Oliver nodded agreement. 'No, and because we've caught him unprepared, he's reacted with his gut. He blew on his frozen fingers. 'If I was Stephen, I would stay behind the town defences and force us to bring the battle to him — make us charge up the hill. He's thrown away his advantage by facing us on the level. He looked round at the solid position of his section of Robert's force on the left flank. The Earl had assembled most of the disinherited knights and barons in that sector. Opposing them were the forces of Stephen's earls and magnates — Richmond, Norfolk, Northampton, Surrey and Worcester. Rannulf of Chester held the centre, facing Stephen and his infantry, and Earl Robert had taken the right flank with the Welsh levies to face Stephen's Flemish mercenary troops.

Rhetoric was spouted and commanders rode up and down their lines, inciting the men, raising them to battle fever. Earl

Robert's voice was a strong, carrying baritone. In contrast, Stephen's voice was so thin and husky that one of his barons, Baldwin FitzGilbert, had to deputise.

Opposite Oliver, a challenge to joust went out from Stephen's magnates, who appeared to favour a formal opening to the

'Hah, as if they think it's a feast day, growled Randal de Mohun in Oliver's ear. Although not one of the dispossessed, he had elected to fight with them — in the hopes of being given a fief of his own, Oliver suspected.

'To them, it is, Oliver replied, without taking his eyes off the opposing line. He wondered if the man who had usurped Ashbury was numbered among the troops that Waleran of Worcester had brought on campaign. 'To them we are nothing but landless mercenaries, and that invitation is a mockery. He watched the opposing knights prancing and prinking in their bright colours, and did not need the rhetoric of the battle captains to fuel the smoulder of his anger. It was to feed the ambition of the men he was facing that his brother had died and he had been made a rebel, dependent on his sword for his income. Well, by God, today he was going to earn his wages.

He pushed his way forward, offering to reply to the challenge to joust. Randal de Mohun lined up beside him, his lance couched.

'I'm going to rend holes in that fancy mail of theirs that no armourer will ever mend. De Mohun licked his lips hungrily. His eyes were bright and his breathing swift.

Oliver looked at de Mohun. The mercenary had slackened the reins on all that vicious aggression lying beneath the surface. And why not? Oliver reached down to the fire in his own belly and allowed it to spread through his veins. A little behind him, he could hear Gawin breathing swiftly through his mouth. A glance showed him that the young man was trembling, but more with anger and excitement than fear.

'Ready? Oliver asked.

'More than, Gawin replied, and fretted his horse with rein and spur.

In front of them, their commander, Miles FitzWalter,

Sheriff of Gloucester, rose in his stirrups and bellowed aloud. 'Laissez Corree! Vanquez le Stor!

Oliver clapped spurs to Hero's flanks and together with Gawin, de Mohun and thirty knights, thundered over the soft ground towards the posturing opposition. Instead of courteously drawing their blows and making a chivalrous play of the encounter, they attacked in earnest, their charge never slackening and their weapons driving for their enemies' vitals and punching through.

King Stephen's languid cavalry found themselves at the mercy of men carried forward on an impetus of rage and outrage. Each blow aimed was intended to disable or kill, rather than politely take for ransom — of which the latter had been custom throughout the war. No quarter was given. Steel bit, then bit deeper still. Earl Robert's left flank surged in the wake of the first, vicious charge and hammered home a second assault.

It did not matter that the numbers were about even; Stephen's men could not compete with the ferocity of their opponents. Oliver found himself fighting thin air, for no one would make a stand and meet him blow for blow. To a man, the five earls who should have held Earl Robert's cavalry at bay fled the field with their troops, leaving the men of Gloucester in control and Stephen hopelessly outflanked.


Catrin replaced the ordinary rush tapers of daily use with the fat wax candles that old Mistress Saponier had given to her. Light blossomed in Ethel's dwelling, clear, bright and perfumed with the honey smell of summer. Catrin inhaled deeply, trying to banish the stench of the wharfside discovery from her nostrils.

Propped up on two bolsters to ease her congested breathing, Ethel watched her from the bed. 'So she threw herself into the river, she wheezed, as Catrin told her about Rohese. 'Well, 'tis no surprise. Too much pride to live with the shame.

Catrin shuddered. 'But she was vain as well, and she liked the fine things of life. I cannot imagine that she would do that to herself. Besides, it was too soon. There was still a chance that she might have bled.

Ethel gave her a shrewd look. 'There but for the grace of God, she said, her cracked voice soft. 'Was that how it was for you?

Catrin drew a sharp breath at Ethel's uncanny intuition. For a moment she was cast back to the days immediately following Lewis's death. She saw an image of herself standing on Chepstow's battlements at dusk, staring down into the sleek, dark waters of the river Wye. 'I didn't drown myself, she said tautly. 'I thought about it, I admit, but only for an instant.

'An instant is all that it takes, one slip of the foot on a wet stone. Ethel closed her eyes.

Catrin gave a little shiver. 'How did you know?

'Your fear, the way you spoke. I sensed a link with water… dark water, flowing fast. Her voice sank to a mumble. 'And I saw a man too, dark of hair and eye.

Catrin felt cold to her marrow. 'Lewis, she whispered.

Ethel spoke again, a single word, clear and bright as the candle flame. 'Beware.

Catrin went forward to the bed, intent on asking her what she meant, but Ethel did not answer except by way of a chesty snore.


Lincoln Castle was ablaze with light as the leaders of the Empress's army celebrated their victory. Lincoln town was ablaze too — with fire — as the common troops plundered the wealth of the citizens who had made an error of judgement in choosing Stephen as their protector.

