smile and, for a moment, the world blurred at the edges.
Catrin pressed against Oliver, taking refuge from her anxiety in physical sensation until both of them were hot and gasping. Unfortunately, there was no bed to hand, unless they went looking for an unoccupied hay loft, and it was too cold a day to make love against a wall or spread a cloak in the fields. By mutual consent they broke apart. Holding her hand, Oliver sat on Ethel's stool before the fire and drew her on to his lap. She wriggled playfully and he squeezed her buttocks, but it was an ending, rather than a prelude, to their sport, for they were both aware of the sleeping old woman. Not that Ethel would have been much shocked, but she needed her rest, and they were loath to disturb her.
'Did you speak to Gawin? Catrin left his knee to pour them each a cup of mead.
Oliver sighed. 'Yes, for what good it did. He was still in his cups and not inclined to pay any heed. Indeed, he went so far as to say that if I pushed him, he would claim that he had been bewitched by Ethel's potions.
'But that's not true! Catrin flashed a look over her shoulder, but Ethel slept on oblivious, the coverlet drawn up to her withered cheek. 'There's nothing in her love philtres that could cause anyone to be bewitched. It's only rose petals and cinnamon steeped in water. What nonsense!
'That depends on your belief, Oliver said. 'I told her that it was dangerous to meddle in such things.
'Do you think Gawin believes? Catrin asked shortly.
'Of course not, it is just a convenient excuse to abstain from responsibility for his actions. He took the drink that she handed him and made a dismissive gesture. 'It was the wine talking. I threatened him with death in return and told him what I thought of his character. Whether it will be of any benefit once he sobers, or have no more effect than water off a duck's back, remains to be seen.
Avoiding the temptation of Oliver's lap, Catrin sat in the straw at his feet and, cupping her hands around the hot mead, gazed into the red heart of the fire. 'I feel sorry for Rohese, she murmured.
'I thought you disliked her.
Catrin looked at him. 'That does not mean I cannot have compassion for her situation. I admit we have not been friends, but I don't hate her. Countess Mabile will likely send her to a convent for the birth and then to live as a penitent for the rest of her life. Unless Rohese has a vocation, her life will be a living hell. She shook her head and her lips were twisted, as if the sweet mead had suddenly turned to vinegar in her mouth. 'Men such as Gawin act on their lust and think later, if they think at all. My husband was a little like Gawin, I know the kind.
Oliver's complexion darkened. Catrin gazed at him blankly for a moment, then realised that he had taken her words to heart. 'I do not number you among them, you fool! she cried. 'Yes, we acted upon our lust, but it was mutual and I know that you still honour me.
He lifted his shoulders. 'With my life, he said, 'but I want others to know of that honour too. How can I chastise Gawin when I am not in a state of grace myself? He cleared his throat, then said tentatively, 'Catrin, would you become my wife?
Catrin felt a hot chill of delight and fear run down her spine. Both acceptance and refusal hovered on her tongue and left her speechless. The silence stretched and began to strain.
She gnawed on her underlip, seeking with difficulty the words that would make him understand. 'I was married to Lewis on a winter morning just like this, she said at last. 'I do not want a second joining to hold memories of the first.
He frowned. 'I should not have asked you.
She felt him tense to rise and swiftly clamped her hand around his leg to make him stay. 'Perhaps not quite so soon, she said, her throat dry. 'Although I can see why you did.
'Then the answer is no?
His voice was far too expressionless for her comfort. She had hurt him and that had not been her intention. The only grounds she had for refusal were caused by old wounds that were not of Oliver's making.
Drawing a deep breath, she said, 'I swear that before the next Christmas feast, in a different season, I will become your wife. Is that grace enough? Finishing her drink, she returned to his lap and curved her arms around his neck, sensing that he needed more than words as reassurance.
After a moment, his own arms tightened around her, the mead sloshing over the rim of his cup. 'More than enough, he muttered against her throat. 'I thought you were going to refuse me.
