Elizabeth Chadwick - The Love Knot

'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.

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.

Oliver grinned. 'Well, I confess to measuring your finger with a piece of string while you slept.

Catrin sniffed and turned her head to wipe her tears. The new gold shone in the winter sunlight. 'I can give you nothing so perfect in return, she said, her throat tight with emotion.

'You've already given me more than perfection, Oliver said. 'My pleasure is in your promise to be my wife. He leaned across his horse to kiss her. Their lips met, tingling with cold, and their breath mingled in a single cloud.

Her step so light that they scarcely heard her, a doe pattered through the trees and leaped past them on to the crown of the ridge. Her thick, winter coat was shot with glorious hues of red and gold. Beneath the thick pelt, her flanks heaved with effort. The noise of hounds in full cry belled the air and there was terror in the doe's huge brown eyes.

Catrin gasped and broke from Oliver to gaze at the deer. She loved the rich flavour of venison but, watching the animal flee for its life, she found herself willing it to escape.

The doe poised on the ridge, cloven hooves dancing, ears flickering, then she gathered her haunches and took off in a series of enormous bounds, her legs showering spangles of snow with each leap. At the foot she did not stop but sprang straight into the grey water and began swimming strongly.

Catrin clenched her fist upon her new ring and silently urged the doe on. Ripples arrowing her breast, head carried high, the deer reached the opposite bank, scrambled from the river, and shook the water from her coat. Then she was away, fleeting across the fields towards the bank of woodland in the distance.

'She's free. Oliver's taut expression relaxed and there was a sudden cloud of vapour as he let out the breath he had been holding. 'The hunters will never chance the hounds, or themselves, in that freezing water. He too was fond of venison, but today his soul was with the deer, not her flesh.

As the huntsmen and dogs swirled around them, then ranged the top of the ridge in frustration, Oliver and Catrin turned for home in the pleasure of their own company.

The only item that marred the joy of the season was the continuing absence of Rohese de Bayvel, who had not been seen since the early hours of Christmas morning. A search had proved fruitless. She had left her gowns and all her personal effects, even the double-thickness cloak that had been a Christmas gift from the Countess. The guards on duty had seen nothing. It was as if she had been swallowed off the face of the earth in a single gulp.