The Conquest

CHAPTER 37

LONDON 1084

Merielle was a whore, although she preferred to call herself a courtesan. The truth was somewhere in between. She did not frequent the houses and bastions of the city's wealthy burghers and French-speaking nobility; they came to her in clandestine fashion, ferried across the Thames by knowing boatmen to the Southwark side and appointments with their lust.

Merielle was tall and shapely with flawless skin, huge blue eyes, and a pouting red mouth. In the six years since becoming the chief attraction of Dame Agatha's bathhouse, she had not once conceived, and the blessing of her barrenness made her very popular with men who had no desire to add the complication of bastard offspring to their family line, but urgently required the services that only a Southwark bath girl could perform. Merielle was ambitious and professional in her work. She was also a prize bitch.

'You stupid little slut, you're not currying a horse! Can't you be more gentle!' she snapped at the girl with the comb. Her voice, which was musical and throaty for her customers, was ugly and petulant now.

'I'm sorry,' Julitta said, not in the least. 'There was a tangle, it's out now.' She drew the comb down through Merielle's silky golden hair and thought grudgingly how beautiful it was. Her own hair was an uncontrollable mass of wood-shaving curls, and the colour was disastrous. 'Like raw liver – disgusting,' so Merielle was always telling her. But then Merielle never had a good word for anyone unless they were rich and male.

'That will have to do. You're too slow, there's no time now.' Merielle swiped Julitta's hand aside. 'My robe, bring me my robe.' She snapped her fingers.

Julitta curbed the urge to return the gesture in Merielle's overfed face. Her rebellious nature had already earned her several reprimands this week, and Dame Agatha was not patient at the best of times. With her mother sick, Julitta could not afford to incur any serious disfavour.

Eyes lowered, she brought Merielle a gown of blue linen to cover the light chemise. It was of a fashion typical to nursing mothers, its deep neck opening fastened for modesty by a simple clasp at the throat. Julitta, at fourteen, was not ignorant as to the purpose of the dress in Agatha's bathhouse. On more than one occasion she had seen a bellicose merchant thrust his hand inside Merielle's bodice and squeeze her breasts like a housewife testing bread dough. It was always a preliminary to yet more intimate pawing, and she was not ignorant about that either, despite the protective efforts of her mother.

She helped Merielle to don the blue gown, and arranged the blonde hair over it in a sheaf of sultry gold, her emotions vacillating between contempt and envy. The young whore pushed her dainty white feet into a pair of soft leather slippers, added an extra dab of rose oil perfume to her generous cleavage, and was ready to go down to her client, a corpulent gold merchant called Edmund.

On the threshold, she turned imperiously to Julitta. 'Tidy this up,' she commanded, waving her arm to indicate the scattered debris of her preparations. 'Then come and help below. And mind you make haste.' Her dainty nose wrinkled. 'And tie your hair back too, you look like something out of the wild woods!' With which parting sally, she minced forth.

Julitta swore at Merielle's retreating back and with a toss of her head, wound her fingers through her hair, deliberately entangling it further. She looked like something out of the wild woods because she was something out of the wild woods, trapped in a noose and slowly strangling to death. It was no use complaining to Dame Agatha. There were other girls who worked at the bathhouse, but Merielle was the prize asset, and if it came to a choice between the whore and the housekeeper's rebellious fourteen-year-old daughter, Julitta knew who would win.

Julitta's memory of a secure existence was a distant, unreal point of colour like a passage from a bard's winter song. Once there had been a little girl, a princess who lived in a rich hall and had everything she wanted, horses, servants, fine clothes, the world at her beck and call. A witch from the north lands had changed all that, setting a blood curse upon the girl so that she was changed into a beggar maid. It was a fantasy to which Julitta often returned, promising herself that one day the beggar maid would regain her true inheritance. But not today, she acknowledged to herself with a disgusted glance around the cluttered room.

Julitta tidied Merielle's debris with nimble speed and a bad grace. Edmund the Goldsmith had bought his mistress a hand mirror in which she could admire her flawless beauty. Julitta picked it up to put on the coffer, and paused to study her own reflection. Her hair kinked in unruly close waves, its colour the dark, pure red of a Lothian garnet. The face returning her stare was of balanced proportions, the nose fine and straight, the eyes almond-shaped and of a deep, green-flecked blue, the jaw stubborn and slightly angular. She bore small resemblance to her mother lest it be in the generous curve of her lips and the width of her brow. Everything else, so she was told, was a feminine version of her father's.

'You are so like him,' Ailith would mutter, shaking her head. But Julitta had no true idea what her father was like. She remembered being swept up in strong arms, and a deep voice, bright with laughter, she remembered the deliberate nuzzle of stubble on her cheek making her squeal with delight, and of riding with him to look at a meadow full of grazing horses, her small finger pointing, following his. But such memories were inextricably twined with other, darker ones that she preferred not to explore. If he was so wonderful, why had her mother left him and gone into hiding like a wounded animal?

Abruptly Julitta turned the mirror over and placing it on the coffer, went down to the bathhouse, her hair falling to her hips in eldritch tangles.

Dame Agatha was the widow of a Galwegian mercenary who had made his fortune by changing sides to be on the right one at the right time. In their turn he had served Hardraada of Norway, Harold of England, and William of Normandy. With the profits of his plunder, he had built a bathhouse in Southwark and lived to retire and die of apoplexy.

The premises boasted six private bathing cubicles, each supplied with a large oval tub on a tiled floor, with sufficient room for a charcoal brazier to keep the bather warm, and a dressing couch, which had certain other uses. Dame Agatha's also contained a popular public steam room. The widow's husband had owned the foresight to build a cookshop next door to his bathhouse, so that his clients could send out for hot food, should their exertions make them hungry.

Ailith appeared, carrying two buckets of scalding water.

'I'll do that, Mama.' Julitta held out her hands, but Ailith shook her head.

'I'm almost there now,' she panted. Entering the nearest cubicle, she dumped the buckets on the floor. Immediately Julitta took over the task of pouring the water into the huge bathtub. She saw that it would take at least another three journeys to fill it to a sufficient level, and knew that her mother would make herself ill if she did not rest. The cough which had bothered her throughout the winter had not eased with the advent of spring, and Julitta had become alarmed at how gaunt her once robust mother had become.

Whisking the empty buckets from beneath Ailith's nose, Julitta was gone before her mother could protest. When she returned, the buckets full to the brim and steaming, Ailith was scattering herbs into the tub to scent the water. From the main room, where guests were greeted and made at home, they heard Merielle's alluring voice and the laughter of men.

'I thought she was only entertaining Edmund?' Julitta said, eyeing the tub which, although capacious, was certainly not large enough for three. Perhaps they would all go into the steam room together.

Ailith coughed harshly. 'Agatha told me he'd brought a friend with him. She's sent for Celestine to provide him with hospitality.'

Dame Agatha would be pleased, Julitta thought as she journeyed to and fro with the buckets to fill the bath. Edmund was one of her best customers, and if he was introducing all his rich friends to the location, then so much the better for business. Celestine was Agatha's second-best girl, and like Merielle, only involved herself with the wealthiest clients.

Julitta's assumption of Dame Agatha's delight was correct, for when the proprietor came to discover if the bath was prepared for their guests, her plump face was wreathed in smiles and she presented Julitta with a silver penny for herself. 'You're a good lass,' she declared, patting Julitta's cheek. 'I know I shout at you oftimes, but it's more bark than bite. You're a good worker. Now, I want you to go round to the cookshop and bring back two roast capons, a manchet, and a dish of pepper sauce.'

Julitta turned to leave on her errand just as Merielle emerged from the main room with the two clients. Edmund's arm was around her waist, his hand fumbling at her breasts already. His friend was red in the face and kept touching his crotch. When he saw Julitta staring at him, he grinned, and striding forwards, snatched hold of her wrist in a grip heavy with rings.

'How much is this one?' he demanded of Dame Agatha.

Dame Agatha looked slightly taken aback, but she rallied quickly. 'I am sorry, Master Wulfstan, but Julitta is my housekeeper's daughter. She does not serve as a bath maid.'

Julitta struggled against the biting grip on her wrist, but he only tightened it. 'I want her,' he said. 'How much?'

Dame Agatha's chins wobbled as she swallowed. 'Celestine is very accommodating and trained to the arts,' she said. 'I am sure you will find her more to your taste.'

'I think not. This one's a virgin? I'll pay you double for her maidenhead.'

'Leave my daughter alone!' Ailith burst furiously upon the little group, her hand dropping to the haft of the all-purpose knife at her belt. 'Let her go,' she snarled at Wulfstan, 'or I will geld you!'

The merchant recoiled, and Julitta was able to snatch herself free. Rubbing her wrist she ran to her mother's side for protection and stood panting and wide-eyed. The man gazed upon her and Ailith, his eyes narrowing. His hands went to his hips and a smile suddenly curved beneath his full, grey-gold moustache. 'Well, well,' he said softly, 'I always knew you would end your days in a brothel, Ailith. What happened, did your lover abandon you when your belly came between him and his pleasure?'

Ailith stared. An expression of loathing contorted her features. 'Wulfstan!' she almost retched.

'Aye, sweetheart, Wulfstan.' The goldsmith's smile grew mocking. 'You should have accepted my offer all those years ago. My wife dresses in silks and sables. She is the mother of four lusty boys, and mistress of a great household.'

'And her husband visits bathhouses on the Southwark bank,' Ailith retorted with contempt.

Wulfstan's complexion darkened, but he kept his smile. 'Aye, visits,' he sneered. 'I need not resort to living in one.'

Ailith tried to stare him out, but she was seized by a violent paroxysm of coughing that doubled her over. Her ribs felt as if they were going to tear apart. Blood filled her mouth.

'Mama!' Julitta put her arm around her mother, supporting her while she choked and spluttered.

Wulfstan eyed the two of them, then turned decisively to Edmund, who had been watching the proceedings with astonishment. 'Go on, get in the tub before it goes stone cold,' he said. 'You've paid enough for the privilege. I want a private word with this good dame here.' He smiled at Agatha, but the expression was far from pleasant.

'Of course,' she said faintly, then rallied herself. 'If you'll come this way to my solar. Julitta, take your mother to your room and let her lie down awhile. You had best take over her duties for tonight.'

Wulfstan followed Dame Agatha into her sanctum, but not without casting a look of malice over his shoulder at mother and daughter.

'Mama, who was he?' Julitta asked with a shudder of revulsion as she helped Ailith to their chamber and sat her down on the bed.

Ailith spat blood into her kerchief. Mercifully the cough had eased. 'Wulfstan the Goldsmith. He courted me once and tried to force me into marriage. Your father intervened by offering me a position at Ulverton. Wulfstan was humiliated and he is not the kind to forgive and forget. He will joy in exacting vengeance.' Ailith bowed her head. 'Jesu, I am so tired, and my head is spinning. I do not know what to do.'

Julitta was frightened. Her mother was usually so uncomplaining and resourceful, a rock to which she could cling when life threatened to engulf her. To see her like this made Julitta realise that she must either learn to swim on her own, or one day drown. She struck out in anger, as she had struck out as a small, spoiled child when learning against her will to make bread.

'I hate it here!' she cried. 'Why did you ever leave my father? At least he would have taken care of us!'

Her mother's face was waxen. 'I left your father because I did not respect him any more. He had dragged me through the mire once too often.'

'And we are not being dragged through the mire now? Jesu God, Mama, you had an entire keep at your command, and you gave it up for a bathhouse?'

Ailith sighed. 'Oh Julitta, Julitta,' she said wearily. 'If only it were that simple. Many is the time I have thought about swallowing my pride and returning to him, but it would be too late, I know, the bitterness is carved too deep. Do you remember that time I took you across the river to that big house with the wharf at the back?'

'Of course I do,' said Julitta without hesitation. 'We went to visit the de Remys but they weren't there. You bought me some green hair ribbons from a market stall on the way home.'

'You really remember it so well?'

'I thought I was going to see Ben again, I wouldn't stop crying.'

Julitta looked sidelong at her mother. 'Yes,' she said softly. 'I do remember it well.' The bitter disappointment, the anger. 'Why didn't we visit another time?'

'Because I should never have gone in the first place,' Ailith said wearily. 'It was after Sigrid moved away to Southampton. I felt so alone, that I was tempted to try and make contact. When the de Remys were absent, it seemed to be a sign from God that I should leave well alone.' She began to cough again, and the kerchief in her hand grew red. 'It doesn't seem so important now. Perhaps I was wrong.'

'Mama!' Alarmed, Julitta crouched at her mother's side, feeling as helpless as a straw in a gale.

The paroxysm eased. Her face grey, Ailith wiped bloody foam from her lips. 'Tomorrow,' she whispered. 'Tomorrow, you will go to the nuns at St Aethelburga's, and they will send for your father.'

'But I…'

'Do not argue with me, child, I haven't the strength. I should have done this long since.'

Disobeying the hoarse command, Julitta began to protest in earnest, but Dame Agatha barged into the room like a ship in full sail, and rendered her silent. The woman puffed to a halt at the bedside and folded her arms, hitching her pendulous breasts up beneath her chin, always a sign that she was prepared to do battle.

'I have had words with Master Wulfstan,' she announced to mother and daughter, her eye fixing on Ailith in particular. 'He says that he is willing to overlook what happened earlier, if you are willing also.'

'Then Wulfstan is the only leopard who has ever changed his spots.' Ailith dabbed the kerchief at her mouth.

Agatha frowned. 'I don't say as I like him, but he's rich and he has influence. I cannot afford to turn a customer like him away from my door.'

'You once told me that this was a respectable establishment,' Ailith croaked.

'So it is!' Agatha's cheeks fattened with indignation. 'There's no thievery or evil doings. This place is clean and well ordered —just as respectable as any of the homes my clients come from. I set my standards high!'

'But not high enough to deny Wulfstan the Goldsmith.'

'You make too much fuss,' Agatha sniffed. 'You've been glad enough of a roof over your head and a place to hide these last eight years, have you not? Don't preach standards at me, my girl!'

Ailith bowed her head and said nothing. Agatha's bosom surged again, and she rounded on Julitta. 'I had to send one of the other girls out to the cookshop in your stead. There's a tub needs filling downstairs, and the couch making up. Best be sharp about it. There's other customers arriving soon.'

'But my mother…" Julitta gestured at Ailith. 'I cannot leave her like this!'

'She will be all right. You can check on her between tasks, and I'll look in myself,' Agatha said not unkindly, but with a determined glint in her eye. 'Go on, girl, the sooner gone, the sooner back!' She flapped her hands in a shooing motion.

Julitta did not want to go, but she had little choice. With a final, worried glance at her mother, she went reluctantly from the room and down to the bathhouse.

For the next quarter candle notch, she heaved the pails back and forth, back and forth until the tub in the end cubicle was filled to two-thirds of its depth and the steam rose from its surface as thickly as river mist. Her wayward hair developed a wilder curl, and her face glowed with effort. She scattered fragrant herbs in the tub and made up the couch. Her mind watched her body at work, focusing upon the red hands, the damp, wild curtains of her hair as she leaned forward, the stoop of her spine. The cruelty was knowing that there was more to existence than this. She was bursting with life and all the vital force was being wasted in bearing pails of water and watching fat merchants grope smug whores… in watching her mother die by inches before her very eyes. Julitta thumped the bolsters and shook the coverlet vigorously in the same way that she had once attacked the bread in the kitchens at Ulverton.

That memory mauled her now, springing from its forgotten corner to sink its claws into the present. She could clearly recall the gritty feel of the flour on her small palms, the smell of yeast, the sunlight patterning the kitchen shed floor; her mother's voice gently chiding, and her own tantrum in response. The princess never knew what she owned until she was made a beggar.

There were tears in her eyes as she picked up the empty bath pails and prepared to leave the room. Wulfstan the Goldsmith was blocking the doorway. She gasped in surprise, and her stomach clenched with fear as he drew the curtain across, blocking the safe view of the passage and main room beyond.

'Put the pails down,' he said gently. 'You won't be needing them for some little while.'

His bulk was firmly planted between Julitta and escape. Her eyes flickered, seeking a way out, and finding none. Retaining the pail in her left hand, she relinquished the one in her right and drew her eating knife. She held it close in to her body, tilted at a wicked angle. Even at fourteen, her uncertain life had taught her the skills of survival.

The merchant smiled indulgently but his grey eyes were cold as he unpinned his cloak and wrapped it around his arm. 'Put that toy away,' he said in the same mild, comfortable voice. 'It would be a pity to hurt you.'

His tone raised the hairs at Julitta's nape. She could see in his eyes that despite his words, he intended to hurt her very much.

Wulfstan took a step forwards. 'I kissed your mother once, but I'll wager that your lips are the sweeter. No-one else has tasted them, eh?'

Julitta shifted her stance, trying to keep the bathtub between herself and Wulfstan. There was a new coarseness to his breathing and his complexion was darkly flushed. She had heard men speak of being 'hot for a woman' and now she knew what they meant, could almost see the heat shimmer of Wulfstan's lust. Her legs were suddenly weak and her heart banged against her ribs like a prisoner hammering to escape.

'Please, Jesu, please let me go!' she cried.

Wulfstan cocked his head on one side. 'I tell you what,' he said, moistening his lips, 'I'm a fair man. Some might hold my softness against me, but I'm prepared to give you a sporting chance. If you can win past me and through that curtain, I'll let you go and not pursue you further. What do you say?' Smiling, he stepped aside and spread his arm in invitation.

The mild voice was now gently playful, but Julitta knew that she was trapped. She had once seen a cat catch a bird and then toy with it, letting it flutter free then batting it to the ground before its mauled wings could carry it to safety. And when the cat had tired, it had unsheathed its claws and sunk them deep to kill. But like the bird, Julitta's terror still made her struggle for that impossible freedom.

'Don't you want to escape?' Wulfstan hitched up his tunic and loosened the drawstring on his braies. 'You want me, is that it?'

In one swift motion, Julitta scooped up a bucketful of the bath water and flung it over Wulfstan in a sparkling deluge. He staggered backwards, spluttering, and she made her bid for escape, clawing frantically at the curtain. Wulfstan caught her around the waist and dragged her back into the room where he flung her down on the floor and pinned her there with his weight. One large hand crushed over her right wrist until she was forced to relinquish her grip on the dagger. His soaking hair and beard dripped on her face. 'You little bitch!' he snarled, and his tone now was neither mild nor playful. She could hardly breathe for the pressure of his well-fed weight on her slender body. Against the juncture of her thighs, through her clothes and his, she felt the swollen pressure of his erection and she screamed. The merchant pressed his hand over her mouth and nose, cutting off her air. She bit him as hard as she could on the fleshy side of his palm and he released her with a bellow of enraged pain. Julitta screamed again. Wulfstan fetched her a clout on the side of the head that made her ears ring, and sent black stars wheeling across her vision. Muttering curses at her and encouragement to himself, the man set about dragging up her skirts and forcing her legs apart. Julitta heaved and struggled. He had to release her while he freed his turgid organ from his braies, and Julitta made her right hand into a claw and gouged a deep line of scratches from his cheekbone to the growth of beard on his jaw. He reared back, blood welling from the wounds, and Julitta once more displayed her uncommon education by seizing his exposed testicles and twisting with all her strength.

It was Wulfstan's turn to scream. The noise rebounded off the walls and sank into the curtain. He rolled off her hand, doubled up, twisting back and forth, howling in agony. His erection deflated more rapidly than it had risen, and he clutched himself.

Gasping in terror, Julitta scrambled to her feet and groped at the curtain. Wulfstan's voice ceased abruptly in mid-howl and suddenly he was choking and struggling for air, his face turning a ghastly greyish-blue. A spasm shuddered through him and his body arched. His irises disappeared, leaving blind eye-whites. Julitta stared, knowing that she should make her escape, but rooted to the ground by sheer horror.

Wulfstan shuddered again, his entire body rigid. His final breath wheezed in his throat and his body slumped. The white stare locked upon Julitta in accusation. She clutched the curtain for support, not understanding what had happened, her legs made of jelly.

'In the name of all the saints, what goes forth here?' Dame Agatha came puffing down the line of cubicles. 'What were those dreadful sounds?' She pushed past Julitta into the room, then stopped and clapped her hands to her mouth. 'God on the Cross!' She sucked a breath through her fingers.

'He… he pounced on me,' Julitta said weakly. 'I tried to fight him off and suddenly he started choking for breath and turning blue… I was only trying to stop him…" Her voice wobbled. She swallowed, struggling for composure.

'Well, you have certainly done that, my girl.' Agatha's expression was grim. She stooped to check Wulfstan's body for signs of life, then, shaking her head, stood up. 'Reckon as he had a seizure. I seen it oftimes before. A rich man in his middle yean comes seeking excitement and 'tis more than his body can stand.'

'Is he dead?' Julitta gave a small shudder.

'As a Norman's conscience,' Agatha confirmed. 'It'll ruin my custom as soon as this news hits the city. What did you have to claw him for? Them marks on his face will make it look as if he died of more than just a seizure!'

'He… he was going to rape me,' Julitta said. 'I… wanted to stop him, not to kill him.'

Agatha's ham-like arms folded around each other and hitched the mountainous bosom. The good dame pushed out her lower lip and scowled thoughtfully. 'His family won't want this cried abroad, that's for sure. I suppose there's profit to be had out of that along the way, but you and your mother must leave. I can't afford to have you here if the law comes calling. As this is, it won't do my reputation no good. I run a proper house.'

'Go?' Julitta looked at her, nonplussed. 'But my mother is too sick to make a journey.'

'She won't get any better staying here.' Agatha unfolded her arms and removed the leather money pouch from her belt. 'Here, take this silver to tide you over.'

Julitta stared at the bag of coins dangling from Agatha's fat fingers.

'Go on, take it and get you gone, before worse befalls you,' Agatha commanded. 'Do you want to be stripped naked and paraded through the streets of Southwark in an open cart before you finish on the gibbet for the murder of a prominent townsman? Well, do you?'

Julitta shook her head, her mind filling with a vision of herself standing in a ladder-sided cart, no garment save her wild, red hair, while jeering crowds threw stones at her and clods of dung, their stares a combination of lust and contempt. She knew that no-one would think to plead for an insignificant Southwark whore. The closest to mercy she was going to come was this bag of coins and the leeway to make her escape across the river to the nuns at St Aethelburga's. If only her mother was strong enough to bear the journey. If only she was strong enough herself.

CHAPTER 38

'Ever been to a Southwark bathhouse, Ben?'

Benedict de Remy paused in his examination of the dappled brood mare he had purchased at London's horse fair, and resting one hand lightly on her neck, looked across the stable at Mauger. Mauger, at eight and twenty, held a full ten years of seniority, a fact that he was fond of shoving down Benedict's throat. The younger man knew the reason, and being of an amiable nature, made allowances. Mauger worked like a Trojan, and because of his dedication, was a solid, if uninspired successor to his father as overseer at Brize-sur-Risle. In contrast, Benedict possessed the natural talent to spot a likely horse by eye alone, and one day, through his link with Rolf's daughter Gisele, he would be Mauger's employer and overlord.

He shook his head. 'No, but I've heard all about them.' A smile curved his lips. He was a good-looking young man, dark of hair and eye, his thoroughbred features taken from his mother and given character by the expressive mobility he had inherited from Aubert. At the moment, despite the smile, there was a hint of wariness in his eyes.

'Hearing's not seeing.'

'Have you ever been then?'

Mauger pursed his lips. 'On occasion. I thought I might go this afternoon — I'm free of duties and a man must have some pleasure.' He emphasised the word 'man', and thrusting his broad, square hand through his cropped blond hair, added, 'I've never asked you before because I've always thought you too young, but if you can cut yourself free of the apron strings for a while, I thought we might seek a little sport together.'

Benedict shrugged nonchalantly as if Mauger was offering him a mild diversion, but a surge ran through him, part apprehension, part excitement. 'Why not?' he said. Actually, he could think of a dozen reasons why not, and only one in favour, but he would rather have cut out his tongue than say so to Mauger. Besides, he resented Mauger's remark about the apron strings. As Rolf's apprentice, Benedict had long since learned independence. Affection and respect he still possessed for his parents, and it was only natural that he should lodge in his mother's house while the family was in London. Soon enough his parents would be returning to Rouen, and he would be riding on to Ulverton with the grey mare and coin from the sale of four sumpter ponies and two geldings at the fair. He resumed his careful examination of his purchase.

Mauger seemed nonplussed and not a little disgruntled by Benedict's sanguinity. 'Ever been with a woman before?' he asked like a challenge.

Benedict ran his hand down the grey mare's slender foreleg, pleased at the strength of bone and the set of the limb. He thought about not answering, but knew that Mauger would immediately jump to conclusions that had little to do with the truth. 'Yes,' he said without looking up. 'But I don't make a habit of blabbing it abroad. You know what Lord Rolf is like.'

'He wasn't always that way. Morals of a torn cat at one time. Rutted his way through all the towns in Normandy and half of England.'

Benedict looked up. 'He took me on one side once and delivered me a lecture about the perils of sowing wild oats in furrows too close to home. Everyone at Ulverton knows about the tragedy of the woman from the north and the Lady Ailith.' He gave the mare a final slap on her muscular shoulder and wiped his hands on a wisp of hay. 'I wonder what happened to her and the little girl? Do you think they're still alive?'

'God knows!' Mauger snorted. 'He searched far and wide in the early days, but found neither hide nor hair.' He gave an impatient shrug as if the subject bored him. 'It's of no consequence now.'

Benedict frowned at Mauger's indifference. He did not remember the Lady Ailith well himself, but he knew that his mother had grieved and worried as much as Rolf when she vanished. Indeed, it had taken her a long time to forgive him for what he had done.

Benedict's memories of Lady Ailith's daughter were a little more focused. The impulsive, headstrong nature, the tantrums, the adoration she had poured out upon him. Without knowing, his expression softened as he remembered the day he had saved her from the greylag gander, and she had fallen asleep on the saddle behind him. How old would she be now? Growing into womanhood, surely? Was her nature still as wild, her hair still as curly? More to the point, was she still alive? Small wonder that Lord Rolf tortured himself.

The bath was hot, the woman's hands slow and sensual as she sat behind Benedict and massaged his soapy shoulders. 'Mauger tells me that you have not been to Southwark before?' Her voice was low and sweet with a strong Flemish accent. She had a lush figure, glossy brown plaits, and her name was Gudrun.

'Not to Southwark,' he murmured. 'But there are places like this in Rouen and Falaise.'

'You are well travelled for one so young.' Her hands came forward, slowly soaping his smooth chest. Despite his dark colouring, Benedict possessed very little body hair. Indeed, although fully developed in all other ways, he only needed to barber his face with a blade twice a week.

'So have you to judge from your voice,' he retorted. 'Ghent, I would say.'

Gudrun laughed and her hands plundered lower, exploring the firm bands of his stomach muscles, and then, with mischievous discovery, the equally firm length of his erect shaft which had risen to the occasion with adolescent joy. 'Bruges, my young lord,' she contradicted, 'but close enough. I was a simple townsgirl who followed my soldier lover across the narrow sea. When he abandoned me, I had to make my living as best I could.' Her hands stroked with exquisite gentleness and Benedict closed his eyes. The sensations were extremely pleasant, but not as yet unbearable.

'So Mauger visits often?' he queried.

'Whenever he is in London. He always asks for Aaliz, she's his favourite.' Her voice took on a curious note and she paused in her ministrations. 'Are you apprenticed to him? I heard him tell Aaliz that you were learning his trade.'

Benedict smiled somewhat sourly. 'I am apprenticed to the same master who taught him.' His spine stiffened with resentment. Gudrun, sensing that she had asked the wrong question, ceased speaking and resumed her fondling. Before she could bring him to his peak, he grasped her hand to stop her motions and directed her to join him in the tub. Casting off her linen robe, she straddled him. Water sloshed rhythmically onto the floor as Benedict practised what he had learned in the establishments of Rouen.

Whilst he was dressing, Gudrun tugged on a loose linen robe and went out to replenish the pitcher of wine. Glancing at the girl, then round the comfortably appointed room, Benedict had to admit that Mauger had sound taste. He wondered if the overseer had had to work as hard at acquiring that taste as he did at selecting breeding stock for the stud at Brize. It was an uncharitable thought and he was surprised to find it lurking in his mind when his body was so at ease.

Gudrun returned with the wine and a small bowl of raisin cakes. 'There has been trouble at one of the other bathhouses tonight,' she told him breathlessly. 'A good thing Mauger didn't take you across the way to Dame Agatha's.'

Benedict took a swallow of the wine she poured for him and raised his brows in silent question.

'Do you know Wulfstan the Goldsmith?'

'Vaguely.' Benedict's curiosity sharpened. His parents often moved in the same company as Wulfstan, but they were not on speaking terms due to some quarrel in the past that had never been explained to him. 'Why?'

'One of the other girls has just told me that he's lying stone-dead on the floor of one of Dame Agatha's cubicles. A seizure so she said, but there's another rumour that one of Agatha's girls killed him.' Gudrun's eyes glowed. 'It'll be all over the city by tomorrow. Wulfstan was well feared, but not well liked. No-one'll likely mourn him, not even his wife.'

Benedict digested this information while he finished his wine and blotted up some of its potency with a couple of raisin cakes. He could almost hear Rolf saying As ye sow, so shall ye reap, and having just sown a few wild oats of his own, he felt a little uneasy. When he departed, he paid Gudrun from the depths of his niggled conscience, and her eyes widened at the amount of silver he pressed into her hand. When she made to exclaim, he put his forefinger to her lips and glanced quickly over his shoulder at Mauger who was making his own farewells.

'Say nothing,' he whispered. 'Just put it away against a time when you might need it. My friend… he wouldn't understand.'

Gudrun nodded. Her eyes flickered to Mauger. Aaliz said that he was as solid and unimaginative between the sheets as he was out of them, and not particularly generous. She contrasted that description with the good fortune withdrawing from her own arms now.

'Will you return?' Her fingertips slipped the length of his sleeve, the final contact of flesh, hand upon hand, and then the space of air between them, wealthy young man and riverside whore. He drew a breath, and this time it was she who laid a forefinger to his lips. 'No, do not answer that,' she said quickly. 'It was a foolish question.'

'Ready?' Mauger nudged Benedict. Gudrun stepped back, a professional smile on her face. There would be other customers as the darkness thickened and the night grew older.

Benedict returned her smile and walked away, turning to wave once before he lost sight of the bathhouse. It was drizzling, the twilight soft and murky and the air pungent with the smells of wet earth and smoky cooking fires. The two young men made their way down to the river and sought along the bank for a boatman to row them back across the water to civilisation.

'Was it worth it then?' asked Mauger, a slightly patronising smile on his lips.

Benedict murmured a reply and hoped without much optimism that Mauger was not going to demand a detailed account of his experience. He knew that the older man, having introduced him to the delights of Southwark, would feel entitled to know everything and be aggrieved at anything less.

They found a boatman within minutes. He was tying up his craft with determined tugs on the mooring rope whilst arguing with a slender young woman. An older female sat on the ground, her cloak bundled around her body, which shook with spasms of coughing.

'I tell you, I be finished for the day. I been rowing this hulk back and forth across the river since afore cockcrow this morn. Do you think I've no other life to live?' the boatman snapped.

'My mother's sick, she can't go any further. You must take us across!' The girl compounded her frustration by stamping her foot.

The gesture was familiar to Benedict, but he could not remember from where or why. The girl wore a dark cloak and a hood of paler, gold wool, the colour dim in the twilight. Escaping from its edge were several strands of curly dark hair. He could not see her face.

'I must do nothing, wench,' the man growled and started to walk away. In desperation, the girl leaped in front of him and clutched at his sleeve. Benedict was granted a swift vision of delicate features marred by the pinch of exhaustion and despair.

'Please, for the mercy of God!' Her young voice trembled on the verge of breaking.

Benedict intervened, stepping across the boatman's path as the man tried to shake her off and go determinedly on his way.

'I would make it worth your while,' he said. 'How much for the four of us? Come on, man, it's only one more journey there and back. Think of your profit!'

'I can't enjoy me profit if I'm dead from overwork!' the boatman snapped, but ceased trying to push past Benedict and put his hands to his hips instead, indicating that he was prepared to bargain.

Mauger rolled his eyes heavenwards and shook his head at what he saw as complete lunacy on Benedict's behalf. There were other boatmen further along the bank who would not cost the earth to hire. Let these women fend for themselves, they were of no importance. 'You are paying,' he said grimly to Benedict as an exorbitant sum was agreed.

Benedict drew the coins from his pouch. 'We cannot just leave them here,' he said. 'How would you feel if it was your mother or sister stranded here and sick?'

'Neither my mother nor my sister would be sitting on a riverside at dusk in a neighbourhood like this,' Mauger retorted.

Benedict's mouth tightened. 'Then for simple Christian charity, or don't you comprehend that either?'

Mauger gave him a fulminating look. 'You may think you know everything, but you don't,' he said curtly.

The boatman took the coins, made sure that they were genuine, and still grumbling to himself, set about untying the mooring rope. Benedict and Mauger glared at each other for a long moment, the hostility no longer sheathed but bare and bright.

It was the girl who broke the bitter eye contact by laying her hand on Benedict's sleeve, and pressing a silver penny into his hand. 'Thank you,' she said with heartfelt gratitude.

'No, keep your money.' He tried to push it back at her, for he could see that her cloak was patched and that a silver penny must mean far more to her and her mother than it did to him.

'Fair is fair,' she said, refusing to take it back, and turned away to help her mother to her feet.

They were all seated in the boat, and its grumpy owner had begun to skull out into the current, when the girl's mother raised her head and thanked Benedict with quiet dignity. He murmured a disclaimer, feeling uncomfortable. A sense of familiarity nagged at him, but pinning it down proved elusive, and it was Mauger, his arms folded across his chest and his gaze fixed broodingly upon the women, who made the discovery, his disgruntled expression becoming one of astonishment.

'Mistress Ailith?' he asked uncertainly. His glance flickered disbelievingly to the girl. 'Julitta?'

The older woman coughed into her blood-sodden kerchief and examined Mauger as intently as he was examining her. 'It's Mauger, isn't it?' she said weakly.

Benedict's sense of familiarity came home to rest with a breathjarring thud. He saw his own emotions mirrored in the expressions of the others, but individually tinged by their different characters. The older woman's gaunt, sick features wore a mingling of relief and fear. The girl was still bewildered, uncomprehending, but she had braced herself as if to resist a blow. Mauger's discomfort made him brusque and annoyed, while Benedict knew that his own features must display a fierce curiosity. Where had they come from? Where had they been? It was a return from the dead.

'It is impossible.' Mauger shook his head and his glower deepened. 'Lord Rolf searched high and low for the both of you. He thinks you are dead!'

Ailith grimaced wearily. 'He is not far wrong. Is he in London?'

'He is at Ulverton with his wife and daughter.'

'But my parents are in the city,' Benedict added quickly. 'Felice and Aubert de Remy.'

Ailith looked at him, and he saw a glimmer of recognition kindle through the pain in her eyes. She tried to smile. 'Benedict, I should have known you at least, since I suckled you at my breast for the first year of your life. You have your mother's eyes.'

'I remember you now,' Benedict said, a note of uncertainty in his voice, for the encounter had put him off his stride. 'But I would not have done so in passing.'

'And no surprise,' Ailith said with a wan smile. A cough shook her body. 'For the sake of old kindness, I ask you to take us to your mother. We have nowhere else to go and as you can see, my time is short.'

'Mama, you'll soon be well.' The girl clutched her mother's arm. The thread of fear in her voice reminded Benedict of a time long ago when he had dragged a terrified auburn-haired child across his pony's rump.

'Oh aye,' the woman said. 'I'll soon be free of pain.' She huddled into her cloak, retching.

Julitta bit her lip and swiped the heel of her hand across her brimming eyes.

Rain spattered into their faces. The boatman dipped the brim of his hat and clucked through his teeth, making his displeasure known. When they reached the London bank of the Thames, it was immediately obvious that Ailith's failing strength was not equal to walking the short distance along the bank between the mooring and the de Remys' house.

Mauger, being the stronger of the two men, lifted Ailith in his arms and carried her to their destination. In the past, he might have been hampered by her robust build, but the affliction of her lungs had wasted her to skin and bone. She lolled against him, only semi-conscious, the flesh surrounding her eyes so dark that it looked bruised.

'Your mother will soon be safe and warm,' Benedict reassured Julitta, as behind them the boatman clambered into his craft and sculled out into the black water, heading at last for home.

Julitta nodded and continued to chew her lip.

'Do you remember me?'

Julitta blinked through the rain. How could she ever forget? 'Yes, I remember. I was a princess then.' Suddenly it was hard to set one foot in front of the other, as if all her will had trickled out through the worn soles of her shoes. Her mind kept filling with the vision of the fat gold merchant turning blue on the floor at her feet. She could still feel the pressure of his body on top of hers, crushing out her life. But it was he who had died. She looked sidelong at Benedict. Once, in another world, he had saved her from being pecked to death by a goose. 'What were you doing in Southwark?'

He checked his long stride to accommodate hers which was slow with exhaustion and hampered by her wet gown. 'Visiting a bathhouse,' he said after a moment and avoided her eyes. 'I've never been to the Southwark side of London before.'

'I work in a bathhouse.' Julitta cast the words at him like a sharpened spear. 'Or I did until tonight.' The vision of the merchant hit her again, full force, and the weapon she had flung at Benedict rebounded and sank into her own breast. She would have run from the look on his face, but she stepped awkwardly on a stone in the road, wrenched her ankle, and fell with a cry.

He stooped over her. Julitta squeezed her lids tight and hung her head so that she would not have to meet his gaze. Besides, her twisted foot was agony. She heard him shout out to Mauger to wait. Gentle hands removed her clutching one and carefully examined.

'I don't think it's broken,' he said, 'but certainly you cannot walk on it. The flesh is puffing up faster than a batter pudding. I'll have to carry you.'

Julitta was dazed and exhausted, unable to reason any more, unable even to think. Risking a glance at his face, she saw that his recoil at her words had been replaced with an equally dangerous expression of pity. She tightened her lids again and bowed her head, holding her breath on tears. When he lifted her in his arms, she had to link her own about his neck to support herself. The smell of rain-wet wool filled her nostrils, and underlying it, rising directly from his smooth, olive skin, the herbal scent which came from long soaking in a bathtub.

CHAPTER 39

Julitta sat in Aubert's chair before a blazing hearth. A stool supported her swollen ankle and a cup of strong, hot wine comforted her hands. Her mother had been given the great bed in the sleeping loft and was now being tended by Felice de Remy. Mauger had been sent back out into the wet night to fetch a priest —just a precaution, Aubert de Remy had said, but Julitta knew better. She sipped the wine. Its colour was as rich and dark as the tendrils of hair drying in a frizzy cloud around her wan face.

'Do you want to eat?' asked Aubert. He had been sitting at her side in silent vigil, but now seemed to think that since she displayed no inclination to speak, he should take matters into his own hands.

Julitta shook her head. Her stomach was a clenched fist of misery and fear. Even to swallow the wine was an effort. She stared at the logs in the firepit, their undersides a translucent orange edged with flaky grey. Her eyes began to burn and then to fill.

The man sighed heavily. 'I wish that your mother had come to us before… such a waste.'

Julitta looked dully at the merchant, at his fur-trimmed tunic and small, smug paunch. How often had she seen such family men queuing outside Merielle's door? 'We did come here once, but the house was locked up and we heard that you were in Rouen. Mama never tried again.'

'So where were you bound tonight?'

'Mama said that after what happened, the only thing we could do was seek my father's protection. We were going to the convent at St Aethelburga's.'

'What do you mean, after what happened?'

The outside door banged shut and Benedict advanced to the hearth, raindrops beading his cloak and sparkling in his hair. In his right hand he carried the pig's bladder which he taken out to fill with cold water from the well in the yard. Now he knelt at Julitta's feet and arranged the bladder around her ankle with gentle skill. 'It always works on the horses,' he said cheerfully. The curve faded from his lips as he looked between his father and Julitta. 'What's wrong?'

Julitta scarcely felt the soothing relief of the cold compress and the competent touch of Benedict's hands. All her attention was focused upon Aubert, as if he was the predator and she the prey.

Aubert too ignored his son. 'Julitta, what happened?' the merchant repeated in a gentler voice. 'You can tell me, you need not be afraid.'

'I had to stop him,' she whispered. 'He pounced on me like a dog on a bone. I didn't mean to kill him.'

Aubert blinked rapidly. 'Kill who?'

Benedict sat back on his heels and stared at her, his hand resting forgotten on the pig bladder and his dark brown eyes full of appalled comprehension. 'Dame Agatha's,' he said. 'Is that where you worked?'

'Yes, but not as a whore. Mama was Dame Agatha's housekeeper, and we helped out when she was busy. He tried to rape me, so I hit him in the cods, and then he had a seizure.' She shuddered at the memory.

'Hit who?' Aubert demanded, beginning to sound impatient. 'What do you know about all this, Ben? Who's Dame Agatha?'

Benedict reddened. 'She owns a bathhouse on the Southwark side. Mauger and I heard tonight that one of her clients had died there – Wulfstan the Goldsmith.'

'What?' Aubert jerked upright in his chair.

'That was his name,' Julitta nodded. 'Dame Agatha said he was a very important man and that if Mama and I did not leave immediately, we would finish on a gibbet. I didn't mean to kill him,' she repeated with a pleading look at Aubert. 'But he was hurting me.'

Benedict resumed his ministrations, turning the bladder over and smoothing its colder side around her ankle. 'You might hurt a man beyond your imagination by kicking him in the bollocks,' he said sensibly, 'but it would take a mighty blow to render him dead. There's no more meat on you than a sparrow. Even a full-grown man would have difficulty in felling Wulfstan. It was his own lust that brought on his death I would wager.'

'But still, whatever the cause, he is dead.' Aubert cupped his chin and thoughtfully appraised her. 'I do not believe that anyone will come looking for you or your mother. Wulfstan being so prominent a figure among the city merchants, it is likely that the circumstances and whereabouts of his demise will be kept as quiet as possible and all rumours denied.' He clucked his tongue. 'A bathhouse,' he said softly to himself. 'What was Ailith thinking of?' He looked with heavy perplexity at the slender, auburn-haired child. One of Felice's old gowns clothed her like a sack, drawn in at the waist by a braid tie. She was an eldritch waif, but he could see that one day she was going to be more beautiful than the Queen of Faery herself. A premonition of danger raised the bristly hairs at Aubert's nape.

'Tomorrow,' he said to Benedict, his voice abrupt with urgency, 'tomorrow you will go to Ulverton and bring Rolf here.'

Felice threw the shutters wide to admit a stream of bright spring sunshine into the room. It flooded across the greenish-gold rushes lining the floor and spilled upon the counterpane of the bed where Ailith lay propped upon several pillows. Warmth danced across Felice's face and illuminated the fine lines etched upon her olive skin. She was eight and thirty, the same age as her dying friend, but she could pass for a younger woman, while Ailith had aged to resemble a crone.

The fresh pink complexion had become a patchy grey; folds of skin draped loosely over gaunt bones; the fine blue eyes were sunken in their sockets and the thick blonde hair was now a sparse, dull yellow. Never would Ailith regain the smooth-fleshed bloom of earlier years. Her death was upon her, and in defiance, Felice had flung wide the shutters.

The sound of birdsong filled the room, the harsh, poignant screaming of gulls, Benedict shouting at one of the grooms as he made ready to leave.

'You are sending for Rolf, aren't you?' Ailith's voice was a weak whisper.

Felice returned to the bedside and sat down on the woven coverlet. She took Ailith's shiny, work-roughened hand in hers and felt the brutality of bone through the skin. 'Benedict is riding out this morning, but it will be more than a week before Rolf arrives.' And you cannot hold out for that long, she thought to herself. Her unspoken words must have shown in her eyes, for Ailith gave the ghost of a smile and shook her head.

'I do not want to see him, not even one last time. And if he should arrive before I am sewn in my shroud, do not show him my body.' Her throat worked and the smile became a brimming of tears. 'Let him remember me as I was… Promise me.'

Felice was torn by a surge of grief. Her own eyes filled, and it was a moment before she could find the control to speak. 'I promise.' She gripped Ailith's hand and watched her friend, the lovely, generous woman who had saved Benedict's life, turn her cloudy gaze to the bright aperture of light.

'Could you not have forgiven him?' Felice had only a vague knowledge of the circumstances in which Ailith had left Rolf, but she had been a witness to the torment that the action had caused, and was still causing.

Ailith coughed. 'I forgave him long ago,' she said wearily. 'It was not as if I did not know his nature, or that I was a snared innocent. I was deliberately blind, and when I was forced to see, I could not bear what my eyes looked upon.' Her gaze turned to Felice. 'It was easy to forgive Rolf, but I have never been able to forgive myself.'

Felice did not know what to say beyond her first, pitying exclamation of denial. Whatever Rolf had done, Ailith had taken the blame and guilt upon her own shoulders and punished herself. Not only herself, but the child downstairs too.

'I committed adultery with my brother's murderer,' Ailith said into Felice's struggling silence. 'I bore Rolf's child from the rites of the Beltane fires. The priest yesterday… he was in half a mind not to shrive me even though I swore bitterly that I had repented.'

Felice could see the tragedy as if it was laid out before her like the great embroidery recently commissioned by Bishop Odo of Bayeux. 'Ailith stop it,' she said sharply. 'It avails you nothing. Perhaps if you had repented less bitterly and with more understanding, you would not have come to this pass now. And the same goes for Rolf,' she added half under her breath.

Ailith's stare returned to the brightness of the window. 'The path home was too hard for me to find,' she whispered. 'All the familiar places had disappeared.'

The door opened, and Julitta stood hesitantly on the threshold, a huge jug of spring herbs and flowers clutched in her hand. As the girl approached the bed, Felice saw that Benedict's cold compresses had worked wonders on the injured ankle, for Julitta was scarcely limping. Today the wild auburn hair was severely tamed in a thick plait and there was a little more colour in the pallid cheeks.

'Ben… Benedict said that it was all right for me to pick these from your garden, and that you seldom use this jug,' Julitta said hesitantly.

Felice eyed the handsome glazed pitcher. She seldom used it because it was her best one, kept for special occasions – but then was this not a special occasion? Feeling unworthy, she set aside her irritation. 'Of course it is all right, child. The flowers look beautiful, don't they, Ailith?'

'They do,' Ailith agreed, her eyes brightening on the collection of flag irises, lilies and honeysuckle with a mingling of pleasure and sorrow. 'I used to love my garden at Ulverton.'

A delicate perfume filled the room as Julitta set the jug down on the coffer at the bedside. Clearing her throat, Felice excused herself to other duties below stairs, leaving mother and daughter alone.

Julitta went to the window and looked down into the yard. The grooms had finished saddling Benedict's horse and the young man had emerged from the house to mount up. Her eyes fed on him for a moment, drawing sustenance from his graceful, competent movements. She leaned out a little to watch him collect the leading rein of a grey mare and circle round to leave. Then he chanced to look up and saw her watching from the room above. A smile broke across his face and he saluted her. Julitta felt an uplifting surge of emotion and waved in return as he passed beneath the window. Standing in the stable doorway, Mauger was party to the exchange, and directed a censorious glance in Julitta's direction.

Suddenly self-conscious, she put her hand to her hair to make sure that it was still contained within its severe braid, smoothed her sack-like gown, and withdrew into the room. Her mother had been watching her too, and Julitta blushed. 'I was waving farewell to Benedict,' she said defensively, and found it pleasurable to taste his name on her tongue. Hastily she sat down on the bed, and as Felice had done, took Ailith's hand in hers.

Her mother swallowed, making the effort to speak. 'Benedict is betrothed to your half-sister,' she warned. 'Have a care where you spend your affection, Julitta. I would not have you repeat my mistakes.'

'I did no more than wave, I haven't done anything wrong.'

'Would you have waved for someone else?'

Julitta scowled, and stared at the embroidered counterpane without answering.

'It will be your father's task to dower you and find you a suitable husband, and for that, you must be above reproach.'

'You haven't even considered if I want to go to him at all!' Julitta cried resentfully. 'You said you no longer respected him. Why should I do his bidding!'

'Would you rather the convent or the gutter?' 'You chose the gutter above him!' Julitta spat, and was immediately contrite. The indignant colour left her face and she chewed her full, lower lip. 'Mama, I'm sorry,' she said in a voice thick with tears and pressed Ailith's hand to her own hot cheek.

Ailith's fingers uncurled in a tender caress. 'So am I,' she said. 'More than you will ever know. And so tired.' She struggled to gather her failing strength. 'I know it is hard for you to understand, Julitta. I wanted more from your father than he had it in him to give… it was like donning a shimmering gossamer cloak and expecting it to keep me warm even in the deepest winter. For you, it may be that the cloak is lined with fur. You are of his blood and you will not be sharing his bed, lying there, waiting for him to come home from the arms of another woman. That is why I tell you not to grow too fond of Benedict de Remy.' She subsided against the pillows, her energy drained, and when she spoke again, her lips formed the words, but she scarcely possessed the breath to utter them. 'You are so young, and I won't be here to protect you from yourself Her eyelids fluttered and closed.

Julitta leaned over her mother, sick with terror, thinking that she had died, but Ailith's hand moved, groping blindly for hers. Julitta grasped it and squeezed with all the desperate strength in her bursting young body, and knew herself as powerless as a straw twirling on the surface of a flood.

CHAPTER 40

It was the middle of the afternoon when Benedict arrived at Ulverton. The late May sun dazzled on the sea and clothed the new green of the land with an eye-aching intensity. On the castle's outer defences, a group of labourers were digging foundations for a stone curtain wall to replace the wooden palisade. They worked bare-chested, their skins reddening beneath the first onslaught of the sun that year. The chink of their spades and mattocks, their salty language, followed Benedict through the gates and into the sun-basked lower bailey.

His dürsty horses were eager to plunge their muzzles into the stone water trough. He let them drink, but only for a short time as a precaution against the colic. A groom came over to take them in hand.

'Is Lord Rolf here?'

The groom fixed his gaze on a point beyond Benedict's shoulder. 'No, sir,' he said and quickly lowered his eyes.

Turning, Benedict found himself facing Gisele, his betrothed. Their wedding was set for the autumn, her mother having finally decided that at nineteen years old, her daughter was robust and mature enough for child-bearing. 'My father is riding by the shore,' she said. 'Do you want to-come within?'

Gisele was attractive to look upon, being tall and slender with fine, silvery-brown hair and clear grey eyes. Her nose was dainty and sharp, her cheekbones high. Her mouth was small with a tendency to purse when she thought she was being put upon, or when, like her mother, she was judging others and finding them lacking. Benedict had been graciously permitted to kiss that mouth once or twice and had made his own judgements. He did not attempt to kiss it now, not in public before the groom.

'No, I have to see him, it's urgent. But if you could bring a cup of cider out?'

She nodded and started to turn away, but not before he had seen the curiosity in her eyes. 'I can't tell you,' he said. 'Not until I've spoken to your father.'

Alarm joined the curiosity. Ignoring it, he swung to the groom and commanded him to saddle up Cylu the grey. By the time Gisele returned, Benedict had stripped his cloak and tunic and was already astride the fresh horse. Leaning down, he accepted the brimming cup from her hands and downed the contents in a few fluid swallows of his strong, young throat. The taste was acid and clean, clearing the dust from his mouth, stinging slightly in his nostrils.

'That's better,' he said gratefully and handed the empty cup back down to her.

Although Gisele smiled at him, it was with a closed mouth and he saw her nose wrinkle fastidiously. He was immediately aware of the stale condition of his garments – five days on his body without a change, and since the episode in the bathtub at Southwark, he had washed nothing more than his hands and face. The horse swung its head, hooves dancing eagerly. Flecks of foam spattered from the bit. Gisele trod hastily backwards before her immaculate blue linen gown could be smirched.

'While you're gone, I will have the maids prepare a tub,' she announced. Although she was looking at him through her lashes, the glance was far from provocative; her lips were pursed. And when he did step into the tub, he knew that the proprieties would be rigidly observed. No taking liberties until the nuptial knot was securely tied, and probably not even then, he acknowledged wryly. Still, the thought of a warm tub and fresh raiment was fortifying, and he smiled his gratitude at her before turning the horse.

Cylu was fresh and responded to the touch of his heels with a half-buck and an exuberant breaking of wind. The slight wrinkling of Gisele's nose became an outright grimace of distaste and sent her in full retreat back to the hall. Grinning, Benedict patted the muscular, glossy neck, and urged the horse to a pacing trot.

