Gawin led his horse back inside the house so that no one would steal his find and set about hacking open a second coffer a clothing chest by its size. The lock quickly gave but the
lid refused to open, as if held down from the inside. Gawin wedged his sword beneath the lid and heard a muffled cry of terror. Withdrawing the sword, he grasped the wooden edge in both hands and wrenched it back.
A young woman screamed and cowered down, her hands over her head. She had long fair hair tied back with a strip of braid. Her features were delicate, just beginning to emerge from the roundness of adolescence. Tear streaks had left clean white tracks through the grime on her face and she wore the ragged, threadbare dress of a servant.
'Stand up! Gawin commanded. He flickered a glance around, but there was no evidence of anyone else in the house. For whatever reason, she had been left behind to take her chance with the routiers. Protectiveness and rage warred within him. 'I said stand up! he snarled, when she did not move and, lunging forward, he seized her arm.
Sobbing, screaming, she lurched to her feet, and Gawin saw the reason why she had been unable to flee. She had a deformity of the hip that made it nigh on impossible to walk, let alone run, all her weight taken upon one side.
'Christ, are you witless, girl, as well as a cripple? he demanded, his anger making him cruel.
She shook her head and wailed all the louder, her dirty blond hair tumbling around her face. He could feel the swift rise and fall of her shoulder against his arm as she breathed, the starved slightness of her bones. All the guilt and rage from Christmas flooded over him. He wanted to strike her to the ground and yet he held his hand. Perhaps if he saved her life it would somehow redress the balance that had been lost when Rohese disappeared. 'Can you sit a horse?
She looked at him with frightened eyes and whimpered.
'Christ Jesu, I don't have the time, Gawin said and, swinging her up in his arms, turned towards his mount. Then he stopped dead. She screamed, then buried her face against the mesh of his hauberk.
'Now then, what have we here? Randal de Mohun shouldered through the doorway and, with feigned nonchalance, eyed Gawin and the girl. 'A wench, eh? Aren't you the lucky one?
Gawin tightened his grip on her gown. 'She's mine, he said quietly.
De Mohun entered the room and walked around the horse's rump. His gaze flickered to the ornately carved coffer strapped to the saddle and, behind it, a fine piece of blue Flemish wool. 'It's share and share alike amongst us, my lad, he answered, in a tone equally quiet. 'The lass and the other loot both.
The girl wept and huddled into Gawin's neck. He could feel her hair against his jaw, feel the terror in the bone-hard grip of her fingers. 'I'm not one of you, he said. 'Your code is not mine.
De Mohun narrowed his eyes. 'Then you should not be here, lad. Sheep that run with wolves end up being devoured. Almost casually, he drew his sword.
Gawin uncurled the girl's clinging fingers from around his neck. She slumped to the ground, sobbing and screaming, as he drew his own blade. 'You promised Oliver that you would watch out for me! he said, mouth open, breath coming hard.
'So I did, and I have kept my word, have I not? Every step of the way.
Gawin licked his lips. 'Take the silver then. Do what you want with it, but leave the girl. You wouldn't want her, she's a useless cripple.
De Mohun raised his sword and scratched his chin gently with the side of the hilt. 'You have a point there, and I can't say as I'm not tempted, but if I break the rule for you, then I'll have to break it for anyone who takes the whim to keep something for himself and that's not good for discipline. I tell you what. He lowered the hilt and pointed it at Gawin. 'You can have first turn at her, and we'll let her live when we've all done.
Gawin almost retched. What would remain of the girl after a dozen men had taken their turn would be worse than death. 'Just take the silver and be content. You can buy all the women you want without resorting to rape! He braced his sword, protecting himself and the young woman.
De Mohun grimaced. 'You don't understand, do you? Buying anything is a blasphemy to me. The flames from the burning houses around them gleamed on his sword as the blade came up.
Since there was no proof as to how Rohese de Bayvel had died, her death was recorded as a tragic accident and she was buried with all haste and ceremony in the grounds of Saint Peter's, her funeral attended by the Countess and all the ladies of the bower.
Edon FitzMar saturated her linen kerchief with tears and was so distressed that it fell to Catrin to make her a soothing tisane.
'I cannot believe it, Edon wept, cuddling her small son on her knee. 'I thought that she had just run off.
Not thought but wished, Catrin guessed, and in that endeavour, Edon was the same as everyone else. 'At least she has been found and granted Christian burial, she said, mouthing the platitude with a grimace at her own hypocrisy. Perhaps the not knowing had been kinder than the reality.
'I wish Geoffrey was here. Edon nuzzled the top of her baby's head.
Catrin nodded and thought of Oliver. They heard occasional reports from the Countess's messengers, but the information that filtered through was scant and did not mention the individual names that each woman wanted to hear. Geoffrey FitzMar and Oliver Pascal were minor cogs in the great mill wheels of Earl Robert's army. 'At least you have a keepsake, she said, looking at the infant.
'Who might never see his father again, Edon sniffed, and fresh tears sprang to her eyes. Cursing Edon's sensitivity and her own thoughtless tongue, Catrin urged more of the tisane on the young woman, soothed her with more platitudes and, as soon as it was possible, made her escape. She had a good excuse; Ethel's winter ague had thickened on her chest and she had a fever. Catrin did not like to leave her for too long.
Agatha, the laundress, was sitting with Ethel. Now and then she moistened the old woman's lips with a spoonful of watered wine, but there was little more she could do for her. Ethel hovered on the periphery of consciousness and each breath she drew made deep hollows of effort beneath her rib cage.
'I've sent for the priest, Agatha sniffed, her double chins wobbling. She blotted her eyes on her gown. 'I'm not a healer but I know the signs, poor soul.
Catrin gave the laundress a mute look and, sitting down at Ethel's side, took the old woman's good hand between hers, dismayed at how swiftly her condition had deteriorated. 'Ethel?
The eyelids fluttered and the fingers found a squeeze of life. 'Catrin… Ethel swallowed, the sound a dry rattle.
'I'm here. Save your strength, Agatha has sent for the priest.
Ethel's face contorted. 'Don't need a priest, you know that.
' Yes, but the rest of the world would rather see you shriven.
Ethel made a wheezing sound that might have been a laugh or just a struggle for breath. Then she grasped Catrin's sleeve and strained towards her. 'He will ruin you if you are not careful. She licked her lips. 'I dreamed of a man on a bay horse. He is a danger to you and to Oliver. Take great care. The effort left her panting for breath, her lips blue.
'Lie still, Ethel, don't…