Chapter 21

On the second Sunday in May, the castellan of Wickham Keep drank too much, fell off his horse, landed on his skull and killed himself. The news was delivered to Stephen in Northampton, where he lay weak as a kitten but recuperating, under the watchful eye of the Queen, his senior retainers and Catrin.

During the first week of his illness, his brother, the Bishop of Winchester, had administered the last rites to a man delirious with fever and on the brink of death. The Queen had knelt in prayer by her husband's side the night through, while Catrin laboured over him with steam inhalants, aromatic chest plasters and honey and blackcurrant tisanes.

Another twelve hours passed before the fever broke. Sweat poured out of Stephen as if he were a leaky bucket, and as swiftly as the sheets were stripped and replaced he soaked them again. By the time it was over, he was lying on a table-cloth purloined from the dais trestle in the hall, and covered with blankets borrowed from his retainers. Catrin was as exhausted as a limp sheet herself, and scarcely had the strength to feel triumph as the King opened lucid eyes for the first time in three days.

Since then he had continued to improve and a fortnight later, although still possessed of a wheezy cough and confined to bed, was conducting daily business from his chamber.

'Fell off his horse, he repeated, tossing the vellum message on the bed and scowling at the man who had brought it. 'I don't believe it. Good God, the man was almost born in the saddle! He drew his furred bedrobe around his painfully thin body.

The messenger looked at the floor and shuffled his feet. 'Sire, he mumbled.

'Oh, it's not your fault. Begone. Stephen waved his hand in terse dismissal. As the man bowed and scurried gratefully to the door, the frown deepened between Stephen's brows. Picking up the letter he studied it again, narrowing his eyes at the scribe's untidy scrawl.

'He was a good man, de Chesham, but overly fond of his wine — to his cost and ours, God rest his soul. He made the sign of the cross with the same irritation with which he had dismissed the messenger.

Catrin came to him from the hearth where she had been preparing a savoury milk broth.

'I cannot even rise from my bed but must lie here like a puling infant, supping food fit only for old men, Stephen added with disgust as she placed the steaming cup in his hand.

Catrin reddened. 'It will help to replenish your strength, sire.

Stephen glowered, but set the cup to his lips. 'It had better. He took a swallow, grimaced for form's sake, and looked across at his brother and William d'Ypres. 'He'll have to be replaced immediately, he said. 'But who can we send?

'There's Thomas FitzWarren, said the bishop. 'He's served me right well as a castellan in the past.

'In the past, there you have it, Henry. Stephen shook his head and took another swallow of the milk broth. 'He's nigh on three score years. You've already had the best out of him, brother.

Catrin had become such a fixture of the royal bedchamber in recent weeks that she was treated as such. If she had possessed a loose tongue, she could have earned herself a fortune in silver from the things she heard. Prudently, she had spoken to no one, not even her husband. Oh, she fed him harmless details about the King's health, what he wore and what he ate. She told him about visits from the Queen and the royal offspring and seasoned the bland trivia with occasional items of gossip that were destined for the common melting pot anyway. Catrin preferred not to examine her reasons too closely. It was easier to dwell in the shallows than probe the murky depths.

Now, listening to the King and his senior advisors discussing the castellanship of Wickham, she remained nearby and, instead of being unobtrusive, deliberately clattered at her work.

Henry of Winchester threw her an irritated look. His eyes were like Stephen's in colour but were smaller and without the King's candour or good-natured twinkle. William d'Ypres followed the direction of the bishop's glower. His own gaze rested thoughtfully on Catrin, and the faintest suggestion of a smile curved beneath his moustache. 'I know of a younger man who has been chafing at the bit for some while, and to whom you owe a favour, he said.

Stephen raised his brows. He too looked at Catrin. 'There are many men of that ilk, he said, but his expression was considering. 'What experience?

William d'Ypres shrugged. 'His father was commander of the garrison at Chepstow and gave him a grounding. Other than that, he's quick-witted with good soldiering abilities. Give him a chance, I say. If he proves unsuitable, then replace him.

Stephen rubbed his beard. 'You're right, he murmured. 'A man cannot be tried unless he's tested. He drank down the rest of the milk broth and wiped his lips. 'Does that suit you, Mistress Grosmont?

'Sire? Catrin widened her eyes. She had almost choked when she heard William d'Ypres tell the King that Louis's father had been commander of a garrison, when he had been no more than a common serjeant at arms.

Stephen smiled. 'Come now, you have ears beneath your wimple and they hear very well, the times you have been at my side in the night with a cup before I have scarcely stirred. I am going to offer that husband of yours the custody of my keep at Wickham.

Catrin knelt to him, her head lowered, her face flaming. 'Sire, I do not know what to say. Which was true enough. She was breathless with surprise that it had been so easy; but her stomach was churning too. 'Thank you seems not enough.

'In truth I am only repaying what I owe for my life, Stephen said, a smug grin on his face as if the suggestion had been his in the first place. 'Go and find your man and bring him to me for confirmation. My scribes will make out the necessary letters for the constable.

Catrin could not wait to leave the room. She knew that the King and d'Ypres were amused by her flustered response, and that Henry of Winchester was contemptuous. Whatever the angle they all thought her a foolish woman, never realising their own folly. As she descended the tower stairs, her joy for Louis warred with the tarnish of the lie he had told d'Ypres. How many other falsehoods was his reputation built upon? She tried to ignore the thought. Louis would make a good commander. What did his father's occupation matter?

