With increasing apprehension, Oliver turned his feet in that direction, but he had little idea where to look among all the back entrances that twisted through the quarter like the animal guts from which the Shambles took its name. Enquiries led him nowhere. The butchers had all been abed in the early hours, and those who had not had good reason to avoid a man with a sword.
His right hand on its hilt, Oliver left the main thoroughfares and entered the narrower alleys, his shoes squelching in mud and dung. A dog growled as it dashed past him, a dead rat dangling from its jaws. Two grimy little boys contemplated throwing pats of mud at him, but changed their minds when he drew an inch of blade from his scabbard. A door opened a crack and then slammed shut. Oliver drew another inch of steel, both as a warning to any hidden watchers and as a reassurance to himself.
Then he heard the scream over to his left, piercing and shrill. Cursing, he began to run — something of a feat in the November sludge of Bristol's back alleys. A second scream brought him to a narrow thoroughfare and a scene that drew his blade clean out of the scabbard in a single rasp of steel. The two men turned, cudgels raised, but on seeing the calibre and rage of their opposition, took to their heels.
Already breathless from his run, Oliver didn't pursue. Sword still in his right hand, he used his left to raise Ethel gently to her feet. Her breath wheezed in her throat, and she was trembling from head to toe. She braced herself upon her stick for support, but her eyes were bright and black with the light of battle.
'They'll come to bad ends, the both of them, she panted. 'And I need neither my wise-woman's sight nor a curse to predict that certainty. She gave him a sharp look. 'How did you know?
'You said you would be home before cock-crow. When you weren't, I came looking for you. His tone bore no expression, for he knew that if he began to rant at the women he would never stop, and this time there would be no healing the breach.
He looked at Catrin. Her hood was down, her wimple askew, baring her black braids. A spot of colour branded each cheekbone, and there was a small knife clenched so tightly in her hand that her knuckles were bone-white on the wooden haft. She was still gasping like a man on a battlefield.
The street had begun to fill with people, both the concerned and the morbidly curious. Ethel was offered a drink of ale, and someone brought out a three-legged stool so that she could sit down. Oliver returned his sword to his scabbard. 'Put up your knife, he said quietly to Catrin, with a nod at her right hand.
'What? She gazed at the small weapon blankly for a moment, then with trembling fingers did as he bade. A wooden beaker of ale was pressed into her hand. Everyone was talking at once, but their chatter meant nothing to her.
'A young woman had been raped by one of the castle soldiers and was miscarrying her child, she said defensively. 'We couldn't just leave her to die.
'No, of course you couldn't.
Her jaw tightened. She looked at him with glittering eyes.
'I mean it, Oliver deflected swiftly. 'It is no less than I expected you to say, although I suspect that this, he gestured at Ethel, 'is more than you had in mind.
'We were unfortunate, Catrin said stiffly.
'To the contrary, you are more lucky than you know. When she opened her mouth to argue, he laid a forefinger against her lips. 'No more, or we will both say things that we will regret. For now, my priority is to see you and Ethel safe back to the keep and alert the watch about those two ruffians.
She swallowed and nodded. Then she swallowed again and compressed her lips, her complexion greenish-white.
His gaze sharpened and he swore softly beneath his breath. Turning to the woman who had brought the ale and the stool, he haggled the use of her donkey for a penny and deliberated which of the two women was going to sit on it.
'I can manage, Catrin said grimly between clenched teeth. 'Let Ethel ride.
Oliver studied her, then nodded. Pride, if nothing else, would keep her upright until they reached the castle.
While the woman held the ass, he helped Ethel on to its bony, scooped back. He had always viewed the old woman as being physically solid and strong. In his youth, the back-swipe of her arm had floored a village brat on many an occasion, so he was disconcerted to discover that she weighed next to nothing. She was like a bird, her bones hollow for the flight of her soul. Her spirit, however, had no intention of departing just yet, and it was with relief that he heard her remark tartly that she was not a sack of cabbages.
Clicking his tongue to the donkey, he turned it round. 'A sack of cabbages would not cause me so much trouble, he retorted, and held out his arm for Catrin to lean on. It was a measure of her own wretchedness that she took it without demur.
Chapter 11
'Go on, say it, Catrin challenged.
'Say what? Oliver spread his hands, his breath clouding the air. Around them frost glittered like loaf sugar. Ice, a fingernail thick, lay in clear, angular patterns on the waterbutts and troughs, and the mud in the bailey had become a pliable, white-crusted clay.
'That you were right and I was wrong.
'About what?
'About being open to attack. She stamped her feet, with both impatience and cold. She could see that he was going to make her pay by drawing the incident out. He had been absent on the Earl's business yesterday. She and Ethel had stayed by the fire, nursing their bruises. 'You told me that I was vulnerable, and I ignored you.
'No less than I expected. He blew on his cupped hands. 'You were bound to learn the hard way.
'I hate you, she said calmly.
'That's no less than I expected either. How's your head today?
'It aches, but it belongs to me again. She touched her forehead and grimaced slightly at the niggle of pain still lingering behind her eyes.
'And Ethel?
'Somewhat shaken despite all her brave words. I've left her by the fire with a hot tisane and one of her gossips for company — old Agatha from the laundry.
'So your time is your own for a little while?
'Unless the Countess sends for me. Catrin cocked her head on one side and eyed him suspiciously. 'Why?
'I have something for you. He took her arm, and led her across the bailey towards the Countess's garden.
'Where are we going? Utterly baffled, Catrin hung back a little. She hardly thought that he was going to present her with a flower in this bleak weather, or take her for a stroll around the dormant herb beds. If he wanted somewhere private to talk, there were warmer places than a pleasance at the end of November.
But his direction did not alter, and within moments they had entered through the gate and into a world on the edge of dormancy. The soil was turned and brown, each clod wearing a frill of hoar. The herb beds still held tinges of colour, the sage and lavender standing bravely against the cold. The mint was straggly and the tansy and rue had bowed their heads. Of the gardener, the only sign was the scent of frying bacon wafting from the tiny thatched hut on the far right near the rows of leeks and cabbages.
'Well? Catrin repeated.
He led her down one of the marked-out paths to a grassy ring, surrounded by stone benches. The Countess's women often came here in summer to sew and weave. Occasionally Mabile would hold small feasts and entertainments for selected guests. They would sit out until the moon rose in the sky, cooking morsels of marinated food over an open fire. Today the place was frozen and deserted, the grass blades wearing a white scaling of frost, and the stone benches bleak grey, untouched by any kindness of sun.
'Oliver, why have you brought me here? she persisted, and hugged herself with cold.