The mother of Christ gazed down on her with a face set in serene repose, the infant Jesus cradled in her arms. Catrin's mind remained blank.
A draught fluttered the candles on the altar and swayed the flame in the sanctuary lamp. Behind her, she heard the soft scrape of a leather sole on stone and the clink of a sword chap against mail. Slowly she turned, her belly a vast cavern, and watched Oliver come towards her.
He was wearing his hauberk, flecks of rust dulling the rivets. His shield hung on his back and his sword was girded at his hip. In the darkness of the chapel, his hair gleamed like ripe barley and his grey eyes were almost black. The look in them rooted her to the spot. He looked her up and down and she was conscious of the soil stains on her skirt from the storeshed floor.
'Did he force you, he asked flatly, 'or was it of your own free will?
Catrin gazed at him helplessly, with no inkling of how to reply. 'I… what did he say?
'It doesn't matter what he said. Oliver gestured impatiently. 'All I want to know is, did he force you?
Heat stained Catrin's cheeks and she lowered her eyes. She felt smirched and ashamed. 'He did not rape me. She twisted her hands together in the folds of her gown. 'It was he who made the first approach, but I… I was not unwilling.
The look he gave her was like a blow and she crossed her hands on her breasts as if to shield herself. 'He is my husband, she said raggedly.
'Who abandoned you in order to save his own hide. Christ, Catrin, can't you see him for what he is? He took a step towards her, his armour jinking. 'He's about as faithful as a whore's oath.
'He has changed, I know he has. She hated herself for how weak the defence sounded.
'Although your view was from flat on your back, he said with contempt.
Catrin gasped and recoiled as if he had struck her. 'I do not blame you your pain, she said shakily. 'But I am suffering too. Before you condemn, think how it would be if your Emma were suddenly to walk back into the room and tell you that her death was all a mistake; that you could have her back in your arms. What would you do? Whom would you choose,
Solomon, in your wisdom? Your wife, or your promised wife? Her voice rose and cracked.
He stared at her, and then his shoulders slumped and he shook his head mutely.
It almost broke her to see the defeat engulf him. 'While Louis lives, I am his wife. It doesn't mean I love you less. She took a step towards him, her hand outstretched in entreaty. For a moment she thought that he was going to strike her aside or just turn and walk out. Both intentions flickered across his face, but then vanished to leave a look of pure anguish. He crossed the final three yards of space between them and dragged her into his arms.
Crushed in his mailed grip, Catrin wept, and felt through her hands the shuddering of his own body in grief. He took her face in his hands and kissed her mouth, and she tasted their mingled tear-salt.
The priest, returning from his errand to fetch fresh candles for the chapel, made a shocked sound in his throat.
Oliver and Catrin slowly parted. 'If you have need of me, seek me out. He used his gambeson sleeve to wipe his eyes. 'If not. . He swallowed hard. 'If not, then let me be. However many sons you bear him, however great your fortune, I wish you well, but I do not want to know.
She watched him walk out of the chapel, and stayed where she was until the sound of his footsteps faded away. Then she genuflected to the altar and went in search of a small, dark corner in which to curl up and weep.
Chapter 20
The Christmas feast of 1141 was celebrated on a grand scale by King Stephen's court at Canterbury. If no outright victory had been gained, at least the status quo had been re-established. Stephen and Robert of Gloucester had been exchanged for each other and both sides had drawn back from conflict to lick their wounds and regroup.
Louis and Catrin were given a place of honour at one of the high tables, below the salt of the magnates but on an equal ranking with the lesser barons. As the man who had captured Robert of Gloucester, Louis was in high favour, and he pushed that advantage for all it was worth. With style, with subtlety, with cunning. The wolf was running down the deer.
Catrin watched him set his snares with trepidation and pride. She was uncomfortable at the way he had reinvented her past with a mingling of half-truths and omissions. He told the curious that she had believed him dead and, as a skilled herb-wife, she had sought refuge and employment in Bristol, where her services had been invaluable in tending the King. Hearing a rumour that her husband might still be alive, she had braved the open road to find him. She was courageous, loyal, beautiful and wise. What man would not be blessed with such a wife by his side?
Catrin had not denied the tale, there was no point, but it worried her that the story flowed so plausibly off his tongue. Despite his promise that he had changed, he still used lies and manipulation to gain his ends.
She shied away from the thought that he had lied to her too, for it carried all manner of implications, not least about her own judgement. During the day, she could ignore the small, nagging voice that told her she should have stayed with Oliver and made her life with him, his wife in all but name. But in the darkest hours of the night she was vulnerable, and the voice would wake her from sleep, accusing her of skipping on quicksand instead of choosing firm ground.
She was full of guilt and grief over Oliver. She could not just act as if the year and a half during which she had come to know and love him had never been. But there was no one to whom she could talk about him. The women of the court already had their own friendships. Knowing the gossip of the bower, she would not have trusted them anyway, for all that they crowded around her and asked her advice for this ailment and that. She had never thought she would miss Edon's feather-brained companionship, but she did, terribly.
'Brooding again, Catty? Louis leaned round to look at her. There was an evergreen chaplet set slightly askew on his thick black hair, making him look even more like a faun from the wild wood. He clutched a mead cup in his right hand but, although his breath smelt of the drink, he was only a little merry. He had been mingling with the guests seated at other tables, telling jests, laughing at jests told, making himself popular. She had even watched him juggle five leather balls before the King with expert sleight of hand. It had earned him applause from the royal table and the gift of a fine, silver brooch.
She shook her head and forced a smile. 'Reflecting, she said.
'About what? He leaned closer. His hand crept up beneath her wimple and his cool fingertips lightly stroked the back of her neck.
'About what I'm doing here. A small, sensuous shiver ran down her spine.
He frowned. 'You made the right choice, you know that.
'Yes… yes, I know that. She gnawed her lower lip. 'It is just that I feel as if I don't belong.
'Well, you don't. . He jerked his head at the high table. 'At least not to them. He leaned closer, and her bones melted at the darkness in his voice. 'But you do to me, you've always been mine.
She laughed shakily. 'Are you so sure of that?
His dark eyes flashed a look that said he was supremely confident and she was foolish for even token resistance. 'Gome, he said. Dragging her to her feet, he led her to the large apple wassail tree in the centre of the hall around which guests were dancing to honour the season.
Catrin hung back, but Louis's grip was lean and strong and, with a laugh, he pulled her forward. From the tree's branches he grabbed a chaplet of evergreen like his own and pushed it down upon her wimple, the holly berries glistening like drops of fresh blood.
'Dance, he commanded, and kissed her lips, his tongue flickering lightly round their outline before he withdrew.