Rolf was riding Cylu's sire, Sleipnir, along the path which led between Ulverton and one of the small fishing communities beholden to the main village. Benedict, having enquired first of the miller and then the reeve, caught up with him on the dark stone cliffs, negotiating the track which meandered down to the sand and shingle beach. Some of the downland was cultivated with maslin, the green shoots of wheat and rye rippling in the warm wind blowing off the sea. Gulls wheeled and spiralled, and a white-tailed eagle soared on spread pinions. Sheep grazed the clovery turf, watched over by an elderly man, his weathered faced tanned a deep soil-brown.

Rolf looked over his shoulder and reined to a halt. 'I thought that I heard hoofbeats,' he said, and having looked Benedict up and down, his eyes narrowed. 'Is there a reason for such haste?'

There was just room for two horses to ride abreast on the track and Benedict joined his lord. The sun was bright on the older man's face, emphasising the deep creases at the eye corners and between nostril and mouth. Threads of silver were beginning to dim the garnet brightness of his hair, but enough fire remained to reveal from whence Julitta had inherited her colouring. 'Sir, there is indeed,' Benedict replied, and wondered how he was going to tell Rolf what had happened in London, that the woman and child over whom he had long grieved were resurrected. There was no easy way.

'Well, what is it, spit it out!' Rolf snapped impatiently as Benedict hesitated. 'If you've bought a sow instead of a mare at Smithfield, or sold those nags I entrusted you at a loss, you might as well say so.'

'No, sir, I fared excellently at the horse fair.' Benedict deliberated a moment longer, and as they reached the flat ground of the sandy path behind the beach, inhaled deeply. 'You must come to London immediately. Lady Ailith and your daughter are at my parents' house near Dowgate, and Lady Ailith is grievously ill with the lung sickness.'

The horses continued to pace forward, tossing their heads towards each other, swishing their tails against the flies. Rolf's hands were relaxed on his mount's bridle and his face was expressionless.

'Sir, I…' Benedict stuttered with a degree of alarm.

'I heard you,' Rolf answered shortly. His eyes were fixed on the silver forelock between Sleipnir's ears, but without focus. 'By grievously ill, I suppose you mean dying?'

'Yes, sir.'

Silence again. They came to half a dozen fishermen's houses beyond the high tide mark, and the hulls of two small boats upturned on the shingle. Out at sea, Benedict's keen eye could just pick out the masts of three fishing craft. The houses were deserted, for the womenfolk were out in the fields tending the crops. Rolf drew rein and stared at Benedict, forcing him to hold eye to eye when the young man would rather have looked away. 'How came they to your father's house?' he demanded. 'Tell me.'

Benedict searched his mind to pick out what could be told and what was better left unsaid. 'Mauger and I were looking for…' he began.

'I will have the truth,' Rolf interrupted harshly. 'Do you think I have not learned how to live with it these eight barren years? Do not presume to pity me, boy, or judge what is and is not fit for me to hear.'

Benedict felt himself redden beneath Rolf's fierce green stare. The ability to read the faces and almost imperceptible body gestures of other men was a great advantage and Benedict had done his best to learn from Rolf. But he would never be able to flip the coin onto its other side and dissemble with ease.

Trepidation in his eyes, he began again, but out of pride, made sure to use the same opening words. 'Mauger and I were looking for a boat to row us across the river from the Southwark side…'

As his tale progressed, Rolf's set expression grew ever more rigid until his face might have been carved of stone. Only once did he move, and that was to steady the horse by taking a firmer grip on the reins.

'Wulfstan is dead,' Benedict added when he had finished the tale. 'Of a seizure at home, so the rumour goes. Already his family has moved to disguise what really happened. On my way out of the city I was stopped twice and told the news by people who knew that he and my parents were acquainted.'

Rolf neither moved nor spoke and Benedict grew concerned. 'Sir, shall I…?'

He saw Rolf make the effort to tug free of the immobility of shock. 'Leave me alone awhile to think,' the older man said, his voice slow and careful, as if he were treading in deep water and feeling for each footstep. 'Return to the keep and tell the women not to wait dinner on me.'

'Shall I tell them anything else, sir?'

'No.' Rolf shook his head. 'I will tell them myself.' He tugged on the reins and the grey stallion turned. Out to sea the fishing boats were closer now. Benedict could see the men on deck and the dark shape of a net draped over the side of the nearest craft. He hesitated for a moment, watching the boats, inhaling the warm salt wind, and feeling totally out of his depth. With a final, worried glance at Rolf's solitary form, he kicked Cylu in the direction of the keep.

A series of mental visions spilled like blood from an opened vein as Rolf rode the old stallion along the beach. He saw Sleipnir trotting towards him, ears pricked and tail carried high, Ailith in pursuit, a birch besom brandished in her fist. He saw her in the forge, a knife poised to take her own life, and he watched himself wrestle that knife out of her hand and cast it across the room. Instead of the swift mercy of the blade, he had given her the long, slow death of loving him. And then he had turned that knife on himself and twisted it deep.

The horizon was suddenly blurred. He dashed his sleeve across his eyes and swallowed. He saw her feeding Benedict, her blonde braid heavy in the firelight, watched her furiously pummelling a tub of laundry while he asked her to become chatelaine of Ulverton. That first, frozen moonlit kiss that dissolved into molten urgency, searing them both to the bone. Her hair spread upon the pillow, grasped in his hands; the beauty of her strong, generous body which had given him such pleasure to possess and had bestowed on him the gift of a fire-haired child. He wiped his eyes again, but his vision blurred almost immediately. Ailith and Julitta eking a living in the stews of Southwark. Eight years. He had thought in his stupidity that even if he had not found peace, he had at least discovered a degree of equilibrium, but he had been deluding himself. He had discovered nothing, and still had so much left to lose.

He could ride no further. Halting Sleipnir, he dismounted, and seating himself on a flat, sun-warmed rock, put his head in his hands.

'A bathhouse?' Arlette's shocked gaze flickered rapidly from Rolf to Gisele, as if worrying that the very mention of the word would corrupt her daughter's purity. 'What were they doing in a bathhouse, or perhaps I should not ask?'

Benedict, who had been invited to share in the discussion that was taking place in Arlette and Rolf's bedchamber, cleared his throat. 'Not all bathhouses are dens of iniquity,' he defended, thereby earning himself a glare from his future mother-in-law, and a prim lip-purse from Gisele. 'Besides,' he added doggedly, 'from what Julitta told me, her mother was the housekeeper of the place, they were never actually involved in the private bathing of the clients.'

Arlette sniffed scornfully. 'That is as maybe,' she said. 'And it is only Christian charity to pity the woman and the child. But what is to be done with them? You say that the mother is dying of the lung sickness? Aye well, perhaps that is a blessing in disguise. But the girl…'

'My daughter,' Rolf interrupted, his voice almost a snarl, a dangerous glitter in his eyes. 'Julitta is my child as much as Gisele. Bridle your tongue when you speak, or by God I will do it for you.'

Arlette paled. 'I was only going to say that you need to take careful thought for the girl's welfare. She has known such an uncertain life, that there are bound to be difficulties.'

Rolf's eyes remained suspiciously narrowed, but he leaned back in his chair and slowly rubbed his forefinger back and forth across his upper lip while he considered her words.

Benedict glanced around the family and tried to imagine Julitta settling into the household. From what he remembered of Julitta the child, and from what he had seen of Julitta the budding woman, there was going to be precious little peace in the bower. Just the sight of Julitta's wild red hair would be enough to send Arlette running for her shears and a thick linen wimple to tame and cover such wanton glory.

'I am more than willing to take her under my wing, indeed I am,' Arlette added piously.

'More than willing?' Rolf asked in a wintery voice. 'I would have thought the opposite.'

His wife compressed her lips. 'As you say, she is your child, and I have always done my duty as your wife to the best of my ability. If I cannot love her, then at least I can see that she is prepared for marriage to a husband of your choosing… unless you had the Church in mind for her?'

Rolf scowled and bit viciously at his thumbnail. 'Not the Church,' he said.

Benedict agreed. If anyone should enter a religious establishment, it should be Arlette, the amount of time she spent on her knees. 'She will need gentle handling,' he said aloud, thereby earning himself another glare from the women. It was impossible to explain Julitta to them, the paradox of toughness and vulnerability that had so moved him. 'As you say,' he appealed to Arlette, 'she has known an uncertain life, has had to fight to survive.'

'I am sure I am capable of taking that into account,' Arlette said, but her expression softened slightly at his acknowledgement of her own wisdom. 'After all, I have raised a daughter myself.'

She looked proudly at the young woman sitting at her side, her posture echoing her mother's. Neat, prim, upright.

Although it did not show on his face, Benedict's foreboding increased.

'What is my sister like?' Gisele asked Benedict. Driven by avid curiosity, by what he had not said in front of her parents, she had followed him into the hall.

Benedict shrugged. He glanced round. Most people had settled down for the night, drawing their pallets close to the banked fire. One or two still lingered over late games of tafel or completed small personal tasks by the grainy light of small rush dips.

'Is she pretty?'

Benedict reached out, placed his arm around Gisele's supple waist and drew her towards him. She resisted for a moment, glancing round, then deciding it was all right, capitulated. 'No,' he said, 'I would not call her pretty.' That was a word that conjured up a picture of safe, conventional attractiveness. He had known many pretty girls, his betrothed among them, but Julitta was like none of them.

'Then she is ugly?'

He nuzzled Gisele's warm throat and sought her lips. 'That neither,' he murmured. 'She… she resembles your father, and of course she has scarcely left childhood.' He stroked a tentative hand up her side towards her breasts. Usually this was forbidden territory, but tonight, Gisele's insecurity permitted him the liberty. She yielded passively to his questing touch, a slight frown between her eyes.

'You'll meet her soon,' he said, an undercurrent of impatience in his tone. 'Then you can judge for yourself.' And knew as he spoke that any judgement Gisele made would be based on that of her mother. He felt her nipple bud beneath his fingers and in that same moment she pushed herself out of their embrace, a flush creeping over her throat and mounting her cheeks. Benedict started to speak, but Arlette entered the hall, carrying a wax taper on an iron spike.

'Gisele, are you coming to bed?' It was an order framed as a question, terse with reproach.

'Yes, Mama,' Gisele said as meekly as a child, and without even a parting word or glance for her betrothed, pushed out of his arms and hurried towards the taper's glimmer.

Benedict sighed, scooped his hair off his brow in a gesture of frustration, and sought his pallet, ignoring the amused glances of the tafel players.

CHAPTER 41

Julitta curled up in the hay loft above the stable and hugged herself, moaning softly. The grief was a physical pain in her stomach, doubling her over, surging through her, filling all the spaces that had been blank with shock.

At first, gazing down on her mother's body, shrunken in death, the flesh clinging to the sharp bones and pitiful hollows, she had been filled with a merciful numbness. That state had remained and carried her through the first day and night following the death. She had slept beside Felice, clinging to her for comfort, while Aubert bedded down on a pallet in the hall. Then, this morning her mother had been sewn in a shroud and taken away to the parish church of St Martin. There had been some dispute with the priest over Ailith's right to be buried within its precincts. Officially she was a resident of Southwark and Aubert had been forced to pay an indemnity of silver to have her remain.

These considerations of etiquette had passed over Julitta's head. She only knew that they were quarrelling about her mother's body as if it were a scrap of carrion to be devoured by kites. That was when the numbness had begun to wear off. The pain had attacked her vitals in earnest when they finally reached an agreement and removed Ailith to St Martin's. Suddenly the house was bereft of her presence. Standing in the bedchamber, looking at the stripped mattress, awaiting the attention of Felice's maids, at the withered bunch of flowers in the glazed pitcher, Julitta had realised that her mother was truly dead, that a great empty chasm had opened in her life and although others might create bridges across it, it would never go away.

Footfalls sounded on the hayloft ladder and the trap was thrown open. A pitchfork was tossed through the hole. A mop of hair, blonder than the straw, appeared, then a tanned face with wide-set grey eyes.

'Who's there?' Mauger demanded suspiciously.

Julitta jerked her head from her makeshift hay pillow.

'Oh, it's you,' he grunted. 'I thought for a moment it was that accursed stable lad and his wench again. It wouldn't be the first time.'

Julitta sat up and dragged her sleeve across her swollen eyes. Mauger stepped into the loft and, frowning slightly, picked up the fork. He was not much above average height and chunkily muscled. His brows were heavy, his face square in shape with slanted cheekbones and a considering mouth that seldom smiled. Julitta was wary of him. She had the vaguest recollection of teasing him, of being very naughty and leaving him to bear the brunt of the punishment. He had been about Benedict's age then, perhaps slightly older. Now he was a grown man, dour and solid.

Mauger advanced to stand over her, his boots crackling on the warm, meadow-scented hay. Clearing his throat, he said gruffly, 'I'm sorry about your mother… and about what I said when Ben and I found you on the Southwark bank. Lady Ailith was always kind to me.'

'I… I thought you didn't like us,' Julitta snuffled.

Mauger's frown intensified. 'That's foolish!' he growled. 'What reason should I have to dislike you?'

At fourteen, on the verge of womanhood and armed with the knowledge that came of dwelling in a bathhouse, Julitta could have told him the reason for his brusqueness with her. She was Eve and he was scared of temptation. But at the moment, she was no more than a frightened, grief-stricken child. 'You're always scowling. You never smile or try to be nice.'

'You are Lord Rolf's daughter. I mind my manners and keep my distance, unlike others who should know better,' he said with heightened colour and strode away to unbar the large doors at the end of the loft. Throwing them wide to admit a torrent of sunshine, he began pitching forkloads of hay down to two stable hands below. Julitta watched him work, his movements forceful and jerky beneath her scrutiny. Patches of sweat glued his linen shirt to his body, and she knew that, but for her presence, he would have removed it.

Suddenly he stopped work, and leaned on the pitchfork stale. 'Your father's here,' he announced, and half-turning, looked her up and down. 'Best clean yourself up. You don't want him to get the wrong idea about you.'

Julitta scrambled to her feet. Stalks of straw adhered to her gown, which was the threadbare one of her first arrival with a large patch near the hem where the original fabric had been scorched by a cinder. Her face, she knew, would be grimy with tears, and a rapid exploration of her hair revealed that, as usual, it had begun to escape its braids and it too was tangled with straw. She was imbued with a feeling of panic at the expectations being laid upon her, one after the other, in layers so thick that she was in danger of losing herself. What indeed was her father going to think of her after so long? And surely if he could not accept her as she was, his love was flawed, if he loved her at all. Perhaps she was just an inconvenience to him, a nithing. These thoughts flashed bewilderingly through Julitta's mind as she hurried down the rungs of the loft ladder. Suddenly she did not want to see her father lest he should be nithing in her eyes.

Mauger's warning and her escape were not, however, swift enough. As she emerged from the stables, her skirts gathered above her shins the better to run, she was almost knocked down by a rangy dappled stallion. The man astride cursed and wrenched on the reins. The horse plunged across the path of the rider behind and he in his turn had to back and control his own mount.

Her breathing swift and shallow, her stomach flopping over and over, Julitta watched the leading rider bring his horse to a stand. Her eyes fixed on the sinewy working of his fingers and wrists, the green linen cuff with its edging of blue and buff braid. And then she lifted her gaze beyond the mundane detail and met the furious glare of the man. The strong, clean features of her half-buried memory were overlaid with harsh lines of care. The laughing green eyes were stormy and opaque.

'Have you no more sense than a hen to run out beneath the hooves of a horse?' he snarled at her.

Behind him, Benedict de Remy, the second rider, drew breath to speak, a look of alarm on his face.

Julitta was in no fit state to answer. Filled with dismay that this bad-tempered, harsh-faced stranger, so familiar and yet so different from her memories, now had responsibility for her life, she uttered a gasp and fled, her movement so abrupt that it set the grey horse off again. By the time Rolf had steadied the animal down, she had made good her escape.

'These kitchen wenches are all the same,' Rolf snapped contemptuously as he dismounted. 'Their brains are only ever in one place!'

Benedict cleared his throat. Rolf's temper had worsened with every step they took towards London. This morning he had been unbearable. Benedict could almost see apprehension sitting on his lord's back like a large, grey demon armed with nine-inch claws. It was not entirely Julitta's fault that the horse had played up. The beast was only responding to Rolf's tension. 'That was Julitta, sir,' he said neutrally.

'What?' Rolf glared round at him. 'That raggle-taggle waif is my daughter?'

'Yes, sir.' Avoiding Rolf's stare, Benedict dismounted. 'My mother has commissioned a seamstress to make Julitta some new gowns, but for the moment she only has the clothes in which she came to us, and a dress of my mother's that has been cobbled to fit. Do not think too badly of her. Perhaps you surprised her and she was hurrying to make herself presentable.'

Rolf's mouth tightened. He continued to glower, but Benedict sensed that the disapproval was more self-directed than aimed at him. He took Rolf's bridle and made to lead their two horses into the stables.

Rolf grimaced. 'Ah God,' he said, 'why should it take a lad of eighteen to show me the road when I have been on it so much longer?'

Benedict paused, half-expecting a reprimand, but Rolf sighed heavily. 'You are right. At five years old Julitta was not capable of sitting still for a moment. I used to call her Squirrel because she was so quick and inquisitive.' A painful half-smile curved his lips. 'A different scrape every day, and I never had the heart to punish her because she was so independent and funny. I should have looked beyond the straw and tattered gown to recognise her.'

Perhaps he had known it was her, Benedict thought, but had not wanted to believe it. The sight of Julitta running around like a hoyden in rags was all too close to Arlette's expectations of what he would find— a Southwark 'bath girl'. 'I think you should go and find her, sir,' he said with respectful neutrality.

Rolf eyed him. 'So do I,' he said. 'You've a wise head on your shoulders, Ben.'

Benedict looked modestly down, feeling a not unnatural glow of pride. He was quickly brought to earth by the sight of Mauger descending from the hay loft, a pitchfork in his hand and his sweat-soiled shirt slung around his bull-strong neck. The glow of hard work oiled his well-muscled body, and bits of chaff clung to his damp skin. His chausses had slipped down and hung on his hips, exposing a border of crisp pubic hair. Stalks of straw were snagged in the fabric. Mauger and Julitta in the loft together? It was a preposterous notion, but that did not prevent it from occurring to both Benedict and Rolf. A flush broke across Mauger's cheekbones at their scrutiny.

'I did not remove my shirt until the lass had gone,' he said with dignity before Rolf could challenge him. 'I had no idea she was in the loft until I went to fork some hay.'

'I do not doubt your honour,' Rolf rectified quickly. Mauger said nothing, but his grey eyes revealed that he was not deceived. With dignity, he shouldered the pitchfork and walked on.

Rolf pushed his fingers through his hair. ' "As ye sow, so shall ye reap",' he quoted wryly to Benedict. 'What worries me is that not every man would have the honour to leave his chausses on, let alone his shirt.'

Felice wiped Julitta's tear-swollen face with a cloth wrung out in herb-scented water. 'Come now, come now,' she murmured. 'You can't greet your father like this. Dry your eyes and sit up, there's a good girl.'

'I don't want to see him!' Julitta flung. 'And he doesn't want me. I'm a burden, that's all!' Her lower lip jutted mutinously, but she obeyed Felice and raised herself from the bed.

'Oh, that isn't true! He searched high and low for you and your mother all those years ago. Of course he wants you. You're his daughter!' She smoothed the wavy masses of hair with a gentle hand and wondered what had brought Julitta bolting into the hall like a terrified horse. It had taken all Felice's persuasion and not a little physical struggle to make the child abandon the idea of grabbing her cloak and a loaf and running away. 'It is what your mother wished for you, did she not?'

'Only because she had no choice!' Julitta spat.

'That is not true either.' Felice fetched a bone comb and began to tidy Julitta's hair, plucking out fragments of straw and cleaning it of hayloft dust. 'She had several choices, and she judged your father to be the best of them in the end. I know that she talked about it to you before she died.'

Julitta gripped the coverlet in her fists and submitted for a moment to Felice's soothing ministrations. But in the end her fear and anger could not be contained. 'I don't want to see him!' she repeated and jumped to her feet. 'I won't go with him! It's all his fault that my mother is dead!'

'Julitta!' Felice stood up too, her dark eyes beginning to flash with anger.

'She is right,' Rolf said from the doorway, standing foursquare, banishing all Julitta's hope of escape. 'Had I heeded my conscience and had more self-discipline, Ailith would be with me yet, and none of this need ever have happened.'

Julitta's knees weakened and she sat down abruptly on the bed, her eyes lowered and her head averted.

Felice looked anxiously at Rolf. 'I do not know what to do with her,' she said.

'Leave her to me.' Rolf touched Felice's arm. 'I am indebted to you for your care…"

Felice smiled, but the gesture did not reach her eyes, which were troubled. She laid her hand over Rolf's, gave it a brief, sympathetic squeeze, and went out, leaving father and daughter alone together.

Rolf advanced two uncertain paces into the room. Julitta's head remained averted.

'I know that you want me to go away,' he said, 'but that is something I cannot do. You have haunted me for far too long. If I could change the past, I would, but since that is beyond me, I can only offer you the future.'

She was aware of him moving closer, could feel the warmth and vibration of his body now. 'You called me a hen,' she said in a low, aggrieved voice. 'You shouted at me.'

'You almost ran beneath the hooves of my horse, you could have killed us both. Besides, that is not the true reason you will not look at me.' He reached out across the last few feet of space between them and tilted her chin on his fingers, turning her to face him. 'It is because of your mother, is it not? You think I betrayed her?'

Julitta's thoughts and feelings were so tangled that there was not the slightest possibility of her being able to unravel them into coherence. All she knew was that she was angry at her mother for dying, and because the dead were inviolate, she had to take her anger and misery out on the living. And her father was a prime scapegoat.

'Didn't you?'

'Yes,' he admitted, 'I did betray her, and myself, and there is not a day that has gone by since then that I have not wished it undone. I won't betray her memory. Julitta, I want you to come with me to Ulverton. I want to do my best for you now.'

'And if I don't want to go?' She tossed her head defiantly, shaking off his touch. 'You'll make me, won't you?'

Rolf went to the window where only a few days before a jar of blue and yellow irises had blazed with brave colour. Now the top of the coffer was bare. He stood against the chest, arms folded, and looked out on the bustling yard, and beyond it, the wine wharf jutting into the Thames. 'Do you remember anything of your life before?' he asked. 'Do you remember Ulverton?'

Julitta stared at her father's turned back. His hair was unruly like her own, but maintained in cropped order, and the colour was neither as rich nor as dark, and diluted with wings of silver. Her mother had said that she resembled him as much in character as in looks. Did she remember Ulverton? Dear Jesu, if she tried, she could remember far too much. 'Not really,' she said with a sulky shrug.

'Your mother loved the sea,' he mused. 'At the slightest excuse she would take herself down to the shore in the summertime and go wading barefoot in the shallows. And in winter she would put on her cloak and watch the waves come pounding in for hours on end. She had never seen the coast until I brought her to Ulverton. I can still see her collecting driftwood with the other women, and you running between them, your hair like a banner in the wind.' His voice shook and he sucked an unsteady breath through his teeth.

Julitta bit her lip, fresh tears scalding her eyes. 'Yes, I do remember,' she whispered. 'And you came down and spoke to my mother, then you took me on your shoulders, and I could see so far that I thought the world was mine.'

'It still is if you want it.' Her father turned round and held out his hand once more, but this time he did not advance and touch. 'Princess?'

The word leaped at her and she was smothered by all its promise and heartache. His hand was quivering, perhaps just with the stress of position, but she thought not. There was a tension in his face that spoke of control on the verge of cracking. Her own composure broke beneath his gesture, his stare, and the memories he had invoked. Rising from the bed she ran to him. His arms closed about her, one hand convulsively grasping and smoothing her hair. 'Julitta!' he said hoarsely, almost weeping. 'Oh Christ, Julitta!'

Julitta pressed her cheek against the rough linen of his tunic. Hard, harder, forcing belief into her soul. She would go with him to Ulverton and piece together the shattered dream.

When they had both recovered somewhat from the emotional hammerblows, Julitta detached herself from her father's arms and going to a corner of the room, lifted the edge of a half-folded cloak, and withdrew a Danish war axe.

'My mother always kept this by her. She said that it was hers by right of blood. I remember it hanging on the wall at Ulverton, and falling down on the day that we left. I know that it once belonged to my uncle Lyulph and that he died on Hastings field. It was made by Mama's husband, the armourer.' Julitta gave a little shiver. 'I wish she hadn't kept it.'

'The luck of Ulverton.' Rolf took it from her, hefting its once familiar weight. Or perhaps its misfortune, cleaving in twain the lives of all who touched it. Christened with blood. 'I wish it too,' he said with a grimace, and stretched out his free hand. 'Come with me.'

Julitta took it, feeling the security of the warm grip, the tensile fingers. Her own hand was damp with cold sweat. 'Where are we going?' she asked as he led her down the outer stairs and across the yard toward the wharves.

'To the river to make an offering.'

'What sort of offering?'

'In times gone by, when a warrior died, his weapons often went to the grave with him, or were flung into the nearest river or lake as an offering to the Gods. That is what my grandfather used to tell me, and he had it from his own grandfather who was a pagan.'

Julitta was aware of people stopping work as she and her father went by. From the corner of her eye, she saw Benedict and Mauger standing together, their mouths open. The wharf-side was bustling with labourers and sailors as a Rouen wine galley was disembowelled of her cargo. The rumble of wooden tuns over the stones was deafening. Vinegary fumes from an accidentally broached cask assaulted the air.

Tugging Julitta in his wake, Rolf strode out onto a wooden jetty which currently had nothing but shallow boats moored to its sides. The smell of wine was replaced by the smell of the river as it slapped against the posts, grey and green, frilled with white foam. Gulls wheeled over their heads, and a single, black-winged bird that might have been a raven.

'Stand back,' Rolf said to Julitta, and when she was clear to his satisfaction, he began to whirl the axe around his body in double circles, faster and faster until the weapon was a gleaming blur. Then on a final surge he released it, crying out, and the axe sailed upwards and outwards in magnificence, the head flashing over and over in the sunlight as though it were on fire, before plummeting into the choppy water of the Thames to be quenched forever.

'It is neither good luck nor misfortune now,' Rolf panted, staring down at the opaque green wavelets lapping the posts of the jetty, and then at his daughter. 'It is nothing.'

Later, Julitta and Rolf visited Ailith's grave, the place a scar of fresh, raw earth in the cemetery. Rolf stared at it, still unable to believe that she was truly dead. He had not seen her, therefore it could not be. Even though he had disposed of the axe and its ability to strike, the wounds it had left were deep beyond healing.

Julitta knelt at the graveside and laid a fresh bunch of irises on the soil. Rolf swallowed, watching her. She had her mother's width of brow and generous mouth. There was also a touch of Ailith's stubborn jaw and more than enough of her mannerisms to give Rolf constant twinges of pain whenever he looked at Julitta. The past was an open grave from which the dead stretched out to touch him no matter how he tried to lay the ghosts. Ailith, his beautiful, betrayed Ailith.

'Come,' he said abruptly as Julitta rose from her knees and wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. 'Leave her to sleep. We have a road to travel.'

CHAPTER 42

'So you are Julitta?' said Arlette de Brize. It was more than a plain statement. The woman's grey eyes examined the travel-dusty girl without warmth. 'Be welcome.'

A groom led away the docile chestnut gelding on which Julitta had made the journey from London. She shook out her creased gown and briefly met Lady Arlette's cool stare, doubting that she was welcome at all. Her father's hand firmly grasped and squeezed her shoulder, imparting the reassurance that she badly needed.

Julitta flickered a brief glance around the bailey. It was all so strange, and yet so familiar. She was tired from a journey that had been as much emotional as physical, and was far from over. She did not remember her father's wife from their chance encounter eight years ago, and the woman was nothing as she had imagined. Arlette de Brize was composed, attractive, and immaculately groomed, the sort of person who could walk along a muddy track without so much as smirching her dainty shoes. Julitta was aware that her own appearance, although much improved since London by new clothes, fell far short of the older woman's approval. But then, she thought mutinously, she had no need of that. She raised her head, and unconsciously tightened her jaw.

Arlette turned to the demure young woman standing at her side. 'Gisele, greet your sister,' she commanded.

The girl hesitated, then stepped forward with obvious reluctance. 'Be welcome,' she said in a monotone and kissed the air beside Julitta's cheek.

Julitta inhaled the astringent scent of lavender. This was Gisele, Benedict's betrothed. She was filled with the hazy memory of herself in a rage of infantile disbelief that her father should have destroyed her dreams and betrothed him elsewhere — to her own sister.

'Benedict told us all about you,' Gisele said sweetly, displaying that she possessed claws, no matter how dainty the paws that sheathed them, 'that he rescued you from a bathhouse.'

Red heat flooded Julitta's face.

'Actually it was from a grouchy Thames boatman,' Benedict interrupted easily from his place among the escorting soldiers and grooms. 'They think they own the world.'

Julitta gave him a grateful look, Gisele a narrow one.

'Come.' Arlette took Julitta by the arm as if she were taking the lead of a recalcitrant puppy. 'Let us go within. You will want to wash away the dust of travel and rest before we eat in the hall. Gisele, see to everyone's comfort and then join us.'

'Yes, Mama.' Gisele's voice was a dutiful chime, sweet and slightly high-pitched. Julitta imagined that given the chance it could be shrill and whiny. She longed to remove her arm from beneath Arlette's and gave an experimental tug. The slim white fingers tightened and the grey eyes silently warned her to do no such thing. Julitta yielded, but if anything, the spark of defiance kindled by Arlette's reception, was only fanned to a flame.

'I can see that Felice de Remy has done her best for you, but you need taking in hand,' said Arlette. They had retired to the privacy of the chamber above the hall. It was divided by a wattle and daub partition into two rooms, one being the main bedchamber, the other Arlette's working domain. The orderliness of her character was reflected in the precise arrangement of every item of furniture. The upright loom was placed just so to gain light from the window aperture. A dark oak bench leaned against the wall, its positioning exactly central. Julitta wondered if Arlette had used a measuring stick. Everything was neat, dust-free and firmly put in its place. More to be admired than used, Julitta thought.

Arlette walked round Julitta, examining her as if she were a doubtful piece of ware that she had been duped into buying by a travelling pedlar. Her fingers plucked at the sage-green linen of Julitta's over-dress which had been completed in a rush on the night before she set out from London. Some of the stitches, mostly her own, were over-large, and Arlette clucked her tongue over these.

'Sewing and weaving, baking and brewing,' she declared like a devotional plainchant. 'I do not suppose that your mother had much opportunity to teach you any of those. Well, you'll soon learn. You have your father's looks, so I suppose you must have his quick wits too. If you are to be of any profit to Brize when your marriage is arranged, it is my duty to make a silk purse from a sow's ear… and it is your duty to learn.'

Julitta's eyes flew wide at the words profit, marriage and duty. She knew it was the lot with which most women were burdened, but she had lived outside its conventions for most of her life and was filled with horror at the thought of conforming. 'My father did not bring me to Ulverton to be groomed for sale like one of his mares,' she said with a toss of her head.

Gisele looked primly horrified at Julitta's rebellion. Arlette's stare was cold. 'Your father at least acknowledges his duty,' she said icily. 'He could have left you in the gutter. Think about that, my girl, before you open your mouth to be ungrateful. I'll not have you shaming the proud name of Brize-sur-Risle.'

Julitta blinked hard, fighting tears. She would not cry in front of her half-sister and her father's wife. At the moment she hated both of them, and she knew without a doubt that they hated her. 'What makes you think I would rather not live in the gutter?' she said hotly.

Arlette's thin eyebrows rose to meet her wimple. Her face wore an expression of fastidious distaste. 'Certainly your manners smack of such habitation,' she replied, and terminated the exchange by returning to practical details. 'You will sleep in here with Gisele and the maids. You did not bring many belongings from London, but what you possess, you may store in that coffer.' She indicated an oak chest standing next to a neatly arranged stack of mattresses. 'Tomorrow we shall see how much you know and what you can do.'

Julitta opened her mouth to rebel again, but thought the better of it. Whatever she said would only fetch a rebuke. She had to use guile. Arlette and Gisele had already formed their opinions as to her character and worth, but there were others she could win to her cause, chief among them her father. So instead, she composed her expression meekly and lowered her eyes as if she had been cowed into submission.

Watching over Julitta as she put her few belongings in the coffer, Arlette uttered a horrified squawk when she saw the size of the honed dagger that the girl laid across the top of her spare gown and short shift.

'Surely that is not your eating knife?'

Obviously it was not, for Julitta's small, bone-handled meat-blade was hanging in the leather scabbard at her belt. 'It was my mother's,' she said.

'Your mother wore a murderous thing like that?' Arlette's voice remained horror-struck.

'Sometimes.' A devil in her prompted Julitta to lay her hand to the hilt of polished antler and slowly draw the blade forth from its sheath. 'She always kept it sharp. See, I have her whetstone too.' In her other hand she held up a stone suspended from a small belt cord. 'I know how to hone the edge,' she said confidently and ran her thumb along the blade, 'but it doesn't need it just now.' She gave Arlette a feline smile.

'Put that thing away!' Arlette said hoarsely, one hand at her throat as if she expected to be assaulted. 'It is no fit possession for a girl of your breeding to own. I shall speak to your father about this!'

Julitta shrugged. 'He knows I have it. He saw it in London and he let me keep it. It was made by Mama's husband. He was a master armourer in the days before King William.' She sheathed the dagger and replaced it in the coffer. 'We got rid of the battle axe though.'

Arlette's eyes almost popped out of her head and she did not ask to have the last statement explained. 'Your father is frequently too soft for his own good,' she snapped. 'Keep that thing from my sight. I hate to see weapons in my bower.' A small shudder of genuine aversion ran through her.

Julitta wrapped her shift around the weapon. There were chinks in the armour if you knew where to probe. With satisfaction, she knew that, if necessary, she could give as good as she got.

Being the implicit believer in duty that she was, Arlette had prepared a feast to welcome Julitta into the household. Sitting on the high dais, surrounded by embroidered napery, glazed earthenware vessels, an elaborate aquamanile and matching silver salt dish, it was difficult for Julitta not to feel intimidated. At the bathhouse she had eaten off a plain trencher of wood or stale bread, and the food had been simple — pottage more often than not, or a split loaf served with butter and curd cheese. At the de Remys' she had grown accustomed to dining in a little more style, with a cloth on the trestle for the main meal, and a wider choice of dishes, but this was overwhelming.

She looked at a platter of roasted songbirds that had been placed close to her right hand. They were something she had never liked. Their tiny size always filled her with feelings of grief for their death. She could not bear the feel of their frail bones in her fingers. To her left a shoal of trout adorned a flat wooden dish, overlapped one upon the other, their skins brown-silver in the candlelight, their boiled eyes milky-white.

'Are you not hungry?' her father asked with concern.

Julitta shook her head. Her stomach was empty, but the fare set before her had killed her appetite, as had the formality. She would far rather have sat among the servants in the main body of the hall and shared their soup and stewed meat.

Rolf eyed her thoughtfully. 'It is too much, isn't it?' he murmured quietly, so that Arlette's sharp ears should not hear.

'My mother never gave me food like this,' Julitta said. She knew that she was being petulant and ungrateful, but it had come to her as she sat down to the feast, that in the old days her mother would have sat in Lady Arlette's place. Although Julitta's memory of those times was hazy, she did know that the meal would have been edible and the atmosphere warm and informal.

'Oh, but she did,' Rolf said with a wry smile, 'but never presented in quite the same way. This is how we would eat at court. You are done a great honour. You like fish, don't you?' He deftly removed one of the trout from the serving platter, set it down on a spare trencher, and with a few practised motions of his eating knife, removed the head and filleted the body, turning it over to expose the moist pink flesh. Then he transferred it to her trencher. 'I can promise you it tastes good.'

Julitta hesitated, then flaked a piece of trout off the skin and put it in her mouth. He was right, the fish was indeed succulent and delicately flavoured. As she chewed, her stomach came to life, leaping and craving.

'I would not have thought it of you to be squeamish,' Rolf said curiously.

Julitta shrugged. 'It is easier to eat things if they do not look as if they might still be alive.'

Rolf almost choked on his laughter and had to take a swift gulp of his wine.

Julitta ate the fish and glanced through her lashes at her father, waiting her moment until he had recovered and was ready to give her his attention again. 'May I ask you a boon?'

'Ask me anything you want.'

Julitta flickered a brief glance at Arlette who sat on Rolf's other side daintily nibbling one of the songbirds. She could almost see the woman's ears extending like trumpets to listen. 'Can I ride out with you tomorrow to see the horses?'

His eyes gleamed with pleasure. 'Of course! It would give me great delight to have you keep me company.'

'Only Lady Arlette says that I have to begin to learn how to become a lady for the profit of my future marriage. I did not know if I would be allowed out of the bower.'

Rolf's mouth compressed. He glanced at his wife, whose face had paled as Julitta spoke out. 'No-one will confine you to the bower.'

'She is twisting my words,' Arlette said angrily.

'I'm not, you did say it!' Julitta protested, her voice rising so that other people stopped eating and looked towards the family gathering with curiosity.

'Most certainly your behaviour is a disgrace at the moment. You deserve no favours.'

'Peace, both of you,' Rolf commanded in a tone that caused the witnesses to look elsewhere and pretend attention to their food. 'I will not have this bickering. Julitta, I do not expect you to air your grievances before all and sundry. You are no longer a small child to throw tantrums if your will is gainsaid… or perhaps you are?'

Heat scorched into Julitta's face. She shook her head and looked down at her trencher.

Rolf turned to his wife. 'There is time enough for her to learn from you what she does not know. Tomorrow she will ride out with me and Benedict to see the breeding stock.'

Arlette's lips became a narrow line. 'As you wish, my lord,' she said quietly, a wealth of unspoken resentment in her response. 'Do I have your permission to retire?'

He gestured brusque assent. Arlette rose. So did Gisele, lending moral support to her mother.

Julitta was alarmed. 'I don't have to go too, do I?'

Rolf sighed. 'Better if you remain here for a while to let the dust settle,' he said wryly. Julitta smiled with relief. T wasn't lying,' she declared as Gisele and Arlette left the hall. 'She truly did say those things.'

Rolf poured more wine into his cup. 'She has your welfare at heart, you should not take against her so. She is right that you have things to learn.'

'Does that mean I'm to be trained like a horse and then sold off to the highest bidder?' she demanded.

'Selling you off is the last thing on my mind, Princess. I've only just found you again.' He looked at her sidelong. 'Think of acquiring skills, whatever they might be, as armouring yourself against the world. You have learned to survive, to be independent and think for yourself. Now you must learn control; to bite your tongue when it is unwise to speak out. Lady Arlette can teach you a great deal, do not reject her out of hand.'

Julitta nodded sensibly. Her father patted her head affectionately and turned to talk to one of his retainers. A sudden pang of loss swept over her. She desperately wanted her mother, the comfort of her arms, the warmth of her unconditional love. Instead, all she had was the hostile, dutiful care of Arlette de Brize. Her father, for all his kindness and appearance of understanding, was a man and a stranger, self-centred at his very core. He could not even begin to comprehend.

Muttering an excuse about needing to visit the privy, Julitta escaped the hall. Her father's was not the only gaze to follow her hasty exit. Further down the main trestle, Benedict watched her with troubled eyes, and so too did Mauger, a deep frown between his brows.

CHAPTER 43

'She hates me, I know she does!' Julitta mutinously dragged off the wimple that Arlette had said she must wear whenever she ventured out of the private quarters, and tossed it aside.

Benedict paused while saddling up Cylu to admire the glossy tumble of her curls. The July sunshine burnished the strands to a bright garnet red. She was seated on a heap of straw, her legs parted in most unladylike fashion, her modesty preserved by the full folds of her blue riding gown. He knew that, like casting off her wimple, the pose was in deliberate defiance of Arlette. She and Julitta never quarrelled in front of Rolf these days, but it did not mean that the battle between them had ceased.

'She doesn't hate you,' he contradicted. 'You exasperate and baffle her. More than half the trouble that comes your way is your own fault, you know. You should learn to compromise.'

Julitta glowered at him, but Benedict ignored her expression and resumed harnessing the horse. He was learning how to deal with her moods and had discovered that paying her no heed was the swiftest way to bring her out of a sulk. Besides, he was fond of her, and aware that he was the one to whom she turned to air the frustrations and upsets which she kept to herself on the battlefield.

The straw rustled and a moment later Julitta came to the gelding's head, stroking the soft grey muzzle and muscular cheeks. 'She wants to turn me into a copy of Gisele. She wants me to live my life in that room above the hall with nothing in my head but needles and thread and weaving patterns. I feel as if I am in a prison.'

'Gisele has more in her head than just sewing and weaving,' Benedict defended his betrothed. 'Perhaps it is that you do not want to see beyond it.'

Julitta gave him a glittering look, her expression one that he could not define. 'She doesn't like me either,' she said.

'And you don't like her.' Benedict led Cylu out into the fresh early morning. Already saddled in the bailey was Julitta's small chestnut mare. 'Each of you should appreciate the other for her particular skills.'

'Did you never think of becoming a priest?' Julitta snapped waspishly and led her mare to the mounting block.

Benedict laughed. 'What, and become a martyr?'

Side by side they rode out of the yard. Rolf was absent, delivering three young mares to a client in Winchester; Mauger had returned to Normandy; and thus, for three days, Benedict held responsibility for the stud at Ulverton. He was accustomed to such weight, for it had devolved upon his shoulders before – for the first time when he was sixteen. He was a calm, level-headed young man with a maturity far beyond his years -a maturity that occasionally lapsed if not yoked to the plough of serious occupation.

He looked at Julitta's profile, the daintiness of her nose and cheekbones, the sensual cushion of her mouth. He knew well why Gisele did not like her half-sister. It was a matter of jealousy, simple and hot. Gisele's silvery attractiveness became watery and insipid beside Julitta's raw beauty. Men looked at Julitta in a way that they never looked at Gisele, himself included. And God on the Cross, she was not yet fifteen. He tried not to think about that. She turned her gaze to him now, her eyes a dark sea-blue, flecked with green.

'Anyway,' she tossed her head, 'I've found a way of escaping from the hall and still keeping in Lady Arlette's good graces.'

'You have?'

'I'm learning bee-keeping. The hives are out in the meadow and Arlette never visits them. She hates bees even though she values the honey, and besides, all the grass makes her sneeze and her face swells up.'

Benedict compressed his lips, forcing himself not to chuckle at her resourcefulness. 'The bees will suffer if you slack your duties,' he warned.

'Oh, don't be so pompous,' she scoffed. 'I like tending the hives. Did you know it takes three weeks for a bee to grow from a grub to a worker?'

Still suppressing a grin, Benedict shook his head. 'I know nothing about bees except that they make honey and there is no taste like it straight from the comb with new, warm bread. Even the thought makes my mouth water. I remember your mother giving me a piece of honeycomb when we came to stay at Ulverton in the old days.'

'My mother used to like bees too.' Julitta's eyes grew distant. 'She used to tell them everything of importance that ever happened in the hall.'

'What for?'

'So that they would not fly away, of course!' She looked at him as if he were simple-minded. 'If you forget to let them know who has died, or who is to be married, or when a baby has been born, they will swarm.'

Benedict raised a sceptical brow.

'Well that is what the old lore says.' Julitta shook back her hair. 'Of course they swarm when the queen gets old or the hive becomes too crowded, but it's still best to talk to them. Besides, there is no danger that they will carry tales. I can tell them what I think of someone and they won't scold me or lecture me on how I ought to behave.'

'And I suppose they taught you how to sting too,' Benedict said with a wry grin.

Julitta wrinkled her pert nose at him. 'They die if they sting,' she said after a moment. 'The barb lodges in whatever they attack and they cannot free themselves.' A small shiver ran down her spine.

The destrier herd was spread out over the lush midsummer grasslands, mares, foals and yearlings grazing together under the watchful eye of a powerful silver-grey stallion, a son of Sleipnir.

Confidently, Benedict pointed out to Julitta the best horses in the herd, and indicated which yearlings would be kept for breeding and which would be sold and for what purpose. Julitta was an interested listener and an apt pupil with a born eye. She forgot to be prickly and defensive, her natural personality sparkling through.

'When we lived in Southwark, one of our neighbours had a horse that came from Spain. It was a stallion, but apparently it had no seed — no mare it covered had ever quickened. He still kept it though, just to parade on. I have never seen a horse so beautiful, nor so intelligent or good-natured.'

Benedict felt the excitement take and squeeze him as she spoke. 'That is what I want to do with this herd in the future,' he confided with enthusiasm. 'I want to introduce a strong vein of Andaluz blood, put more fire in their hooves. Oh, they're excellent animals now, you'd have to go all the way to Spain to find anything better, but I want the name of Brize-sur-Risle to shine as the best. To do that, we need to buy stock from the infidel lands, but for the moment, that's nought but a dream. It is almost impossible to get the Moors to part with a stallion unless there is some defect – as your neighbour in Southwark discovered. And for now I still have to prove myself to your father.'

Julitta eyed him, her own face flushed. 'But you will go one day?' she said breathlessly. 'When you are able?'

'Yes, I will,' he said with determination. 'Once I have learned all I can from your father, and once I've fulfilled my obligation to Brize by marrying Gisele and begetting an heir to continue the line.'

The animation left Julitta's face. Abruptly she pulled her mare round and dug in her heels.

Benedict was startled at her change of mood, but dismissed it as Julitta just being her mercurial self. He knew that she was changing rapidly from child to woman. In the months since he had found her, her scarcely budded breasts had developed an alluring roundness, and her hips a gentle curve. She had grown too, was going to be tall for a woman, perhaps even reaching his own height, which was a little short of two yards. But with the changes to her body, came difficult fluctuations of mood. He had endured a similar stage himself as an uncertain youth of fourteen summers, his voice slipping from high to low, like a file across a sword blade, his burgeoning private parts a source of wonder, embarrassment, and pleasure. Of course, it was different for girls, but he still thought he understood, and held back to give her a little space. Or perhaps the space was for himself.

CHAPTER 44

BRIZE-SUR-RISLE, SEPTEMBER 1084

'He's marrying my sister today,' Julitta announced to the industrious bees circling around the entrance of the basketwork hive. It was a glorious autumn morning, and although the insects were not as active as they had been in midsummer, there was still late pollen to be gathered and harvested. 'I know I should have told you before, but I did not want to believe that it was real.' Lightly she spread her fingers against the side of the skep. 'I wish it was me,' she whispered, her throat closing with tears.

Earlier that morning she had helped Gisele to dress in a wedding gown of palest blue silk, cut in the new fashion which moulded to the body. Gisele's supple, boyish figure was well suited to the style, and the colour was a perfect foil for her clear grey eyes. Her fine, silver-brown hair had been washed in chamomile and brushed down to her hips in token of her virginity, and a chaplet of wild flowers crowned her brow. Gisele had always been pretty, but today, attired for her wedding, she looked breathtaking, and Julitta had been filled with bitter jealousy. In the end, to avoid being physically sick, she had fled the chamber full of chattering, gossiping women, and escaped to the sanctuary of her bee skeps.

The morning dew had soaked through Julitta's thin, gilded shoes, darkening the leather. The hem of her dress was damp too. Lady Arlette would scold her, but Julitta did not care a bean for the woman's opinion. Indeed, just now she hated her. Julitta's attire for the wedding had been carefully selected by her father's wife. The gown was cut in a similar fashion to Gisele's, but not quite so closely moulded, so that Julitta's delectable curves were not displayed to their best advantage. While the over-dress was not expensive silk like Gisele's, it was nevertheless of a superb quality linen, heavy and close-woven. Arlette could scarcely be accused of parsimony. Julitta had never owned such a fine gown, but the bright orangey-yellow colour of the fabric was disastrous against her pale, satin skin and rich garnet hair. She looked as if she was suffering from an excess of the yellow bile. Julitta had been more than tempted to take from her coffer the knife of which Arlette so disapproved, and use it to slash the offending garment to shreds.

Julitta was not vain by nature — usually she did not care what she wore, but she was accustomed to seeing admiration in men's eyes, in Benedict's in particular, and was mortified to know that today he would look nowhere save at his bride.

'It isn't fair,' she muttered to the bees. 'Ben should be mine.'

'Found you at last,' said Mauger impatiently. 'They're all looking for you. It's time to go to church.'

Guiltily, Julitta whirled to face her father's overseer. He was dressed in a tunic of dark blue wool trimmed with scarlet braid. His heavy blond hair had the feathery look of recent washing, and there was even a gold ring on one of his fingers. It was easy to forget when his daily garb consisted of plain shirts, worn tunics and dusty chausses that he was a landholder in his own right. Today he was the lord of Fauville, and wore his rank boldly.

'Lady Arlette said you'd be here,' Mauger added when she continued to stare at him without speaking, torn between resentment and surprise. 'She says you always visit the hives when you're out of temper.'

'I'm not out of temper,' Julitta snapped.

Silently Mauger held out her cloak. It was a slightly darker orange than her dress and equally disastrous to her complexion. Gracelessly, she snatched it from him and put it on.

Mauger observed her from beneath his brows. 'Lady Arlette says that you're to stay with me until we reach church,' he said brusquely, and led her to his tethered horse. 'You're to sit pillion.' He gathered the reins and gained the saddle, then reached down for her hand to pull her up behind him. Julitta perched on the horse's rump and grasped his belt to hold herself secure. Mauger's neck reddened, and he shifted uneasily in the saddle as if there was a thorn under his buttocks. The proximity of his lord's young and nubile daughter performed a disturbing alchemy on his body.

They rode in silence. Julitta was in no mood to make conversation and Mauger was more taciturn than ever, his mind occupied with ambitious thoughts, not unconnected with the discomfort of his half-erect manhood.

When they arrived at the church in the village, he dismounted and helped Julitta down from the horse. Her body grazed against his as he set her on the ground and involuntarily his hands tightened. Jesu, it was almost more than a man could bear.

Julitta pulled away from him, disliking the dampness of his palms and the look in his eyes. He reminded her of Merielle's clients at Dame Agatha's bathhouse and she did not want to be with him. She stared round, saw Felice and Aubert de Remy, and in relief hastened over to them. Mauger wrapped his fists around his belt and followed her, his head slightly lowered, giving him the aspect of a charging bull.

Felice greeted Julitta with a warm hug and sound kisses on both cheeks. 'Let me look at you, child! My, haven't you grown!'

Julitta grimaced and plucked at the skirt of the dress. 'I hate this. She did it deliberately. I'd rather be wearing that old blue gown you gave me in London!'

'Nonsense! Look at how rich and heavy this material is.' There was a hint of censure in her voice, as if she thought Julitta was being ungrateful.

'Yes, so I'll have to wear it as my best gown for ever and ever!'Julitta's eyes darkened. 'She didn't even ask me if I liked it, just chose and bought it herself from the mercer. She doesn't want me to compete with Gisele.'

Aubert raised a wry brow at his wife, cleared his throat, and excused himself, pausing only to put his arm across Mauger's shoulders and tactfully lead him away too.

Felice tried to soothe Julitta's ruffled feathers, but with little success, for she was only uttering platitudes and both of them knew it.

'Perhaps you could dye it another colour,' Felice suggested, cocking her head on one side. 'If you could darken it a few shades, it would go well with your hair.'

Julitta's eyes brightened at the thought of stuffing the gown in a vat of water with leaves of lady's bedstraw and pummelling it viciously with a pole. Perhaps she could arrange something next time the homespun wools were being dyed.

'Anyway,' Felice added softly, 'this is Gisele's day. You would not want to outshine the bride, would you?'

Julitta lowered her gaze without speaking. She wanted to be the bride.

Felice eyed her compassionately. 'You are very young,' she said. 'Too young to know your own mind, but old enough to think you do and feel the pain. It will pass, believe me.'

Julitta shook her head. She had known her own mind since she was five yean old, and she had given up believing a long time ago.

The marriage ceremony took place in the porch of the church as was the custom. Bride and groom clasped hands in the presence of the priest and the wedding guests, and spoke the formal, binding words, neither of them faltering, both firm and clear. Benedict was resplendent in a tunic of rich crimson wool and blue chausses, the colours setting off his dark good looks. Julitta had never seen him appear so handsome, nor Gisele so beautiful. She heard other guests murmuring what a well-matched couple they were, how fortunate the families were in having such fine heirs.

