His personal wealth was guaranteed too, since the ransom fees of Robert's knights belonged to him. On the strength of such fortune he had ordered himself a new tunic of the best Flemish wool in an expensive shade of lapis lazuli blue, a colour not usually seen on anyone less than a baron. The tunic was bordered with blue and white braid, the pattern a continuous chain of letter 'L's. Men said that fine feathers did not make fine birds, but Louis knew differently. To dress like a groom or a common soldier was to be treated as one. To dress like a noble was to be afforded respect and granted opportunities.
But Louis did not make the mistake of over-indulgence. He did not want men to see him as a fop. There were no rings on his fingers, and he made a point of telling folk that he did not wear them because they marred his grip on his sword. He frequently wore his quilted gambeson into the hall with only his tunic hem showing beneath to emphasise the fact that he was a soldier first. It was done with subtlety and it won him approval, even from his captives, who were kept under house arrest with their lord in one of the upper chambers.
When it came his turn to guard them, he often sat in their company exchanging soldiers' tales, winning them over with his wry, self-deprecating humour.
'You are not a Fleming, said a flaxen-haired knight, as Louis drank wine with them one evening. His name was Oliver Pascal, and Louis sensed a certain reserve in the man. He was not as ready to be drawn in as the others. He was thus a challenge and Louis set out to woo him, entertaining a private wager that he would have Pascal eating out of his hand by the time the ransom was agreed.
'There are many in Lord William's contingent who are not, Louis replied with a smile and a shrug, and poured wine into Pascal's cup.
The grey-dark eyes watched him shrewdly, their thoughts veiled. Thrusting his back against the wall, stretching his legs on the bench, Pascal said, 'Perhaps that is true; I do not have a great acquaintance with your lord's other men, but I wonder who you are and how you came to serve him.
'Why should I arouse such interest? Louis asked lightly.
It was Pascal's turn to smile and shrug. 'Why not? What else is there to do to while away the time except gamble and drink and gossip? Would you not want to know about the man who held your future in his hands?
Louis laughed and combed back his hair with his fingers, exposing the taut, handsome lines of his face. 'I am not sure that I would.
'Then we are different.
A brief silence fell in which Louis deliberated between telling the truth, a pack of lies, or saying nothing at all. Pascal circled his finger around the slightly uneven rim of his clay goblet and waited the moment out with apparent aplomb. Louis narrowed his eyes, but it did not help him see through his captive any the better. Still, that was part of the challenge.
'Yes, I suppose we are. He took a drink from his cup then set it to one side, for he had no desire to give his tongue a wine-loose rein. 'But since you ask, I will permit you the bones, if not the meat, of it.
The lids widened, the grey eyes assessed then flickered down.
Louis spread his hands in a disarming gesture. 'There was some difficulty on my home territory. I killed a man I should not have done. Even though it was in fair fight, I knew that if I stayed my days were numbered. So I falsified my death — took my enemy's sword and left my own by the riverside where we had fought, together with one of my shoes. He forced a grin. 'It was early spring and the weather as cold as witch's tit. But rather chilblains than death by a knife in the back. I travelled across England, heard that William d'Ypres was hiring, and I have been in his service ever since. He spread his hands in an open gesture to show that was all there was. 'I have knelt in confession and paid my penance. Now you see a washed lamb.
Geoffrey FitzMar had been listening to one side and now he leaned forward, his open gaze huge with surprise. 'But I thought you were high born with lands of your own!
Louis gave a wry chuckle. 'High born certainly, he said, 'but there are never many scraps for a younger son to glean. Lands of my own? I shall have them in the fullness of time. The smile hardened at the edges. He looked at Oliver. 'Was it worth the asking? The challenge in his tone surprised him with its defensiveness.
'Oh, I think so, Oliver answered, and for the first time the eyes gleamed with humour. But Louis did not congratulate himself, for Oliver's expression was hard at the edges too, and he was still giving nothing away, while Louis had revealed rather more than was comfortable.
'Washed lamb, my backside, Oliver said, when Louis had gone. 'A wolf in sheep's clothing, I think. 'Do you not like him?
Geoffrey looked so much like an anxious child that Oliver was moved to thaw. With a shake of his head, he laughed at himself. 'It is not so much that, he admitted. 'I do not like being cooped up here in Rochester, knowing nothing — or only what they feed us. I have never been one to kick my heels with grace. He grimaced. 'Yes, Louis de Grosmont is good company. It's all I can do not to laugh my belly out at some of his tales. That one about the woman and the parrot! He snorted with reluctant amusement at the memory. 'Then why don't you?
'Because it is what he expects. You can see him watching us, playing us like fish on his line. Well, this particular fish does not want to be hooked.
'But why should he do that? Geoffrey wrinkled his brow. 'What is there to be gained?
'Esteem. Power. Do you not notice the way he feeds on us?
'No. Geoffrey looked more baffled than ever.
Oliver sighed and, rising to his feet, took his drink to the window embrasure. The sheds and workshops in the bailey were splashed with gold from the late October sunshine. Five pigs were being driven towards the pen near the kitchens. It was almost November, the month of slaughter and salting in preparation for winter. He should have been a married man by now. If fortune had smiled, he and Catrin would have been preparing to keep the Christmas feast in Ashbury's great hall. Instead, he was mured up in Rochester, with no more prospects than he had possessed on the day he returned from pilgrimage. He thrust his shoulder against the stone embrasure wall, watched Louis de Grosmont stride on his free and purposeful way, and knew jealousy.
