masses of raven-black hair and her crimson hose which ended just above her knees, in bright contrast to the white flesh of her thighs.
With a gasp, he snapped awake to find himself tangled in his cloak. Dull heat pulsed at his crotch and his body was damp with sweat. It was not the first erotic nightmare he had ever had, but it was certainly the most disturbing. The man beside him still slept, oblivious, but all around him others were rising. The fire in the hearth was blazing strongly and tendrils of steam rose from the cooking pot set over the flames. A glance at the high windows showed him that dawn had broken.
Untangling himself from his cloak, he went outside to piss and then washed his hands and face at the trough by the well. It was a murky November morning with a hint of drizzle that swiftly cooled the sweat on his body and banished any carnal residue from his dream. Although it was not long past dawn, a steady exchange of traffic between castle and town was well under way. Supplies and traders entered. Soldiers left.
Oliver watched the activity while he pinned his cloak and accustomed himself to the idea of being awake. His stomach rumbled, and he thought with anticipation of Ethel's hot griddle cakes, smeared with honey and butter — far better fare than the bowl of gruel he could expect in the hall. But it was not the thought of breakfast alone that sent him in the direction of Ethel's shelter. As he walked, he smoothed his hair and plucked a stray stalk of straw from his cloak. He also cupped his chin and grimaced to feel the prick of stubble. He should have taken the time to shave, but it was too late now.
With a swift step and rapid heart, he approached Ethel's shelter. The woven hanging was drawn across, but when he parted it to glance inside and see if the women were sleeping, it was empty, the hearth cold, and the coverlet on the bed-bench neatly arranged.
'They're not here, said one of the laundry women as she passed by with a basket of soiled linen. 'I called at first light for something to cure me toothache and there was no sign.
'They've been out all night then, Oliver said, with a sinking heart.
'Like as not. I ain't seen 'em for certes, but I wish they'd hurry back. Me gob's killing me. She went on her way, leaving Oliver gazing around the shelter. Despite the cheerful bedcovering, the rows of jars, sealed pig bladders and bunches of herbs, the place looked forlorn without its occupants. Ethel had said that they would return by daybreak. He glanced at the sky which had been light for perhaps an hour. They were not unduly late, but he could feel the apprehension gathering within him.
He forced himself to return to the hall and act as if this was just another morning. He ate a bowl of hot gruel without any enthusiasm, barbered his stubble, and returned to check on the shelter, but it was still as empty as before. Thoroughly unsettled by now, Oliver hitched his belt and set off at a determined pace towards the castle gates.
Once in the city, he made his way to the home of Payne the soap-maker and was greeted first with surprise, and then some consternation when the household learned of his enquiry. The manservant and journeyman were fetched from their tasks and made to tell their tale about the poor woman who had come begging Ethel and Catrin's help in the Shambles.
With increasing apprehension, Oliver turned his feet in that direction, but he had little idea where to look among all the back entrances that twisted through the quarter like the animal guts from which the Shambles took its name. Enquiries led him nowhere. The butchers had all been abed in the early hours, and those who had not had good reason to avoid a man with a sword.
His right hand on its hilt, Oliver left the main thoroughfares and entered the narrower alleys, his shoes squelching in mud and dung. A dog growled as it dashed past him, a dead rat dangling from its jaws. Two grimy little boys contemplated throwing pats of mud at him, but changed their minds when he drew an inch of blade from his scabbard. A door opened a crack and then slammed shut. Oliver drew another inch of steel, both as a warning to any hidden watchers and as a reassurance to himself.
Then he heard the scream over to his left, piercing and shrill. Cursing, he began to run — something of a feat in the November sludge of Bristol's back alleys. A second scream brought him to a narrow thoroughfare and a scene that drew his blade clean out of the scabbard in a single rasp of steel. The two men turned, cudgels raised, but on seeing the calibre and rage of their opposition, took to their heels.
Already breathless from his run, Oliver didn't pursue. Sword still in his right hand, he used his left to raise Ethel gently to her feet. Her breath wheezed in her throat, and she was trembling from head to toe. She braced herself upon her stick for support, but her eyes were bright and black with the light of battle.
'They'll come to bad ends, the both of them, she panted. 'And I need neither my wise-woman's sight nor a curse to predict that certainty. She gave him a sharp look. 'How did you know?
'You said you would be home before cock-crow. When you weren't, I came looking for you. His tone bore no expression, for he knew that if he began to rant at the women he would never stop, and this time there would be no healing the breach.
He looked at Catrin. Her hood was down, her wimple askew, baring her black braids. A spot of colour branded each cheekbone, and there was a small knife clenched so tightly in her hand that her knuckles were bone-white on the wooden haft. She was still gasping like a man on a battlefield.
The street had begun to fill with people, both the concerned and the morbidly curious. Ethel was offered a drink of ale, and someone brought out a three-legged stool so that she could sit down. Oliver returned his sword to his scabbard. 'Put up your knife, he said quietly to Catrin, with a nod at her right hand.
'What? She gazed at the small weapon blankly for a moment, then with trembling fingers did as he bade. A wooden beaker of ale was pressed into her hand. Everyone was talking at once, but their chatter meant nothing to her.
'A young woman had been raped by one of the castle soldiers and was miscarrying her child, she said defensively. 'We couldn't just leave her to die.
'No, of course you couldn't.
Her jaw tightened. She looked at him with glittering eyes.
'I mean it, Oliver deflected swiftly. 'It is no less than I expected you to say, although I suspect that this, he gestured at Ethel, 'is more than you had in mind.
'We were unfortunate, Catrin said stiffly.
'To the contrary, you are more lucky than you know. When she opened her mouth to argue, he laid a forefinger against her lips. 'No more, or we will both say things that we will regret. For now, my priority is to see you and Ethel safe back to the keep and alert the watch about those two ruffians.
She swallowed and nodded. Then she swallowed again and compressed her lips, her complexion greenish-white.
His gaze sharpened and he swore softly beneath his breath. Turning to the woman who had brought the ale and the stool, he haggled the use of her donkey for a penny and deliberated which of the two women was going to sit on it.
'I can manage, Catrin said grimly between clenched teeth. 'Let Ethel ride.
Oliver studied her, then nodded. Pride, if nothing else, would keep her upright until they reached the castle.
While the woman held the ass, he helped Ethel on to its bony, scooped back. He had always viewed the old woman as being physically solid and strong. In his youth, the back-swipe of her arm had floored a village brat on many an occasion, so he was disconcerted to discover that she weighed next to nothing. She was like a bird, her bones hollow for the flight of her soul. Her spirit, however, had no intention of departing just yet, and it was with relief that he heard her remark tartly that she was not a sack of cabbages.
Clicking his tongue to the donkey, he turned it round. 'A sack of cabbages would not cause me so much trouble, he retorted, and held out his arm for Catrin to lean on. It was a measure of her own wretchedness that she took it without demur.
Chapter 11
'Go on, say it, Catrin challenged.
'Say what? Oliver spread his hands, his breath clouding the air. Around them frost glittered like loaf sugar.
