'Why?

'Because I want to return even before I have gone, and I do not know how long I will be away this time. He rubbed his neck. 'This damned, gory war creeps on and on like a leper dragging his useless limbs. The Londoners hate Mathilda. I do not blame them after the manner in which she dealt with them; she does not know the meaning of diplomacy. Every foothold gained is slippery and only made with the most arduous toil. I begin to think that Earl Robert is not losing his hair from age and wisdom, but from tearing it out in clumps at his sister's folly! He shook his head and gave her a hopeless look. 'But I am locked to her cause. What else can I do?

To which Catrin did not have an answer. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck and laid her cheek against his. 'Whatever you think now, it cannot last for ever. My talk of marriage was intended to cheer you and instead I have set you to brooding.

'Nay. Without you, and the thought of you, I would have gone mad long before now. They kissed and clung for a moment, but the dawn was brightening outside, and it was with reluctance that they broke apart. 'You will be Lady Pascal — a titled woman without lands, he tried to jest.

Catrin smiled and gave a little shrug. 'I can live without them. More easily than Oliver she thought, with a shrewd look at her betrothed through her lashes. 'But I know how much it irks you that a stranger sits in your hall and milks your estates.

Rising from their bed, he donned his quilted gambeson and reached for his hauberk. 'Ashbury would not have been mine if my brother had lived, I freely admit it, but now he is dead the inheritance has fallen to me.

'But surely Ashbury is only yours by right of Conquest in the first place? Catrin ventured. 'Did not your grandfather or great-grandfather come to England with the Conqueror?

'No. He shook his head. 'My great-grandfather's name was Osmund, son of Leofric, and my family has held Ashbury time out of mind. He swore allegiance to the Conqueror and married a Norman noblewoman, Nichola de Pascal. Then, because all things French were in fashion, and he wanted to live, he changed his name to his wife's and christened his sons with Norman names. My colouring is true Saxon. He tugged at a lock of his pale blond hair. 'Ashbury is mine by right of generations.

'Why haven't you told me before? Catrin eyed him curiously.

He shrugged. 'No reason why I should. It is not something that my family has ever bandied abroad. We are proud, but within ourselves. His upper lip curled wryly. 'Or should I say within myself, since I am the only Pascal — the only Osmundsson — remaining.

Catrin nodded thoughtfully. The pride was kept hidden because it went hand-in-glove with shame. Three generations after the Conquest, the nobility was dominated by men of French-speaking Norman extraction. It was true that their offspring were suckled by English wet nurses, and that their sons and daughters grew up speaking both tongues, but French was the language of the court and it was considered vulgar to admit to any great knowledge of English. Saxons were peasants and traders, occasionally merchants. Any who displayed overt signs of wealth were treated with suspicion and frequently harassed. For a man of rank to admit to Saxon heritage in public would be like throwing down a challenge to his peers. Older blood. A stronger claim, based on heredity not robbery.

She kept her perceptions to herself. To have spoken them aloud would have been cruel. Oliver must have them too. There was no need for words.

'Then our children will be true mongrels, she said instead with a smile. 'Welsh and Breton from me, English and Norman from you.

Chapter 17

September, 1141

In the hazy light of a late summer morning, a young man groomed his horse, vigorously working the curry comb until the stallion's dark bay hide gleamed like peat water. He was stripped to the waist and well aware of the admiring glances cast in his direction by two young washerwomen, who had lingered on their way from the stream to watch him. Being accustomed to such feminine scrutiny, he played them on his line, pretending that he had not noticed them and working his arm to show his taut musculature to its best advantage.

His black, shoulder-length hair framed classical features that were preserved from effeminacy by an angular jaw and a scar high on one cheekbone. He had the dark, narrow eyes and sinuous grace of a marten, and his ready smile had opened more doors and charmed him beneath more skirts than he could remember.

He heard the women giggle and exchange loud whispers as they sought to draw his attention. Turning from the horse, he stooped to pick up his shirt and, still pretending ignorance, faced them. He knew full well that their eyes would go straight to the thin line of black pubic hair fuzzing above the drawstring of his braies, and the bulge on one side that spoke of a man well-endowed.

