Catrin opened her eyes and studied his face in the strip of moonlight filtering through the window space. 'For safety's sake? she said neutrally.
'Until we are sure that Stephen is well and truly muzzled by his barons. I would not want another Devizes to happen.
She rubbed her leg along his and adopted the purring tone that she had heard Eleanor of Aquitaine use when flirting with men. 'Fortunate then that you are bribing me with old haunts, else I might not stay.
His teeth closed gently on the skin of her throat. 'I know that you're safe there — that nothing can happen.
'So you would rather that I had the worry than you?
'If there is fighting, I won't be involved, he said, a trifle impatiently. 'I'll be with the baggage carts. If Stephen gets that far in a battle, we're all lost anyway.
'Is that supposed to reassure me?
'Of course it is. His lips returned to hers, silky and persuasive. 'I won't be in any danger, I just don't know how quickly Henry might need to move. We cannot afford a large baggage train.
'Ah, then you don't want me.
'Catrin! he whispered with exasperation.
Laughing, she curled her arms around his neck. 'First you have your will, then you have your way.
He pinched her. She stifled a yelp. Rosamund made a little sound in her sleep and turned over with a sigh.
Catrin held her breath. Oliver withdrew and rolled on to his back. Rosamund's breathing resumed its regular pattern.
To make amends, Catrin snuggled up to Oliver and laid her arm over him.
He reached down for her hand and tucked it against his breast with a drowsy murmur of contentment.
Catrin was tired too, but she lay awake for a while longer savouring the peace, the sweet scent of herbs and new hay, the sense of security and well-being. She wanted to hold the moment, to fix it in her memory, to bind it in a charm.
As she fell asleep, her other hand clutched Ethel's woven knot on its leather cord around her neck.
Chapter 34
Louis sat in a corner of The Mermaid nursing his wine and watching the clientele. For the most part they were sailors, or men with the scarred, weather-beaten countenances of soldiers. Men like himself, except for the fickle roll of fortune's dice.
Louis was still handsome. The Holy Land had whittled the boyishness from his smile and salted his hair with grey, but it had enhanced rather than diminished his looks. Playful had become dangerous and, as always, he attracted women like a magnetic stone attracted iron.
He looked down at his hands, at the clipped nails and tanned brown fingers. These days he examined them often to reassure himself that there was nothing to see, that no one but himself knew of the legacy he had brought home from the Holy Land, although he had come to the conclusion that there was nothing in the least holy about it. To the contrary, it was the domain of the Devil.
His descent into hell had been the bequeathing of the woman he had met by the pool of Siloam. He had taken her body, her silk robe clinging, diaphanous with the sweat of lust. He had dwelt in her house, luxuriated in every pleasure and vice imaginable; gorged himself upon the wealth she earned from other men. She was a courtesan, the midnight consort of the wealthy officials and prelates who served the King of Jerusalem. She had almond-shaped dark eyes outlined in kohl, honey-golden skin and a lithe, sinuous body that could wrap and tighten around a man like a snake. Now she was nothing but dust and bones. Her name was
Jasmine. She had given him everything — including his own slow death.
He clenched his hands into fists, but that made his knuckle bones gleam beneath the skin, reminding him all too potently of his fate. He snatched his cup and gulped down the wine. As a matter of habit he had ordered the best that The Mermaid had to offer, but he would not have noticed had it been vinegar.
The door swung open and Ewan thrust into the crowded alehouse, ushering before him a nondescript man of middle years with sandy hair and a sparse yellow beard.
'About time, Louis hissed beneath his breath, and signalled one of the serving maids to bring another jug of wine.
Ewan brought the man to Louis's trestle and was dismissed by a flick of the lean brown fingers. 'You are Adam the apothecary?
The maid set a fresh jug on the trestle and a second drinking cup. Louis paid her with a glance and a smile from habit.
'Aye, the man nodded cautiously. 'What's your business with me?
'A remedy. Louis poured the rich red wine and pushed the new cup across to his guest. 'I have heard that you are skilled in making medicines.
'That I am. Adam took a drink from his cup and pinched his upper lip to remove drops from his moustache. His light blue eyes were wary. 'A remedy for what?
'I need to have your oath of secrecy first.
Adam blinked several times rapidly. 'That will add to the cost of my services.
'I can pay. Louis fished in his pouch. Whereas before he had brought out a common silver halfpenny for the girl now, under cover of his cupped palm so that only the apothecary should see, he displayed a bezant of solid gold.
The lids fluttered like a butterfly beating at a window.
'One of these now, one when you've made the potion.
Adam reached out. Louis snatched his hand away and closed his fist over the gold. 'But only if you swear to hold your tongue.
'I would be mad not to swear, Adam said with a breathless laugh.
'Aye, you would, because the alternative to you holding your tongue is me cutting it out on the edge of my sword. Louis tapped his hilt for emphasis.
The apothecary paled and swallowed, but greed overcame caution. 'I swear, he said, and held out his hand.
Louis palmed him the coin, a fierce look in his dark eyes. 'Then you are committed, he said, and took another long drink of his wine as if it was red lifeblood. Then he banged the cup down on the trestle. 'It's not for me, you understand, I'm acting on behalf of a friend.
'Of course. Adam inclined his head and stroked his pouch where the gold now rested.
Still reluctant at giving his fate into another's hand, Louis produced a scrap of vellum from his pouch. 'These are the ingredients, he said with a frown. He had no idea what they were for he could neither read nor write. He had purchased the remedy from a fellow traveller on the ship home, who had assured him that the mixture worked on a whole range of diseases.
'As a remedy for what?
'Scrofula. Louis forced himself not to rub his wrist where there was a patch of lichen-like white skin, frilled with red at its edges. Scrofula was acceptable. Leprosy was not. Leprosy would make him an outcast, dependent on charity for his existence. It would eat away his good looks and there would be no one but other lepers to see. When they rolled him unceremoniously in his grave, perhaps many suffering years from now, it would not be as Louis le Loup, leader of men, or Louis le Colps, lover of women. It would not be as Louis de Grosmont, confidant of kings, or even Lewis of Chepstow, grandson of a groom. It would be as Louis the Leper, despised outcast.
'Ah, scrofula, the apothecary repeated, with an exaggerated nod to show that he was playing along but not in the least fooled. He scanned the list of ingredients, murmuring to himself and nodding. 'Pennywort, sorrel, St John's wort, grey lichen… yes, I have all those. His voice fell to a mumble as he took in the other ingredients,
