She gave him an irritated look. 'Spare your compliments, not the horse.
Still grinning, Oliver faced his mount's ears. 'Grip my belt, he said, 'I know you're a horse-woman born and bred, but if you fall off, you'll tear more than just your fetching hose.
He could almost feel her scowl deepen, but the interlude had given a moment of light relief to a grim situation and Oliver was not contrite. He gathered up the reins and Hero sidled and attempted to buck. Oliver heard a stifled oath behind him and suddenly two hands grasped his belt.
'You did that apurpose! she accused furiously.
'I swear I did not! Oliver protested, but marred his innocence with a smothered chuckle. He half expected her to snatch away her hands, but they remained, together with a stony silence, as the small party rode out of the gates and left the burned-out husk of Penfoss behind.
At first, Catrin sat behind Oliver and nursed her anger in a pet of determined self-indulgence. He neither fed her ill-humour nor sought to cajole her out of it, but left her in peace to brood.
A twelve-inch from her eyes, his mail-clad spine swayed with the rhythm of the horse. Through the riveted links she could see the quilted linen gambeson beneath and the dark streaks that the steel had smudged on it. The belt she clutched was of high-quality buckskin incised with a pattern of oak leaves. At regular intervals, small pewter pilgrim badges had been punched through the leather. She recognised the cockle-shell of Saint James, the sword of Saint Foy and the palm branch of Jerusalem. Catrin decided that he had probably visited each place and tomb himself, for his skin was weathered beyond the capabilities of the English climate.
As they rode, her anger began to evaporate. She reviewed the moment when she had straddled the horse and his eyes had widened on both her posture and her scarlet hose. Her mouth twitched with grudging amusement as she saw the humour in the situation. Lewis would have laughed too, she thought. Then he would have slid his hand up her leg and… Catrin tightened her fingers in Oliver Pascal's handsome belt and mentally shook herself. Scarlet hose as may be, such imaginings were not for now.
He must have felt the sudden grip against his spine, for he half turned to look at her. Catrin quickly lowered her lids, avoiding all eye contact, and so did not see the glance he cast at her scarlet legs, or the smile that he swallowed before facing forward again.
The drizzle ceased and the clouds began to shred, allowing peeks of sunlit blue between. Catrin gazed at her surroundings. There were so many shades of green in the early summer forest that they dazzled her eyes; in addition to the individual hues of each variety of tree the play of light and sunlight altered their leaves from pale gold to dark emerald in the passing of a cloud.
A flash of a barred blue wing and the harsh shriek of a jay made her jump. Somewhere a cuckoo sought a mate, the two notes of its song monotonous and sleepy, and a woodpecker drummed for insects beneath the bark of an ash tree. She glanced sidelong at Richard, bumping along behind the other knight's saddle, and saw that he too was observing the woods with an air of concentration.
Last night in the darkness he had curled up against her in a light ball and her throat had ached. When she had wept, it had been as much for him as his mother. In defending Amice, Catrin had told Oliver the truth whilst withholding the facts. Amice had indeed cared for her son, but as she would care for a puppy or a special trinket. He was petted, loved and cuddled, until something distracted her — usually a man — and then cast aside until the distraction had lost its novelty. Catrin had done her best, but knew that her steadiness had made Amice's whims all the more bewildering to the child. Small wonder if he was angry.
And in Bristol the unknown awaited in the form of his royal kin. What kind of welcome were she and Richard going to receive — if any? It was not impossible that they would be cast out to beg for their living among the camp followers and whores who servicedGloucester's troops. She supposed that they could travel to King Stephen's camp. He was, after all, Richard's cousin, and Catrin had no strong feelings against him. It mattered little to her who ruled the country, just as long as there was peace. Her mind filled with images of yesterday's slaughter and she squeezed her lids together to make them go away. When she opened her ryes, an expanding shimmer of light obliterated the corner of her vision and, with dismay, she recognised the onset of a debilitating headache.
Ever since the first bleed of her womanhood she had been burdened by the affliction. It came upon her without warning, but usually when she was tired or upset. The headaches were so excruciating and left her so drained that she dreaded the first flickering glimmers. Sometimes in high summer, the sparkle of sun on water would leave its reflection on her eye and she would panic, believing one of her megrims was imminent. The flood of relief when she realised her mistake was enormous. But today there was no reprieve. The shimmer spread inwards, obscuring her vision, and her stomach began to lurch with each stride of the horse. Pain flickered delicately across her brows, probing for a place to settle. When she closed her eyes, the shimmer turned black with frilly, silver edges. Her heart thundered in her ears, each beat driving needles into her skull. Despite her clenched teeth, saliva filled her mouth.
'Stop! she gulped at Oliver. 'Now!
He drew rein and slewed round in the saddle. 'What's wr… he started to ask, but Catrin had already bolted from the grey's back and was braced against a tree, retching violently.
Even after she had been sick, Catrin felt little better. Pain surged over her in great rolling waves, crushing her skull like a shell against a rock. All she could do was huddle over herself and gasp.
Frozen by shock, Oliver stared at her and wondered if she was in the grip of some contagion that would bring sickness to all who had contact with her. Spotted fever started just like this. There had been an outbreak in the crusader port of Jaffa three years ago and hundreds had died.
'What ails her? Gawin's voice and widened eyes held the same fear that Oliver was silently entertaining.
'I don't know. If she has a contagion then it is too late to keep our distance now. Either we'll catch it or we won't, at the whim of God. Somewhat abruptly, filled with self-irritation, he dismounted.
Richard wriggled down from his perch behind Gawin.
'It's only one of her headaches, he said scornfully. 'There's nothing to fear.
'One of her headaches? Oliver repeated, and felt ashamed as the boy went to Catrin and put his arm around her.
'She gets them sometimes, and then she has to lie down in the dark to make them go away. A leech told her that if she cut open a frog while it still lived and placed its entrails on her brow, they would draw out all the evil humours, but she wouldn't do it.
'And no blame to her either, Oliver said with a grimace. Turning to his horse, he unfastened a deerskin bag from a thong on the saddle. The bag, stained and worn, had travelled as far as Oliver in the past four years. It contained a tourniquet cord, linen swaddling bands to make bandages and slings, a small pair of shears and needle and thread. There were also various dried herbs in small linen pouches, their identity separated by different coloured woollen strands tying the necks of the pouches.
'Make a fire, he commanded Gawin. 'A tisane of betony and feverfew might help her. Ethel always swears by it. Opening one of the pouches, he crumbled some dried stalks and flower-heads into a small cooking vessel fetched from the supplies on the pack pony. Then he walked a short distance into the forest and returned with the leaves and flower-heads of a wood betony plant. This too went into the pot. He covered the herbs with water from his leather flask and set the mixture to infuse over the fire that Gawin had made out of tinder and a swift collection of dry twigs.