Catrin removed the stopper and sniffed the contents. 'What's in it?

'Mainly white poppy. Master Oliver brought a store back from the Holy Land. In small amounts it induces sleep, calms and soothes, but too much can be dangerous.

Catrin nodded. 'I wish I knew more about herb-lore, she said wistfully. 'My mother taught me a little, but usually she sought out the castle's herb-wife or asked at the abbey if she had need of a cure.

The old woman watched her replace the stopper and set the flask carefully to one side. 'Would you truly like to learn? she asked, adding swiftly, 'It is not an idle question.

Catrin did not hesitate. 'You would teach me?

'As much as can be taught. Knowledge of the hands is inborn, and other things can only be learned by experience, but if you have the healing gift, then I could help you to make it grow and be of use to others.

Somewhat bemused by the turn that events had taken, Catrin wondered why the old midwife was giving her such attention. Surely she did not make such offers to her other clients. 'Did Oliver ask you to take me under your wing? she asked suspiciously.

'Hah! Etheldreda snorted. 'If he knew I'd offered to train you, he'd burst his hauberk. If I take you under my wing, 'tis as much for my sake as yours. She raised the recumbent left hand from her lap and laboriously waggled her fingers. 'Look at this. Hasn't been right since I suffered a seizure in last winter's cold. My body is weakening. I was born the year of the great battle on Hastings field, and by my reckoning, that makes me well beyond three score and ten. If I reach four score I predict 'twill be a miracle, and I've neither daughters nor kin to bequeath my knowledge. Unless I find someone soon, it will all die with me.

Catrin absorbed this and felt a little daunted. She had always been fascinated by the twin skills of midwifery and herb-lore. Perhaps it was because of their mystery, or the power that possessing knowledge conferred on their owner. Or perhaps it was the need to feel less vulnerable. 'Why would Oliver object?

Etheldreda snorted again. 'He's a man, and like all men he's wary of women's matters. Besides, he's afraid. 'Afraid? Catrin blinked.

'His wife died in childbed. Three days she was in labour, and nothing I nor anyone could do to save her. Mouth of her womb wouldn't open, so we couldn't even take the child out in pieces to save her life. Had to make Caesar's cut in the end when she was dead. The midwife shook her head. 'He took it mortal bad.

'I knew his wife died, Catrin said unsteadily, 'but I did not know the details.

'Well, now you do. Etheldreda raised a warning forefinger. 'And best keep it to yourself. I ain't a gossip, and it's not my habit to carry tales. A midwife should be as close-mouthed as a priest in the confessional except on rare occasions, and this be one of them. Master Oliver tolerates me out of family obligation and old affection, but he don't like midwives or women's business. He's better than he was in the early days, but he still fights shy.

'I won't say anything. Catrin thought about him comforting the dying Amice at Penfoss. How difficult that must have been for him in the light of what had happened to his wife.

'So, said Etheldreda briskly, 'do you still want to learn?

Catrin looked at the elderly midwife in her plain homespun gown and thought of the fear, respect and hostility that her trade engendered. Lives depended on her skill. She surmised that there must be great satisfaction on one side of the coin, despair and danger on the other.

'It is not for those with a weak stomach or heart, Etheldreda said as if reading her mind.

Catrin swallowed and seized the horns of fate. 'Yes, she heard herself say. 'I do want to learn. I need a sense of direction. She glanced around the Countess's bower. There was little sense of direction here. A morning's sewing with Edon for company had left her feeling cooped-up and frustrated. She had to have more. 'There is still my duty to the Countess, she felt honour-bound to murmur.

Etheldreda wagged her forefinger. 'If there are stones in your path, then you either cast them aside or find your way

around them. Otherwise, you might as well just stay where you are. I know the Countess Mabile. She'll see your learning as a boon. It'll suit her not to send all the way to the camp when she wants a calming tisane, or some rosewater cream to rub into her hands.

Catrin gave a doubtful nod, still not quite convinced. The midwife returned the cup to her and eased to her feet. 'Well, I'd best be on my way. I'll come and talk with you tomorrow, and if you're still of the same mind, we'll begin your training. Again she delved into her satchel, and brought forth a small, exquisitely fashioned piece of knotwork, the loops woven in red, black and white wool, and suspended from a red cord.

'Here, she said. 'Take this and wear it around your neck. All wise-women have a healing cord to remind them of the grace of the Trinity.

Catrin took the talisman. 'Father, Son and Holy Spirit, she said.

The old woman studied her narrowly. 'Maiden, Mother and Crone, she contradicted. 'Women's magic'

Catrin returned Etheldreda's stare, and a thrill of apprehension ran up her spine. 'Is that not dangerous?

'Only inasmuch as men choose it to be. Is not the Blessed Virgin Mary a maiden and mother? Was not John the Baptist's mother beyond child-bearing age when she bore him?

Catrin began to have more of an inkling why Oliver would 'burst his hauberk' if he knew what Etheldreda was proposing. It, was not just the midwifery, but the integral weaving of the old female religion, albeit disguised in the lore of various female saints.

'Of course, Etheldreda said with a little shrug, 'you do not have to wear the token at all. It only means as much as each individual wants it to mean and, in my case, I intended that I am not a good Christian, she said, 'but the old gods — and goddesses — have their place too. Then she put her finger to her lips as Edon returned from her rounds with the eagle stone.

'I must take my leave, mistress, she addressed Edon. 'Tomorrow I will return and see how you are faring, but you seem in fine, good health to me.

