Edon FitzMar saturated her linen kerchief with tears and was so distressed that it fell to Catrin to make her a soothing tisane.

'I cannot believe it, Edon wept, cuddling her small son on her knee. 'I thought that she had just run off.

Not thought but wished, Catrin guessed, and in that endeavour, Edon was the same as everyone else. 'At least she has been found and granted Christian burial, she said, mouthing the platitude with a grimace at her own hypocrisy. Perhaps the not knowing had been kinder than the reality.

'I wish Geoffrey was here. Edon nuzzled the top of her baby's head.

Catrin nodded and thought of Oliver. They heard occasional reports from the Countess's messengers, but the information that filtered through was scant and did not mention the individual names that each woman wanted to hear. Geoffrey FitzMar and Oliver Pascal were minor cogs in the great mill wheels of Earl Robert's army. 'At least you have a keepsake, she said, looking at the infant.

'Who might never see his father again, Edon sniffed, and fresh tears sprang to her eyes. Cursing Edon's sensitivity and her own thoughtless tongue, Catrin urged more of the tisane on the young woman, soothed her with more platitudes and, as soon as it was possible, made her escape. She had a good excuse; Ethel's winter ague had thickened on her chest and she had a fever. Catrin did not like to leave her for too long.

Agatha, the laundress, was sitting with Ethel. Now and then she moistened the old woman's lips with a spoonful of watered wine, but there was little more she could do for her. Ethel hovered on the periphery of consciousness and each breath she drew made deep hollows of effort beneath her rib cage.

'I've sent for the priest, Agatha sniffed, her double chins wobbling. She blotted her eyes on her gown. 'I'm not a healer but I know the signs, poor soul.

Catrin gave the laundress a mute look and, sitting down at Ethel's side, took the old woman's good hand between hers, dismayed at how swiftly her condition had deteriorated. 'Ethel?

The eyelids fluttered and the fingers found a squeeze of life. 'Catrin… Ethel swallowed, the sound a dry rattle.

'I'm here. Save your strength, Agatha has sent for the priest.

Ethel's face contorted. 'Don't need a priest, you know that.

' Yes, but the rest of the world would rather see you shriven.

Ethel made a wheezing sound that might have been a laugh or just a struggle for breath. Then she grasped Catrin's sleeve and strained towards her. 'He will ruin you if you are not careful. She licked her lips. 'I dreamed of a man on a bay horse. He is a danger to you and to Oliver. Take great care. The effort left her panting for breath, her lips blue.

'Lie still, Ethel, don't…

But Ethel struggled against Catrin's restraining words and hands. 'There was water and darkness. You must not go near him!

'I won't, I swear I won't, Catrin said in a frantic attempt to calm Ethel's agitation. The old woman fought to breathe, her chest rattling, her grip like a bird's claw.

The priest arrived at a run and, taking one look at Ethel, set about the task of shriving with unprecedented speed, his Latin gabbled so swiftly that even another priest would have been hard pressed to understand him.

Even as he pronounced 'amen' Ethel slumped against Catrin, the holy oil trickling down her brow and sliding across one withered cheek like a tear.

Catrin held the old woman close, her head bowed against the wasted body, her nostrils filled with odours of incense, horehound and death. Agatha sobbed through her praying hands and the priest murmured softly, the Latin words offering the comfort of ritual.

Catrin heard the sounds but they had no meaning. Relinquishing her hold, she crossed Ethel's arms upon her breast and drew up the coverlet. The body was so hot with fever that it still bore the illusion of life. Ethel might only have been asleep was it not for the stillness of her chest. 'I will do what has to be done, Catrin told the priest, her voice calm and practical.

'I'll help you too, Mistress, Agatha snuffled. 'She were a good friend to me, God bless her soul.

With a wordless nod, Catrin turned away and stepped outside to inhale the respite of the sharp February dusk. Light glimmered on the puddles in the dips of the bailey floor, and breath rose in curlicues of steam from a pen of sheep against one of the walls. Unseen, someone was whistling as they hammered at a task. It was all so ordinary, so unchanged from the morning, but now everything was different, distorted as if seen through thick green window glass.

