As the soldiers came closer, Oliver recognised the man who led them. 'It's Prince Eustace,' he muttered from the side of his mouth. 'Have a care with him. His nature's as sour as spoiled wine.'

Prince Eustace drew rein under the sign of The Bush. His complexion was almost purple with frustration and heat. 'God's arse, is there no one here who can do anything but stare like a half-wit!' he snarled. He was wearing a very fine hauberk of lammelar-mail, the kind favoured by the Byzantines. Each overlapping scale collected the heat and Eustace was literally cooking inside his armour. His horse was creamed with sweat and blowing hard, its nostrils distended and its sides heaving like smithy bellows.

'Surely, my lord,' Godard answered in French, his manner polite but not servile. 'But we're more used to pilgrims for the hermitage than soldiers.' He snapped his fingers at Oliver, who moved forward to act the part of groom. 'You're welcome to water your mounts and yourselves if you've a mind.' Turning to Oliver, he told him in English to take the horses round to the trough. 'He speaks no French, sir,' Godard added, as he translated the instruction for Eustace's benefit.

Eustace grunted. 'I wouldn't expect him to. He looks a brainless dolt.'

Oliver lowered his head and cultivated a vapid expression. Eustace decided not to trust him with his horse and gave it to his squire instead. Oliver showed the soldiers the trough and the haystore, then, on the receiving end of several cuffs and kicks, returned to the alehouse to help Edith and Godard serve.

'So you have seen neither hide nor hair of an army pass this way?' Eustace demanded as he drank down the first cup of Edith's ale in several fast swallows. He had complained loudly about the lack of wine but was embracing the alternative with gusto.

'No, my lord,' Edith replied, refilling Eustace's cup. 'There's only pilgrims that come through here, and sometimes the troops from Ashbury. Odinel the Fleming holds the village there,' she added, without looking at Oliver. 'He's a man loyal to your father.'

Oliver spoke rapidly in English.

Eustace glowered at him. 'What does he say?' he demanded. 'Jesu, it's small wonder that they were defeated on Hastings field.'

Godard cleared his throat. 'Sire, he says that he saw troops riding on the Bristol road before dawn this morning when he was out bird-nesting. Says that they rode right past our fork in the road, going swift with torches to light the way. He wonders if you belong to them.'

'Before dawn?' Eustace repeated with a scowl.

'Aye, my lord.' He spoke over his shoulder to Oliver who grunted a reply, one forefinger held up. 'About an hour before, so Osmund says.'

'How far is Bristol from here?'

'Four hours' ride, my lord, on horses like yours. Takes me five on my old horses and half a day with my cart.'

Eustace calculated and threw back his second cup of ale with an angry tilt of his head. 'Then we've lost them,' he growled. 'I'd give my soul for just one fingernail of the bastard Angevin's luck.' He slammed the cup down on the trestle. 'So close,' he said bitterly, and held up his forefinger and thumb. 'I might as well be a hundred miles away!' He made a sound of pure disgust and glared at Godard. 'Let him skulk in Bristol. He'll have to emerge at some time, and when he does I'll crack him open like a flea.' He closed his finger and thumb, clicking the nails together.

'Yes, sir,' Godard said diplomatically. 'Would you like to try a bite of my wife's chicken stew?'

Eustace declined. 'We have work to do.' He thrust to his feet. 'The Angevin whoreson might have escaped by the skin of his teeth, but I can yet singe his tail.' He tossed two silver pennies from his pouch on to the trestle. 'Fortunate for you that you entertained the right army,' he said, and strode out.

The troop mounted up and rode away. A hot silence descended on the village as the dust began to settle.

'Jesu.' Legs suddenly weak, Oliver collapsed at one of the trestles and ran his hands through his hair. He poured himself some of Edith's ale, took a long drink and then laughed with relief and dark amusement.

'What's so funny?' Edith's tone was waspish. She had half-expected the alehouse to go up in flames.

'I told him that Henry had gone through three hours since, but it's much nearer to one. If Eustace ran his horses ragged, he might just catch him.'

'Well, what was all that about singeing Henry's tail?' Godard asked. He took the ale jug from Oliver and poured himself a cup.

The laughter died from Oliver's eyes. 'I wager that he intends to burn and ravage villages beholden to the Earldom of Gloucester. He's fuming with choler and desperate to strike out. He'll loot and torch and then retreat to Oxford to await his next opportunity.'

Edith tightened her lips and busied herself clearing the trestles. 'Who cares who rules the country as long as all this wanton waste and destruction stops,' she snapped. 'Time and again it is the innocent who suffer for the ambitions of men who dare to call themselves "noble".'

Godard cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable.

'I agree,' Oliver said, 'but I am caught up in it for good or ill. What would you do if another ale-wife appeared and took your home for herself? Would you just walk away with a shrug?'

