Which Catrin took with a substantial pinch of salt. She glanced round. Two of the aunts were bathing the baby in a silver basin while the cousin aired its swaddling before the charcoal brazier. A serving maid went round the room lighting the candles from a long taper. Catrin noted that the light was provided not by spindly, tallow dips but proper, heavy wax candles, the kind that burned in the Countess's bower.
Seeing the direction of her gaze, the old woman went to an aumbry in the wall and returned with three more of the candles, their surfaces smooth and creamily glossed. 'Here, take these, she said, 'in honour of the blessed Virgin whose feast it is.
Catrin accepted them with pleasure. She knew how fond Ethel was of beeswax candles. The gifts and tokens that grateful householders presented were one of the more pleasant aspects of being a midwife.
Outside, the February daylight was dull grey, and the wind was sharp on Catrin's face. She tugged her hood up over her wimple and secured the clasp on her cloak, her teeth chattering with cold. The church of Saint Mary le Port rang out the hour of Nones and was joined by the bells of Saint Peter. She thought of Oliver and wondered what he was doing. Was he riding blue-fingered in the cold or had they reached their destination? Was there peace or bloodshed? Two weeks of silence on the matter had shredded her equilibrium. She had taken to biting her nails and, despite Ethel's assurances that he would return, she worried constantly.
Godard's dark shape loomed out of the shadows at the side of the Saponiers' dwelling and he fell into step beside her, as huge and solid as a walking wall. She was grateful for his presence and his taciturnity. Talk for talk's sake only set her teeth on edge, when all she longed for, and dreaded, was news of Earl Robert's army.
They walked along the path between the riverbank and the boundaries of Saint Peter's church. Fishing craft and galleys bobbed on the tide and seagulls wheeled like detached portions of cloud, their cries poignant and harsh.
A sea-going cog had docked at the castle's wharf to be unburdened of its cargo of casks and barrels. It was a scene re-enacted every day, and at first Catrin took small notice. But as she and Godard drew nearer, she saw that no one was working, that all the men were gathered around something on the ground. One of the younger labourers had staggered away and was vomiting into the water. Others had drawn cloaks and capes around their mouths.
Natural curiosity drew Catrin to go and look at what the men had found. She suspected that it was probably a porpoise or a whale. Such creatures were occasionally washed up along the river in the tidal flow and they were always a cause for wonder — and disgust if they were dead and their corpses had begun to rot. She craned her neck at the white thing she could see lying on the dock between the legs of the men. It seemed too small to be a porpoise, or even a baby whale — too insubstantial.
'Mistress, come away, Godard said suddenly and grasped her arm, but it was too late for she had already seen the gleam of bone through shredded flesh and realised that the form they were all looking at was — or had been — human. A length of hemp rope was snagged around what had been one of its legs, and twisted around the rope was a rag of pink cloth, embroidered with a darker pink flower motif. Strands of hair still adhered to its skull, which had broken away from the body as the men had lifted it free from where it had lain, caught in the mesh of a lost fishing net. The colour, streaming with water, was the same hue as the red hair woven into the knot that Catrin had given to Oliver, but when dry it would be a lighter, more chestnut shade. Catrin felt bile rise in her own throat. Now she knew what had happened to Rohese de Bayvel.
'It is the Countess's sempstress, she said jerkily to the gathered men. 'She vanished on Christmas Eve and no one knew what had become of her. Her throat was so tight that it was hard to speak. 'For decency's sake, cover her and fetch a priest.
Oliver positioned his shield on his left arm and drew his sword. All around him men were fretting their mounts and preparing for the charge. The bitter wind cut through his garments, still sodden from the crossing of the Fossedyke, but he was too focused on the coming battle to feel the cold. He had fought in skirmishes before but this was his first taste of a major engagement. It was the same for many of the men sizing each other up across the flat stretch of land to the west of the city. Despite the state of constant warfare in England, battles on a large scale were rare. All or nothing casts of the dice were impractical… unless, of course, the dice were loaded in your favour, or you were cornered and there was no other way out. Today, Earl Robert had the luck of the throw and Stephen was cornered, but both armies were evenly matched in number and fighting skill. It was not yet a foregone conclusion.
On the hill above, Oliver could see the banners on the keep walls, bravely fluttering the colours of Chester and Gloucester in defiance of Stephen's siege engines. Stephen himself had come roaring out of Lincoln with his entire army when he heard the news that the ford at the Fossedyke had been breached.
'He wasn't expecting our arrival on his threshold so soon and in such great numbers, Gawin said scornfully, as Stephen's troops fell into hasty formation opposite their own.
Oliver nodded agreement. 'No, and because we've caught him unprepared, he's reacted with his gut. He blew on his frozen fingers. 'If I was Stephen, I would stay behind the town defences and force us to bring the battle to him — make us charge up the hill. He's thrown away his advantage by facing us on the level. He looked round at the solid position of his section of Robert's force on the left flank. The Earl had assembled most of the disinherited knights and barons in that sector. Opposing them were the forces of Stephen's earls and magnates — Richmond, Norfolk, Northampton, Surrey and Worcester. Rannulf of Chester held the centre, facing Stephen and his infantry, and Earl Robert had taken the right flank with the Welsh levies to face Stephen's Flemish mercenary troops.
Rhetoric was spouted and commanders rode up and down their lines, inciting the men, raising them to battle fever. Earl
Robert's voice was a strong, carrying baritone. In contrast, Stephen's voice was so thin and husky that one of his barons, Baldwin FitzGilbert, had to deputise.
Opposite Oliver, a challenge to joust went out from Stephen's magnates, who appeared to favour a formal opening to the
'Hah, as if they think it's a feast day, growled Randal de Mohun in Oliver's ear. Although not one of the dispossessed, he had elected to fight with them — in the hopes of being given a fief of his own, Oliver suspected.
'To them, it is, Oliver replied, without taking his eyes off the opposing line. He wondered if the man who had usurped Ashbury was numbered among the troops that Waleran of Worcester had brought on campaign. 'To them we are nothing but landless mercenaries, and that invitation is a mockery. He watched the opposing knights prancing and prinking in their bright colours, and did not need the rhetoric of the battle captains to fuel the smoulder of his anger. It was to feed the ambition of the men he was facing that his brother had died and he had been made a rebel, dependent on his sword for his income. Well, by God, today he was going to earn his wages.
He pushed his way forward, offering to reply to the challenge to joust. Randal de Mohun lined up beside him, his lance couched.
'I'm going to rend holes in that fancy mail of theirs that no armourer will ever mend. De Mohun licked his lips hungrily. His eyes were bright and his breathing swift.
Oliver looked at de Mohun. The mercenary had slackened the reins on all that vicious aggression lying beneath the surface. And why not? Oliver reached down to the fire in his own belly and allowed it to spread through his veins. A little behind him, he could hear Gawin breathing swiftly through his mouth. A glance showed him that the young man was trembling, but more with anger and excitement than fear.