Catrin compressed her lips. Small wonder that Rohese did not want her present after all that the woman had said about Amice. An unmarried woman whose flux did not come was wading in deep water.
'Well, what can you do for me? Rohese snapped.
'Depends on the reason you haven't bled. Ethel leaned the poker against the small spit at the side of the tripod and went to consult her jars and bundles of herbs. 'Is it likely that you're with child?
'No, of course not! Even in the dim light of the shelter, Catrin could see that Rohese's complexion was dusky. 'How can you say such a thing!
'Easy. 'Tis the most likely cause. Only other ones I know are starvation or a deadly sickness of the vitals.
'I tell you, I am not with child!
'Suit yourself, my lady.
Catrin watched Ethel reach to the bag containing the penny royal and gromwell. They were herbs used to promote menstruation in women whose fluxes had ceased for whatever reason. Sometimes they worked, but their efficacy was haphazard. Stronger herbs carried stronger penalties such as vomiting, purging and even death. Ethel only gave them when a woman was certain to die anyway if she carried a child to term.
'Take three pinches, my lady, in a cup of wine, and say a prayer to Saint Margaret, Ethel instructed, handing Rohese a twist of linen. 'I'm not saying that it will work, but happen you might be fortunate.
Rohese took the pouch, put a silver quarter penny into Ethel's cold, left palm and, without looking at Catrin, swept out.
'Well, well. Wonder who the father is? Ethel fetched a blanket and seated herself at the hearth. She transferred the penny from her bad hand to her good, then tucked her fists in her sleeves.
Catrin thought of the occasion she had seen Rohese slipping away into the camp and shook her head. 'Will she bleed?
'Might, but I doubt it. Ethel clucked her tongue. 'No good playing with fire and not expecting to be singed.
'No. Catrin drew her cloak around her body and stared into the revived red embers.
'Still, Ethel murmured, 'a little singeing on occasion is no bad thing.
Catrin watched the flames licking the life from the wood and wondered if she was right.
Following mass on Christmas morning, there was feasting and merriment in the keep's great hall. Outside, the air sparkled with a clarity that hurt the eyes. Inside, it was a smoky fug, scented with apple-wood from the fire, with evergreen from the branches of holly and fir adorning the walls, and with the aroma of spices from the numerous dishes that crowded the trestles. The bailey was deserted, for almost every member of Bristol keep not on duty was in the hall feasting and merry-making.
Ethel had been found a relatively quiet corner by the fire with others who were elderly or infirm. There was a jug of hot wassail wine to keep them occupied, and several platters of small delicacies — cheese-wafers, slices of smoked sausage, small salted biscuits, fried nuts, and candied fruit. Tucked in a new blanket, that had been a gift from the Countess, Ethel was highly content with life.
Catrin, however, was less so. 'He's not coming, she said, sitting on the bench at Ethel's side. Before going to mass, she had washed from crown to toe in the scented soap and donned a new undershift of soft embroidered linen, topped by the gown of crimson and gold that Oliver had yet to see. While still damp, she had bound her black hair in braids and secured the ends with fillets of enamelled bronze. She knew, with a certain degree of pride, that she could match any woman present in the hall today, but it was swiftly becoming an empty triumph.
'Time aplenty yet, Ethel answered around a mouthful of cheese-wafer. 'Besides, there's plenty more fish in the sea for an attractive young woman. Do you a world of good to dangle one on your line.
Catrin pulled a face. Several men had inveigled her to dance or tried to manoeuvre her beneath the mistletoe to steal a kiss, but she had kept her distance. One or two would be quite interesting to 'dangle on her line', but Catrin was wary of hooking a fish larger than she could handle. It was one of the reasons why she was sitting here amongst the old and the infirm, instead of joining in the games and dancing at the hall's centre. Indeed, if the truth were known, the merriment daunted her a little, for there was a wild undercurrent, a predatory edge to the playing that could so easily turn a crowd into a mob.
She watched Richard and Thomas FitzRainald. The boys were playing a boisterous game of hoodman-blind with some other youngsters, and thoroughly enjoying every moment. She smiled wistfully at their pleasure and helped herself to a cup of the wassail wine, welcoming the trickle of the hot liquid down her throat. She thought of the last Christmas when Lewis had been alive. Her feet had not touched the floor for dancing. She had been one of the crowd out there, brimming with laughter, giddy with drink… probably insensible in the end too, for the memories would not focus, remaining a colourful blur.
'Go on, wench. Ethel gave Catrin a nudge and almost spilled the wassail wine. 'Get you gone. Spend your life waiting and it'll be over before you know it.
With a small sigh, Catrin drank down the wine to the spicy dregs and stood up, pondering where to go next in search of a haven. Perhaps she ought to stand beneath a kissing bunch and let fate take its course.
A sudden fanfare at the hall door made her swing round in surprise. People began falling to their knees and bowing their heads, almost like wheat beneath a reaper's scythe. Catrin stared, wide-eyed.
'The Empress Mathilda, someone hissed and, tugging on her sleeve, dragged her down. For a moment, she held the same pose as everyone else, but then could not resist a half glance upward.
The sole-surviving legitimate child of the old king was a little shy of forty years old. There were few lines on her face, but those that did exist were deeply graven, like sharp pen strokes. She was gorgeously dressed in royal purple and gold, with a lining of ermine tails to her cloak. Escorted by her half-brother, Earl Robert, she walked with a regal glide, her head carried as high as those of her subjects were bowed. The pride, the elegance, the very severity of feature led to an impression of beauty, but in the way that a killing winter day was beautiful. To touch was to freeze.
Reaching the dais and mounting it, Mathilda sat down upon the high-backed chair that had been appointed for her.
She surveyed the hall without expression and, having taken her due from those who bowed, she flicked her fingers in dismissal. Catrin continued to regard her, thinking it small wonder that many of the barons chose to support King Stephen instead. Hauteur of such a degree was unlikely to endear men to her cause, men who were already suspicious of taking orders from a woman. A smile, a word, would have cost nothing and repaid the effort tenfold.
'Take more than a cup of wassail wine to prize that one out of the ice, Ethel muttered. 'Still, if I had the husband she's got and that pack of fools for followers, I'd be frozen too.
'Her husband's supposed to be one of the most handsome men in Christendom, Catrin said. 'Geoffrey le Bel, they call him.
'Geoffrey the ten years younger and as tricky as they come, Ethel snorted. 'They've fought ever since they've been wed.
'Yes, I'd heard the rumours and the scandal. She looked again at the Empress, who was leaning to listen to her brother, her white fingers curled around the stem of a fine silver goblet. How much pain, Catrin wondered, did that cold facade conceal? How deep was the ice? Her first husband had been an emperor. Recalled home at his death to become the heir to England and Normandy, she had been forced into marriage with Geoffrey of Anjou, the mere son of a count and still in adolescence. The marriage had foundered, but parental pressure had shored the broken edges and forced it to hold together in mangled shards. Three sons later it still did, but everyone could see the gaping holes beneath the shoring. If not for their children, if not for their political need of each other, Geoffrey le Bel and Mathilda Domina Anglorum would gladly have let their marriage sink.