The Conquest

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  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, cloist
er, 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?'