The Love Knot (59 page)

'Twins, no doubt about it,' said Dame Sibell. 'I can feel a head here and here.' She laid her hand on Catrin's mountainous belly. 'Won't be long before your time either.'

The midwife was travelling to her niece's wedding in Ludgershall and was spending a week with her sister in Devizes before the two of them went to join the celebrations.

Catrin thought of her promise to Oliver. Bearing twins would make it more difficult to keep, but not impossible. Most women who bore two babies survived the experience, but there was a significant minority who did not. 'I am not surprised,' she said. 'I knew I was too large for my time just to be carrying the one, unless it was a giant.' Indeed, in a way she was relieved. She looked at Sibell. 'Can you stay for my confinement?'

The midwife pursed her lips, causing the fine spider lines surrounding them to deepen and pucker. 'I can be back here in a three-week,' she said, 'but I don't know as you'll last that long.'

'But will you come?'

'Aye, lass, if that's what you want.'

'It is.' Catrin struggled off the pallet. Her belly began under her breasts and was as round as a full moon. She had to lean over it to view her feet, and putting on shoes was a nightmare. She offered the midwife a cup of mead and listened politely to Dame Sibell's recounting of the family business that brought her away from Bristol. Then she asked after Geoffrey and his children.

'He's bearing it well to the world, but not within himself,'

Sibell said sombrely. 'The children have gone to stay with his cousin in Gloucester and he visits them when he can, but I think he finds more solace in the bottom of a cup just now.' 'Will it pass, do you think?'

'Only time and God can say.' Sibell crossed herself. 'At least he isn't hiding the grief away like some men. I keep thinking about the poor lass. There was nothing any of us could have done.'

'No.' Catrin laid her hand upon her belly and told herself fiercely that she was going to keep her promise to Oliver. For her sake, for his and Rosamund's. And Edon's memory.

Sibell finished the mead and took her leave, promising to return from Ludgershall as soon as she could.

The thought of twins in her mind, Catrin began sorting through her swaddling bands and linens to decide how much more she was going to need.

There was a sea-mist at dawn. Coughing, Oliver rose from sleep and found the entire camp bedewed in hoar. Soldiers faded in and out of the cloud like wraiths. The fires were damp and reluctant to burn, and everything had an other-worldly aspect. They were, after all, on the verge of King Arthur's old kingdom. Southwards lay Cornwall and the ruins of Tintagel that some said was once called Camelot.

Oliver was grateful for the fleece lining to his cloak for there was a biting chill in the air. Although full winter had yet to arrive, campaigning on its threshold was far from pleasant. His left arm ached and his fingertips were numb. Everything made of steel was streaked with rust.

For their pains they had taken Bridport as Henry had hoped, but other success had been elusive. Stephen's commander, de Tracy, had retreated behind his castle walls at Barnstaple, refusing to be drawn into open battle. Henry had pursued him doggedly but did not have the resources to crack open such a stronghold at one attempt. In retreating, de Tracy had burned everything in his path, leaving nothing for Henry's army to forage.

All that the cooking pot contained for breakfast was thin gruel. Being in command of supplies, Oliver was acutely sensitive about not taking more than his due. If there was no abuse, there could be no crime. He ladled some of the unappetising mixture into his bowl and thought with longing of Catrin's hearty stews, of hot hearth bricks, glowing logs, and the pleasure of a warm, dry bed.

The wistful pleasure of his thoughts was curtailed by a vision of Catrin stretched upon the rack of childbirth, her body arched, her belly mountainous with the child that she was unable to bear. The image was so vivid that he hissed through his teeth and, bowl in hand, went to kick awake the other men at his fire so that he was not alone with his fears.

After breaking his fast, he tended to Lucifer and went to find Henry. The mist was slowly clearing and men were gathered around the fires, warming their hands, spitting and coughing the winter damp from their lungs.

Henry was breaking his own fast with his cousin, Philip of Gloucester, and Roger, Earl of Hereford. Gruel was their fare too, but enriched with milk and sweetened with honey. To one side, a pretty young woman was daintily dipping a spoon into a bowl. She had silvery hair and a pink and cream complexion. Henry's cloak was wrapped around her body, keeping out the morning chill. Oliver marvelled anew at the Prince's ability to find attractive bed mates even in the middle of nowhere. A pity he could not conjure up oats, stockfish and wine while he was about it.

