De Mohun's serjeant was in camp and he watched her approach with narrowed eyes. She told him that she had been sent by de Mohun himself to look at a saddle sore on his mount's withers.
'First I know of it, said the grizzle-haired mercenary suspiciously.
'He came especially to see me on his way to the hall, Catrin answered steadily enough, although her heart was in her mouth. 'How else would I know where he was going?
'Aye, well, the beast is there. The man gestured brusquely to the tall, bay stallion.
Trying to appear calm and authoritative, Catrin approached the horse. It rolled its eyes and sidled. 'How long has Sir Randal had him?
The soldier shrugged. 'Since last midsummer.
'And before that? She walked around the bay, pretending to look. A flicker of her eyes revealed a bridle and saddle to one side, protected from the ground by a folded-up blanket.
'Why do you want to know?
'It's important for the charm to work.
The man snorted, displaying what he thought of that notion. 'A chestnut with white markings, he said.
'And did they wear the same saddle?
The soldier rolled his eyes and gestured to the one in the corner. Catrin went over to it and bent down. The saddle-cloth peeped out from beneath the polished wood and leather — it was green with a border of red tassels.
Catrin stared, feeling disappointed. She had been so sure. She touched one of the tassels and then, to make it seem that she was conducting a necessary examination, she looked at the underside of the saddle-cloth.
'Something the matter? enquired the soldier.
The cowhide was coarse against her thumb, black and white as she remembered it, but a little more bald with wear. 'No, nothing, she said, and stood up, wiping her hand on her gown. 'Sir Randal used to have a green shield with a red cross, did he not?
'What of it?
'He did though, didn't he?
The soldier gave a grudging nod. 'It got split in a fight, he said. 'What is it to you?
'I'll tell you what it is, Randal de Mohun said, advancing to his horse-line, his movements casual and dangerous. 'It is meddling in affairs that are best left alone. Is that not so, Mistress midwife?
Catrin's legs were suddenly weak. Her heart began to pound. She hoped against hope that Richard had found Godard. 'I do not know what you mean, she said, and did not have to look at his face to know how feeble her defence was. 'I came looking for Oliver, that's all.
'She said your horse was sick and that you'd asked her to tend it, the soldier spoke out and stepped sideways, blocking her escape. Left and right, she was now hemmed in.
'Her and the boy are the only survivors from Penfoss, de Mohun said over his shoulder, then looked broodingly at Catrin. 'Oliver told me. Full of pride he was, the fool.
'It was you. Catrin's voice quavered.
De Mohun lifted his brows. 'So you claim, but whose word will be considered law? He stroked his beard in a parody of reasonable thought. 'There is room to negotiate. Tide's in, the river's high. A walk along the wharf should resolve matters.
An image of Rohese de Bayvel's remains filled Catrin's mind; the ragged white flesh dragged up from the depths of the river. Her hand lay on top of her satchel and the latch was unfastened. She tensed her wrist and took a step back. 'Other people know where I am. They will raise the hue and cry against you, she warned.
De Mohun snorted. 'You were never here. None of us ever saw you. He took a step towards her, arms outstretched. 'You went out into the city, to a birth, and never returned.
As he lunged, so too did Catrin, striking with the knife as Oliver had shown her. De Mohun recoiled with an involuntary cry of surprise and pain, blood dripping from a deep gash in the back of his hand. With a snarl, he drew his sword.
Catrin screamed at the top of her lungs. The other soldier made a grab at her arm and fetched up the same as his master with a bone-deep wound. But then the sword connected. Catrin swung desperately to avoid it. Her satchel caught the bulk of the blow and split open, spilling entrails of herb sachets, linen bandages, jars of ointment and oil, and a small plaster image of Saint Margaret which shattered on the straw-covered ground. The last of the blow bit through flesh to bone and although there was no pain, Catrin felt the heat of blood flooding her side. She screamed again, and her voice was answered by a huge, masculine bellow.
The sword glittered in the air again, but this time it was turned on the blade of another weapon. She saw a quarterstaff flail the air and heard the deep grunt of someone struck in the midriff. Oliver and Godard, she thought hazily, and swayed and fell. The smell of dung and straw filled her nostrils. It was very tempting to close her eyes and let the world disappear. Get up, she scolded herself, get away before it's too late.
There was pain now as she scrabbled to her hands and knees; hot, scalding, trickling pain, but it told her that she was still alive. She heard cries, the sound of running feet. A hand touched her shoulder and a woman's face, wide-eyed with shock, peered round into hers. "Tis the young midwife, she's wounded! she cried over her shoulder to her companion. 'Help me with her.
Between them, the two women lifted Catrin to her feet and bore her over to their tent, where they laid her down on a straw pallet.
Randal de Mohun parried Oliver's blow. A vicious upswing sent chips of steel sparking from Oliver's blade. As he flinched from the flying fragments, de Mohun grabbed a saddled horse belonging to one of his troop, clawed himself across its back, and rammed spurs into its flanks. Oliver lunged for the bridle, but just as swiftly snatched his hand back as Randal's sword chopped down and the horse lashed out. Then the mercenary was free, thundering across the bailey and through the open castle gates, leaving the guards staring in blank astonishment.
Most of Randal's men made their escape in the mayhem and confusion, the majority of them sneaking out as word spread. Randal's hefty serjeant was constrained to stay, as Godard finally got an arm lock on him, bore him to the ground and sat on him.
'Don't kill him, Oliver panted. 'He has a song to sing to the Earl.
'Do my best, Godard growled, 'but I make no promises.
Oliver nodded and, sheathing his sword, ran to the tent where the women were beckoning.
Catrin was ashen, her eyes dilated with pain. Her gown was soaked in blood from armpit to hip.
'Christ, only you could be so foolish and stubborn as to walk into the den of a hardened mercenary like Randal de Mohun! He knelt at her side, his voice ragged and his hand trembling as he drew his dagger to slash the green wool, north and south.
'I'll need a new gown now, Catrin jested weakly.
'In my estimation, you need new wits. Catrin, I swear you will be the death of me, if you do not kill yourself first! Working rapidly, he tore open the dress and chemise and was flooded with both relief and anxiety when he saw the gash that de Mohun's sword had opened. It was long and moderately deep but, as far as he could tell, it had struck no
vital organ and the blood was only seeping now. But still it required stitching, and quickly. After that came the dangers of wound-fever and the stiffening sickness, either of which could kill in short order.
Thanking the women for their care, he wrapped Catrin in his cloak and bore her back to the house against the bailey wall. In a faint voice she told him the nostrums to mix to ease her pain and clean the wound. Earl Robert's chirurgeon was sent for to do the stitching.
'I only wanted to look at his saddle-cloth, to find out if it was fashioned of black and white cowhide, she said. 'I thought he was safely away in the hall.
'He came to the hall, but did not stop for long. Oliver chafed her hands, wishing her flesh was not so cold. 'He wanted to ask me about some new spear heads I'd promised to get him when I ordered mine. Just after he'd gone, Godard found me and gave me Richard's message. Fortunate for you that we did not delay in following de Mohun to his camp.