Catrin watched all of this from a detached distance. She was aware of Oliver riding beside the wain and peering anxiously inside. She managed to give him a wan smile and, turning on her side, fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

Carlisle was a grey border town with a fine new keep defending the approach to Galloway and standing proud against Cumbria. To honour its king and greet Prince Henry, his nephew, the castle had been decked with horn lanterns and the barbaric splendour of pine pitch torches. A fanfare of trumpets welcomed the arrival of Henry and his entourage and they were escorted into the castle by King David and his knights in the full splendour of court dress. A great feast was set out in the hall with glistening roasts, whole tender sucking pigs, and pies made with chopped venison and spices. Banners and weapons gilded the walls and a fortune in gold plate was laid out upon an embroidered cloth on the high table.

Catrin ignored all the rich, fatty meat. The sight of it made her ravenous and sick at the same time and she knew that if she ate it, she would only purge it back later. While Rosamund gorged herself, her small face shiny with grease, Catrin made do with plain bread and oatcakes, washed down with a little wine. Luckily Oliver had too many duties to spend much time with her, but Catrin knew that eventually he would notice, and if she continued to be ill she no longer had the excuse of a brisk sea crossing.

Fortunately, by the end of the week Catrin was slightly better. Although she was still being sick, especially in the mornings, she could at least eat plain food during the day without vomiting, and she was still managing to conceal her indisposition from Oliver. He was too preoccupied with Henry's intended strike at Stephen's positions in northern England to notice her lethargy and pallor and she did her best not to call it to his attention. She would pile her trencher in the hall, eat some, leave some for the alms basket and slip the rest to the dogs which always lurked under the tables ready to snap up offerings.

To put more colour in her cheeks, she sat close to the hearth, or dabbed her cheeks with the merest hint of red powder. The latter was the resort of older women trying to recapture their youth and younger ones who were advertising their attractions, so she had to be very careful.

She soon came to the conclusion that she need not have bothered, for all the notice that Oliver took. Henry, now a fully fledged knight, was planning to advance to Lancaster to meet Earl Rannulf of Chester, and from there to march upon York, one of the major strongholds of the north country. Henry's designs had to be supported by supplies and Oliver was kept busy from dawn to dusk securing the wherewithal to march an army.

'There are to be no camp followers, he said to Catrin on their last evening in Carlisle. They were lying side by side in the hall, Rosamund cocooned in her cloak beside them. 'Henry intends to move with all haste — and that means with the minimum of baggage. Once we reach Lancaster, you must either stay there or continue to Bristol if you prefer familiar territory.

'You are saying that I cannot go with you? Catrin half-raised her head. In the grainy light cast by the night candle, she could see the pale gleam of his hair and the thin line of his nose.

'Not to York. He slipped his arm around her waist, softening the blow. 'Much as I want you by my side, I would find you and Rosamund a hindrance too. I would be fearing for your safety instead of concentrating on the task at hand.

His fingers moved back and forth at her waist and Catrin sucked in her stomach and wondered if he would notice the thickening there.

'Stay in Carlisle, if you want, he added. 'As soon as he has the victory, Henry will advance his full household.

Catrin folded one of her hands over his and stilled his motion. She felt the curve of his knuckles, the length of bone, the shortness of nail. He had argued for her and

Rosamund to stay in Normandy; now he was preventing them from following him to York. But this time she was more disposed to listen. There would be distance between them, but less than the Narrow Sea, and now that her pregnancy was fact, not speculation, she had the baby's welfare to consider. The fight for York was only the beginning. If Henry was successful, his army would push on to the next city and the next. If Henry lost, then he would have to retreat to one of the loyal strongholds — Carlisle, Bristol, Devizes.

The truly logical step was to remain in Carlisle, but the place did not call to her in the way of home. People had been kind, but there was a reserve in them, a cool buffer which they set up between themselves and what they saw as 'Norman' strangers. If Catrin was going to build a nest, then she wanted to build it in Bristol where there was familiarity and a kinder climate.

'No, she said. 'I will go to Bristol. Although I hate to be parted from you, I can see the sense in what you say.

