The Love Knot by Elizabeth Chadwick

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.
     

    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