Julitta watched Arlette fuss and preen at the compliments, saw the pride in her father's eyes as they followed the bride and groom towards the waiting horses. Beside Julitta, Felice was sniffing and dabbing at her eyes.

'Are you ready to return to the castle, Mistress Julitta?' Mauger said at her elbow. His face, at least, reflected no emotion. She nodded and silently followed him to his mount. As he drew her up behind him, she discovered to her dismay that they were alongside Benedict and Gisele. The couple were pressed close together upon the same horse, Gisele smiling at the unaccustomed pleasure of being the centre of attention, Benedict's optimistic nature made exuberant by the atmosphere of celebration. Averting her eyes, Julitta grasped Mauger's belt and leaned against him, pressing her face against his solid back and closing her eyes as she had once done behind Benedict when he had saved her from the geese.

Bathhouses had taught Benedict several valuable lessons when it came to the art of making love. He knew that such knowledge sat quite at odds with what Gisele had been taught by her mother, and was not a little perturbed. It was like being invited to a feast and then being told that you could not eat any of the food spread before you. And where was the pleasure in that?

Gisele looked at him nervously. The sheets were drawn up to her chin, concealing her pale, slender nakedness. He sat up beside her, his own olive skin tanned deep brown from his busy outdoor life. They were alone and the door was barred, but the sounds of celebration still drifted through the wood. Some folk would stay up until dawn, reminiscing round the fire, talking and singing. He half-wished he was with them now, a guest himself, but he and Gisele had a duty to perform and a bloody sheet to present in the morning in token of that duty accomplished. And the other half of his wish was watching him fearfully for any sudden move.

He reached with a gentle hand to brush at a wisp of silvery hair lying on her cheek. 'You look as if you have just stepped from the land of faery,' he said softly, 'so beautiful and delicate. Look at the difference in our skin.' Adroitly he peeled aside the sheltering covers, exposing her satiny shoulder, and laid his fingers there, warm brown upon white.

Gisele looked and shivered, small goose bumps rising on her flesh. 'I won't hurt you,' he murmured, 'I promise I won't. Just let me touch you for a moment. Here, rest against me, you're cold.'

Although Benedict would not be nineteen until Christmastide, it had been more than three years since he had lain with his first woman, and in that time he had learned that to light a blaze in a cold hearth, you had to pay great attention to setting the fire. You could not brutally thrust a torch into the kindling and expect it to burn. The flames had to be coaxed and fanned.

Of course, he also knew that he could throw Gisele flat on her back and take her within a matter of seconds to sate his own lust, that it was his marital right to do so, but Benedict's was a sensual nature. He derived as much pleasure from the slow spiralling of his senses as he did from the core of the act itself. He wanted Gisele to feel as he did, wanted to see her eyes grow hazy with desire and then widen in astonishment, wanted to hear her gasp as she arched against him. He could not allow her mother's shadow to have the dominance of their wedding bed.

He continued to whisper how beautiful he thought her, and moved his hand up and down her spine in a slow, stroking rhythm that warmed and soothed. After a while she began to relax and he persuaded her to drink some of the spiced wine that had been left on the night table in case they became thirsty at their endeavours. Benedict set his lips to the place where she had drunk, holding her eyes while he tilted the cup. And then, handing it back to her, he was deliberately clumsy and spilled some of the sweetened wine upon her shoulder. Gisele jumped with surprise, then raised an edge of the bed-sheet to dry herself. Benedict quickly set the cup down on the coffer and grabbed her hand before she could accomplish her intention. Bearing it down, he leaned over her and began to kiss and lick the wine from her skin, following the track of the droplets from shoulder to armpit, to the small swell of breast and the roseate crown of tight nipple, by which time Gisele had given up all resistance, permitting him to have his way.

Benedict led her slowly through the labyrinth of desire towards its core, pausing here and again to explore and savour. She came with him, eager, and at the same time reluctant. Even as she arched towards the feather-lightness of his touch between her thighs, her breath hissing through her teeth, she kept her eyes tightly closed, protecting herself. And although she put her arms around his neck and her fingertips dug furiously into his shoulders, she refused, even at his gentle coaxing, to touch him intimately in return. It was as if he was asking her to place her hand upon the devil's branding iron.

And then, beneath his sure, soft stroking, her closed eyelids tensed and she began to gasp and buck. Benedict entered her then, and as her flesh enclosed him, he felt the exquisite closeness of release and relief. He had been holding himself in check for a long time while he concentrated on bringing Gisele to a state of excitement that would overcome whatever pain there was, and now she had reached the pinnacle, he let his body have its way, and quickly, before she descended from the height of her own pleasure. The barriers in his mind dissolved, there was nothing but her smooth, tight sheath, and himself filling it, bursting. Her throat arched, her short fingernails imprinted half-moons of lust across his shoulders and she sobbed once aloud, the sound caught back and smothered behind her teeth.

Finally, Benedict caught his breath. Bracing his weight on his elbows, he looked down at her. Still her eyes were closed. Her breathing was short and swift, and a rosy flush illuminated her face, throat, and breasts. He dipped his head to nibble her shoulder and tasted a residue of wine, salty now with sweat.

'That wasn't so bad, was it?' he murmured.

Wordlessly she shook her head, and the colour mantling her face darkened as she blushed.

'You can open your eyes, you know.'

Reluctantly she did so, avoiding his dark gaze as if they had done something shameful.

'Pleasure can be God-given too.' He rolled off her and lay down at her side. 'We are man and wife, we have not sinned.'

She nodded agreement, more to please him, he suspected, than from true belief. She raised the covers and looked down, checking that there was blood between her thighs and that some of it had smeared on the sheet. 'It didn't hurt,' she said in a puzzled, almost accusing voice.

'I suppose your mother told you it would?' he said neutrally.

Gisele frowned and shook her head. 'She said that it might, but not to worry, it would soon be over. But Father Hoel says that it is a woman's lot to bear pain for the sin of Eve, that anything else is lust.'

'Father Hoel is a sapless old stick,' Benedict snorted. 'I could have given you more than enough pain to satisfy your guilt, but I wanted it to be good for you.'

She bit her Up and was silent for a while. 'It was,' she said in a small, tentative voice, and pulled the bedclothes back up, covering herself from his gaze.

Benedict felt a surge of irritation. What was good was obviously not necessarily right. He drew her against him, his hand sweeping over the curve of her spine and her buttocks. He had intended going to sleep, but a different resolve grew inside him as he witnessed her reaction to his lovemaking. 'Next time,' he said a trifle grimly, as if responding to a challenge, 'will be even better.'

And as Gisele twisted and wept beneath the relentless onslaught of his tongue and fingers, Julitta lay in the bower with the other women, and twisted and wept too in anguish of her own. And alone with his hand, so did Mauger.

CHAPTER 45

Julitta stooped, formed a snowball from the thick white carpet at her feet, and hurled it at the young squire who had just struck a direct hit on her cloak. Her missile hit him on the side of the neck and showered in crystalline fragments down his tunic and shirt to find his skin and make him bellow. Julitta shrieked with delight and pressed home her attack. The youth rallied and chased her. Giggling, she fled across Brize's lower bailey for the safety of the stain, but her skirts hampered her, and the squire caught her by the arm and spun her round to face his handful of snow. Half-screaming, half-laughing, Julitta fought him off, her hair untwisting from its braid.

Mauger paused at the top of the wooden stairway linking the keep with the lower bailey and stared down on the tussling pair. His mouth tightened, and his hands clenched into fists. 'Arnaut!' he bellowed furiously. 'Arnaut, who gave you permission to leave your duties?' He thumped down the steps and strode over to Julitta and the squire. 'What do you think you are doing?'

The youth released Julitta as if she had suddenly become a scalding ingot, and looked guiltily at Mauger. 'I was on an errand for Lady Arlette,' he stammered. 'I didn't mean anything, it's only bit of fun.'

Her hair more than half undone, Julitta beat snow from her cloak and looked at Mauger through lowered lashes.

'A bit of fun?' Mauger said incredulously and cuffed the lad across the ear. 'More important than your errand, eh?'

'No, sir.'

Mauger cuffed him again. 'Then see to it, and if I catch you dallying again, I'll have you forking dung with the stable lads for the next month!'

'Yes, sir.' The youth fled.

Mauger rounded on Julitta, his hands planted authoritatively on his hips. Since the autumn she had been wilder than usual, as uncontrollable as the steep seasonal winds that came blustering off the Normandy coast scattering everything before them with a wanton disregard. She had no sense of the impropriety of wrestling in the courtyard with one of the junior squires. Good Christ, she was almost fifteen, far too old to be romping like a puppy, far too much of a woman to be a child.

'You should not encourage the lad,' he growled. 'It is not seemly.'

Julitta tossed her head. 'There was no harm in it.'

With some difficulty Mauger bit back the comment that she was no longer a street-hoyden and that she had to learn to behave with decorum. 'Does Lady Arlette know where you are?'

'Yes.'

The word was spoken with such defiant bravado that Mauger knew Julitta was lying.

'You are in her charge while your father is away in Flanders,' Mauger said sternly, 'and you should obey her will.'

'Why should I?' Julitta glowered at him defiantly. 'She only wants to sit me down with a pile of smelly fleeces and make me spin while informing me how much better Gisele would do it if she were here!'

'But you don't even try,' he said. 'I have seen the way you bait her and flout her rules. Do you think your mother would joy to hear and see you now?'

Julitta continued to glare at him, but now her eyes brimmed with tears and her jaw trembled. 'I hate you!' she spat, and whirling round, ran towards the hall, stumbling and slipping in the ankle-deep snow.

Mauger did not pursue her, except with his eyes. She needed a firm hand, he thought, more specifically, the hand of a firm man who would brook no waywardness. Not her father; he was too scarred by the past to deal with her effectively. Head bent in thought, he continued on his way to the stables.

By the time Julitta arrived at Lady Arlette's bower, she was unusually meek and silent, for Mauger's words had chastened her. What indeed would her mother think? Ailith would have laughed at the snowball fight with Arnaut and seen no harm in it, of that she was sure, but Julitta's certainty wavered when she thought of other aspects of her recent conduct. As she silently picked up her drop spindle and began to twirl the raw wool into yarn, she admitted to herself that she was often badly behaved for the sole purpose of spiting Lady Arlette and a world that had treated her ill.

It was a moment of painful revelation to Julitta, as she faced herself and realised that she did not like all that she saw. And when she sought her mother's image in her mind's eye for comfort, she discovered that she could no longer see her face. Her eyes filled and her hands trembled on the spindle, but she continued to ply the thread with determination so that Arlette would not notice and pounce upon her distress.

Arlette, however, had distractions and problems of her own, and although her gaze fell upon Julitta as she worked, in actual fact, she was less aware of the girl than usual. Her thoughts were all for her absent daughter.

She had not wanted Gisele to cross the narrow sea in November with her young husband, it was far too dangerous. A stubborn line to his mouth, a frown in his dark eyes, Benedict, however, had insisted, and Rolf had supported him.

'I cross the narrow sea all the time,' he had answered her protest. 'You have to let her go. She has to stand in her own light, not your shadow.'

It was the truth and it hurt like the cut of a sword, but even more painful was the being apart. Gisele was not only Arlette's daughter, she was her friend, confidante and ally. Not for one instant would Arlette have considered opening her mind to the child who was left for her to tend. Julitta was a cuckoo in the nest. Even to tolerate her was a chore.

Arlette had never quite forgiven Rolf for arranging the marriage to Benedict de Remy when they could have negotiated a match to a family of high Norman blood. Benedict was handsome, diligent and, according to Rolf, so talented that he could spot a good horse with his eyes blindfolded. But to Arlette's mind, he took his pleasures too seriously, and his responsibilities not seriously enough. Quite simply, he was not good enough for her daughter. He could have been a saint and still he would not have measured up to her standards.

Her brooding was interrupted as a maid entered the room and informed her that Lord Rolf had returned from his journey to Flanders. Arlette set aside her sewing and went down to greet him. She was more than halfway to the hall before she realised that Julitta, usually so eager to fling herself upon Rolf, had remained in the bower at her spinning.

Grimacing at the pain in his knees, Rolf eased his legs forward beneath the trestle and wished for spring. He was forty-six years old and in fine summer weather, he was still a young man. But on days like this, after a gruelling journey through bitter wind and snow, his joints told him that this was not so, that if he looked over his shoulder, he would see his youth disappearing towards the horizon.

'Once I helped to dig an English village out of the snow after a blizzard,' he said ruefully to Mauger as he raised his cup. 'I worked all day, and then sat around the elder's fire telling stories and drinking mead all night. The winter of sixty nine it was, the year before Julitta was born. It seems like yesterday, but it is more than sixteen years.'

He and Mauger had been discussing the progress of the stud during his absence. People were preparing to retire for the night, dragging pallets towards the warmth of the fire, shaking out blankets cloaks. Outside, the wind whistled like a demon.

Mauger nodded and fiddled with his empty cup. Rolf eyed the young man thoughtfully. Their business was concluded, and Mauger was not usually one to linger for the purposes of conversation. Had it been Benedict here instead, Rolf might have stayed talking all night as he had done round the fire sixteen years ago, and forgotten his aching knees, but Mauger was not cut of the same cloth.

'What is on your mind?' he asked. 'Is there some problem with the horses you have not broached to me?'

'No, my lord.' Mauger shook his head and drawing a deep breath, looked Rolf in the eye. 'It is about your daughter, Julitta, that I would speak.'

'Julitta?' Rolf eyed him with surprise which quickly darkened into worry. 'What has she done now?'

'Nothing, my lord, I am not bringing a complaint.'

'Then what? I haven't got the patience tonight to play at riddles.' Rolf rubbed his leg a trifle irritably.

Mauger swallowed. 'I know that I am breaking the rules of convention by approaching you myself, that I should have a mediator, but there was no-one I felt I could trust. The task would have fallen to my father were he still alive, God rest his soul, but since he is not, I have no alternative.' Mauger paused, took a deep, steadying breath, and said, 'I am asking you to consider me as a suitor for Julitta's hand in marriage.'

Rolf was nothing short of astonished. Mauger and Julitta? 'Has she given you any encouragement?' he asked faintly.

'No more than to any man,' Mauger answered, and then reddened. 'No, my lord, she has not, but I would give her a safe and steadfast home where she would be her own mistress, and not want for anything.'

Rolf eyed the young man warily. Mauger was stockily handsome. Blond and strong. His best attributes were persistence, endurance, and foursquare solidity, his worst, that he had a tendency to be sullen, and when he got stuck in a rut, it took an almighty shove to remove him. Until now, Rolf would have said that Mauger was incapable of taking a risk, but then perhaps he had never wanted anything badly enough to do so. Wanting his lord's daughter to wife, especially a girl like Julitta, was more than a calculated risk, it was downright dangerous. Rolf knew that he was well within his rights to dismiss Mauger as his overseer for such presumption, although he could hardly banish him from tenure of his ancestral holdings at Fauville. Mauger might be his vassal, but his bloodline was just as noble and respected as that of Brize-sur-Risle.

'I have no intention of betrothing Julitta anywhere yet,' Rolf said with caution. 'After all the upheaval in her life, it is too soon to unsettle her again. Since she has given you no encouragement, then neither can I, and I would advise you to look elsewhere for a wife if that is your need.'

Mauger nodded, his expression carefully neutral. 'I understand,' he said. 'But I had to ask, and now you see why I had to do it in person. It is between you and me. No-one else knows.'

'I understand too,' Rolf said. 'For your father, whom I loved as a friend, and for yourself, whom I value, I will take no offence.'

Mauger gnawed his lower lip, rose to leave, and then turned back. 'One of the reasons that I came to you is that I am concerned for her, my lord.'

'In what way?'

'It worries me to see her running around the keep the way she does.'

Rolf's eyelids crinkled. 'You think she should be at her distaff like all good women, eh?'

Mauger's face suffused with colour. 'I am worried that not all men are honourable, Only this morning I had to reprimand Arnaut for horseplay in the snow with Mistress Julitta. She made light of it, but young squires — ' he screwed up his face, 'they need very little encouragement.'

Rolf eyed him thoughtfully. 'I take your point,' he said, 'but you do not tame a wild thing by stifling it. Julitta will always be a little different because of her upbringing. You mention marriage. I say it will take a special man to know how to treat her, to yield at the right moment and yet maintain control.' He rose to his feet and limped stiffly in the direction of the bedchamber. 'She knows how to defend herself,' he said over his shoulder to Mauger. 'Besides, while I am the lord of Brize-sur-Risle, no man will dare to lay a finger on her unless he wants to be a gelding.'

CHAPTER 46

Julitta stood beside Mauger in the bailey, silently watching him inspect some horses that a hopeful trader had brought up from the regions far to the south. He said that he was on his way to Paris, but having heard of the fame of Brize-sur-Risle, he thought he would bring his stock here first.

In Julitta's opinion, his prices were far too high for what she considered to be very ordinary beasts. Her father or Benedict would not have entertained the thought of purchasing any of them. Mauger was being slow and deliberate as he examined each one. She knew that he would reject them too, but it would take him twice as long as the other men to make up his mind.

Julitta walked over to the horses which Mauger had rejected earlier before she emerged from the confines of Arlette's bower to watch him. For the most part they were mere nags, basic riding beasts that would serve well enough in ordinary domestic situations where excellence was not desired. The trader had brought his wares to the wrong market. Her father was no bucolic dabbler in the art, but a man who bred, bought and sold top quality horse-flesh for the high nobility. From what she could hear of the conversation between Mauger and the trader, Mauger was expressing those sentiments precisely, and not mincing his words. Lately, Mauger had been more irascible than ever, and she avoided his company unless, like now, the lure was too great. On the other side of the coin, he seemed to be doing his best these days to avoid hers.

Among the rejected horses, Julitta came across a cream-coloured mare with a filly nuzzling at her heels. The mare was nothing to look upon, although the journey she had travelled whilst carrying and then bearing the foal was a testament to her endurance. The colour of her coat was unusual, exactly mirroring the thick, yellow cream that was skimmed off the milk in the dairy each summer evening. Still, Julitta would have passed her over with only a minor second glance, were it not for the foal.

Her colouring was even more striking than her mother's, for instead of being a dappled grey, she was a dappled gold, or would be when her baby fuzz had grown into true, glossy horsehide. She had the sharp, pricked ears, the intelligent eye and the fluid lines that suggested her father at least must have come from Andaluz stock. An aristocrat, lost among the peasants, so small an aristocrat, that Mauger had overlooked her.

Julitta was not so naive as to call Mauger over and make a fuss about purchasing mother and daughter. If they were fortunate, they could obtain both for a bargain price. She sauntered back to the men. 'Are you going to buy any?' she asked Mauger.

He eyed her suspiciously. 'Why?'

Julitta pointed at a jet-black yearling which she knew Mauger had discarded as being too weak in the chest and spindly of leg. 'He's nice,' she said to the coper. 'Can you trot him up and down again?'

The coper agreed with alacrity, scarcely able to believe his luck. Mauger, full of his own disbelief, faced Julitta. 'What do you think you are doing?' he hissed furiously. 'That animal's not worth a bag of beans!'

'I know,' Julitta said calmly.

Mauger glared. 'Then why did you…'

'Oh, be quiet and listen! I asked to look at the yearling to distract the trader so that I could talk to you about that mare and foal over there without him suspecting. The mare's ordinary, but look at the foal, look at the breeding in her.'

'I've already looked,' Mauger said coldly.

'And you were not impressed?'

His eyes flickered to the trader who was trotting the black up and down. 'I won't waste your father's coin for your foolish whim,' he growled.

'It's not a whim, it is sound sense!' Julitta's eyes flashed angrily. 'There's Spanish blood in her. Do you think I cannot recognise quality when I see it?'

'You are saying that you know more after one year than I do after nine and twenty?' Mauger's nostrils flared.

'I am saying that you overlooked the foal because the mother is not what you want.'

'I overlooked nothing,' Mauger said through his teeth, clinging grimly to control. 'Even if the sire is pure-bred Andaluz, the mother's blood will bring it down. Your father entrusts me with the management of his horses, not some flighty wench who should be at her distaff.'

Julitta recoiled as if she had been punched. Mauger might have more knowledge than her, but he did not possess the vital spark of intuition. To be slapped down when she knew she was right was a blow that left her first speechless, and then hot with indignation. 'Then he entrusts a jackass!' she spat, and turning her back on him, faced the trader who had given up all pretence of showing the black's paces and was staring at the two of them in astonishment.

'How much do you want for the cream mare and her foal?' Julitta demanded, all subterfuge flown.

The coper drew breath.

'You bargain with me, or not at all,' Mauger snarled furiously. 'I am responsible for my lord's bloodstock. The girl has no authority, and furthermore no coin. And I wish to buy neither mare nor foal.'

Julitta whirled round and glared at Mauger, loathing him.

'Scowl all you want, your tantrums will not change my mind,' Mauger said brutally.

She wanted to kick him, she wanted to scream abuse in his face, but she saw that the deeper she wallowed in fury, the more he gained. Gathering the tatters of her dignity around her like a threadbare cloak, she swept out of the bailey, and only when she was out of sight did she stoop to pick up a stone and hurl it as far and as hard as she could, to the accompaniment of language purloined from Dame Agatha's bathhouse.

For the rest of the day she kept to the bower, twirling raw wool on her distaff with a vengeance while she wondered how many other opportunities Mauger had let slip through his fingers during the twenty-nine years of experience he claimed to his advantage.

In the late afternoon just as the candles were being lit, a servant hurried into the bower to inform Arlette that Benedict de Remy and the Lady Gisele had ridden in.

Arlette's face shone so brightly that they scarcely required the candles, and she leaped to her feet. So did Julitta, her heart bumping against her ribs, her stomach queasy with anticipation. She had tried to banish Benedict from her thoughts since his marriage at Michaelmas, but she had no control over her dreams. Time and again he would invade them and torment her with his smile.

Full of anticipation, fall of dread, she followed Arlette out to the bailey. Gisele had been travelling by litter, she had never been keen on riding, and as the contraption was set down, she drew aside the curtains, stepped out and flung herself into her mother's arms. Weeping, the two women embraced. Julitta stopped dead, her gaze held not so much by the sight of Benedict, lithe and strong with a new maturity to his features, as by the cream mare and golden-dapple foal attached by a leading rein to Cylu's saddle.

She stared and stared. Arriving to greet the visitors, so did Mauger, his complexion growing dusky and his grey eyes brightening with rage.

'How did you do this?' he hissed furiously at Julitta.

'I didn't do anything!' she retorted. 'I've been "minding my distaff' as you suggested.'

Glowering, Mauger shouldered forward to confront Benedict. The young man drew breath to speak, but Mauger stole his space.

'Where did you get this mare and foal?' he demanded. 'Did she put you up to it?' An aggressive forefinger stabbed at the staring Julitta.

Benedict looked astounded. He glanced briefly at Julitta, then back to his fuming accuser. 'Put me up to what?' He shrugged. 'I've only just arrived, and this is the first time I've set eyes on Mistress Julitta since Martinmas. 'I met a horse-trader driving his animals towards Honfleur and I stopped to look over what he had.'

'Surely you must have known that he had been here first, and that I had rejected his stock as unfit for Brize?' Mauger said huskily.

'Of course I knew. I guessed even before he told me. And since you had rejected them,' Benedict added silkily, 'I judged myself perfectly within my bounds to buy the mare and foal for Ulverton. The mare's ordinary, I grant you, but the foal shows promise, and if she carries the stallion's line so well, she will probably make an excellent brood mare. The trader was disappointed at having sold you nothing, so he made himself feel better by letting me have these two at a very attractive price.' Benedict tilted his head. 'What's wrong, Mauger? To look at you, anyone would have thought I had squandered a hundred marks on a broken-winded ass.'

Mauger clenched and unclenched his fists as if contemplating using them on Benedict. He brought himself under control, and making a sound of pure disgust, turned on his heel and stormed off. Benedict stared at his retreating back, and then at Julitta, seeking an answer.

'I asked him to buy the mare and foal, but he turned stubborn on me and refused. We had a furious argument right in front of the horse-trader. Mauger thought he had won.' She said all of this in a neutral voice, but then her eyes began to sparkle and her mouth to curve. 'I could not believe it when I saw them on leading reins!' She approached the mare and foal, her hand outstretched. 'Perhaps prayers are answered after all.' She threw Benedict a dazzling smile.

He caught his breath at her beauty. She was so spontaneous, so different to Gisele who carefully weighed every action, each word and gesture, tempering them all to what was correct. 'Not Mauger's,' he said with an answering grin. It felt strange to smile. There had been little humour in his life these past few months. Sometimes he thought there would be more joy in becoming a monk.

Arlette appeared at his side and greeted him with a cool peck on each cheek. 'Welcome, son,' she said formally. 'Will you come inside?'

Benedict returned her stilted embrace. He and Arlette were never going to be more than tepid with each other. She resented the rights he had over her daughter, rights that enabled him to take Gisele far away from Brize if he so desired, and for his part, Benedict resented the hold Arlette had over Gisele, that made of his young wife nothing but a pretty, hollow shell without a mind of her own.

'In a moment, Mother,' he said. 'I want to see the mare and foal safely bedded down first.'

'I'll come with you,' Julitta ventured quickly, gambling that Arlette would not refuse. Usually she would have done, but with Gisele home at Brize after an absence of five months, Julitta was certain that mother and daughter would want to talk in private without the constraint of other ears.

Arlette gave her a hard look, obviously torn between her desire to be alone with Gisele and the inadvisability of letting Julitta out of her sight. The former won, but only just. 'Do not be too long,' she said sternly and waggled a smooth, white forefinger to emphasise the point.

'No, Madame,' Julitta said meekly, barely able to conceal her fierce delight.

Benedict watched the small, golden-dappled foal curl up on the straw of the stall and immediately fall asleep. Her mother dozed too, replete with the feed of oats she had been given.

'She's a little beauty,' Benedict said, admiring his purchase.

'I could have killed Mauger.' Julitta watched the foal too. 'I sometimes wonder how he finds his face to shave!'

Benedict laughed, but felt forced to speak up in Mauger's defence. 'Anyone can make a mistake. And it doesn't do a man's pride any good to admit to a girl of fifteen that she is right and he is wrong.'

'Well he didn't do much for my resolution to be of a sweeter nature in the future,' Julitta answered ruefully.

'You? Sweet natured?' Benedict snorted as if he thought such a notion preposterous, and Julitta swiped at him.

'I suppose,' she said wistfully, 'that you'll take her back to Ulverton when you return?'

'You don't think I'm leaving her here with Mauger, do you?'

Silently she shook her head and looked longingly at the foal.

Benedict pursed his lips, considering. 'I tell you what,' he said, 'I'll keep her for you at Ulverton. When your father returns, I'll tell him that the horse is yours. He'll understand when he sees young Freya here.'

'Freya?'

'One of your father's Norse Gods, or should I say Goddesses.' He smiled.

'And you are saying she is mine?' Julitta's eyes began to shine.

Benedict nodded. 'I bought her for Ulverton, but if not for Mauger's foolishness, she would have been yours first.'

Julitta gave a small, joyous cry and flung herself into his arms. 'Ben, thank you!' she cried, hugging him enthusiastically. He hugged her in return. His nostrils were filled with the scent of her, his hands with the feel of her soft, supple body, and his breathing quickened. For an instant his grip tightened as if to hold her, but then he changed direction and pushed her gently away.

A groom entered the stables and Benedict released her completely. 'As I say,' he repeated, clearing his throat, 'I'll tell your father about the arrangement.' He drew a deep breath, and as the dangerous moment receded, his tone lightened and his manner became more natural. 'Besides, I have advanced the prestige of Ulverton tremendously this winter season. Your father cannot help but be delighted.' A note of pride entered his voice.

Julitta watched him, fascinated by every movement, every facet: the shine of light on his heavy black hair and the planes of his face, the cadence of his voice, his lips shaping the words. The place between her legs, the place that Arlette said was forbidden and sinful to think about, was leaden with heat. 'What have you done?' she heard herself prompt.

Benedict moved towards the door and the safety of the open bailey. 'The King's sons came to Ulverton to look at our horses. Robert and Rufus and Henry on my threshold, I could not believe it. Their father has always come to yours for his mounts, but this is the first time that his sons have shown an interest of their own. They wanted to see your father, but of course he is in Paris, so they had to deal with me. Actually, I think it sat better with them to talk to a younger man than with one of their father's years. They bought several animals and promised to return in the summer — and I think they will. Robert was particularly interested in my desire to import Iberian horses for breeding. He is a great believer in their qualities.'

Julitta followed him into the bailey, her eyes upon his spine, his rangy body. Sometimes she thought she would go mad cooped up at Brize and made to live the life of a gently bred Norman young lady. She was none of these things. Her blood was fierce and nomad, and just now, provoked by Benedict, it was fizzing in her veins.

'I know Robert of Normandy,' she remarked. 'He's handsome and very generous.'

Benedict turned and looked at her with surprise. 'You know Robert of Normandy?' he repeated.

Julitta smiled at the look on his face. She enjoyed being the centre of attention and she had certainly grabbed Benedict's. 'Oh not well, although he spoke to me kindly, and to my mother too. He used to visit Dame Agatha's bathhouse when he was in London — he had taken a great fancy to Merielle, one of the girls there. He gave me a silver penny to buy ribbons for my hair, and chucked me beneath the chin. I thought he was nice, but I also thought that he had no more depth than a puddle in sunshine.'

Benedict shook his head in bemusement. She did not belong here, he thought. She was like a caged animal. 'Robert is always surrounded by beautiful women,' he said. 'Already he has one son to his name.'

Julitta put her hands behind her back and gently swayed her body. 'If I had stayed at the bathhouse, who knows, I might have become his mistress too,' she said provocatively.

Benedict muttered something beneath his breath which she did not ask to have repeated, but the heat at her core pulsed gently in response. 'I wonder what he would think if he could see me now,' she murmured. 'I do not think he would remember me… but sometimes I think I would go with him if he asked.' She glanced at Benedict for his reaction, but his expression was carefully controlled.

'You are fortunate,' he said dryly, adding what at first seemed like a non sequitur, 'his brother Rufus prefers men.'

'Why am I for… ?' She broke off, unable to continue. It would probably be tactless to ask him if Rufus had made advances when he came with his brothers to look at Ulverton's bloodstock. It was not given to every young woman to know about the preferences some men had for other men, but her upbringing had shown her facets of life that would have horrified Arlette and Gisele. King William's own son, the heir to the throne. 'Oh,' she said.

Benedict smiled without humour. 'Gisele could not understand his interest, but I see that you do.'

'Did you yield to him?'

The smile became a short laugh. 'I spent my time with Robert – and you know all about his particular lusts. I took them to a place I know on the Winchester road, where they cater to all tastes. Gisele thinks that we went to a monastery to discuss an endowment. In a way we did. The place is commonly known as "The Convent".' Benedict's expression changed, becoming a trifle perplexed. 'I feel I can tell you anything, Julitta, and you won't leap to condemn me. It's like having a confessor and not having to do the penance. If I told Gisele any of this, she would run to the nearest priest in horror and go down on her knees for my soul.'

Julitta gazed across the bailey. Mauger was approaching them, leading two mares by halter ropes. 'Who else is there to shield Gisele from life but her mother and God?' she murmured. 'I have neither.'

She and Benedict had to step aside to let Mauger pass. His features were set in a heavy scowl but nothing was said, making his hostility all the more tangible.

In the darkness, half-asleep, Benedict rolled over and threw his arm across Gisele's sleeping form. She was wearing her linen undershift, and had covered her hair with a net cap, signalling that tonight, like so many other nights, her body was out of bounds. He sighed and nuzzled his lips into her soft nape anyway. Her breast was beneath his fingers, the curve of her buttocks a cushion to the growing pressure in his loins.

Gisele woke up. 'Stop it,' she whispered fiercely. 'Do you want to wake my mother? Have you no sense of decency?'

'I only wanted some comfort,' he hissed back.

'Aye, and I know what sort. You're always at me!'

'And you always turn away.'

'You expect me to yield to your lust in the very same room where my mother is sleeping?' Her spine was rigid. She shrugged him off, punched the bolster and rammed her head down into it. The covers were dragged over her ears.

Benedict turned on his back. From the great bed there was silence, but he knew it was not the silence of sleep. Arlette was listening. He thought about inviting her with sarcasm to join their argument. She was the reason behind most of their problems as it was. My mother wouldn't approve, had become the bane of his life. He had thought that the months away from Arlette in England would give Gisele time to develop a mind of her own, but instead she had pined, complaining all the time about how much she hated England, the people, the weather, he food. He had tried being patient, he had tried being the tern husband, neither to any avail. In the end, defeated, he had brought her back to Brize, to her mother. That decision had its dangers, not the least of them Gisele's half-sister with her mowing innocence. He sat up.

'Where are you going?' Gisele whispered.

'To the hall,' he answered, not bothering to lower his voice. There is no point in staying here.'

She lay in silence for a while after he had gone, biting her knuckles, not knowing whether to feel anxiety or relief. At length, she too rose from the bed, but not to follow him. She slumbered in beside her mother and curled up against her, seeking a comfort that would not compromise her soul.

CHAPTER 47

Father Jerome was a Cluniac monk from the foundation at le Bee, and distantly related through a cousin to Arlette. He was erudite, ambitious, and delighted that his house had been invited to found a convent on lands granted to them by the lord of Brize-Sur-Risle.

He sat in Arlette's private bower, his powerful hands resting upon his knees, while his hooded blue eyes took in the wealth of the tapestries and hangings warming the walls, the glazed cups, the superb pale wine, which was far more expensive to produce than its rough, red counterpart. He remarked upon its excellence to his hostess.

Arlette blushed with pleasure and thanked him. In her gown of sombre-coloured, heavy linen, a silver cross shining on her breast, she was the image of the pious aristocratic lady, nor was it a disguise donned to impress the monk. It was her habitual garb. And when the time was ripe, she intended to retire behind the walls of the convent she was founding. 'My son-in-law's father is one of the foremost wine merchants in Normandy and England,' she replied. 'Doubtless you have heard of Aubert de Remy.'

'Yes indeed, my lady. He is a generous benefactor of our order, as was his father before him.'

'I trust the tradition will continue,' Arlette replied. 'Benedict is heir to a considerable fortune, albeit that the wine-trading will be conducted by Aubert's nephews.' She frowned at the sound of shouting below the window and the hollow thumping of drums.

'Gisele, close the shutters,' she said stiffly.

The young woman left her embroidery and went to do her mother's bidding.

Father Jerome raised a questioning brow.

Arlette cleared her throat. Even through the shutters the beat of the drum could still be heard as a muffled thump, thump. 'The villagers are celebrating May Eve,' she said with distaste. 'I know that it is unchristian, a terrible pagan thing, but I can do nothing while my husband permits it to flourish. Time and again I have entreated him to give it up, but he refuses. He says that it is tradition, that the villagers expect it. I have tried all ways to cure the people of their ignorance, but they pay no heed. Perhaps when the convent is built and they are set an example by the nuns, they will be deterred.'

'Perhaps, but most of humanity are weak reeds, easily swayed by the pleasures of the body,' said Father Jerome, and without the slightest twinge of conscience, took another deep drink of the wine. He was a worldly man, who knew the right words to say in the right places, the correct balance to strike with each person. He desired Arlette's patronage, but not at the expense of alienating her husband, or Benedict de Remy, who stood to inherit a great deal of wealth, and who, if he lived to a ripe age, could be milked for the next forty or fifty years.

'What then should I do?' Arlette pleaded.

The priest eyed mother and daughter, pale, nervous, moth-like women. The younger one was fiddling with what he took to be her wedding ring, tugging it on and off her finger. 'Let them celebrate,' he said.

'But…'

He held up his hand to prevent Arlette from speaking further. 'But let it be in God's name. Let them give thanks for His gift of the new season. Let the tradition prevail, but let the rejoicing be in God's name. Year by year you can make gradual changes until it becomes nothing but a harmless ceremony with none of the old power remembered. For today, if you wish, I will bless the Maypole in the name of Christ, and exhort them to celebrate in ways which will not displease the lord.'

Arlette's expression brightened slightly. 'I suppose it is a beginning.'

'Of course it is,' Father Jerome said heartily and draining his wine, levered himself to his feet. He was a tall man, who walked with a natural bounce in his step despite his bulk. 'Let us go down now, and begin the blessing. When we return, we can discuss the matter of your convent's dedication. Perchance the Blessed Virgin, or the Magdalene. She is always a favourite for returning fallen women to the fold, and of course, she symbolises spiritual rebirth.'

The cider brewed by the villagers of Brize-sur-Risle was sweet and strong. Julitta sipped from the drinking horn that one of them had given her, and moved among the throng gathered around the dripping oxen and pig roasts, the coneys and chickens skewered across small firepits, gleaming with yellow dripping. There were singing and merriment, jocular conversations, rude riddles, looks exchanged and promises made as dancers flung themselves down to rest for a while before returning to join hands around the Maypole.

Up on the hill, the castle was a silhouette in the twilight. Julitta knew that she ought to be there, closeted in the bower with Arlette and Gisele, praying for the erring souls of the villagers, but unless someone actually came and fetched her, she had no intention of leaving the celebrations. Her father was somewhere amongst the revellers, as were Benedict and Mauger. What harm could possibly come to her? No-one was going to lay his hands on Lord Rolf's own daughter. The atmosphere was magical. Not even that self-important Cluniac monk had been able to dampen the festivities with his warnings about what was and was not pleasing to the eye of God as he sprinkled the Maypole with holy water from the church font.

Julitta sipped the heady brew and topped up her horn from a jug standing on a trestle. She saw Benedict and her father laughing together. Her heartbeat quickened. Benedict had only been back at Brize for two days, delivering some English bloodstock, and she had had no opportunity to talk to him. His visit to Brize in the early spring, when he had bought the cream mare and her foal, had been fleeting. He had not stayed above a week, and had returned to Ulverton before Rolf arrived from France. Gisele had not gone with him, nor, from what Julitta had seen, had their reunion been more than tepid now that he was back. Between Arlette and Benedict, the courtesy was as sharp as a honed knife.

A plump village woman waddled up to Julitta and crowned her garnet braid with a chaplet of white hawthorn. 'You has to honour the Goddess on May Eve, young mistress, if you wants the corn to grow!' she chuckled.

Julitta laughed and finished the horn of cider so that she could put it down while she secured the chaplet to her hair. The woman grabbed her arm and tugged her towards the Maypole, its rounded phallic tip thrusting at the sky. 'Come, dance the sacred dance!' she exhorted.

Julitta found herself whirled into the steps of the Maypole jig. The cider coursed through her blood and filed her feet with magic. She stepped and turned in motion with the other dancers until she felt as if their movements, their very limbs were her own. The beat of drum and the skirl of bagpipes filled the night, the notes flinging skywards like the long orange sparks from the bonfire. Two circles of men and women, weaving in and out, forward and back. The sweaty paw of Brize's miller grasped hers, swung her round and passed her on to one of the grooms from the castle. She saw the flash of his white teeth, smelled his animal scent, and was whirled away to the next man in the line while the music beat relentlessly on, pulsing to the hammerbeat of her own blood.

The next man in line grasped her hand in fingers warmly strong, only a little damp, revealing that he had not long joined the circle of dancers. Benedict pulled her against him, hip to hip, and instead of spinning her round and passing her to the next man, drew her out of the dance and into the flamelit shadows at the side of the great bonfire.

Dizzy, her brain still in motion despite the fact that her feet had ceased to move, she swayed and staggered, then looked up at him.

'Shouldn't you be up at the keep with the other women?' he asked.

Julitta adjusted the crown of May which had skewed over one eye during the energetic steps of the dance. 'What other women?' she challenged. 'AH the village wives and their daughters are here. If you mean with Arlette and Gisele, then no, I shouldn't.' She tossed her head defiantly. 'I suppose you want us all safely locked away so you can go "wearing the green" with whomsoever catches your eye.' She leaned across him to reach for the jug of cider, for the dancing had given her an inordinate thirst.

Benedict grinned. 'I was going to say that it is neither safe nor respectable for a young woman of your rank to be here tonight, but I know that you'll only stamp on my foot. The rules do not apply to you. Perhaps I should just warn you to have a care. Men do indeed come here to "wear the green" and you are a sight to make any of them forget his reason.' His voice grew croaky on the last words.

Julitta drank straight from the jug and then offered it to him. 'Even you?' she asked provocatively.

'Especially me.' He drank and set the jug back down on the trestle with a wobble and a bang that revealed his own senses were blurred by the potency of the drink. 'You are beautiful and wild, like the May herself.'

Julitta's knees weakened at the timbre of his voice. Her whole body quivered. She was poised with the anticipation that he was going to touch her, and the fear that he would not. She did not dream of running away. Benedict might be Gisele's husband, but he had always belonged to her.

Slowly she raised her hand and laid her palm upon his chest, uncaring who saw. Tonight was May Eve, and people's eyes were dazzled. Even Mauger, her watchdog, had gone into the shadows with one of the village women, and there was no sign of her father.

Benedict swallowed and clasped his fingers over hers. 'Your father said that I was to bring you home in a while,' he murmured, and pulled her tight against him, hip to hip, groin to groin, then spun her away in a muted rhythm of the wilder dance around the phallic pole.

'But not yet.' Julitta stepped lightly, a smile on her face, her breathing pleasantly short as he drew her against his body once more. They arched together, side-stepped and parted, maintaining the link of hands.

'No, not yet.'

They danced and drank, drank and danced. Julitta's hair began to wisp free of her braid and with an impatient twist of her fingers, she shook it free. The crown of May blossom slipped down again, and she would have cast it away, but Benedict caught her hand, and taking the chaplet from her, replaced it delicately on her brow.

'Queen of the May,' he said softly and traced one forefinger gently down her cheek. Julitta lifted her face, mutely offering him her lips. He took them, meaning only to salute the new season, but the spark engendered was beyond all his knowledge, and within moments, beyond his control.

When he was with Gisele – the times she permitted — there was nothing, a pale, cold flame that gave off little warmth despite all his efforts to kindle it to a more robust heat. This was true fire, blood-red of flame, molten-white at its core, beating with the night. Julitta's lips clung to his, sweet and warm, tasting of cider. Her body followed his, as fluid as a shadow, a mirror-image. Whatever his hands did, so did hers, and her lips and her tongue; without hesitation, without shame, until they were both incandescent with lust.

By mutual need, they moved deeper into the shadows, playing out the ritual of the deeper fertility dance. She wound her hair round him like the ribbons on the Maypole. His fingers wove a pattern of desire over her flesh, the cold silkiness of her thighs, the stems of grass between them. Her hips, the dark triangle of the Maythorn gateway. And then his own thighs over and between hers, and the first sure, blood-hot thrust.

Her throat arched and her fingers clutched convulsively at his sleeves.

'Did I hurt you?' He ceased moving, although it was torture to do so; his entire groin was one magnificent, swollen ache.

'Yes,' she whispered, but clasped him to her and raised her hips. 'But if you stop now, I will kill you.'

'Then I won't stop,' he said breathlessly. 'This is a far better way to die.' He lowered his mouth to hers, teasing the outline of her lips, then covering her mouth, enclosing the cry in her throat. The kiss moved in concert with the surge of his hips. She pushed down upon his swollen flesh, desiring to be one with him, and although it hurt, it was the pleasure that was almost too much to bear. She broke the kiss to cry out and clutch at him. She pressed her hot face against his throat. 'Ben!' she wept. 'Oh, Ben, please…' Striving for she knew not what, only that she would die without it.

Panting harshly, Benedict knew that he could wait no longer. Julitta's voice, the wild innocence of her need brought him to the edge. He braced himself on one forearm, and sought down between them to the sensitive little nubbin above the passage he was filling. Once, twice he stroked it, and Julitta suddenly caught her breath and went rigid in his arms. Removing his hand, he pushed forward hard, and groaning her name, burst within her. He felt the ripples of her climax swallow over him, drawing each surge of his own pleasure into her body until both of them were spent. But even then, they could not bear for it to be finished, and lay in the grass together, touching and stroking, while around them the celebrations continued, and above them the stars glittered like salt crystals. The enormity of what they had done lay heavy on both their minds, but neither of them was willing to break the joy of the moment by admitting that a world beyond themselves existed. 'Is it always like that?' Julitta asked after a while. Benedict smiled and drew a tendril of her hair through his fingers. 'No, not always,' he said with a gentle wryness, knowing that nothing would ever be able to match tonight. May Eve, the soft spring earth and a beautiful virgin. And yet it went much deeper than the venting of springtime heat. Julitta, his lovely, wild Julitta. His throat ached with poignant grief.

Julitta sat up. 'Then it gets better?' she asked with spurious innocence as she shook back her hair and tidied the disordered bodice of her gown.

Benedict's eyes widened. For one brief instant he was taken in, and then he realised that she was teasing him. He lunged at her. She squealed and tried to escape, but not very hard. Accidentally on purpose, her hand brushed his now flaccid manhood, enchanting it into immediate hardness. She wriggled and squirmed but not to escape.

Benedict had intended returning her to the castle before the night grew much older and questions began to be asked, but he could not resist the lure of her body. This time they took each other with laughter, with breathless, snatched kisses and teasing touches. Julitta was an apt pupil. As the moment of crisis approached, she stopped moving, lay perfectly still until it had passed, with Benedict, scarcely breathing, poised within her. And then, when it was safe, they began to build again. Higher, faster, hotter, until they were molten. And then, the moment before they were welded into one, Julitta saw her father standing in the shadows, staring at them in disbelief, and with him was the Cluniac monk whom Arlette had been entertaining earlier.

Julitta stiffened, the fire turning immediately to ice. She pushed at Benedict, whimpering, and when he only groaned and gripped her closer, she cried out in panic and struggled to free herself.

Benedict opened his mouth to ask her what was wrong, but Rolf pre-empted him, his voice a soft snarl.

'I should kill you,' he said. 'Get up.'

Benedict closed his eyes. Beneath him Julitta was shaking. He bent his head, took a deep breath. 'Will you turn your backs?' he requested.

'For decency's sake?' Rolf bit out acidly, but turned away, drawing the monk with him.

Benedict rolled off Julitta and adjusted his clothing. He pulled her skirts back down to cover her legs. She struggled to fasten her gown, but her fingers were shaking so badly that she was unable. Benedict in contrast was calm and controlled. Leaning over her, he tied the drawstring on her shift, kissed her cheek in reassurance, then rose and joined Rolf and Father Jerome.

'It is my fault,' he said. 'Do not punish her.'

'The lust of Eve is common to every woman,' said the Cluniac. His eyes roved the scene of May revelry. 'My son, to the peril of your soul, you have yielded to the temptations of the flesh. You have sinned greatly against God and nature.'

A muscle worked in Benedict's jaw as the monk spoke. There was an open wound. Salt had to be ground vigorously into it. Rolf stood rigid as stone. Feeling sick, Benedict faced him. 'I will take all the blame. It was not intentional between us; it just happened.'

Rolf nodded viciously and ground his teeth. 'It just happened,' he repeated. 'Came out of nowhere, hit you so fast you did not know?'

'I…'

'Christ Jesu, Ben, nothing "just happens" without our will!'

Julitta came unsteadily to Benedict's side. Her hair was loose, her clothes burred with bits of grass, and fear trembled through her body. 'It is as much my fault as his,' she owned with a stubbornly lifted chin. 'As Ben says, it was not intenttional at the beginning, but I am not sorry, and I will gladly pay the price.'

'Harlot, have you no shame?' thundered Father Jerome in outrage. 'Your own sister's husband!'

'He was mine first,' Julitta retorted, her lips curled back from her teeth in a snarl. 'I do not care what you do with me. Now and forever it was worth it!'

'Then you are more foolish than I ever believed.' Rolf seized her arm in a grip of iron. 'You are coining back with me now to the keep. Tomorrow, I'll decide what is to be done with you. Benedict…' His jaw worked, the sinews cording in his throat. 'Just get out of my sight.'

'Sir, it wasn't her fault,' Benedict repeated, his voice cracking. 'Don't punish her.'

'You should have given thought to the consequences before you lowered your braies!' Rolf said contemptuously.

Benedict was not drunk, but he had consumed liberal quantities of the villagers' rough, potent cider. As well as loosening his moral inhibitions, it also served to unchain his tongue. 'As you gave thought when you took and then ruined her mother?' he retorted.

Rolf flinched. His grip on Julitta's arm tightened until she gasped aloud with the pain and then bit down on her lower lip. 'I said get out of my sight!' he hissed. 'Or I swear on the Cross of Christ and the Tree of Odin that I will personally geld you!'

Father Jerome frowned at the profanity of Rolf's pagan oath. He took Benedict by the arm, much as Rolf had hold of Julitta. 'Come,' he said coldly. 'You may spend the night with me in the church before the altar, praying for God's forgiveness, for I doubt that human forgiveness will be forthcoming.'

Benedict tried to shake him off, and go after Julitta and her father, but the monk's grip was tenacious. 'You young fool,' he growled. 'Can you not see that if you pursue this matter now, blood will be spilled? Will you add that to your conscience too?'

Benedict heard the monk as if from a distance, but nevertheless the urgent tone reached him, and he subsided within Father Jerome's brisk grasp. 'It wasn't her fault,' he repeated. 'How do I make him understand?'

'Tomorrow, when tempers have cooled, there will be an opportunity to have your say, although if I were you, I would keep my mouth closed. You have others to think of besides yourself and the girl.'

Benedict eyed the monk. The man's grip was still tight on his arm, and the face was severe, but he had detected the faintest note of sympathy in the voice. 'She is not a harlot,' he said.

'But she has given her body, and she is no longer a virgin,' answered Father Jerome. 'And what is more, the giving was on the eve of a pagan feast. It does not matter who is to blame. In the end, the consequences come to roost where they will, and God sees and knows all.'

Benedict said nothing. They entered the stone coldness of the church, standing amidst but aloof from the May Day celebrations, the hall of God, so different from the vast, starlit hall of the Goddess. He had worshipped at the altar of one; now he came to do penance at the altar of the other, and his heart was a stone within him.

Dragged by her father, Julitta stumbled over the rutted road towards the castle.

'If you have no shame, at least I would have credited you with more sense!' he said between panting breaths as he drew her onwards with the pace of rage. 'You're not some simple village girl to mate where she chooses on a whim!'

'It wasn't a whim!'

'Don't answer me back. I've never taken a whip to your hide, but one more push will break me, Julitta. If it wasn't a whim, do I dare to think that you have been plotting this for some time?'

'Since I was five years old!' she answered, and cried out as she twisted her ankle on a stone and fell at her father's feet, her wrist still locked in his grasp. Her breath sobbed through her clenched teeth. 'Since I was five and you went and betrothed him to Gisele!' She began to cry harder, and blamed it on her sore ankle.

Rolf released her wrist. Hands on his hips, he looked down at her. He was filled with anger, and guilt, sympathy and exasperation. How did he deal with her? The sight of her body writhing in pleasure beneath Benedict's still tortured his mind's eye. He saw more than just the ruination of two lives. For how long had it been under his nose, and he too blind to see? You don't take the whims of five-year-olds seriously; nor of adolescent daughters unless they make it impossible for you not to.

He reached down and helped her to stand. She limped gingerly on the damaged ankle, and made small, sobbing sounds. Rolf resisted the urge to comfort her.

'Your sister and her mother must never hear of this,' he said grimly, as they began a slow progress towards the keep. 'For the sake of everyone you have ignored in your lust, you will hold your peace, and so will Benedict.'

'But… but what about the people who saw us?'

'They were drunken villagers. They were mistaken. Father Jerome will confirm this if he desires my patronage.'

They walked in tension-filled silence for a while, Julitta limping and sniffing on tears, Rolf's face set like granite facing a storm. 'I thought to give you time,' he said as they approached the huge wooden gateway. 'I see I have given you too much. You tell me that you will gladly pay the price — those are just words. Do you think you can stay under the same roof as Gisele after this? Even if she lives in ignorance, you will not. And what if you have conceived a child this night? Are you ready to face the world with your brother-in-law's baby in your arms and say that you will pay the price?'

Julitta shivered. 'I do not regret lying with him,' she said. 'Whatever you throw at me, you will not make me change my mind. Done is done, and yes, I will pay what is due.' Her jaw was set defiantly, but the wobble of her chin gave her away. She was very frightened.

'You have no choice.' Rolf's jaw was set too. 'As you say, done is done.'

Benedict awoke to the glimmer of a milky dawn. He was lying on the floor before the altar of the village church where he had knelt to pray last night, before finally succumbing to exhaustion of body and spirit.