Catrin laughed shakily and curled her fingers into the thick hair at his nape. 'I may have panicked, but not to the point of losing my reason. She toasted him with a sip from his mead. 'To our future.
'To our future, Oliver repeated, and drank from the place where she had set her lips.
Later that day, they visited Amice's grave to lay a wreath of evergreen and pay their respects. It was Richard who put the wreath on the grave and crossed himself. He had grown since the summer, his face elongating and his nose developing a sharpness that was more than reminiscent of his father, the old king. He bore himself with assurance, no longer a bewildered and bitter child but a boy on the verge of adolescence.
In the frozen, cold twilight the snow sparkled, and Catrin shivered within the warmth of her cloak as she looked at her former mistress's grave. For no reason she could fathom, the memory of Randal de Mohun intruded on her prayers and disturbed the melancholy beauty and silence of the cemetery. Oliver reached for her hand and squeezed it. Gratefully she squeezed his in return and stepped a little closer to his reassuring presence.
Chapter 14
The remainder of the twelve days of Christmas passed in a blur of feasting and celebration. Earl Robert's court played boisterously, releasing tensions pent up by the winter confinement. Each table was set for twelve people and twelve courses were eaten, beginning with thin broth and dumplings and progressing through various elaborate fish and meat dishes, including the obligatory roast boar. The feast culminated in the presentation of a magnificent marchpane subtlety in the shape of Bristol Keep, the rivers Avonand Frome winding in blue almond paste around the edge of the serving-board.
Each night Oliver and Catrin ate until they could eat no more, then joined the rough and tumble of the games in the hall. Hoodman-blind, hunt-the-slipper, hot-cockles. They danced caroles around the apple wassail tree in the centre of the great room and laughed at the antics of the mummers and jugglers.
Sometimes they would slip away from the carousing — to be alone, to make love. Ethel's home gave them a haven, if she was absent. If not, there were hay lofts and byres to shelter them. They also took to riding out on the snowy roads beyond the city, and once they joined the court in a hunt but did not stay long with the jostle and noise of the dogs and horns. After the exhilaration of the first gallop had worn off, they turned aside for the untrammelled silence of other woodland paths, abandoning the loud belling of the dogs and the tantivy of the hunting horn.
Their breath rose in white puffs on the wintry air as they rode amongst the stark, black trunks. Oliver's cloak was a splash of blue brightness, Catrin's crimson gown and hose as rich as blood against the backdrop of crunching snow. The only signs that others had passed the same way were the tracks of wild animals: the narrow elegance of a fox, the dainty spoor of a lone roe deer.
Catrin and Oliver drew rein on a ridge overlooking the winding grey of the river. Fields stretched away on the other side, punctuated with coppices of hazel and hornbeam. It was a common enough view, but its very tranquillity in the winter cold made it beautiful. Catrin inhaled the crystalline air and sighed with pleasure.
Oliver tugged off his sheepskin mittens, and from the pouch beneath his cloak drew out a smaller drawstring bag. 'Hold out your right hand, he said.
Her eye on the bag, Catrin pulled off one of her own mittens and did as he bade.
'I spoke to a goldsmith a few days ago, he continued. 'A man well-versed in Irish knotwork. Although he was busy and it was the holiday season, I told him of my urgency and he fashioned me this. Into his palm, he tipped a gold ring worked in cunningly twisted gold wire to form the shape of a triple knot. 'I had it blessed by the Earl's chaplain. His tone was diffident. 'It's a betrothal ring, if you please, or a Twelfth-Night gift, if you don't. Taking it in his hand, he slipped it on her middle finger.
Catrin blinked, her eyes suddenly full. The only other rings she possessed were the ones that Lewis had given her on their wedding day, but they were hidden beneath the mitten on her left hand as well Oliver knew. 'It's beautiful, she whispered, touched to her core. 'And it fits perfectly.
