'Reckon as we're damned already, the man with the hat said. 'Your curses mean nothing, old woman, except they'll send you to hell before us. He made a grab for Ethel, whilst his companion leaped on Catrin. She released the scream, shattering the morning air with its power, and at the same time jerked her knee hard upward. Her assailant recoiled, clutching his genitals, and Catrin whipped the small dagger from its sheath, full knowing that it was an act of bravado. She could cut umbilical cords and prepare herbs with the blade, but never had she used it in aggression or even self-defence.

She dodged a blow from the cudgel, but was not fast enough, and it caught her arm, breaking no bones but severely bruising. As Ethel was thrown to the ground by the other thief, Catrin screamed again in desperation and prayed for doors to open and people to come.


Oliver spent a restless, uncomfortable night. Being one of the Earl's hearth knights meant just that, and he had to sleep beside the fire in the great hall, rolled in his cloak. The snores and coughs of the other men kept him awake, as did the knowledge that Ethel and Catrin were abroad in the city. The fact that they had an escort dampened his worry, but did not quench it entirely. They were still so vulnerable. And yet he dared not protest too hard lest he be accused of obstructing and stifling.

'Women, he muttered to himself as he turned over for what seemed the hundredth time.

'Aye, bless them, muttered Geoffrey FitzMar who was rolled up beside him.

Despite himself, Oliver gave a short laugh. 'Aye, bless them, he repeated, and closed his eyes.

For a while he slept, and chased brightly coloured images through his dreams. He was in a garden looking for Emma, but he could not find her. Amice was there and she kept pointing towards a grove of apple trees. But when he entered the grove in search of his wife, all he discovered was a mound of green earth that looked like an overgrown grave. He turned away, but when he looked back Catrin was sitting on it, stark naked except for her masses of raven-black hair and her crimson hose which ended just above her knees, in bright contrast to the white flesh of her thighs.

With a gasp, he snapped awake to find himself tangled in his cloak. Dull heat pulsed at his crotch and his body was damp with sweat. It was not the first erotic nightmare he had ever had, but it was certainly the most disturbing. The man beside him still slept, oblivious, but all around him others were rising. The fire in the hearth was blazing strongly and tendrils of steam rose from the cooking pot set over the flames. A glance at the high windows showed him that dawn had broken.

Untangling himself from his cloak, he went outside to piss and then washed his hands and face at the trough by the well. It was a murky November morning with a hint of drizzle that swiftly cooled the sweat on his body and banished any carnal residue from his dream. Although it was not long past dawn, a steady exchange of traffic between castle and town was well under way. Supplies and traders entered. Soldiers left.

Oliver watched the activity while he pinned his cloak and accustomed himself to the idea of being awake. His stomach rumbled, and he thought with anticipation of Ethel's hot griddle cakes, smeared with honey and butter — far better fare than the bowl of gruel he could expect in the hall. But it was not the thought of breakfast alone that sent him in the direction of Ethel's shelter. As he walked, he smoothed his hair and plucked a stray stalk of straw from his cloak. He also cupped his chin and grimaced to feel the prick of stubble. He should have taken the time to shave, but it was too late now.

With a swift step and rapid heart, he approached Ethel's shelter. The woven hanging was drawn across, but when he parted it to glance inside and see if the women were sleeping, it was empty, the hearth cold, and the coverlet on the bed-bench neatly arranged.

'They're not here, said one of the laundry women as she passed by with a basket of soiled linen. 'I called at first light for something to cure me toothache and there was no sign.

'They've been out all night then, Oliver said, with a sinking heart.

'Like as not. I ain't seen 'em for certes, but I wish they'd hurry back. Me gob's killing me. She went on her way, leaving Oliver gazing around the shelter. Despite the cheerful bedcovering, the rows of jars, sealed pig bladders and bunches of herbs, the place looked forlorn without its occupants. Ethel had said that they would return by daybreak. He glanced at the sky which had been light for perhaps an hour. They were not unduly late, but he could feel the apprehension gathering within him.

He forced himself to return to the hall and act as if this was just another morning. He ate a bowl of hot gruel without any enthusiasm, barbered his stubble, and returned to check on the shelter, but it was still as empty as before. Thoroughly unsettled by now, Oliver hitched his belt and set off at a determined pace towards the castle gates.

Once in the city, he made his way to the home of Payne the soap-maker and was greeted first with surprise, and then some consternation when the household learned of his enquiry. The manservant and journeyman were fetched from their tasks and made to tell their tale about the poor woman who had come begging Ethel and Catrin's help in the Shambles.

With increasing apprehension, Oliver turned his feet in that direction, but he had little idea where to look among all the back entrances that twisted through the quarter like the animal guts from which the Shambles took its name. Enquiries led him nowhere. The butchers had all been abed in the early hours, and those who had not had good reason to avoid a man with a sword.

His right hand on its hilt, Oliver left the main thoroughfares and entered the narrower alleys, his shoes squelching in mud and dung. A dog growled as it dashed past him, a dead rat dangling from its jaws. Two grimy little boys contemplated throwing pats of mud at him, but changed their minds when he drew an inch of blade from his scabbard. A door opened a crack and then slammed shut. Oliver drew another inch of steel, both as a warning to any hidden watchers and as a reassurance to himself.

