Elizabeth Chadwick - The Love Knot

'And you still want to eat them?

He pulled a face, acknowledging her point. 'They're a gift for a friend, he explained. 'But yes, I'll still devour them, despite the ill-fortune visited on me and mine. Etheldreda makes the best eel stew in Christendom — there's no resisting.

'Oh, Catrin said. She was filled with a mixture of relief and disappointment to discover that there was a woman who cooked and cared for him at Bristol. The way he had spoken last night at Penfoss, she had thought him still alone. The sounds, sights and smells of the city engulfed her as they rode single-file through its narrow alleys towards the castle. The last time she had visited Bristol was with Lewis in the first year of their marriage. He had bought her a brass circlet and a square of raw silk to make a veil. He had kissed her in the street, his dark eyes laughing, and she had thought herself the luckiest of women. Now she was riding down the same street, bumping along behind a man she barely knew, a basket of mud-smelling eels in her hands, her head pounding fit to burst, and her mistress's body tied in a blanket across a pack pony's withers.

The ghost of Lewis watched her ride past and did not recognise her. Her gaze on the castle walls and the bright gonfanons flying from the battlements, Catrin thought that she did not recognise herself either — except perhaps for the scarlet hose peeping in defiance from beneath her gown.

Bristol Castle was overflowing with hired soldiers. In the space of five minutes, Catrin heard as many different tongues, as Oliver led her and Richard to the keep, leaving Gawin in charge of the horses and the eels.

There were men of every variety and rank, from half-naked footsoldiers and poor Welsh bowmen to toughened mercenaries and well-accoutred knights with swords at their hips. The gap between the ragged and the rich was not as vast as it seemed, for all soldiers, whatever their rank, wore the same expression of hungry expectation. Oliver walked among and through them with ease, now and then smiling a greeting to those he knew, but Catrin felt great discomfort at being in the midst of such checked voraciousness. Beside her, Richard grasped her hand and she saw his blue eyes darken. To reassure him that these men were allies stuck in her throat, for they looked no different from those who had torched Penfoss and murdered its occupants.

Their presence, their stares, the sight of weapons and grinning mouths in hard faces seemed to go on for ever like the antechamber to the hall of hell. The image was clarified in Catrin's mind by the sporadic camp fires which threatened rather than comforted her.

One soldier held two huge mastiffs on a chain and as she passed, they lunged, growling. Their owner yanked them back, laughing at her frightened eyes.

'Got yourself a tasty one there, Pascal! he yelled, making an obscene gesture with his free fist.

'Go swive yourself, de Lorys! Oliver snarled, with a gesture of his own.

The soldier smacked his lips over his stained teeth. 'I'd rather swive what you've got!

Oliver's hand descended to his sword hilt and his tormentor recoiled with a show of mock terror.

Expression grim, Oliver quickened his stride.

'I see how safe Bristol truly is, Catrin said with asperity. Both heart and head were thundering.

'Wherever fighting men gather, there are always those who are all mouth and no chausses.

Catrin shuddered. It was not such soldiers of whom she was afraid although, God knew, they were unpleasant enough, but others of their ilk, who followed up their words with barbaric deeds of rapine and slaughter. Wherever fighting men gathered, there was always that kind too.

She passed women in smoke-grimed dresses — soldiers' wives and followers with gaunt, lithe bodies and weathered faces. She saw one young woman suckling a baby by the fire while two older children played near her skirts. Not a dozen yards from her, a whore plied her trade, offering her own breasts to be groped and suckled. Catrin pulled Richard closer, using her body to shield him from the sight.

Oliver appeared indifferent; all this must be commonplace to him, Catrin thought. But to her and Richard, it was a nightmare. She stumbled in a wheel rut and almost fell. Oliver grabbed her and bore her up. She felt the power in his arm, the bruising strength of his fingers and, although grateful, was also made uneasy.

'Not far now, he encouraged. 'The camp is always the worst part for newcomers.

She freed herself from his grip and dusted her skirts, noting with dismay a large, damp stain where the eel liquor had leaked from the basket. It made her realise that she must appear no different from the camp women. Sisters in the bone. There but for the grace of a fickle God. 'Then I am glad, she said, 'for I do not think I have the stamina to endure much more.

He gave her a brooding look in which she could see male exasperation mingled with a certain anxiety. It was clear to Catrin that he wanted her to stay on her feet until he had delivered her and Richard into Earl Robert's household and he could wash his hands of the responsibility. Then he would be free to go and eat his eel stew with his 'friend'.

The quality of the tents and shelters began to improve; there was more mail in evidence, and the accents became mainly French. The drab greys, browns and tans of the perimeter were now brightened with flashes of expensive colour and decorative embroidery. There were plenty of stares, but no one shouted out or tried to intimidate. To one side, a grey-bearded soldier was teaching some younger men how to defend themselves against the thrust of a spear, and everyone appeared to be gainfully employed.

On reaching the keep at the heart of the defences, they were challenged by fully armed guards. Oliver answered smoothly. Obviously he was a well-known face, for they were passed through into Earl Robert's great hall without demur.

Catrin stared round at a simmering bustle that offered small respite to her ragged wits. There were clerks seated at tables, busy with quill and ink; there were groups of soldiers talking, gaming, fondling hounds. Two women tended a cauldron set over the fire, their children playing a boisterous game of chase among the trestles which were being assembled for the late afternoon meal. Servants scurried to and fro with baskets of bread and jugs of ale. Near the dais, four minstrels tuned their instruments. On the dais itself, a retainer was spreading an embroidered linen cloth on the board and setting out cups of exquisite, tinted glass.

A slender, elegant man wearing a blue tunic halted in mid-stride and swung around to approach Oliver's small group. 'Do you have business here? His nostrils flared fastidiously.

'With the Earl, yes, Oliver answered, his expression taut with controlled irritation.

Catrin was all too aware of the man's disparaging gaze as he took in the dishevelled appearance of herself and Richard, but it was beyond her energy to return his look with the scorn it deserved.

'The Earl never sees anyone before he has dined, he said haughtily. 'I might be able to find you a place at the bottom of the hall on one of the spare trestles if…

'You're his understeward, not his spokesman, Oliver said coldly. 'He will see me, I promise you that. Now, you can either send someone to announce me, or I will go above and announce myself of my own accord.

'You cannot! A look of horror crossed the steward's face.

'Then do something about it or lose your living.

The servant drew himself up, but Oliver remained the taller. When the man's gaze flickered towards the off-duty knights, Oliver caught it and drew it back to his own. 'Have me thrown out, he said on a rising snarl, 'and I will cut out your voice and cast it to those hounds. Earl Robert's hunting lodge at Penfoss has been destroyed by raiders, and the only witnesses are this woman and the child, who just happens to have royal kin. If it affects the Earl's digestion then I am sorry, but my own belly is full to the gorge!