'Well, I like him, Geoffrey said, almost defiantly.
Oliver finished his wine and turned round. 'That's not difficult, he said. 'You like anyone as long as they've a smile on their face.
'Than that denies you, Geoffrey retorted. 'You're so sour you'd curdle fresh milk in a dairy!
Oliver arched his brow at this sharpness from Geoffrey, who was normally as mild as fresh milk.
Geoffrey swore and propped his feet on a bench. 'We are turning into a bowerful of women, he said in disgust.
'Nothing to do but pick petty quarrels with each other to pass on the time. I want to go home. I want to see Edon and my son.
Oliver's exasperation with Geoffrey was replaced by pangs of affection and empathy as he watched the young knight rub his hands together and then place his clasped palms against his lips.
'You've to dance at a wedding when we do, he said by way of reconciliation, and somehow managed the all-important smile. 'I want you to be my groomsman.
'Gladly, Geoffrey said against his hands. Then he unclasped them and held them out before him. 'At least we're not in chains.
Oliver said nothing, and thought that chains might be more bearable than this polite house arrest which was neither captivity nor freedom. He wandered back to the window. Louis de Grosmont was still in view, talking to a woman wearing a red dress and dark cloak. Then he swept her up in his arms and bore her behind a storage shed and out of Oliver's sight. His sweetheart, no doubt.
Oliver thought of Catrin and ached.
It had been a long road for Catrin, and the great keep at Rochester was both a welcome and a daunting sight. Now that she was close to her goal she was nervous, all the doubts and anxieties that she had suppressed on her journey threatening to overwhelm her. Faced by the fear that Oliver might not be there at all, she was almost tempted to turn back, on the principle that not knowing was better than knowing the worst.
'Mistress? Leaning on his quarterstaff, Godard looked at her quizzically.
He had been her escort and protection on her journey from Bristol to Rochester, and she had been glad of his enormous bulk. People thought twice about tangling with him, even if it was only to pass the time of day, and it was he who carried the pouch of ransom money.
The Countess had tried to dissuade her from her quest, but Catrin was adamant. She had to know what had happened to
Oliver, had to find out at first hand whether he was safe or dead. Not for hell or high water, for the perils of war or personal danger, was she prepared to sit and wait.
Hearing that Earl Robert and those captured with him were being housed at Winchester, they had travelled there, only to find the city in smoking ruins, destroyed by the running battle between the supporters of the Empress and the King. The castle was intact, but it housed no prisoners. Robert of Gloucester had been taken to the greater safety of Rochester in Kent.
So now, deep in enemy territory, they were about to enter one of the most formidable keeps in the kingdom. Strangely enough, although Catrin was sick with nerves at the prospect of discovering news of Oliver, she felt no fear at entering Rochester itself. Soldiers abounded, but she and Godard had been left in peace thus far. William d'Ypres was a strict commander who demanded high standards of his men. She hoped that he would be amenable to her plea for Oliver's release. Surely an ordinary, landless knight could be of small political importance.
'Mistress, said Godard again, 'why have we stopped?
'To summon courage. Catrin gave him a wan smile. Dismounting, she unfastened the bundle strapped to the mule's saddle. 'Besides, I'm travel-stained and in no fit state to plead my cause.
Godard took the mule's bridle as Catrin disappeared behind a group of young hazel trees growing at the roadside. Behind their trunks, Catrin unpinned her cloak and stripped off her plain, homespun gown, replacing it with the crimson one that the Countess had given her last year. It was creased from the journey, but that could not be helped. At least the fabric and cut were of the best quality and would ensure her access beyond the gate. She replaced her plain wimple with the one of cream silk and secured it with a filigree circlet. Finally, she repinned her cloak with a fine silver brooch given to her by a grateful client and stepped back on to the road.
Godard gazed with approval, but not too much astonishment, upon the transformation from industrious peasant to lady of substance. 'Only pitfall is that when they see you dressed like that, they'll think you can afford to buy him back at double the price, he commented.
Catrin wrinkled her nose. 'I had thought about that myself, but it cannot be helped. If I gown myself as a poor woman, then they will not let me past the outer bailey or listen to what I have to say. Looking as I do now, at least I have a certain authority. She gnawed her lower lip. 'He might not even be here. For all that I know, we could have ridden past his grave in Winchester. Her voice shook.
'No, mistress, I do not believe that, Godard said stoutly. 'He is here.
Catrin looked at him and swallowed her panic. 'Yes, she said. 'He has to be.
Cupping his hands for her foot, Godard boosted her back into the mule's saddle, and they set out upon the final half mile to the castle.
The gate guards were watchful, but their focus was upon the comings and goings of men of military rank bearing weapons. They gave Godard a cursory look because of his height and bulk, then dismissed him as a lady's prudent insurance against assault. To Catrin they yielded deference, and when she told them she had business with Lord William or his senior representatives, they directed her towards the hall without question.
Leaving Godard and the mule in the bailey, Catrin took the ransom money and made her way further into Rochester's defences. There was cold sweat on her palms and a sick churning in her stomach. The noise and bustle in the ward buffeted her like a sea around a rock and carried her forward in sharp surges towards the main building which rose above all the little islands of workshops, houses and storage sheds. Patterns of braided stone decorated the arched window spaces as they did at Bristol. She strained her neck, gazing towards the wall walk, and wondered if Oliver was locked up in one of the rooms, or whether they had imprisoned him in the gloom of the cellars as they had now done with Stephen at Bristol.
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