'My lord, you sent for me?
Earl Robert glanced up. His eyes were bright and his complexion flushed. 'Ah, Oliver. He beckoned vigorously. 'I need you to ride out and recruit men for me. Go into Wales and along the border. Offer whatever it takes to obtain them — within reason, he added, with a jerk of his brows. 'I want them sooner than now, whatever you can get. If they have mounts and weapons, all the better, but it is not necessary. You will leave immediately. Take de Mohun with you. He's got a good eye for a likely man.
'De Mohun? Oliver recoiled and then, seeing the look in the Earl's eye, said, 'Yes, sir. May I ask the purpose?
'My son-in-law has snatched Lincoln Castle out of Stephen's hands and garrisoned it with his own men. Malde is holding it for him while he recruits troops to strengthen his position. He has asked me for aid. Without it, he cannot hold Lincoln Keep, and by law it is rightfully his. I have said I will come to him with all haste. For all that Stephen is a chivalrous man, I will not make him the gift of my daughter as a pawn.
'No, my lord. Oliver knew that the Earl doted on his eldest daughter, Malde. She was married to Rannulf, Earl of Chester, whose power on the northern marches of Wales made him almost a prince. Thus far, Rannulf had been loyal to Stephen, but it was not a cloak that had ever fitted the power-hungry Lord of Chester particularly well. Robert and Rannulf had a healthy respect for each other but were not the fondest of in-laws. Malde, and the desire to extend their mutual influence along the Welsh borders, were the ties that bound them together. But Rannulf's defection to the Empress's cause would bind them closer still. 'How long do I have?
'Ten — twelve days at the most. Stephen has the town, Rannulf the keep. Or rather, Malde has the keep, he added, with a swift hiss of anxiety. 'Rannulf is in North Wales summoning levies to march on Lincoln. I have to muster troops with all possible haste. My exchequer will equip you with funds.
'My lord. Oliver bowed out of the room and hurried down the stairs into the hall, his mind working to the swift pace of his feet. Grabbing Gawin, he commanded him to run and pack a saddle roll.
'What for? Gawin looked at him slack-mouthed over the rim of his cup.
'We're going into Wales. Stop staring, we've to ride out now!
Gawin lurched to his feet and almost over-balanced. 'Wales? he repeated.
'Yes, to recruit troops. You can sober up in the saddle. Go!
Shaking his head in bemusement, Gawin steadied himself and reached for his cloak.
Oliver collected his spare tunic and cloak from his pallet, then went to tell Ethel that he had to ride out on the Earl's business. He could not make his farewells to Catrin for she was away in the city at a childbirth.
'Will you be gone long? Ethel asked. She was huddled by the fire in her new green mantle. The hands that poked out from beneath the garment to absorb the heat shook with palsy.
'No more than ten days, but then we'll all be marching north. He stooped to help himself to a flask of mead and several of Ethel's oatcakes. 'Give Catrin my love and tell her that I wish she was here, but I'll speak to her when I return.
'From your ten days or from the North? 'The first I hope, he answered with a grimace and, saluting Ethel, strode off in the direction of the stables.
Somewhat to Oliver's surprise, the recruiting went smoothly and well. Randal de Mohun might have been obnoxious in camp, but on campaign, with responsibility, he was efficient and professional. He was also a good judge of the quality of fighting men and, by a mixture of emotive words and material promises, attracted an excellent number of recruits to join Earl Robert's banner. His ebullience and boldness, the expansiveness of gesture and dress, were well-contrasted with Oliver's more reserved approach. Men saw that there was room for more than one sort of soldier in Earl Robert's ranks. Those who did not take to Randal de Mohun could talk quietly to Oliver and make their decision at a more measured pace.
'We've done well, grinned de Mohun, as they sat over a camp-fire on the last evening before their return to Bristol. 'The Earl will pay us a bonus for this lot.
Oliver nodded agreement, his jaws busy with a chunk of gristly mutton from their supper stew.
'Lincoln, eh? De Mohun rubbed the side of his beard with his thumb. 'It's a rich city, so I've heard. Plenty of pickings, and its citizens deserve no more than what they get for supporting Stephen. His eyes gleamed with relish.
Oliver gave up and spat the meat into the fire where it sizzled and hissed. 'I know it is the nature of war, he said, 'but I do not enjoy burning people out of their homes and taking away their livelihoods.
The mercenary gave him a sharp, sidelong look. 'To the victor, the rewards, he said. 'I could not afford a sword or tunic like this out of my own pay. I risk my life. It is only right that I be recompensed.
Oliver shook his head. 'In the end there will be nothing left. If you bleed the river dry, the landscape turns to desert.
'Oh yes, I agree. De Mohun smiled. 'But a little running-off now and again does no harm. You are too tender, Pascal.
Oliver shrugged. 'The more I see, the more tender I become, he said grimly, and thought that it was perhaps the opposite for some men. He suspected that his companion actually enjoyed the acts of looting and rapine. They were probably the urges that had driven him to be a mercenary in the first place.
De Mohun snorted and shook his head. 'You're a strange one, he said. 'If you came to me as one of these raw recruits, I'd leave you behind and tell you to tend your sheep.
Oliver smiled without humour. 'And I'd be glad of it, he said, and used the excuse of checking on his horse to quit the fireside and company that chafed him.
Catrin was returning to the keep from the market place, her basket full of Ethel's favourite eels to tempt the old lady's waning appetite, when she heard the riders bearing down on her from behind. Spinning round, she clutched her basket to her bosom and stepped aside.
The leading horse was a powerful bay, its rider clad in chain mail, his bright cloak blowing in the brisk wind. For the briefest instant, Catrin had the terrifying sense of standing in the woods at Penfoss watching just such a troop gallop through their gates, except the leading horse had been a chestnut, the shield had borne a different blazon and weapons had been bared. The sensation was gone in a flash, but it still seemed like a true memory rather than a trick of the imagination and it made her shiver.
A grey destrier swung out of the line and headed straight towards her. Again Catrin's heart swooped and plummeted, but in response to a different blend of emotions. 'Oliver! she cried.
His grin dazzled beneath the nasal bar of his helm. During ten days in the field, his jaw had sprouted an embryo beard of startling Viking-red. Riding up to her, he leaned from the saddle and extended his palm. She took it, set her foot over his and, in a flash of scarlet silk hose, straddled the stallion's rump. Lodging one hand in his belt, she clutched the basket of eels with the other.
'Have we not met somewhere before? Oliver jested, his eyes flickering from her face to the basket, to her red hose, as if he could not decide where to look first.
'I am sure I would remember if we had, Catrin retorted, her eyes dancing.
'And do you?
'I could be persuaded.
He laughed and twisted in the saddle to embrace her, then made a hasty grab for the reins as the horse jinked sideways. Catrin uttered a small scream and, laughing, gripped his belt more tightly.
Randal de Mohun watched the play with a half-smile on his lips and contempt in his eyes. 'I did not realise your «protection» extended that far, Pascal. There was an edge to the jesting tone of his voice.
Returning to the ranks, Oliver gave de Mohun a cool look. 'As of Twelfth-Night, we have been betrothed, he said. 'Catrin is my wife in all but the final blessing.