Oliver swept them a bow but before he could open his mouth, Henry pre-empted him with a wave of his horn spoon. 'Yes, Pascal, I know. We're short of everything but mist and rain; there are no friendly keeps within foraging distance, and nothing left to take from the land because de Tracy has burned it all.' He gestured Oliver to sit down. Henry himself remained standing, his shoulder pushed against the tent post. 'If we could take Barnstaple of course . . .' His grey eyes gleamed.

For one dreadful moment, Oliver thought that Henry might seriously be intending such a move, but the Prince gave a regretful shrug of his shoulders and sighed.

'Unfortunately, I don't have the force to do it - not this time at least. But I've sunk my teeth in and I will do so again.'

'So we're turning back?' Oliver asked, with a feeling of relief.

'Aye,' said Philip of Gloucester, and gave Henry a wry look. 'Although not without due consideration.' Despite being cousins there was no family resemblance. Philip had inherited Mabile's cow-brown eyes and he had Earl Robert's fine, dark hair and receding hairline. He was an accomplished soldier but, like his father before him, not inclined to take risks unless pushed. His experience informed and balanced Henry's opinions and decisions. Roger of Hereford said nothing, but that was usual. His character was dour and quiet. Getting him to say anything at all was like prising open the jaws of a bull-baiting dog with a wooden spoon.

Henry set his bowl aside. 'You could obtain supplies if I wanted to keep up the campaign, couldn't you?' he asked Oliver.

'Only by sending to Bristol by coastal trader, sire. There is nothing here except what we carry. You could put the men on half rations and hope to find a few farms that have escaped the torch, but it makes for poor morale.'

'So you agree with the decision to turn back?'

'Yes, sire, I do.'

'Then you can escort the vanguard. Move out as soon as you can strike camp.' Henry ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. 'I need not tell you that it falls to your duty as the commander of the van to find us a safe place to rest for the night and provender for man and beast.'

'No, sire,' Oliver said, managing to keep a blank expression. 'You need not tell me.'

Catrin winced at the amount that the cloth-trader was demanding for a loom length of plain, unbleached linen with which to make swaddling bands.

'Bad harvest,' he said, spreading his hands. 'Too much sun and rain at the wrong time. Add that to the burning of war and it don't leave a sight for weaving.' He rubbed the side of his nose and looked at her. 'Tell you what, since you're in need, mistress, I'll cut my own wrists and offer you the length for two shillings.'

Catrin shook her head. 'We have to eat,' she said, with a gesture at Rosamund who was wearing her oldest gown - one that was almost too short and had a patched hem. It was her playing gown, she had two others that were far better, but Catrin knew that traders always based their amount of profit on the customer's personal appearance. Of course, she did not want him to think that she was not worth the bother, so she had dressed herself neatly but plainly; a respectable townswoman who was prepared to buy but not to be fleeced.

'Can't sell it to you for less, but what about this bolt end?' He produced a fine piece of tawny wool with a thread of darker weave running through it. 'Make a dress for the little lass. Colour suits her a treat. I'll give it to you free of charge.'

Catrin pondered. It was his first offer and she could probably improve on it if she was prepared to bargain hard. Seeing a sale in the offing, the trader gave her his stool to rest upon. 'Take the weight off your feet,' he said with a kindly wink.

Catrin thanked him and offered him one and a half shillings. He shook his head and sucked his teeth, finally declaring that she was robbing him but he would accept one shilling and nine pennies.

'With the tawny wool thrown in?' Catrin said.

He laughed and scratched his head beneath his woollen hood. 'With the tawny wool thrown in,' he said. 'It's a good thing not all my customers drive such hard bargains. I have to eat too.'

Catrin took his complaint with a very large pinch of salt. Traders might have different ways of selling and their own line of banter, but some phrases were common to all. She paid over the coins and waited while he tied the linen and the wool into a bundle with a length of hemp twine. Rosamund was looking at the silks on the end of his stall and wistfully fingering a length of shimmering sea-green.

'Good taste for one so young,' the trader commented with a nod.

'Expensive tastes,' Catrin said, thinking that Rosamund had more than a touch of her father's love of luxury. Louis, whatever his failings, had also possessed an excellent sense of style and Rosamund had inherited this too.

'May she marry a rich husband and revisit my stall often,' the trader said, clasping his hands as if in prayer. There was a twinkle in his small brown eyes.

Catrin smiled in reply and went to drag Rosamund away from the silks. Now that she had her linen, she wanted to go home and rest her aching feet.

It was then that they heard the commotion and turned to see an agitated horseman riding among the market crowds, shouting at the top of his voice. His mount was lathered and its nostrils showed a crimson lining.