The evening tranquillity was shattered as a courier rode in at the gallop, his tired horse splashing through the puddles, breaking the light on their surface, before staggering to a halt not far from Ethel's shelter. A groom came running to take the bridle, and Catrin found herself squinting at the animal in the poor light to see if it was the bay from Ethel's vision. Later she was to take herself to task, but at the time grief made sense of her action.

'Victory! the messenger announced to the groom as he flung down from the saddle. 'Lincoln is ours and King Stephen taken prisoner. There was a pitched battle and we broke his army like straws in the wind! Slapping the groom on the shoulder, the messenger ran on towards the keep.

Catrin gazed after him, his words ringing in her head without being absorbed. It was too much, too great a swing of emotion to encompass. All that she could salvage was that, as Ethel had predicted, Oliver would be returning, but the joy was marred.

'Why couldn't you have waited? she said over her shoulder in the direction of Ethel's dwelling, and was so appalled at the anger she felt that she was immediately contrite. 'I didn't mean it, I'm sorry, she whispered, and knew that even in opening her mouth she had told a lie. She did mean it, deny it as she might. 'Tell me how I am to be guided now, she demanded, raising her face to the drizzly evening sky. Tears stung her eyes, brimmed and spilled, and she began to weep.


It was late in the morning when Oliver was fetched from guard duty and brought to the castle's chapel to identify Gawin's body.

'I told him to stay close, but he strayed off into a house on his own and was murdered by a citizen who had stayed to guard his hoard. Randal de Mohun spread his hands in a gesture that absolved himself of all blame.

Oliver chewed the inside of his mouth. In the smallest corner at the back of his mind he had been expecting something like this to happen. He looked at Gawin's lifeless body with sorrow and anger but without disbelief. 'Where did this happen?

'On the hill down from the Minster. The house is a ruin now. A spark from another roof caught the thatch and it went up so fast I only just got out alive. De Mohun showed Oliver a patch of burned, blistered skin on the back of his right hand, and the charred cuff of his tunic. 'Don't look at me like that, I'm not a nursemaid. You should be grateful that I brought his corpse out of the accursed place instead of leaving him to burn!

Oliver stared at Gawin's grey flesh, at the ugly slash in his throat that had bled his life away. 'I am damning your hide for ever taking him with you, he said icily. 'And damning mine for ever allowing him to go.

'Go swive a sheep, Pascal! de Mohun retorted, curling his fists around his belt. 'He was seasoned enough to know the risks!

Oliver looked from Gawin's torn throat to de Mohun's wolf-narrow eyes. 'I wonder if he was.

'Hah, he's dead. There's no point in wondering, unless you want to bleed too. He took a chance, he died, God rest his purblind soul! Turning on his heel, de Mohun stalked out of the chapel without even pausing to light a candle.

Staring in his wake, Oliver silently absolved himself of the debt he owed to Randal de Mohun. He did not think that Gawin's 'purblind' soul was going to rest easy with the end that his mortal body had received.

Chapter 16

The fire was low, just the faintest glimmer of red to lend warmth to the midnight hour. In the dwelling that had been Ethel's, Catrin and Oliver lay entwined, savouring each other's body heat, the presence of living flesh joyfully confirmed in the act of love.

'I feared for you, Catrin admitted, and ran her fingers through the dusting of ruddy-gold hair on his chest. 'Ethel had some very strange visions in her last days. She swore that you were safe but I was afraid to believe her because she told me other things that made no sense.

She felt him shrug. 'You say that she had a fever. Belike she was wandering through her dreams.

'Yes, Catrin said dubiously, but more to agree with him than out of any conviction of her own. 'Yet she did tell me that you would return, and with a crown shining above you, and she was right. When I saw you ride into the bailey, you were part of the guard escorting King Stephen, and because he is a captive, Mathilda will be Queen.

He gave a non-committal grunt. 'I can remember that when I was a child, some of the women would ask her to scry for them, but I always thought that it was nonsense — like her weaving of the knots. I'm sure that she gave good advice, but I think it was wisdom rather than premonition. He angled his head to look at her. 'What else did she see?

'That is the quandary: I do not know. Frowning, Catrin told him about Ethel's warning concerning a bay horse, darkness and water. 'But what she saw, she did not say… could not, for she was dying.

He stroked her arm and was silent for a time. 'More than half the soldiers in Earl Robert's pay ride bay horses — Geoffrey FitzMar for a start. I cannot imagine him being a threat to you.