For Oliver there was reassurance in her obvious delight and enthusiasm. Louis de Grosmont might haunt the back of his mind, mocking him with the fact that Catrin had chosen him at Rochester, that he had fathered her child and that he could have her back for the snapping of his fingers, but Oliver pinned that spectre to the wall. Catrin might have chosen Louis at Rochester, but she had chosen differently now and there was triumph in that.

Behind them a sudden great noise of shouting and laughter swelled and increased. Catrin half sat up, gasping, her wimple askew and her breasts tumbling out of her gown.

'It's the bedding ceremony, Oliver murmured. 'Godard and Edith are being escorted to their wedding night. His tunic lay in a crumpled heap on the straw and his shirt was unlaced. 'Do you want to go up with the crowd and wish them well?

'Will they miss us? She plucked a straw from his hair with lazy fingers. A snatch of song shot raucously in their direction as the bride and groom were conveyed up the stairs to the sleeping loft. Something about a hand in a bird's nest.

'With pleasure on this occasion, Oliver said, with a grimace over his shoulder at the noise. Then he turned back to her and cupped her breast in his good hand. 'But we can still wish them well by example.


Louis met Roxanne at the Baths in Caesarea. Her father had been a crusader and from him she had taken the light green eyes and chestnut copper hair. Her mother was a native Syrian, and it was from her family that she had inherited the bath house between the harbour and the archbishop's dwelling.

She was a widow, wealthy and sure of herself in business, but still vulnerable behind her confident manner, and she had been alone long enough for grief to fade and interest to quicken when she saw the handsome newcomer with his predatory eyes and lithe, slender body. He was lying on a table being oiled by one of the bath maids, his expression drugged with sensual pleasure. Roxanne dismissed the girl with a flick of her wrist and took over the oiling herself.

Within the hour they were lovers; within the week Louis had moved from the common lodging house by the Jaffa Gate and into her apartments. A month later they were married. She had no reason to doubt him when he told her that he was without commitments in his native land.

Chapter 28

Rouen, Normandy,

Spring 1149

She was young, frightened and struggling to bear her first child among strangers. Her thick blond hair was dark with sweat at her brow and her blue eyes were glazed with pain. She crouched upon the birthing stool, her thighs splayed apart and the straw beneath her soaked with birthing fluid.

'It won't be long now, Catrin soothed, setting her arm around the girl's shoulders. 'Drink this to keep up your strength and help your womb to work.

Obediently the girl raised the cup to her lips, grimacing only a little as the aftertaste lingered on her palate. To say that she was only just sixteen years old, Catrin thought that she was being very brave. Her name was Hikenai, but since no one without English could pronounce it, she was known as Belle. Prince Henry had brought her back from an adolescent escapade in England two years since when they were both fourteen. She had gone from kitchen-wench to royal chambermaid in the whisk of a bed sheet.

There were those who were jealous of Belle's rise in status, who thought it wrong that a common Saxon wench should share the Prince's bed, but Catrin was fond of her. Belle had no airs and graces. Her heart was generous and devoid of malice, and Catrin's own heart went out to the girl because she was so very young and vulnerable.

Outside, the bells of Rouen Cathedral tolled the hour of nones, and golden mid-afternoon light poured through the shutters on to the waiting cradle by the fire and the copper basin in which the new-born would be bathed. A maidservant moved around the room, unobtrusively warming towels and swaddling to greet the arrival of Henry Plantagenet's first child.

In the six years since leaving England, Catrin had overcome the qualms of home-sickness by resuming her trade as a midwife and healer. She had the full endorsement of the Ducal household and custom was soon brisk. Oliver said nothing but employed a burley Flemish mercenary to replace Godard. They had a maid as well, to care for Rosamund when Catrin was about her business.

'Push down through your belly, she encouraged Belle, as a strong contraction tightened the girl's womb. 'Yes, that's it.

Belle groaned with effort. It was always hard for younger women, Catrin thought. Their taut, firm muscles wanted to hold everything in rather than let it out, and their labours were nearly always twice as long as women bearing second or third offspring.

For the next hour, she continued to cajole and urge her patient, and was rewarded at last by the appearance of the head at the entrance of the birth passage. 'Gently now, she murmured, and eased her hand around the baby's head to untangle the cord that was wrapped around its neck. The hair, slick with birth fluid, was dark auburn, but would dry to a vivid Plantagenet red. At Catrin's command, Belle pushed again and the baby gushed from her body into the waiting towel.

'A boy. Catrin smiled with delight as she rubbed the infant in the linen and he let out a reedy wail of protest. 'A lusty man-child for you and your lord.

Sobbing with effort and emotion, Belle held out her arms for her son and cradled him with an expertise that came of being the eldest of eight children. Catrin watched the first meeting with tingling eyes. She had lost count of the number of babies she had delivered during the past years, all belonging to other women. It seemed an age since she had cradled Rosamund in her arms.

There were precautions which lessened the likelihood of pregnancy, and until Rosamund was three Catrin had used pieces of moss or scraps of linen soaked in vinegar. But another three years had passed since then without result. Her flux was a week late this month, but it had happened several times before and on each occasion had been a false prophecy. Her lack of fecundity posed no problem to Oliver, who was quite content for her not to risk the perils of childbirth, but Catrin viewed each monthly bleed with wistful disappointment. Perhaps Belle's baby was a portent; perhaps this time it would be different.

Competently she delivered the afterbirth and made mother and baby comfortable for the inevitable stream of visitors who would begin to arrive the moment that word of the birth spread beyond the bedchamber door.

