Elizabeth Chadwick - The Conquest

Benedict felt himself redden beneath Rolf's fierce green stare. The ability to read the faces and almost imperceptible body gestures of other men was a great advantage and Benedict had done his best to learn from Rolf. But he would never be able to flip the coin onto its other side and dissemble with ease.

Trepidation in his eyes, he began again, but out of pride, made sure to use the same opening words. 'Mauger and I were looking for a boat to row us across the river from the Southwark side…'

As his tale progressed, Rolf's set expression grew ever more rigid until his face might have been carved of stone. Only once did he move, and that was to steady the horse by taking a firmer grip on the reins.

'Wulfstan is dead,' Benedict added when he had finished the tale. 'Of a seizure at home, so the rumour goes. Already his family has moved to disguise what really happened. On my way out of the city I was stopped twice and told the news by people who knew that he and my parents were acquainted.'

Rolf neither moved nor spoke and Benedict grew concerned. 'Sir, shall I…?'

He saw Rolf make the effort to tug free of the immobility of shock. 'Leave me alone awhile to think,' the older man said, his voice slow and careful, as if he were treading in deep water and feeling for each footstep. 'Return to the keep and tell the women not to wait dinner on me.'

'Shall I tell them anything else, sir?'

'No.' Rolf shook his head. 'I will tell them myself.' He tugged on the reins and the grey stallion turned. Out to sea the fishing boats were closer now. Benedict could see the men on deck and the dark shape of a net draped over the side of the nearest craft. He hesitated for a moment, watching the boats, inhaling the warm salt wind, and feeling totally out of his depth. With a final, worried glance at Rolf's solitary form, he kicked Cylu in the direction of the keep.

A series of mental visions spilled like blood from an opened vein as Rolf rode the old stallion along the beach. He saw Sleipnir trotting towards him, ears pricked and tail carried high, Ailith in pursuit, a birch besom brandished in her fist. He saw her in the forge, a knife poised to take her own life, and he watched himself wrestle that knife out of her hand and cast it across the room. Instead of the swift mercy of the blade, he had given her the long, slow death of loving him. And then he had turned that knife on himself and twisted it deep.

The horizon was suddenly blurred. He dashed his sleeve across his eyes and swallowed. He saw her feeding Benedict, her blonde braid heavy in the firelight, watched her furiously pummelling a tub of laundry while he asked her to become chatelaine of Ulverton. That first, frozen moonlit kiss that dissolved into molten urgency, searing them both to the bone. Her hair spread upon the pillow, grasped in his hands; the beauty of her strong, generous body which had given him such pleasure to possess and had bestowed on him the gift of a fire-haired child. He wiped his eyes again, but his vision blurred almost immediately. Ailith and Julitta eking a living in the stews of Southwark. Eight years. He had thought in his stupidity that even if he had not found peace, he had at least discovered a degree of equilibrium, but he had been deluding himself. He had discovered nothing, and still had so much left to lose.

He could ride no further. Halting Sleipnir, he dismounted, and seating himself on a flat, sun-warmed rock, put his head in his hands.

'A bathhouse?' Arlette's shocked gaze flickered rapidly from Rolf to Gisele, as if worrying that the very mention of the word would corrupt her daughter's purity. 'What were they doing in a bathhouse, or perhaps I should not ask?'

Benedict, who had been invited to share in the discussion that was taking place in Arlette and Rolf's bedchamber, cleared his throat. 'Not all bathhouses are dens of iniquity,' he defended, thereby earning himself a glare from his future mother-in-law, and a prim lip-purse from Gisele. 'Besides,' he added doggedly, 'from what Julitta told me, her mother was the housekeeper of the place, they were never actually involved in the private bathing of the clients.'