A niggling voice replied that it was not his father's occupation that mattered at all. His lies were the real concern but, despite the acuteness of her hearing, or perhaps because of it, Catrin chose not to listen.


While Wickham was not a castle of significance in the mould of Windsor or London, it was nevertheless useful to Stephen. Together with Warwick, Winchcomb and Northampton, it served as a counter to the Empress's castles at Worcester and Hereford. It was of no great size, but solidly built, and reminded Catrin of a stout man standing with feet planted apart and arms akimbo. In a way, it was almost endearing.

The June sun turned the stone blocks to a deep, ruddy gold and flashed upon the roof tiles as their entourage approached the huge wooden gates. A hundred paces from the keep, Louis drew rein and leaned back in the saddle to study his new acquisition.

'It is smaller than I thought it would be, he murmured.

'That is because you are accustomed to the likes of Rochester, Catrin said. 'The King would not entrust you with one of his largest keeps for your first command. Only a week ago you were a hearth soldier.

Louis grunted, and chewed his thumbnail. 'I suppose you are going to rub that in at every opportunity.

Catrin rolled her eyes. He was like a spoiled child sometimes. The more he got, the more he wanted. 'I am just saying that you cannot plant a seed one day and expect a full harvest the next. There has to be ripening.

'Sensible as ever. He gave her a mocking smile, acknowledging her concern and at the same time telling her without words that she was foolish. 'I bow to your greater wisdom. Wickham will do to start.


Their first night in the great hall, Louis sat in the lord's chair at the high table and wore his crimson gown with the gold embroidery, insisting that Catrin wear her finery too. The best napery was fetched from the chests where it had lain yellowing for the past ten years, Humphrey de Chesham not being one for ostentation. As long as a trestle was scrubbed, it had been good enough for him, the maid told Catrin as she handed over the keys to the linen coffers.

The keep was militarily spruce, but almost completely devoid of a woman's touch. Humphrey de Chesham had been a widower who availed himself of the alehouse girls when he felt the need, and relied on the maids to see to the domestic running of Wickham.

Catrin could see that there was much to be done, but the sumptuousness of the court had been stifling and she much preferred de Chesham's style of austerity. Louis, however, had plans which involved more than just strewing fresh, scented rushes on the floor and adding a few cushions to the benches.

'A lord should be seen to live like a lord, not a peasant, he said, when she questioned the advisability of extending the stable block, rebuilding the kitchens, and totally renovating the private quarters. 'I'll have craftsmen put glass in the upper windows and…

'Glass! Catrin cried in horror. 'Do you know how much that would cost? Where would you find the coin?

'There are ways and means, he said with a vague wave of his hand and looked at her narrowly. 'You always were the one to measure out each half and quarter penny.

'And you always spent what you never had, Catrin said waspishly.

He frowned, then, with an obvious effort, shrugged off his irritation and laid his hand over hers. 'I don't want to quarrel with you, not on our first night together here. Don't spoil it, Catty. His look became pleading, with just a hint of long-suffering to make her feel as if she was a killjoy and a shrew.

If not the first night, then when? Catrin wondered with a glimmer of foreboding. As long as she held her tongue and gambled along with him, arguments were unlikely. But if she chose the wider, safer path, instead of dancing on the precipice, they were bound to quarrel — as they had quarrelled before.

'Catty? he cajoled and peered round into her face. His expression was suddenly mischievous and he squeezed her thigh beneath the table. 'Wouldn't you like glass in the bedchamber?

Despite her better instincts, she was forced to smile. He had a way with him that was impossible to resist. She had heard a tale about stoats charming birds from the trees into their jaws, and she thought that Louis was a little like that.

'Whether I like it or not, we couldn't afford it, she said, but her tone was lighter now.

'We couldn't not afford it, he grinned, and toasted her in the keep's wine with his free hand. 'Who wants to be cold at night?


Henry FitzEmpress, heir to his mother's disputed kingdom, adjusted to the rolling deck of the ship like a sailor born, his legs planted wide for balance as he watched the haze of England's coastline sharpening on the horizon. He was nine years old, small for his age, but stocky, with a shock of bright red hair and light, glass-grey eyes. Those old enough to remember his great-grandfather, the Conqueror, said there was a family resemblance. All Oliver knew was that the child never sat still. In fact, he never sat at all. Questions poured out of him, one after the other like water out of a leaky spigot, and most of them were unanswerable. For a child of nine, his intellect was so sharp that those around him almost bled trying to keep it fed.

Oliver viewed the approaching land with impatience. They were heading for the port of Wareham. It belonged to Earl Robert, but had been seized by Stephen's troops, the reason why they came in a convoy of fifty-two warships with three hundred knights on board. He was ready to fight. Every one of Stephen's soldiers would wear the face of Louis de Grosmont and Oliver would yield no quarter.

He had travelled to Normandy as part of Earl Robert's deputation, to plead with Mathilda's husband, Geoffrey of Anjou, to come to England and lend his aid to their cause. Geoffrey had replied that he was too busy fighting his war in Normandy, but that his 'beloved wife', the words spoken with a sarcastic eyebrow, could have the custody of their eldest son and heir designate to prop up her ailing cause.