'I can look after myself, Catrin said, the words emerging with the flatness of oft-repeated litany. Ethel's mention of 'fighting' made her think of 'trysting' too, and she knew without recourse to a gazing glass that her cheeks were pink.

The huge man stooped a little further in acknowledgement. 'My lord told me that I was not to interfere with your independence, only that I should make sure you lived to enjoy it.

Ethel gave a snort of amusement and Catrin scowled in her direction.

'Bend, girl, before you break, Ethel warned, and again the forefinger wagged.

Catrin sighed heavily, but she knew in her heart that Ethel was right. And if the truth were known, the thought of having such a giant at her side, if she had need to go out into the city at night, was comforting. 'Then be welcome, and best be seated before you break your back. She gestured at the stool, and wondered where on earth he was going to sleep. There was certainly no room in Ethel's shelter to house his great bulk.

As if reading her mind, he said, 'I've arranged to lodge with the kennel-keeper. His daughters have not long married and there's sleeping space on his floor. It's only across the bailey should you need to summon.

Catrin nodded, feeling relieved. 'Oliv… Lord Pascal, is he well? She ignored the sudden sharpness of Ethel's stare.

'Indeed he is, mistress. Godard held out his hands to the fire. 'He said to tell you that he is sorry that he cannot be here himself to continue with your lessons… He frowned, seeking the memorised words. 'He said that you make far better company than wagonloads of horseshoe bars and he hopes to be home before the Christmas feast.

This time the pinkness in Catrin's cheeks was accompanied by a flush of warmth through her body. 'I'll be pleased to see him, she murmured and looked down at her hands where Lewis's gold rings still shone on her finger.

Godard took his leave shortly after that, and Catrin made Ethel a hot posset of milk and honey, sprinkled with nutmeg. 'Only ten days to the Christmas feast. Ethel looked thoughtfully at Catrin. 'Be a good excuse to use that scented soap you were given, eh?

Catrin scowled at Ethel from beneath her brows. 'What is that supposed to mean?

'Whatever you take it to mean, girl, but I think you know. Ethel laboriously raised her left hand and held it against the hot side of her cup. Her eyes gleamed. 'He's sent you your first gift early.

Catrin glanced over her shoulder. 'My bodyguard, you mean?

'Aye. Ethel took a one-sided sip of the hot posset. 'The question is… what are you going to offer him for the twelve days of giving, in return?

Fortunately, at that juncture, a woman came asking for some cough syrup for her sick child, and Catrin was spared the problem of answering.


Christmas Eve arrived and there was no sign of Oliver. Despite, or perhaps because of, the continuing civil war, Bristol was in a fever of anticipation and celebration. Rumour abounded that Empress Mathilda herself was coming to Bristol for the Christmas feast. The cooks were run off their feet, their cauldrons and ovens so busy that they had no time to feel the bone-deep cold that settled in a white mantle of hoar over the land. Cartloads of firewood and charcoal made their way through the keep gates daily and were devoured by the numerous fires — great logs for the hall, smaller pieces of split branch for the fires in the private chambers, and charcoal for the braziers and the forge.

Catrin attended at several more childbirths, and was glad of Godard's company. He spoke little, but his very presence was comforting, and her initial indignation at Oliver's sending him vanished. Sometimes he would eat at their fire, but even then he was about as forthcoming as an ox. He split wood for them and drew water. When Richard came visiting he showed him how to wrestle with a quarterstaff, much to the boy's delight, and near dusk on Christmas Eve presented him with a cut-down version of the weapon.

When thanked, he just shrugged and looked a trifle sheepish. 'I've nephews of your age, he said gruffly and turned away to pump the fire with the bellows, signifying that the matter was at an end.

Not long after that, Catrin was called away to a labouring woman. When she returned it was almost midnight, clear, bright and cold. Ethel was sound asleep beneath her covers and the fire had been banked by a neighbour to last until dawn. Godard took his leave and retired to his own bed.

Lantern in hand, Catrin gazed around the bailey. Apart from the guards on patrol and a pen of sheep awaiting slaughter, it was empty, everyone buried under their blankets for warmth. It was one of the strands of a midwife's existence, seeing a world that others slept through. Tonight, on the eve of the celebration of the Christ child's birth, she should have felt a sense of quiet satisfaction, but her pleasure was marred by a stronger sensation of emptiness. Oliver had not come, and anticipation was becoming anxiety and disappointment. She could not celebrate without him. The realisation hit her like a lungful of the crystalline air. It was too late to step back; she was trapped.

With a heavy sigh, she turned to push aside the screen, and had to stifle a scream as she realised she was not alone. A cowled figure was standing beside one of the shelter's wooden supports.

'Who is it… Rohese? Catrin held up her lantern and peered, her other hand at her throat to steady the leaping of her heart. 'What do you want?

'I have to speak with the old one, said Rohese de Bayvel, and glanced anxiously round. Within the depths of her cowl, her face was narrow and pinched. Catrin had not been much in the bower this last month; most of her time had been taken up with nursing Ethel, and she was shocked at how ill Rohese looked.

'Ethel is sleeping, she said. 'She is very frail and I do not want to wake her. Can you not wait until the morning?

Rohese shook her head. 'I need her now. Wake her up.

'Ethel can do nothing for you that I cannot, said Catrin. 'If it's more of that love philtre you want, then I am sure I can mix it for you.

Rohese stiffened. 'I want nothing from you, she said with a curl of her lip.

'Then come back when it's light. Catrin held her ground. Although not as tall as Rohese, she was more than her match in stubborn courage.

Rohese chewed her lip. 'It is a private matter.