Then he heard the scream over to his left, piercing and shrill. Cursing, he began to run — something of a feat in the November sludge of Bristol's back alleys. A second scream brought him to a narrow thoroughfare and a scene that drew his blade clean out of the scabbard in a single rasp of steel. The two men turned, cudgels raised, but on seeing the calibre and rage of their opposition, took to their heels.

Already breathless from his run, Oliver didn't pursue. Sword still in his right hand, he used his left to raise Ethel gently to her feet. Her breath wheezed in her throat, and she was trembling from head to toe. She braced herself upon her stick for support, but her eyes were bright and black with the light of battle.

'They'll come to bad ends, the both of them, she panted. 'And I need neither my wise-woman's sight nor a curse to predict that certainty. She gave him a sharp look. 'How did you know?

'You said you would be home before cock-crow. When you weren't, I came looking for you. His tone bore no expression, for he knew that if he began to rant at the women he would never stop, and this time there would be no healing the breach.

He looked at Catrin. Her hood was down, her wimple askew, baring her black braids. A spot of colour branded each cheekbone, and there was a small knife clenched so tightly in her hand that her knuckles were bone-white on the wooden haft. She was still gasping like a man on a battlefield.

The street had begun to fill with people, both the concerned and the morbidly curious. Ethel was offered a drink of ale, and someone brought out a three-legged stool so that she could sit down. Oliver returned his sword to his scabbard. 'Put up your knife, he said quietly to Catrin, with a nod at her right hand.

'What? She gazed at the small weapon blankly for a moment, then with trembling fingers did as he bade. A wooden beaker of ale was pressed into her hand. Everyone was talking at once, but their chatter meant nothing to her.

'A young woman had been raped by one of the castle soldiers and was miscarrying her child, she said defensively. 'We couldn't just leave her to die.

'No, of course you couldn't.

Her jaw tightened. She looked at him with glittering eyes.

'I mean it, Oliver deflected swiftly. 'It is no less than I expected you to say, although I suspect that this, he gestured at Ethel, 'is more than you had in mind.

'We were unfortunate, Catrin said stiffly.

'To the contrary, you are more lucky than you know. When she opened her mouth to argue, he laid a forefinger against her lips. 'No more, or we will both say things that we will regret. For now, my priority is to see you and Ethel safe back to the keep and alert the watch about those two ruffians.

She swallowed and nodded. Then she swallowed again and compressed her lips, her complexion greenish-white.

His gaze sharpened and he swore softly beneath his breath. Turning to the woman who had brought the ale and the stool, he haggled the use of her donkey for a penny and deliberated which of the two women was going to sit on it.

'I can manage, Catrin said grimly between clenched teeth. 'Let Ethel ride.

Oliver studied her, then nodded. Pride, if nothing else, would keep her upright until they reached the castle.

While the woman held the ass, he helped Ethel on to its bony, scooped back. He had always viewed the old woman as being physically solid and strong. In his youth, the back-swipe of her arm had floored a village brat on many an occasion, so he was disconcerted to discover that she weighed next to nothing. She was like a bird, her bones hollow for the flight of her soul. Her spirit, however, had no intention of departing just yet, and it was with relief that he heard her remark tartly that she was not a sack of cabbages.

Clicking his tongue to the donkey, he turned it round. 'A sack of cabbages would not cause me so much trouble, he retorted, and held out his arm for Catrin to lean on. It was a measure of her own wretchedness that she took it without demur.

Chapter 11

'Go on, say it, Catrin challenged.

'Say what? Oliver spread his hands, his breath clouding the air. Around them frost glittered like loaf sugar. Ice, a fingernail thick, lay in clear, angular patterns on the waterbutts and troughs, and the mud in the bailey had become a pliable, white-crusted clay.

'That you were right and I was wrong.

'About what?

'About being open to attack. She stamped her feet, with both impatience and cold. She could see that he was going to make her pay by drawing the incident out. He had been absent on the Earl's business yesterday. She and Ethel had stayed by the fire, nursing their bruises. 'You told me that I was vulnerable, and I ignored you.

'No less than I expected. He blew on his cupped hands. 'You were bound to learn the hard way.

'I hate you, she said calmly.

'That's no less than I expected either. How's your head today?

'It aches, but it belongs to me again. She touched her forehead and grimaced slightly at the niggle of pain still lingering behind her eyes.

'And Ethel?

'Somewhat shaken despite all her brave words. I've left her by the fire with a hot tisane and one of her gossips for company — old Agatha from the laundry.

'So your time is your own for a little while?

'Unless the Countess sends for me. Catrin cocked her head on one side and eyed him suspiciously. 'Why?

'I have something for you. He took her arm, and led her across the bailey towards the Countess's garden.

'Where are we going? Utterly baffled, Catrin hung back a little. She hardly thought that he was going to present her with a flower in this bleak weather, or take her for a stroll around the dormant herb beds. If he wanted somewhere private to talk, there were warmer places than a pleasance at the end of November.

But his direction did not alter, and within moments they had entered through the gate and into a world on the edge of dormancy. The soil was turned and brown, each clod wearing a frill of hoar. The herb beds still held tinges of colour, the sage and lavender standing bravely against the cold. The mint was straggly and the tansy and rue had bowed their heads. Of the gardener, the only sign was the scent of frying bacon wafting from the tiny thatched hut on the far right near the rows of leeks and cabbages.