'Eustace!' the man bellowed, his voice raw and hoarse. 'Eustace is coming, save yourselves!'

Catrin and the cloth-trader looked at each other in stunned shock. 'Eustace is putting down a rising in East Anglia,' Catrin said faintly.

'He ain't if he's here.' The trader began to pack up his stall with rapid efficiency. 'Be a regular feather in his cap if he takes this place.'

The horseman rode closer to the cloth stall, still bellowing the alarm. 'Eustace and his army, not five miles away, hide while you can!'

'Not five miles means closer to three,' the trader said grimly. 'He's almost killed his horse getting here to warn us, but Eustace won't be travelling slow either.' He looked at Catrin. 'Where's your home and husband, mistress?'

'My home's near the castle, my husband's with Prince Henry,' Catrin answered in a distracted voice, and grabbed hold of Rosamund's hand.

'Do you want a ride there on my cart? You'll not be wanting to run anywhere.' He indicated her swollen belly.

Catrin thanked him gratefully and set about helping to pack up his bales. All around them other traders were hastily throwing their wares on to carts and across pack ponies, while the townspeople fled towards the safety of church and castle.

'God curse this damned war,' the trader muttered, as he backed his old cob up to the cart. 'My father was a cloth merchant in the days of old King Henry. You could travel from one end of the country to the other and know that you were not in danger. I've a son of my own at home - twelve years old. I dare not bring him into the towns for fear of happenings like this.'

Catrin lifted Rosamund on to the cart. Her belly felt tight and there was a low ache in the small of her spine. She pushed the sensations to the back of her mind. They might be a warning of the onset of labour, but by her reckoning she was not due for two more weeks at least and her first priority was getting herself and Rosamund to safety.

She clambered up beside Rosamund on to the bales of fabric. The trader sat on the front board and shook the reins. The cob took the weight and the cart rumbled forward on the road. The bumping of the wheels sent a squeezing sensation through Catrin's belly. She put her hand across it and found that her womb was as tight as a drum. The pain niggled in the small of her back. All around there were people running, stumbling, crying out in fear.

Rosamund was stroking one of the fabric bolts as if taking comfort from the slippery feel of silk beneath her small fingers. 'Prince Eustace won't catch us, will he, Mama?'

'No, of course not,' Catrin said rather too brightly. 'We'll be safe at the castle.'

'If they let us in,' the trader muttered under his breath.

Reaching the keep, however, was their first problem; every other citizen had had the same idea, and the way was blocked by carts, by people running with armfuls of belongings, by panicking horses and their frantic owners. The trader cursed and laid around with his whip, but to no avail.

Catrin picked up her bundle and beckoned to Rosamund. 'It's quicker to walk.' Laboriously, she clambered down off the cart. 'I wish you luck,' she said to the trader.

He shook his head grimly. "Tis either my life, or my livelihood. One's no use without the other.'

Catrin left him struggling to inch his cart through the tide and joined the smaller flotsam of running people. They were jostled, bumped and buffeted. Rosamund began to cry. The dull ache in the small of Catrin's spine grew sharper and the tightness across her belly became pain. Despite her anxiety, her need to reach the haven of the castle, she had to rest against a house wall to wait out the contraction.

'Mama, what's wrong?' Rosamund's voice was high and frightened. 'I don't like it. I don't want Prince Eustace to come and get me!' She clutched Catrin's hand and began to wail.

Catrin bit her lip to stifle her gasp of pain. 'It's all right, no one's going to hurt you,' she panted when she could speak. 'I won't let anything happen, I promise.' She forced herself away from the wall and rejoined the crowd of running townspeople.

As they approached the castle's outer works, another contraction seized her in its grip and brought her up short with a bitten-off cry.

'Mama!' Rosamund screamed, her dark eyes wild with fear.

Catrin struggled with the pain. When she had borne Rosamund she had been in labour for a full day and the first spasms had been far apart and irregular. These assaulting her now were close together and much stronger. The labour looked as if it was going to be vigorous and short.

With relief, she saw a neighbour making her way towards the keep, her three children clinging to her skirts. The two boys and a girl were Rosamund's playmates and their father was a cook at the castle. Goda, their mother, wove braid and sold it to make belts and straps.

Catrin called out and Goda turned. A deeper look of concern crossed the woman's already anxious features.

'Catrin?'

'Will you take Rosamund with you?' Catrin panted 'I cannot run and I want her to be safe if anything should happen.'