By which Catrin judged that it was more than a simple love philtre that Rohese required.

'How can a biddy sleep with all that noise? The hanging was tugged aside and Ethel poked her nose into the biting cold. She was clutching a blanket to her bosom and her hair swung in a heavy grey braid.

Catrin glared at Rohese. 'I'm sorry we woke you.

'Don't matter, I was wakeful anyway. Ethel opened the hanging wider. 'Won't you come in, my lady.

Picking her way daintily like a skittish horse, Rohese entered the shelter. 'I want to see you alone, she murmured, with a meaningful glance at Catrin.

It was with some difficulty that Catrin kept her tongue behind her teeth. Ethel, however, had no such nicety of restraint. 'What's meant for my ears is meant for hers too. Like it or leave it, my lady. I promise we'll not spread tales. Dragging herself over to the fire, she began to poke it to life with a long iron bar. Catrin knew better than to try and take it from her. Instead, she dusted off the stools, which were clean anyway, and kindled a rush light.

Rohese fidgeted and even cast her eyes across the bailey towards the gleam of the whitewashed keep as if she would return to the bower. But then, with a sigh, she stepped across the threshold and dropped the curtain. 'I need something to bring on my flux, she announced. 'I'm more than two weeks late.

Catrin compressed her lips. Small wonder that Rohese did not want her present after all that the woman had said about Amice. An unmarried woman whose flux did not come was wading in deep water.

'Well, what can you do for me? Rohese snapped.

'Depends on the reason you haven't bled. Ethel leaned the poker against the small spit at the side of the tripod and went to consult her jars and bundles of herbs. 'Is it likely that you're with child?

'No, of course not! Even in the dim light of the shelter, Catrin could see that Rohese's complexion was dusky. 'How can you say such a thing!

'Easy. 'Tis the most likely cause. Only other ones I know are starvation or a deadly sickness of the vitals.

'I tell you, I am not with child!

'Suit yourself, my lady.

Catrin watched Ethel reach to the bag containing the penny royal and gromwell. They were herbs used to promote menstruation in women whose fluxes had ceased for whatever reason. Sometimes they worked, but their efficacy was haphazard. Stronger herbs carried stronger penalties such as vomiting, purging and even death. Ethel only gave them when a woman was certain to die anyway if she carried a child to term.

'Take three pinches, my lady, in a cup of wine, and say a prayer to Saint Margaret, Ethel instructed, handing Rohese a twist of linen. 'I'm not saying that it will work, but happen you might be fortunate.

Rohese took the pouch, put a silver quarter penny into Ethel's cold, left palm and, without looking at Catrin, swept out.

'Well, well. Wonder who the father is? Ethel fetched a blanket and seated herself at the hearth. She transferred the penny from her bad hand to her good, then tucked her fists in her sleeves.

Catrin thought of the occasion she had seen Rohese slipping away into the camp and shook her head. 'Will she bleed?

'Might, but I doubt it. Ethel clucked her tongue. 'No good playing with fire and not expecting to be singed.

'No. Catrin drew her cloak around her body and stared into the revived red embers.

'Still, Ethel murmured, 'a little singeing on occasion is no bad thing.

Catrin watched the flames licking the life from the wood and wondered if she was right.

* * *

Following mass on Christmas morning, there was feasting and merriment in the keep's great hall. Outside, the air sparkled with a clarity that hurt the eyes. Inside, it was a smoky fug, scented with apple-wood from the fire, with evergreen from the branches of holly and fir adorning the walls, and with the aroma of spices from the numerous dishes that crowded the trestles. The bailey was deserted, for almost every member of Bristol keep not on duty was in the hall feasting and merry-making.

Ethel had been found a relatively quiet corner by the fire with others who were elderly or infirm. There was a jug of hot wassail wine to keep them occupied, and several platters of small delicacies — cheese-wafers, slices of smoked sausage, small salted biscuits, fried nuts, and candied fruit. Tucked in a new blanket, that had been a gift from the Countess, Ethel was highly content with life.

Catrin, however, was less so. 'He's not coming, she said, sitting on the bench at Ethel's side. Before going to mass, she had washed from crown to toe in the scented soap and donned a new undershift of soft embroidered linen, topped by the gown of crimson and gold that Oliver had yet to see. While still damp, she had bound her black hair in braids and secured the ends with fillets of enamelled bronze. She knew, with a certain degree of pride, that she could match any woman present in the hall today, but it was swiftly becoming an empty triumph.

'Time aplenty yet, Ethel answered around a mouthful of cheese-wafer. 'Besides, there's plenty more fish in the sea for an attractive young woman. Do you a world of good to dangle one on your line.

Catrin pulled a face. Several men had inveigled her to dance or tried to manoeuvre her beneath the mistletoe to steal a kiss, but she had kept her distance. One or two would be quite interesting to 'dangle on her line', but Catrin was wary of hooking a fish larger than she could handle. It was one of the reasons why she was sitting here amongst the old and the infirm, instead of joining in the games and dancing at the hall's centre. Indeed, if the truth were known, the merriment daunted her a little, for there was a wild undercurrent, a predatory edge to the playing that could so easily turn a crowd into a mob.

She watched Richard and Thomas FitzRainald. The boys were playing a boisterous game of hoodman-blind with some other youngsters, and thoroughly enjoying every moment. She smiled wistfully at their pleasure and helped herself to a cup of the wassail wine, welcoming the trickle of the hot liquid down her throat. She thought of the last Christmas when Lewis had been alive. Her feet had not touched the floor for dancing. She had been one of the crowd out there, brimming with laughter, giddy with drink… probably insensible in the end too, for the memories would not focus, remaining a colourful blur.