His tongue was cloven to the roof of his mouth and his stomach churned like a dyer's vat. He blinked and wondered with momentary bewilderment what he was doing here. Then it all came flooding back and he put his face in his hands and groaned.

The sound that had awoken him from stiff sleep was that of a horse being ridden up to the church door and the chink of harness as the animal was tethered to the bridle ring in the wall. Now, the heavy, iron-barred door creaked open. Rising to his feet, Benedict watched Rolf pace down the nave towards him. His father-in-law's expression was bleak, but the fury of the previous evening was stonily controlled.

Rolf halted when he was several yards away, and the two men stared at each other.

'I won't waste my breath by telling you what a fool you are, or how angry I am,' Rolf said. 'There would be no point, and we need to deal in practical terms this morning, not lose our heads. Agreed?'

'Yes, sir.' Benedict felt queasy. He longed to sit down, but knew that he must face Rolf in order to hold his ground. Already he was at a disadvantage. 'If I could undo last night, I would.'

'That is not what Julitta says,' Rolf said with a grimace. 'I could whip her skinless and still she would not repent. Christ, I don't know, perhaps neither of you ever had a chance.' He looked at Benedict from eyes that were bloodshot and pouched with weariness, for he had not slept, having used that time instead for pondering the solution. 'How long has this been going on beneath my nose?'

Benedict swallowed. 'It hasn't, sir. Last night was the first time.'

'No fire without kindling,' Rolf growled. 'You did not just join up to mate like two animals in the wild.'

'No, sir. I…" Benedict closed his eyes. A nauseous headache beat behind his lids with a similar tempo to the drum beats of the night before. 'I married Gisele in good faith. There was nothing between myself and Julitta then, I swear it. Nor would there be now if…' He broke off and swore beneath his breath. 'I tried to keep my distance, but last night… it was too much.'

'Too much indeed,' Rolf said and dug his fingers through his hair. 'Best I think if you leave for a while. I have decided that you can take over my work, search out new clients and good bloodstock, visit the established ones. You need more experience on that side of the trade, and I'm becoming too old to spend so much time on the road. In other words, I am sending you out of temptation's way and giving the dust time to settle. You will leave this morning as soon as you have collected what you need.'

It was a practical solution and Benedict felt a pang of relief, closely followed by one of regret and misgiving. 'What about Julitta?'

Rolf's lips tightened. 'She is my daughter,' he said. 'I will deal with her fairly. That is all you need to know.'

'But I…'

'Perhaps you ought to consider your other responsibility, your wife,' Rolf added, his eyes hard.

'Does she know?' Benedict swallowed, feeling utterly wretched. If only Julitta had been his wife in the first place.

'Not the entire truth, although you will come out of it with a whiter fleece than ever you deserve. She thinks that you took part in the revels with one of the village women, and then, overcome with remorse, you spent the remainder of the night in the church, praying for forgiveness.'

'And I suppose she is prepared to forgive me too?' Benedict said angrily.

'I suggest you make your peace.'

Benedict snorted. Making peace with Gisele was like wading neck-deep in carded wool. The best peace he could make was a peck on the cheek, a mumbled apology, and a rapid departure. The shocking notion came to him that perhaps he could elope with Julitta. There were lands beyond Normandy and England, and he had a skill at his fingertips. His soul would be damned, but he would find ways to redeem it through the years. The anger left his face, and a spark kindled in his eyes.

'I'll make my peace,' he agreed. 'I had better speak to Julitta too.'

'You can't,' Rolf said, and there was no triumph in his eyes, only a great weariness. 'She is not at Brize. I sent her elsewhere, this morning, before I came to you. Knowing you, and knowing my own past, I judged it for the best. As far as Arlette and Gisele are concerned, Julitta was indiscreet last night, but they do not know how far. Nor shall they from me. Let them believe that she went no further than drunken fondling.'

'You are building on lies.' The gleam in Benedict's eyes had turned to anger once more, and mixed with it, chagrin, that his intentions should have been less obvious to himself than they had been to Rolf.

Rolf sighed heavily, and genuflecting, knelt before the altar. 'Only because I can find no firm foundations for the future in outright truth,' he said.

CHAPTER 48

Julitta was accustomed to either riding or walking everywhere she went, and found Arlette's litter both claustrophobic and uncomfortable. Every rut in the road threatened to jolt her bones out of their sockets despite the padding of tapestry-worked cushions stuffed with duck down. The excuse of making her travel by litter was that her twisted ankle would not benefit from being stressed by a stirrup, but she knew that the real reason had more to do with keeping her out of sight and under control.

Where she was bound, she did not know, her father had not told her. Nor had she asked questions, still being in too much of a daze. Sorry and not sorry. Stubborn and frightened. Ready to brazen it out and ready to yield. And between all these conflicting directions, she found herself paralysed. Within the litter, she curled up on the cushions, her ears filled with the creak of the wooden wheels and the plod, plod of the horse's hooves as they drew her further and further away from Brize-sur-Risle, and from Benedict.

Nursing the devil of a headache, Mauger avoided breaking his fast in the hall, and went on a slow round of inspection. There were few people about, for it was not much after dawn, and most adults were only just stirring from the surfeits and abuses of wearing the green'. His own recollections were hazy, but at least he had remained sober enough to find his way to bed.

Some folk still snored where drink and dancing and lust had felled them.

Mauger was busy examining a mare and her new chestnut foal when he saw Benedict de Remy emerge from a stall and lead a fully saddled Cylu towards the mounting block. Two laden pack ponies were tethered nearby, and a groom appeared with another saddled horse and two chestnut yearlings.

'Early business?' Mauger enquired.

Benedict glanced his way. His fine dark-eyes were red-rimmed for want of sleep, and his olive skin had a greyish tinge. The natural curve of his mouth had been banished to a tight line, and it tightened further in response to Mauger's query, forbidding a reply.

'I thought Lord Rolf was going to take those chestnuts himself?'

'He changed his mind.' Benedict stepped from the mounting block to Cylu's dappled back, and gathered up the reins.

Mauger tried to remember what Benedict had been doing last night, who he had been with, but that part of his recollection was not good. He had been too interested in his own pursuits then. 'Why'd he do that?'

Benedict's fist tightened on the reins, his knuckles showing a glimmer of white, and Cylu pranced, opening his mouth against the bite of the bit curb. 'Why don't you ask him?' Benedict snapped, and dug in his heels, making the grey clatter away from the mounting block with a grunt of indignant surprise.

Hands on hips, Mauger watched Benedict leave the keep, and then, with a superior shake of his head, returned to his duties. He had not been working much above ten minutes when Rolf joined him, and dismissed the grooms with a flick of his wrist.

'Are you sober?' Rolf demanded.

'Yes, my lord.' Mauger managed to keep from sounding indignant. Had the question been asked a few hours ago, he would not have been able to answer so positively. Still, it was a strange thing for Rolf to ask.

'Good, you need your wits about you for what I'm about to say.' Rolf drew Mauger away to a wooden bench leaning against the gable end of the stable wall and bade him be seated. Feeling uneasy, Mauger did so. Rolf was not just going to question him about some mundane matter concerned with the horses.

His overlord drew a deep breath. 'Some months ago, you came to me and offered for Julitta. At the time I refused, but… matters have changed. If you still want her, she is yours.'

Mauger's eyes widened upon Rolf and the breath left his body as if he had been physically punched. He did not quite believe what he had heard. 'You are offering me Julitta?' he said in a strangled voice. 'To wife?' His eyes narrowed. 'Why?'

'Because you are the best I can do for her.' Rolf met Mauger's astonishment for a moment, then looked away. 'She is wilful and strong, Mauger, fond of her own way, and taking it without thought for the consequences — like me, some people would accuse, and say that it is only my sin coming home to roost.' He scooped back his silvering curls and gave a harsh laugh. 'I am not making sense, I know.'

Mauger thought, a chill running down his spine, that Rolf was making perfect sense. 'Has Mistress Julitta taken her own way into disgrace of some sort?' he prompted, as certain as any man could be that he already knew the reply.

'That would about sheath the sword,' Rolf said heavily. 'Last night, May Eve. She drank more than she should, and, well… enough to say that she is no longer a virgin. It was a regrettable accident. For all her wild ways, I know that she is not indiscriminately promiscuous.'

Mauger was not surprised. He had only to remember her romping in the snow with Arnaut the squire, to know that the potential had been there. And a life in a Southwark bathhouse would hardly have stiffened her moral fibre. He felt a flicker of irritation. If Rolf had not rejected his offer three months ago, this would never have happened. Now Rolf was the one making the offer, and of damaged goods. He imagined the dark red hair spread upon his pillow, Julitta's naked body at his side in the marriage bed. Julitta's naked body beneath someone else last night.

'So the man with whom she lay was known to her? She did not go with anyone at random?'

'He was known, and he regrets it too. It will not happen again, I swear it.'

Mauger dug at a soft spot on the wood with his thumbnail. He thought of Benedict saying Why don't you ask him? and he knew the identity of Julitta's lover without having to ask. And that, too, came as no surprise. He had seen the way she looked at Benedict.

'You said that you could give her a safe and steadfast home where she would be her own mistress,' Rolf added when Mauger continued to dig at the wood without answering. 'You can see how difficult it will be to keep her under the same roof as my wife and daughter. They grate upon each other as it is. Life will be made impossible for Julitta now. I have no alternative but to find her a husband, or put her in a nunnery. I know that there are many families I could approach with a view to negotiating a marriage – a good dowry will usually overcome the gravest misgivings, but you offered for her before, and I am giving you the opportunity to have her before I seek elsewhere.'

'How large a dowry?' Mauger asked.

Rolf named a sum that caused Mauger's steady nerves to lurch. It was guilt money, he thought, a sweetening of the sour. It made Rolf's suggestion impossible to refuse, and yet, he hesitated. He had taken his life in his hands three months ago to offer for Julitta, but now the stakes had changed. How much for a virgin's honour? 'What if she is with child? You would not expect me to raise it as my heir?'

'If she is with child, then Father Jerome will admit it to the Cluniac order for a career in the church.'

'So Father Jerome knows?'

'He was present when Julitta was discovered. He needs the patronage of Brize-sur-Risle for his new convent, and he's not the stuff of which holy martyrs are made. Expedience first, religious considerations second. If you take up my offer, he is willing to wed you to Julitta this very day, before he returns to Bee'

Mauger did not like thinking on his feet. He preferred to go away somewhere quiet and mull things over to himself until he was sure that he had made the right decision. But he could see from the glint in Rolf's eyes, the twitch of his fingers, that the answer was required now. Julitta, he could have Julitta. His blood thumped in his head like the tabors had thumped out the dancing rhythms last night around the Maypole. Julitta and a dowry that outstripped his imagination. Another man's leavings. Payment for sweeping embarrassing debris out of sight.

'Supposing she will not agree to the marriage?' he asked. 'You cannot force her.'

'Oh, she will agree,' Rolf said, the grim line returning to his mouth. 'And I won't have to force her. The alternatives are the convent or a life confined to Arlette's rule in the bower. Faced with those, I doubt she will baulk.'

Mauger nodded. He supposed that it was a compliment that he would be preferred above Church and father's wife, but it sailed dangerously close to an insult. He chewed his underlip, his grey eyes narrow with thought. Powdery green fragments from the bench darkened his thumbnail. Once Julitta was his, he could mould her, bring her around to his way of thinking and behaving. Rolf was not strict enough with her, half the reason for her waywardness. With a household of her own to run and a husband to keep her in order, she would not have time to play the hoyden. And perhaps, in time, as her personality matured and steadied, she would come to love him, and thank him.

'Then I agree to your offer,' he said slowly to Rolf. 'I have no family to consult on the matter, only myself to speak for.' He stood up and dusted his hands down his tunic. 'I'd best change my garments, if I'm to stand before witnesses.'

Rolf let out a deep sigh, although it was difficult for Mauger to tell if it was of relief or resignation. The older man slapped him on the shoulder. 'Tancred was always a good friend to me, as well as my vassal and overseer,' he said. 'And you have served me unstintingly. I welcome the opportunity to call you son.'

Mauger nodded stiffly and mumbled a polite reciprocation. Words did not come easily to his tongue the way they did for Rolf and Benedict. He felt clumsy and uncomfortable, nor did it make it easier that he and Rolf both knew that Rolf was trying his best to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.

'Julitta isn't here,' his future father-in-law added as they set off together towards the hall. 'I sent her away before dawn -better for all concerned. She is waiting at your manor of Fauville.' He spread his hands in a gesture both wry and apologetic. 'I gambled that you would agree to the match. You can be married in the chapel there, and I will give you a month's leave from your tasks at Brize.'

A honey month, a time for settling into the married state… or a time of siege. Mauger thanked Rolf for what could either be a blessing or a curse, and went to change his garments. Rolf had asked him if he was sober. Mauger rather wished that he had been sodden drunk.

CHAPTER 49

Julitta stood in the road and watched her father, the Cluniac monk who had married her to Mauger, and the small entourage of knights and servants, ride away from Fauville. It was very difficult to know who was the betrayer, and who the betrayed. Her father said that he had done his best for her, that she would see it in time, and had admonished her to start her life afresh and be a good wife to Mauger.

Her new husband stood beside her in the road, one arm raised in farewell, the other in heavy possession across her shoulders. She was his property now, her father had relinquished his guardianship when the vows were pledged. Julitta was still unable to believe that she had spoken the words so meekly. It was not what she wanted. Inside she was screaming.

Even before the horsemen were out of sight on the road, Mauger lowered his arm and drew her round to face her new home, her prison. She twisted her head and stared over her shoulder, willing her father to turn around, but the distance continued to grow and Mauger's urging grew more insistent.

'Come,' he said brusquely. "Tis no use looking back.'

'What reason have I to look forward?' she retorted, and tried to shrug him off. 'I did not want this marriage, it was forced upon me.'

Mauger's grip tightened. 'By your own folly,' he said tightly. 'What you want is not always what you receive.'

'You seem to have landed upon your feet.'

'Do you think my dream is to have a wife who cannot see beyond her own selfish whims?'

'I don't care what your dream is,' Julitta said defiantly, and then cried out as Mauger's fingers dug into the apex of her shoulder with braising force.

'Then you had better begin caring,' he snarled. 'I won't stand for your sulkiness, and I'm not a soft fool like your father or Benedict de Remy to cast myself at your feet to be trodden on. I am the master of Fauville, and my word here is law!' His voice gained power, the last five words hard and vehement. He fixed her with his stare, imposing his will. When he spoke again, his tone was flat and cold. 'Disobey me, and I will beat you. Please me, and I will please you. I'm a simple man, I live by simple rules.'

Julitta thought of another scathing retort related to his simplicity, but caution jailed it in her head, and a twinge of shame caused her to cease glaring at him and lower her lids. If she was being horrible to Mauger, it was because life was being horrible to her. Was it selfish to want what she could not have, or just unfortunate? Tears thickened in her throat and prickled her eyes. I will not cry, she told herself and clenched her jaw.

'Do you understand?'

Unable to speak, Julitta just nodded. Mauger grunted, the sound accepting, but doubtful, and led her into the hall.

Fauville was a fortified manor house, built in stone at the time of Mauger's grandfather. There was a stone tower too, for defence, but this was more as a last resort and was used mainly as a storeroom for surplus provisions and basic weapons such as spears, shields, bowstaves and arrows. If war did come to the lands of Fauville, then the population would remove six miles to the greater security of Brize-sur-Risle.

The manor house possessed a vaulted undercroft to the ground floor, again for storage of supplies. On the first floor, with access by stone stairs and a rope hand rail, was the hall, a handsome room with arched windows and a fine, raised dais at the end away from the door. There was a narrow wooden staircase up to the loft, which ran the length of the hall below, and served as a bedchamber and personal room for the lord and lady should they wish for a little privacy. It was here that Mauger brought Julitta as the day yielded to a mild spring dusk.

The air was dusty and cobwebs festooned the beams. Although the bedding had been hastily aired by two maids, it still smelled musty and stale, as if it had not been washed from its last occupant, who had died here more than six years ago. There were yellow creases in the linen and a nasty brownish blotch on the exposed bottom sheet. Julitta wrinkled her nose. Although she and her mother had lived a perilous existence in Southwark, they had always kept themselves and their belongings clean. She could still see her mother vigorously punching their bed linen up and down in a barrel of hot water, and smell the stinging aroma of the lye suds. And Lady Arlette was meticulous to the point of obsession. The maids were always whisking the sheets away to be washed, and the linens in the coffers were strewn with dried lavender and rose petals to keep them sweet.

Mauger kindled some more rush dips to light the gathering gloom. 'This room hasn't really been used since my father died,' he said. 'I know it is a little shabby, but nothing that a good broom cannot set to rights. You can start tomorrow.'

Julitta stared at him, the resentment plain in her eyes.

'It is your right as the mistress of Fauville,' Mauger said. 'And your duty.'

'Ah yes, my duty,' Julitta repeated flatly. She did not want duty. She wanted love and light and laughter… and Ben. Selfish, selfish. Do your duty, be approved of. She sat down on the grimy bed, the rushlight shadows lumbering around her, and removed her veil and the circlet of twisted silk which held it in place. Her braids, each a handspan thick and tightly plaited, framed her pale face, the determined mouth and blank eyes. Fumbling, she reached to the pin at the neck of her gown. Dear Christ, was it only last night that Benedict's fingers had lingered there, and then upon her breasts?

Breathing heavily, Mauger began to undress too. From long habit he took time to fold his clothes neatly and place them on the single coffer in the room, and then he advanced to the bed.

Julitta's vision was filled with the sight of his flat belly, the stripe of blond hair running down into his pubic bush and the burgeoning length of his penis. She averted her head.

'There is no need to pretend shyness,' he said. 'You are not a virgin.'

'And you hold it against me. I can hear the anger in your voice.'

'Why should I be angry?' He shrugged, and pulled her to her feet so that he could remove her undergown and short linen shift. 'I'm the one who has you now. You're my wife, and honour-bound to obey me, as I am honour-bound to care for you.' One calloused hand closed over her breast, the other pressed her close to his body and he rubbed himself against her, his organ hot upon the juncture of her thighs. Julitta closed her eyes and prepared to endure.

The mattress was lumpy under her spine, and Mauger's eager weight crushed her down. His mouth was everywhere, wet and searing. His hands rubbed and pawed. 'Open your legs,' he demanded. 'Open for your husband.' Julitta complied. She had no desire to fight him and increase the level of his vigour, which already bordered on violence. Mauger searched for a moment, poking and prodding, then with a grunt, found her sheath and thrust himself forward with the force of a bull. Julitta clenched a scream behind her teeth and arched her body.

'Ah, you like it, do you?' Mauger panted. 'Is mine bigger than his, eh? I know what you need.' He set to with a will.

Julitta bit her lip. The force of his thrusts cramped her inside, but every time she tried to wriggle away, he would grip her buttocks and command her to lie still and take what was due. As his crisis approached, he pounded into her as if he hated her. At the moment of his climax, Julitta's scream blended with his roar of triumph and despair.

In the aftermath, he lay upon her, his chest and belly heaving rapidly, slippery with sweat. Julitta felt the thundering of his heart and heard his breath roaring in her ears like the roaring of a wild beast on top of its bloody prey. Slowly he withdrew himself, and she stiffened at the scalding pain.

Mauger's hand pawed over her body in a clumsy caress. 'I'll keep you so busy, that you'll have no time for thoughts of other men,' he said thickly.

Julitta said nothing. Her thoughts were the only private thing left to her now. She was not going to allow Mauger to violate them as well.

He lay down beside her, continuing to fondle. 'We're man and wife in every way now.' There was satisfaction in his voice, but something else too, as if saying the words aloud would make their union more convincing. 'You enjoyed it, didn't you?'

Julitta longed to slap his hand away. 'You hurt me,' she said.

'You'll grow accustomed. Probably I am much bigger than he was, a man, not a boy.'

Julitta closed her eyes and turned her head away. 'You do not dance,' she murmured, thinking of the weaving of the May ribbons. 'You trample.'

'Meaning what?'

'Oh, Mauger, I'm so tired and so sore. Can't I just go to sleep?'

The pawing hand stopped on the crown of her breast. In the weak glow of the rushlight, Mauger leaned over her. She felt his stare but did not open her eyes. 'I suppose I was a little rough,' he admitted gruffly. 'I wanted to prove my vigour. Julitta, don't turn away from me.' His hand left her breast. She felt a light caress on the side of her face. 'Yes, go to sleep,' he said in a softer tone than he had used to her all day.

If Julitta had looked at his face, she would have seen bewilderment and tenderness fighting for a place among the masterly emotions which Mauger considered fitting to his manhood. But she had reached the end of her tether, and could only feel a deep relief, untinged by any gratitude that he was going to leave her be. Turning on her side, she drew the musty coverlet over her shoulder and curled herself up like a child in the womb.

Mauger lay on his back, staring at the loft beams, and as the rushlights burned down and sputtered out, he wrestled with himself, trying to understand his internal conflicts. And the more he wrestled, the more he tied himself in knots, until anger and resentment were the only outcome.

CHAPTER 50

'Married to Mauger? Is Rolf out of his wits?' Benedict demanded of his father.

They were seated in a cookshop on the banks of the Seine in Rouen. Two of Aubert's wine galleys were in dock, loaded and ready to sail for London. A third vessel was imminent from Corunna, with a cargo of southern wines and citrus fruits.

'Rolf is not the only one without wits, it seems,' Aubert said with a pointed look at the young man. 'In the circumstances, I would say that Rolf did his best for the girl. At least she was not carrying a child from her exploits. That would have complicated matters.'

Benedict toyed with the engraving on his cup. It was October, five months since the folly of May Eve, and not a day had passed that he had not regretted the incident, or wished with fevered blood that it could happen all over again. He felt as if he had done Julitta a grievous wrong, and Gisele too, for all that they were not on easy terms. Rolf had sent him away, but perhaps he ought to have refused and ridden out the storm, rather than running for the harbour of absence. And now Julitta was Mauger's wife. Dour, unsmiling Mauger.

'How much do you know?' he asked.

A serving girl placed a basket of new bread in the centre of the trestle and followed it with two wooden trenchers, each holding a whole flat fish, which had been cooked in a skillet with butter and herbs. Aubert leaned back to permit her to set the dish before him, and drew his eating knife from his belt. 'Rolf told me everything. He knows that I am not a blabbermouth, and besides, as the father of the other party involved, it was my business.'

The fish stared up at Benedict out of milky eyes and his appetite, such as it had been, vanished. His stomach was still rolling from his journey across from Ulverton. The narrow sea had not seemed so narrow with the wind inciting the waves to buck like wild horses, and the rain striking the deck in freezing silver lances. Besides, thinking of Julitta always made him queasy. 'I love her,' he said.

Aubert busied himself with his fish, deftly filleting flesh from bone. 'I gathered as much. Or should I say, less charitably, that to think of my son taking his wife's younger sister in drunken lust was more than I could bear to contemplate of your character.'

'It wasn't drunken lust, nor was it deliberate.' Benedict met his father's eyes, willing him to understand. 'It just happened, and while it was happening, it seemed right. It was not until afterwards that we realised it was wrong, and before we could gather our wits or decide what to do, the consequences were upon us. Mauger,' he said with anguish. 'I do not believe he has married her to Mauger.'

'Rolf says that she appears to have settled down and is making a good wife. Perhaps she has been given what she needs — responsibilities and a husband who is as solid as a rock.'

Benedict winced inwardly. That was hardly a description that could be applied to him over the past several months. Responsible, solid. A pang of jealousy had seared through him as his father spoke of Julitta being happy. How could she be content with an overbearing dullard like Mauger? It was not the Julitta he knew. What had they done to her?

'I have to see her,' he said. 'I have to set matters right between us.'

Aubert laid down his knife. 'If you love her, you will let her be,' he said forcibly. 'A wound never heals if you keep poking a blade into it and stirring it around. You already have a wife.

Set matters to rights between you and her. No, do not look away.' He grasped Benedict's wrist. 'You have a duty to Gisele, and a debt owing to Rolf. These you will pay, and that payment involves remaining apart from Julitta. I know what would happen. And would you still be able to say that it "wasn't deliberate"?' He withdrew his hand. Benedict stared down at the cooling, untouched fish on his trencher. He knew that his father was right, but his words of advice were almost as unpalatable as the food. Never see Julitta again? Her tumbled hair, the look in her eyes that had haunted him for five long and lonely months. He could not bear the burden, and yet the alternative would impose a greater burden still.

'I cannot eat this,' he said, and pushing the trencher aside, walked out of the tavern into the cold, damp air.

The lord of Fauville owed military service to the lord of Brize-sur-Risle in exchange for his lands, and in his turn, the lord of Brize owed military service to the Duke of Normandy. So it had been since the time of the first Duke, and so it continued, although Rolf had commuted some of his obligation by the payment each Michaelmas Day of five warhorses to the ducal household. He still, however, had to provide three knights and twelve footsoldiers for a forty-day period of each year. Sometimes he would take command of the duty himself, but now that he was growing older, he preferred to delegate, and so Mauger was given the responsibility.

Julitta helped her husband to pack his baggage for the forty days that he would be absent. Two linen shirts, two tunics, trousers, hose, leg bindings. A spare, short cloak and coneyskin cap. Her movements were calm and methodical, and her face wore no particular expression. She was being the good and dutiful wife that Mauger expected her to be. Inside, where he could not reach to look, she was fizzing with delight at the prospect of an entire six weeks without him.

People thought that she was happy, that sixteen months of marriage had given her steadiness and purpose, but they were only granted a view of the outside, even her father. Sometimes, if she pretended hard enough, she could even fool herself too. It was like playing at squirrels when she was a little girl. The harder she believed, the closer to the truth it became. It was a defence, protecting her from Mauger by giving him what he wanted. She had ceased to fight him with her tongue. There was no point, for anything she inflicted only rebounded unpleasantly upon herself. For the first month she had wallowed in misery. Her flux had been late, and she had dared to hope that she was carrying Benedict's child. The first morning that she was sick, Mauger saddled up one of the more unruly horses and took her out riding. She had been jounced up hill and down dale for the better part of the day, and when they returned, he had taken her to bed, and continued to ride, vigorously, throughout the night. The next morning, instead of being sick, she had begun to bleed.

'A good thing you've bled,' Mauger had grunted at her. 'We can start again once you're clean, breed some true heirs for Fauville.' Sick and groggy though she was, Julitta had raged at him and he had beaten her until she could not stand up. Then he had put her to bed, tended her bruises lovingly, and explained that he had only punished her for her own good, and that if she obeyed his rules as the head of the household, she need never be beaten again.

And so she obeyed his rules, and Mauger was good to her. And beneath the pretence she hated her life. The only alternative was to run away, but her years in a Southwark bathhouse had given her the practical knowledge of how vulnerable she would be, and so she stayed chained at Fauville – paying the price.

Mauger entered the bedchamber now. He was dressed in his quilted gambeson, the undergarment worn beneath mail to protect the wearer from the bruise of a blow, and from the chaffing of the thousands of iron hauberk rivets. His mail coat was rolled up in a corner of the room and beside it were his sword, shield and spear.

'Have you finished, wife?' he enquired. Unconsciously, he took up a dominant pose, legs spread apart, fist clutching his belt close to the long knife hanging on his hip.

'Yes, Mauger.' She fastened the straps on the heavy linen satchel. 'I think you have everything you need.'

He stared at her, a frown between his thick blond brows. 'I don't like leaving you,' he said belligerently, as if it was her fault that he had to perform his military service.

She met his grey eyes briefly, then looked down at the counterpane of their bed. It was a new one that he had bought from Rouen as a guilt offering after he had beaten her. Three shades of blue wool intricately woven with a chevron pattern. Against her will, she liked it. 'It will not be for long,' she murmured, wishing that it were eighty days instead of forty.

'You think so?' he growled. 'It will seem like purgatory for me. Will you miss me?'

'Yes, Mauger, of course I will.' She looked at him again. To have remained staring at the counterpane would have given her away. And indeed it was the truth. She would miss him watching her every move. She would miss being stifled. The thought of such freedom was as heady as strong wine. 'I will pray for you every morning at mass.'

He took her in his arms and kissed her with that strange, disquieting mixture of need and anger. She submitted dutifully, knowing that she was caught in a cleft stick. If she responded too much, he would doubt her integrity; if she did not, then she was failing in her role as tender wife. Perhaps a life at Dame Agatha's bathhouse would not have been so difficult after all.

Once Mauger had gone, Julitta set about loosening her bonds and rediscovering herself. It was not an immediate transformation, but came slowly and painfully over the weeks. The carefree, devil-may-care Julitta had joined the past together with the princess and the beggar maid. Now the coveted wife peered out from between her cramped prison bars and contemplated freedom.

A fortnight after Mauger had gone, Julitta felt emboldened enough to remove her wimple, shake loose her hair, and bathe herself in one of the laundry tubs, filled to the brim with hot water and a scattering of herbs. Mauger viewed such pastimes with suspicion; they spoke to him of a past that was better buried. Julitta had learned to love the luxury of a tub at Dame Agatha's and it was something that she had sorely missed. She knew without a doubt that someone would carry tales to her husband concerning her relapse into decadence, but retribution was over a month away, and in that time she could think of a believable excuse.

She spent an hour in the tub, until the skin of her fingers and toes was crinkled and the water was becoming cold. Her maid Eda helped her to dress in a clean linen undershirt and gown, topped by an embroidered dark green tunic, and looked at Julitta askance when she requested her cloak.

'You be going out, mistress?' she enquired as she fetched the garment.

Julitta twisted her damp hair into a loose braid, secured it with a strip of silk, and topped it with a wimple. 'Don't look so frightened. My husband might not approve of the bathtub, but he will find nothing wrong in my destination.' Which was why she had chosen it. She would spend an afternoon of freedom, blowing the dust from the old Julitta, refurbishing her, and the tale-tellers would have very little to relate. 'You can accompany me. We are going to visit the new convent and see how the work progresses.'

'The new convent, mistress?' Eda repeated, looking surprised. It was the first interest Julitta had ever shown in Lady Arlette's project. As far as the maid was aware, Mistress Julitta had no strong leanings towards religion, unlike the other women of her family.

'Don't just stand there, put on your own cloak,' Julitta said impatiently, having no desire to discuss her motives with the woman. Eda, although not overly bright, was shrewd, and could usually follow a trail to its conclusion unless quickly put off the scent. 'Lord Mauger has told me about it; I want to see it for myself.'

Without waiting for Eda, Julitta pinned her cloak across her breast and swept out of the room to order a groom to saddle her horse.

Rolf had granted a wooded ridge to the east of his keep at Brize-sur-Risle for the building of the Cluniac convent dedicated to the Magdalene, and with that grant, he had bestowed the revenues from one village and the rights to take tolls on the road that wound its way along the foot of the ridge towards Honfleur. It was a generous endowment, but then the lord of Brize-sur-Risle had a position to maintain among his peers, where religious endowment was fashionable, and even had he been inclined to let fashion pass him by, he had a pious wife, who was determined that he would do his duty to God and the Church, and glorify his own name in so doing.

The air was redolent with the golden feel of autumn. There was a sense of wistfulness lingering among the harvest stubble and the ripening bramble bushes as the year gathered speed towards its ending. Julitta savoured each moment of freedom, storing it in her mind against the barren times to come. She rode her mare at a faster pace than Mauger would have approved, and Eda squeaked in fear as she clung precarious pillion to the one of the escorting men-at-arms.

The ridge had been felled of its trees, and a new pathway ran like a white scar to the building site. Nuns, masons and labourers had arrived in the early spring, and now, almost seven months later, the foundations had been laid, the service buildings mapped out, and the main structure of the convent had begun to rise from the landscape in white Caen stone. A mason's apprentice with a hod load of mortar passed in front of Julitta, and ran lightly up a withy walkway to the craftsmen working on the walls. The chink of chisel on stone carried like the chime of a chapel bell, and the air was powdery with dust. In the midst of it, a brawny cook stirred a cauldron of pottage for the workforce. Julitta gazed round at the activity. People who thought Arlette de Brize had a gentle nature should come here, she thought. Every stone was a testimony to her determination to have her way.

As if her thought had summoned the image, Julitta's attention was drawn to a small travelling wain that had been drawn up in the shade of two oak trees on the edge of the bustling site. A servant was watering the two horses between the shafts, and another man was helping Arlette de Brize descend from the rear of the wain.

Julitta pulled a face. This, she had not bargained for. She and Arlette had seen very little of each other in the months since Julitta's marriage, and the arrangement had suited both parties very well. Dear Jesu, she prayed, her stomach knotting, please don't let Gisele be with her.

Another woman descended from the wain, but it proved only to be Arlette's serving woman, and Julitta's stomach unclenched. She could not have faced Benedict's dainty blonde wife with any degree of equanimity. Clicking her tongue, she urged her mare in the direction of the wain, knowing that she would have to make a polite greeting whatever her private dismay.

Arlette de Brize had been talking to the master mason, but when Julitta approached, she broke off her conversation, and stiffened her spine. Julitta could tell from the gesture that Arlette was as uncomfortable as she about the encounter.

'It is a fine afternoon to ride out,' Julitta said, and gestured at the bustle. 'I came to see how work is progressing.' In her own ears, her excuse sounded lame and she felt her face grow hot beneath the other woman's cool scrutiny.

'It is progressing very well,' Arlette responded. 'I did not know that you had an interest.'

'More of a curiosity.'

Arlette pursed her lips. 'I see,' she murmured.

Julitta had the disturbing impression that Arlette did see, all too clearly. 'When will it be completed?' she asked quickly, and kicking her feet from the stirrups, dismounted.

Arlette frowned at Julitta's lack of propriety in not waiting for her groom to help her down as etiquette demanded, but passed no comment. 'It is to be consecrated at Easter of next year, but of course, work will continue for many years yet, to the greater glory of God. Come,' she took Julitta by the arm. 'You say you are curious. Let me show you what you say you have come to see.'

Julitta glanced at Arlette's hand where it gripped and guided, and was surprised at its boneyness. Surely the rings had not hung so loosely before, or seemed too large and bulky for the fingers? Arlette's breath had a stale, sick smell too, and Julitta had to keep holding her own in order not to inhale the rank odour. Arlette led her through the chapel, refectory, cloister, chapterhouse and dorter, and the further they walked, the slower Arlette became, and the more she leaned upon Julitta's arm.

Her father's wife stopped in what was to be the guesthouse, with rooms set aside for women who wished to retire from the world without necessarily taking holy vows. 'One day, I intend living here myself,' she announced, gesturing around a room that was no more than a mere outline in ashlar and rubble. 'In a year or two.'

Julitta gazed at the view of undulating fields and woods. In the distance, she could just see the stone battlements of Brize-sur-Risle. Nostalgia stung her eyes. It was more than a year since she had dwelt within its embrace, and danced in the May meadows outside its gates. Perhaps she would never enter its precinct again. She was desperate to enquire after Benedict and knew that she must not. You are Mauger's wife, she told herself, and you should not even be here. Decorum is everything.

'Is my father at Brize?'

'Is your father ever at Brize?' Arlette responded a trifle tartly. 'No, he has gone to a horse fair in Bruges. I am alone. Gisele is with Benedict.'

Julitta swallowed. 'In England?' she asked, when she was sure of her voice.

Arlette shook her head. 'Gisele hates crossing the narrow sea. They are in Rouen, to make an offering at the tomb of St Petronella.'

'Why St Petronella?' Julitta was forced to ask. As a child, she had paid very little attention to her saints' days, and knew only the most important ones.

'She can work miracles. Women who offer at her tomb, often quicken with child within a month of the visit. I prayed there nine moons before Gisele was born.'

It was on the tip of Julitta's tongue to say that women who wore the green on May Eve frequently quickened within a month of the event too, but she held her tongue. That avenue was fraught with thorns of personal pain. Nor did she want to think of Gisele and Benedict lying together. 'I wish them well,' she managed to say.

'Perhaps you and Mauger should do the same. It is more than a year since you were married.'

Julitta said nothing. She did not want children who looked like Mauger. She wanted children who looked like Benedict. And that opportunity had bled away.

'You have settled well to the yoke of marriage.' Arlette gave her a sidelong look. 'There were times when I despaired of you, but Mauger seems to have tamed your wildness.'

Julitta compressed her lips. Caged, not tamed, she thought, and to emphasise the point to herself moved away from Arlette in the direction of her mount. A long gallop on the way home would dispel some of the frustration. Arlette followed her, but after no more than three paces, desisted with a gasp and pressed her hand to her side.

Julitta turned at the sound and was just in time to see Arlette stagger and fall. She hastened back to her and dropped at her side. Arlette's features were twisted with pain. Her right hand was pressed over her lower stomach and her breathing was short and distressed.

Julitta did not ask what was wrong. Arlette was so consumed by the agony that she was obviously incapable of answering. From the manner she was clutching her abdomen, it was clear where the problem lay and there was nothing Julitta could do except soothe, reassure, and summon help.

Arlette's maidservant wrung her hands at the plight of her mistress, and began to blubber. 'She's had the pains since Easter time, but never as bad as this before!' the woman sobbed, kneading the end of her wimple for comfort. She refused to touch Arlette, and Julitta realised grimly that even threats of a beating or dismissal would not coerce her into helping. The woman had a mortal fear of sickness, that was a sickness in itself.

'Go and plump up the cushions in the wain for your mistress,' Julitta snapped, 'then take one of the grooms and ride on ahead to let them know at Brize. Don't just stand there gawking like a codfish, go on!' She shooed a furious hand. The woman swallowed, dipped a curtsey, and fled. 'Eda, Simon, help me raise her into the litter,' Julitta commanded her own servants.

When the young Serjeant raised Arlette from the ground, she screamed and doubled up, and he almost dropped her. Lifting her into the wain was a struggle, but he succeeded, and laid her clumsily down upon the cushions. Arlette lolled, semiconscious, a continuous low moan issuing from her throat.

'What shall we do, mistress?' Eda's voice was a frightened whisper.

Julitta gnawed her lip. Panic was infectious. In a moment, all the servants would be baulking. She realised that the responsibility for seeing that they did not, was hers, and almost baulked herself. Then she drew a deep breath and steadied down. 'Simon,' she called to the young serjeant, who was waiting at the side of the wain.

'Mistress Julitta?' He stood' to attention, all brawny two yards of him. Everyone liked Simon. He was intelligent, good-humoured, and quietly dependable. Even Mauger, who could usually find reason to grumble, had never said anything against the young man.

'Return to Fauville and let them know what has happened. I am going to ride on to Brize with Lady Arlette. There is no-one of authority there, so I will remain until either my father or Lady Gisele returns.'

He departed straight away. Julitta grimaced. Now she was more alone than ever.

The journey to Brize was no more than two miles, but it seemed to take forever. The wain travelled slowly and the driver was careful, but each time the wheels rumbled into a rut on the road, Arlette would groan and clutch her belly. Julitta sat beside her, holding her hand, trying to comfort her. She suspected that Arlette would only become quiet when she was given a potion to deaden the pain. Syrup of poppies usually worked, although too much could kill. Perhaps that would be a blessing in disguise, she thought, watching Arlette twist and struggle like an animal in a trap. How thin she was, nothing more than skin and bone. Reminded of her own mother, Julitta had to struggle with a sudden upsurge of grief. Arlette de Brize did not have the coughing sickness, but something just as deadly was eating her away. Julitta wondered if her father's wife would live to see her convent consecrated, let alone live within its confines as its patroness.

Arlette opened her eyes and her gaze wandered around the chamber, drifting and resting and drifting again like a leaf blown by the wind. Julitta leaned over her, and saw the eyes struggle to focus. Poppy syrup not only served to quieten pain, it also impeded a patient's vision and coherence.

'Gisele?' Arlette licked her lips and strove to sit up.

'No, it is Julitta. I do not know if you remember, but you fell ill at the convent and I brought you home.'

'I want my daughter.'

'She will be here soon, I am sure,' Julitta soothed and plumped the pillows at Arlette's back. 'Are you still in pain?'

Arlette's hand travelled to her abdomen and briefly explored. 'It is still there,' she said, 'but it gnaws quietly now.' She plucked at the embroidered coverlet. 'Sometimes it is worse than others. I should not have travelled out as I did, but I wanted to see the convent.' Her cloudy gaze perused the room once more before returning to Julitta, and although unfocused, her eyes were shrewd. 'People say that you are your father's daughter; you have his looks, his ways about you, but I do not believe that is the entire story.'

'Do you not?' There was a touch of hostility in Julitta's tone. She had heard Arlette's opinion of her worth several times in the past and was wary of any new pronunciations.

'You need not have brought me home to Brize and seen me to my bed. You need not have stayed to see me wake. I do not delude myself that there is any tender emotion between us, but the fact remains that you are here. That is more than I have ever been able to say of your father. You have a steadiness that he lacks, and that must surely come from your mother.'

'A steadiness in me?'Julitta stifled a bitter laugh. 'I think not.'

'It is true.'

Julitta shook her head. 'If I have more steadiness,' she said, 'then I also had more wildness, and that too comes from my mother.' And quickly changed the subject as she was assaulted by a prickling of tears. 'Is there anything you need?'

Arlette sighed and moved her head restlessly on the pillows. 'I need to see my daughter,' she said. 'May God speed her home from Rouen. A word with Father Hoel will do for the moment. I am in need of spiritual comfort.'

Julitta inclined her head and went to the door. She could have sent one of the maids, but she wanted to escape from the claustrophobic grip of the sick woman's presence. It was not Arlette de Brize lying in that bed, it was her own mother, and with that association, came all the other memories of those terrible days.

She was crossing the bailey in search of Father Hoel, when the riders entered through the gateway, a westering sun gilding their silhouettes. There was a large travelling wain drawn by four horses in single line, and a small escort of men-at-arms. Julitta stood aside to let the wain draw into the yard, and raised her hand to shade her eyes against the glint of the low sun.

Benedict dismounted from Cylu, his favourite grey, and handed the reins to an attendant. His black hair was wind-ruffled, and his features were clear-cut, etched in sun-gold. Her eyes traced every facet and nuance, remembering, and memorising. The expressive eyebrows, the quick, dark eyes, the Hellenic nose and the mobile mouth. She thought that he looked tired and a little grim. Perhaps the tomb of St Petronella had been an ordeal. He was wearing a soldier's quilted gambeson and a sword hung at his left hip, but these were his customary travelling clothes. A soldier, so her father always said, was less likely to be attacked on the road than a merchant, and he had drilled it into all who served him.

The moment came when their eyes met. His widened, and he silently formed her name on his lips. She saw him struggle with the shock and a sudden assault of emotions. 'Julitta?' he said, this time aloud, and his gaze devoured her, as hers had earlier been devouring him.

They were in full public view, and Julitta was horribly conscious that all eyes were upon them. At the moment they saw nothing but the lord's daughter doing her duty to her brother-by-marriage, but that could soon change, especially in the light of rumours from the village concerning a certain May Eve celebration. She decided against kissing him on both cheeks. Better to keep a distance between them, both physical and emotional. It was the 'steadiness' in her which Arlette had earlier identified. She tore her gaze from his. 'Is Gisele with you?'

His brows twitched together. She could tell that he was wondering what to read into the question. 'Yes, in the wain.' He gestured brusquely.

Avoiding him, Julitta went round to the rear of the travelling cart. An attendant was helping Gisele to descend from the cushioned interior. One slender hand rested on the man's sleeve, the other grasped the skirts of her gown and tunic to prevent them from impeding her progress. As usual, she was immaculate, looking almost like a statuette of the Virgin in a well-endowed chapel. There was nothing rumpled about her to suggest that she had just arrived from Rouen after a day on the road.

Gisele set her feet on the ground, released her grip on the attendant, thanked him with a cool little half-smile the image of her mother's, and then stopped and stared as she saw Julitta. The half-smile faded. 'Sister?' she said politely, and leaning forward, kissed the air near Julitta's cheek. 'What brings you to Brize?'

'Your mother was taken sick at her convent,' Julitta said without preamble. 'I was there too, so I brought her home and promised to stay with her until you came. I was looking for Father Hoel when you arrived.'

'Father Hoel?' Gisele's face paled and she closed her fist around a silver cross and a small phial of holy water lying on her bosom. 'Is she so sick?'

Julitta shook her head. 'I do not know. All she said was that she required spiritual comfort. And of course she wants you.'

Gisele swallowed. 'I must go to her,' she said, and looked at her husband, as he came around the side of the wain. 'My mother…' she started to say.

'Yes, Doucette, I heard,' Benedict's tone was carefully neutral as he stepped aside to let her pass.

'If I had known how ill she was I would never have gone to Rouen!' Her fist still clenched on her religious jewellery, Gisele hurried towards the hall, her cloak billowing behind her. Julitta quickly turned to follow her, keeping a distance between herself and Benedict. She did not even want to feel the warmth from his body.

'Julitta, stay a moment,' he entreated.

His eyes were upon her spine; she could feel them as surely as if he had touched her. Against her better judgement she stopped, but she did not turn round. 'For what?' she asked the busy courtyard before her eyes. 'What is there to say?'

He made a wry sound. 'Too much, I don't know where to begin.'

'Then don't.' She bit her lip. 'It has taken me a long time to End my balance on this sword edge. I don't want to be cut again.'

'I'm sorry. Perhaps that should come first.'

Someone was unhitching the horses from the wain and the baggage was being unloaded. An attendant approached Benedict with a query, and he answered with distracted impatience.

Julitta briefly closed her eyes, summoning her strength. 'There is no point to this,' she said. 'I cannot bear it.' And walked briskly away from him, forcing each foot down upon the bailey floor, welcoming the sting of pain.

Benedict watched her and stamped his foot too in frustration. His first impulse was to stride after her, grab her arm and spin her round to listen to him, but he curbed it so that it was only an image of the mind. There were too many witnesses for what needed to be a personal discussion. He dug his hands through his hair in a gesture he had unconsciously picked up from Rolf, and cursed softly through his teeth. On that fateful May Eve they had both jumped into the river, had been tossed and churned in its turbulence, and finally, washed ashore on opposite banks. Now he had to build a bridge across the torrent so that at least they could have a meeting point without danger of falling in again. Perhaps it was impossible. He was fully aware that he had more than one bridge to build, not least between himself and his wife.

In Rouen, he and Gisele had knelt and prayed at the tomb of St Petronella. It was almost three years since they had wed, and in all that time, Gisele had never quickened. Of course, he admitted to himself, he had often been apart from her, and the times they did share a bed, Gisele was adamant on church strictures concerning the act of copulation. Never in Lent or on a Holy day; never in daylight. Even candlelight was shameful, and it was better to remain clothed. If he forced her to go against these rules, she became tearful, and would go remorsefully to confession, imploring him to do the same for the sake of his mortal soul.

Her mother's recent ill health had changed matters somewhat. Arlette had wistfully hinted about holding her first grandchild in her arms. Prayers had been said, and Gisele had taken to drinking potions of betony and figwort in the belief that these would help her to quicken. And although not particularly enthusiastic, she had made herself a more willing bedmate. Without success as yet, hence the visit to St Petronella.

Benedict left the attendants to finish unloading the wain and went to the hall. A rapid glance around the main room revealed no sign of Julitta. The household was dining on an evening meal of meat stew and flat loaves. The seats at the high table were occupied by several of the Brize knights and their families, but the heavy carved chairs at the head of the board were empty. He could have sat there and presided over the meal, but he owned neither the desire nor the appetite.

Leaving the hall, he climbed the outer stairs to the rooms above. Julitta was not here either. He walked past the loom, the polished bench, the precisely placed coffer on which stood a small basket containing hair ribbons and fillets, and a carved antler comb. He pushed aside the curtain which partitioned off the bedchamber, and entered its private sanctum.

Arlette was propped upon a mountain of pillows. Against the linen of her chemise, her face was positively yellow, and the bones of her face were gaunt. Benedict was shocked by her appearance. He knew that her health had been poor, but it had always seemed suspicious to him that it deteriorated whenever Gisele had to give her attention elsewhere. Now he could see her mortality written in her eyes.

Gisele sat on the bed, holding her mother's hand and talking quietly, but she ceased when Benedict entered and glanced at him with worried eyes. To one side, her maid was making up a truckle bed with clean linens and sorting Gisele's bedrobe from the travelling coffer that had been lugged up the stairs from the bailey. Benedict eyed these signs with depressed resignation. So much for St Petronella.

Advancing to the bed, he leaned over and kissed Arlette on her hot, dry cheek. 'Mother,' he acknowledged dutifully and resisted the urge to wipe his mouth on the back of his hand.

'Son.' Arlette's own response was tepid.

Benedict knew the rules of the women's domain. It was his duty to pay his respects and then depart. The only men who had access to the bower and bedchamber were those of the family — Rolf, himself, and Mauger at the limit. Arlette had always made it clear that he was tolerated rather than welcomed.

'I am sorry to hear that you are unwell.'

Arlette shrugged. 'It will pass,' she said wearily. 'It always has before.'

'You need sleep, Mama, and plenty of rest with someone to look after you.' Gisele patted the hand beneath her own. 'I am here now, and I promise not to leave your side until you're better.'

'You're a good child.' Arlette's gaunt face brightened slightly. Then she looked at Benedict. 'I asked Julitta to bring Father Hoel to me, but I think she must have forgotten. Will you go and see if you can find him?'

Benedict complied with alacrity, as glad to leave the room as Arlette was to see him go. On the outer staircase he inhaled deeply of the crisp September air, cleansing his lungs. A full, silver moon was rising, in a clear, star-bright night sky, beautiful and cold.

At the foot of the stairs, he encountered Father Hoel on his way up. Obviously Julitta had not forgotten. When he enquired as to her whereabouts, the elderly priest spread his hands.

'I do not know. I only met her in passing in the bailey. You could ask the guards.'

'Thank you, I will.'

Within the keep torches, candles and rush dips shed their light and shadow over plastered walls, embroideries and hangings. Hazy ribbons of blue smoke layered the hall and meandered without any great haste towards the vent holes.

Viewed from the wooden stairway connecting the upper and lower sections of the castle, the river Risle possessed the black sparkle of a jet necklace and the surrounding land was an ocean of soft, dark-blue hummocks. He heard the snort of a dozing horse, and the intermittent creaking of a storeshed door.

The guards on duty near the gates in the lower bailey were warming themselves at a brazier filled with firewood. One of the wives had brought out a covered iron container of pottage for their supper, and her husband was setting it to keep warm. Benedict's query was met with shaken heads and frowns. No, she had not left the keep. Yes, she had been in the bailey talking to the priest, but they hadn't taken much notice of where she went after that.

Benedict did not want to make too much of an issue of his search and arouse unwelcome curiosity. 'If you see her, tell her that I will be in the solar or the hall,' he said casually, and turned away.

A child belonging to the soldier's wife had wandered across his path and he almost tripped over the infant. Its face and hands were shiny and sticky from the piece of honeycomb it had been sucking with total absorption. A glistening smear dripped down the expensive blue wool of Benedict's tunic. Mortified, the mother grappled her offspring away, apologising profusely.

Her words fell upon deaf ears. 'Of course, the bees,' Benedict said with a gleam of comprehension, and to the bewilderment of the gathering around the brazier, set off in the direction of Arlette's garden. It was built against the outer wall, a haven of retreat, a pleasant suntrap, where Arlette and Gisele came in fine weather to sew and listen to moral fables and readings from the scriptures. The garden was surrounded on three sides by walls, with a gated entrance to prevent animals from wandering in and destroying the plants, of which Arlette was inordinately proud.

The moonlight cast a luminous, silverish light over trees and shrubs, herbs and flowers. Scents assaulted him, sweet, bitter, astringent, muskily soft. Drugged moths floated from flower to flower, and above his head he heard the shrill squeaks of hunting bats. He followed the path to the well which was the garden's focal point. The gardener had left a hoe leaning against its side, and a wooden dibbing stick, the soil dark on its tip. Benedict continued along the path until he came to the corner against the outer wall, his footfalls and breathing cat-light.

She was there, standing beside the straw bee skeps, her hand lightly pressed against the nearest one, and she was talking in a low voice, too low for him to hear what she was saying. Her hair was loose, curling to her hips, and her discarded wimple was draped over the chamomile seat at her side.

'Talking to the bees again?' he said softly. 'I thought that I would find you here.'

She gave a small cry and spun to face him, her hand going to her throat.

'I didn't mean to startle you,' Benedict said swiftly, 'but if I had made my presence known before, I feared you would run away.' He straddled the path, blocking her exit.

Julitta lowered her hand. 'And not without cause,' she said, but made no move to try and escape. Her eyes gleamed in the darkness. The rich tendrils of her hair framed her face. He could see the rapid rise and fall of her breasts and knew that her breathing was no less rapid than his own.

