She leaned over the wooden latrine board and retched agonisingly down the fetid hole. It was the third morning in a row that she had been sick and her flux was almost a month late.
Amfrid, her maid, presented her with a damp, lavender-scented cloth, and Catrin wiped her face. Her stomach quivered and gingerly settled. Although she knew that women suffered from sickness in the early months of pregnancy, although she knew the herbs and simples that helped to ease the discomfort, she had not been prepared for the overwhelming attacks of nausea and the permanent exhaustion.
Pressing her face into the cloth, she walked back into the bedchamber. The walls were hung with Flemish tapestries in shades so deep and opulent that they put her in mind of Earl Robert's solar at Bristol. There was a silk coverlet on the bed. Apparently it had come from the plundering of Winchester following Earl Robert's capture. There was a singe-mark along one edge where a piece of burning thatch had dropped on it as it was snatched to safety by Louis's acquisitive hands. The flagon had come from Winchester too. It was fashioned of silver, with amethysts encircling its base. Catrin hated it, and the coverlet too. They were gains made from someone else's disaster, or even death.
'Spoils of war, Louis called them with a shrug and a smile, unable to comprehend her distaste.
His plunder had included some silver too, and he had spent it profligately. Not only was there glass in the windows but, for the first time in her life, Catrin was able to see her own reflection in a Saracen mirror of polished steel. Louis had not told her the cost, but Catrin knew that it must have been expensive beyond all dreaming. Not even Countess Mabile possessed such in her private chamber.
She was learning to be blind again; she was learning not to ask for fear of discovery. Staring at herself, she saw a trapped creature, hollow-cheeked and gaunt-eyed.
'I was much happier when I had nothing, she murmured.
'My lady?
Catrin shook her head at Amfrid, threw back the slippery silk coverlet and sat down on the linen bed sheet. She glanced at the bolster which still bore the imprint of Louis's head. Oh yes, there were still moments when he set her world alight, but so often it was here, in the bed. He would cajole, he would make her laugh, he would melt her, but it was all a part of the learning and the forgetting. All her worries were answered with kisses, with playful dismissal, with silence. If she persisted, she was punished with petulance and slammed doors.
Amfrid brought her a gown of blue wool, embroidered with golden lozenges. Catrin looked at it, sighed, and tugged it over her head. Donning her wimple and ignoring the hated mirror, she crossed the room and freed the window catch. Cold spring air blew into her face and filled her lungs. The sky was a tumultuous chase of streaky grey-and-white cloud.
As she gazed out, Louis returned from patrol, his dark bay horse lathered and fretting the bit. She watched the graceful way he dismounted, light even in chain-mail; his rumpled black hair as he removed his helm, the ready smile on his lips. Despite her misgivings, the flame swept through her. He was so lithe, so glowing and handsome. Other women would give their eye-teeth for a husband like hers.
She was about to turn away from the window when Wulfhild, one of the kitchen girls, came walking across the ward. Her hips swung seductively, and on her arm there was a basket of honeycakes. Her hair, blond as new butter, was tied back from her face by a kerchief, but hung loose below it, supposedly in token of her virginity, but everyone knew she had left that behind in a ditch some time ago.
Beneath Catrin's narrowing gaze, Wulfhild approached Louis. She said something to him, and he laughed and snatched one of the honeycakes from her basket. Then he stooped and murmured in her ear. Wulfhild giggled, covering her mouth with the palm of her hand. Then she sauntered on her way, pausing once to look over her shoulder, her expression full of suggestion and promise. Louis grinned from ear to ear and saluted her with his half-eaten honeycake.
Catrin tightened her lips and slammed the window shut. It meant nothing, she told herself. It had always been his way to flirt. But he had promised he had changed, and there had been more than flirtation in Wulfhild's eyes.
Louis was still chewing the last of the honeycake as he entered their chamber. Although panting a little from his run up the stairs, his stride was brisk and there was a gleam in his eye.
'Stirring at last, I see, he said as he unfastened his belt and began to shrug out of his hauberk like a snake shedding its skin. 'I thought when I did not see you in the hall that you had chosen to become a slug-abed for the rest of the day.
She came to help him with the heavy garment. 'I am sure you could find things to keep yourself amused.
He eyed her quizzically and ran his tongue around his mouth to dislodge a fragment of honeycake. 'Such as?
'Such as Wulfhild.
He rolled his eyes. 'Jesu, she's a simple kitchen wench. I cozened a sweetmeat from her in passing. 'Is that all you cozened?
He made an impatient sound. 'Am I to have my every movement watched and judged from that window? I spoke to her, I took a cake from her basket. God's bones, what is the matter with you? Are you going to help me or not?
Catrin compressed her lips and laid hold of the hauberk skirt. 'Your patrol went well? she enquired tightly.
'Well enough, he said, his voice muffled as he stooped over. 'The people never have anything to report. Too busy cowering behind their doors or hiding their best animals from my view, but I saw no signs of trouble. He stood straight, his complexion slightly flushed. 'Besides, Mathilda's party are finished after what happened in Oxford at Christmas — Madam High-and-Mighty forced to flee through the snow in her night-gown… He licked his lips and grinned. 'That would have been a sight worth seeing.
'Apparently no one did, Catrin answered shortly. She did not like Mathilda, but it did not prevent her from giving the woman her due against the mockery she heard in Louis's tone. 'From what I understood, she fled not in her night-gown but in a white robe so that she would seem a part of the landscape — and she succeeded.
'Yes, but Oxford is Stephen's now. She has lost any initiative that she once possessed. It can only be a matter of time. The gold braid on his robe sparkled as he crossed to the window embrasure and poured wine into a goblet. 'Oh, she is to be admired for her fight, but it's futile. She might as well take ship for Anjou and return to that husband of hers. At least he had the good sense not to leave his own shores.
Catrin watched her husband drink the wine and was irritated by his confident posture and the glib contempt in his voice. 'I do not think she will do that, she contradicted with a toss of her head. 'Earl Robert is as good a commander as Stephen, if not better, and each year that she holds her position, her son grows older.
'I doubt she can cling on for another nine years. Louis took a gulp of wine. 'Want some? He held out the cup.
Catrin shook her head and fought a renewed surge of nausea.
'Of course, it will be a pity for her supporters, he remarked, watching her narrowly. 'They will lose their lands, and those already dispossessed will have to find other employment. She won't need an army when she goes back to Anjou.
'You mean Oliver, don't you? Her voice was hard with anger.
He spread his hands. 'I mean them all. In truth, I feel lor their misfortune. He cast a complacent look around his magnificent bedchamber. 'I gambled, Catty, I won.
Her belly churned at the note of self-satisfaction in his voice. He said that he felt for their misfortune, but it was probably pleasure, not compassion. 'Yes, you won, she said, her lip curling with disgust, 'but how long before you have to gamble again, Louis? She swept her hand around the bedchamber, encompassing everything that his look had done. 'How long will you keep this? You bleed the villages dry to support your pleasures. You spent the wool clip before the sheep were even sheared.
He stiffened and his nostrils flared. 'I am the lord of a castle. I have to make a display of my wealth. Anyone would think that you prefer to live in a hovel.
'I did once, and I still do! she flung at him. 'You display wealth that is not yours. You're living a lie, Lewis of Chepstow, a paltry, pathetic lie! The last word ended on a cut-off scream as he strode across the room and struck her across the face.
'Shut your mouth, you shrew! he roared. 'It is a wife's duty to honour and respect her husband, and I see