Edith wrinkled her nose and took his point, but she was still none too happy. 'Well, I still say they should compromise their differences. Let Stephen keep the throne, let Henry have it after him and let everyone have the land which was theirs at the time when old King Henry died.'

'And beggars might ride,' Godard snorted.

'They well might,' Oliver said less sceptically. 'Henry has spoken of such a move before. He wants his grandfather's crown but, if necessary, he's willing to outlive Stephen to get it.'

'And what about Eustace?'

'If you saw Henry and Eustace together, you would know that there is no comparison. Eustace may have blood as royal as Henry's but the similarity ends there. I'd give my life for Henry Plantagenet, but I'd not even consider giving my oath of loyalty to such as Eustace. Neither would most of the barons in the country if the truth were known. Men who are loyal to Stephen will not remain loyal to his son.'

'Well, as long as it doesn't touch us here, I'm not bothered.' Edith hitched her vast bosom. 'Can't say as I liked him much myself, but with good fortune he won't happen this way again.' She stumped off to continue with her tasks.

'Women,' Godard said, a trifle uneasily.

Oliver could see him wondering if offence had been taken. He smiled to set him at ease. 'They live by different codes,' he said, 'and who can blame them. Often as not when a pot is broken, they are the ones who are left to either mend or sweep up the shards.'

'Often as not the pot was thrown at a man's head in the first place,' Godard said with a roll of his eyes.

Grinning, very pleased with themselves at having outwitted Eustace, and bonded together in masculine camaraderie, the men went off to inspect the state of Hero's foreleg.

Although improved a little, it was obvious that the stallion would not be fit to be ridden for several days, if not a full week, and then but lightly. Godard offered Oliver the use of his brown cob to reach Bristol and Oliver accepted, intending to set out on the morrow when Eustace would be well out of the vicinity.

He was cleaning his hauberk with a mixture of sand and vinegar and inspecting the rivets for any weak or broken links, when he heard the thud of horse hooves and the jingle of harness. It was too late to bundle up his equipment and thrust it back into the understore. He grabbed an armful of hay, tossed it over the hauberk and went swiftly outside, adopting a crabwise, servile gait, his back slightly stooped.

Catrin stared at him in astonishment from the back of her brown mare. Beside her, Geoffrey FitzMar stared too.

'God's bones, Oliver, what in Christ's name are you doing!'

Equally astonished, Oliver straightened and gaped at Catrin and Geoffrey. 'Lying low and keeping my hide intact,' he responded, when he could find his voice. 'But I might ask you what in Christ's name you are doing!'

Catrin flushed. 'Richard told us Hero was lame and you had taken refuge with Godard. Prince Henry's sent you a remount.' She indicated the handsome blue-roan stallion that Geoffrey was holding on a lead-rein and, kicking her feet from the stirrups, jumped down from the mare.

Oliver clenched and unclenched his fists, the colour draining from his face to leave him ashen with rage. 'Don't you know how foolish it is to be abroad just now - a lone woman, a single knight and three good horses?' he choked. 'You could have been set upon and killed!'

She shook her head. 'We saw no one on the road, our worry was for you.'

'But you knew I'd be safe with Godard.' He jerked his arm in an angry gesture.

'I knew no such thing!' Running to him, she set her arms around his neck. Her nails dug into the flesh at his nape. 'You don't understand. I had to know that you were whole.'

'Of course I'm whole,' he snapped. He was still furious, but the fierceness of her embrace and the tears in her eyes compelled him to put his own arms around her.

She buried her face in the old, hay-burred tunic. 'Twice Louis rode away and left me,' she said, her voice muffled by the scratchy wool. 'Then when I sought you in Bristol, you were brought to me at death's door. I don't want to be told by others that you are safe, I need to see it for myself.'

She raised her face, uncaring that they were in full public view, and kissed him. Oliver kissed her back, hard, with considerable exasperation, but was aware of a treacherous tenderness overtaking his anger.

'That "seeing for yourself could have meant your own life,' he said, giving her a little shake. 'Eustace and his mercenaries are ravaging and burning hereabouts. If they had come upon you and Geoffrey, you'd be butchered corpses by now!'

'But they didn't and we're not,' she said practically. 'You cannot live your life by the code of "what if. Besides, Eustace would not harm someone who has tended his own father's sickbed.'

Oliver shook his head. 'You do not know Eustace.' He scowled at Geoffrey. 'Could you not have stopped her?'

'Short of binding her hand and foot and bolting her in the cells, no,' the knight snorted. 'I tried to reason her out of it, but it was as if I was talking a different language.' He gave Oliver a sudden shrewd look from his light blue eyes. 'It was like the time at Wareham when we assaulted the town. Do you remember? You did not care whether I was at your side or not, you were determined to plunge into the thick of the fray?'

Oliver glowered but had the grace to nod in acceptance of the point. 'I remember,' he said tersely, 'although I would rather forget.'