When finally she exposed his torso to the air, she sat back with a gasp of horrified pity. There was no torn flesh, no wounds to be stitched, but his entire chest and ribs were covered in purplish-red impact bruises. From the shallowness of his breathing and the way he groaned as she gently laid her hand on him, she could tell that he had sustained broken ribs. Beneath her fingers she felt the swellings of damaged bone. The pattern of the bruising led her to inspect his collar-bone and discover that it too was broken on the shield arm side.

'Regular injury, Godard said, watching her examination. 'If you can disable a man in the shoulder so that he cannot hold his shield, then you can move in closer and do what you like with him.

Catrin winced. It was not a detail that she particularly wanted to know. 'The ribs will need to be bound in swaddling bands for support and a sling will deal with both the shoulder and the arm, she said briskly.

'He is going to live then?

Catrin looked at Oliver. She could not be sure if his closed eyes meant that he was shunning her, or that he was just out of his senses with exhaustion and pain. The latter she thought, but in case he could hear said, 'Yes, I think so, although it is as much a matter of his spirit as his body. The arm wound is the thing that bothers me the most. It will have to be opened and stitched again, and from the damage done I do not know how much use will remain in it.

'I did my best, mistress, Godard said anxiously.

She nodded and found a wan smile. 'I know you did. Like as not you saved his life at the time.

'Is there anything else I can do?

'Pray, she said grimly. 'Pray as you have never done before.

Steeling herself, she set about the task of cutting open and restitching his arm wound. The pain revived the injured man and Godard had to hold him down. Catrin bit her lip and concentrated upon keeping her hand steady while Oliver railed at her and cursed.

'At least he still has the will and the strength to fight, Godard said wryly.

Catrin looked dubiously at the wound she had just re-stitched. Oliver was insensible again and breathing swiftly. 'Then let us pray he keeps it, she murmured. 'You will have to raise him up so that I can bind his ribs. If we do this all at once then we can leave him to rest. She blinked fiercely.

Mistaking her emotion, Godard said brusquely, 'He does not mean the things he says. They are only the ramblings of a man with wound-sickness.

'Oh he means them at the moment, I am sure. Catrin smiled through a new welling of tears. 'If I am weeping, it is for the pain I have to inflict in the name of healing. Come, the sooner done, the sooner finished. She picked up the yards of swaddling band.

Binding Oliver's broken ribs was swiftly accomplished. The closeness, the pungency of his body, the terrible bruising made Catrin feel nauseous and faint. Nursing was easier with a detached mind. Once she had run her hands over his lean, unblemished skin in the act of love, had been as close to him as now, touching with pleasure instead of anxious pity.

'Mistress, are you all right? Godard asked in concern as they gently lowered Oliver back down on to the rope stretcher.

Catrin shook her head. 'No, but I can manage. Raising her head she gave him a fierce stare. 'I would not have anyone else take my place. He is mine now.

Godard nodded gravely and reached to the pouch at his waist. 'He was before, he said. 'You'll be wanting this. He gave her the knot of hair that Ethel had woven in what now seemed like another life.

Catrin took it from him and noticed the charring on one edge.

'It fell in the fire, Godard said with a dismissive shrug. 'My lord was not disposed to keep it, but I thought that one day he would regret its loss, so I took it upon myself to be a guardian.

She rubbed her thumb over the intertwined pattern. 'You see a great deal, don't you?

Godard shrugged again and looked uncomfortable. 'I'm a simple man, mistress. I only see what's in front of my nose.

Catrin flashed him a sad smile. 'That's what I mean. I… She broke off and turned, her words curtailed by the peremptory arrival of a stocky child with flaming red hair and brilliant, pale grey eyes. He wore a somewhat dusty tunic with a torn hem, but the embroidery on it was of gold thread and his cloak clasp was set with gems.

'Where's Oliver, what's happened to him? the boy demanded imperiously. He pushed forward to the side of the stretcher and gazed at the wounded knight.

'He was attacked by mercenaries — sire, Catrin said, adding the last word with the diplomacy of guesswork. This could be none other than the precocious Prince Henry. 'He's sore-wounded, but not unto death.