'I haven't spoken to you… God's eyes, even seen you since that last May Eve we were together.'

Her jaw tightened. 'I thought that there were reasons for that, good reasons.'

'Oh yes, the reasons were good,' he answered grimly. 'I was given them from all directions until I was nearly out of my mind. I have reached the conclusion that I have no reason where you are concerned. You have left your footprint on my soul.'

She drew a shuddering breath. 'You have always had a way with words.'

'It goes much deeper than words. May Eve… was more than lust. We both know that.'

Almost without realising, she swayed a step towards him, then checked herself as he reached for her. In a moment she would be lost. 'What purpose does this serve?' she said hoarsely.

He spread his hands. 'I just wanted to see you in the flesh and… and talk the way we used to.'

'Talk.' Julitta fixed on the word as if it were an anchor in the midst of a stormy ocean. Half-turning, she sat down on the turf seat and spread her wimple across her knees — symbol of respectability, a married woman's prop. 'Very well,' she said, a quaver in her voice, 'sit down and talk to me.'

Benedict hesitated, then sat down gingerly beside her. 'Where do I begin?' he said. 'Are you happy with Mauger?'

Julitta stared out over the moon-silvered garden and deliberated her reply. Benedict's shoulder was almost touching hers. She could feel his breath, his body; the danger of the moment. How easy it would be. 'I have been happier in my life,' she said at length, 'but also I have known more grief. There is a roof over my head, I am mistress of my own household, saving Mauger's word, and he provides well for me.' She looked at him from beneath her lids and wound her wimple around her fingers. 'It must be the same between you and Gisele — not what you want, but enough to keep you from starving?'

Benedict laughed bitterly. 'Enough to keep me from starving,' he repeated, as if the word was a great jest at his expense. 'Ah God, Julitta, you are as much Rolf's daughter as she is Arlette's. How much love is enough to keep me from famine?'

Julitta bit her lip and looked away, her fingers tightening in the cloth.

Benedict's grimace deepened. 'Did you know that we were in Rouen for the purpose of praying at the tomb of St Petronella?'

'Arlette said as much.'

'I tell you, if prayer was the way to fruitfulness, we would have half a dozen offspring by now. St Petronella might grant a miracle, but how I can sow seed when the garden door is barred, is beyond my understanding.'

'Do you mean Gisele is unable to bear children?'

'No, just unwilling to beget them,' he said dryly. 'An immaculate conception would suit her. That is why I say she is Arlette's daughter. Everything she is has been learned by rote from her mother, nor can she be persuaded to question the rule. Mama says so, therefore it is true… but then I suppose you know most of this already. You used to dwell in the bower.'

'They tried not to involve me in their conversations.' Julitta laughed shortly. 'I used to disrupt them with my "bathhouse" morals. I do admit that I cut off my own nose to spite my face by saying truly outrageous things just to see how horrified I could make them, so that they took to ignoring me. A blessing in disguise, I think. Arlette used to try and curb my excesses, but I would just escape to you and Papa.'

'Yes, I remember,' Benedict said softly. He took a lock of her hair between forefinger and thumb and played with it. 'And then your poor father would have to keep the peace.' He was smiling as he spoke.

'It wasn't my "poor father" who had to live among them,' she retorted. 'He scarcely spent any time in the bower. And neither do you, I hazard.'

'No,' he admitted reluctantly, 'not at Brize, although I do at Ulverton. Many men do not dwell in their wives' working chambers.'

'Mauger does.'

'So would I in his place.'

The conversation was becoming dangerous, Benedict's proximity even more so, and Julitta knew that she must make an end of the meeting for both their sakes. 'But you are not in his place,' she said, and would have risen to her feet except that he still held her prisoner by her hair. 'Benedict, let me go.'

'I cannot,' he whispered. 'God forgive me, I cannot.' And set his mouth upon hers.

Julitta quivered beneath his touch. Torn between the urge to yield and the need to fight, she remained where she was, trapped like a moth dancing in a candle flame. And then the flame began to consume her, licking delicately at first, but growing hotter, beginning to singe. Her mouth responded to his; she set her arms around his neck and dug her fingers into his hair. His hand opened and trailed its way down the strand of hair he had been grasping. Light as a feather, he touched her breast, and Julitta gasped, stiffened, and then pressed herself closer. It was wrong, she knew that it was, but now she too could only think 'God forgive me.' Her tongue followed his, then took the initiative. He reached to the brooch fastening the neck of her gown. Her hand went to his belt, and then travelled below it. Benedict groaned and pulled her into his lap. Julitta wriggled, seeking out the hard length of his manhood, her own desire heightening with each shifting movement.

'Ah God, Julitta,' he said hoarsely, and clutched her in an agony of pain and pleasure. 'Julitta, please.' His hands cupped her buttocks, assisting her to rise and fall against him. Her head went back, her throat arching, and her red curls stroking his knees.

Outside the haven of the garden, the gate guards shouted a challenge, were answered peremptorily and immediately set about opening the great wooden barriers to the troop demanding admittance. Fresh torches flared, illuminating the progress of mounted knights and footsoldiers.

Through a haze of sensation, Julitta heard the cries of the guards, the clatter of hooves and jink of armour. Her mind shrieked danger! even while her body sought its pleasure. Benedict had heard it too, for his hands gripped her now to hold her still, and his harsh breathing was suddenly held silent, the better to listen.

'Who could it be at this hour?' he asked. 'Surely not your father. He has no such troops with him, unless he has gathered them on his way home.'

The clattering and shouting continued. They heard the rumble of iron-shod wheels on the bailey cobbles, denoting the arrival of a baggage wain.

Julitta scrambled from Benedict's lap and rapidly shook out and smoothed her gown. 'Whoever it is, I will be sought to find them bed and board,' she said in a flustered voice. She flung her wimple over her head, secured her circlet, and drew the loose end of cloth through the loop.

Benedict watched her rapid movements and gnawed his lip. 'Julitta.'

She darted him a rapid glance through her lashes. 'No, Ben, say nothing. It would have been like the last time — great pleasure, and then great grief.'

'I only wanted to…'

'So did I,' she interrupted, her eyes suddenly bright with tears. 'It is not wise for us to be alone together. I do not trust you, Ben, but most of all, I do not trust myself! No, do not follow me,' she snapped. 'What will be said of us if we are seen emerging from the garden together at this late hour?'

She hurried down the garden path, still smoothing her gown and checking her wimple. Benedict cursed and struck his fist upon the soft turf of the seat. Some of it was natural frustration at the untimely interruption, but most of the anger was directed at himself for handling the moment with such crass clumsiness. He had intended seeking her out to smooth the ground between them, and ended up strewing yet more thorns. Tool,' he muttered to himself, and rising, went slowly to the silent bee hives. 'I am a fool,' he reiterated, and laid his hand against the side of the woven skep. A sense of the enclosed energy of the insects throbbed through his palm and along his fingertips. When a suitable amount of time had passed, he left the garden quietly, and went to discover whose arrival had both saved and stranded himself and Julitta.

Julitta closed the garden gate behind her, took several deep breaths, and then walked briskly towards the bailey entrance. There was a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, a combined broil of thwarted lust, guilt, relief, and disappointment. She knew exactly how far she and Benedict would have gone without this interruption, and that she ought to be grateful. But no such emotion beat in her blood just now. With loins that still flickered, and with aching breasts, she went forward to perform the duty of respectable chatelaine.

A man clad from head to toe in chain mail was dismounting from a stocky chestnut stallion. The horse's neck was crusted with sweat and the scars of recent wounds were dark scabs upon its hide. Julitta's heart lurched and she almost screamed aloud in fear.

'Mauger!' Her hand went to her mouth, to her lips still full and red from Benedict's kisses. 'What… what are you doing here?'

He gave the reins to a groom and turned round. 'I could ask the same of you,' he replied while removing his coif and arming cap. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes and a short, deep cut under his left cheekbone.

'I, I…' she stammered, hoping against hope that Benedict would not leave the garden now beneath the full suspicion of Mauger's jealous gaze. Dear Jesu, what if the troop had arrived just a little later into the night. Her face flamed. She sought swiftly for a means of escape. 'Oh, that is easily explained, but surely you will be more comfortable if you come within and let me help you unarm.'

His eyes narrowed, but he nodded stiffly and consented to follow her towards the keep.

'You look as if you have ridden hard,' she said to engage his attention, and forced herself not to crane her neck in the direction of the garden.

'I have.' He rubbed a weary hand over his face. 'There is news, grave news from Rouen. Your father must be summoned, and Benedict too.'

Julitta's entire spine prickled with cold. Somehow she managed to keep moving. To have stopped and stared at mention of his name would have given her away. 'Benedict and Gisele are already here,' she said, averting her face so that he would not be able to read her eyes. 'They rode in from Rouen just before vespers. Neither of them mentioned anything about grave news.'

'No, they would have departed the city before Duke William arrived.'

'It concerns the Duke?'

They climbed the stairs of the motte slope together. Mauger's breathing grew laboured beneath the weight of his mail and Julitta had to slow for him. At the top of the steps, he paused to regain his wind, one hand pressed to the stitch in his side.

'The Duke is dying,' he panted. 'We went for the throat of the French, attacked Le Mans and set fire to it. His stallion, the chestnut your father gave him last year, it stepped on a burning ember and shied. The Duke was thrown upon his saddle pommel and it has torn him somewhere inside — mortally torn him. Messengers have gone out. All the tenants-in-chief who are able, are summoned to Rouen to hear his dying wishes for his lands.' He removed his hand from his side and straightening, walked slowly towards the hall.

Julitta now hastened before him and chivvied the servants to bring food for the returning men. Fires were stirred to life, and people poked to wakefulness. Julitta threw herself wholeheartedly into the duties of chatelaine, hiding her anxiety within her attention to domestic detail.

Mauger eyed her bustle with pride. Her behaviour these days was all of his doing. He had been right when he told Rolf that all she needed was a household of her own and the guiding hand of a firm husband. And yet the pride was mixed with a certain amount of doubt. She was a little too meticulous in her observations of duty, and he was not sure whether it was deference or fear that caused her to keep her lids lowered and avoid his gaze.

'That is my reason for appearing so suddenly at Brize's gates,' he said as she helped him remove his armour. 'But you have still not told me yours.'

She had fine, milky skin that coloured easily. Even though the solar was only illuminated by candlelight now, he could tell that she was blushing. Her lower lip chewed from side to side and she quickly turned away from him to set his discarded garments upon coffer.

'You said there was a simple explanation,' he said, watching her closely. 'Perhaps it is as simple as Benedict de Remy.'

He saw her stiffen for an instant before she turned round. This time, although her colour was high, she looked him straight in the eyes. 'Gisele and Benedict did not ride in here until sunset. I came to Brize because Lady Arlette had need of me. That is the truth, and you may ask anyone to confirm what I say.'

Mauger eyed her broodingly. Clad in the old, sweaty tunic he wore beneath his armour, he sat down at the solar trestle which was adorned with a spread of cold meats, a raised pie, bread, cheese and honey cakes. There was also a flagon of wine. He stabbed a sliver of meat on the point of his knife, and eyed the length of her legs beneath her garments. His loins tightened with pleasurable anticipation. Leaning over, he placed his left hand possessively on her thigh and squeezed.

'I hated every moment of soldiering in the Duke's army,' he declared. 'Jesu, I almost went mad of a night thinking of you alone at Fauville. You were alone, weren't you?'

Julitta looked down at the trestle, at his hand upon her thigh. 'Yes, Mauger, I was alone.'

He reached to the flagon, filled his cup and drank. 'But wishing you were not,' he said, and kneaded her thigh. She blushed again. Smiling, Mauger drained the cup, then drew her towards him. 'Show me,' he said huskily, 'show me how much you missed me, and I will show you how much I missed you.'

'Here? In the solar?' Her eyes darted. 'Someone might disturb us.'

'Let them. We are husband and wife.'

'But…'

Mauger's expression was tense with desire. 'I laid not so much as a finger on the whores of the Duke's army camp,' he said through clenched teeth. 'I haven't had a woman since I left you. We are alone, and you'll not deny me. Do as you are bidden.'

With shaking hands Julitta reached to the neck fastening of her tunic. Mauger watched her fumble. She looked as if she might cry. He thought that either he had done an excellent job of teaching her modesty, or that she did not want to lie with him, and because the latter was damaging to the image he had of himself, he chose the former.

'Come, come,' he cajoled. 'Pretend that we are at home, that this is our bedchamber. Leave that.' Pushing her fingers away from the clasp, he laid her down on the solar floor with its thick covering of straw, and raising her skirts, mounted her. Julitta gasped as his weight covered her. Mauger groped within his braies and his erect organ sprang free, purple and bursting. Once, twice, he jabbed at her, and then he thrust home, full and strong. She was ready for him, he could feel by her moist-ness that she was. Mauger closed his eyes and savoured. Two weeks had seemed an eternity. He held onto the exquisite sensations burning in his groin. Two hard thrusts and he would be home, but he wanted to prolong the agonising pleasure, and so he checked himself, holding his breath and moving just the barest fraction. Lifting himself a little, he was able to fondle Julitta's breasts. He almost wished that he had let her undress so that he could caress them unhindered. Beneath the slow rubbing of his palm, he felt her nipple bud and harden and heard her breathing quicken. Usually she was passive, as befitted a dutiful wife, but tonight he felt a change in her, as if she had caught the scent of his own desire.

Mauger had found his rhythm now, a gentle rocking that kept him on a plateau beneath the pinnacle and allowed him to explore his wife's body. Now and again she whimpered softly. Her eyes were closed, and there was a slight frown marking the smoothness of her brow. Her hips began to rise and fall against his, urging him to more vigorous motion.

Had Mauger but known it, he was only completing what Benedict had started in the rose garden. Julitta's earlier arousal had left her body receptive to Mauger's intrusion. And Mauger himself, by exerting more control than usual, had brought her to fever pitch.

Her hands clenched upon his spine, and her legs parted further. The whimpers rose in volume and became a drawn-out cry. Unable to resist any more, Mauger seized her buttocks and plunged, his body shuddering in the throes of climax.

He was still pushing lazily in and out, responding to the twinges of aftermath when Benedict walked into the solar. The young man stopped dead and for a shocked moment stared at the two of them. Mauger did not rise off Julitta, or try to conceal himself. Instead he smiled at Benedict with triumph in his eyes. Julitta, her eyes still closed, made a soft sound and rotated her hips, seeking further pleasure. Benedict whitened. Without a word, he turned on his heels and left.

Julitta's lids fluttered as she felt the swirl of cold air from the disturbed curtain.

'It's all right,' Mauger said, 'nought but a draught.' Then he gave a rich, self-satisfied chuckle, and pinched her thigh. 'I see indeed how much you have missed me.' He withdrew from her, and did not turn away as he usually did to tuck himself back inside his braies. Mauger's sexual confidence had increased by leaps and bounds during the last quarter candle. The look upon Benedict's face had been the gilding on the moment though.

Julitta stood up and shook down her rumpled, straw-decked skirts. Her legs felt shaky; her woman's parts still quivered and pulsed. She had closed her eyes and imagined that she was still in the garden with Benedict; that the floor was made of crushed herbs, not straw and that the body to which she was joined, owned a slender, wiry strength, instead of a stocky bullishness. Indeed, she had almost sobbed Benedict's name aloud as Mauger brought her with him to the moment of supreme pleasure. It was the first time he had ever done so. She thought she knew the reasons, and yet she was disturbed by the very sensuality of her own nature. Perhaps any man would suffice to satisfy her if she just imagined him wearing Benedict's face. She just wanted to be left alone, and was too relieved to be resentful when Mauger told her to go and join the other women while he attended to 'men's' business.

'Were you looking for me a moment ago?' Mauger asked innocently as he joined Benedict before the fire in the hall. He chuckled. 'You must forgive us. Julitta was as eager to greet me fittingly as I was to greet her. Time apart whets the appetite.'

Benedict gazed down at his hands and fought the urge to clench them into fists and punch the supercilious smile off Mauger's face. If a man could enjoy bedding with different women, then it must work the other way around too. He did not blame Julitta, but he was brimful of jealous pain all the same, and he did not need Mauger's heavy-handed boasting. He made a non-committal sound and shrugged. 'I was told that you had ridden in with the tidings that the Duke is dying?'

The smirk left Mauger's face as he was recalled to the wider arena of the political world. 'It is true. I saw him after his horse trod upon the burning ember in Le Mans, since I was the one summoned to deal with the crazed beast. Our lord Duke is not long for this world. He was in such pain that they had to bear him in a litter to Rouen. He has summoned all his vassals. You will have to represent Rolf if he does not arrive in time.'

Benedict did not miss the curl of Mauger's lip. Not only Julitta sat like a poisoned cup between them. So did the fact that Benedict was Rolf's heir, while Mauger, although he was Rolf's son-in-law too, was only a vassal. Benedict knew that Mauger thought him a jumped-up merchant's son whose only claim to nobility was through his marriage into a higher bloodline. And he, in his turn, saw Mauger in a less than favourable light and was all too willing to denigrate any good points that the man possessed. 'Certainly I will go,' he replied, 'but I hope to God that Rolf will be able to represent Brize himself. He knew the Duke well; I only saw him from a distance.'

Mauger nodded. 'It was always Rolf's prerogative to select William's mounts.'

'Oh, I have selected horses for the Duke before now. His tastes were predictable – the larger and meaner the better, but Rolf always did the negotiating himself. The Duke was not fond of younger men. I think he had been soured by the behaviour of his sons. I wonder what will happen now,' he added thoughtfully.

'What do you mean?'

'Well, if William is dying, what will happen to his lands? Will they remain whole in the possession of one son alone, or will they be divided up? And if they are, will Rolf find himself owing allegiance to more than one man?'

Mauger gently fingered the scabbed cut on his cheekbone. 'I had not thought about it,' he said. 'I suppose that by tradition the hearth lands will go to the eldest son, and the conquered lands to the second one. Robert for Normandy, Rufus for England, and whatever scraps remain to young Henry.'

Benedict pursed his lips. Mauger was probably right. Albeit that William's eldest son, Robert, was currently in rebellion against his father, the young man would doubtless inherit Normandy, and William Rufus would take England. It was a worrying prospect. The relationship between Robert and Rufus was a stormy one, compounded of brotherly love and brotherly hate in equal proportions. It would be laughable if it were not so frightening, that one day the men of Brize and the men of Ulverton might be called upon to fight against each other. Himself against Mauger. He chewed his lip on the thought. It would be all too easy. Between them there was no love to temper the hostility, only sense, and he knew how easily that was lost.

CHAPTER 51

On the ninth of September 1086, William, Duke of Normandy and King of England died at St Gervase on the outskirts of Rouen. To his eldest son, Robert, he bequeathed the duchy of Normandy; upon his second son William Rufus, so called because of his ruddy complexion, he bestowed the kingdom of England, and to his youngest son Henry, nineteen years old, he gave five thousand pounds of silver from the treasury, and his blessing.

None of the brothers was pleased with his share of their father's inheritance, the word 'share' in itself a stumbling block. Each desired the whole, and the Norman barons who had served the Conqueror faithfully found themselves having to choose between his sons. As Benedict had foreseen, men such as Rolf with lands on both sides of the narrow sea, had no option but to break their faith with one of their disgruntled overlords.

'In Normandy I will serve Duke Robert for the fealty owed by Brize,' Rolf told Benedict at William's funeral in Caen. 'In England, I will serve William Rufus, since his father designated him king. And if they come to blows, I will commute all my military service to payment in coin and let them fight it out between themselves. I have no desire to be torn in two.'

Following the funeral, Rolf repaired to Brize for the winter season. His wife was slowly dying, and he knew that he had to be with her, as he had not been with Ailith. When Benedict crossed the narrow sea to Ulverton, Gisele remained at Brize to nurse her mother, although she dutifully sent her husband an embroidered belt as a Christmas gift.

Benedict presided over the Yuletide feast in Ulverton's long hall. Despite the presence of the villagers, the priest, retainers, soldiers, grooms, servants and anyone else who could squash into the festively decorated room, he felt utterly depressed. The revelry which he had always taken pleasure in before, now seemed trivial and garish.

A villager capered beneath the high table. He wore a fantastic costume composed of shredded fabric in different shades of green — pea and emerald, sage and olive. His face was smeared with the colour too, and a pair of antlers crowned his shaggy brown hair. He was The Green Man, Jack-in-the-Green, denizen of Maytime and Yule alike.

Benedict desired no reminders of the month of May. Once it had dwelt like fire within him. Now there were only ashes. Taking a flagon of wine, he left the hall and went to his solitary chamber. To think about Julitta increased his depression. Not to think of her was almost worse. Torn between one and the other, he sat in a grey haze of self-pity while Christmas, season and spirit, passed him by.

Late the following month, he was out in the fields, inspecting the mares soon to foal, when King William Rufus arrived at Ulverton unannounced, and demanded to see the bloodstock. Summoned by a groom, Benedict hurried back to the wooden keep, and bent the knee to the monarch who still sat upon his horse, his pudgy hands toying with a decoration on the saddle pommel.

'Get up, boy,' Rufus commanded.

Benedict concealed his irritation at being addressed as 'boy' and rising, went to hold the grey stallion's headstall whilst the King dismounted. 'Sire, this is an unexpected pleasure.'

'I have no doubt that it is,' Rufus answered with an edge to his voice. It was gravelly and harsh, suiting the scoured, ruddy features. He was smaller than the Conqueror, but possessed the same stockiness of build. A barrel on bandy legs was how Rolf had once described Rufus, and the comparison was entirely appropriate. Benedict was slightly above average height and Rufus's eyes were on a level with his mouth, and this the King stared at for a long moment, before his gaze drifted down Benedict's body in a fashion that men usually used when they were eyeing women.

It was not the first time that William Rufus had made his interest known. Glancing round the group of retainers accompanying the King, Benedict caught the pouting scowl of the current court favourite, a slender young man with a bright blue Phrygian cap set at a rakish angle on his blond curls.

'Will you come within, can I offer you food and drink, Sire?' Benedict enquired, thinking that it was all Rufus was going to get.

'It will do for a start,' Rufus answered, 'although I'm hoping for more…' He let the ambiguity hang in the air for just a moment too long, before adding, 'I've come to look at your horses.' A half-grin at the pouting youth. 'Time I had a new mount.'

Benedict stretched his lips in the semblance of a smile, gave the King's horse to his senior groom, and led the way towards the hall. At least Rufus had not brought his entire court, for they would have eaten Ulverton clean down to the bone. Here was just a minor entourage consisting of the King's favourites and hangers-on. No sign of the venerable Archbishop Lanfranc to lend dignity to the proceedings. This was a private jaunt. Probably the main court was keeping warm in the royal hunting lodge in the great forest to the east. Still, it was uncomfortable and annoying. He wondered if Rufus intended paying for the horse he chose. The royal stables always received a quota of beasts each autumn as part of Brize and Ulverton's feudal dues. Perhaps Rufus was going to increase his demands. He was known to have a grasping, avaricious nature.

'Where is your father-by-marriage?' Rufus asked, as he was given the lord's chair in the hall and served with the best wine. His hazel eyes roved the plastered walls with their embellishment of embroidered hangings and bannered lances. 'Skulking at Brize, I suppose, and licking my brother's boots?'

'He is indeed at Brize, Sire, for the winter season. His wife is sick unto death and he is there for her sake too.'

Rufus snorted. 'It would be the first time!' he said nastily. 'Unless he's changed his spots, which I very much doubt.'

'Even so, it is true,' Benedict said with quiet dignity.

Rufus snorted. 'And pigs nest in trees,' he scoffed, and drank down the wine in five hard gulps, wiping his mouth on his gorgeously embroidered sleeve. 'Your father-in-law knows a good excuse when he sees one!'

'Do you blame him?'

Rufus stared at Benedict as if he had been pole-axed. Around him, his sycophants held their breath, awaiting the explosion of the royal rage. The red cheeks darkened, the barrel chest expanded, threatening to rip the stitches on the crimson, fur-trimmed tunic. Benedict found himself wondering what would happen if someone stuck a cloak pin in Rufus's belly. Would he pop like a Yuletide bladder?

'You have a bold tongue to say that when you are scarce out of tail-clouts!' Rufus growled. It was significant that it was a growl, not a full-throated bellow. It meant that for the moment he was prepared to find Benedict's insolence intriguing. 'I wonder how bold you truly are.' He tapped his forefinger against his square front teeth, and abruptly jerked to his feet. 'Come, show me your horses,' he said. 'I need one fit for a king.'

Benedict rose too. 'A destrier, Sire?' he enquired. 'Or a palfrey?'

Rufus shrugged and hitched at his belly where it hung over his embossed belt. 'I want a beast that will make my brother Robert's eyes pop out with jealousy,' he said, and his pugnacious jaw jutted. 'The best.'

Benedict discovered that the King's taste in horses was about as dubious as his taste in clothes and cronies. Gaudy not good, brash not brilliant. He was drawn too much by markings and colour, and all the superficial cladding that meant nothing when it came to stamina, quality, and endurance. Benedict tried to interest Rufus in a young dappled grey stallion of sound conformation. The horse was alert and confident without being too spirited to handle, but Rufüs dismissed it with a wave of his hand as being 'naught but a peasant's nag' – a totally unfair remark, since even the meanest horse on the stud was worth more than a peasant might earn in an entire year.

Rufus tried several animals, and declared them all unsuitable. Finally his eye settled upon a steel-grey stallion which was giving the grooms a deal of trouble, backing and sidling, rolling its eyes. Foam lathered its neck, matching the glittering white of its mane and tail, the latter switching angrily from side to side.

'That one,' Rufus said, and his lower lip joined the outward jut of his jaw. 'I want that one.'

'His temper is uncertain, Sire,' Benedict warned.

'So is mine, we'll match well.'

Benedict could not argue with that. 'He is not saddle-trained, Sire,' he said, adding a rapid 'thank Christ' beneath his breath. The last thing he needed was for Rufus to try the brute out and get tossed into the midden.

'I've got grooms enough to break him.' Rufus approached the stallion and despite being held by two attendants, it still managed to lunge at him, teeth bared, one forehoof pawing in threat. Rufus laughed buoyantly. 'Satan!' he cried. 'I will call him Satan!'

His paramour tittered behind his hand. Benedict knew the King's reputation of disrespect for the Church. There was even the whispered rumour that he followed the old religion. Still, the name was more than appropriate to the animal. The only way to remove the devil from his nature was to geld him, and he very much doubted that Rufus would do anything so sensible.

The King went on to examine the destrier herd, and then the ponies which Rolf had brought out of the north so many years ago, and for which Ulverton was now justly famous. 'Ponies!' Rufus snorted, eyeing the sturdy, ugly little animals which contrasted so strongly with the proud, graceful warhorses. 'What in the world possessed your father-by-marriage to invest in them?'

'Is it not better to have more than one dish on a table, Sire?

Rich and powerful men come to purchase warhorses, palfreys and coursers from our stock. Between times, we take the custom of merchants and carriers. And in times of war, rich and powerful men return to us to buy our ponies for sumpter work. They look nothing, I know, but they have an endurance beyond all believing. I would wager with confidence that one of those ponies bearing two pannier-loads of rocks could outpace a destrier in the course of a day, and still be fit on the morrow for another dawn-to-dusk trek.'

Rufus looked thoughtful. 'In times of war,' he repeated and eyed Benedict. 'Does Rolf breed ponies at Brize?'

'No, Sire, only at Ulverton.'

'Then I will buy what you have.' He nodded to himself with satisfaction, a gleam in his eye at having access to something that his brother Robert did not.

His paramour loudly cleared his throat to attract the King's attention. 'Sire, would I not look divine beside you on this one?' He pointed a lily-white finger at a horse which had been grazing among the ponies and now had come in curiosity to examine the visitors. It was a mare of a good average size, with neat, sharp ears, intelligent liquid eyes, and proud carriage. Her colouring was a glorious golden dapple, beautiful and rare.

Rufus just stared, his small eyes widening and widening in covetous greed. 'Saving the best until last?' he said, and moistened his lips. 'I should have expected such. You horse-traders are all the same, whatever your rank.'

The effeminate young man made kissing noises at the mare and she snorted gustily at him before walking directly up to Benedict with a nicker of greeting. Benedict stroked her cheeks and rubbed her soft muzzle. 'She is not for sale, Sire.'

'I want her,' Rufus said as if that was the end of the matter. 'Name your price.'

'There is no price, Sire. Even if you offered me her weight in gold, I would not sell. I purchased her as a gift for someone else.'

The King's eyes narrowed. 'You seem eager to bring hardship upon yourself. I could take my custom elsewhere.'

Benedict braced his shoulders as if to withstand a blow. 'That is your prerogative, Sire,' he said quietly.

Rufus glared. His pretty boy pouted. 'Make him give you the horse, Sire,' he challenged in a light, spiteful voice, and posed dramatically with his hand on one hip, his white, pretty fingers tapping on the decorated hilt of his eating dagger. The King's eyes flickered from Benedict to his favourite.

'Be quiet, Godfroi,' he snapped, and took a step nearer to Benedict. 'So, you deny me this horse?' If he had intended to intimidate the younger, slightly built man by the force of his presence, he was disappointed.

'With regret, Sire, I do,' Benedict answered without flinching. He could smell the wine on the King's breath, see the broken veins spidering the ruddy cheeks, and the dewdrops of sweat in the receding chestnut hair. Godfroi was looking at his fingernails, his cheeks sucked in to display his affront.

'You will do more than regret,' Rufus snarled, and barging past Benedict, called for his grooms. Benedict watched him warily. He did not believe that Rufus would order anything so crass as an armed assault upon Ulverton, but one did not stand in the path of a wild boar with impunity.

The King mounted up and thrust his feet into the stirrups. He snapped his fat fingers and two equerries fetched the steel-grey destrier. Ignoring their struggles to control the beast, he turned his own horse in a semi-circle and reined him in hard before Benedict. Rufus's eyes were narrow and bright, his nostrils flared with a mingling of choler and lust, and it was all Benedict could do to stand his ground. 'It is a fine line between honour and stupidity,' Rufus said, and slapped the leather down on his horse's neck. The horse lumbered forwards and Benedict was forced to leap aside to avoid being trampled.

The King cantered out of the keep gates. His bon ami followed at his heels, nose cocked high, chin puckered.

Benedict held himself straight until the last man had ridden from sight, and then sat down weakly on the lowest step of the mounting block, and closed his eyes.

Julitta crossed herself and rose from her knees. Before her, on the altar in the chapel of Arlette's convent, the creamy wax candles gleamed with translucence. Between them, a cross of silver-gilt, amethyst and rock crystal commanded the congregation to worship. Father Jerome, resplendent in robes of scarlet and crimson silk damask performed the blessing, his fingers eloquent and lean, contrasting with the bull-like solidity of his body.

The chapel itself was a place of contrasts, of practical, sturdy arches and intricately decorated columns, the reliefs brightly painted to war with the natural gloom of the thick stone walls. And yet everything blended with harmonious individuality. Julitta's attitude to religion was dutiful rather than devoted, but here, today, at the convent's consecration to the Magdalene, she felt uplifted.

At her side, Mauger was listening intently to Father Jerome as if he understood every word of Latin spilling from the priest's lips. She glanced at her husband sidelong. He was wearing his best blue tunic with the red braid, and his pale hair gleamed like barley in the chapel's soft light. He had been different of late, more at ease, she thought, and her own life was more bearable because of it. Mauger was still gruff and brusque, not given to conversations beyond the practical, but he permitted her a larger degree of freedom than in the early days of their marriage, and their bed was no longer a battlefield on which he sought to subjugate her to his will. Indeed, sometimes Julitta even derived pleasure from the encounters. If she could never come to love Mauger, then at least she no longer hated him. The thought of Benedict was like an aching tooth that could not be pulled, but she was disciplining herself to live with the pain.

Benedict was not here now for the consecration of the convent's chapel, and she was both disappointed and relieved. What would they say to each other after their last meeting? She had not seen him after that incident in Arlette's garden, not even to bid farewell before she returned to Fauville the following morning. He had not come seeking her again and she had avoided him. It was safer that way. Even a meeting of their eyes would have betrayed them.

The witnesses to the chapel's consecration had all been standing throughout the ceremony. Arlette, due to her frailty, sat on a bench at the front of the nave. Her condition had improved a little recently, but it was caused more by the knowledge that her convent was close to completion than by any return to health. She was painfully thin, her bones almost poking through her skin, and her eyes were feverbrilliant in their sockets.

Gisele looked ill too, her complexion pasty-white with puffy welts of exhaustion beneath her eyes. Julitta knew that it was not the nursing that was taking its toll, but the sight of her mother growing progressively worse, no matter how hard Gisele tried. Julitta felt genuine pity for her half-sister. She knew what it was like to lose a mother, to be powerless in the inexorable face of death.

Back at Brize, sitting with the women in the bower, Julitta listened as one of the consecration guests held forth upon the wonders of her recent pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostella in Galicia, where the remains of the blessed apostle St James were supposedly interred. The woman's name was Matilda de Vey. She was wealthy and devout, a combination of great benefit to the Church. She was also garrulous and loud, and with the aid of a couple of goblets of Aubert's fine wine was sailing very close to being outrageous. Julitta found herself longing to giggle, something that she had not done in a long, long time.

'I tell you, my dear,' she shouted at Gisele, who actually flinched, 'you have not lived unless you have been on a proper pilgrimage — not just to Rouen, but further afield. It not only does wonders for the soul, it bestows wisdom and understanding!' She plumped herself down on the bed where Arlette was resting. The entire mass sagged to the left beneath her exuberant weight. Her face reflecting the red of the wine she had so liberally consumed, Matilda pushed at her wimple which had come askew. 'On my way to visit the blessed saint, we stayed in Toulouse, at a pilgrim hospice, and there was a priest who owned a piece of the True Cross. We were all permitted to touch it.' She waggled a forefinger at her bemused audience. 'My hands were swollen up with the dropsy, but when I laid them upon that tiny piece of wood, within moments my fingers were as thin as they were on the day that I was married. I swear it to you.'

Julitta wondered why the miracle had stopped at the fingers. If Matilda had been truly blessed, then her figure would be sylph-like too. She wondered how much the woman had paid the priest for the privilege of touching the relic. Benedict had told her that he had encountered many corrupt clergymen on his journeys, who would sell anything to the gullible. 'I have seen enough nails from the True Cross to shoe an entire conroi of cavalry!' he had laughed.

'And this,' Matilda continued, delving in her ample bodice and withdrawing a small, wooden box threaded upon a leather cord, 'holds the nail clippings of the blessed St James himself!'

The other women clustered around the bed to gasp and exclaim over the dubious contents of the box. Julitta remained aloof, and busied herself replenishing the cups with wine. Am I mad, or are they? she asked herself, and grimaced to wonder whose nail clippings really occupied the little box. Why did all these saints have nails, hair, bones and clothing to spare, but never the more intimate parts? The Virgin Mary's right nipple from which the Christ child sucked? Her left one for good measure? Julitta almost choked on the thought, torn between mirth and horror at her own blasphemy. Jesu, if those biddies by the bed knew what she was thinking she would be locked up in a penitent's cell on bread and water for the next month at least!

The Lady Matilda continued to hold forth, and her audience hung on her every word. Julitta had to admit to herself that the woman possessed a story teller's skills. Her descriptions brought places and incidents to colourful life in her audience's imagination. Julitta could smell the dust of the road, feel the blaze of the sun on her spine, and taste the sweetness of the bloomy cluster of grapes that the pilgrims had eaten as they rode through the vine fields on their road to Compostella. Arlette seemed to derive pleasure from the minute details of the many churches which Matilda had visited along her route, with the various legends and saints attached to them.

'I wish that I could have seen them,' she said wistfully. 'It is too late now, my time is too short. When I was younger I wish…" Her voice trailed off and she stared into the distance and sighed heavily.

The garrulous Matilda was temporarily silenced, but quickly regained the use of her tongue, having loosened it in a long swallow from her replenished cup. 'Oh indeed, it is too late for you,' she said with a total absence of tact, 'but it is not too late for your daughter. Mayhap if you send her to pray for you, the blessed St James will grant a miracle.' She smiled at Gisele, who could only stare at her in mute shock. 'Besides,' Matilda added practically, 'she could seek out a relic to grace the new convent and bring it prestige and respect. I know places in Compostella where such things can be obtained. One of our number, a merchant from Caen, obtained a vial of the Holy Virgin's milk. Think how such a thing would glorify your convent!'

Julitta spluttered and turned the sound into a cough. The Holy Virgin's nipples suddenly did not seem so far-fetched. 'Forgive my ignorance,' she interrupted, 'but surely there are many dishonest traders in these relics. How will she know that she is not being cheated?'

Matilda stared down her nose at Julitta. 'Of course there are many dishonest traders, child. You should always ask a priest's advice before you purchase anything.'

'Oh, I see,' Julitta nodded slowly. 'Ask a priest,' she repeated.

'And use your common sense.' Matilda's eyes flashed at Julitta, daring her to speak again. 'That goes without saying, I would have thought.'

'Oh certainly.' Julitta took Matilda's advice and retreated from the confrontation. There was nothing wrong with her own common sense.

CHAPTER 52

Benedict sat at a trestle in his chamber at Brize, and counted the silver he had brought with him from Ulverton. Payment for horses by clients, the coins displayed a wide variety of mints, monarchs and petty rulers. Eric Bloodaxe, Harold Godwinson, the Confessor, the Conqueror, and even a recent William Rufus, bright as a fish scale. Benedict had deemed it prudent to remove not only himself from England, but the bulk of Ulverton's surplus coin, and if that was treason, then so be it. Rolf had entirely endorsed his decision, but his look had been wry and not a little irritated.

'You have a nose for trouble,' he had commented with a sigh and a scowl.

'Should I have yielded to him?' Benedict had retorted. 'What would you have done?'

His defence had elicited a grimace from Rolf. 'Ach, I don't know. Probably I would have promised to geld him.'

Benedict smiled at the memory and stacked another pile of silver at his right hand. Reaching to a tally stick by his left, he made a notch in it. It was not really funny. He was as good as banished from Ulverton for the immediate future. To return now would be like jumping up and down in front of an enraged bull and hoping that it would not charge.

The silver clinked gently upon the trestle, the sound comforting to his merchant blood. Raising his head he glanced across the room to his wife. She was sitting near the brazier, quietly stitching at a garment, an undershift by the looks of the fabric. Even in the privacy of their own chamber, she still wore her wimple, and the scrubbed, bleached linen did nothing to enhance her wan complexion. She was biting her lip, and as he watched her, he saw two tears trickle down her cheeks. She sniffed and reached surreptitiously into her undergown sleeve for a square of linen on which to blow her nose.

'Gisele?' He set aside the coins and rose to his feet.

She made a small sound of dismay at being discovered and shook her head, gesturing him to sit back down, but the tears came faster and harder, as if his notice had released a well-spring.

He crossed the room and set his arms around her like a cradle, and he let her cry. It had been a long time since he had held her – since he had held any woman come to that. The casual, joyous tumbles of his adolescence seemed a lifetime away, and besides, they had owned a different purpose entirely. His moments with Julitta were far too distant and far too close. And Gisele had always kept him at arm's length until she had driven him away. Now, here they were, in the same chamber, alone, with not even a maid as witness, the only disturbance the rain driving against the shutters.

Her shoulders were bony beneath his fingers; she had no more meat on her than a starved sparrow. She took too much upon herself, he thought, acting out the role that her mother had assigned to her, flavouring each moment with guilt if it was not spent in duty. He knew what she was going to say even before she calmed enough to speak.

'Mother says that she is going to take Holy vows and enter her convent at Eastertide,' she gulped. 'She has discussed it with Father Jerome and Father Hoel. She says…' sniff, sob, 'she says that it is her wish to die as a nun.' A fresh flood of weeping.

Benedict could see nothing so dreadful in that. In fact, it seemed like an excellent idea considering Arlette's preoccupation with the Church. Not only that, but if she entered the convent now, it would be the task of the nuns to nurse her, and not Gisele who was clearly drooping beneath the burden. 'What does your father say?'

'He says that it is what she wants, and that it is a wise decision.'

'And is it not?' he asked gently.

'Oh I know it is,' Gisele croaked, 'I just don't want to think of her dying. And when she enters the convent it will be like bidding farewell. She doesn't want me with her at the end.' Gisele wrung the kerchief between her fingers and laid her head upon Benedict's chest. 'I am crying for myself. I feel so frightened!'

Benedict felt the damp of her tears through his tunic and shirt. He made soothing noises and stroked with his hands. 'It is not a burden you need bear alone,' he murmured. 'You know that I am here.'

'But you wish you weren't, and I do not blame you!'

Benedict winced and tightened his hold on her narrow shoulders. Indeed he did wish to be elsewhere, but then he would only be fulfilling her expectations and contributing to his own self-disgust. 'I am here,' he repeated firmly.

Gisele chewed on her lower lip. Her lashes, spiky and wet, clung together. She sniffed loudly, then blew her nose again. 'I… I know I have not been much of a wife to you recently…'

He shook his head. 'Do not go down that road. I have not been much of a husband either, have I?'

There was a taut silence, broken only by the howl of the weather outside the shutters. Breaking it, Gisele said, 'I know about you and Julitta.'

Benedict stiffened. His heart began to pound and he knew that Gisele was sensing it against her own body.

'I know that you love her, and that she feels the same way about you.'

'It is in the past,' he said when he was sure his voice would serve him. 'And it was only the madness of springtide blood. She is content with Mauger now… and as I have told you, I am here… for you — but you must do the same for me. If a home hearth is cold, a man is bound to seek elsewhere for warmth.'

She looked up at him from drowned eyes, their grey colour strangely enhanced by the red rims. 'I will try,' she said unsteadily.

'We will both try.' Benedict kissed her cheek, and tasted the salt of her tears. He kissed her lips too, but did not linger.

Gisele lay against him for a while as they silently acknowledged the new pact between them, then she lifted her head and said softly, 'My mother wishes me to do something for her, and I promised I would.'

'Oh?'

'Last month, when you were in England and the convent was consecrated, one of the guests talked a great deal about pilgrimages and holy relics. Mama wants me to go to Compostella to pray for her soul and she desires me to bring back a relic to donate to the convent in her name.'

Benedict pursed his lips. He tried to imagine Gisele making a pilgrimage as far as northern Spain when he knew that she hated travelling. The ordered life of the castle was for her. Spinning, weaving, supervising; regular, organised meals and prayers in a safe environment. No surprises. Even journeying to Rouen, or, God forbid, Ulverton, was a trial to her. Small wonder that she had found reason to weep. But if it was her mother's will, then nothing on this earth would prevent her from going to Compostella, not even her own fear. To reason with her was useless. Not that he intended reasoning with her this time. It would be the discharging of a final duty to Arlette, a seal to put the past where it belonged. And he had his own reasons. His arm tightened around her at the sudden leap of his thoughts.

She looked at him with anxious eyes, seeking his face for anger or impatience, but he gave her a reassuring hug and smiled.

'I will take you to pray at the tomb of St James, and if I see horses fit for purchase, I will buy them,' he declared. 'Spanish destriers are the best in the world.' A spark of relish gleamed in his eyes. Gisele would have her saint's bones and prayers by the bucketful; he would obtain his wish to inspect Spanish horseflesh at close quarters. And it was a legitimate excuse to avoid William Rufus for several months until the dust should settle and royal interest drift elsewhere.

Gisele wiped her nose a final time and tucked her soggy kerchief back inside her sleeve. 'Do you truly mean it, that you would accompany me to the tomb of St James?'

He heard the lost note in her voice. Gisele was always seeking for approval and reassurance. She had very little sense of her own value beyond that which was reflected in her mother's eyes. It was up to him to imbue it in her. 'I would not have spoken otherwise,' he said, and kissed her damp cheek.

At Easter, shortly before he departed on pilgrimage with Gisele, Benedict paid a visit to Fauville. The road was soft with mud, and the wind bit through his cloak. A watery April sky furnished brightness but little warmth, and the trees wore only the most delicate tippets of green.

Within its palisade, Fauville's hall faced the world with a stone solidity, its slate-tiled roof attesting that its lord was comfortable for funds, thatch being the norm of all lesser men. The windows faced the muddy bailey and the shutters were thrown back to admit the April daylight to the interior. Down the long side of the hall a herb bed had been planted and the soft greens of sage and lavender blended with the yellower tints of rue and fronds of early dill. Two hens scratched among the plants, clucking importantly to each other.

'And stay out, you thieving, mangy cur!' a woman shrieked. A tan deerhound shot out of the hall door on the end of the vicious sweep of a birch besom. A large chunk of blood pudding stretched its jaws, and had it been human, triumph would have glowed in its eyes. It clattered down the steps, streaked past the startled man, and scattering the hens in squawking high dudgeon, disappeared in the direction of the gates.

'I swear to you, my lady, if Ernoul Huntsman don't keep that hound of his under control, I'll have him with this broom too!'

'All right, Eda, calm yourself. I'll talk to him.' Julitta's voice came from within the hall, her tone bubbling with amusement. Benedict's stomach jolted just to hear her. Suddenly he wondered whether his visit had been such a good idea after all.

'It isn't the first time! Naught but trouble, that dog!' The maid poked her head out of the door to make sure that her quarry was not lurking on the stairs awaiting another opportunity to sneak in and steal again. She saw Benedict and jumped with surprise. Her round face reddened. She dipped him the merest curtsey and spoke rapidly over her shoulder.

Benedict dismounted as Julitta came to the doorway. She wore a homespun tunic of brown wool over an undergown of cream linen. A plain leather belt was passed twice around her waist, and from it dangled the household keys, a small pair of shears in a case, and her knife in a tooled leather sheath. Her hair was bound up in a kerchief tied with braid, and at her throat there was a simple bronze cross upon a leather cord. Her complexion had an alabaster luminosity, and her eyes were the dark blue of sapphires. She gazed at him and a pink flush crept slowly up her face.

'Will you come within?' She gestured through the open door of the hall.

Benedict smiled and shook his head. 'Thank you, but no. I am not even sure that I should be here at all.'

She folded her arms and leaned against the door post. 'Then why are you?'

'Among all the things I have taken from you, there is one that I can return. I know Mauger will not approve, but you can probably see your way to persuading him to accept it, since I know that you and he are on better terms these days.'

Her flush deepened. 'I had also heard the same about you and Gisele. Mauger says that you are departing on a pilgrimage together.'

He nodded. 'Within the month. I came to bid you farewell.'

'Yet another parting?' She raised a mocking eyebrow.

Benedict flinched beneath the look she gave him. He cleared his throat, and stepped aside to reveal the golden-dappled mare tied on a leading rein. 'I came to bring you the mare. King William Rufus wanted to buy her and I refused him – one of the reasons I'm making myself scarce for a while. I thought I would give her into your custody before I left. It would not have been safe to leave her at Ulverton.'

Julitta stared at the young mare and then at him. 'Freya?' she said. 'This is Freya?'

He nodded. 'What do you think?'

Julitta ran down the steps to the courtyard to examine the mare at close quarters. 'Oh, she is beautiful!' she declared as she walked around the young horse and ran her hand over fluid muscles and sturdy bones. 'I told Mauger that she had breeding.' She stroked the plush nose, noting how quietly she stood to be inspected. 'Is she saddle-broken?'

Benedict smiled and gave a flourish. 'Of course.'

'Give me a leg up.'

Benedict's smile became a poignant grin. Here was the Julitta of his most precious memories, moved by enthusiasm to discard convention. He cupped his hand and boosted her across Freya's bare back. There was a cracking sound as a side seam gave in her undergown. Julitta clucked an irritated tongue and hitched her garments up, exposing her green hose almost to the knees. Benedict unknotted the long rein and presented it to her with a gallant bow.

Julitta laughed at him, and lightly kicked her heels against the mare's flanks.

Freya moved off across the courtyard, her gait silk-smooth. Benedict watched the two of them, deriving both pleasure and pain from the sight. Julitta rode superbly; there was something of her father's casual arrogance in the way she sat a horse. He could almost imagine her in chain-mail and helm, a sword at her hip and a kite shield upon her left arm. Or perhaps a wild Valkyrie, sweeping down from Valhalla to claim heroes for the eternal feast hall. He did not know that it had been one of Ailith's favourite self-images, nor that she had unconsciously imbued her daughter with much of its fire.

Julitta rode back to him, her eyes shining and a flush on her cheeks. 'She's perfect, Ben.'

'You'll have to test her over a longer distance before you can say that.'

'Oh, I will do, but I know already that she'll be as clear as a bell. How could she not in your care?' She slipped down from the mare's back with lithe ease and dusted down her skirts. 'You say William Rufus wanted to buy her?'

'Yes, for his catamite.'

Julitta considered him with pursed lips. 'I'm glad you refused, but it has made trouble for you?'

He shrugged and smiled ruefully. 'No more than usual. Rufus will forget, and his pretty boy will fall from favour. They never last for long. Rufus treats them like meals to be eaten — chews them up and throws away the bones.'

Julitta turned to stroke the mare's face and strong, arched neck. 'You once told me that Rufus wanted to make a meal of you.'

'He still does, but I have no intention of lying down across his table. Let his bons amis and the churchmen wrestle for his soul. I am well out of the broil and on my way to God's grace in Compostella.' He gathered Cylu's reins and set his foot in the stirrup before the temptation to say that yes, he would enter the hall, became too great.

'I did not think that you really cared about God's grace,' she said, watching him narrowly.

'No, but Gisele does, and who is to say that she is not right?'

Julitta shrugged. There was a brief, awkward silence.

'Besides,' Benedict continued, 'my own concern is with Spanish horses. I'm going to buy some good breeding stock for your father – Iberian stallions and mares. We need an influx of new blood.'

Julitta nodded and folded her arms as if protecting herself. The spontaneity had died. She was a polite hostess bidding farewell to a sometime visitor. Her eyes looked at him and through him.

'Wish me good fortune,' Benedict said, and turned Cylu towards the gates. Suddenly he was desperate to be gone, as if the air of Fauville's courtyard was unbreathable. He clicked his tongue and drove in his heels, and Cylu sprang into a startled canter that took man and horse swiftly away from Julitta and the mare.

'A safe journey, and a safe return!' she called after him, but he was already beyond hearing, the pounding of hooves and the snort of Cylu's breath wasting the words torn from her. She gathered up her skirts to run after him, but as he reached Fauville's gates, Mauger came riding in on his stocky chestnut work horse, and the moment was lost. She dared say nothing in front of her husband.

Mauger eyed Benedict and then cut his gaze to Julitta standing poised in the ward.

Benedict reined back to let Mauger pass. 'It's only a fleeting visit,' he said to the other man's scowl. 'I brought a leaving gift for Julitta. If you've any sense, you'll accept it with goodwill.'

'You're a fine one to talk of sense!' Mauger growled. 'Every time you show your face a storm brews. You were leaving, were you not?' He gestured over his shoulder at the open gateway.

Benedict quelled the urge to make a snide reply, and without a word, rode out of Fauville. Mauger continued on into the bailey and dismounted.

'What did he want?' he demanded brusquely.

'To say farewell before he leaves for Compostella,' she answered evenly while she tried to judge his mood. The scowl on his face meant nothing, it was a habitual expression – a great pity, since it marred the handsomeness he would otherwise have possessed.

'He said that he had brought you a gift.'

'Yes.' Julitta indicated the mare. 'I do not suppose you recognise her?'

'Should I?' Mauger handed his own mount to a groom and came to look at Freya. He ran his hands down her legs, picked up her hooves and studied the undersides, measured her proportions with an experienced eye. Grudging admiration flickered upon his face. 'Should I?' he repeated, for Julitta had not answered.

Watching him carefully she said, 'Do you remember that day when I begged you to buy that mare and foal and you refused?'

'No, I don't, I…' he said, and then stopped as he did indeed remember. 'And this, I suppose, is the foal,' he said after a moment.

Julitta nodded silently.

'I don't like him giving you gifts, and sneaking around Fauville when I am not by.'

'One gift, and one visit?' Julitta was stung to reply. 'He did not even stay for refreshment. Ask in the hall if you do not believe me.'

His eyes narrowed. 'Perhaps I will,' he said, and then, folding his arms, added, 'You know by law that what is yours belongs to me.'

'You will not take her away!' Horrified and angry, Julitta rounded on him.

Mauger rubbed the knuckle of his forefinger beneath his nose. 'That is for me to decide, not you to command,' he said stiffly.

