He took off across the ward, his stride jaunty and arrogant.
Catrin shuddered. 'Who is he, Oliver?
He grimaced. 'You remember I spoke in the summer about a band of mercenaries who happened upon us digging graves at Penfoss and stopped to help? Well, that is their leader, Randal de Mohun.
'The one who saved your life when you were a pilgrim? She recalled the conversation very well, since it had almost ended in a quarrel, with Oliver defending de Mohun's reputation. At the time, he had told her not to judge. Now that she had had opportunity she found little to commend.
'Unfortunately, yes. His expression hardened. 'The years have not improved him. When I knew him in the Holy Land, he was not so brutish.
'There is something familiar about him, she murmured with a frown, 'but I don't know what, and it disturbs me.
'He's been employed by the Earl since midsummer and, like me, in and out of Bristol all the time. You have probably seen him in passing. He will not trouble you again, that I promise.
Catrin smiled without humour. 'Another of your "promises"?
'Do I not always keep them? He slipped his arm around her waist and drew her hip-to-hip against him. Then he smoothed the frown from her brow with the tip of his finger and kissed her. Beneath his lips, hers curved into a smile and, for a moment, the world blurred at the edges.
Catrin pressed against Oliver, taking refuge from her anxiety in physical sensation until both of them were hot and gasping. Unfortunately, there was no bed to hand, unless they went looking for an unoccupied hay loft, and it was too cold a day to make love against a wall or spread a cloak in the fields. By mutual consent they broke apart. Holding her hand, Oliver sat on Ethel's stool before the fire and drew her on to his lap. She wriggled playfully and he squeezed her buttocks, but it was an ending, rather than a prelude, to their sport, for they were both aware of the sleeping old woman. Not that Ethel would have been much shocked, but she needed her rest, and they were loath to disturb her.
'Did you speak to Gawin? Catrin left his knee to pour them each a cup of mead.
Oliver sighed. 'Yes, for what good it did. He was still in his cups and not inclined to pay any heed. Indeed, he went so far as to say that if I pushed him, he would claim that he had been bewitched by Ethel's potions.
'But that's not true! Catrin flashed a look over her shoulder, but Ethel slept on oblivious, the coverlet drawn up to her withered cheek. 'There's nothing in her love philtres that could cause anyone to be bewitched. It's only rose petals and cinnamon steeped in water. What nonsense!
'That depends on your belief, Oliver said. 'I told her that it was dangerous to meddle in such things.
'Do you think Gawin believes? Catrin asked shortly.
'Of course not, it is just a convenient excuse to abstain from responsibility for his actions. He took the drink that she handed him and made a dismissive gesture. 'It was the wine talking. I threatened him with death in return and told him what I thought of his character. Whether it will be of any benefit once he sobers, or have no more effect than water off a duck's back, remains to be seen.
Avoiding the temptation of Oliver's lap, Catrin sat in the straw at his feet and, cupping her hands around the hot mead, gazed into the red heart of the fire. 'I feel sorry for Rohese, she murmured.
'I thought you disliked her.
Catrin looked at him. 'That does not mean I cannot have compassion for her situation. I admit we have not been friends, but I don't hate her. Countess Mabile will likely send her to a convent for the birth and then to live as a penitent for the rest of her life. Unless Rohese has a vocation, her life will be a living hell. She shook her head and her lips were twisted, as if the sweet mead had suddenly turned to vinegar in her mouth. 'Men such as Gawin act on their lust and think later, if they think at all. My husband was a little like Gawin, I know the kind.
Oliver's complexion darkened. Catrin gazed at him blankly for a moment, then realised that he had taken her words to heart. 'I do not number you among them, you fool! she cried. 'Yes, we acted upon our lust, but it was mutual and I know that you still honour me.
He lifted his shoulders. 'With my life, he said, 'but I want others to know of that honour too. How can I chastise Gawin when I am not in a state of grace myself? He cleared his throat, then said tentatively, 'Catrin, would you become my wife?
Catrin felt a hot chill of delight and fear run down her spine. Both acceptance and refusal hovered on her tongue and left her speechless. The silence stretched and began to strain.
She gnawed on her underlip, seeking with difficulty the words that would make him understand. 'I was married to Lewis on a winter morning just like this, she said at last. 'I do not want a second joining to hold memories of the first.
He frowned. 'I should not have asked you.
She felt him tense to rise and swiftly clamped her hand around his leg to make him stay. 'Perhaps not quite so soon, she said, her throat dry. 'Although I can see why you did.
'Then the answer is no?
His voice was far too expressionless for her comfort. She had hurt him and that had not been her intention. The only grounds she had for refusal were caused by old wounds that were not of Oliver's making.
Drawing a deep breath, she said, 'I swear that before the next Christmas feast, in a different season, I will become your wife. Is that grace enough? Finishing her drink, she returned to his lap and curved her arms around his neck, sensing that he needed more than words as reassurance.
After a moment, his own arms tightened around her, the mead sloshing over the rim of his cup. 'More than enough, he muttered against her throat. 'I thought you were going to refuse me.
Catrin laughed shakily and curled her fingers into the thick hair at his nape. 'I may have panicked, but not to the point of losing my reason. She toasted him with a sip from his mead. 'To our future.
'To our future, Oliver repeated, and drank from the place where she had set her lips.
Later that day, they visited Amice's grave to lay a wreath of evergreen and pay their respects. It was Richard who put the wreath on the grave and crossed himself. He had grown since the summer, his face elongating and his nose developing a sharpness that was more than reminiscent of his father, the old king. He bore himself with assurance, no longer a bewildered and bitter child but a boy on the verge of adolescence.
In the frozen, cold twilight the snow sparkled, and Catrin shivered within the warmth of her cloak as she looked at her former mistress's grave. For no reason she could fathom, the memory of Randal de Mohun intruded on her prayers and disturbed the melancholy beauty and silence of the cemetery. Oliver reached for her hand and squeezed it. Gratefully she squeezed his in return and stepped a little closer to his reassuring presence.
Chapter 14
The remainder of the twelve days of Christmas passed in a blur of feasting and celebration. Earl Robert's court played boisterously, releasing tensions pent up by the winter confinement. Each table was set for twelve people and twelve courses were eaten, beginning with thin broth and dumplings and progressing through various elaborate fish and meat dishes, including the obligatory roast boar. The feast culminated in the presentation of a magnificent marchpane subtlety in the shape of Bristol Keep, the rivers Avonand Frome winding in blue almond paste around the edge of the serving-board.
Each night Oliver and Catrin ate until they could eat no more, then joined the rough and tumble of the games in the hall. Hoodman-blind, hunt-the-slipper, hot-cockles. They danced caroles around the apple wassail tree in the centre of the great room and laughed at the antics of the mummers and jugglers.