He thought of Catrin now, the wide hazel eyes, not quite brown, not quite green. The satin-black hair, the soft lips and the way they could tighten with displeasure or twitch with amusement. He had been fond of her… but not fond enough. Women were like food. They might taste different, but they all served the same purpose. He could get what he wanted from any he chose, without being bound to a single one. He wondered how hard she had grieved for him. It was an interesting thought, but one that intruded on his current need to decide how best to avoid becoming involved in a pitched battle.

'You always were a contrary wench, Catty, he said aloud, making Ewan gaze at him askance. 'Nothing. He shook his head and smiled ruefully. 'A memory from the time before I was dead.


Louis was slender and not particularly tall, but it put him at no disadvantage when matched with other men for he was also wiry, fast and cunning. Such traits in mind, William d'Ypres bade him take his men out of line and ride reconnaissance along the Stockbridge road to the west of the city, to keep watch for valuable escapees, chief amongst them the Empress herself. To reach Andover, she would have to ride that way and negotiate the wooden bridge lying across the river Teste.

'There will be rich rewards for such a capture, said d'Ypres, a cynical smile curving beneath his moustache, for while he valued Louis de Grosmont and recognised his talents, he also recognised the young man's acquisitiveness and knew his limitations. Louis was a hellion with a sword — but only to save his life or amass greater wealth.

Louis returned the smile in the same vein, showing that he understood perfectly, and saluted. 'Not so much as a mouse will cross our path unnoticed, my lord. He swung the bay out of line, his arm sweeping in a gesture that summoned his men from the main body of troops. D'Ypres spared time to briefly raise his eyebrows before directing soldiers to cover the other main roads out of the city.

Smiling to himself, Louis set spurs to his mount's flanks. The task suited him well. He would nail his gaze to the road and stop anyone of substance riding along it, even if it involved a fight. But, if the assault on Winchester was unsuccessful and their own army was forced to flee, Louis had no intention of remaining at his post. At the first sign of disaster he would run and, if necessary, find an excuse for it later.

'Christ on the Cross! Oliver wasted breath to swear, and parried a blow with the blade of his sword. He had lost his shield, but so too had his opponent, a frightened, but determined, young Fleming. The chaos of battle clashed around them. Earl Robert's knights were fighting a desperate rearguard action, bearing the brunt of the assault so that the Empress could flee to safety with her guard.

Oliver knew that they were buying time dearly; that they too should be running while they still had a chance. They were the only ones left. David of Scotland had fled, and Miles of Gloucester had seen his soldiers melt like butter beneath the hot stab of a Flemish knife.

Oliver aimed another cut at the youngster, a backhand blow at the right collarbone. Break that and the sword arm was disabled. The Fleming had expected the blow to come forehand to the left side, and the full power of Oliver's arm caught him square. He screamed. His guard fell and the sword dropped from his fingers. Oliver whirled Hero and spurred him back several yards to join Geoffrey FitzMar in the circle of knights protecting Earl Robert. There was no question of holding their position for long. They were too greatly outnumbered by men thirsting to avenge the battle of Lincoln and hot with indignation that King Stephen should be held in chains like a common felon.

Fighting, running, fighting, the Flemish mercenaries of

William d'Ypres nipping at their heels, Earl Robert and the remnants of his household knights retreated up the road towards the ford of the river Teste at Stockbridge. They were hoping against hope that it was either unguarded or so lightly manned that they could force their way across.

'I begin to wonder why I never took up life as a hermit! Geoffrey gasped, as a crossbow quarrel whined past his helm.

'You wanted a life of lust and adventure! Oliver replied, and spurred his flagging grey. Behind him, footsoldiers were discarding their armour the faster to run, and all thoughts of saving the baggage wains had long since been abandoned.

'I renounce it gladly. Go on, you nag! Geoffrey struck his horse on the rump with the flat of his sword and the animal grunted and strained, foam flying from the bit. 'He's not going to last another mile. I… Sweet Christ! He swept the bay to a standstill and stared in dismay at the road before them.

