The man who rose from his high-backed chair and approached them was a little above average height, his stocky build emphasised by his costly tunic of embroidered maroon wool. He had receding dark hair and pleasant, plain features. Had he been wearing ordinary clothes, no one would have given him a second look, but he was King Henry's first-born son, the man whom many said should have been king at his father's death despite the stigma of his illegitimacy. He had rejected the crown in support of his wedlock-born sister, Mathilda, and was now her staunchest supporter against Stephen of Blois, the man who had stolen her kingdom.

Catrin curtseyed and almost fell. Regaining her balance, she locked her knees. At her side Oliver bowed, and Richard copied his example, dipping quickly like a bird at a pond.

The Earl glanced between them with eyes deep set and shrewd. 'Best be seated before you fall down, he said to Catrin, and gestured to one of the carved benches which was strewn with beautifully embroidered cushions. 'Sander, bring wine. He summoned a squire who had been standing unobtrusively in a corner.

Catrin was furnished with a brimming cup in which the wine was the colour of blood. Its taste was rich and metallic and her stomach recoiled. She knew that if she drank more than a sip, she would be sick.

'Do I understand that Penfoss has been destroyed? demanded the Earl.

'Yes, my lord, said Oliver. 'Looted and burned. Myself and Gawin de Brionne came upon the aftermath on our way to the Severn ferry. Lady Catrin and Master Richard are the only survivors.

While Oliver relayed the close details of the happening in a voice succinct and devoid of emotion, Catrin stared at the wall, trying to immerse herself in the painted scene of two young women playing ball in a garden. One girl's gown was a vivid shade of blue and her hair was a loose tumble of gold that reminded Catrin of Amice. Her companion wore daffodil-yellow and her hair was black.

'You have no idea who did the deed? Earl Robert leaned forward, cutting off Catrin's contemplation. 'No one who wished your mistress or master ill?

'No, my lord. I am not aware that they had enemies. I recognised none of the soldiers. Some wore mail, others were clad in little more than rags, but they were enough to overrun us. They took what they wanted and torched the rest. In her own ears, her voice sounded as dispassionate as Oliver's, but that was not how she felt inside. Deep down, too far to be dug out, there was hurt and fury. She could have struck out at Robert de Caen just for asking the question, just for being a man, safe in his opulent chambers, guarded and served by men little different from the wolves who had destroyed Penfoss.

'Would you recognise any of them if you saw them again?

Catrin rubbed her forehead wearily. 'The reason I survived is that I saw the raid from the trees outside the compound. They were of a kind… it is hard to remember. Their leader, if you can call him that, rode a chestnut horse with four white legs and a white face.

'Was there a device on his shield?

Catrin shook her head. She did not want to draw her mind close to the horror. 'It was green, I think.

'With a red cross, Richard added, and outlined the shape on the palm of his hand. 'And his saddle-cloth was made of black and white cowhide.

Robert of Gloucester sighed. 'Lawless bands are multiplying like flies in a dungheap. Even in my own heartlands I constantly hear of atrocities like this. It is too easy for them. They raid, then slip across the border into Wales, or into another territory where my writ does not run. Three times in the last month I've had farms burned by Stephen's mercenaries raiding out from Malmesbury.

The war had made it too easy for them, Catrin thought. In King Henry's day, there had been peace, with few outlaws and the King's writ both feared and respected. Now, it was every man to his own gain, and devil take the hindmost. 'So you have small hope of capturing them? she asked.

'I will do what I can — increase patrols and alert all my vassals and tenants. Like as not they're Malmesbury men. He tightened his fists, and his gold rings gleamed. 'They will be brought to justice, I swear it.

Well, that was true if he was referring to judgement-day. 'Thank you, my lord. Once more she stared beyond him at the mural of the women in the garden. Oliver glanced at it too, but his gaze did not linger and he turned his shoulder so that the wall painting was not in his direct line of vision.

'I have brought Lady Amice here to Bristol in the hope that she might lie in the chapel and be vouchsafed a grave here, he said. 'It was her dying request that you grant refuge to her son, and to her companion, Mistress Catrin of Chepstow.

The Earl rose from his chair to pace the chamber. At the window embrasure he stopped and looked out over the narrow glimpse of the river Frome and the lush green cow pasture beyond. Then he turned round. 'Dying requests should not be ignored. There was a slight frown between his eyes, deepening the lines of habit. He paced back across the room and, halting in front of Richard, tilted the boy's chin towards the light. 'Do you know who your father was?

