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.