'She is mine.' Julitta threw caution to the wind. The leash of duty could only accept so much strain before it snapped. 'If Benedict can see it, why can't you? Are you less than him, or perhaps you are afraid, is that it?'

Mauger's complexion darkened angrily. 'Mind your tongue, or I'll have you clapped in a scold's bridle!' he snarled. 'Benedict de Remy is a weak fool, a nithing. I count him beneath my contempt. I fear no man.'

'Then prove he is nothing to you, let me keep the horse.' Julitta raised her chin a notch and challenged him with her eyes and her posture.

'And is he nothing to you?' Mauger took a step towards her, his breathing swift. She saw the brightness of lust in his eyes, of doubt and the need to believe.

'He is nothing to me,' she lied in a steady voice, and although she could not prevent hot colour from flooding her face, she held Mauger's gaze. 'You are my husband.'

'And you obey me.' Mauger took her by the arm and steered her up the stairs and into the hall.

'Can I keep the mare?'

Mauger paused at the second set of stairs to the sleeping loft and pulled her against him. Julitta made herself pliantly passive, modestly willing as Mauger preferred. 'That depends,' he said again, but she saw that once his appetite was sated, he would yield.

CHAPTER 53

It was going to rain. Benedict glanced at the sky, which an hour since had been a brilliant summer blue. Now, clouds were piling in grey, fleecy layers over the High Pyrenees and billowing fast towards the pilgrims on the open road which twisted its way from the splendour of the mountains, down to the sun-baked plains of the kingdom of Castile.

Although it was still midsummer, the mountain winds could still cut ice-sharp through garments, and heavy rain turn tame streams into savage torrents. Landslips were not infrequent upon the tortuous road, and more than one traveller had come to grief before reaching the safety of the plains.

Had Benedict been alone, he would have travelled on one of his father's wine galleys, but Gisele hated the sea. She only needed to set her foot on a deck for her stomach to curdle. In defence of the overland route she had argued that a true pilgrimage to Compostella should involve paying respects at various abbeys, shrines and cathedrals along the way, lighting a candle at each one for her mother's soul.

So now, here they were, descending from the mountains, their offerings lighting a chain of devotional wax beacons that stretched back seven hundred miles to the cathedral in Rouen. Arlette's passage to heaven was assured.

The first drops of rain spattered down as heavy and cold as the small silver pennies in Benedict's pouch. Gisele exclaimed in dismay and pulled her broad-brimmed pilgrim's hat down over her ears. The other pilgrims with whom they were travelling for safety's sake, sought among their own packs for cloaks and hats.

'How much further to the hospice?' a merchant from Bordeaux demanded of their guide, a wiry little Basque who went by the name of Pons.

'Another hour, perhaps two.' The man gave a casual shrug. His accent was strong and difficult to follow. 'We arrive before dark.' He hitched the coil of rope on his shoulder, and continued along the path, his step light and arrogant.

The merchant hissed with irritation and rolled his eyes at Benedict. 'He's being paid enough to guide us through the passes. These mountain people, they are not to be trusted. Sooner cut your throat than give you respect.'

Benedict said nothing. Pons was indeed a rogue with more than a touch of the light finger about him, but the Bordeaux merchant was a pompous windbag and his attitude did not merit respect. All the way from Bordeaux he had blustered his own self-importance abroad. Everyone knew how rich he was, how influential, how intelligent a business man. Benedict, whose own wealth and connections put the merchant's in the shade, could not be bothered with such petty conflict and avoided the man as much as possible.

Receiving no response from Benedict now, the merchant sought approbation among the other travellers. There were a dozen in all, ranging from three Cluniac nuns and a priest, under Benedict's and Gisele's patronage, to a travelling musician with an extensive repertoire of songs, both sacred and profane, with which he regaled the company at intervals. Now he placed his precious harp in a waxed linen bag, and drew his hood up over his tawny curls. The nuns twittered nervous agreement with the merchant. The priest, like Benedict, held aloof, retreating into the depths of his cowl and thrusting his hands into the wide depths of his sleeves.

Without any warning except a brief, wind-snatched shout from Pons, the road narrowed, becoming a bitten white ribbon with a grass-tufted rock wall on one side, and a sheer drop on the other. Through a bluish haze of rain, Benedict stared at the stiff green spears of pine trees, at the jagged thrusts of stone, grey as solidified cloud, and in the chasm below, the thin, white twist of fast water, menacing and beautiful at one and the same time. He perceived it with the eyes of an eagle, yet he knew that if he flung himself into the void, he would drop like a stone.

The company had been riding two abreast, but now the line was forced down to single file. Gisele sat rigid upon her mare, her face averted from the steep emptiness beyond the crumbling track. Her lips were bloodless, so hard were they compressed by her terror. Benedict thought it ironic that she could worship God so thoroughly in the edifices built by man, but when confronted by God's own elements, she shrank in fear.

Thunder rumbled in the distance behind them, and the clouds were an ominous purple. The merchant's horse whinnied and sidled, its ears flickering. Loose stones skittered from beneath his hooves and tumbled over the road's edge, bouncing and rebounding into rain-driven oblivion. The nuns began to pray, their voices thin and puny against the power of the storm. The priest joined them, his baritone more powerful, but still as nothing. Lost voices in a vast cathedral.

Lightning daggered the boiling clouds and the thunder cracked overhead. The merchant's mount squealed and bucked, its hooves striking solidly in the chest of the following pack pony. The smaller beast shied, lost its balance, and slipped over the edge with a scream of terror. The pony's lead rope was wrapped around the merchant's saddle cantle, and now the falling weight slewed the larger horse around, dragging it towards the chasm. Soil-loosened stones bounded down the steep sides. The merchant's mouth widened in a silent scream.

Without pause for deliberation, Benedict leaped from Cylu's back. As he reached the merchant, his knife was already in his hand. He laid his hand on the taut lead rope and slashed. Fibres parted, the final thread clinging for what seemed an eternity before it snapped and the pack pony's weight surged free with a catapulting jar. The sound of the animal's falling flesh smacking on stone rose through the rainfall until, with a final bump, there was silence.

Soaked to the skin, his hair plastered to his skull, Benedict grasped the merchant's cob by its headstall, and held the beast steady. 'Get off and walk,' he snapped to its corpulent rider, and stared round at the rest of the pilgrims who were looking on with shocked eyes. 'All of you, dismount. At least if another horse goes over, you won't be sitting on its back.'

Frightened and miserable, they did so. Tremors shook the merchant's vast bulk and his legs would scarcely support him. 'You did not have to cut the rope!' he cried.

'No, I didn't!' Benedict responded tersely. 'I could have left you to go over the edge.' He thrust the cob's wet reins into the merchant's slack fingers and turned away to deal with his own horses.

Pons was unmoved by the incident when he came to see what was keeping his charges so long. 'It happens,' he said, spreading his hands and shrugging. 'Lucky he was only a pack animal.' And then he looked shrewdly at Benedict. 'You cut the rope?'

'There was no time to do anything else.'

'You think on your feet, Frank,' Pons said. 'You are not such a fool as the others.' Swinging round, he began to slog onwards through the rain. Benedict received the impression that the guide's words were not by way of a compliment.

The journey continued, the weather growing murkier by the moment. No more horses were lost over the edge of the path. Within a hundred yards, it widened slightly, allowing room to breathe, and soon they were descending into the valley. But no-one dared to remount. Cold, dispirited, soaked to the bone, they plodded on. The beauty of the mountains was screened by thick curtains of rain.

Hampered by her skirts, Gisele tripped and stumbled.

'Tuck your gown through your belt,' Benedict said impatiently as yet again she almost went to her knees.

'It wouldn't be seemly,' she protested tearily.

'Who's to see in this?' he growled. 'Do you think anyone besides yourself cares? Do it now, before you fall.'

With trembling chin, Gisele fumbled beneath her cloak and tugged the merest token of dress through her belt. Benedict clamped his jaw on his irritation. It was at moments like this that he longed for Julitta, for her forthright, practical nature. She would have hitched her gown without a qualm, perhaps even have donned a pair of men's breeches. The word 'seemly' would not have disturbed her, unless it was being yelled at her by a purple-faced Mauger.

The pilgrims' hostel that greeted their arrival in the valley was a low-roofed timber dwelling with a balding thatched roof. The heavy rain had advanced the dusk and at first the proprietor did not want to admit them for the place was already bulging with travellers. There were no beds to spare, or even spaces in beds. At last, however, he was persuaded to sell the late arrivals floor space around the fire in the main hall. The merchant was furious, but no amount of railing made any difference to the proprietor's assertion that he had no beds.

'Even if you was the Queen o' Sheba, you'd sleep on the floor!' he declared. 'If you want to go higher than that, then you can sleep in the stables like our Blessed Lord.'

Complaining, the merchant opted for the main room, the smoky fire, and sleeping space on the filthy, trodden rushes. Benedict chose the stables, where the bedding was marginally cleaner, and the company more wholesome.

Gisele disappeared behind a stack of hay to change into dry garments from their pack, dry being a relative term, for even the fresh clothing was damp to the touch. Benedict stripped down to his loin cloth and set about making a thick, deep nest in the hay, then spread out the spare garments from his own pack to air, so that in the morning they might seem slightly drier.

The watery stew in the main room had not appealed to him, and he delved amongst his pack rations to see what he could find. There were small, hard cakes made of oats, raisins and honey, dried figs, a small cheese purchased from a shepherd's wife along the way, and some salty, spiced sausage from the same source. To wash it down there was wine mixed with water from a mountain stream. It was hardly a feast, but it was an improvement on the meal being served in the main room across the courtyard.

Gisele emerged from her hiding place and looked at Benedict with startled eyes when she saw his near-nudity.

'It will be warm enough beneath the hay,' he said. 'I don't want to sleep in damp clothes. If you had any sense, you'd take yours off too.'

Her colour heightened and her right hand rose to clutch at the silver cross hanging round her neck, and beside it, the reliquary she had bought in Toulouse. The small box with its facing of polished agates and emeralds purported to contain three eyelashes belonging to Mary Magdalene, who had, apparently, lived out her latter years in Southern Gaul. It had cost as much as a top quality warhorse, but Gisele had thought it worth every last silver penny. Benedict knew what he thought, but had reserved comment. The matter of the relic for Brize-sur-Risle was not his concern.

'Sit.' He gestured at the food.

Gisele abandoned her clutch on the reliquary and did as he bade her, tucking her gown neatly around her legs. Her gaze flickered over his shoulders and chest, the narrow smudge of hair running from nipple to nipple, and the fine line feathering down over the firm bands of stomach muscle and disappearing into the linen loin cloth. Her colour remained high. She nibbled daintily on a fig and sipped at the watered wine.

Benedict ate hungrily. The cheese was excellent, the sausage revolting, but he was famished and devoured both. Gisele ignored her portions, preferring instead to chew slowly on a honey cake. Her delicate stomach echoed her sensibilities.

The end of their meal was interrupted by Pons, who entered the stables with a laughing woman in tow, her brown hair indecently loose and her bodice in disarray.

Pons jerked to a halt when he saw Benedict and Gisele, and his foxy face became sharp with hostility. 'I thought everyone was in the hall. I always sleep here when I am guiding people through the passes.'

Benedict gestured around. 'There is room enough,' he said.

The woman with Pons murmured in his ear, detached herself from his embrace, and disappeared into the night. Pons scowled furiously at the interlopers. 'It is not safe out here. You should stay with the others.'

Benedict arched his brows. 'I'll take my chance.'

The Basque glanced over his shoulder at the stable entrance, then back at Benedict and Gisele. 'You Franks,' he sneered contemptuously. 'You think that you own the world.'

Benedict almost laughed at the irony of the statement. He wondered if Pons had ever listened to his own words. Mountain guides were notoriously arrogant. He said nothing, meeting the angry black stare with indifference.

Pons made to leave, but changed his mind and paused, his shoulder leaning against the door jamb. 'Travelling does not burden you the way it does some of the others,' he remarked. His posture remained hostile, but there was curiosity in his voice too. At his belt there were two knife scabbards, one sheathing a nine-inch hunting dagger, the other a smaller meat knife. Pons drew the latter and began paring his nails.

'I am accustomed to making long journeys.' Benedict tried to appear nonchalant, but he kept a wary eye on the knife. Beside him, Gisele was rigid with fear.

'Then you are a merchant?'

'Of sorts. I breed horses – destriers and sumpter ponies.'

Pons nodded and looked over the curve of his knuckles at Benedict. 'In Castile and Navarre, you will find the greatest horses on God's earth.'

'Yes, I know.'

'You come to buy?'

'Perhaps.'

The Basque sucked his teeth. 'These horses, they are expensive.' He rubbed his fingers and thumb together. 'Perhaps you do not have enough silver.'

'We shall see.'

Pons nodded. His eyes were still narrow, but the edge of anger had vanished, replaced with a glint of what might have been amusement. 'I am a merchant too,' he said. 'My whole family, they trade between our lands and yours, Frank.' He wiped the knife blade on his breeches and stabbed it into its sheath. 'I'll leave you to sleep now. Marisa and I will find somewhere else.' Bestowing a mocking flourish upon Benedict and Gisele, he disappeared into the night as silently as a cat. Like a dog, Benedict's hackles rose.

'As soon as we reach the plains, we'll hire a different guide,' he murmured to Gisele.

She clutched the reliquary at her breast, her grey eyes filled with fear. 'I don't like him,' she whispered.

Benedict made a wry face. 'And I don't trust him.'

The morning dawned bright and golden, with not a single cloud to mar the stunning blue of the sky. Shabby became quaint, primitive became rustic. The pilgrims took genuine pleasure in breaking their fast at the trestles set up in the meadow behind the hostel. Woodsmoke from the cooking fires hazed the air and carried upon it the smells of frying ham and batter cakes. There was milk and buttermilk to drink, and the air was clear and pleasantly warm.

Pons, who had not been in evidence for morning prayers, nor the main part of the meal, appeared as folk were rising from the tables. He snatched some left-over bread from a basket, speared a brown batter cake off the griddle iron on the point of his knife, and taking alternate bites from each one, set about mustering his charges.

He was in high good humour, whistling and singing as if the weather itself had entered his veins. But there was a tension about him too, like a storm building behind the sunshine.

'The road is easier today,' he announced. 'And the weather is fine. We'll make good progress.'

The pilgrims did indeed make good progress. The road was easier, but it was still narrow and stony with sharp outcrops of rock on either side. As the morning wore on, the pleasant warmth of the sun melted into a beating bronze heat. Water bottles were thirstily depleted; outer garments were removed. The Bordeaux merchant, his face the same mulberry shade as his robe, kept up an incessant litany of complaint, directed at the landscape, the weather, his fellow pilgrims, and most of all, at Pons.

The little Basque bore the merchant's tirade in silence, but his countenance steadily darkened, and he kept his fists clamped around his belt in an obvious effort to prevent himself from using them.

'I left civilisation when I left Bordeaux,' grumbled the merchant. 'If I did not love God and the blessed St James so much, I would not be here at all.'

Pons ceased walking and turned on the path to regard his charges. His dark eyes narrowed, his chest rose and fell rapidly, but it was with the effort of control, not because of the pace he had set. 'There is a wide stream beyond the next bend,' he said. 'Water the horses and fill your bottles. I'll join you in a moment.' He started to leave the path.

'Where do you think you are going?' The merchant's voice was like a whiplash.

Pons spread his hands. 'You want I should open my bowels in front of you? Do they do that in Bordeaux?' He gave the merchant a mocking stare and continued on his way, his step light and swift. Within moments he had vanished.

The merchant blustered and spluttered, his deluge of vocabulary temporarily arrested by the sheer insolence of their guide.

Benedict concealed a smile behind the pretence of wiping sweat from his face. He might not like or trust Pons, but that retort had hit the mark beautifully.

The stream was a stony mass of boulders and gravel, divided into several channels, some deep and narrow, others shallow and broad. The pilgrim company were only too pleased to dismount, water their horses and take a rest. The water was as clear and cold as glass, the pebbles on its bed shining like jewels. Gisele refilled the water skins whilst Benedict supervised their mounts, making sure that they did not drink too much.

One of the nuns daringly raised her habit above her ankles, revealing skinny white legs, and waded into the first, shallow channel. She uttered a small squeal at the coldness of the water and looked round at her sister nuns. They watched her dubiously for a moment, and then throwing caution to the wind, followed her example. The monk remained on the bank, washing his hands and face, and soaking a linen cloth to give cool respite to his sun-burned tonsure. The merchant removed his mulberry tunic, and puffing through his heavy jowls, sat down in the shade of a large rock.

He was the first to die. Silently, his windpipe severed. 'You were right about me,' Pons whispered as the merchant dumped. 'I would sooner slit your throat.'

The first Benedict knew of the attack were the two arrows that hit him, one through his side, the other through his left arm. The force spun him round and dropped him like a stone in the water. Gisele screamed and ran to him, floundering through the stream. Then she screamed again, the sound cut off before it had reached full pitch.

The water turned red and the colour eddied away down the current like scarlet fairing ribbons. Benedict was aware only of burning pain, of a weight across his body, driving that pain into every vital part of him. He tasted blood, and then the cold swirl of the water. It entered his nostrils and mouth, choking off his breath. He jerked his head up, gasping and gagging, and the pain redoubled. Gisele stared into his eyes, an expression of utter bewilderment on her face.

He tried to cry her name, but all that emerged was a wordless croak. To lift himself was agony. He pushed himself half-way to a sitting position, but the pain was too great, and he slumped back upon his wife's dead body, darkness claiming him.

CHAPTER 54

Faisal ibn Mansour, a Moorish physician in the employ of a Christian lord, Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar, had his mind on more pleasant thoughts than the stony route beneath his mule's hooves, when he and his escort came upon the scene of the massacre.

One moment, he was imagining the pleasures of home — the comfort of a couch, as opposed to the chaffing of this saddle, Maryam's quiet smile as she rubbed his feet, the laughter of their children in the room beyond — the next he was gazing at the bodies, strewn around the crossing place like so many discarded rag dolls.

'Allah be merciful!' he gasped, and drew rein so abruptly that the mule threw up its head and sat back on its haunches, almost unseating him. Kites and buzzards circled in the sky above, and as the new travellers approached the river, two black griffon-vultures took ponderous wing from the body they had been tearing apart. The birds flapped to the nearest tree and sat in the low branches, biding their time.

Faisal scrambled down from his mule and hastened to examine the bodies to see if anyone still lived. They were Christian pilgrims, he could see at a glance. Nuns and a monk, a minstrel, merchants and traders. Their clothing was sober, but of good quality. None of them wore a purse, nor was there any jewellery to be seen. There were hoofprints in the soft earth of yesterday's rain, but no sign of any horses. It was plain to Faisal that these pilgrims had been murdered by one of the bands of robbers that preyed on groups heading through the mountains towards the shrine of St James.

He shook his head in dismay as he moved from one to the other, laying his hand against their throats to check for the life-beat, holding a small mirror before their lips to see if they breathed, although in his heart of hearts, he knew that none would.

Generally, Faisal had an optimistic view of human nature. When you served such a man as Lord Rodrigo, whom the Moors knew as El Cid, you could not help but see your fellow man as worthy, but sometimes, such as now, the small, grey-bearded physician would wonder at the savagery which lurked in human nature too. Even with all his medical skills, it was not something that Faisal could cure.

Two soldiers of Faisal's escort had pulled some more bodies out of the water. A man and a woman, both of them arrow-shot. Shaking his head, tugging at his neat beard, Faisal went to inspect them. The woman had taken an arrow beneath the left shoulder blade, straight through the heart. Probably she had died even before she had hit the ground. She was slender, with a delicate, oval face and dainty features. The robbers had plundered her corpse as they had done all the others, but they had missed something. Her right fist was tightly clenched, and when Faisal gently prised it open, he discovered a small, jewelled reliquary pressed against her palm. The Christians, he knew, set much store by these objects, often reverencing them more than they did their God. He could understand that they were a focus and a comfort, but was glad that his own belief required no such props.

He shook his head over her body, and, having tugged out the arrow head, laid her flat and composed her limbs. Then he turned to the final corpse, and discovered with a sudden lurch of his stomach that the young man was still alive and watching him out of glazed, dark brown eyes.

'Bring me blankets, quickly!' Faisal commanded over his shoulder. 'This one lives, but I do not know for how long!' He knelt down in the grass beside the young man and laid his lean palm against the water-dewed neck. The pulse was steady, if somewhat slow, and was cause for reassurance. The Moor drew a sharp, curved knife from his belt.

'No, no,' he soothed, pressing down firmly with the flat of his hand as the brown eyes widened and the young man fought to rise. 'I am here to help you.' His tone, if not the meaning of his words, was understood, for the wounded pilgrim ceased to struggle and lay still except for the rigours of cold which shook his body.

Faisal eyed the two arrow shafts quilling the victim's tunic, one in the arm, the other in the side, and briefly deliberated whether to remove them, or leave them in situ. The one was likely to cause poisoning, the other excess bleeding, depending on angle and internal damage. He was accustomed to dealing with this kind of injury; he had cut his surgeon's teeth on just such wounds when travelling with Lord Rodrigo's army.

The soldier returned with the blankets. Faisal spread them over the pilgrim's right side, leaving the left bare to the exploration of his knife. The Moor cut away the blood-soaked sleeve, and slit the side seam of the tunic and shirt so that he could assess the damage. The arm injury was obviously a flesh wound. The tip of the arrow had pierced skin and muscle, but Faisal could tell from the amount of blood on the tunic that it was not too serious.

'This will hurt,' he said, and when the young man looked at him with a questioning frown, repeated the words haltingly in the language of the Franks.

The dark eyes flickered, the throat moved in a swallow. 'Do what you must,' the pilgrim said huskily.

Faisal gripped the arrow shaft firmly in his two hands and smartly snapped it off. The young man arched, his breath catching and then hissing raggedly through his teeth. Faisal reached into the pouch at his waist, withdrew a small flask, and removing the stopper, dripped a clear liquid onto the site of the wound which had begun to ooze blood under the movement of the arrow shaft. This time, the injured man's body leaped like a bounding gazelle.

'I am sorry to hurt you,' Faisal said, 'but this will keep your wound clean until I have time to probe the rest of the arrow from your flesh. I must look at the other one now.'

Faisal did not know if the pilgrim had heard him through the pain. His eyes were clenched shut, and his breathing was a series of unsteady sobs.

The soldier who had brought the blankets, a man in his thirties whose name was Angel, squatted on his haunches and looked across the body at the physician. 'Is he going to live?'

Concentrating intently upon his patient, Faisal did not look up. 'It is hard to tell. He is strong to have survived thus far, and he is conscious, he knows what I am doing and he is able to respond. It depends upon how much more punishment his body can take. He is chilled to the bone, and I can do no more for him now except remove the length of these shafts for travelling and keep him warm. I dare not start probing for the arrow heads out here.' Although talking to the soldier, Faisal was also talking out his thoughts for his own benefit.

'Will he be able to sit a horse?'

'He will have to. He is not heavily built. I will sit behind him on the mule and hold him in place.' Faisal's strong, brown hands moved dextrously to the second arrow shaft, buried in the young man's side.

Angel grimaced. 'Is he gut shot?'

'I do not think so, he would be screaming and writhing if he were, and his condition is too good for a man with a pierced belly. I think,' he added slowly, his words keeping pace with his examination, 'that he is very lucky. It is like the arm wound – through the skin and flesh of the side without touching any vital organ.' He broke off the second shaft, and then leaned over to sniff at the site of entry. 'I feared that perhaps the point had entered a kidney, but there is no smell of urine,' he muttered. 'Yes, it may be that he will survive.' Faisal proceeded to anoint the second wound with the clear liquid, and again, his patient reacted strongly, then shuddered and was still.

Angel looked anxiously at Faisal. The physician checked his patient's wrist and then the bare young throat. 'He is merely unconscious, and better so, I think, if we are to journey with him.' He fingered the rich woollen cloth of the pilgrim's tunic, typical of the finest fabric that the northern Franks produced, and then frowned as he felt something flat, hard and round under his touch. It was a token, or a coin of about the circumference of his little fingertip. He found more of them, identical in size, spread throughout the lining of the tunic. Robbers might have seized his money pouch, but it seemed that the young man was still not without his resources, and Faisal was willing to hazard that the coins would amount to a small fortune.

Angel had been watching the physician's exploration with ever-widening eyes. 'I wonder who he is.'

'If Allah wills it in his mercy, he will live to tell us.' Faisal rose to his feet, and tugged thoughtfully at his beard. 'He looks to me like a Frankish merchant, and a wealthy one. Nor would I say that the pilgrim road was his only business in our country. A handful of silver would be more than enough to see him comfortably to Compostella. I think that Lord Rodrigo should involve himself with this one.

Benedict tried to move and found that he could not. Someone had taken two nails, each a foot long, and driven them through his body, pinning him to the ground. He could hear shouts and screams, cries choked off in blood as those around him died. He tried to shout for help, but his voice remained locked in his throat. Gisele fell beside him and he saw her die before he died too, and woke to find himself in hell.

There was a devil with black eyes and a trim, grey beard who kept poking and prodding at his wounds with a sharpened knife, and muttering to himself in a strange language full of hawkings and words that sounded like 'Beelzebub!' Sometimes the devil would attempt to communicate with him by speaking in halting French, but Benedict would pretend not to hear, and close his eyes. There were others, his minions, who came and went. On several occasions, Benedict was visited by a priest wearing a dark brown habit, a heavy silver cross hanging upon his breast. The priest urged him to repent of his sins so that he night be shriven. Benedict could not remember revealing any-thing to him, but he must have done so, for he could still distinctly feel the slick anointing of the holy oil between his brows. Were there confessions and anointings in hell?

Cautiously he raised his lids and looked around. On this occasion, no-one leaned over him to pronounce judgement, -his eyes met cool, whitewashed walls and a high, wooden ceiling, a cupboard of dark oak, and an arched aumbry above it n which stood a terracotta oil lamp. A path of sunlight streamed through the shutters of an open window and traversed the foot of his bed, brightening the colourful stripes on he coverlet of woven linen. Three ripening oranges glowed on he sill, drawing his eye with their intensity of hue. He frowned. Wherever he was, it was certainly not the hell of his fevered dreams; nor yet was it heaven. And there was pain. His entire left side from armpit to groin felt like a bar of red-hot iron.

He strove to sit up, and quickly discovered himself so stiff and sore that he was as stranded as a beetle cast over upon its back. Then, right-armed, he eased back the sheet and coverlet o look at himself. Layers of linen bandage were wrapped round his upper left arm and secured with a small cloak pin. On his torso there were livid bruises, and another wad of bandage which covered his left side from his lower ribcage to his protuberant hip bone. He had never carried much meat on his body, but now there was scarcely enough for a vulture to pick lean.

The thought of a vulture sent unpleasant images jolting trough his mind. Bodies strewn on a river bank, and huge birds descending to feast, while he watched, powerless to love. Human vultures stalking among the dead, knives like beaks rending and tearing.

The door opened, and amidst a rustling whisper of silk robes, le devil of his dreams with the hawk nose and black eyes of a bird of prey stood over him. This time, however, Benedict was lucid enough to see that he was a man of Moorish extraction in his early middle years, slender and small. His loose tunic was of striped silk in deep citrus shades that complimented his dark skin.

'Ah, you are awake,' the Moor said in careful French and smiled, revealing a gleam of white teeth. 'I was beginning to think that I might lose you. You must be wondering who I am and where you are?'

Benedict swallowed. 'I thought I was in hell at first.'

The smile became a wry chuckle. 'You would not be the first. My name is Faisal Ibn Mansour, and I am a physician in the employ of Lord Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar, who is also known among my people as El Cid, the Lord – may Allah grant him many blessings and a long life.'

Benedict struggled with the names. The Moor was watching him as if expecting the titles to mean something. He thought that he might have vaguely heard of Rodrigo Diaz in a hostel along the way, but at the time he had taken small notice.

'You are in one of Lord Rodrigo's castles on the road to Burgos,' the Moor continued, and the black eyes softened. 'We brought you out of the river beyond Roncevalles, half-dead with cold and suffering from arrow wounds. You were the only one of your company to survive. I am sorry.'

Benedict drew a deep breath and released it shakily. So that part of his nightmare had been true. 'My wife,' he said. 'She was in the river with me, filling our water bottles.'

The physician shook his head sorrowfully. 'She was shot to the heart. One arrow. It is a dangerous road through that pass.'

'We were on pilgrimage to Compostella, to pray for her mother's soul. She hated travelling. It was only because it was her duty… her accursed duty.' Benedict's eyes burned and filled. He looked through a polish of tears at the Moor. 'I was with her; she thought that she was safe.'

'Do you desire to speak to a priest for comfort?'

'No!' Benedict almost choked on the word. 'That is the last thing I want to do.' He bit his lip, struggling for control, and when he had mastered himself, looked at the physician, who was eyeing him the way he might eye a strange creature in a cage. 'I want to sit up, but I cannot move.'

'Small wonder, the size of the hole in your side. Allah be praised that the arrow did not pierce a fraction deeper, or you would now be dead.'

'Allah be praised?' There was a note of cynicism in Benedict's voice. Just now he was not sure whether living was a blessing or a curse.

'Allah be praised,' Faisal ibn Mansour repeated firmly, and grasping him by the right arm, manipulated him gently upright, supporting his spine with more pillows. The pain was briefly blinding and it took Benedict a moment to recover, leaning back, his eyes tightly closed. When he opened them once more, the older man was staring at him curiously, his hands folded within his sleeves.

'You see that you are wearing nought but a loin cloth,' he said. 'That is to help your wounds heal. If you wish to leave your bed, clothes can be found for you. Your tunic, the one you were wearing when we fished you out of the river, is locked in the chest in my chamber. If you had a money pouch, I fear it has been robbed.'

Benedict's gaze sharpened. The pain had sufficiently diminished for him to be aware of the reason for the Moor's curiosity. It was not every pilgrim who carried a fortune in silver sewn into the lining of his tunic. 'I did have a money pouch,' he said slowly, 'with enough in it to give alms to the poor and pay out for our board and lodging where necessary, but as you have realised, that is not where the bulk of my wealth was stored.'

The physician unfolded his hands from his robe and went to the cupboard, returning with a jug of wine and a cup. He filled one from the other. 'Drink,' he commanded. 'You must restore your strength.'

Benedict took several swallows, and rested his head against the heavily stuffed pillows. His left arm and side throbbed painfully. 'How long have I lain here?'

'You have been three days on the road, and three days in this bed. This morning is the fourth.'

Benedict tried to order his thoughts. It seemed as if eternity had passed since the attack, and conversely, no time at all. 'My wife,' he said hesitantly, 'and the others. What happened to them… I mean, what did you do?'

Faisal spread apologetic hands. 'We were only a small party, we could not carry them with us, but we composed the bodies decently, and spoke to a priest as soon as we met habitation. He promised that he would attend to the matter of their burial. I will take you to the village when you are recovered, if you wish.'

'Thank you.'

Faisal cocked his head on one side. 'We still do not know your name, or how we should address you. Outside this room, they call you the Young Frank, but there is more to you than that, I think.'

Benedict's mouth curved in a bleak half-smile. 'I prefer the simplicity of being "the Young Frank",' he said, 'but if you desire to know my name I will tell you. I am Benedict de Remy and I call Normandy and England my home. My father is a prosperous wine-merchant, and my father-in-law breeds horses for the Duke of Normandy and the King of England.'

'Ah,' said Faisal, looking interested, but not particularly impressed. A man, as El Cid was always saying, should be judged on what he is, not who his forefathers were. Although a breeder of horses might take exception to that theory. 'But what of yourself?' he asked.

The half-smile deepened. 'I would not blame you if you thought I had been sent on a pilgrimage to stiffen my character -it is something that rich fathers do for their decadent sons.'

'I make no such judgements. Only Allah sees what is in a man's heart.'

Benedict shrugged, not entirely in agreement, but did not argue the point. 'You ask what of myself,' he said after a moment. 'The easiest reply is that I too breed horses, that I am an assistant to my father-in-law. My wife came here to visit the shrine of St James at Compostella, and I elected to escort her because I wanted to buy Spanish horses to improve our bloodstock in the north. It is my desire to breed the best warhorses in the Christian world.'

'Even if the best warhorses of the moment are Moslem bred?' Faisal asked mischievously.

Benedict smiled. 'I am willing to learn. A man's religion should not stand in the way of knowledge.'

Faisal nodded with cautious approval. 'When you are well, will you still pursue your intention?'

Benedict closed his eyes for a moment, mustering his strength. 'If I do not, then everything will have been wasted. No matter how much I want to crawl into a corner and cover my head, it is no respect to the dead to live a life of mourning. I will still go to Compostella, and fulfil her vow, and I will still find my horses.'

Faisal pursed his lips and nodded slowly. 'That is good,' he pronounced. After a pause, he added, 'When we found your wife, she was still clutching a reliquary in her hand. That too is in my coffer with your tunic. I know that you Christians set great store by the relics of their saints.'

'Some of us,' Benedict said, and his voice was tired and bitter. 'Gisele believed that they would take her unharmed through fire and flood. I was the unbeliever, and yet I survive. Perhaps, as they say, the devil looks after his own.'

CHAPTER 55

The interior of the tiny chapel glowed like a jewel. Slender wax tapers twinkled in pyramid clusters, lighting the cool stone darkness, giving the pilgrim a feeling of intimacy with God. Upon the altar, a cross of inlaid silver-gilt reflected the flames until its surface rippled like water. A statue of the Virgin Mary, blue-robed and serene, smiled down upon the worshippers. A plump Christ child sat in the crook of her arm and raised his painted wooden hand in blessing to all who knelt before him. At his mother's feet lay a treasure house of pilgrim offerings, from simple wreaths of flowers and cheap tokens in plaster and wood, to bracelets and crosses of silver and bronze inlaid with semiprecious stones, belts and cups, and even a carved cedarwood box containing myrrh.

Benedict knelt before the silver-gilt cross and the statue with its improbably coloured pink flesh. The stone floor was cold beneath his knees; the scar in his side was sore from the strain of riding and then kneeling. It was less than a week since he had risen from his sick bed, and he knew that he had pushed himself too fast and too far in his need to make atonement at the place where Gisele was buried.

He tried to concentrate on the chapel's gentle atmosphere rather than his own aches and pains, to project himself beyond the mire of the physical. Ave Maria, Regina caelorum, Beata Maria… The Virgin's smile filled his vision. He clutched Gisele's small reliquary in his hand, his thumb moving over its edges, the raised cold bumps of agate and emerald. He was going to leave her here, in this small, intimate hamlet on the road to Compostella. Every day pilgrims would come to pray. If her spirit chose to linger, she would not be lonely. He could not bear the thought of disinterring her body and bearing it home to England. Mile after mile it would drag like a lead shackle upon his conscience. Let her lie here, undisturbed. Benedicte.

Behind him, someone gently cleared his throat. Turning, he saw the soldier, Angel. Hat in hand, the man knelt before the altar, genuflected to the statue, then addressed Benedict in a hushed voice. 'I am sorry to disturb you, Seсor, but Lord Faisal says that if you have had enough time, we must be riding on to reach our destination before dark.'

Benedict looked down at the small box in his hand. 'I am ready,' he said, and rising stiffly to his feet, stepped forward to the statue and laid the reliquary at its feet. It belonged to Gisele, was no part of him. He remembered the look on her face when she first held it in her hands, the hunger; the wondering delight that such an object could actually exist and belong to her. He crossed himself once more, and then turned and walked out of the chapel without looking back. Nor did he visit the graveyard. What was there to see but a mound of earth?

Faisal was waiting for him, holding the bridle of a cream Andalusian gelding, a steady horse, almost beyond its prime and docile, suited to the needs of an invalid who was recently and inadvisedly out of his sick bed. The Moor's dark eyes were compassionate as he handed up the reins, but he did not speak. Neither did Benedict. His heart was too full; his throat ached, his eyes stung.

They rode in silence, the cream horse smoothly pacing the miles of dusty road, worn into a rut by the tramp of pilgrim sandals. The ache in Benedict's chest eased. He blinked the moisture from his eyes, and at length turned to his silent companion.

'I did not love her,' he said with quiet intensity, 'but she was a part of me, and now it is as though that part has been cut out.'

Faisal nodded compassionately, but recognising Benedict's need to talk, said nothing. A wound had to be cleansed before it would heal.

'We were betrothed when we were children. My father could see that I was better with horses than I was with barrels of wine, so he secured me a future with the best breeder of horses in Normandy, who was also his very good friend.' Benedict grimaced at the Moor. 'The trouble was that in his enthusiasm, he betrothed me to the wrong daughter.'

Faisal arched his brows. 'Your wife has a sister?'

'A half-sister. Gisele was the fruit of Rolf's legal marriage. Julitta was born to his Saxon mistress.'

'Mistress?' Faisal frowned, the word evading him.

'Concubine… although she was more like a wife.'

'Ah.'

Silence descended again and persisted for several minutes. Then Benedict drew a shuddering breath. To speak of Julitta was difficult, although she dwelt in his memory far more brightly than did Gisele. 'She used to follow me round when I was a boy, chattering nineteen to the dozen, being a nuisance as little girls are — I am four years older. On one occasion, I rescued her from a vicious gander, and from that day forth I became her hero. She was funny and high-spirited, always into mischief— and not much of that has changed,' he added wryly. 'I tolerated her, treated her like a little sister.'

Faisal sucked his teeth. 'You are going to tell me that this changed as you grew up.'

'There was a gap of many years when we did not see each other. Julitta's circumstances changed, and when I did meet her again, she was just turning into a woman, and I had been betrothed for more than eight years to Gisele. The gap had been too long; I could not see her as my sister any more.' His expression grew bleak as he told the silent Faisal the remainder of the tale. 'I thought that perhaps this journey with Gisele would bring us together as husband and wife… You can see where it brought us.'

Faisal looked thoughtful. 'To a crossroads,' he said, 'from which you go on alone with your burdens. The time will come when you will shed them, I think, but for now, you must bear them as best you can.'

'The wisdom of the prophet?' Benedict blinked moisture from his eyes. Self-pity would only weigh him down farther. He wondered if Faisal knew that in the Frankish lands, crossroads were places where the dead and the living were reputed to be able to meet.

'No, the words of a friend.'

Benedict managed a tight smile. 'Inshallah,' he said, murmuring the customary Arabic words of protection. 'If God wills it.'

'Inshallah,' Faisal responded gravely, his hands together in a gesture of prayer.

Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar, better known as 'El Cid', looked every inch his title. He was tall, with the wide shoulders and narrow hips of an athlete. His tanned face was wide at the brow, with a long, powerful jaw, and prominent cheekbones. Swept-back silver-black hair was trimmed just above the collar of a crimson silk tunic crusted with gold embroidery. It was court dress and not at all customary. Faisal and Benedict could as easily have found him wearing a warrior's quilted gambeson and his swordbelt.

Benedict stared around the great hall as they were led by an equerry towards Lord Rodrigo. It was not so different from the hall at home; although larger and more sumptuous, The architecture was similar, but the painted designs on the plasterwork were bolder and bore a Moorish influence, and on the dais, a brightly coloured rug had been spread on top of the rushes.

Two white and gold Balearic hounds with broad hunting collars trotted up to Benedict, and sniffed him thoroughly. Faisal they accepted with wagging tails and a joyful dance of paws. Faisal laughed and fussed the dogs, sending them into wriggles of ecstasy.

The Lord Rodrigo glanced up from his business on the dais, saw the physician and, with a smile, beckoned him forward to the high table.

Benedict hung back out of courtesy, but Faisal took him by the arm and drew him to the dais. The dogs gambolled underfoot, making it difficult for the men to walk, and a squire hastened to grab the animals by their collars and bring them to heel.

'Well,' said the Lord Rodrigo as Faisal and Benedict bowed the knee before his ornate chair. 'You have finally decided to return, eh? I give you leave to gather herbs in the mountains and attend a sick friend, and you disappear from the face of the world.'

The tone was strong and controlled, bearing no particular inflection. Benedict risked a glance from beneath his lids to see if Rodrigo was angry, and was reassured to perceive a glimmer of dry humour in the dark, almost black eyes.

'It grieves me deeply not to have been here sooner, but there were grave doings that kept me from your court, my lord.' Faisal bowed even further, almost as he did when he faced the east to pray to Allah.

Rodrigo looked down and concern coloured his next words. 'Lord Pedro is well, I trust?'

'I left him in good health, my lord. His chest will always pain him somewhat, but I have given him a medicine to take every day, and if he obeys, he will yet live out a long life.'

Rodrigo's expression softened. 'Then it is well. Both of you, rise and sit by me a while.' He indicated the cushioned bench beside his carved chair. A squire was summoned. Food and drink were brought, and while Rodrigo finished his business with his officials, Faisal and Benedict ate and drank.

Benedict had not had much appetite these last few days on the road. Wrestling with his thoughts and his conscience had left very little room to be concerned for bodily sustenance. Now he realised, as he dipped his bread in a bowl of seasoned olive oil, that he was ravenous. He forced himself to chew and swallow at a measured pace and not to overeat, although that was difficult, since the food was the best he had tasted in a long time — succulent roast lamb with mountain herbs, pigeons served with a peppery sauce of wine and garlic, biblical fruits, and small, sweet fritters.

Lord Rodrigo finished his business and turned his attention to the diners, helping himself to a fig from the bowl of fruit. 'Now, then,' he said with a sharp glance at Benedict, 'to grave doings. Your name is?'

Benedict hastily swallowed his mouthful of fritter. 'Benedict de Remy, my lord, from Rouen in Normandy.'

'We came across him almost dead from exposure and arrow wounds,' Faisal explained. 'He was the only one of his pilgrim group to survive. It was an organised attack by Basque hill men. His wife was among the dead. I have been caring for him these past few weeks, and now I bring him to you.'

The Lord Rodrigo's face had turned to stone as Faisal spoke of mountain robbers. 'Such men are beneath mercy,' he said, his lips curling back from his large, white teeth. 'To rob and murder pilgrims bound upon errands of prayer is an act beyond salvation.' He looked at Benedict with anger and compassion. 'I am sorry that you should bear such a burden of grief. Rest assured, I will pursue this matter. The mountains are beyond the reach of my writ, but I will do what I can to influence those who do have jurisdiction.'

'Thank you, my lord.'

'I know it is small comfort to you. The loss of your wife must be a great sorrow.'

Benedict lowered his eyes and said nothing. He did not want to talk about Gisele. He had said enough to Faisal. Nor did he wish to speak of the attack. He remembered very little except the horror of the vultures settling to feed, and Gisele's dead weight stirring back and forth against him in the water's current.

'Do you continue on to Compostella?'

'In time, my lord.' Benedict relaxed slightly. 'It was my wife's intention to pray at the shrine, and I will do so to honour her. But I also came to your country to buy horses. My father-by-marriage is a famed breeder of destriers in Normandy and England. Iberian bloodstock would enhance his reputation even more… and mine.'

Rodrigo looked him up and down. He saw a young man, handsome and slender. The eyes were careworn, the mouth held in the tight line of recent suffering, the hands lean and clever. A horse breeder of repute, so he said, and yet he scarcely looked old enough to grow a beard. Rodrigo could imagine him dallying in the company of women with a harp and pretty love songs, but not assessing warhorses in a dusty tiltyard. Appearances could be deceptive, and Faisal certainly seemed to have taken to the pilgrim, but Rodrigo had learned from bitter experience never to take anyone by word alone.

'I can find you horses,' he said. 'When you are rested, I will show you the herds on my own estates.'

The weariness lifted slightly from the young man's expression. A spark kindled in his eyes and he thanked his host in a tone less dull than his previous exchanges.

Rodrigo shrugged his powerful shoulders. 'It will be my pleasure,' he said, and perused Benedict once more. 'Are you a fighting man? Have you ever been trained to arms?'

Benedict pinched his upper lip between forefinger and thumb and considered the reply. 'I am not sure how to answer, my lord. I know the rudiments of sword play and I can use a spear and shield as well as any footsoldier, and I am competent with both on horseback. I have to be for testing how a particular horse will respond to the weight of an armed man on his back. Not every animal of destrier stock is suitable to become a warhorse.'

Rodrigo nodded. Deceptive appearances again. Perhaps a deceptive tongue too. He reserved his judgement.

The young stallion's hide flowed like molten-bronze, rippling over powerful muscles and strong bones. His mane and tail were an attractive contrast of silver-blond, the latter sweeping to the ground.

Rodrigo smiled inside his mouth at the rapt, almost stunned expression on Benedict de Remy's face as a groom led the animal up and down. 'He is yours,' he said. 'A gift to replace the mount you lost when you were robbed.'

Benedict stared at the vision before him, and was mute with longing, delight, and awe. Cylu, beloved even though he had been, would have fetched only half the worth of this horse in trade. 'My lord, I can never repay you,' he said huskily. 'I know many a lord in Normandy who would give his teeth for a such a horse to use in the hunt.'

'Let me hear no talk of repayment,' Rodrigo said with a shrug. 'What I give, I bestow freely without obligation. Other horses on this stud you may buy, but this one is yours to do with as you wish. He comes from the south, from the Andaluz, and he has a pedigree that goes back to the bible… or so my overseer tells me.'

Benedict stepped up to the horse, approaching it from the side so that it could obtain a full view of him. The liquid eye appraised. The head swung and the nostrils drank in Benedict's scent. In preparation for a morning of examining Lord Rodrigo's horses, Benedict had filled his pouch with dates. Unerringly, the horse extended his neck and snuffled at the leather bag hanging from Benedict's belt.

Rodrigo laughed. So did Benedict as he stepped adroitly to one side and turned his back while he removed two dates and laid them across his palm. The horse followed him, tugging against the groom, until its head rested over Benedict's shoulder. An insistent muzzle quested, and the dates vanished in short order. The horse tossed his head up and down as he chewed, see-sawing the poor groom like a man stuck on a bell rope. As daintily as a nun in a refectory, the horse spat out the cleaned fruit stones, then looked round for more.

Benedict took the bridle from the groom, and setting his foot in the stirrup, swung across the saddle. The wound in his side twinged, but it was an uncomfortable rather than incapacitating pain. The stallion grunted as Benedict's weight came down in the saddle, a sound out of all proportion to the light bulk of the man, and gave a vigorous back-kick of protest. Benedict rode with the move, keeping his body supple, and began to draw in the reins. He recognised the stallion's temperament. The spectacular bronze hide and silver mane and tail were for show and these antics were merely an addition, a way of ensuring attention. Look at me, am I not fine. Benedict had met people who said that a horse was a horse. If it was sound and capable of doing the work for which it was purchased, what more was there to consider?

Benedict thought of gentle Cylu, even-tempered and with the endurance of a rock, of the sparky bay pony of his childhood, and the stubborn pied gelding which had replaced it as he grew. Sleipnir, Cylu's sire, old and whiskered, nigh on thirty years old, a veteran of the great battle on Hastings field. And Freya, Julitta's golden dappled mare. If she was mated to this stallion beneath him, the offspring would likely be beyond price. His mind flooded with the possibilities.

'Does he have a name?'

Rodrigo nodded. 'Kumbi.'

'Kumbi?' The stallion's ears flickered at the familiar sound and he bucked again, more vigorously. Benedict tightened in the reins hard, letting him know who was master, and the warning issued, slackened them slightly.

'It is a trading place, far, far from here; across the sea, across a vast desert larger than an ocean; a market for the gold that is mined in a kingdom the Moors call Gana. Horses, smaller than this, but of great endurance are to be found in the desert.'

Benedict smiled. 'My father-by-marriage would be interested to know of such lands. He has always had a wanderlust for new places and new experiences.'

'You say he is a renowned breeder of horses on his own lands. I am surprised that he has never travelled beyond the Pyrenees himself'

'It has always been on his horizon, a "one day" destination,' Benedict said. 'The last dream when all others have been broken.'

Rodrigo raised his eyebrows, but Benedict did not offer to elaborate. The golden horse, sensing the division of concentration, tried to play up again and for the next few minutes Benedict was occupied in exerting his authority. The stallion put up a struggle, but finally settled down to perform as the man commanded. Benedict asked for a lance and a shield, and when the two were handed up to him, he threaded his left arm through the leather shield straps, and couched the lance in his right. His control of the reins was now negligible, and he had to command the horse through leg pressure and tone of voice. This was where the sensitivity and intelligence of the animal was important. Kumbi possessed full measure of both, and beneath Benedict's gifted handling, performed magnificently.

Rodrigo watched man and mount. Benedict rode like a Moor, he thought, light in the saddle, supple and deadly. The young man knew his trade, of that now Rodrigo had not a single doubt. His look grew thoughtful, but when Benedict drew rein and dismounted, his face flushed with pleasure, the lord of Bivar said nothing of what was on his mind. Instead, he praised Benedict and the horse, and took his guest to meet Sancho, the overseer.

Sancho was wizened and leathery. There was no telling how old he was, but to Benedict, he looked as if he had already been embalmed so closely did his features hug the contours of his bones. Most of Sancho's teeth were missing, and those that survived were twisted yellow pegs. One eye was milky, almost blind, the outer rim of the other was encircled with white, and yet their gaze on Benedict managed to be as sharp as a blade. Looking amused, Lord Rodrigo distanced himself from the confrontation.

'You are a horse breeder in your own country, eh?' Sancho challenged in a cracked voice. 'That doesn't even set you on the first rung of the ladder in Castile.'

'I learn fast,' Benedict replied, maintaining an even tone. 'And I have always been taught well… in the past.'

The old man hawked and spat. The eyes gleamed like opaque stones. 'What makes you think I want to teach you?'

Benedict shrugged. 'What makes you think I want you to teach me?'

They stared at each other, the small, wrinkled veteran of more than sixty burning Iberian summers and the limber young man, supple as a young tree, full of rising sap.

'I know horses, I know men,' Sancho said. His tone was less hostile, as if in that last, examining stare, he had discovered something of interest.

'So do I.' Benedict's gaze flickered to the Lord Rodrigo who was supervising the encounter from the corner of his eye, a half-smile twitching his lips. Sancho glanced too, and his own seamed, thin scar of a mouth began to curve.

'And no-one knows men better than El Cid,' he said. 'He must think you worthwhile in some way to bestow on you a horse of Kumbi's value, and promise you the pick of this stud. What it is he sees in you I do not know, but perhaps I should find out.'

Benedict returned the smile. 'I was of the same opinion about you,' he retorted.

CHAPTER 56

Arlette de Brize died on a shining midsummer morning in the convent of the Magdalene. She was at peace, and as Rolf looked down on her waxen, closed face, he could almost detect a smile on her lips. Her last words of an hour since lingered with him, causing a shiver of discomfort. 'I am going to be with Gisele,' she had said. Not God, but Gisele.

During her last week when the pain had been great, the nuns had drugged her with poppy syrup. The nostrum had taken the pain and brought lurid visions in its stead. In her waking moments Arlette had spoken in a trembling voice of beautiful gardens and angels brighter than the morning sun. She had also cried out at visions of blood and death, growing agitated despite the heavy sedation.

Rolf was glad that her suffering was over. He wished that he could grieve, but for the moment he only felt numb, as if he too had drunk of the poppy's narcotic. They had been married for almost thirty years, and she had been a constant in his life — too familiar to be noticed until there was a cold space where her presence had once stood. It was nothing compared to the frozen landscape occupied by Ailith's ghost, but still he was aware of how threadbare his life was becoming.

He meditated beside her body for a respectful period, and then left her to the ministrations of the nuns. She belonged to them now. They would care for her far more diligently than he ever had. He departed the chapel, a greying man almost fifty years old, the wiry grace of his youth now set in a more solid mould, his features still handsome, but showing the marks of time.

He rode home to Brize in a reflective mood, his mind dwelling on the bitter-sweetness of the past. If only Arlette had yielded a little more; if only he had been more patient. If only… And the name his mind spoke was suddenly not his wife's.

When he arrived at Brize, he was still preoccupied, heavy of heart, and it took him a while to realise that he had visitors. It was the sight of his grooms more than usually busy in the stable area and his automatic eye for a good horse that jerked him belatedly out of his reverie to ask what was happening.

'Duke Robert's here, my lord,' replied the man, nodding his head at the glossy chestnut stallion that an unfamiliar squire was watering at the trough. The horse's bridle and saddle were of rich, embossed leather. The breast band was decorated with red silk tassels and so was the brightly woven saddle cloth. Rolf cursed to himself. The last thing he needed now was a serving of Duke Robert's heavy-handed jocularity at his table.

'Did he say anything to you?'