More gasps and giggles. He drew his shirt slowly over his head and knew that they were holding their breath, waiting for his braies to fall down or his penis to pop out of the top. The game was his; he was in control, and the women, although they fed his conceit, were of no importance. Indeed, women were only of importance when they were unavailable, and such a situation was rare.

He pulled the shirt down and tucked it inside his braies, making sure that he handled himself in front of the women, giving them a hint of what they were missing. Then, tired of the game, he donned his tunic and gambeson and led the horse down to the stream.

To his lord, William d'Ypres, Master of Kent, he was Louis de Grosmont, the grandson of a Norman border nobleman. To his men, he was Louis le Loup — the wolf — a name they liked because it rolled easily off the tongue and well-described their leader's hungry nature. They sometimes called him Louis le Colp too, in honour of the size of his manhood and his propensity for thrusting it into every sheath that came his way. Only Ewan, who had been with him in the early days, remembered him as Lewis, son of Ogier, common soldier in the Chepstow garrison and grandson of a groom; but since Ewan's identity and reputation had risen and changed as much, those days were seldom recalled. Louis had the instinct of being in the right place at the right time, a trait that had served him well during the past four years. William d'Ypres, captain of Stephen's mercenaries, had employed him among his household knights and bestowed upon him many a favour, including the costly dark bay stallion ruffling the stream with his muzzle.

Louis cupped the cold running water in his palm and splashed his face. He let the bay drink, but not too much, and returned to his horse-line to finish arming up. The laundry women had moved on, and Ewan was supervising the striking of camp. He was a small, dour Welshman; sallow of complexion, dark of eye, and horribly, and incongruously, bright red of hair.

'Ready, my lord, he said, as Louis jumped up and down to help his mail tunic slink over his body and then donned his helm. 'We'll be dining in Winchester tonight, eh?

'We might, Louis said, and adjusted his swordbelt of decorated buckskin with its pattern on interlaced gilding. Everything about him spoke of wealth and exquisite taste. The best or nothing was Louis's philosophy on life. Why eat bread and be virtuous when there were delicacies and decadence to be had for the grabbing?

Those delicacies had been few since the battle of Lincoln, but his instinct had advised him to stay where he was. The tide which had turned in the Empress's favour had not swept everything before it and perhaps even now was changing. Which was why they were here in Winchester with the army of Stephen's queen. Robert of Gloucester and the Empress were hemmed within the city where they in turn were besieging Stephen's brother, Bishop Henry, in his palace. The cat stalked the mouse and the dog stalked the cat.

'Ever think about changing allegiance now that King Stephen's in prison?

Lips pursed, Louis swung into his saddle. The Welshman's suggestion ran parallel with his thoughts, for he had been assessing the odds and trying to decide whether to stay or make himself scarce. How hard was the battle for Winchester going to be? And who would be the victor? The question begged consideration. 'What man in his senses would not think? he said with a shrug. 'But there is small point in being too hasty. Wait and see how fortunes fare.

Ewan nodded and a sly grin broke across his face. 'Last time you had to die before you could begin afresh. *

Louis grunted and said nothing, but his mind flickered briefly to the time four years ago on the banks of the Monnow where Padarn ap Madoc had accused him of lying with his young wife and challenged him to combat. Louis had no desire to fight, but a very strong desire to survive. Padarn had died from a single knife wound in the chest and Louis had found it prudent to disappear, leaving evidence to suggest that he had drowned — the Welsh being notorious for their vigour in pursuing blood feuds. It was not a conscious decision, more an effort to put distance between himself and Chepstow, which had brought him to Kent — from west to east. Along the way, he had been adopted by Ewan, himself a fugitive from Welsh law and a Chepstow man into the bargain. They knew each other; they had things in common and things to hide.

Neither of them ever thought of returning to their native haunts. It was too dangerous. Ewan was of a nomad nature and Louis had a desire to be cock of a larger dunghill than the one awaiting him at home. His wings had been clipped by the monotony of garrison duty and the boredom of domestic routine with a wife who, although delightful, had no special tether to hold him, and who on occasion could be a nuisance with her demands on his affection and fidelity.