'God curse this damned war, the trader muttered, as he backed his old cob up to the cart. 'My father was a cloth merchant in the days of old King Henry. You could travel from one end of the country to the other and know that you were not in danger. I've a son of my own at home — twelve years old. I dare not bring him into the towns for fear of happenings like this.

Catrin lifted Rosamund on to the cart. Her belly felt tight and there was a low ache in the small of her spine. She pushed the sensations to the back of her mind. They might be a warning of the onset of labour, but by her reckoning she was not due for two more weeks at least and her first priority was getting herself and Rosamund to safety.

She clambered up beside Rosamund on to the bales of fabric. The trader sat on the front board and shook the reins. The cob took the weight and the cart rumbled forward on the road. The bumping of the wheels sent a squeezing sensation through Catrin's belly. She put her hand across it and found that her womb was as tight as a drum. The pain niggled in the small of her back. All around there were people running, stumbling, crying out in fear.

Rosamund was stroking one of the fabric bolts as if taking comfort from the slippery feel of silk beneath her small fingers. 'Prince Eustace won't catch us, will he, Mama?

'No, of course not, Catrin said rather too brightly. 'We'll be safe at the castle.

'If they let us in, the trader muttered under his breath.

Reaching the keep, however, was their first problem; every other citizen had had the same idea, and the way was blocked by carts, by people running with armfuls of belongings, by panicking horses and their frantic owners. The trader cursed and laid around with his whip, but to no avail.

Catrin picked up her bundle and beckoned to Rosamund. 'It's quicker to walk. Laboriously, she clambered down off the cart. 'I wish you luck, she said to the trader.

He shook his head grimly. "Tis either my life, or my livelihood. One's no use without the other.

Catrin left him struggling to inch his cart through the tide and joined the smaller flotsam of running people. They were jostled, bumped and buffeted. Rosamund began to cry. The dull ache in the small of Catrin's spine grew sharper and the tightness across her belly became pain. Despite her anxiety, her need to reach the haven of the castle, she had to rest against a house wall to wait out the contraction.

'Mama, what's wrong? Rosamund's voice was high and frightened. 'I don't like it. I don't want Prince Eustace to come and get me! She clutched Catrin's hand and began to wail.

Catrin bit her lip to stifle her gasp of pain. 'It's all right, no one's going to hurt you, she panted when she could speak. 'I won't let anything happen, I promise. She forced herself away from the wall and rejoined the crowd of running townspeople.

As they approached the castle's outer works, another contraction seized her in its grip and brought her up short with a bitten-off cry.

'Mama! Rosamund screamed, her dark eyes wild with fear.

Catrin struggled with the pain. When she had borne Rosamund she had been in labour for a full day and the first spasms had been far apart and irregular. These assaulting her now were close together and much stronger. The labour looked as if it was going to be vigorous and short.

With relief, she saw a neighbour making her way towards the keep, her three children clinging to her skirts. The two boys and a girl were Rosamund's playmates and their father was a cook at the castle. Goda, their mother, wove braid and sold it to make belts and straps.

Catrin called out and Goda turned. A deeper look of concern crossed the woman's already anxious features.

'Catrin?

'Will you take Rosamund with you? Catrin panted 'I cannot run and I want her to be safe if anything should happen.

The woman looked at the way Catrin's hand was pressed against her belly. 'God save you, mistress, she said, 'of course I will.

Catrin gave Rosamund a kiss and a swift hug. 'Go with Goda, she commanded. 'I'll find you later.

Rosamund's lower lip quivered, but she was an obedient child and had no reason to doubt her mother's word. Besides, Goda's daughter Alfreda was her best friend.

'You will be all right? Goda asked, lingering but wanting to be gone.

Catrin made a small gesture and nodded. She could feel another contraction gathering and tightening. 'Yes, go. I'll follow you up.

Goda told Rosamund to hold Alfreda's hand, and set off, tugging the children at a pace that was a half-run. Rosamund looked back over her shoulder and waved. Returning the wave, Catrin looked at the sweet oval of her daughter's face, the black hair curling round her cheeks where it had escaped its braid, and wondered if it was the last time she was ever going to see her.

