'A lord should be seen to live like a lord, not a peasant, he said, when she questioned the advisability of extending the stable block, rebuilding the kitchens, and totally renovating the private quarters. 'I'll have craftsmen put glass in the upper windows and…

'Glass! Catrin cried in horror. 'Do you know how much that would cost? Where would you find the coin?

'There are ways and means, he said with a vague wave of his hand and looked at her narrowly. 'You always were the one to measure out each half and quarter penny.

'And you always spent what you never had, Catrin said waspishly.

He frowned, then, with an obvious effort, shrugged off his irritation and laid his hand over hers. 'I don't want to quarrel with you, not on our first night together here. Don't spoil it, Catty. His look became pleading, with just a hint of long-suffering to make her feel as if she was a killjoy and a shrew.

If not the first night, then when? Catrin wondered with a glimmer of foreboding. As long as she held her tongue and gambled along with him, arguments were unlikely. But if she chose the wider, safer path, instead of dancing on the precipice, they were bound to quarrel — as they had quarrelled before.

'Catty? he cajoled and peered round into her face. His expression was suddenly mischievous and he squeezed her thigh beneath the table. 'Wouldn't you like glass in the bedchamber?

Despite her better instincts, she was forced to smile. He had a way with him that was impossible to resist. She had heard a tale about stoats charming birds from the trees into their jaws, and she thought that Louis was a little like that.

'Whether I like it or not, we couldn't afford it, she said, but her tone was lighter now.

'We couldn't not afford it, he grinned, and toasted her in the keep's wine with his free hand. 'Who wants to be cold at night?


Henry FitzEmpress, heir to his mother's disputed kingdom, adjusted to the rolling deck of the ship like a sailor born, his legs planted wide for balance as he watched the haze of England's coastline sharpening on the horizon. He was nine years old, small for his age, but stocky, with a shock of bright red hair and light, glass-grey eyes. Those old enough to remember his great-grandfather, the Conqueror, said there was a family resemblance. All Oliver knew was that the child never sat still. In fact, he never sat at all. Questions poured out of him, one after the other like water out of a leaky spigot, and most of them were unanswerable. For a child of nine, his intellect was so sharp that those around him almost bled trying to keep it fed.

Oliver viewed the approaching land with impatience. They were heading for the port of Wareham. It belonged to Earl Robert, but had been seized by Stephen's troops, the reason why they came in a convoy of fifty-two warships with three hundred knights on board. He was ready to fight. Every one of Stephen's soldiers would wear the face of Louis de Grosmont and Oliver would yield no quarter.

He had travelled to Normandy as part of Earl Robert's deputation, to plead with Mathilda's husband, Geoffrey of Anjou, to come to England and lend his aid to their cause. Geoffrey had replied that he was too busy fighting his war in Normandy, but that his 'beloved wife', the words spoken with a sarcastic eyebrow, could have the custody of their eldest son and heir designate to prop up her ailing cause.

During Robert's absence in Normandy, Stephen had recovered from his illness. Taking the initiative, he had seized Wareham and marched upon the Empress at Oxford where he was now besieging her. After a lull of almost a year, the horns were locked again.

'I can speak English, Henry announced proudly. 'Henry ist mon noma. He beamed at Oliver who was unfastening the heavy roll made by his gambeson and mail shirt. 'Do you know what that means?

'Gea, Ic cnawen, min lytel aethling. Oliver ist mon, Oliver replied, and was gratified to see the grey eyes widen and echo the open mouth. Prince Henry lost for words was a sight worth seeing.

'Do all my Uncle Robert's knights speak English? There was suitable respect in Henry's voice.

Oliver kept the smile inside his mouth and answered gravely. 'Most speak a little, like you. Not many of us are fluent.

'Then how did you learn?

'My great-grandfather was English and kept his lands after Hastings. Gazing past the child, Oliver judged the distance to landfall. He had no particular fear of ships or water, but it was a fool who put on mail armour in mid-crossing. They were closing on the land now though. He could see the thatch of the houses through the haze, and the spume breaking on the shoreline. All around him, other men were quietly donning their mail and checking their weapons.

Henry watched him. 'But you've got a Norman name, he said stubbornly.