'Well, there's a miracle, he muttered against her hair. She pinched him and he recoiled with a muffled yelp.

'In Bristol, she said in a firm tone, overriding his sarcasm, 'I know the people and the surroundings. It will be good to see Edon again.

'And you enjoy your gossip.

Catrin used her elbow this time. 'Besides, Henry is bound to bring his army to Bristol sooner or later, although why I should cite that as a reason I do not begin to know. She sniffed at him.

'Of course you do. For the joy and pleasure of having me in your arms. He tightened his hold to prevent her from attacking him again and pressed his lips over hers. Catrin put up a mock fight and then softened her mouth beneath his.

'Don't let it be too long.

'I think you need have no fear on that score, he murmured against her lips.


Catrin arrived in Bristol during the first week of June. The weather was balmy and so saturated with the scent of bursting green growth that it seemed about to split asunder.

Full summer heat had. yet to smother the land and the scents and stenches of the city were merely ripe and evocative rather than overpowering. The same fishwife, more wizened and leathery with the passage of years, offered Catrin and Rosamund a basket of eels using the same words: 'Fresh caught, not an hour old!

Rosamund recoiled, her little face screwing up in disgust as Catrin bought a dozen, a misty smile on her face.

'Mama! There was a wealth of meaning in the single word and the look that Rosamund cast. She was a hearty eater but she had a marked dislike of fish in any form.

'I bought them in memory, Catrin said. 'You don't have to eat them.

'I'm not going to. Her nose still wrinkled, Rosamund turned where she sat pillion on her mother's small brown mare and pointed to the large white building rising among the houses. 'Is that where we're going?

'The castle, yes. With good fortune, you'll be sleeping there tonight. Catrin looked down at the eels writhing in the basket. Her stomach was queasy, but she was not in immediate danger of being sick. She was becoming accustomed to feeling permanently tired and nauseous and, having accepted it as a fact of life, it had less effect on her now. Besides, she was at the end of her third month, and she knew from her experience as a midwife that the sickness would probably abate soon.

It had been a long journey from Lancaster to Bristol. She could have travelled by sea, but even the thought of lurching down the coast on a trading vessel had sent her dashing for the privy. The gentlest way had been on horseback with an escort of two mercenaries and her baggage carried by a pack pony. They had travelled by quiet roads and avoided the major towns unless they were held in Henry's name.

'It's a bit like Rouen, Rosamund said, as they drew closer to the castle. Gulls wheeled over the estuary and the river glittered like a strip of silver braid. Ships' masts forested the skyline. 'Not as big, though.

'No, not as big, Catrin said with a smile. 'But it's home.


Although Catrin had been away for several years, there were

still people at the castle who recognised her and called out greetings as she dismounted in the bailey. There was Alain the blacksmith, whose wife she and Ethel had delivered of their first son. The lad, now a sturdy nine-year-old, stood pumping the bellows at his father's forge while his two little sisters watched. There was Wulfrune, now a charcoal burner's wife, who had sought love philtres from Ethel to capture her husband's heart. Catrin had always suspected that her wheat-blond hair and bright blue eyes had had more of an effect than a mere tincture of rose petals, the main ingredient in Ethel's philtres. And there was Agatha, the laundry maid, who had been Ethel's particular friend and living proof of the efficacy of the hand lotion that Ethel made from purified goose fat and scented herbs.

Almost toothless now, her skin as weathered and shiny as cowhide, Agatha was still a large, robust woman with enormous forearms developed by a lifetime of pummelling linen sheets, bolster cases, shirts and chemises. She threw her arms around Catrin and gave her a ferocious hug that left Catrin gasping and Rosamund recoiling warily lest the same greeting be meted out to her.

'God bless you, lass, where you been a-wandering this time! Agatha demanded in her broad, Bristol accent.

'I've been in Normandy with Oliver, mostly in a town called Rouen. It's a port, a bit like Bristol.

'You're still with him then. Agatha set her hands on her hips. 'That's good, she nodded. 'You should never have gone off with that other wastrel like you did. Ethel would have told you that, God bless her soul.