Oliver had declined to follow Randal de Mohun into the streets of Lincoln in search of gain. To fight men on a battlefield was one thing. To harry women and children out of their houses, steal their goods and burn their dwellings, was another matter entirely. In every woman's face, he would have seen Catrin's, in every child's, Richard's. All war was dark, but this part stank as well, and Oliver remained within the castle precincts, his single act of plunder the appropriation of a flagon of the finest Gascon wine intended for the high table.

Despite his distaste, he was in high spirits. The ease of their victory and the capture of Stephen himself meant that the tide had well and truly turned in the Empress's favour. If the impetus continued, then he would be lord of his own lands before many more months were out. It was a hope worth toasting in the rich, dark wine. He would celebrate the next Christmas feast at Ashbury's high table as his father and his brother had done: with a gilded wassail tree, great rejoicing and Catrin crowned in evergreen at his side.

For the moment, he was content with a simple trestle at the side of the hall and the company of Geoffrey FitzMar and a handful of other knights who had declined to venture into the town. They relived the battle blow by blow, as they had each seen it, exalting in the moment when Stephen, abandoned by his earls, abandoned by his mercenaries, had stood alone, swinging his Dane axe at all comers, until finally downed by a lucky blow to the helm which had stunned him for long enough to be taken and bound. He was now locked in one of the upper rooms. His wounds had been tended, he was treated with courtesy, but guarded so heavily that not even a spider could crawl under his door without being noticed.

'I'm to stand my turn of duty later, Geoffrey said, declining Oliver's offer of wine. 'I'll need a clear head.

'Hah, he's unlikely to break free, is he? scoffed one of the others.

'Mayhap not, but Earl Robert's just as unlikely to tolerate a drunkard on duty.

Oliver's own turn of duty was set for the following dawn. He could afford to drink but not to the point of inebriation. Filling his cup for the third and final time, he handed the flask to the others to finish. Despite his desire to see Stephen overthrown, he had to admire the man's bravery and his dignified conduct in defeat. Perhaps for the first time in his reign, Stephen was displaying the qualities of a king — although that still did not give him the right to be one.

'To victory. He raised his cup. 'May it sweeten daily.

'Victory, Geoffrey repeated, and swallowed the last of his own wine. Wiping his mouth he looked around. 'Where's Gawin tonight?

Oliver shook his head. 'In the town with de Mohun.

Geoffrey picked his helm off the table and rose to his feet. 'I'm glad my duty to the Earl keeps me here tonight, he said grimly. 'We are told that the townsfolk need teaching a lesson but I have no stomach for being a tutor. He rumpled his free hand through his tawny curls and frowned. 'In truth, I would not have thought Gawin of that ilk either.

'He isn't, Oliver defended, without meeting his friend's gaze. 'He is just unsettled at the moment. I tried to make him stay but he would have none of it, not with de Mohun dangling the promise of treasure before his eyes.

'Yes, well, one day de Mohun is going to trim his sails that bit too close to the wind. Disgust curled Geoffrey's lip. 'Why you tolerate his company, God alone knows.

'God alone does, Oliver answered heavily, thinking of a bare mountain road near Jerusalem and the man to whom misfortune had made him indebted.

Reversing his sword, Gawin hacked open the lock with the hilt, shoved back the heavy oak lid and gazed into a coffer crammed with pieces of scrap silver ready for melting down. The house belonged to a goldsmith and the pickings were rich. He lifted the coffer, which was about the size and weight of a young pig, and staggered outside to the waiting pack horse.

Houses were burning, filling the sky with a lurid red light, the heat and gush of sparks making it seem to Gawin that he was standing in the mouth of hell. He felt that way too, but as if he was the sinner, not the people on whom this punishment was being visited. With a grim will, he shook off his doubts. Even if he was a sinner, he was going to be a rich one. That coffer of silver was worth a year's wages, and it was only the tip of the plunder. In the dwelling next door, he could hear de Mohun's men at work, prising up the hearth bricks in search of hidden wealth. No one had challenged them. The citizens had more sense than to resist mercenaries and had fled to take shelter in the churches or remote outbuildings of no interest to the looters.

Gawin led his horse back inside the house so that no one would steal his find and set about hacking open a second coffer a clothing chest by its size. The lock quickly gave but the

lid refused to open, as if held down from the inside. Gawin wedged his sword beneath the lid and heard a muffled cry of terror. Withdrawing the sword, he grasped the wooden edge in both hands and wrenched it back.

A young woman screamed and cowered down, her hands over her head. She had long fair hair tied back with a strip of braid. Her features were delicate, just beginning to emerge from the roundness of adolescence. Tear streaks had left clean white tracks through the grime on her face and she wore the ragged, threadbare dress of a servant.

'Stand up! Gawin commanded. He flickered a glance around, but there was no evidence of anyone else in the house. For whatever reason, she had been left behind to take her chance with the routiers. Protectiveness and rage warred within him. 'I said stand up! he snarled, when she did not move and, lunging forward, he seized her arm.

Sobbing, screaming, she lurched to her feet, and Gawin saw the reason why she had been unable to flee. She had a deformity of the hip that made it nigh on impossible to walk, let alone run, all her weight taken upon one side.

'Christ, are you witless, girl, as well as a cripple? he demanded, his anger making him cruel.

She shook her head and wailed all the louder, her dirty blond hair tumbling around her face. He could feel the swift rise and fall of her shoulder against his arm as she breathed, the starved slightness of her bones. All the guilt and rage from Christmas flooded over him. He wanted to strike her to the ground and yet he held his hand. Perhaps if he saved her life it would somehow redress the balance that had been lost when Rohese disappeared. 'Can you sit a horse?