Taking herself to task for such a negative thought, she forced her legs to move. When the contraction grew too fierce, she stopped to try and breathe through it. As the pain eased, she heard the first scream and, turning round, saw the plumes of smoke rising from the houses behind her.

There were more people running and screaming now. Those who had been in their homes, those who had not heard the warnings, now fled before the looters and the flames.

Catrin swallowed, tasting smoke as the wind drove the stink of burning thatch into her face. The castle was less than two furlongs away but unless she reached the safety of its walls, she would die. Terror drove her onwards step by staggering step, while behind her the sounds of destruction grew.

There was a sudden hot gush of liquid between her thighs as her waters broke, drenching her undergown and shoes. The contractions sharpened, growing hard and deep, doubling her over as she reached the outer ditch. As she screamed with the pain and dropped to her knees, the first soldiers rode up to the outerworks, their weapons red in their hands.

People scattered, wailing and screaming. Some fell beneath the chop of sword and mace. The contraction passed, but instead of struggling to her feet and trying to run, Catrin slumped to the ground and closed her eyes. It was freezing and wet, it was dangerous, but still safer than attempting to outrun the savagery of Eustace's troops. Her mind's eye filled with a vision of Penfoss burning under a lazy summer sky;

the rape and butchery; the stench of blood and eyes blank of mercy. Amice miscarrying. Oliver.

Another spasm hit her and she dug her fingernails into her palms and stifled her scream against the moist ground. The taste of mud was in her mouth, the crackle of flame and the brutal, metallic thud of warfare filled her ears. She was part of it, her body seared and torn by shattering pain. The roar of battle grew with the intensity of the contraction. A horse thundered past so close that mud sprayed from its hooves and spattered her face. She lifted her lids and saw feathered black hocks and heavy steel shoes. Swords clashed. There were grunts of effort, and then a dull thump followed by a gasp of pain. She raised her eyes and saw spurs dig into the black's flanks as the man astride wheeled him and rode out of her vision.

For a far too brief and grateful moment, Catrin was free of labour pains. She dared not move for fear of being struck down, so her vision was limited and what she saw confused her. The mounted soldiers had ceased to attack the fleeing townspeople and were fighting among themselves. She was so dazed that even when one of the men yelled 'Le Roi Henri! at the top of his lungs, she did not understand at first.

It was only when she saw the distinctive brown and white patches of Richard FitzRoy's skewbald destrier and the red shield with its gold lion blazon that she realised their own troops had returned. Richard was staring round, his sword in his hand, his jaw with its edging of new black beard clenched and grim.

Catrin forced herself to her feet and screamed his name, but he didn't hear her. He was seeking Eustace's mercenaries, not a hysterical woman dripping with mud.

'Richard, for God's love help me! she shrieked, but he was gone, spurring along the top of the ditch.

The next contraction hit, and an uncontrollable urge to push swelled down through Catrin's loins.

She lurched towards the outer wall, needing to brace herself. Another wave of mounted men ploughed into those already fighting amongst the outer works. There were more belligerent shouts of 'Le Roi Henri! If she had not been in so much pain,

Catrin would have laughed. At least she had a guard while she gave birth.

Another red shield flashed, this one emblazoned with a gold cross. It was smaller and lighter than the great kite shields of his companions and he held it at a tilted angle as if his arm was tired. The horse was a steel grey, its coat made light silver by a thickening of winter hair.

'Oliver! she screamed, putting the last of her voice and all of her will into the cry.

He turned his head. His eyes wandered as if he had heard something but was not sure what or from where. Then he saw her. His fist came up on the bridle and he tore the horse out of line. In one movement, scarcely before the animal had stopped, he was out of the saddle, shield and sword discarded as he gathered her in his arms.

'Christ, Catrin, what are you doing here?

Her fingers dug into the cold, steel hauberk rivets. 'Bearing a child! she panted.

'What!

'No, that's a lie. Bearing two! Grasping him for support, she rode out the next contraction. 'Oliver, I'm in travail!

He stared frantically round. 'We'll get you inside the keep. He started to lift her but she thrust him off.