Henry was the first to appear, blowing into the room like a gale. Unlike his father he was neither tall nor handsome, but he still had so much charisma and energy that he positively blazed. He was a month shy of his sixteenth birthday, but no one thought of him as a raw youth. Prince Henry was a king in the making.

He gave Belle a robust kiss on each cheek and plucked the baby out of her arms to carry him to the candlelight. 'Hah, red like me, he said with pleasure, and peered into the crumpled infant face with paternal pride. On the bed, his mistress smiled with weary triumph. Whatever the future held, she would always be the mother of his firstborn son.

The child in his arms, Henry turned to Catrin. 'You do know that you have employment for as long as you want it, he grinned.

'Does that mean you are going to keep me busy, sire? Catrin replied with a broad smile of her own.

He laughed and bounced the baby back to its mother. 'Man may plan, but heaven executes, he said. 'Nevertheless, it will be no hardship to endeavour my best. In high good humour, he paid her fee and gave her a ring of notched gold and garnet from his middle finger.

In high good humour herself, Catrin made her way back across the tower precincts to the small house against the outer wall that she and Oliver shared. As she approached, she heard gales of laughter and, rounding the corner, came upon her six-year-old daughter, blunt spear in hand, attacking young Richard FitzRoy. He was fending her off with his shield, while his dog leaped and barked around the two of them, its tail wagging like a flail. Leaning against the doorpost, Oliver watched the scene, an indulgent grin on his face.

'So this is how you spend your time when I'm not by, Catrin admonished with mock severity.

Rosamund whirled, her black braid as glossy as a raven's wing in the spring sunshine. 'Richard's teaching me to fight with a spear! Her voice was sharp with excitement and her cheeks were flushed, making her eyes look darker and brighter than ever. They were her father's legacy, as were her quickness and grace. She had a lethal quantity of his mercurial charm too.

'It's blunt, Richard said swiftly. 'She'll come to no harm. He stood head and shoulders above Catrin now. His adult features were developing apace and there was the lightest hint of a beard on his chin. During the last year his voice had deepened and his narrow girth increased. It was becoming very difficult for Catrin to remember the small boy whose nightmares had woken the Countess's women in Bristol after the raid on Penfoss.

'And learning to fight is more exciting than spinning wool or stitching cloth, Catrin nodded, stifling a smile. She ruffled the dog's thick, tawny fur. 'Richard, you will be pleased to know that Prince Henry has just made you a great-uncle. Belle has borne a fine son.

The young man pulled a face. 'I congratulate him, but the child can call me «cousin». I don't want to be anyone's «great-uncle» until I'm in my dotage!

'What's dotage? Rosamund demanded.

'What happens when you pass twenty, Oliver said.

Rosamund looked at him narrowly. 'Does that mean you are in your dotage?

'You'll have to ask your mother. He grinned at Catrin.

The little girl frowned.

'Pay no heed, Catrin advised her. 'Your papa's teasing. When you have finished learning how to be an Amazon, I want you to take a jar of throat syrup to Dame Quenhild in the hall.

Rosamund screwed up her face, considering mutiny, but decided against it and nodded her head. It was fun playing with Richard, but it was also fun to watch all the coming and going in the hall.

Catrin gave her the jar of syrup and watched Rosamund set off, Richard escorting her for he too had business in that direction. The little girl carried her burden carefully, her black braid swinging as she walked. Catrin shook her head and smiled, her vitals gripped by a sharp pang of love. 'She is growing fast, she murmured to Oliver. 'Too fast for me in my "dotage", he agreed and sat down on the pallet they shared.

Catrin gave him a sidelong glance. For an instant she contemplated telling him that her flux was late, that there might be another child to watch over as it grew from helpless infancy to sturdy independence, but she dismissed the idea almost immediately. It was too soon to tell. Besides, knowing Oliver's qualms about the entire matter of childbirth, it was probably best to keep him in ignorance until she was thoroughly sure herself, and that might take several months.

The glance she had given him was met by a considering one of his own, as if he too was deciding whether to speak. Catrin saw that he was unconsciously rubbing his left elbow. Six years after his wounding, he had regained reasonable use of the limb and could even hold a full-sized kite shield for short periods, but it still pained him on occasion. Rubbing it was either a sign that the bone was aching or that he had something on his mind. After the way he had looked at her, she thought it was the latter.

'What's wrong? she asked.

'Nothing. Oliver shook his head, but his expression did not lighten and he continued to massage his elbow. 'Did Prince Henry say anything when you saw him?

'Not a great deal; only that he was pleased with the child and that I was granted employment for life. Why? Moving three of Rosamund's hair ribbons, a distaff with some neatly spun wool and a doll made of fabric stuffed with fleece, she sat down at Oliver's side.

'He said nothing about England?

'No. Catrin gave him a sharp look. 'He's not contemplating an escapade like the last one? Two years ago Henry had taken it into his head to cross the Narrow Sea with a raiding party of friends and mercenaries. It was an ill-planned expedition, funded by youthful high spirits and little else. Oliver had been at his wits' end over the matter, for Henry had viewed all pleas for prudence as nothing more than the procrastination of old men who had outlived their daring. Oliver had felt the criticism keenly. To all intents and purposes he was Henry's quartermaster, responsible for ensuring that there were enough supplies to sustain the soldiers of his household whether at home or on campaign. Two years ago, Henry had overridden Oliver's protests that they were not sufficiently prepared and had set out to claim England as if he were going to play skittles at a summer feast.