'Yes, sir, King Henry.

'Then you must also know that I am your kin, your half-brother. He gave a slight grimace as he spoke. The age difference of forty years was a telling reminder that their father's carnal weakness had not diminished with the passage of time.

Once more Richard nodded. 'Mama said I should remember that I was a king's son because I might have need of it one day.

Robert looked vaguely surprised. 'I never thought her capable of looking further than the next summer's day, he murmured, more than half to himself.

'She did the best by her lights for Richard. Catrin spoke up in her dead mistress's defence, as again she heard undertones of judgement in a masculine voice.

'The best by her lights, Robert repeated, looking at her and stroking his dark beard. 'Then I suppose it behoves me to do the best by mine. Let her be laid out in the chapel and the proper rituals observed. He gestured with an open hand. 'I will provide both you and the boy with a place in my household. Sander, go and find out if the Countess has returned from the town.

The squire bowed and left.

Catrin murmured dutiful thanks. Just now she cared not where her place was, only that it was quiet and dark and solitary. A prison cell would have been ideal, she thought wryly. A sidelong glance showed her that Oliver had drunk his wine to the lees. When the Earl turned to pace the room again, she tugged the cup from his hand and quickly replaced it with her own full one. After the first moment of resistance and a blink of surprise, Oliver let her have her way.

The Earl paused beside a gaming board and shuffled the agate pieces at random. 'Pascal, I want you to head the burial escort to Penfoss.

Oliver took a deep gulp from the second cup of wine. 'When, my lord?

'On the morrow. Take Father Kenric and as many foot-soldiers and Serjeants as you deem necessary. Report back to me as soon as you return. He waved his hand in dismissal.

'Yes, my lord. Oliver swallowed down the rest of his wine and started towards the door, but before reaching it swung round to Catrin and Richard. 'I'll come and plague you with my presence, he said, ruffling Richard's dark hair. 'I told you, I keep my promises.

The boy gave him an enigmatic look and the smallest of nods that said he was not prepared to trust beyond the day.

Catrin produced a wan smile, the merest stretching of her lips. 'Thank you for what you have done.

'I doubt it is enough, he answered heavily. 'Let me know if you are in need and I will do what I can.

She nodded, her smile warming.

As Earl Robert raised his head and stared, Oliver bowed and left the room.

A clear summer dusk had fallen by the time Oliver emerged from the keep. Grey-winged gulls clamoured in the skies over the Frome and the Avon, escorting fishing craft to their moorings. Others plundered the midden heaps and gutters, arguing raucously over the scraps.

Oliver breathed deeply of the evening air, uncaring that some of the scents were less than delightful. He would far rather the aroma of fish guts, smoke, and boiling mutton fat from the soap-makers' establishments, than the more civilised atmosphere of Earl Robert's private solar. It was not the Earl to whom he objected, he would never have given his oath of loyalty if he had; it was the room, and that mural of the two women in the garden. Although stylised in the court fashion, it had been painted from life more than ten years ago when Amice and Emma had dwelt here. The painter had been taken with their dissimilar beauty — Amice statuesque, golden-haired and blue-eyed, Emma fey and dark — and had used them as his models for that particular scene.

Oliver had visited the Earl's solar on several occasions since swearing him allegiance. He tried not to look at the mural, but it always taunted the corner of his eye and made everything else seem insignificant.

As the dusk deepened, Oliver supervised the conveyance of Amice's body to Earl Robert's chapel, and there saw it laid out decently before the altar, but he did not linger. He had sat in vigil the previous night and said his private prayers and farewells. Others would pray over her now and give her a fitting burial. Two girls in a garden and both now dead, one in childbirth, one in miscarriage. But their images still danced unchanged on Earl Robert's wall.

His thoughts strayed to the other young woman he had left in that room. Like Emma she was dark of feature, although not so fey of build or sweet-natured. He knew that she must still be suffering from a severe headache. Such maladies did not just disappear, and he admired the way that she had pushed her will through the pain. A vision of the red stockings filled his mind, and of the set of her jaw as she tugged the eel basket out of his hand. Without being aware, he started to smile, the grin deepening as he remembered how she had exchanged their goblets and made him drink both measures of wine. It burned in his blood now, making him a little giddy, for he had not eaten since a hasty noonday meal of stale oatcakes.