Oliver smiled through gritted teeth as he donned his gam-beson and sought out the opening in the steel shirt. 'I'm a mongrel, like you, sire.

Once more, Henry was taken aback. 'I'm not. .'he started to say, then fell silent and looked thoughtful.

'Part English, part Angevin, part Norman. Oliver began struggling into the hauberk. Absently, Henry moved to help him, tugging the mail shirt down over Oliver's gambeson with squat, competent fingers.

'Then I'm fit to rule all Saxons, all Normans and all Angevins, he said, his childish treble quite at odds with the intensity of his expression.

And instead of the freckled face of a troublesome nine-year-old boy, Oliver saw the countenance of a future king.


Earl Robert had been both worrying and hoping that Stephen would abandon the siege at Oxford and come tearing south to relieve his garrison at Wareham. It would mean a tougher fight for Robert, but it would save Mathilda from danger. Stephen, however, resisted temptation and clung like a leech to Oxford, abandoning Wareham to its fate.

Oliver's vessel took no part in the storming of the harbour, for its cargo was too precious. Leaning against the shields that lined the wash-strake, Oliver and the young prince watched the other vessels ram-in amongst Wareham's outnumbered fleet. Grapnels and spears hissed through the air, striking wood, ripping through sails and tearing flesh. The shouts of men and the clash of weapons floated clearly across the water to the prince's vessel and the four others protecting it.

The boy drank in the sight and sound of battle, his nostrils quivering and his eyes as huge as moons but as much with curiosity as fear. 'Uncle Robert will win, he said confidently.

'He's not as good a commander as my father, but he's much better than theirs.

Oliver clenched his fists on the rawhide rim of a shield and longed to be involved in the battle. He wanted to become part of its welling dark core, to strike and strike, until he found oblivion.

Henry leaned over the side of the ship. 'What's "death to our enemy" in English, Oliver?

Oliver looked at the livid marks the shield rim had imprinted on his palm. 'Deoth til urum feondum, he said, with intensity but no enthusiasm.

Henry cupped his hands and bellowed the words across the water. Very few members of the attacking force spoke English, but Henry yelled the command just the same.

Oliver watched him and wished for just a spark of that innocent vivacity. He supposed that to possess it, you had to be nine years old and supremely confident of your position in the world, items which had been missing from his own baggage for longer than he could remember.


Once Earl Robert's forces had claimed the harbour, Oliver's waiting was over. Shield on his left arm, sword in his right, he was one of the first ashore and into the town. The inhabitants cowered behind their bolted doors as the battle for control of Wareham raged through the streets towards the castle.

Oliver was a man possessed, all the pent-up rage and bitterness of the past few months flooding out upon the blade of his sword. Geoffrey FitzMar tried to stay with him but fell back, defeated by Oliver's sheer ferocity.

'Christ, man, do you want to die? he roared, avoiding the swing of a mace and ducking behind his shield.

'Why not? Oliver spared breath to respond and, slashing his own opponent out of the way, surged forward.

He might have received his wish and been sent to eternity on the thrust of an enemy spear had not an almost spent arrow struck him in the leg below his hauberk and downed him with a yell of surprise at the startled spearman's feet.

Cursing, Geoffrey sprinted and leaped to stand over Oliver, dicing with death himself as the spear thrust and jabbed. On the ground, Oliver seized one of their assailant's legs and toppled him over. More of Earl Robert's vanguard arrived and the unfortunate spear man was spitted on his own point by a Welsh knight.

'God's eyes! Geoffrey sobbed, beside himself as Oliver lurched to his feet, the arrow clean through the fleshy part of his calf. 'Kill yourself if you want, you selfish bastard, but don't expect others to die with you!

'Then go away! Oliver snarled back. 'I didn't ask you to stay and save my life!

'You didn't have to ask, Geoffrey said tersely. 'I'm your friend, for what that counts with you.

'Hah, if you were my friend, you'd have let him finish me.

Geoffrey's jaw made chewing motions while he gained control of himself. 'Not to fulfil your own self-pity, I wouldn't. Your life's worth more than a wanton squandering in this miserable, muddy little port. Geoffrey levered his shoulder beneath Oliver's. 'You can't fight on, he added with grim satisfaction. 'At least that's a blessing in disguise.