Oliver slewed to a halt. Their way was blocked by a troop of soldiers, their horses fresh, their armour and weapons fired by the golden September light. They had formed up for a charge, stirrup-to-stirrup, lances couched. 'It will take more than "Sweet Christ" to save us now, Oliver panted, and braced his aching forearm. 'We are caught like grain between two millstones. With pinpoint clarity, he fixed his gaze on the apparent leader of the new threat. He rode a magnificent dark bay destrier and his equipment was of the best. Here was no rag-tag Fleming but a hand-picked man in charge of other men similarly chosen. Suddenly the option was no longer to escape but to survive.

The young lord on the bay kicked his horse into a trot and approached them alone. He turned his mount side-on as he reached them, controlling the beast with hands that were slender, fine-boned and filled with lean strength. He had a thin, handsome face and eyes so dark that they were almost black. Beneath his gambeson, a tunic of dark crimson flashed, edged with gold embroidery. Not just hand-picked, Oliver thought, but of high nobility too.

'My name is Louis de Grosmont, he shouted in a rich, carrying voice. 'I serve King Stephen and William d'Ypres,

Lord of Kent. My trade is bloodshed, but it is also diplomacy. If you will surrender, I will see that you are honourably treated. If not… He gave a shrug and a half-smile that showed a hint of fine white teeth. 'If not, then I will see you honourably buried. He gestured to the men behind him fretting their mounts.

Oliver heard the clamour of close pursuit and knew that they could not fight their way out, they were trapped like rats in a catcher's wheel. Perhaps they would take a few of the opposition with them when they died, but it would be a gesture as worthless as any in the war.

Earl Robert glanced over his shoulder and, as the chasing soldiers came into view, bowed to the inevitable, if not to the knight confronting him. Reversing the sword in his hand, he gave it hilt-first into the slender grasp of Louis de Grosmont. 'I am Robert de Caen, Earl of Gloucester, he said. 'And I yield to you, but not because of your threat. If you killed me, I doubt you would live to see me "honourably buried".

The young man took the sword and held it to the light, admiring its quality. 'I doubt it too, he said, but there was a gleam in his eyes, and if he had been a cat he would have been licking cream from his whiskers.


Seventy miles away in Bristol, Catrin was in the women's chambers, sewing her wedding gown with Edon to help her. Countess Mabile had given her a bolt of finely woven, mulberry-coloured wool, and a bag full of seed pearls with which to trim the sleeves, throat and hem. Not that her wedding was any closer than it had been four months ago. The Empress's gathering of support was a protracted affair. London remained loyal to Stephen's queen, and now the Bishop of Winchester, whose backing was vital to Mathilda, had grown lukewarm. He was King Stephen's brother and his loyalties blew with the direction of the wind.

Messengers rode in and out of Bristol every day, bringing news to the Countess and to the men whose task it was to keep the Earl's administration running smoothly. Sometimes Oliver would appear with demands for supplies, but it was never for more than a day. There was scarcely even time to speak to each other, let alone consider the matter of a wedding.

'But surely they will all be home soon, Edon said with a sigh in her voice. 'They have been at war all summer long. Geoffrey says that Stephen's supporters will have to accept Mathilda in the end.

Catrin pulled a face, and not just because the seam she was sewing refused to lie straight. 'The bitter end, she said to Edon. 'And they look as if they'll fight until they reach it. She bit off the thread and examined her work with a depressed eye, knowing that she would have to unpick it and start again.

'I don't care, as long as it's soon. There was petulance in Edon's voice. 'At least you see Oliver now and again. I haven't set eyes on Geoffrey the summer long.

Knowing Edon well enough by now to recognise the signs, Catrin put her sewing aside. Making the excuse that she had promised to visit a groom's wife who was heavily pregnant, she left the bower. A storm of tears was the last thing that she needed, for she was liable to join Edon and weep her heart out.

At her dwelling in the bailey she paused to collect the things she needed. Godard had left kindling at the hearth, and the room was heavily scented with the cumulative aroma of smoke and drying herbs. As Catrin drew her satchel on to her shoulder, she was aware of another scent too, elusive, dry; one that had been absent from the house for seven months. The hair rose delicately on the nape of her neck.

'Ethel? she whispered, and stared round. Undisturbed, the jars and bunches of herbs met her eye, but the scent remained in her nostrils and the air around her was suddenly as cold as ice. Her mind formed a picture of Ethel sitting by the hearth in the green mantle that Oliver had given to her at the winter feast. For a moment it was so vivid that she almost believed in its physical reality. Her heart began to thump and her armpits were moist with cold sweat.