Arlette sniffed scornfully. 'That is as maybe,' she said. 'And it is only Christian charity to pity the woman and the child. But what is to be done with them? You say that the mother is dying of the lung sickness? Aye well, perhaps that is a blessing in disguise. But the girl…'

'My daughter,' Rolf interrupted, his voice almost a snarl, a dangerous glitter in his eyes. 'Julitta is my child as much as Gisele. Bridle your tongue when you speak, or by God I will do it for you.'

Arlette paled. 'I was only going to say that you need to take careful thought for the girl's welfare. She has known such an uncertain life, that there are bound to be difficulties.'

Rolf's eyes remained suspiciously narrowed, but he leaned back in his chair and slowly rubbed his forefinger back and forth across his upper lip while he considered her words.

Benedict glanced around the family and tried to imagine Julitta settling into the household. From what he remembered of Julitta the child, and from what he had seen of Julitta the budding woman, there was going to be precious little peace in the bower. Just the sight of Julitta's wild red hair would be enough to send Arlette running for her shears and a thick linen wimple to tame and cover such wanton glory.

'I am more than willing to take her under my wing, indeed I am,' Arlette added piously.

'More than willing?' Rolf asked in a wintery voice. 'I would have thought the opposite.'

His wife compressed her lips. 'As you say, she is your child, and I have always done my duty as your wife to the best of my ability. If I cannot love her, then at least I can see that she is prepared for marriage to a husband of your choosing… unless you had the Church in mind for her?'

Rolf scowled and bit viciously at his thumbnail. 'Not the Church,' he said.

Benedict agreed. If anyone should enter a religious establishment, it should be Arlette, the amount of time she spent on her knees. 'She will need gentle handling,' he said aloud, thereby earning himself another glare from the women. It was impossible to explain Julitta to them, the paradox of toughness and vulnerability that had so moved him. 'As you say,' he appealed to Arlette, 'she has known an uncertain life, has had to fight to survive.'

'I am sure I am capable of taking that into account,' Arlette said, but her expression softened slightly at his acknowledgement of her own wisdom. 'After all, I have raised a daughter myself.'

She looked proudly at the young woman sitting at her side, her posture echoing her mother's. Neat, prim, upright.

Although it did not show on his face, Benedict's foreboding increased.

'What is my sister like?' Gisele asked Benedict. Driven by avid curiosity, by what he had not said in front of her parents, she had followed him into the hall.

Benedict shrugged. He glanced round. Most people had settled down for the night, drawing their pallets close to the banked fire. One or two still lingered over late games of tafel or completed small personal tasks by the grainy light of small rush dips.

'Is she pretty?'

Benedict reached out, placed his arm around Gisele's supple waist and drew her towards him. She resisted for a moment, glancing round, then deciding it was all right, capitulated. 'No,' he said, 'I would not call her pretty.' That was a word that conjured up a picture of safe, conventional attractiveness. He had known many pretty girls, his betrothed among them, but Julitta was like none of them.

'Then she is ugly?'

He nuzzled Gisele's warm throat and sought her lips. 'That neither,' he murmured. 'She… she resembles your father, and of course she has scarcely left childhood.' He stroked a tentative hand up her side towards her breasts. Usually this was forbidden territory, but tonight, Gisele's insecurity permitted him the liberty. She yielded passively to his questing touch, a slight frown between her eyes.

'You'll meet her soon,' he said, an undercurrent of impatience in his tone. 'Then you can judge for yourself.' And knew as he spoke that any judgement Gisele made would be based on that of her mother. He felt her nipple bud beneath his fingers and in that same moment she pushed herself out of their embrace, a flush creeping over her throat and mounting her cheeks. Benedict started to speak, but Arlette entered the hall, carrying a wax taper on an iron spike.

'Gisele, are you coming to bed?' It was an order framed as a question, terse with reproach.

'Yes, Mama,' Gisele said as meekly as a child, and without even a parting word or glance for her betrothed, pushed out of his arms and hurried towards the taper's glimmer.

Benedict sighed, scooped his hair off his brow in a gesture of frustration, and sought his pallet, ignoring the amused glances of the tafel players.