The Conquest

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  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.