was proposing. It, was not just the midwifery, but the integral weaving of the old female religion, albeit disguised in the lore of various female saints.
'Of course, Etheldreda said with a little shrug, 'you do not have to wear the token at all. It only means as much as each individual wants it to mean and, in my case, I intended that I am not a good Christian, she said, 'but the old gods — and goddesses — have their place too. Then she put her finger to her lips as Edon returned from her rounds with the eagle stone.
'I must take my leave, mistress, she addressed Edon. 'Tomorrow I will return and see how you are faring, but you seem in fine, good health to me.
Edon preened at the compliment. 'Geoffrey says I'll make the perfect mother.
'Aye, well I'm sure he's the perfect husband and father, Etheldreda said. Not by so much as a flicker of expression did she betray what she was actually thinking, but she did avoid Catrin's eyes and needed suddenly to turn aside to cough.
Catrin watched the midwife make her way slowly across the bower. Near the door the old woman paused and approached the corner where Rohese de Bayvel sat at her own needlework. There was a brief, muted conversation and another flask changed hands in return for a glint of silver. Etheldreda went on her way, and Rohese concealed her purchase in the folds of her gown, her colour high.
Power indeed, Catrin thought wryly, to bring a blush to the face of the haughty Rohese. She fingered the red cord at her throat, and listened with half an ear to Edon's chatter, but her thoughts were upon the sudden changes wrought in her life and the old woman descending the tower stairs.
Chapter 6
The black stink of smoke still hung on the air, but Oliver was almost glad, for it served to disguise the aroma of putrefying flesh. The high summer weather and the open wounds on the corpses had advanced the decomposition at a rate which would have been unbelievable had not Oliver seen its like many times during his years of pilgrimage.
The burial party worked with covered faces, and Father Kenric swung his incense burner in long, low arcs. It kept the flies away to a degree, but the sickly sweet smell of the burning spices only added to the stomach-rolling stench. Oliver had taken his turn to dig the soil. He had helped lift the bodies on to linen shrouds, and wrapped them up. Not one of them wore a single item of jewellery. Fingers had been hacked off to steal rings too tight to remove.
The sight, the smell, the silence were worse to Oliver than his first discovery of the scene. Two days ago, the fire had been a raging, living thing, and there had been survivors in its midst. Now there was nothing but distasteful, tragic duty among the ashes and the dead. At least there had been survivors, he told himself as he walked around Penfoss's perimeter stockade. If Catrin and Richard had been in the compound at the time of the attack, they too would be lying amongst the slain. He shied from that image, and thought instead of Catrin standing in Bristol's bailey, her head tilted to one side, her hazel eyes bright with suspicion as she spoke to him.
In the five years since Emma had died, there had been few women in his life; he could count the occasions on the fingers of one hand, and they had made the approaches. It was the first time since Emma's death that he had been moved to make an approach himself. He wanted to discover the Catrin behind the shield that held him at bay, but getting her to lower her defences was likely to be as difficult as lowering his own to let her in. He found himself envying men like Gawin, who had a wealth of experience with women and the brash confidence to pick and choose at will.
In the early days of his bereavement, he had entertained thoughts of becoming a monk. His brother had talked him out of the impulse, saying that he did not have the nature to dwell in the cloister. 'It takes more than a hair shirt and a scourge to make a monk, he had said. 'Christ, if every husband who lost his wife in childbed entered a monastery, half the men in England would wear tonsures.
Simon had been right, Oliver acknowledged, although at the time he had thought his brother unfeeling and obstructive. The pilgrimage had been the compromise. Oliver touched his belt, and felt beneath his fingers the pewter badges that were both proof and reminder of the time he had spent as a wanderer, changing from lost boy to man — or at least growing a hard shell over the lost boy, so that no one knew of his existence except himself.
He came to the broken gates and stared up the rutted track and into the deep green of the forest. The leaves swished and rustled softly in the breeze. Now Simon was dead in battle and his wife of the sweating sickness. A stranger sat in the great hall that had belonged to Oliver's family since before the coming of William the Conqueror. He was the last one to carry his name. Responsibilities to the dead were sometimes greater burdens than those to the living.
Impatient with himself, he was turning back to the burials when a movement caught the corner of his eye. 'Ware arms! he bellowed over his shoulder to the digging soldiers.
The compound erupted, men throwing down their spades and drawing their weapons. Oliver freed his own sword and backed within the gateway, his breathing swift and hard.
A troop of riders and footsoldiers emerged from the forest on to the track, steel hissing from scabbards, shields surging to the fore. Oliver saw that their numbers matched those of his own men, but the strangers had the advantage of horseback.
'Halt in the name of Robert, Earl of Gloucester, on whose land you trespass! Oliver cried.
'Land's for the taking these days, their leader sneered, but he drew his fine bay stallion to a stand. A new shield with bright red chevrons on a blue background covered his left side and he carried a honed lance in his right hand.
Without removing his eyes from the soldier, Oliver gestured over his shoulder. 'Then come and take six feet of earth for your grave.
'Six feet of earth, eh? The man grinned and hefted the lance. 'That would be poor payment for saving your life on the road to Jerusalem, Oliver Pascal, or do you choose! to forget old friendships and debts?
Thrown off balance, Oliver stared at his adversary. 'Randal? he said, dragging the name from the depths of the past. | 'Randal de Mohun?
'Ah, you do remember then? Tossing the lance to one of his troop, the soldier swung down from his saddle with an athletic bounce. An expensive grey mantle lined with squirrel fur swirled around his shoulders and was pinned with a silver brooch of Welsh knotwork. 'Call off your dogs; put up your sword. You don't really want to fight. His teeth flashed like a snare within the full bush of black moustache and beard.
'You shouldn't take the risk, Oliver said, but gestured his men to return to their grisly work, and sheathed his sword. However, he did not relax. For all that Randal de Mohun had saved him from certain death at the hands of brigands and been his companion on the pilgrim road for almost six months, his liking for the man had never been more than tepid. 'What are you doing in these parts?
Removing his helm, de Mohun waved his own men to dismount. Sweat glittered on his forehead and made tiny dewdrops in the thinning peak of hair on his brow. 'Riding through on the way to Bristol to seek employment. He nodded towards the compound. 'What happened here?
'A raid by a band of wandering mercenaries, Oliver said with a hard glance at de Mohun's men. 'Riding through' had
been spoken far too glibly. 'Prowling' or 'scavenging' were more appropriate descriptions. Randal de Mohun was a man with an eye to every opportunity that came his way. To judge by his manner of dress and the strength of his troop, he had been fortunate of late. 'They butchered all the occupants, plundered what they could, and torched the rest.
Randal clicked his tongue and shook his head. 'Godless, he muttered, 'the world is burning, Oliver.
They were the right words, but spoken without any degree of sincerity. 'Yes, godless, Oliver repeated. 'Where have you ridden from?
Randal gave an irritable twitch of his shoulders. 'We were employed further up the march but we were not being paid regular wages so we left. Rumour has it that Earl Robert does well by his troops.
'You look well enough paid to me.