'No, lord, only to find stabling for his horse and those of his men. They did not bring a baggage wain, but they all had full saddle rolls.'

Which meant at least an overnight stay on the road to Rouen, and not just a passing visit. Rolf nodded to the groom, mentally armed himself, and went forth to battle.

The first thing he heard as he approached the hall was Robert's loud, hearty laugh, and a woman's voice chiming softly beside it. Julitta, he thought, and felt a little less beleaguered. And if Julitta was here, that meant Mauger was around somewhere.

Robert, Duke of Normandy, eldest son of the Conqueror, was a well-built man of medium height. He had russet hair, slightly protuberant grey eyes, a good, straight nose, and a sensuous, full-lipped mouth. The overall effect fell just short of handsome, and was certainly attractive. His nature was attractive too, providing you were not hoping for hidden depths. There weren't any. Robert of Normandy was shallow and unreliable. He always meant to keep his promises, but somehow he seldom did, and given such a lead, his barons felt free to break their oaths to him. It led to confusion, to dishonesty, doubt, and even war.

Robert was seated at the high table at the end of the hall where he had been furnished with food and wine. Mauger, his expression stonily controlled, sat a little to one side with the Duke's retainers, and in the lord's seat, beside the Duke himself, was Julitta. She appeared to be keeping him amused, but then beautiful women were another of Robert's weaknesses, no matter that they belonged to other men.

'My lord,' Rolf bent the knee to the Conqueror's son. It was a matter of form. When he had knelt to the old Duke, it had been out of genuine respect.

'Oh get up, get up,' Robert gestured magnanimously. 'No ceremony among friends! Come, sit down, it's your hall!' The Duke indicated the bench at his left hand side, and hitched his chair closer to Julitta's.

'You will pardon me if I seem a trifle distracted,' Rolf said, warning Robert before he started his usual back-thumping, all comrades together routine, 'but my wife died at the convent of the Magdalene this morning – it was expected, but nevertheless,' he made a small hand gesture serve for the remainder and sat down heavily.

Julitta poured him a cup of wine and looked at him anxiously. He managed a half-smile for her and an almost imperceptible grimace in the direction of the Duke. Her eyes kindled with understanding, and she pulled a face of her own. 'Papa, I'm sorry.'

Rolf shook his head. 'She was at peace,' he said, and raised the cup to his lips.

'My condolences,' Robert's open features sobered at the news. 'Your lovely daughter told me that you had gone to visit your lady and that she was mortally sick. I will pay for the priests to say a special mass for her this very day, God rest her soul.' He crossed himself vigorously. 'She was a gentle, pious lady, you will miss her sorely.'

'Yes.' Rolf examined his wine, its colour the dark red of his daughter's hair. Robert of Normandy might be vainglorious and selfish, but the words, for what they were worth, were genuinely meant.

'That makes it all the more difficult for me to impose upon you, but impose I must,' Robert added with a theatrical sigh, and leaned back in his chair.

Rolf shook his head and murmured a polite, half-hearted disclaimer. He did not own the stamina today for Robert of Normandy's impositions. 'Must' in the new Duke's case was frequently a cover for the more indulgent 'want'.

'My father was accustomed to buying all his horses from you,' Robert said, 'and I see no reason to change that. Of course,' he added, his eyebrows puckering, 'I am not entirely at ease that you should continue to trade with my brother William. It seems to me a conflict of interests.'

Rolf took a slow drink of wine and rolled it around his mouth, while he wondered how to reply. If Robert's imposition was a demand that he cease selling horses to Rufus, then he knew he could not, nay, would not meet it. 'In England, I am your brother's tenant, in Normandy I am yours,' he said after a moment, his tone polite, but firm. 'Many of us with lands on both sides of the narrow sea are divided in our loyalties and obligations. But you and your brothers have always looked to Brize and the new farm at Ulverton to provide you with warhorses. If you and Rufus come to friendly terms and I have refused to trade with one or the other of you, where does that leave me? No, my lord. I will conduct my business as I see fit.'

Robert continued to frown. He drummed his thick fingers on the table. 'You don't even like Rufus,' he growled.

'No, my lord, but he has my pledge for my English lands since your lord father designated him the heir.'

'Is that why you are here, Lord Robert?' Julitta interrupted. 'To persuade my father to change his ways?' She regarded the Duke with limpid eyes, her face turned towards him in a pose that almost invited a kiss, yet retained an air of innocence.

Mauger almost choked on his food, and Rolf on his wine, both men wondering what devilry she was at. The Duke was partial to pretty women, and she appeared to be playing up to his weakness.

Robert cleared his throat, and his complexion grew ruddy. 'Well partly, yes,' he said. 'It isn't a good idea for a man to have two masters.'

Julitta nodded, as if Robert's words were pearls of ineffable wisdom. 'What about two mistresses?' she asked saucily.

Robert threw his head back and laughed. 'That neither!' he chuckled, and glanced at Rolf. 'She has a sharp tongue, your daughter!'

Rolf said nothing, his eyes slightly narrowed as he pondered her outrageous behaviour. Beside him, he thought that Mauger was going to have an apoplexy.

Julitta said, 'I am like my father, so I am told.' She leaned a little closer to the Duke and made good use of her eyelashes, lowering them, looking at him through them. She wanted to put Robert of Normandy off the dangerous subject of oaths and loyalty. She knew the man, had watched Merielle manipulate him like warm clay at Dame Agatha's bathhouse, and was thoroughly confident that she could do the same.

'Your father does not delight me half so much!' Robert warmly flirted in return.

Julitta gave him a look of playful reproval. Then she tilted her head to one side. 'So what is the main reason for your visit, my lord?' Her voice was rich and low now, inviting confidences. And by suggesting that his complaint to Rolf was only a trifling side matter, she was able to dismiss it from Robert's mind. He might remember it later, but by then he would be so bedazzled that he would let it lie, or else, knowing him, would be too lazy to turn back and settle the issue.

Robert basked in the light from Julitta's eyes, in her attentive expression, the slightly parted lips. 'I have come to ask your father to obtain some stock for me. I want a Spanish stallion such as my own father rode.' He patted Julitta's hand where it lay on the trestle. Then he looked at Rolf. 'Do you think that you can find one for me?'

Rolf shifted in his chair. 'A Spanish stallion,' he said slowly.

'I'm not saying that those you breed are not good enough,' Robert added hastily, 'but my father always had a Spanish stallion for the most important occasions, a sort of mark of prestige, and I want one too.'

Rolf rubbed his jaw, where stubble, silver and red, was beginning to poke through the skin. But you will never be even half the man your father was, he thought. If you were, the King of Castile would have sent you such a horse by now. 'I daresay I could find what you want, but it would not come cheaply.'

Robert took his meaty paw from Julitta's hand, and gave a profligate wave. 'Don't worry, you will be paid.'

Rolf's lips tightened. With what? he wanted to ask. Robert's spendthrift nature was notorious. Already he was in debt to the moneylenders, and it was not even a year since his father had died with a well-stocked treasury. In silence he finished his wine. It was too much of an effort to enquire of the fine details such as colour and weight, broken or unbroken. He wondered to himself if Benedict would bring anything back from his pilgrimage that was suitable, thereby saving the need for a further excursion.

'Well?' Robert demanded. 'Will you fulfil my commission, or shall I look elsewhere?'

Rolf passed a weary hand across his forehead. 'Forgive me, my lord, I am tired and in a state of grief. I shall be pleased to fulfil your commission if there is nothing at Brize that takes your eye.'

Robert's gaze admired Julitta. 'There is always something at Brize to take my eye,' he said with double meaning, 'but I still want a Spanish warhorse.' He allowed the squire serving at table to replenish his cup.

'There is a horse fair in Bordeaux in two months' time. Belike I could find you something there. Spanish stock is frequently traded, and at better prices than in the north.'

'As you wish.' Robert's concentration remained on Julitta. 'I am sure that I have met you before now,' he said with a puzzled frown between his russet brows.

Julitta had known that there were dangers inherent in flirting with Duke Robert. If he remembered that he had previously encountered her in a Southwark brothel, there would be no constraints on his lechery. 'Probably when I was a child, my lord,' she said lightly. 'I was always underfoot in the stables.'

'Yes, perhaps.' Robert pinched his chin between forefinger and thumb. 'But I cannot help thinking it was elsewhere that I saw you.'

She gave him a smile and a shrug, and towed the conversation into safer waters by asking him about the kind of Spanish horse he wanted. Basking in her attention, Robert followed her lead with enthusiasm, and the subject lasted them until the servants began clearing away the trestles in the main part of the hall and stacking them neatly down one wall.

Robert gently squeezed her knee beneath the table before he rose to visit the latrine. 'You are a beautiful woman,' he murmured. 'Would that I could have more of your company.'

Julitta had been expecting this particular move all evening, but it did not prevent her stomach from lurching now that it was played. 'You honour me, my lord,' she said demurely, and thought that his intention was more in the realm of dishonour'.

'I speak no more than the truth. Perhaps you would like to visit the full splendour of my court?'

Julitta lowered her lashes. 'That is most generous of you, my lord,' she murmured. 'But I have my position and duty as a wife to consider.'

'I am sure something could be arranged,' Robert said with a slow, meaningful smile.

Something was arranged, and in short order. Mauger found himself consulted on the matter of Spanish bloodstock by Duke Robert, who then insisted that Mauger should be the one to go to Bordeaux and bring the required warhorse back to Normandy. It made perfect sense. Rolf could not go, he had a funeral to arrange and his wife's affairs to set in order.

'Why did you encourage him in the first place?' Mauger snarled at Julitta as the Duke's retinue rode out of Brize the following noontide. 'Or perhaps you want to parade yourself at his court, show yourself off as his latest whore!'

Julitta whitened. 'How dare you say that to me!' she said icily, and stalked away towards the hall. Mauger caught up with her and spun her round.

'Do you think I do not know why he demands that I go to find his blessed horse? It is so that he can have free rein to do as he likes with you!'

'And you think that I would have anything to do with a strutting cockerel such as him?' she said scornfully.

'What am I to think after your behaviour at table last night? God's death, you were almost in his lap!'

'That was because he was hounding my father, who was in no fit state to respond to him. If I had not intervened and distracted him, Duke Robert would have insisted that Papa yield him sole fealty and abandon his oath to Rufus. There would have been hot words for certain!'

'It was not proper or decent!' Mauger raged through his teeth, his complexion dusky.

'No it wasn't!' Julitta retorted, her own voice rising to match his. 'And neither is this!'

Mauger glanced around the bailey and saw that they had an interested audience of castle folk. Beneath the weight of his scowl they dispersed, but he knew that they would watch and listen from a distance, and that the tales would carry.

'I ought to whip you,' he muttered.

'Is that your answer to everything?' she demanded scornfully. 'Will whipping me set everything to rights, or will you just salve your wounded manhood at the expense of my hide?' She tried to shake him off, but Mauger maintained a bruising grip on her arm.

'It is holy writ that a woman should submit to her husband!'

Mauger said through his teeth. 'I will have your obedience!' His face thrust down into hers.

Panting, they glared at each other. Then, with an oath, Mauger covered Julitta's mouth with his own, and kissed her forcefully.

Julitta struggled, but he held her fast. His tongue invaded, his hands clamped their bodies together. 'Holy writ,' he repeated, as he surfaced for air. 'Willing or unwilling. You are mine.'

Willing or unwilling.

Aching, sore, Julitta stared at the rafters. Mauger lay upon her, his breath thundering in her ears, the driving rhythm of his buttocks reduced to spasmodic twitches. This time he had not even tried to prolong the act or give her pleasure. It had been purely for his own release.

She shifted beneath him, trying to ease her cramped muscles, trying to breathe. There was no flab on Mauger, but he was solid and heavy-set.

He raised his head, and looked down into her face. An expression of bewilderment crossed his own. Almost tender now that the force of his passion was spent, he touched her dark red braid. 'It would be easier for you if you were not so wilful,' he said. 'You anger me… you make me lose control.'

She was not surprised to hear that it was all her fault. Mauger had never admitted to a single mistake in his life. She said nothing; there was no point.

Frowning slightly, he withdrew from her. His colour high, he straightened her skirts which he had dragged up around her waist in his desperation to be at her. Then he turned his back to adjust his own clothing. Modesty now had precedence over lust. 'You're not going to Duke Robert's court,' he said brusquely as he retied his loin cloth. 'I won't permit it.'

'You would defy the Duke?'

'It was an invitation, not a command.'

Julitta looked at her husband's broad back and thick, muscular neck. 'Then what will you do?' She sat up on the bed. 'Refuse outright?'

'You are a dutiful wife, are you not?' Mauger's tone was sarcastic. He turned round to her once more. 'It is your obligation to provide me with an heir of my blood, and that cannot happen if we are apart. I am taking you with me to the Bordeaux horse fair.'

Julitta slowly covered her braids with her wimple. Many women would have leaped at the opportunity to visit the court of the Duke of Normandy, but Julitta's breathing quickened at the mention of the horse fair. She loved such gatherings, the sights, sounds and smells; the thrill of the chase, of finding gold among dross.

'You truly mean that?' she said to her husband in a tone much brighter than that of a moment since.

His eyes narrowed and she saw him try to gauge her response. 'My mind is made up. I'll not have Robert of Normandy sniffing around your skirts like a dog after a bitch while I'm conveniently absent.'

Julitta tucked the end of her wimple through her circlet and stood up. Her body was sore from Mauger's rough lovemaking, but she put the discomfort to the back of her mind. For once, in his jealousy, he was giving her what she wanted.

'How soon do you want to leave?' she asked. 'Shall I begin packing the saddle rolls?'

Mauger rose to adjust his belt and tunic. 'As you wish,' he said. His voice was gentler now, for her eagerness had mollified him. Her smile was for him, and the sparkle in her eyes. Robert of Normandy could go whistle.

CHAPTER 57

Benedict spent two months with Sancho, learning his ways, which in many did not differ from Rolf's, learning to handle the spirited Iberian horses, becoming acquainted with Kumbi. His injuries ceased to pain him and the bright, raw colour of the scars faded to pink. The wounds of the mind healed a little too. Two months lent distance to the memory of the attack! He still relived it when his mind was unoccupied, but he could fight down the waves of sick panic now. Nightmares continued to plague him, but Faisal said that in time they would fade.

Learning from Sancho involved living with him for much of the time. The Lord Rodrigo, for all his interest in Benedict, was a man with deep political concerns, a great landholder, a vassal-in-chief of Castile's King, a warrior lord. Although welcome at Rodrigo's court, Benedict knew that his way was more or less his own to make. One day soon, he knew that it must be to Compostella, and then home, to Brize-sur-Risle as the bearer of bad tidings. As the days passed, and the need to leave grew more pressing, so did Benedict's reluctance.

He liked Iberia, the land, the people, their rich and varied culture. Christian fought Moor, but weaving between the flash of sword and cut of scimitar was great knowledge, religious tolerance, and a wealth of trading opportunities such as would have made his father weep with envy: the patterned silks of Andalusia; the gold, ivory and hides of Africa; perfumes, spices and rare books in the Arabic text on philosophy and medicine. Rice, long-storing wheat, oranges, lemons, figs and pomegranates. The opportunities begged to be grasped in both hands, and Benedict's merchant origins stirred with excitement.

Living with Sancho was not as difficult as he had thought. Benedict had never possessed a grandfather, but Sancho came close to fulfilling this role. The old man was cantankerous and difficult, especially in the early morning and late at night when his joints were stiff, but he possessed a vast store of wisdom, and a dry, salty wit. By turns, Benedict was aggravated, amused, or goaded to do better. Sancho liked to talk about himself and possessed a seemingly endless fund of anecdotes, and yet he was a good listener too, with more than a streak of natural curiosity.

Benedict told him about his past, about Julitta and Gisele. Sancho snorted and called him a young fool with no brains above his belt. Sancho's daughter, Lucia, a widow in her middle years who now looked after her father, brought Sancho a cup of the spiced red wine of which he was so fond, and went quietly away to pick up her distaff. She was fine-boned, graceful of carriage, with masses of black hair coiled upon her head, and almond-shaped green-hazel eyes. She was handsome now. In her youth, Benedict thought that she must have been quite beautiful.

'Did the same, thing myself with her mother,' Sancho declared, and took a noisy sip of the wine, washing it around the yellow stumps of his teeth. 'Leilah was Moorish — Christian convert married to a fat merchant. It was lust at first sight, the love came later.'

Benedict eyed Sancho. It was hard to imagine any woman falling for him, but perhaps he had been handsome long ago. Put the teeth back in his mouth, whiten them, add flesh and eyesight, banish the wrinkles and a presentable rogue might emerge. 'So you had a future together?'

'Oh aye.' Sancho ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. 'We eloped in the middle of the night, with all our belongings in a bundle. Spent three months on the road running from place to place. It was hard, I tell you, especially on her. A respectable married woman going off with a stallion man. If they had caught us, I would have lost my balls, and her the skin off her back. Not surprising that we didn't know much tranquillity those first few years. It was worse after Lucia was born. Leilah was worried what would happen to her if we were caught. We never really had peace of mind, but we had each other.'

'Would you do it again?'

Sancho glanced at his daughter spinning, her face rapt with concentration. 'Yes,' he said gruffly, 'I would. But I don't know about Leilah. She's been dead these past twenty years. I think she would say yes, but you never know with women. That is their beauty, and their flaw.'

Benedict smiled wry acknowledgement, and saw that Lucia was smiling too, her look quietly indulgent on her grizzled father.

Two days later, Benedict finally made the decision that he must leave for Compostella before it became too difficult to leave at all, and from there return to Brize.

Inspecting one of the herds of brood mares with Sancho, he told the overseer of his intentions.

Sancho heard him out in silence, his jaws working on a piece of liquorice root, manipulating it from one side of his mouth to the other in search of teeth with which to chew. Black juice oozed on his lips. 'You must do what is necessary for your conscience,' he said. 'A man works best without a burdened soul.' He cocked his head on one side. 'But you will return here, I think, when you have shed your load.'

Benedict looked sharply at the old man. 'Are my thoughts so obvious?'

Sancho gave a laconic shrug. 'It does not take a grand wisdom to see that you have settled here, and when you talk of Normandy, your face grows troubled and you bite your thumbnail.'

Involuntarily, Benedict cast his glance down to the hands which gripped Kumbi's reins. With a grimace, he concealed his thumbs within his palms. Sancho saw and his lips curved in a black-stained smile.

'I have been wondering when you would go. You have been restless these past few days.'

'And yet you have said nothing?'

'I have watched and listened.' Sancho spat over his mount's withers and resumed his chewing. 'You cannot go alone,' he said after a moment. 'You will need protection and escort over the mountains.'

Benedict drew a deep breath. He did not want to think about that part of his journey, retracing his steps to the place of attack. 'I intended hiring soldiers from Lord Rodrigo.'

Sancho nodded. 'Wise,' he said.

Benedict thought that the conversation had ended there, but that evening as they sat over a game of merels, Sancho carefully positioned one of the small clay balls on the board and rolling another between his palms, said thoughtfully, 'I think I might see you part of your way home.'

Benedict stared. 'Why should you do that?'

'Why should I not?'

Bemused, Benedict shook his head. 'I could give you a host of reasons, but surely you already know them.'

'The dangers of the mountain roads, my advancing years,' Sancho said with a cackle of amusement. 'Let me tell you, I've been as far as the cities of Constantinople and Nicaea in my time in search of bloodstock. I have travelled throughout Andalusia and the Moorish kingdoms.'

'But that was long ago.' Benedict looked at the wizened, leathery face across from him, the milky eye and scrawny throat.

'Not that long. Even at my time of life, a man can still have itchy feet. Besides,' he added, 'there is no need to cross the mountains. Galleys are easily hired in Corunna to make the journey up the coast. There's a huge horse fair in Bordeaux before the summer's end and I want to do some trading. In previous years I've sent younger men, but I don't see why I shouldn't indulge myself one last time.'

'It might well be your last time,' Benedict could not help but say. And yet the thought of the old man's company was comforting, and there was no conviction in his protest.

Sancho shrugged and smiled. 'It is my choice.' He gestured at the merels board. 'Your move.'

CHAPTER 58

The Draca, one of Aubert's wine vessels, docked in Bordeaux, having sailed down the French coast from Rouen. The late summer journey had been beset by unseasonable winds and some minor squalls. Mauger, never a good ocean traveller even in the calmest of conditions, spent a great length of time leaning over the gunwale, his complexion a delicate shade of green.

Julitta, in contrast, revelled in the brisk weather and the freedom from being tied to the quiet domesticity of Fauville. She took up a favourite position on the raised decking by the prow, and stood for hours on end, watching the Draca carve her way through the glistening green waves with their white netting of foam. If conditions grew too rough and she found herself becoming saturated by the spume, she would retire to one of the benches in the hold which lay amidships, and keep Aubert's cargo company. He was exporting barrels of English mead, and hoped to bring home a cargo of leather and strong southern wine. Not that he was personally on board the vessel, but one of his senior overseers was – a black-bearded, hearty soul named Beltran who had been sailing these waters for the better part of twenty years.

Beltran took Julitta and Mauger to the lodging house where he himself usually stayed when he was in Bordeaux and within moments secured them a bed for the night and the promise of a substantial meal. At the mention of food, Mauger compressed his lips and excused himself, declaring that all he wanted was a bed that did not move.

Beltran and Julitta exchanged amused, pitying glances, and guided by their landlady, a talkative, tiny woman with sallow skin and beady black eyes, they descended from the sleeping loft and entered the main room below.

Gulls screamed overhead. The sounds of the bustling, dusty streets percolated through the cool stone walls, which kept out the worst of the day's burning heat. Their hostess brought them a jug of wine, a loaf, and earthenware bowls of steaming fish soup. 'Are you on a pilgrimage?' she asked curiously as she set the food down on the trestle.

Julitta shook her head. 'We are here to buy horses at the fair.'

'Ah.' The woman absorbed the information, and if anything, her curiosity increased. 'I think you are newly married then? He does not leave you at home with your children?'

Julitta half-smiled a response and curbed the impulse to tell the woman it was none of her business. Let her believe that this as a journey undertaken by an ardent groom and his new bride.

'You should travel down to Compostella,' advised their hostess. 'Ask his blessing.' She patted her belly, her meaning obvious.

Julitta reddened. At Dame Agatha's she had learned how to protect herself against the fate of pregnancy. Merielle, in one of her rare spurts of benevolence, had shown her the method employed by the cannier whores. You took a small piece of moss or sponge, soaked it in vinegar, and inserted it into your passage. So far the method had worked remarkably well and Julitta desired no intervention from St James.

'Me, I have eight sons, and twenty-four grandchildren,' the woman declared proudly, and proceeded to regale Julitta with all their names and circumstances. Julitta ate her soup, which was delicious, and tried to look interested. She was aware of Beltran's amusement and wondered why on earth he chose to lodge here. He did not strike her as a man who liked having his ears talked off, even for the sake of good cooking.

Finally the garrulous old biddy removed their dishes to rinse them out by her well in the yard. Julitta wondered which was worse, retreating to lie down in bed beside Mauger, or remaining here to be verbally assaulted by her landlady.

'How far is the horse fair?' she asked.

Beltran's lips twitched. He wiped his palm across his bushy moustache and beard. 'Not far,' he said.

They left the lodging house, and walked along the banks of the Garonne. Numerous trading galleys were moored along the wharves and the vinegary smell of split wine casks pervaded the air, reminding Julitta of the time spent at Aubert's house in London.

'Clothilde means well,' Beltran said. 'Usually she gives lodging to ships' masters and the like. It is not often that she plays host to another woman.'

Small wonder, Julitta was tempted to say, but she managed to curb her tongue.

They walked past other moored vessels, including Italian and Byzantine horse transports. At one of them, she saw a small, leathery old man guiding a mare and colt down a ramp. He issued orders in rapid Castilian Spanish to a groom. From between his clamped lips there protruded a stick of liquorice root.

'Iberian horses,' said Beltran. 'Your husband will be spoiled for choice.'

Julitta admired the mare and foal and stepped forward for a closer look. The man with the liquorice root swivelled milky eyes in her direction and looked her up and down. His stare was disconcerting, for although he looked blind, Julitta could tell that he saw her perfectly well.

'They are fine horses,' she said to him.

'Aye, that they are, my lady.' His tone was dour.

'Are they to be sold at the fair?'

'No, they're already spoken for —just resting them a couple of days before we sail on.'

'Do you have others?'

'Already taken to the market place.' He gave a nod of dismissal, spat a wad of black saliva at his feet, and recommenced talking to the groom as if Julitta did not exist.

That was the drawback with Spanish horses, Julitta thought. They were so much in demand that those who sold them could be as objectionable as they liked and still reap a profit. Even if she told this particular trader that her husband was commissioned to purchase a horse for Duke Robert of Normandy, she doubted that it would increase the level of his courtesy.

Julitta moved on. A glance over her shoulder for a final look at the mare and foal caught the small trader in the act of staring after her and Beltran, a thoughtful look on his wizened features.

The horse-dealer's name was Pierre, and he dealt in war stallions, brood mares and endurance horses for distance travelling and the hunt. He was the last in a long line of dealers visited by Mauger and Julitta that morning. It was close on noontide now, the sun high and hot. Mauger wore a frown, and his eyes were heavy. He was still suffering from the aftermath of the sea journey, and the red heat of the sun, the dust and the market place smells, had all combined to give him a nauseous headache.

He had never looked at so many horses and discovered so many nags. The southern lands might be famous for their bloodstock, but he had seen precious little so far. Scrubby ponies, cow-heeled knock-kneed jades, broken-winded hacks; the parade had been endless, yet he had seen nothing to suit the tastes of Duke Robert of Normandy. The problem with looking for gold was sifting through the dross to find it.

Pierre was short and stocky, of a similar build to Mauger, but larger and softer in the gut. He had curly blue-black hair and the skin of his face was deeply pitted. Shrewd black eyes assessed his potential customers and he spread his hands towards his merchandise. 'You want warhorses?' he enquired. 'You have come to the right place.'

Julitta had heard that opening gambit several times and was not impressed; however, she kept her eyes modestly downcast and hung back a little. Pierre flashed her an assessing glance as if considering the points of a young mare ripe to be serviced.

'I will be the judge of that,' Mauger said tersely. 'Let me see what you have.'

Pierre shrugged and smiled with his mouth but not his eyes, and gestured his groom to bring forward a cream-coloured stallion.

Mauger began an examination, running his hands lightly over the horse in search of lumps and defects. He looked in its mouth, discovered that it was around eleven years old, and shook his head. A younger animal was brought forth, a skittish bay with black points. Julitta went to cast her eye over the rest of Pierre's stock. Some animals were quite presentable, but there was nothing better than what they had at Brize or Ulverton.

Her eye was caught by a dappled grey courser standing quietly at the end of the line. It was a little short of fifteen hands high, its mane and tail pure silver against the smoky grey rings of its hide. Beside it stood a smaller, chestnut mare with a white star marking on her forehead and a white sock on her offside hind leg. Julitta admired the two horses, thinking that they were the best she had seen thus far, although sadly neither was of the type to turn into a destrier. They looked extremely like her father's horses, she thought, the mare from Brize, the gelding from the grey herds at Ulverton. Suddenly, despite the heat of the day she was cold.

'Cylu,' she said softly and approached the grey.

Immediately he turned his head, and with ears pricked, nickered to her. Julitta's stomach plummeted. She had expected the horse not to respond, or to turn a different face towards her, but there was no mistaking the small coronet of hair on Cylu's forehead that grew against the grain, nor the pink splash on his otherwise dark grey muzzle.

She compressed her lips, feeling sick. Pierre's groom gave her an anxious look. 'My lady?' he questioned. 'There is something wrong?'

'That grey horse, where did your master buy him?'

The groom shrugged. 'Master Pierre bought him and the mare from a Basque trader last week. Do you like him?' He smiled and patted Cylu's smooth dappled neck. 'A fine riding horse, and still young.'

Julitta would not have called ten years old still young, but the groom's small lie was swamped by the greater tide rising in her mind. She flung away from him and marched up to the horse-trader, who was in the middle of expounding the virtues of the young bay to Mauger. 'Master Pierre,' she interrupted, her voice and expression full of urgency, 'I want to ask you about the grey gelding and the chestnut mare over there.'

The man stared at her as if she had spoken in a different language. He was not accustomed to having his deals interrupted by women, and this one looked as if she was about to turn into a blazing termagant.

Mauger's lips tightened and he frowned at Julitta. 'Can you not see that we are busy,' he growled. 'Where is your modesty?'

'It flew out of the window the moment that I saw Cylu and Gisele's chestnut mare,' Julitta hotly retorted and pointed towards Pierre's other horses. 'Look for yourself.'

Mauger opened his mouth, shut it again with a snap, and glowered his way over to the line of animals. He walked around the grey gelding, while the bewildered groom looked on, and Pierre stood frowning, his hands on his hips and his moist lower lip thrust out.

'The same age,' Julitta declared. 'The same forehead mark and pink star on his muzzle. The groom told me that he and the mare were bought from a Basque trader.'

Mauger studied the chestnut mare too, and rubbed his aching forehead. 'Perhaps Benedict sold them,' he said to Julitta.

'Ben would never sell Cylu!' she declared with certainty. 'They have been together too long!'

'You cannot know Benedict's every thought,' he snapped irritably and turned to the trader who was watching them with wary eyes. 'We know these horses. They belong to my wife's sister and her husband.'

'They do not belong now,' Pierre said sharply. 'I bought them in Arachon from another trader who gathers his horses from far and wide.' He spread his hands in a choppy, aggressive gesture. 'Even if these horses did once belong to your kin, they do not any more. If you desire them, you will have to buy them the same as any other beast at this fair.'

'How much do you want?' Julitta demanded, her own tone easily matching Pierre's belligerence.

Pierre's complexion grew ruddy and his jaw made chewing motions. 'I do not deal with women,' he growled.

'And I do not deal with the…"

'How much do you want?' Mauger's voice cut across Julitta's final word. He seized her by the arm and twisted it so that she could not break free without snapping a bone. The pain made her writhe, but it also silenced her.

Mauger purchased Cylu and the mare, abandoned all intention of buying any other horses from Pierre, and in grim mood, drew Julitta away.

'You shame me!' he retorted. 'I will become a laughing stock.' He shook her arm upon which he still retained a savage grip.

Julitta gasped at the pain. 'Is that all your care?' she retorted in a choked voice. 'Does it not worry you to find Benedict's and Gisele's horses in the care of a trader?'

'Of course it does,' he snapped. 'But I hope I have more sense than to antagonise that trader by calling him a thief. You heard him. He bought Cylu and the mare in Arachon.'

'Something is wrong, Mauger, you know it is!'

He rolled his eyes. T have come to buy horses for the Duke of Normandy, not to pursue a niggling doubt hither and yon.' He gestured brusquely. 'Knowing Benedict, whatever has caused him to part with those two, he has landed on his feet. Not even a cat could better him at that game.'

'So you are going to do nothing?'

Mauger drew her on through the throng of people and horses. 'You are quite right,' he said grimly. 'I am going to do nothing.'

'But…'

He swung her round to face him, his light eyes showing a red rim of temper. 'Enough, Julitta. Push me no further.'

People were turning to look. Amusement glinted at the sight of an argument between husband and wife. Mauger's eyes flickered. He tightened his lips and with sudden purpose, dragged Julitta out of the market place and away in the direction of the lodging house. 'I should never have brought you with me this morning,' he growled, shouldering his way through the traders. 'Until we leave, you can stay with Madame Clothilde, and mind your distaff. I will not tolerate any more of this.' He yanked on her arm and tears burned her eyes, but they were of rage and pain, not self-pity or remorse.

Mauger deposited her at the lodging house, gave strict instructions to one of his grooms that she was not to leave the premises, and strode back to the horse fair to conduct his business alone.

Clothilde looked at the young woman sitting on a stool near the neatly swept hearth. She was rubbing her arm and struggling not to cry.

Clucking like a mother hen, Clothilde approached to comfort her, thinking that she had just witnessed the end of a young couple's tiff. 'There now, there now,' she soothed, setting her arm across Julitta's shoulders. 'Don't you fret, he'll be back, and you'll soon mend things between you.'

Julitta drew a shuddering breath. She raised her head and looked at Clothilde with brimming, burning eyes. 'I don't want him to come back!' she spat.

'Oh, come now, you don't mean that!'

Julitta sprang to her feet, thrusting off the woman's embrace. 'If I never saw him again it would be too soon!'

Clothilde uttered a horrified gasp and pressed her hands to her mouth. Mauger's groom was tying Cylu and the chestnut mare to a bridle ring in the wall. Now and then he cast a dark look towards the house.

Julitta narrowed her eyes, her mind racing with the speed of her temper. She drew a deep breath to steady herself and stepping outside, approached the grey gelding and the mare.

The groom eyed her sidelong. 'Mistress, Lord Mauger said that you were to stay within,' he said doubtfully.

'Surely there is no harm in this?' She stroked Cylu's sleek, grey neck and half-contemplated making her escape across his dependable back, but she knew that she would be conspicuous in a crowd. Besides, he was not wearing a saddle so her seat would be precarious.

She made a fuss of the horse, scratching behind his ears, and then the tender spot at his withers. The groom's watchfulness eased and a half-smile played at his mouth corners. He made the mistake of turning his back to fetch a bucket of water. Immediately Julitta untied the two ropes and slapped both horses on their rumps, sending them clattering around the small courtyard. As the groom turned round from the well, his mouth open in surprise, Julitta fled out into the street.

She heard the groom's shout of alarm, and Clothilde's shrieks. The sound of footsteps in pursuit lent wings to her feet. She grasped her skirts in both hands and raised them to her knees the better to run. A narrow alleyway leading to another street presented itself on her left and she plunged down its dark throat. A mongrel dog ran out of a doorway and snapped at her. Two half-naked children ceased their game of knucklebones to stare after her. She splashed through a puddle, noisome with mud and trampled dung, and felt the cold seep into her shoe and splatter her leg.

From the alley she emerged into another thoroughfare, filled with merchants, hucksters and market-day crowds. It seemed as if the entire population of Gascony had converged upon Bordeaux. A street pedlar waved a bunch of scarlet hair ribbons beneath her nose. A woman tried to sell her a length of cheap woven braid. She shook her head and ploughed grimly on through the throng, not daring to look back.

Finally, she stopped and leaned against a house wall to regain her breath. She did not know where she was or how far she had run. People were looking at her curiously. She gulped another breath and began to walk slowly, trying to blend with the crowd.

And then her arm was grabbed from behind, and at the same time, she heard the groom shout across the heads of the people in the street.

Generally, Mauger was slow and thorough in his purchase of horses. He took his time, and was prepared to reject a beast rather than take a risk. But his blood was up, his anger simmering, and it made him incautious. He swallowed convulsively, the lump in his throat so huge that he felt it would choke him. Julitta's contrariness drove him to distraction. Why couldn't she be a proper wife to him? Why did she always make him feel clumsy and inferior? Did she not realise that if only she ceased fighting him and accorded him the respect that was his due, he would give her the world? Perhaps he ought to tell her, but Mauger was wary of the gentler emotions, especially his own.

He watched a Spanish trader trot a bay colt up and down, and forced himself to concentrate upon the horse rather than imagining Julitta's lovely white throat beneath his hands. Even if he did tell her, she would probably toss her head and ignore him. He could see the expression on her face now.

'You like, my lord?' demanded the trader of Mauger's deep scowl.

'No, show me something else, something with more fire.' Robert of Normandy wanted a warhorse. Well and good, he would find Robert of Normandy such a beast. A savage glint in his eye, Mauger set himself to find a stallion that matched the state of his temper.

It was an hour and ten traders later that he came across the young, unbroken black colt which the Catalan dealer's lad was striving to calm. Sweat creamed its neck along the line of the bridle, and it fretted at the sharp bit, specks of blood mingling with the foam at its mouth corners. Its hide was a glossy jet-black, its mane and tail in contrast a dazzling silvery white. Usually Mauger would have kept his distance, but now he plunged into bargaining with a vengeance.

The merchant's wife escorted Benedict to the door of her handsome timber house, and stood with him on the threshold. She was thickly set, with a florid complexion and heavy-lidded brown eyes. Her gown was of the thickest, costliest wool to mark her rank, but the sweat stains encircling the armpits had ruined the fabric. In the room behind her was a family gathering of adult sons and daughters, and several noisy grandchildren. Benedict was not sorry to leave. Out of charity he had made enquiries and brought them the sad news of the death of the family's head on the road to Compostella.

There had been a suitable amount of dramatic wailing for effect, but no deep-seated grief as far as he could tell. The merchant had not been the kind to engender affection, even among those closest to him. Oh they would do all that was necessary to mourn him, exalt his position amongst Bordeaux's merchant fraternity by staging sumptuous masses and giving freely of alms, but it would all be for show.

'Thank you for bringing us the tidings,' the woman said formally.

Benedict bowed. 'It was my duty, Madame.' He did not say 'Christian' duty, since it was Christians who had murdered the pilgrims, and a Moor who had enabled him to be here to give the news.

The woman stepped into the street, gave him directions back to the main thoroughfare and wished him Godspeed. Benedict bowed again and set out. He was in no particular hurry and took his time, admiring the fine merchants' houses which a prospering wine trade had funded. There was a mixture of wooden shingles, thatch and tiles on the roofs. Many had fine first- or second-floor galleries. Women stood gossiping outside their doors, their fingers busy twirling raw wool into yarn on their distaffs. Young children played. Older ones were employed in household tasks. Various cooking smells wafted past his nostrils, and once the stink of burned pottage, where a wife had been so busy chattering that she had forgotten to add more water to her cooking pot.

Without conscious thought he strolled towards the wharf-side where the wine galleys bobbed at anchor. He could see the vessel in which he and Sancho had sailed from Corunna; a Byzantine horse transport, three-decked, sturdy and large. It had been Sancho's idea to commission her in Corunna and sail her up the coast, rather than face the dangerous trek over the mountains. She was specifically designed to carry livestock, with large holds in her port hull. Once he and Sancho completed their business in Bordeaux, they would take her on up the coast to Rouen and disembark the horses there.

He stepped back to admire her lines and thought about discussing with his father and Rolf the possibility of building one of these vessels for transporting stock between Iberia and Normandy. Ordinary trading vessels could carry horses over short distance, but they were no use for longer sea voyages.

Pondering the thought, he continued along the banks of the Garonne, passing other transports, Mediterranean round ships, northern narrowboats, and Flemish cogs. And then he saw theDraca, his father's wine galley, bobbing at anchor, its great mast and canvas sail lying along the deck, its oars neatly stacked across the rowing benches. There was no cargo in her mid-deck open hold and no members of crew on board guarding her. She was obviously at rest and waiting to be reloaded.

Benedict knew that it was unlikely his father was here in Bordeaux. Aubert seldom made the journey; he said that the sea was bad for his ague, but Beltran was almost certain to be in port somewhere, purchasing a cargo for the return trip to Normandy. Benedict's heart lightened, and for the first time in several days a smile came to his lips.

He walked on, intending to visit the horse sales and inform Sancho of his discovery, but he had scarcely changed his direction when he saw a young woman burst out of an alleyway like a hunted doe and join the main thoroughfare, her soft shoes scarcely making any sound as she ran. A veil of light silk covered the top of her head, but not the heavy, dark red braids which snaked from side to side with her motion.

'Julitta,' he said in astonishment. It was her, he would have recognised her anywhere. But what was she doing in Bordeaux? Obviously she must have sailed in on the Draca. But why?

A man was chasing her, shoving his way rudely through the crowd. Benedict recognised Austin, Mauger's chief groom, and in a regular rage to judge by the glower on his perspiring features. Shock had rooted Benedict to the spot, but now he regained the use of his limbs and set off in pursuit of Julitta, determined to reach her first and discover what she was doing and what was wrong.

He cut diagonally through the bustle, weaving and dodging, making breathless apologies. At first he thought that he would lose her, for despite being hampered by her gown, she was as swift as an arrow, and nimble too. But she had been running for longer than he, and gradually he gained on her. At last, she stopped for breath, leaning against a house wall, her hand pressed to her side, and he was able to catch her.

She flung round at the touch on her arm, her blue eyes immense with fear and fury. Her foot drew back to kick her assailant in the shin, and was arrested in mid-motion. 'Benedict?' she gasped, and then her eyes flooded with tears and instead of launching an attack, she threw herself into his arms and hugged him tight. 'You're safe! Oh thank God!'

Austin arrived then, his breath whistling in his throat, and his face the hue of an over-ripe raspberry. He was too exhausted to speak and could only glare at the two of them.

Julitta raised her head from Benedict's chest, tears brimming. She bit her lip. Her own breathing was still rapid and uneven. 'I quarrelled -with Mauger — about you as it happens, and he confined me to our lodging house with Austin as my guard. So… so I ran away.'

'Where is Mauger now?'

'At the horse market – I think. Either there, or in a drinking house.'

'And your quarrel was about me?'

'I thought you were in trouble. He said that you were like a cat — always landed on your feet, and that he did not have the time to seek you out just to discover that you were all right.'

Benedict's lips twitched at her summary of Mauger's response, but there was pain in his smile too. 'Like a cat,' he repeated, and shook his head. 'He is right and he is wrong. I have landed on my feet, but not before being first beaten to my knees.'

By now, Austin had recovered enough to stand straight and his complexion was less congested. 'Mistress Julitta, you must return to the lodging house,' he panted.

'Mistress Julitta must do nothing unless it be her will,' Benedict said sharply to the groom.

The man clamped his jaw. His eyes were nervous. 'Lord Mauger will whip me.'

Julitta gripped Benedict's sleeve. 'It does not matter now that I've found you. I'll willingly return to our lodgings.' She smiled through her tears. 'I will even bow to my husband and admit that I was wrong to fear for your safety.'

'You weren't wrong,' he contradicted. 'If I am here now, it is because of a Moorish physician named Faisal ibn Mansour.' Abruptly he turned to the groom. 'I will escort Lady Julitta back to her lodgings. You can go and find Lord Mauger and tell him I am here and that I take full responsibility.'

Austin deliberated, saw that it was the best that could be salvaged from the situation, and departed in haste to find his master.

Together, Julitta and Benedict began to walk. 'Are you staying in the city?' she asked.

Benedict shook his head. 'No. We sailed up from Corunna on a horse transport galley, and we sleep there.'

His use of 'we' caused Julitta to make a wrong assumption. 'Is Gisele there now?'

'No,' he said quietly. 'Gisele is… is dead.' He lengthened his stride as if to outpace the thought and Julitta had almost to run to keep up.

'Dead? What happened?'

'Let it wait until Mauger comes. It's not something I want to relive more than I must.' He swallowed and glanced at her sidelong. 'It has been a hard road, Julitta.'

'I'm sorry.' It sounded inadequate, but she could think of nothing else to say.

Benedict shrugged and said nothing. They walked on in uncomfortable silence until they came to the wharves and the ships riding at anchor. He showed her his transport galley, theConstantine. It was one of the larger ships in dock, with two decks, and the forward hull doors. 'We load the hones in there for the journey, and then seal them in with pitch,' he explained. 'It means there is more room, and more animals can be loaded at a given time. Once we're underway, we get down to them by hatches and ladders from the top deck.' He went into a detailed explanation of the techniques involved, drawing away from the rip-tide words Gisele is dead. And Julitta followed his lead, nodding sensibly, asking questions whose replies she was not later to recall.

Then Benedict suddenly paused in mid-explanation and shaded his eyes against the sun as a figure emerged from the depths of the vessel and came walking down the gangplank on bandy legs. His tunic was tattered at cuff and hem; he wore a battered felt pilgrim hat on his head, and his face was browner than the oak boards of the vessel's deck. His lower jaw was working busily, folding into his upper as he chewed some black concoction from one side of his mouth to the other. Julitta recognised him from her walk the previous day, and after a momentary recoil, held her ground.

Beside her, Benedict had relaxed, and there was even a smile on his lips.

The old man reached them and leered at Julitta through his horrible, milky eyes.

'Hah!' he said to Benedict in a harsh voice. 'Been doing some trading on the sly, have you?' He looked Julitta up and down as if assessing the points of a horse. 'Something to keep you warm on the journey to Rouen, eh?'

Benedict went red beneath his tan. 'Sancho, I want you to meet Julitta. Do you remember, I spoke of her to you when I told you about my home?'

Sancho appraised Julitta more thoroughly, chewing with great vigour on his liquorice root. 'Rare,' he approved, nodding his head. The leer narrowed. He spat out of the side of his mouth. 'Where's the husband?'

'Being fetched.' Benedict turned to Julitta, sensing her barely contained anger at being thus treated. 'Julitta, this is Sancho, the best stud overseer in all of Castile — for all that he looks like a brigand and he hasn't any manners,' he added pointedly.

'Waste of time,' Sancho growled. 'Say what you mean and be done with it.'

Julitta exchanged glances with Benedict. He saw irritation in her eyes, and a sparkle of amusement. 'What have you told him about me?'

'Everything that I should know,' Sancho interjected. 'And as private as the confessional. I may be a mannerless oaf, but I know when to stitch my lips.'

Which meant that he knew everything. This time it was Julitta who blushed.

Sancho cocked his head to one side. 'So how come you to be in Bordeaux, my lady?'

'My husband is here to buy warhorses at the market for Robert of Normandy, and he desired to bring me with him on this occasion.'

'Ah,' said Sancho. 'Keeping his treasure chest where he can see it.' His eyes glimmered like moonstones, and he grinned wolfishly at Benedict. 'Trouble is, he left it unlocked, didn't he?'

Benedict pulled a warning face at the old man. 'I thought you knew when to stitch your lips,' he said.

'I do,' Sancho retorted. 'Most of the time.'

Sancho insisted on accompanying Benedict and Julitta to the lodging house. He would be a chaperone, he said. Nothing unseemly could possibly happen with him in attendance. Benedict was not certain that he agreed. Sancho's tongue was a razor, and as a matter of bad habit he used it to cut. But at least Julitta would arrive home under the escort of two men instead of just himself. He decided that Mauger would judge the little overseer's presence the lesser of the two evils.

Mauger was already at Madame Clothilde's, his face like thunder, his fist clamped around a goblet of wine which he was just draining as Benedict walked in. The groom stood a little to one side, a fresh red graze on his cheek, his eyes afraid.

The presence of others held Mauger's temper in check, although every muscle was corded and tense. 'I told you to stay,' he said to Julitta, his voice hoarse with the effort of control.

'I was right about Benedict,' she defied him, her chin raised, her body quivering, 'but you chose not to listen.'

'He looks remarkably hale and hearty to me,' Mauger said coldly.

'Late spring he wasn't,' Sancho said, and removing his battered felt hat, sat down on a bench near the window embrasure.

Mauger eyed him with disfavour. 'Who are you?'

'I'm head overseer of the stud belonging to Rodrigo Diaz of Bivar, although that will mean nothing to a barbarian such as you.' Sancho spat his wad of chewed liquorice root onto the floor.

Disgust flared Mauger's nostrils. 'You call me a barbarian?' His gaze swept over the haphazard assembly of rags before him.

'He knows more than either of us,' Benedict defended swiftly, 'and probably more than Rolf, since he's been alive that much longer.'

'I don't believe you,' Mauger said through compressed lips.

'Believe what you want, it's the truth.'

Madame Clothilde appeared then, bearing more wine and two large baskets of bread and fresh fruit. She too looked at Sancho as if she considered him a barbarian whom she would rather not entertain beneath her roof.

She deposited the food and departed to her cooking pot, wiping her hands on her apron and muttering.

Mauger replenished his wine cup and took another long drink. 'Where is Gisele?' he asked.

Benedict hesitated. When he spoke, his voice was devoid of expression. 'She lies in a small chapel on the pilgrim road to Compostella.' His hand shook slightly as he took a drink of his own wine. It was still difficult to talk about. He could feel the weight of Mauger's stare, studying his reactions, judging them. 'We were attacked by Basque brigands in the mountains and she was killed – an arrow through the heart. All of our pilgrim group were slaughtered except me. I…' He broke off with a shuddering breath. It was impossible to continue.

Mauger cleared his throat. His gaze slid away from Benedict, and he tilted his cup to his mouth. 'I am sorry,' he said gruffly.

The sound of Benedict's ragged breathing was loud in the silence. Julitta chewed her lip. Her eyes flickered once to her husband, and then, with sudden decision, she went to Benedict and put her arms around him. 'I am sorry too,' she said. 'She was my sister; she deserved better of life, and of death.'

Benedict made a strangled sound and put his face in his hands. His body was wracked by dry sobs as behind his eyes he saw again the look on Gisele's face as the arrow pierced her heart and brought her down like a doe. Mauger looked on, his expression appalled and embarrassed. Julitta said nothing, just held Benedict, trying to convey sympathy and grief by touch. She could understand why he had shied from the subject on the wharf.

'It is good that he weeps,' said Sancho, the least perturbed of anyone in the room. 'It cleans the wound of poison, makes it easier to heal. I have been concerned about him.'

Julitta raised her eyes to Sancho's. Behind the prickly facade lay compassion and care. 'What happened to him?' she asked.

Briefly Sancho told her the entire story as he had heard it from Faisal, not once glancing at Mauger, as if he felt the other man should not be present.

'I would have gladly died too,' Benedict muttered through the bars of his fingers.

'Not gladly, son,' Sancho reproached. 'If you had truly desired to yield up your soul to God, you would not have fought so hard to live when Faisal was tending you. It is the self-pity in you speaking, not the man.'

Benedict raised his head and stared at Sancho with narrowed eyes. Sancho returned the look, unperturbed. Benedict wiped his eyes on the heel of his hand and pushing himself out of Julitta's embrace, rose and walked to the window embrasure to stare out on Clothilde's sun-filled vegetable garden.

'So what are you doing in Bordeaux?' Mauger demanded, an edge of resentment and suspicion in his voice.

Benedict's left shoulder rose and fell. 'Returning to Brize with my burden of tidings and a cargo of Spanish horses.' His tone was weary now, uncaring. 'I hear that you are seeking a war stallion for Duke Robert.'

Mauger drank off his wine and refilled his cup. 'What of it?'

Julitta glanced at her husband. It occurred to her that with Gisele dead, Benedict was no longer the automatic heir to Brize-sur-Risle, that Mauger was the one with the better claim through herself. She wondered if Mauger had realised it too.

Benedict shrugged again and did not look round. 'Nothing,' he said dully. 'Congratulations.'

'Lord Robert specifically requested that I be sent,' Mauger added defensively.

'I am sure you are capable of selecting the kind of horse the Duke requires.'

'I am,' Mauger said tightly. 'And I have. So don't you go parading your own fancy Spanish wares beneath his nose when we return.'

'Christ, Mauger, do you think I care at the moment?' Benedict demanded in a voice that still cracked with the raw emotion of grief. 'I don't give a split rivet for your petty schemes!' He made an abrupt throwing gesture with his clenched fist. 'I think we have nothing more to say to each other that will not end in a fight.' He strode from the room without looking at its other occupants, not even Julitta.

Mauger drank down the wine. 'Don't look at me,' he growled. 'It's not my fault.'

Julitta gave him a disgusted glare. 'I know that you would prefer him to have died,' she said, and rising to her feet, followed Benedict out.

Sancho stepped into the breach as Mauger made to stride in pursuit of his wife. 'Stay,' he commanded, his cracked voice suddenly imperative. 'You will only goad him into a corner, or he will goad you, and there will be bloodshed. Let the woman handle him.'

Mauger glowered, but Sancho glowered back far more effectively, and held his ground. 'You say you are capable of selecting bloodstock for your Duke? Come then, tell me what you know, and see if your talent matches up to mine.' He gestured to the bench that Julitta had vacated. 'Sit, cease drinking and eat some of that bread to soak up all the wine you've consumed. I don't suffer fools gladly.'

'Why should I listen to you?'

'Because mine is the voice of reason.' The little overseer drew a fresh liquorice twig from his pouch, poked it in the side of his mouth where two teeth still opposed each other in the gum, and started to chew.

Mauger continued to scowl, but he made no attempt to thrust Sancho out of the way, and in a moment, he sat down and reached to the bread basket. 'I've been in this trade since the cradle. I don't need lessons from you.'

Sancho sat down beside him and stretched out his legs, easing their stiffness. 'I too was taught from the cradle and this year I will see out seventy winters. And still I find much to learn. A man who says he knows everything, knows nothing.'

Once out of the house, Julitta hitched her skirts to her shins and ran to catch up with Benedict who was striding out as if the devil were at his heels.

