Catrin thought of her promise to Oliver. Bearing twins would make it more difficult to keep, but not impossible. Most women who bore two babies survived the experience, but there was a significant minority who did not. 'I am not surprised, she said. 'I knew I was too large for my time just to be carrying the one, unless it was a giant. Indeed, in a way she was relieved. She looked at Sibell. 'Can you stay for my confinement?
The midwife pursed her lips, causing the fine spider lines surrounding them to deepen and pucker. 'I can be back here in a three-week, she said, 'but I don't know as you'll last that long.
'But will you come?
'Aye, lass, if that's what you want.
'It is. Catrin struggled off the pallet. Her belly began under her breasts and was as round as a full moon. She had to lean over it to view her feet, and putting on shoes was a nightmare. She offered the midwife a cup of mead and listened politely to Dame Sibell's recounting of the family business that brought her away from Bristol. Then she asked after Geoffrey and his children.
'He's bearing it well to the world, but not within himself,
Sibell said sombrely. 'The children have gone to stay with his cousin in Gloucester and he visits them when he can, but I think he finds more solace in the bottom of a cup just now. 'Will it pass, do you think?
'Only time and God can say. Sibell crossed herself. 'At least he isn't hiding the grief away like some men. I keep thinking about the poor lass. There was nothing any of us could have done.
'No. Catrin laid her hand upon her belly and told herself fiercely that she was going to keep her promise to Oliver. For her sake, for his and Rosamund's. And Edon's memory.
Sibell finished the mead and took her leave, promising to return from Ludgershall as soon as she could.
The thought of twins in her mind, Catrin began sorting through her swaddling bands and linens to decide how much more she was going to need.
There was a sea-mist at dawn. Coughing, Oliver rose from sleep and found the entire camp bedewed in hoar. Soldiers faded in and out of the cloud like wraiths. The fires were damp and reluctant to burn, and everything had an other-worldly aspect. They were, after all, on the verge of King Arthur's old kingdom. Southwards lay Cornwall and the ruins of Tintagel that some said was once called Camelot.
Oliver was grateful for the fleece lining to his cloak for there was a biting chill in the air. Although full winter had yet to arrive, campaigning on its threshold was far from pleasant. His left arm ached and his fingertips were numb. Everything made of steel was streaked with rust.
For their pains they had taken Bridport as Henry had hoped, but other success had been elusive. Stephen's commander, de Tracy, had retreated behind his castle walls at Barnstaple, refusing to be drawn into open battle. Henry had pursued him doggedly but did not have the resources to crack open such a stronghold at one attempt. In retreating, de Tracy had burned everything in his path, leaving nothing for Henry's army to forage.
All that the cooking pot contained for breakfast was thin gruel. Being in command of supplies, Oliver was acutely sensitive about not taking more than his due. If there was no abuse, there could be no crime. He ladled some of the unappetising mixture into his bowl and thought with longing of Catrin's hearty stews, of hot hearth bricks, glowing logs, and the pleasure of a warm, dry bed.
The wistful pleasure of his thoughts was curtailed by a vision of Catrin stretched upon the rack of childbirth, her body arched, her belly mountainous with the child that she was unable to bear. The image was so vivid that he hissed through his teeth and, bowl in hand, went to kick awake the other men at his fire so that he was not alone with his fears.
After breaking his fast, he tended to Lucifer and went to find Henry. The mist was slowly clearing and men were gathered around the fires, warming their hands, spitting and coughing the winter damp from their lungs.
Henry was breaking his own fast with his cousin, Philip of Gloucester, and Roger, Earl of Hereford. Gruel was their fare too, but enriched with milk and sweetened with honey. To one side, a pretty young woman was daintily dipping a spoon into a bowl. She had silvery hair and a pink and cream complexion. Henry's cloak was wrapped around her body, keeping out the morning chill. Oliver marvelled anew at the Prince's ability to find attractive bed mates even in the middle of nowhere. A pity he could not conjure up oats, stockfish and wine while he was about it.
Oliver swept them a bow but before he could open his mouth, Henry pre-empted him with a wave of his horn spoon. 'Yes, Pascal, I know. We're short of everything but mist and rain; there are no friendly keeps within foraging distance, and nothing left to take from the land because de Tracy has burned it all. He gestured Oliver to sit down. Henry himself remained standing, his shoulder pushed against the tent post. 'If we could take Barnstaple of course… His grey eyes gleamed.
For one dreadful moment, Oliver thought that Henry might seriously be intending such a move, but the Prince gave a regretful shrug of his shoulders and sighed.
'Unfortunately, I don't have the force to do it — not this time at least. But I've sunk my teeth in and I will do so again.
'So we're turning back? Oliver asked, with a feeling of relief.
'Aye, said Philip of Gloucester, and gave Henry a wry look. 'Although not without due consideration. Despite being cousins there was no family resemblance. Philip had inherited Mabile's cow-brown eyes and he had Earl Robert's fine, dark hair and receding hair-line. He was an accomplished soldier but, like his father before him, not inclined to take risks unless pushed. His experience informed and balanced Henry's opinions and decisions. Roger of Hereford said nothing, but that was usual. His character was dour and quiet. Getting him to say anything at all was like prising open the jaws of a bull-baiting dog with a wooden spoon.
Henry set his bowl aside. 'You could obtain supplies if I wanted to keep up the campaign, couldn't you? he asked Oliver.
'Only by sending to Bristol by coastal trader, sire. There is nothing here except what we carry. You could put the men on half rations and hope to find a few farms that have escaped the torch, but it makes for poor morale.
'So you agree with the decision to turn back?
'Yes, sire, I do.
'Then you can escort the vanguard. Move out as soon as you can strike camp. Henry ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. 'I need not tell you that it falls to your duty as the commander of the van to find us a safe place to rest for the night and provender for man and beast.
'No, sire, Oliver said, managing to keep a blank expression. 'You need not tell me.
Catrin winced at the amount that the cloth-trader was demanding for a loom length of plain, unbleached linen with which to make swaddling bands.
'Bad harvest, he said, spreading his hands. 'Too much sun and rain at the wrong time. Add that to the burning of war and it don't leave a sight for weaving. He rubbed the side of his nose and looked at her. 'Tell you what, since you're in need, mistress, I'll cut my own wrists and offer you the length for two shillings.
Catrin shook her head. 'We have to eat, she said, with a gesture at Rosamund who was wearing her oldest gown — one that was almost too short and had a patched hem. It was her playing gown, she had two others that were far better, but Catrin knew that traders always based their amount of profit on the customer's personal appearance. Of course, she did not want him to think that she was not worth the bother, so she had dressed herself neatly but plainly; a respectable townswoman who was prepared to buy but not to be fleeced.
'Can't sell it to you for less, but what about this bolt end? He produced a fine piece of tawny wool with a thread of darker weave running through it. 'Make a dress for the little lass. Colour suits her a treat. I'll give it to you free of charge.