'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 Mauge
r 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.
&nbs
p; 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 Conquest Page 54