'Wait!' she gasped out. 'Ben, please wait!' 'Leave me alone!' he snarled raggedly over his shoulder. Julitta redoubled her efforts to reach him, and catching him by the arm, swung him round to face her. 'I won't impose on you beyond a moment,' she panted, 'but there is something that you must see. I know that you don't want my company or Mauger's — we're only salt in your wound, but…' Her voice trembled and she broke off.

His eyes had been opaque, a little mad, but now they cleared and he focused on her, breathing hard. 'I should have known that I could not run from you,' he said and squared his shoulders. 'What is it you want of me?'

What I cannot have, she thought. 'I want to give you something. Come.' She tugged at his sleeve, drawing him back toward the house and the stable shed beyond the courtyard. 'Here.' She drew him into the first stall.

He stared at the two horses, the grey gelding and the small chestnut mare. The grey swung his intelligent head and absorbed the scent and sight of the man. A sound, somewhere between a nicker and a grunt, rippled from the gelding's nostrils, and he tugged at his halter, eager to reach Benedict. The mare, too, pricked up her ears and whickered softly.

'Cylu?' Benedict whispered. He went to the grey and laid his hand against the glossy, muscular neck. Cylu nudged him lovingly with his nose. Benedict inspected the horse, turning disbelief into reality as he felt the solidity of bone and muscle, the satin hide, the warm, sweet breath. 'Where did you find them?' His attention flickered briefly to the mare, to Julitta, then back to grey gelding. A part of him was restored, and although it was only a small part, by its very presence it assumed great importance. A straw upon which to cling, a foundation on which to rebuild.

We bought them from a coper here in Bordeaux,' Julitta said, watching him with a mingling of love and pain. 'He said that he obtained them from a Basque trader.'

Benedict laughed harshly. 'A Basque cut-throat more likely. I wonder how many other pilgrims' horses have been sold that way?' He pressed his palm against Cylu's warm, dappled neck. 'I saw her die,' he muttered. 'Mercifully it was quick, she knew nothing beyond the first moment, but her eyes were on me as she fell. There was nothing I could do… nothing.' His voice quivered and his fingers tightened in Cylu's mane. If they had not, he would have turned round and engulfed Julitta in his grief and anger, and he knew that he dared not. A step too far on the crumbling edge of a precipice. Behind him, she was silent, as if she too sensed the danger of the moment. Then he heard the straw rustle. When he dared to look round, he discovered that he was alone.

He took time to compose himself, washed his hands and face in the water pail and went outside. She was sitting on a bench in the shade of the stable wall, her skirts tucked beneath her. He went to her and sat down, keeping a body's distance between them.

'I am sorry,' he said wryly.

'You needed a moment to be alone – and so did I.' She looked at him, and then down at her hands.

Benedict watched her toy with her gold wedding ring. 'Was Mauger so jealous of you that he had to bring you all the way to Bordeaux?'

'In a way. Robert of Normandy decided that I was the perfect dish to refresh his jaded palate. He wanted Mauger out of the way, so sent him down here to buy an Iberian warhorse. Mauger saw straight through his ploy and made me accompany him – not that I was unwilling. Robert of Normandy is no safe harbour for a runaway wife, and besides, I enjoy the freedom of travelling. Of course,' she added to the gold ring, 'instead of Robert of Normandy, Mauger now has you to contend with.'

Benedict sighed. 'You and he, I thought you had found contentment?' he said, remembering that time he had walked in on them making love on the solar floor.

'Resignation,' she murmured and darted him a glance. 'I have tried to adapt to Mauger's ways, he tries to compromise, but the road is strewn with thorns.'

Benedict thought about Sancho, about the tale the old man had told him of his youthful elopement. 'It was hard for her,' he had said. 'We never really had any peace.' He leaned his head against the stable wall and looked at her. 'When I have spoken to your father and delivered the horses, I am returning to Castile.'

'For always?' Dismay widened her eyes and she caught her full underlip in her teeth, a mannerism that had always maddened and enchanted him.

'For the next few years at least. Sancho will more than welcome me. If I return to England, it will only be to face the persecution of William Rufus. I know between him, Robert of Normandy, and Rodrigo Diaz of Bivar, which lord I would rather serve.'

'But what of my father?' Julitta protested with indignation. 'I can understand that you feel no loyalty to Rufus and Robert, neither of them are worth a spit in the wind, but surely you owe my father more than that?'

Benedict met her gaze which was fierce-blue with anger. 'I owe your father more than I can ever repay, most of it in regrets and apologies,' he said bleakly. 'I will do my best to make reparations in Spanish horse stock and silver. You do not need to tell me that it is not enough.'

She said nothing, just continued to stare at him, and he plunged on, further justifying his decision in the face of her silence. 'You are now your father's heir, and through you, Mauger. You may say that I am cutting off my nose to spite my face, but I could not bear to take orders from him at Brize and Ulverton. I have made friends in Castile and the beginnings of a new life. The threads of my old one are too tangled and broken to be mended.'

Julitta reddened, and compressing her lips looked the other way for a moment.

'Julitta?' He leaned toward her.

She shook her head and swallowed valiantly. 'You are right,' she said. 'A life in Castile will suit you, and my father too, since he will have a source of fine-bred Iberian horses at the flick of his finger. He can always find another overseer for Ulverton. It is just that I…' She broke off and angrily wiped her eyes. 'It is foolish.' Her voice quivered. 'I have loved you since I was five years old. You would think I would know better by now.' She sprang to her feet before he could close the gap between them. 'No, let me be,' she warned. 'I am overjoyed to know you are alive, let that be enough.'

Benedict rose too, not knowing what he was going to do or say, only aware that they could not part like this. There had to be a better balance. 'Julitta, listen,' he pleaded, but whatever he would have said went unspoken as two grooms entered Clothilde's courtyard, leading a plunging black stallion, its eyes white-rimmed and its upper lip wrinkled back to show vicious yellow teeth. Its mane and tail in contrast to its coat, were a bright silver.

Open-mouthed, Benedict stared. 'Christ on the Cross,' he said softly. 'Don't tell me that Mauger's gone and bought that brute.'

'What do you mean?' Julitta demanded sharply, a note of fear in her voice.

'Sancho and I saw that black earlier. He'd just kicked one of his handlers in the thigh and nigh on cracked the bone. Fine colour, fine looks, but I doubt that any man will come close enough to mount him, let alone stay in the saddle. He's not just wild, he's savage.'

Julitta shook her head. 'Mauger would never buy an animal like that. You know how cautious he is.'

'Cautious or not, it's been brought here, and it's certainly neither for me, nor Sancho.' He started forward to help the grooms, but Mauger and Sancho emerged from the house, and Benedict halted.

'Where shall we put him, lord?' enquired one of the attendants between grunts for breath as he strove to hold the horse.

Mauger indicated Clothilde's small stable. 'Bring out the chestnut and the grey, and put him in their place,' he commanded.

'He'll kick the place to bits,' Benedict said, appalled.

Mauger strode up to his grooms. 'Mind your own business, I know what I'm buying.'

'An early grave by the looks of things,' Sancho declared with a curl to his upper lip. He watched the black stallion rear and buck, plunge and kick. 'Still, you do not need lessons from me,' he gave an exaggerated shrug, 'or so you say.'

'Mauger,' Benedict entreated, his hand outstretched. 'Don't be a fool. Swallow your pride.'

'Pride has nothing to do with it,' Mauger said through his teeth. It was obvious that rather than swallow he would choke. 'Take your horses and go!'

Benedict contained his anger, although it flashed in his eyes, and tightened his mouth comers. 'And so I will,' he said quietly, accepting the lead reins of Cylu and the mare from a groom. 'We have nothing more to say to each other, at least not without bloodshed.' He looked at Julitta. 'Go with God,' he murmured. 'You will be in my thoughts.'

'And you in mine.' Her lower lip quivered.

'Leave Julitta alone,' Mauger hissed. 'She is my wife, you lost yours.'

Benedict flinched from the fury in Mauger's bright grey eyes. He seemed almost as mad as the black stallion. 'Yes, she is your wife,' he answered. 'You ram it down my throat at every opportunity.'

'Lest you forget!' Mauger snarled.

It was too much. Benedict's resolve broke. 'How could I?' he attacked. 'We both know why she was married to you in the first place!'

The air between them was drenched with more than just the heat of the day. Mauger's right hand eased towards the hilt of his sword. Benedict was not wearing a blade, had only his meat knife at his belt. He wanted to seize it and plunge it into Mauger's arrogant body, but by a supreme effort of will, he clenched his fists and kept them down at his sides. 'This is foolish,' he said impatiently. 'There can be no winner from this.'

He mounted Cylu, held out the chestnut's rope for Sancho, and rode out of the courtyard. Although he did not look round, he could feel the stares striking his spine – Mauger's hatred, Julitta's love and anguish.

The sides of the horse shelter shook as the black stallion kicked and kicked again, the hollow drumming filling the world.

'He thinks he is better than everyone when he is nothing,' Sancho said contemptuously. And then he grinned, revealing the interior of his juice-blackened mouth. 'Your woman, she is very beautiful. Never have I seen such pretty hair.'

Benedict thought about murdering the little overseer. 'She is not my woman.'

'You think because I am old and I squint that I have no eyes?' Sancho snapped his fingers in front of Benedict's face.

'I think that because you are old and you squint, you should mind your own business.'

Sancho snorted. 'You are my business, lad.'

'Then leave me alone.' Benedict kicked his heels against Cylu's flanks and urged him to a trot, putting distance between himself and Sancho's gargoyle grin. But the overseer's words followed him, and so did the eyes, with their knowing squint.

CHAPTER 59

The September sea was a calm green-blue with the gentlest of swells as the Constantine sailed up the tidal estuary of the Garonne and entered the wide bite of the Bay of Biscay. White caps rolled shorewards and gulls soared above the slow wake of the galley, their cries piercing in the clear air.

Benedict descended the crude stairway from the hatch on the main deck, and entered the caulked-up hold where the horses he was bringing to Rolf were stabled. As an extra precaution, in case they met with rough weather, each animal was supported in a canvas sling so that it would not lose its footing and be cast over on its back. The animals had access to food and water, and there were two grooms with them at all times to deal with difficulties, should they arise.

The Constantine was ploughing her way north on the swell and they were making good time. Benedict anticipated that by evening they would enter the port of Royan, there to take on fresh fodder for the animals and give them a day's respite from the slings. From Royan, it was only three more days of sailing to the Normandy coast. The route was shorter than the overland one, less sapping of the horses' strength. Many traders did not trust the vagaries of the open sea, and no-one would have attempted the passage in winter, but here, at summer's end, the weather was still benevolent enough for Benedict to have few qualms. The overland route held too many memories, none of them pleasant.

He went among the horses, checking that their slings were secure and that the animals were comfortable. He spoke gently to each one, and laid his hands upon them, stroking, scratching, soothing. In his imagination, he saw Sancho sitting in the corner watching him with a mocking twist to his mouth and an approving look in his eyes. The feeling was so strong that he even flashed a wry smile into the lantern-lit darkness.

Even as Benedict had turned his eyes to the north, so Sancho had turned south, heading home to his duties at the stud of Bivar. They had parted on the wharfside at Bordeaux, the tide running high, slapping against the sides of the Constantine, a north-easterly evening wind ruffling Benedict's black hair and the catskin trim on Sancho's short cloak.

'God speed your path and look favourably on your dealings,' Sancho had said soberly, without the customary leer or salty remark. There had been affection in his eyes, and concern.

Benedict embraced the wiry old man heartily. 'Look for me in the spring,' he answered, affirming his intention of returning.

But spring lay on the other side of winter, a winter Benedict had to endure in Normandy and England. He had tragic tidings to bear to Rolf, and the wound-salt of the presence of Mauger and Julitta for some of that time. He did not think he would stay long at Brize. There was always his father's house in Rouen in which he could over-winter.

He finished making a fuss of Kumbi and went back on deck. The wind billowed the canvas sail and ropes creaked. The Constantine rode forward on the gentle swell, the steersman making occasional adjustments to the tiller. Out on the sea beyond them were the masts of other vessels taking advantage of the tide – galleys bearing salt from the pans stretched along the sandy coast, Spanish iron, and tun upon tun of Gascon wine for England and Normandy.

Benedict stared across the water at the other vessels. The Draca was out there among them, but he could not detect her sail. Beltran, its master, had come visiting as he and Sancho prepared the Constantine to embark, and there had been a troubled look in his eyes. Over a meal of bread and saffron fish soup, he had confided that he was not entirely happy about the cargo he was expected to bear back to Normandy.'

'Lord Mauger says that he wants me to transport that stallion he bought. I am a wine trader, I know little of animals. Yes, I have carried sheep before, and even once a cow, but it is not the same. I suggested to him that he should take the overland route, but he became angry. I think that he wants to arrive in Rouen before you.'

Benedict grimaced and laid down his spoon. 'And you think right,' he said. 'But there is nothing I can do. There is no foundation for reason between myself and Mauger. We parted on a quarrel, and whatever I say will only make him the more determined to go his own way.'

Beltran nodded. 'I do not expect you to talk to him. I know how it is between you. But if I have to take this horse, then I want you to tell me the best way of making him safe.'

'Knock him on the head,' Sancho advised. 'And every time he wakes up, knock him on the head again.'

Benedict darted him an amused glance, then turned back to Beltran. 'Make sure he is securely tied and hobbled, that he cannot break loose. And don't let him see that you are afraid, it will only increase his aggression.'

Beltran had rolled his eyes at Benedict. 'I don't intend going anywhere near that beast,' he said. 'Let Lord Mauger load him, let Lord Mauger tend to his needs. My only concern is sailing theDraca whole into Rouen. Say a prayer for me.'

And now, gazing out to sea, Benedict did say a prayer, and asked God to keep Julitta from harm.

Beltran paced the single deck of the Draca and glanced skywards with a worried frown. Storm clouds were building, one on top of the other, piling to fill the sky. Dirty grey, rimmed with heavy charcoal, expanding and contracting like the chest of a breathing giant. The sea was a choppy green-grey, the crests of the waves licked with white curlicues of spume. The Draca was holding a steady course at the moment, and running well before the wind, but Beltran did not really like the idea of rounding the tip of Brittany in the teeth of a storm. It might yet blow over, but his experience and instinct told him that it was unlikely. He turned to give instructions to one of the crew, and caught sight of Mauger leaning over the wash-strake, retching dryly into the waves. His garments were drenched from the splash of the spray against the Draca's sides, his blond hair plastered to his skull, his eyes sunken in cadaver hollows. The grooms were sick too. Only Lady Julitta went unaffected, possessed of Rolf's natural sea legs. She stood beside the steersman, talking cheerfully, her cheeks whipped to startling rosiness by the sting of the salt wind.

Beltran walked down the ship towards her, picking his way over a coil of rope, a water barrel, and past the open hold. On one side of the mast, his cargo of wine barrels was protected from the elements by a covering of oiled canvas secured with hempen ropes. On the other, hobbled, muzzled, immobilised, was Mauger's black Spanish stallion. His back was covered with a blanket to keep him from catching a chill, and he was fairly well protected from the worst of the spray, but Beltran wondered if the beast would be approachable, let alone rideable by the time they reached dry land.

He had been blindfolded at the outset of their journey while he was hobbled and tied, but that had been removed once he was secure and they were underway. The stallion's eyes showed a permanent white rim, and there were tension grooves running from nostril to orbit. The grooms had to untie his head to permit him to eat and drink, but as they were now, Beltran doubted them capable of controlling the beast should there be an accident.

Skirting the stallion, never taking his eyes from him, he continued on to Julitta.

'Storm rising,' he said, pointing at the clouds. 'Best to find a harbour soon and ride it out.'

Julitta nodded, and although concern filled her eyes, there was no serious anxiety. She knew that Beltran was more than competent which was more than could be said for Mauger. His face was almost the same shade of green as his tunic and he had retched so much that he could barely stand straight for the pain in his abused stomach muscles. Despite herself, she felt sympathy for him.

After his behaviour in Bordeaux, she had hated him, but it had been impossible to maintain such intensity of emotion for long. He was jealous of her because he was uncertain of himself, and when she saw the bewilderment in his eyes, the incomprehension of his own actions, her rage diminished. She would never cease loving Benedict, but she knew that if she continued to live on dreams, they would destroy her.

The clouds continued to scud and darken, and needles of rain prickled Julitta's face. The wind whipped the cloak that she drew around her body, and tried to tear it away. A freak gust swirled off her wimple. Her braids, dark and bright, tumbled down over her breasts. The Draca responded gallantly to the increasing surge of the sea beneath her keel. Her prow rose and dipped, rose and dipped, still knifing the waves with a keen edge. Spray shattered over her bows and spattered the crew, the passengers, and the covered cargo. Mauger's black stallion tugged on his securing ropes and neighed in protest and fear as time and again stinging drops of cold, salt water peppered his hide.

Mauger and the least incapacitated groom strove to erect another canvas cover over the stallion for protection, but the wind was too stiff and their bodies too weak, and all they succeeded in doing was wrapping the canvas around themselves and hampering the frantically working crew. Julitta hurried to help them out of their dilemma. Her hair whipped around her face, her gait was a drunken weave as she strove to walk on the heaving deck. Reaching Mauger and the groom, she untangled them from the clogging canvas, the fabric heavy and rough in her hands. All too close, the stallion threshed and struggled against the ropes confining him. Mauger reached his feet by sheer determination of will.

'Give me the end.' He beckoned, and swallowed hard.

With some difficulty, Julitta did so. Between them, she and Mauger, and the groggy groom, managed to erect an awning over the stallion, but it was scant cover from the incoming rain and wind.

Task finished, Mauger collapsed, retching weakly. 'Why should you be gifted with sea legs?' he gasped at Julitta, his voice husky and strained.

'My father's never sick either, I get it from him,' she answered. 'Beltran says he's taking shelter. It won't be long.'

'I never want to leave dry land again,' Mauger gulped. 'Never!'

Julitta returned to Beltran. The captain's eyes were narrowed against the worsening weather, and he constantly snapped out orders to his crew. 'We're off the Breton coast,' he told her. 'There's a bay beyond the next headland. We'll ride this out close to shore. It's going to be a rough night, my lady.'

Julitta gathered her wet, dishevelled braids in her hands and squeezed out the water. She gave Beltran a rueful smile. 'I think that sailors are very hardy, very brave, and utterly foolish,' she said.

'Not so foolish as to lose their lives; my crew are the best.'

'Knowing you, and knowing Aubert de Remy, I would not argue,' she said, and went to sit in the lee of the wine cargo, out of his and the sailors' way. She said a quiet prayer, both for the safety of the Draca and for those on board the Constantine, wherever she was on this wild and stormy passage.

The Constantine also took shelter from the bad weather by hugging the Breton shoreline. Breakers drove in towards the beach – a long strip of fawn sand and shingle giving way to dark forest through the driving rain. Gulls screamed and wheeled; the air was salty with spindrift and the wind was raw.

Benedict checked on the horses in the hold, and found them uneasy and uncomfortable, but not given to outright panic. He went among them, soothing and stroking, making sure that all had sufficient feed and water. The chestnut mare was the most nervous of all of them, and he remained with her longest, talking to her, coaxing. She and Gisele had suited each other, their temperaments a match. He thought of his wife, of her simple grave in the mountains, and of the road he had travelled since then. It seemed as close as yesterday, and as distant as the end of the world.

He gave the mare a final, affectionate pat, and went back on deck. The wind howled through the lateen rigging, sounding notes like an off-key bladder pipe. The canvas sail snapped and billowed. A rope clattered against the mast.

Benedict lunged his way to the cabin and galley in the vessel's stern, where a sailor was stirring a cauldron of soup over a hearth of glazed tiles. Just before he ducked into the shelter, Benedict cast his eyes across the murky horizon. Other ships were seeking shelter inshore. There were two wine traders heading north like themselves, a smaller, southbound Scandinavian Nef, and a fleet of local fishing boats. The farthest sail was a square one, striped in yellow and red-orange, the same colours as those of the Draca. Benedict narrowed his eyes, trying to focus on the ship, but the wind gusted and the rain suddenly began to pelt down, obliterating all vision beyond a few yards. Sighing, Benedict entered the galley, to fortify himself with a bowl of the hot soup. If the weather worsened further, there would be no time for taking sustenance, and besides, the galley fire would have to be doused so that it was not a hazard.

The full force of the squall struck as evening darkened the sky and the wind rose beyond a whine to a scream. The Draca was sent writhing out of control, bucking and kicking on the waves like a runaway colt. The steersman cursed and fought the tiller, striving to bring her round. Bellowing orders, Beltran ran to help him.

Lightning ripped the sky apart, giving the struggling sailors a fleeting vision of heaven's brilliance. In the darkness as the Draca plunged into a trough, they saw the gates of hell and the black mouth of eternity rising up to devour them.

The rain slashed down in a million lances of black light. Sea water broke over the deck and waterlogged the bilges. Sailors frantically pumped and scooped. The Draca wallowed, trembled, and fought back at the sea. Like the Viking ships from which she was descended, she snarled defiance at the silver-clawed waves, her prow dripping trails of crystal and obsidian water.

Soaked to the bone, Julitta huddled against the wine casks and endured the fury of the storm. In its early stages it had been exhilarating, but now she was becoming frightened by its fury. As far as the eye could see, there was nothing but a wild darkness, and it roared so loudly that it left no room for any other sound. It filled the world to bursting and threatened to rend its very fabric. Even the terrified screams of the black stallion were overridden by the bellowing of the storm.

Julitta searched her mind for the best saint to invoke for protection, but it was impossible to think. Gisele would have known, or Arlette, but both were dead. Perhaps she was going to join them.

Julitta sternly curtailed her over-active imagination. Beltran said that it was an ordinary storm, that the Draca had weathered worse, and would doubtless do so again, and when he spoke, his eyes had been calm.

Beside Julitta, Mauger lay doubled up and groaning, oblivious to anything but his own suffering. His stomach was empty and produced nothing but a watery bile. Julitta had begun to feel queasy too, but she knew that a part of it was fear. She could swim – her father had insisted she learn after she had strayed near the dew ponds as a child, but it was a long time ago, and she had been taught in shallow water where her feet touched the bottom, not in a rough, black sea. Her imagination ran riot again. She squeezed her lids tightly shut and prayed. And the name she sobbed was Benedict's. For he was the only rescuer she had ever known.

The Draca rode out the storm and with the coming of dawn, battered and bruised, but still intact, rolled at anchor on the swell of an iron-hued, sullen sea. Over their heads the clouds still churned, driven like the gulls by the directionless, boisterous wind. Feeling as stiff as an old woman, Julitta clambered in ungainly fashion to her feet and went in search of a cup of water and a crust of bread to calm her quailing stomach. Beltran was sitting on a rowing bench near the steersman and chewing on bread and smoked herring. His eyes were pouched with weariness and there was a troubled frown between his brows.

'Good morrow, my lady,' he greeted Julitta and offered her a share of his breakfast. She declined the herring, but accepted the bread and a cup of watered wine.

'Have we seen out the worst of it now?' she asked as she made to return to Mauger.

'I hope so, my lady. We took a fair battering last night. Sail's stretched beyond good use. It'll be slower progress from now on.' He sucked his teeth and shook his head. 'I'm sorry it could not have been a smoother passage.'

Julitta managed a weak smile. 'So am I.'

Mauger sat up groggily and with a groan, took the cup that Julitta handed to him, having sipped her share. He drank thirstily, his body in desperate need of moisture after the terrible purging of yesterday. Red-eyed, rumpled, stained, he looked at Julitta over the rim of the cup. She had bound up her hair in a tightly knotted kerchief, her cheeks were scarlet, her lips salt-dried. Her shoes and the hem of her gown were sea-stained too. She looked like a fishwife. It was in her blood, a product of her tough, Norse heritage. Thus the women of her forefathers who had crossed the seas in open boats must have looked. Mauger acknowledged to himself that he would have been one of the farmers who stayed at home and never went a-viking.

Cynwulf was a sea-raider, a pirate, whose home for the past twenty years had been the deck of a longship and the high seas between Dublin and Ushant. He was an English exile, a huscarl who had survived to flee the battle of Hastings, and found sanctuary in the Norse pirate port of Dublin. Robbed of his homeland, he now robbed the Normans who had stolen it from him, exacting his revenge on their traders and merchant vessels.

His ship, the Fenrir, had seen better days, so had its crew, and the recent storm had done little to make them any more presentable. They had sailed out from Dublin on a promising wind together with three other raiders, but the squalls of the last two days had scattered the longships and each had now to make his own way. Cynwulf was irritated. Prey was easier when hunting in a pack. One to one could be dangerous, and although he had never shrunk from peril, he was aware of his encroaching years and the slowing of his body.

Cynwulf scanned the horizon with weather-creased eyes. The jagged coastline of Brittany rose out of the mist on the Fenrifs larboard bow. A sailor dropped a knotted sounding line and drawing it back up, shouted the depth to the steersman. Gulls screamed overhead and a watery sun pierced the clouds. Cynwulf had contemplated putting about and returning to Dublin, but now he squared his shoulders and took the decision to remain at sea. Storm-battered they might be, but there would be other vessels in similar case, probably up from Biscay, and if he chose carefully, the Fenrir could yet earn her keep with a hold full of booty to replace her ballast of common rock.

It was midday when the sail was sighted on the horizon. The muscles stood rigid in Cynwulf's jaw. He strode to the raised deck on the prow and followed the sailor's pointing finger to the tiny red and yellow patch off the starboard gunwale. It was almost beyond vision, but in the fullness of time, unless it altered direction and sailed out to sea, it would cross their path… or they would cross its path.

'Break out the oars,' Cynwulf commanded. 'Let's take a closer look.'

'Sail to port!' bellowed the Draw's lookout. 'Coming up fast!' Beltran cupped his eyes and squinted across the glittering heave of the sea. He saw a rig similar to the Draca's own, the sail a plain, cream-coloured canvas. She was using both wind and oar power. He counted the number of rowing ports — a dozen either side, dipping and rising in smooth, powerful motion. Beltran cursed under his breath and began shouting rapid commands.

'What's wrong, what's happening?' Mauger came to Beltran's side and narrowed his lids in the direction of the captain's scrutiny.

Beltran shook his head. 'I may be wrong, but I'm not about to wait around and find out. Yonder vessel, she's bearing down on us too fast to be friendly.'

'You mean she's a raider?' Mauger looked appalled. His recovering complexion turned green again.

'We're in the right waters. They usually hunt in packs, but there are always lone wolves out on their own.' He glanced at Mauger from beneath his brows as he went to help trim the sail. 'Best look to that beast of yours; make sure he's well tied. There's some spears stacked at the side of the rowing benches. Arm yourself… and Lady Julitta too.'

'We can outrun them, surely,' Mauger said, a swallow in his voice.

'I hope so. Depends how much ballast she's carrying against the weight of our cargo.'

Mauger took two spears and retreated to the hold. Julitta was leaning over the painted gunwale, staring at the oncoming vessel. Red strands of hair had escaped her kerchief and were whipping against her face. 'Beltran says they could be raiders. You've to arm yourself,' he said.

She turned round. Her eyes had widened at his words, but she nodded sensibly, and took the weapon from him as if it was something that she did every day. 'What will they do if they are raiders and they catch us?'

Mauger thought of all the tales he had heard about the viciousness of Dublin pirates. 'I don't know,' he answered. 'Ransom us, I hope.'

Julitta hefted the spear the way she had seen the soldiers do at battle practices. She wondered whether it should be thrown, used as a stabbing weapon, or as a stave to keep the other vessel from grinding up sufficiently close for a boarding party. Like Beltran, she had counted twenty-four oars. Their own crew numbered a dozen, plus themselves. Odds of two to one at least.

It quickly became clear that the pursuing vessel had far from friendly intentions. As she approached, tacking to meet the Draca, Julitta saw the glint of sunlight on spear tips and shield bosses. She was a low-slung dragon-ship, built for speed, otter-sleek in pursuit.

Beltran ran the Draca as close to the wind as he dared, her sail trimmed as best could be managed after the stretching of the storm, and the heaviest members of the crew leaning out on her windward gunwale. She cut through the ocean swell with a smooth, hissing force, the waves parting beneath her knife-blade hull. But despite her surging progress, the sea-raider closed in, grapnels and spears at the ready.

Julitta could see the men on the longship now – salt-bearded warriors, some in armour, some in plain tunics, all of them bearing weapons. She could hear their shouts too. In a mingling of Anglo—Saxon and Irish—Norse, they bellowed their intentions across the diminishing gap of sea between themselves and the Draca, none of them remotely honourable.

A spear curved through the air. Its sharp iron tip ripped its way down the Draca's sail and rested, embedded in the cloth. Another flew, shaving past Beltran and thrumming into a wine barrel in the hold. Red liquid spouted like a slashed artery. Mauger's stallion struggled against his restraints, and whinnied. Despite the cold sea breeze, sweat creamed his dark hide.

A grapnel struck the Draca's straking and splashed back into the sea. A second and third were thrown, both clawing fast in the gunwale. Crew members strove to free their ship of the barbs. Spear-silver flashed and a sailor staggered backwards and collapsed, his task incomplete, his chest pierced. Mauger stepped over him to take his place, but it was already too late. The two hulls ground together, and a helmeted warrior hauled himself aboard the Draca.

Mauger thrust with the spear and the man died. He wrenched the shaft from the body with a snarl and leaped to tackle the next raider. But although Mauger held his own ground, he could not hold the entire length of the ship, and the pirates swarmed aboard.

The Draca lost her momentum and began to pitch and roll beneath the onslaught of violent activity and an untended sail. Julitta staggered and fell against the wine casks, losing the spear with which she had been keeping an amused raider at bay. He straddled her, and hauled her to her feet by a fistful of her gown.

'What have we here?' he said in Saxon, and dragged off her head covering. Her bright hair blazed free, and he whistled in admiration. 'Irish red,' he said.

'Take your hands off me!' she spat, using her mother's native tongue to reply rather than the Norman French of her daily usage.

For a moment, surprise blinked in the hard eyes. 'English,' he said. 'You should not be on a Norman trader.' The gaze narrowed. 'I will put my hands where I want upon my captives.'

She kicked him in his unprotected shins and swooped to bite his hand. He yelled and snatched it away, cursing; his sword came up. A spear thrust from behind gouged his side. Impaled he staggered on the pointed tip, swivelled, tried to beat it away, but Mauger leaned into the shaft and pushed the point in deeper. The raider screamed and swung his sword in a wild arc, catching the black stallion's halter rope and severing it in two. Mauger wrenched out the spear with a grunt of effort, and as the raider fell across the wine casks, clambered across him to secure the horse.

Her belly a vast, empty pit, Julitta swooped upon the dead man's sword. The weight hurt the tendons in her wrist and it felt unwieldy in her hand, but she braced it, holding it across her body in defence.

Mauger had reached the stallion, but he could not grasp the shorter, loose end of the halter rope attached to the headstall. The black whipped his head from side to side and snapped and fought. Such were his struggles that the rope hobbling his forelegs broke, and suddenly he was free to rear. Mauger dived to one side, but was not fast enough, and a red gash opened along the line of his temple. Julitta screamed her husband's name and leaped onto the wine casks to try and help him. He sat up, blood pouring from the wound.

'No, stay back!' he roared. 'Julitta, in Christ's name… ' His words were never completed, for a gust of wind slammed into the untended sail, sending it hard aback and, with the same slow grace as a diving whale, the Draca curved over into the water.

Julitta was thrown backwards onto the canvas-covered wine barrels. The raider Mauger had downed was still alive. She heard the air rattling and sucking in his lungs, before the rush of cold, green sea took away every other sound. Too dazed to scream, she was rolled under with the ship. The water was as icy as the fingers of death and it invaded her clothing, weighting her down. She kicked violently for the surface and broke through the heaving barrier to draw the pain of air into her starving lungs. Sea water slapped into her mouth, making her choke and gulp. Her garments dragged at her legs. Death smiled, biding its time.

Other heads bobbed in the water, shouting and choking, members of both crews now victim to the sea. She could not see Mauger and screamed his name. Wine barrels, sea chests, oars floated past her. Before her eyes a raider gave up the struggle to swim in his armour and sank. 'Mauger!' Julitta shrieked, casting desperately around. Sea water filled her open mouth and she choked violently. A wave slapped over her head, and when she broke surface again, struggling for air, scarcely able to draw it in for coughing, she knew that she was going to drown. Waves pushed at her in rapid succession. Her eyes were so salt-stung that she could not keep them open. Nor did it matter. The forces of wind and tide carried her away from the Draca and the raiding vessel. Death opened its arms and said Welcome.

She was drifting towards oblivion when a hairy tentacle slapped against her arm, and she heard a shout. For a moment, disoriented, she thought she was being dragged down to hell, and thrust out her arms, trying to beat the beast away, only to realise that far from being a sea-monster or a denizen of the underworld, it was a hemp rope. To have hit her so strongly and from such an angle, it could not possibly be a part of the capsized Draca. She seized upon it, clinging to a last hope of rescue upon death's open threshold, and felt the line go taut.

Squinting, almost blind, through the heave of the sea she saw the hull of another vessel, and spidering out from her gunwales, a dozen such ropes, with crew members leaning to pull survivors in to the spread of fishing net against her sides.

Julitta turned her back on death's door, but it did not close behind her. She was weak, more than half-drowned, and the insidious cold of the water was chilling her body beyond functioning. Although she reached the side of the rescue vessel, she had not the strength to let go of the rope and set her hand to the netting. And the climb was so far, the vessel much deeper in draught than the Draca. It was a mountain, and it was a mile too high.

'Julitta, don't let go!' an anguished voice yelled. 'In the name of Christ, hold tight! I'm coming down to you!'

'Ben?' The word croaked out of her, and brought on a paroxysm of coughing. For a moment the world spun into darkness and her fingers loosened on the rope. Then she tightened them with a convulsive jerk, obeying a command that was stronger than death itself.

He seemed to take an age, but it could not have been more than a matter of minutes before she felt his weight on the net above her. Then he was in the sea beside her. She shook her head, she dared not speak lest she begin coughing again.

'Christ, Julitta, don't fail me, don't let go!' he commanded again. 'Not until I tell you. Look, I'm going to put this around you to stop these other ropes cutting in. It's a spare horse sling. We're going to pull you up. Just nod if you understand.'

Julitta nodded and compressed her lips. There was so much she wanted to say, and all of it jailed inside her head. Nor were her thoughts coherent, for she was barely conscious.

Aware that he had very little time, Benedict worked rapidly, passing the sling around her body, tossing the loop to another crew member halfway up the netting, who then threw it to another man on deck. He could tell that Julitta was almost spent. Her face was ice-white, her lips bloodless, and there were blue shadows beneath her closed eyes. It was God's mercy that theConstantine had been close to the Draca. Whether it was God's mercy too that the Draca had been attacked instead of the Constantine, Benedict did not want to explore. God's will, perhaps. A shout floated down from the deck. Benedict acknowledged it with a wave. 'You can let go of the rope now,' he said to her, and laid his hand over hers, where her fingers were clutched in spasm on the dark hemp. She did not respond, and he had to prise away her grip gently.

Carefully, they lifted her from the water, and laid her down upon the deck. A strand of hair lay over her face like a ribbon of dark-red kelp, and emphasised the white coldness of her skin. Her eyelids fluttered.

'Ben?' she whispered.

'I'm here, Julitta, you're safe, you're safe. Nothing can touch you. The raiders haven't the strength to take us on too. In a moment you'll be warm and dry.'

'Mauger, he…' With the last of her strength she rolled over and vomited sea water. The deck came up to meet her, heaving and tilting on the swell of the waves. 'Mauger…' she croaked again, trying to stay conscious.

'Hush, Julitta, it's all right.' A warm, coarse blanket was wrapped around her and she felt herself being raised and carried. The daylight behind her lids darkened and a heavy stable scent filled her nostrils, removing the deadly sea-tang. She was deposited on a pile of hay and a flask was pressed to her lips.

'Drink,' Benedict commanded. 'It's strong mead.'

Obediently she took a swallow and felt the fiery sweetness slip down her throat and burn in her hollow stomach. She opened her eyes and saw that she was in the Constantine port hold among Benedict's horses. The only light was provided by a single horn-sided lantern suspended from a hook – it was too dangerous to have more. She took another sip of the mead and returned the flask to Benedict. 'Mauger… he – I lost him when we went over. He was wounded. The horse; it broke free and struck his head.' She looked up at him with haunted eyes. 'I fear for him.'

Benedict uttered neither platitude nor reassurance. There was no use in either. Given the speed at which the Draca had capsized, Mauger was not likely to be the only victim. 'I'll go back on deck and help look out for survivors,' he said, and hesitated, awkward before her now that the immediate crisis of her rescue was over. 'That blanket's soaking now, and so are your clothes. If you want to take them off, I'll lend you my spare clothes.'

Julitta nodded her thanks, wary of using her voice. The urge to retch was still strong. Behind her eyes, there was a hot, swollen ache, as if the sea had poured in there too, and was now seeking to flood out.

Benedict handed her a fresh blanket, disappeared into the gloom among the horses, and returned with a pile of garments. 'Here. Are you strong enough to put them on?'

Again she nodded.

Benedict hesitated, stooped to stroke her cold cheek, and went to the hatch ladder.

Julitta listened to his footsteps recede on deck and realised that he had not changed his own wet tunic, probably because he had given his only dry clothes to her. She clutched them for a moment, buried her face in their familiar smell and fought the scalding tide behind her lids. Her spirit struggled against the wave of self-pity and exhaustion engulfing her. She wiped the heel of her hand across her eyes, and set about exchanging her saturated garments for Benedict's dry ones. It seemed to take forever to remove her gown and shift, her clammy hose and loin cloth. Chills shuddered through her body, and her fingers were clumsy. Trying to attach Benedict's hose to the dry loin cloth seemed impossible, and by the time she finally succeeded, she was sobbing with frustration and fury at her own impotence. Once started, she could not stop, and the more she tried to hold back, the harder she cried. She lay on her stomach in the pile of straw, her face buried in her arms, and wept herself dry. From there, she drifted into an exhausted doze, her limbs twitching and jerking in the aftermath of hard, physical effort. But although her body was exhausted, her mind would not rest. A vision of Mauger's drowned, bloated face swam across her mind. And then she saw him astride the black stallion, swimming through the depths beneath the Constantine, seeking a way in through the pitched-caulked hull doors.

Her entire body jerked with the shock of the vision and her eyes flew open, a scream stifled behind her lips.

She heard voices and the clump of footsteps on the hatchway stairs, and sat up. Her heart thumped against her ribs in rapid strokes and her cheeks were damp, not only from her hair. Even in sleep she had been weeping.

By the hazy light of the single lantern, she saw Benedict and a sailor carrying Mauger between them. His blond head sagged, his mouth lolled open.

'Mauger… Oh Jesu, is he dead?' Julitta was unable to move, could only watch with widening eyes as they brought him over to her.

'No,' Benedict said, his voice constricted by the effort of setting Mauger carefully down on the hay, 'but he's barely breathing, and this gash on his head is still bleeding.'

Julitta stared at her husband, at the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the blue tinge to his flesh, the red trickle from the deep gash in his forehead. She reached out her hand and took hold of one of his. The fingers were as cold as effigy-marble.

Benedict studied her for a moment with brooding eyes. 'I'll go and fetch Sampson,' he said. 'He's one of the crew members, but he once trained for the church. It is the nearest Mauger will get to a priest.'

Julitta silently nodded, and did not look up as he turned and left.

Mauger was shriven by Sampson, who, despite having given up the church more than ten years ago, was still comfortingly familiar with its rituals. Certainly Mauger did not seem to notice the difference as he weakly made confession and was absolved of sin.

For the rest of the day, watched over by an exhausted Julitta, Mauger drifted in and out of consciousness, but never regained coherence. His grey eyes were opaque and unfocused, his breathing rapid and shallow. Just before midnight, in the presence of herself and Benedict, it stopped altogether.

Julitta composed Mauger's hands upon his breast and drew the blanket up to his chin. His eyes were closed and he looked as if he fallen from utter weariness into sound sleep. She bowed her head, unable to weep, for she had wept herself dry before he was found.

'He tried to be good to me in his way,' she said. 'Only I never wanted to wed him; never gave him a chance.'

'It isn't your fault,' Benedict said sharply, alarmed at her response even while he understood it.

'But it is. He was always trying to prove himself to me. I made him lose his judgement. He would never have bought that horse of his own accord.'

Benedict looked at her with pain in his eyes. He well understood her attitude. After Gisele's death, he had felt the scourge of guilt, still did on occasion if he had the time to brood. 'Grief heals,' he said, laying his hand upon hers. 'Guilt destroys.'

'Playing the priest again?' she bit out, and flashed him a glance full of anger. But there was misery there too, and need.

'No, just a man who lost the wife he had wronged before he could make atonement,' he said.

She flinched as his pain pierced hers. 'I'm sorry,' she said in a small voice with a break at its edge. 'I didn't think.'

'Ah, Julitta.' He folded her in his arms, and she accepted the embrace, her body stiff and hesitant. 'I don't want to lose you too. All our lives we have been coming together and breaking apart.' He swallowed, then raised one of his hands to touch her gaunt, hollow face. 'I want you, Julitta, not your guilt, not mine, just the two of us, and a new start. No,' he added, as she opened her mouth to speak. 'Now is not the time. We still have Mauger to honour and lay to rest, and there is grieving to be done. Let the time turn under heaven. Just think on what I have said.' Gently he released her, and went up on deck to fetch such things as would be needed for the washing and laying out of a corpse.

Dry-eyed, Julitta gazed upon the body of her husband and wished that she could weep.

CHAPTER 60

BRIZE-SUR-RISLE, SPRING 1088

Julitta knelt at the feet of the statue of the Magdalene Mary in Brize's convent. The flagged floor was cold beneath her knees, and the breath of her prayers broke from her lips in puffs of white vapour. This was Arlette's domain. Even in death, her father's wife dominated the place. Not content with the small chapel dedicated to her beyond the high altar, her presence pervaded the rest of the church. The wood and ivory statue of the Magdalene was clad in a green robe, a neat white wimple framing a vacant, half-smiling face, its complexion made luminous by the glow of the sanctuary lamp.

A thick wax candle burned on a spike. Beside it, in a specially cut niche, a pyramid of votive tapers flickered, each one a prayer for the souls of Arlette de Brize, her daughter Gisele, and now for Mauger of Fauville. Julitta crossed herself, rose from her knees, and lit another taper to add to those already burning. Since her return, she had made it her daily ritual to visit the church and pray for the soul of her dead husband.

Coming to terms with his death had been difficult, because it had meant coming to terms with herself and the guilt which Benedict had warned against. She could well recall the bitterness and rage of her childhood on discovering that the world did not revolve around herself alone, and that a hitherto unknown half-sister had laid claim to all that Julitta held dear — her standing in the world, her father's love, Benedict. She had hated Gisele even without knowing her. There had been a dark triumph in lying with Benedict, in taking him from her sister. A fleeting victory, paid for a hundred times over by her marriage to Mauger — and Mauger had done much of the paying.

Outside, a February dusk was gathering strength, the light a pale grey-blue. With a sigh, Julitta adjusted her cloak and walked towards the open doorway. Before she could reach it, she heard the snort of a horse and the ring of hoof on stone. Freya whinnied and was answered by a low, stallion nicker. Julitta's heart began to thump. But it was her father who stepped inside the church and made the sign of the Cross on his breast, and she was aware of a pang of disappointment.

He was nine and forty now and still handsome, although he wore the lines of his years and the brilliance of his hair had faded to a dusty ginger. During her absence, he had begun negotiating to marry a widow twelve years younger than himself, a merry, handsome woman with three children to her credit and a dowry as magnificent as her bosom. Julitta approved of the Lady Amicia. At least she need not worry about her father. There was a twinkle in his eye and a bounce to his stride.

'Daughter,' he acknowledged. 'I knew I would find you here.'

'I was about to leave.'

He nodded. 'It'll be dark soon.'

His way of saying that she had stayed too long. She knew that he had come to fetch her. Praying at his wife's tomb in the winter dusk was not one of her father's habits.

'Wait but a moment and I'll accompany you back,' he added, and went to bow his head at the altar and light four candles to add to the pyramid — one each for his wife and daughter, one for Mauger, and one for Ailith. A nun appeared from a recessed doorway, respected the altar, then Rolf, and went to trim the sanctuary lamp and attend to the candles. He crossed himself, left the woman at her task and returned to Julitta.

She eyed the nun wistfully. 'I wish that I possessed such tranquillity,' she murmured.

Rolf took her arm and led her out to the horses. The air was dank and raw, the trees bare and black. 'It will come,' he said. 'You are too impatient with yourself.'

Julitta gave him a bleak smile. 'Whose trait is that?'

'Assuredly your mother's.' He cupped his hand to boost her into the golden mare's saddle.

'Not yours?'

'I am merely impatient with others.'

'Then it seems I have both failings.' She settled herself in the saddle and took up the reins.

'And a stubborn will, too,' he said.

They rode in silence for a while, until the stone keep of Brize rose from the landscape, its high windows flickering with torchlight. Smoke wisped from the cooking fires in the bailey, promising food and comfort.

Rolf said softly, 'You are younger than your mother when I first knew her. You have all your life before you.'

'As she had hers?' She was shocked at the bitter note in her own voice.

Rolf winced. 'There was a time when we had great happiness,' he said. 'I know that what happened later was my fault. If I could undo it, I would.' He eyed Julitta's wooden expression. 'I still think of her, I still miss her. The regrets are carved so deep they are always with me, but I have learned to live with them. What use is there in looking back except to gain the experience of hindsight?' His hand rose to touch his cloak fastening – a brooch in the shape of Odin's six-legged horse, Sleipnir.

'So, what would you have me do?' She dismounted rapidly, a sure sign that she was agitated. 'Return to my old, hoyden ways?'

'That is not what I meant and you know it.' Rolf swung himself out of his saddle. His knee joints ached, and he had to flex his legs several times before the stiffness eased. 'All I am saying is that if you are going to drag a cross around with you, there is no need to carry it so high that you can't even see where you're going… or who walks beside you. In God's name, daughter, go with Benedict now and make your life with him. You have my blessing. Indeed, if you weren't so contrary, I'd order you to it.' He looked her up and down, exasperation and humour in his eyes. Then he said calmly, 'He would have come to the chapel himself, but I wanted to see you first.'

She caught her breath and her eyes widened. 'Benedict is here?'

Her father rubbed his jaw, feigning nonchalance before her surprise, but secretly delighted. 'He rode in from Rouen about the hour of nones. At the end of the week he sails for Corunna on board his father's new salandrium galley – but then he'll probably tell you himself. It is the reason he is here.'

Julitta's fingers tightened in the folds of her gown. 'Where is he, Papa?'

Rolf shrugged. 'I left him in the solar, but that was a while ago. Best find him. The dinner horn will be sounding soon.' He cocked his head on one side. 'Well, what are you waiting for? Go on!' He made a shooing gesture.

Julitta dithered a moment longer, then gathered her skirts, turned from her father, and hurried away in the direction of the keep. He stared after her, a smile on his lips, poignance in his eyes.

'I am leaving in the morning, and I want her to be with me.' Benedict laid his hand against the dormant bee skep. Sleeping. There was scarcely a vibration, but he knew that the insects were still alive. Rain misted down, cobweb-fine, dewing his hair and his dark woollen cloak. The heavy scent of soil filled his nostrils, of spring renewal, and the turned earth of graves, both awarenesses strong within him.

September it was when the Constantine had docked in Honfleur. Now in mid-February the spring bulbs were poking through the soil and milder days interspersed winter's cold. He had given Julitta her period of mourning, keeping his distance, letting the season mature and turn, but he did not know if she had turned with it, or whether her world remained frozen at the moment of Mauger's death. He had watched her pray, even joined her on occasion, but whether prayer had healed her wounds or kept them open, he could not be sure. But now he was about to find out.

With or without her, he would leave on the morrow. From Rouen he was bound for Castile with three brood mares for Rodrigo Diaz as a gift from Rolf. It would be good to feel the wind in his hair again and the call of the sea birds, the peppery Iberian heat, the scent of lemons. He would be subjected to Sancho's acerbic tongue, and fed until he burst by Faisal's dark-eyed wife and pig-tailed daughter. The thought warmed him, even brought a smile to his face.

The wicket gate creaked and he heard a whistle, then Julitta's voice in stern rebuke. The sound of paws pitter-pat-tered along the path, there was a gruff bark of greeting, and suddenly he was assaulted by Rolf's slot-hound Grif, its jaws slobbering and its huge, dirty pads staining his breeches as the dog jumped up at him. An exuberant tail swished like a whip against his thighs.

'Down!' he commanded sternly. 'Down, Grif.'

The dog yodelled at him and trotted away to the wall where a mount of fresh earth had been dug. The sound of copious urination filled the evening.

Julitta appeared, a flambeau in her hand. Smoke eddied from its pitched tip, and filled the air with the smell of resin. 'I've been looking for you,' she said. 'You weren't in the solar.'

'I was too restless.' He gave her a pained smile.

The torch flared and spat in the garden silence. He could see that she was gnawing her lip. 'My father said that you had come to make your farewells,' she said. Her hand shook slightly on the torch, her wrist quivering with the prolonged holding.

'Yes, I have. The Doro sails with the evening's tide tomorrow, bound for Corunna. We've a cargo of horses and wool on board. She'll return with more horses and wine.' His tone was conversational. It was also forced. The things that he really wanted to say hovered like the smoke from the flambeau, tangible but out of his grasp.

'Your father is pleased with the Doro?' She followed his wooden lead, as if they were two strangers, but recently introduced. And perhaps they were, he thought, so much had happened to change them.

'It has taken his mind from the loss of the Draca. Yes, he is well pleased. She is higher-sided than his other vessels, better freeboard and handling, if not quite so fast.'

She nodded. Chew, chew, went her lower lip, until it was all he could do not to lean forward and cup her mouth, preventing the motion.

In the distance, a horn sounded, the note long and sustained, summoning the castle folk to eat in the great hall. They gazed at each other in the twilit darkness. Beyond them, Grif snuffled among the borders, his keen bloodhound's nose intoxicated by the powerful, damp scents.

'There was another reason I came here, to the garden, besides my restlessness,' Benedict said. 'I came to talk to the bees.' He pointed over his shoulder at the skep. 'You used to tell them everything. I thought it was only common courtesy if I told them too.'

'Told them what?'

'That depends on you.'

There was a long silence. Two strangers who had run out of things to say. Then, the flambeau Julitta was holding wavered and dipped. 'I am afraid,' she whispered, and it was not just her wrist that trembled, but her entire body.

'Of what?'

'Of having wanted too fiercely and for too long. Of having my heart's desire offered on a platter.'

Benedict grimaced. 'Hardly on a platter,' he said. 'The pain has been too fierce and endured far too long.' A considering frown lined his brow. 'Ah Christ, let there be an end to this, let me tell the bees the truth as I feel it.' Taking a pace forward, he removed the torch from her hand and thrust it into the dug earth beside the skep. Then he drew her into his arms, gently lowered her chin with his thumb so that she was no longer chewing her lip, and kissed her.

It was fierce and tender, swift and slow, subtle and raw. She felt the pattern of the dance in her veins as she had felt it on that long ago May evening, and again in the garden at this very place when she was a married woman on the verge of adultery. Her loins were suddenly liquid. She pressed against him and the anguish of his voice in her ear melted her bones.

'I swear I will go mad if I cannot have you — tonight and for a lifetime,' he muttered. 'Julitta, say yes.'

Julitta laid her head against his breast and felt the swift thump of his heart. Lower down, against her belly, she could also feel the hard proof of his need. 'I choose the future,' she said, and gripped him, clenching her fists to grasp her decision so that it could not be taken from her as so much else had been.

He gripped her in return, speaking her name over and again, kissing her, and being kissed.

Their embrace was curtailed by the hound. He pushed his moist muzzle at them and stood on his hind legs, pressing muddy, wet forepaws against their joined bodies. Gasping for breath, laughing, they broke apart. Benedict snapped at Grif to get down. The dog whined and sat back on his haunches, his wrinkled face reproachful. Then he yodelled at them.

Dizzy with emotion, Benedict looked at Julitta. Her wimple was unpinned, her braids an unwinding dark tumble over her breasts. His Julitta, his lovely, brave, Maytime Julitta. 'Come,' he said. 'Grif is right. It is time to go in.' He held out his hand, and she linked her fingers through his.

Handfasted, like a bride and groom, they entered the keep.