Edon preened at the compliment. 'Geoffrey says I'll make the perfect mother.

'Aye, well I'm sure he's the perfect husband and father, Etheldreda said. Not by so much as a flicker of expression did she betray what she was actually thinking, but she did avoid Catrin's eyes and needed suddenly to turn aside to cough.

Catrin watched the midwife make her way slowly across the bower. Near the door the old woman paused and approached the corner where Rohese de Bayvel sat at her own needlework. There was a brief, muted conversation and another flask changed hands in return for a glint of silver. Etheldreda went on her way, and Rohese concealed her purchase in the folds of her gown, her colour high.

Power indeed, Catrin thought wryly, to bring a blush to the face of the haughty Rohese. She fingered the red cord at her throat, and listened with half an ear to Edon's chatter, but her thoughts were upon the sudden changes wrought in her life and the old woman descending the tower stairs.

Chapter 6

The black stink of smoke still hung on the air, but Oliver was almost glad, for it served to disguise the aroma of putrefying flesh. The high summer weather and the open wounds on the corpses had advanced the decomposition at a rate which would have been unbelievable had not Oliver seen its like many times during his years of pilgrimage.

The burial party worked with covered faces, and Father Kenric swung his incense burner in long, low arcs. It kept the flies away to a degree, but the sickly sweet smell of the burning spices only added to the stomach-rolling stench. Oliver had taken his turn to dig the soil. He had helped lift the bodies on to linen shrouds, and wrapped them up. Not one of them wore a single item of jewellery. Fingers had been hacked off to steal rings too tight to remove.

The sight, the smell, the silence were worse to Oliver than his first discovery of the scene. Two days ago, the fire had been a raging, living thing, and there had been survivors in its midst. Now there was nothing but distasteful, tragic duty among the ashes and the dead. At least there had been survivors, he told himself as he walked around Penfoss's perimeter stockade. If Catrin and Richard had been in the compound at the time of the attack, they too would be lying amongst the slain. He shied from that image, and thought instead of Catrin standing in Bristol's bailey, her head tilted to one side, her hazel eyes bright with suspicion as she spoke to him.

In the five years since Emma had died, there had been few women in his life; he could count the occasions on the fingers of one hand, and they had made the approaches. It was the first time since Emma's death that he had been moved to make an approach himself. He wanted to discover the Catrin behind the shield that held him at bay, but getting her to lower her defences was likely to be as difficult as lowering his own to let her in. He found himself envying men like Gawin, who had a wealth of experience with women and the brash confidence to pick and choose at will.

In the early days of his bereavement, he had entertained thoughts of becoming a monk. His brother had talked him out of the impulse, saying that he did not have the nature to dwell in the cloister. 'It takes more than a hair shirt and a scourge to make a monk, he had said. 'Christ, if every husband who lost his wife in childbed entered a monastery, half the men in England would wear tonsures.

Simon had been right, Oliver acknowledged, although at the time he had thought his brother unfeeling and obstructive. The pilgrimage had been the compromise. Oliver touched his belt, and felt beneath his fingers the pewter badges that were both proof and reminder of the time he had spent as a wanderer, changing from lost boy to man — or at least growing a hard shell over the lost boy, so that no one knew of his existence except himself.

He came to the broken gates and stared up the rutted track and into the deep green of the forest. The leaves swished and rustled softly in the breeze. Now Simon was dead in battle and his wife of the sweating sickness. A stranger sat in the great hall that had belonged to Oliver's family since before the coming of William the Conqueror. He was the last one to carry his name. Responsibilities to the dead were sometimes greater burdens than those to the living.

Impatient with himself, he was turning back to the burials when a movement caught the corner of his eye. 'Ware arms! he bellowed over his shoulder to the digging soldiers.

The compound erupted, men throwing down their spades and drawing their weapons. Oliver freed his own sword and backed within the gateway, his breathing swift and hard.

A troop of riders and footsoldiers emerged from the forest on to the track, steel hissing from scabbards, shields surging to the fore. Oliver saw that their numbers matched those of his own men, but the strangers had the advantage of horseback.

'Halt in the name of Robert, Earl of Gloucester, on whose land you trespass! Oliver cried.

'Land's for the taking these days, their leader sneered, but he drew his fine bay stallion to a stand. A new shield with bright red chevrons on a blue background covered his left side and he carried a honed lance in his right hand.

Without removing his eyes from the soldier, Oliver gestured over his shoulder. 'Then come and take six feet of earth for your grave.

'Six feet of earth, eh? The man grinned and hefted the lance. 'That would be poor payment for saving your life on the road to Jerusalem, Oliver Pascal, or do you choose! to forget old friendships and debts?

Thrown off balance, Oliver stared at his adversary. 'Randal? he said, dragging the name from the depths of the past. | 'Randal de Mohun?

'Ah, you do remember then? Tossing the lance to one of his troop, the soldier swung down from his saddle with an athletic bounce. An expensive grey mantle lined with squirrel fur swirled around his shoulders and was pinned with a silver brooch of Welsh knotwork. 'Call off your dogs; put up your sword. You don't really want to fight. His teeth flashed like a snare within the full bush of black moustache and beard.

'You shouldn't take the risk, Oliver said, but gestured his men to return to their grisly work, and sheathed his sword. However, he did not relax. For all that Randal de Mohun had saved him from certain death at the hands of brigands and been his companion on the pilgrim road for almost six months, his liking for the man had never been more than tepid. 'What are you doing in these parts?