'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.
The Conquest Page 46
