exploring her reasons as she spoke. 'King Louis had a book and the cover was inlaid with jewels as big as pigeon eggs and his tunic was embroidered all over with clusters of pearl. But after a while, it became stifling. We had to stand on ceremony all the time, and what lay under the silks and jewels was not so fine. With Henry there is no show, no sham. He can face the world in an old hunting tunic; he doesn't need a silk robe to make him royal.
'Did you see Eleanor of Aquitaine? Edith's voice was eager.
Catrin smiled. 'Yes, I saw her. 'Don't tease, what is she like?
Eleanor of Aquitaine had until recently been the Queen of France. King Louis had divorced her because she had given him two daughters when he was desperate for a son. He was serious of demeanour with no leavening of humour to brighten his nature. Eleanor, a great heiress, was his opposite. Glamour, scandal and mystery followed her like an exotic perfume. Prince Henry had seized his opportunity and married the newly divorced Eleanor, thus acquiring for himself vast areas of south-west France. He was nineteen years old and she was thirty. Everyone knew about the match. It was the stuff of rumours and ballads and the news had filtered to every corner of the realm.
'Well, Catrin pursed her lips in consideration. 'She has black hair and greenish-brown eyes set on a slant. She's tall and slim and she has a voice that sounds as if she's been inhaling smoke for a week.
Edith sniffed. 'That doesn't sound promising. I'd heard that she was the most beautiful woman in Christendom.
'Not if you are judging beauty by silky yellow hair, blue eyes and rosebud lips, Catrin said bluntly. 'But she has something more enduring than beauty — a sort of allure that will still be with her when she's an old, old woman and all the ordinary «beauties» have long since lost their attraction. You would have to see her to understand it. All the men are besotted with her, and the women try to copy her mannerisms and style of dress.
'Is Oliver smitten then? Edith asked mischievously.
Catrin laughed. 'He won't go near enough to find out. He watches her from a distance the way he would watch a lioness. And I think he's right. She can snarl as well as purr.
Edith gently stirred the dumplings in the stew. 'Like you then, she said.
'Oh, no, I don't have her glamour, Catrin denied. 'And no desire to wrap any man around my little finger.
'Not even Oliver? Edith gave her a sceptical look.
Catrin frowned. 'I hope that whatever Oliver does is of his own free will. To manipulate him would be dishonest.
'So you think Eleanor's dishonest?
'No. But what suits her, does not suit me.
Silence fell again while Edith continued to gently stir the dumplings and prevent them from sticking to the bottom of the cauldron.
'All this travelling hither and yon, she said after a while. 'Do you not wish that you could stop and settle?
'With all my heart, Catrin said wistfully. 'It is true that I could live in Bristol or Rouen, but how often would I see Oliver then? His sons would grow up hardly knowing their father. I know it is the way that many women live, but it would not do for me.
'Yes, I can understand that, Edith murmured. 'Godard and I work side by side and share all our tasks. I ran this alehouse alone for five years after my first husband died, but I cannot imagine being without Godard now.
Catrin pursed her lips. 'If Henry prevails, then Oliver might regain his lands, but nothing is certain. We live each day as it comes.
'You think Henry will prevail this time, on his third attempt?
'I think that neither will prevail unless they come to a truce, Catrin said thoughtfully. 'Stephen's barons cleave to him out of friendship and loyalty, but they do not cleave to Eustace in the same way. They want Henry to be our next king, so it is my guess that they will keep from outright confrontation. There will be little fights and skirmishes — grapples for position — but in the end the barons will decide, and they will decide for Henry.
'Then I pray sooner rather than later, Edith said.
Catrin crossed herself. 'Amen to that.
The women's moment of peace was ended by the sound of excited voices. The door flung open and two small boys burst into the room like dervishes, Rosamund chasing close behind. In their wake, Godard and Oliver strolled together, talking.
'Mama, we seed the foal! announced Henry, and climbed on to Catrin, forcing her to lower her knees and pull him into her lap. Not only did he possess his royal godfather's name, he also seemed to have more than his share of the Prince's ebullient personality. His hair was a light copper-blond and his eyes were Catrin's hazel.
'Did you, sweetheart?
Henry nodded vigorously and launched into a spate of description which his vocabulary could not quite encompass. Simon, black-haired and grey-eyed, tried to help him. The little voices rose in a crescendo. Rosamund grimaced and stuck her fingers in her ears.
'Quiet! Oliver bellowed, his own voice rising above all others.
A deathly silence fell, but it was a telling one. The boys neither cried nor cowered but looked at their father with round, reproachful eyes.
'Better, Oliver said with a stern look and a stiff nod, although a twitch of his lips almost betrayed him. 'What will our hosts think of your manners?
Edith's eyes crinkled as she smiled. 'Oh, we're accustomed to it, she said, 'although our clients have usually consumed a jug of ale before they become as loud. Don't come down on the mites too hard. It's good to hear them.
'Mites about sums them up, Oliver said, but tugged Rosamund's braid to show that he was jesting and swept Simon up in his arms. 'Noisy mites.
'Would you rather be without them and have silence? Edith said.
Oliver kissed his son. 'Even at their loudest they hold me to sanity. I would rather they sat as good as gold for more than one minute, but when you're three years old that is just too much to expect.
They all sat down to dine on Edith's chicken stew. Henry and Simon tucked in with a will and did not make too much mess. They were robust children, large for their age and taking after Oliver in bone and build. Rosamund, dainty and dark, mopped up what mess they did make and behaved with a ladylike grace that filled Catrin with pride — and Oliver too. She could see it in his grey glance. Despite the conflict life was good, she told herself, and in time it would be better yet.
That night she and Oliver bedded down in the room where they had lain before, in the days when the dormitory had been a barn. The boys slept entwined on a heap of straw, protected from its prickle by a sheepskin fleece. Rosamund slumbered beside them, the sound of her breathing mingling in soft counterpoint with theirs.
'Bristol on the morrow, Oliver murmured against Catrin's hair.
She smiled and snuggled against him. 'Eel stew, she answered, and felt the silent laughter in his chest. He wrapped her in his arms and they pressed hip to hip, mouth to mouth. Since the children had grown, they had become experts at making love in silence and taking opportunities when they arose.
It was ironic, Catrin thought as Oliver pushed into her and she clasped her legs around him, that Louis had demanded she cry and moan for him, and that now she was constrained to utter silence. She clutched Oliver and bucked, her teeth clenched, her throat tight and her loins dissolving. It had been too long between opportunities. His mouth covered hers in a frantic kiss and they shuddered together, each absorbing the other's pleasure with every surge until they were spent.
He raised on his elbows and nibbled the salt sweat from the hollow of her throat. Catrin closed her eyes and arched her neck. The feel of him still within her sent small after-quivers of pleasure through her flesh.
'Bristol tomorrow, Oliver repeated.
'Eel stew, she said, stifling a giggle.
'Henry will not be there above a week, but he'll be using it as one of his bases. I want you and the children to stay there while I'm gone.
