favour, and he pushed that advantage for all it was worth. With style, with subtlety, with cunning. The wolf was running down the deer.
Catrin watched him set his snares with trepidation and pride. She was uncomfortable at the way he had reinvented her past with a mingling of half-truths and omissions. He told the curious that she had believed him dead and, as a skilled herb-wife, she had sought refuge and employment in Bristol, where her services had been invaluable in tending the King. Hearing a rumour that her husband might still be alive, she had braved the open road to find him. She was courageous, loyal, beautiful and wise. What man would not be blessed with such a wife by his side?
Catrin had not denied the tale, there was no point, but it worried her that the story flowed so plausibly off his tongue. Despite his promise that he had changed, he still used lies and manipulation to gain his ends.
She shied away from the thought that he had lied to her too, for it carried all manner of implications, not least about her own judgement. During the day, she could ignore the small, nagging voice that told her she should have stayed with Oliver and made her life with him, his wife in all but name. But in the darkest hours of the night she was vulnerable, and the voice would wake her from sleep, accusing her of skipping on quicksand instead of choosing firm ground.
She was full of guilt and grief over Oliver. She could not just act as if the year and a half during which she had come to know and love him had never been. But there was no one to whom she could talk about him. The women of the court already had their own friendships. Knowing the gossip of the bower, she would not have trusted them anyway, for all that they crowded around her and asked her advice for this ailment and that. She had never thought she would miss Edon's feather-brained companionship, but she did, terribly.
'Brooding again, Catty? Louis leaned round to look at her. There was an evergreen chaplet set slightly askew on his thick black hair, making him look even more like a faun from the wild wood. He clutched a mead cup in his right hand but, although his breath smelt of the drink, he was only a little merry. He had been mingling with the guests seated at other tables, telling jests, laughing at jests told, making himself popular. She had even watched him juggle five leather balls before the King with expert sleight of hand. It had earned him applause from the royal table and the gift of a fine, silver brooch.
She shook her head and forced a smile. 'Reflecting, she said.
'About what? He leaned closer. His hand crept up beneath her wimple and his cool fingertips lightly stroked the back of her neck.
'About what I'm doing here. A small, sensuous shiver ran down her spine.
He frowned. 'You made the right choice, you know that.
'Yes… yes, I know that. She gnawed her lower lip. 'It is just that I feel as if I don't belong.
'Well, you don't. . He jerked his head at the high table. 'At least not to them. He leaned closer, and her bones melted at the darkness in his voice. 'But you do to me, you've always been mine.
She laughed shakily. 'Are you so sure of that?
His dark eyes flashed a look that said he was supremely confident and she was foolish for even token resistance. 'Gome, he said. Dragging her to her feet, he led her to the large apple wassail tree in the centre of the hall around which guests were dancing to honour the season.
Catrin hung back, but Louis's grip was lean and strong and, with a laugh, he pulled her forward. From the tree's branches he grabbed a chaplet of evergreen like his own and pushed it down upon her wimple, the holly berries glistening like drops of fresh blood.
'Dance, he commanded, and kissed her lips, his tongue flickering lightly round their outline before he withdrew.
And Catrin danced, because Louis was the piper and his dark glamour called the tune.
As the evening progressed, and the wine flowed freely, Catrin's sombre mood lightened beneath Louis's determined onslaught. First she smiled and then she laughed. Enjoyment crept up on her, and suddenly she could almost forget.
Louis led her to join in boisterous games of bee-in-the-middle, hoodman-blind, and hunt-the-slipper. Catrin discovered that she had a knack for the latter which involved passing an item of footwear among a circle of other players and trying to keep the owner, who stood in the middle of the ring, from guessing who was in possession. Once the owner did guess, the loser had to forfeit their own shoe and become the hunter in the middle.
By sleight of hand, an innocent expression, and great good luck, Catrin succeeded in never being caught out. Louis, by far the best dissembler of them all, was finally trapped by the pure guesswork of the flushed wife of a baron whose turn it was in the centre.
With much good-natured rolling of his eyes, Louis got to his feet and stepped to the middle of the ring to take her place. He presented the shoe to its owner with a courtly flourish and a kiss on the hand. The gesture met with jovial banter and cat-calls and the red-faced woman laughed and gave him a hefty push. Grinning, Louis gave an exaggerated stagger, stooped to remove one of his ankle boots and gave it to her. She swept him a mock curtsey, returned to her place amongst the hiders, and the game began again.
Catrin, the merrier now for three cups of wine, could not quite smother her giggle as the man on her right sneaked the boot beneath a fold of her skirt. Louis caught the movement from the corner of his eye and, whirling round, pointed straight at her.
Flushed, laughing, Catrin spread her hands to show that there was nothing in them. Louis, however, was not fooled, and continued to advance. 'Being your husband, I command you to lift your skirts, wife! he declared, hilarity brimming in his eyes. There were loud guffaws at the sally.
Catrin sat a moment longer, hoping that her look of wide innocence would fool him, but he continued to advance. Grabbing the shoe from its hiding place, she sprang to her feet. 'Then you must catch me first, my lord! she cried, and fled from the circle.
To loud laughter and cheers of encouragement, Louis set off in pursuit.
It was impossible to run through Canterbury's packed great hall, but Catrin wove her way determinedly through the crowds and between the trestles. To mark the Christmas season Louis had given her a new gown of strong grass-green that suited her colouring. It also made it easy for him to follow the path she threaded through the other guests.
Catrin glanced behind her and saw Louis shouldering after her, drawing closer. In the pit of her stomach there was a tiny spark of panic, a response to the primitive instinct of being hunted, but that only added to the thrill. Obviously, even hampered by the lack of a shoe, he was going to capture her in the end, but she would make him work hard for his victory.
Round the wassail tree she skipped, then beneath the batons of two jugglers entertaining one of the trestles. Briefly she joined a group of women admiring someone's new lap-dog — a fluffy creature resembling a burst pillow — that had been purchased for an exorbitant sum from an Italian merchant.
Louis lost her for a moment. She saw him over by the jugglers, his eyes travelling rapidly from face to face. She hid amongst the women for a little longer, then rose on tiptoe and, clutching the shoe, waved her arm on high. Louis's gaze met hers through the crowd like a hunter's in the forest. Hot, dark, dangerous. Her loins contracted. She stuck out her tongue, then gave a little gasp of excitement as he started towards her.
She took off again, squeezed past a group of knights who were discussing the merits of Lombard war horses, and scurried behind an embroidered curtain that screened off a twisting stairway. It was difficult climbing the wedge-shaped steps in her full skirts. She had been breathless when she reached the stairs. By the time she gained the next floor, she was gasping, her calves too tight to carry her any further than the arched, stone walkway leading off to the rooms beyond.
She looked at Louis's shoe. He had small feet, not much larger than her own, and she could have worn his footwear without any difficulty — especially these, with their embroidery and green braid lacing. Putting her hand inside the shoe, she inhaled the tang of new leather.
The sound of her own breathing and the rapid thud of her heart concealed the scrape of Louis's footsteps on the stairs. The first she knew of his presence was the moment when he lunged at her from the last step and caught her against the wall.
She barely had time to scream, and that was muffled by the cupped palm he pressed over her lips. 'I've caught you now, he panted against her ear. 'I claim my forfeit.
Catrin was unable to speak, but she poked out her tongue and licked the salty skin of his palm. The wine sang in her blood, and the wiry strength of him was delicious. Her arms went around his neck and she rubbed