The boy grunted and put his hands on his hips. They were square with grubby fingernails. Reddish freckles dusted their backs. 'Who are you?

His stare was as sharp and clear as glass, and Catrin could physically feel the vibration of his personality. 'My name is Catrin of Chepstow, sire. I am a healer and Sir Oliver is known to me.

The boy frowned. 'I have heard about you. 'For the good I hope, sire, Catrin smiled, but her eyes were wary.

Henry shrugged as if the remark was of no consequence. Later she was to learn that having been weaned on gossip and rumour, he was largely immune to it, preferring to make up his own mind. 'When will he be well?

'It is hard to tell, sire. The broken bones will take several weeks to mend, but they should not prevent him from being up and around within a few days. He has a difficult injury to his left arm, though, which may take a long time to heal, and he may not retain all the use that he had before.

The boy accepted the information with a nod. The frown remained, creating two deep creases between his brows. 'But he will have recovered enough to leave with me when I go back to my father in Anjou. It was more of a statement, than a question. The clear grey eyes fixed Catrin with a gimlet stare.

On the stretcher, Oliver stirred. 'I will be well enough, sire, he said without opening his eyes, his lips barely moving.

'I told you not to go. Henry stooped over the man. 'I told you that when I am King your lands will be restored.

The ghost of a smile touched Oliver's lips. 'Honour demanded, he murmured.

The boy gave a baffled shrug. 'Honour nearly killed you.

'Better than dishonour, sire.

Henry shook his head and, stepping back, turned to Catrin. 'Look after him well, he said brusquely.

'I fully intend to, sire, she answered, not knowing whether to be amused or irritated by his manner. Ten years old going on four score.

Henry gave her a chin-jutting nod and, as swiftly as he had arrived, swept out.

'Is there no one willing to leave me in peace? Oliver muttered, the words slurring.

'It seems not. Catrin was thankful for Henry's visit. It had given her the breathing space that she needed to compose herself and she was able to reply in a lighter, pragmatic manner. 'Or at least not until you're strong enough to get up and walk away.

To which Oliver said nothing, for he was already asleep.

Chapter 26

Oliver's fever climbed and fell, climbed and fell. He slept for most of the time, his mind and body taking refuge in oblivion. Punctuating the peace of deep sleep there were dreams and waking visions, some beautiful, some terrifying, most of them incomprehensible. His brother came and stood over him and told him that he was a fool. Emma was with him, nodding her head in agreement, the baby in her arms. They gave him no reason for their opinion, seeming to think that he should know.

Simon and Emma went away, although he could still hear the baby wailing. That was strange, because he knew that it had been born dead. There was searing pain and Catrin's voice urging him to drink. He tried to fight her off, but his limbs would not work. The brew she made him swallow was hot and sweet with a bitter aftertaste.

Richard's face loomed over him and the stink of wet dog filled his nostrils.

'He's going to live, isn't he? the boy's voice demanded, an adolescent crack in its tone.

'God willing, of course he is, he heard Catrin reply. 'The more he sleeps, the swifter he will heal. Her hand on his brow was cool. The cuff of her gown was bordered with gold braid. He knew that she was here, but he could not understand why — unless she was part of the dreaming nightmare.

'Is it true that he killed Randal de Mohun?

'Yes. Her hand smoothed and then Oliver felt her rearrange the sheets over him. The gesture was protective, he thought. He wanted to say that it wasn't true; that Randal de Mohun had taken one risk too many and been killed by misfortune on the edge of victory, but his lips and tongue would not obey his will.

'Can he hear me?

'Yes, I think so.

He felt the light pressure of a hand on his shoulder, the one that did not ache. 'I'm glad de Mohun's dead, but I won't be glad if you die too, the boy addressed him directly. 'You have to get well, Oliver. We're leaving for Anjou soon and you promised Henry you'd be well enough.

Oliver heard Catrin's admonitory murmur and would have smiled if he could have made his lips move.

'Well, it's true, he did promise, Richard said. 'And he's never broken one yet.

Was that what was holding him to life, a promise? His reputation for keeping his word when all around broke theirs? How much simpler it would be to turn his back and walk away into the darkness.

'No, he heard Catrin say, and there was a wobble in her voice. 'Only his body, mind and heart in the doing.