Oliver shrugged. 'A band of routiers led by a man on a chestnut stallion. Could be one of a thousand such.
'Aye, and that makes me right sorry too, she said with a sigh, then cocked him a bright glance from beneath her brows. 'Gawin also spoke of the woman and boy you brought out o' the place. Old King Henry's last bastard whelp, eh?
She ladled the eel stew into two bowls and, while they ate, Oliver told her about Richard and Catrin. Ethel's expression grew thoughtful as she listened. She nodded her approval at his use of the betony and feverfew tisane, and the humour lines deepened around her eyes when he mentioned the scarlet hose and the way Catrin had straddled the grey.
'Sounds an uncommon young woman, she remarked, watching him scrape the bottom of his bowl. 'Is she married?
'Widowed. He sucked the spoon. 'She lost her husband three years ago.
Ethel absorbed this with a sympathetic murmur. 'You won't just abandon her and the lad now that you've delivered them safe, will you? She tapped his knee with her spoon.
'No, of course not! He looked at her with indignation. He still rose to her bait, although he knew that Ethel's badgering did not stem from doubt in his morals, but from long habit and her need to see decency in a world gone morally awry. 'My duties permitting, I'll visit as often as I can until they're both settled.
'See that you do, she said in a tone that made him feel as if he were still in tail clouts. But then she abandoned her attack. There was a gleam in her eyes that made him suspicious, but of what he did not know. Ethel was a law unto herself — half the reason why Ashbury's new Flemish lord had hounded her out of the cottage she kept against the castle wall.
The meal finished and respects paid, Oliver rose to leave. As he stretched his arms above his head to ease a kink, one of the castle's young laundry maids approached out of the shadows. She had a round, freckled face, ample proportions and chapped, red hands.
Noticing Oliver, she hesitated, and half turned to leave. Ethel held up a forefinger and, bidding her wait, rummaged in the copious leather satchel beside her stool. From it she produced a knot, woven from three colours of double-strand wool. There was also a scrap of linen tied in a small pouch with a twist of scarlet thread.
'I ain't saying this will work, Wulfrune, it don't always, but I've had more successes in my time than failures.
The girl looked sidelong at Oliver as she exchanged a coin for the objects in Ethel's hand.
'Mind and make sure you ask the blessing of Saint Valentine before you use them, Ethel said sternly. 'And don't forget to rub that cream I gave you into your hands.
The girl nodded a promise and with another swift glance at Oliver hurried away.
Ethel chuckled and folded her arms. 'There's a lad she's after — sells charcoal by the postern gate.
'And you think she'll catch him with love knots and other ensorcelments? Oliver gave her a disapproving look.
'Mayhap she will, mayhap she won't. Even with help the course of true love's about as straight as a dog's hind leg. Ethel stowed the coin in a leather pouch around her neck. 'It does no harm, she added, as he continued to glower, 'and it earns me enough to eat.
'What about the fact that you were harried from your home by accusations of witchcraft?
'Why do you think I warned her to invoke the help of a good Christian saint? she sniffed. 'Besides, it's tradition. Every wise-woman worth her salt knows about knot magic and love philtres. You can buy 'em anywhere. Show me a single sailor that don't have a herb-wife's knot in his sea-chest to control the winds, or a housewife who don't have one of scarlet thread for stanching nosebleeds. She patted his arm. 'I keep within the bounds of what's permitted. That whoreson, Odinel the Fleming, chased me from my home because I would not acknowledge him as Lord of Ashbury, God rot his ballocks to a mush. Her eyes gleamed.
Knowing better than to argue with her in one of her incorrigible moods, Oliver used the excuse of stabling his horse to make his escape and set about untethering the grey. His fingers were clumsy on the knot and he swore to himself, for his difficulty almost seemed like a portent. The skill of weaving cords, threads and rope into intricate knots was an ancient one, rife with superstition. At the making of the knot, a charm was spoken three times, thus binding great power into the curves and twirls. And when they were released, so was the power of the charm — for good or evil. He had no belief in such magic, or so he told himself, but he was glad when the tether slipped free.
Ethel waved him on his way with a smile, and called out her thanks for the eels. Then she sat down again beside her fire and, delving in her satchel, took out three spindles holding yards of thread — white, red and black. With patience and dexterity, despite her weaker left hand, she began to braid and tie, all the time murmuring to herself.
Chapter 4
Mabile FitzHamon, Countess of Gloucester, was tall and gaunt-boned, with an unfortunate resemblance to a plough-horse, made all the more cruel by her large, yellow teeth. Her eyes were her saving grace, being large and soft brown with thick, dark lashes. Just now they were fixed upon the washed body of Amice de Cormel, lying in state before the altar in the castle's small private chapel.
'What a waste, she murmured over her clasped hands. 'She could have led such a different life.
Kneeling beside her, Catrin inhaled the smell of incense on the cold chapel air and watched the candles fluttering in the darkness. The ache in her head was now no more than a dull pulse, but it had spread throughout her body. She was numb with exhaustion, her eyelids so hot that she felt as if someone had scattered their undersides with particles of burning grit.
Lady Mabile was kind in a brusque, impatient sort of way. She had welcomed Richard and Catrin into her household, found them sleeping space for the night amongst her women, and promised to give them fabric from her coffers to make new clothes. They had been given food and drink, their immediate needs tended, all with great practicality and small warmth. Now Richard was asleep on a narrow straw pallet squeezed into a corner of the maids' chamber, and Catrin was paying her respects to the dead.
'How well did you know her, child? asked the Countess.
'I served her for three years, my lady, and in all that time she was kind and generous to me.
'I am sure she was, but that was not my question.
Catrin turned to face the brown, equine gaze, and found its shrewdness disconcerting. 'I knew her very well, my lady.
Meaning passed between them without words. The Countess sighed. 'Then you will realise why my husband never sought to pin her to a husband for all that she was his ward. His own father, the king, took her virginity. When Henry's interest waned, she turned to other men for affection and it became a deep-rooted canker. She would have made a cuckold of any man she married, and in short order. The Countess dabbed a spot of moisture from her eye and looked at her wet fingertip. 'And yet, I was fond of her; she meant no harm. A waste. May the blessed Virgin look kindly on her soul.
So the waste was what Amice had made of her life, not what those vile soldiers had done to her, Catrin thought with a flash of anger.
'And you yourself are a widow? the Countess continued.
'Yes, my lady. Catrin kept her eyes on her clenched knuckles lest she reveal her irritation. Richard needed her and she could not afford to be dismissed. 'My husband was killed in a fight with a Welsh lord. I still mourn him deeply. She bit her lip.
There was silence for a moment, then the Countess gently touched Catrin's shoulder. 'That is a grievous pity, she said compassionately. 'Life is always difficult for a woman alone. You are welcome to remain in my household. Another pair of hands is always useful. Mabile crossed herself and rose to her feet. 'Come, child, it is late. She will sleep peacefully here with the priest until dawn.