Gisele woke up. 'Stop it,' she whispered fiercely. 'Do you want to wake my mother? Have you no sense of decency?'

'I only wanted some comfort,' he hissed back.

'Aye, and I know what sort. You're always at me!'

'And you always turn away.'

'You expect me to yield to your lust in the very same room where my mother is sleeping?' Her spine was rigid. She shrugged him off, punched the bolster and rammed her head down into it. The covers were dragged over her ears.

Benedict turned on his back. From the great bed there was silence, but he knew it was not the silence of sleep. Arlette was listening. He thought about inviting her with sarcasm to join their argument. She was the reason behind most of their problems as it was. My mother wouldn't approve, had become the bane of his life. He had thought that the months away from Arlette in England would give Gisele time to develop a mind of her own, but instead she had pined, complaining all the time about how much she hated England, the people, the weather, he food. He had tried being patient, he had tried being the tern husband, neither to any avail. In the end, defeated, he had brought her back to Brize, to her mother. That decision had its dangers, not the least of them Gisele's half-sister with her mowing innocence. He sat up.

'Where are you going?' Gisele whispered.

'To the hall,' he answered, not bothering to lower his voice. There is no point in staying here.'

She lay in silence for a while after he had gone, biting her knuckles, not knowing whether to feel anxiety or relief. At length, she too rose from the bed, but not to follow him. She slumbered in beside her mother and curled up against her, seeking a comfort that would not compromise her soul.

CHAPTER 47

Father Jerome was a Cluniac monk from the foundation at le Bee, and distantly related through a cousin to Arlette. He was erudite, ambitious, and delighted that his house had been invited to found a convent on lands granted to them by the lord of Brize-Sur-Risle.

He sat in Arlette's private bower, his powerful hands resting upon his knees, while his hooded blue eyes took in the wealth of the tapestries and hangings warming the walls, the glazed cups, the superb pale wine, which was far more expensive to produce than its rough, red counterpart. He remarked upon its excellence to his hostess.

Arlette blushed with pleasure and thanked him. In her gown of sombre-coloured, heavy linen, a silver cross shining on her breast, she was the image of the pious aristocratic lady, nor was it a disguise donned to impress the monk. It was her habitual garb. And when the time was ripe, she intended to retire behind the walls of the convent she was founding. 'My son-in-law's father is one of the foremost wine merchants in Normandy and England,' she replied. 'Doubtless you have heard of Aubert de Remy.'

'Yes indeed, my lady. He is a generous benefactor of our order, as was his father before him.'

'I trust the tradition will continue,' Arlette replied. 'Benedict is heir to a considerable fortune, albeit that the wine-trading will be conducted by Aubert's nephews.' She frowned at the sound of shouting below the window and the hollow thumping of drums.

'Gisele, close the shutters,' she said stiffly.

The young woman left her embroidery and went to do her mother's bidding.

Father Jerome raised a questioning brow.

Arlette cleared her throat. Even through the shutters the beat of the drum could still be heard as a muffled thump, thump. 'The villagers are celebrating May Eve,' she said with distaste. 'I know that it is unchristian, a terrible pagan thing, but I can do nothing while my husband permits it to flourish. Time and again I have entreated him to give it up, but he refuses. He says that it is tradition, that the villagers expect it. I have tried all ways to cure the people of their ignorance, but they pay no heed. Perhaps when the convent is built and they are set an example by the nuns, they will be deterred.'

'Perhaps, but most of humanity are weak reeds, easily swayed by the pleasures of the body,' said Father Jerome, and without the slightest twinge of conscience, took another deep drink of the wine. He was a worldly man, who knew the right words to say in the right places, the correct balance to strike with each person. He desired Arlette's patronage, but not at the expense of alienating her husband, or Benedict de Remy, who stood to inherit a great deal of wealth, and who, if he lived to a ripe age, could be milked for the next forty or fifty years.

'What then should I do?' Arlette pleaded.

The priest eyed mother and daughter, pale, nervous, moth-like women. The younger one was fiddling with what he took to be her wedding ring, tugging it on and off her finger. 'Let them celebrate,' he said.

'But…'

He held up his hand to prevent Arlette from speaking further. 'But let it be in God's name. Let them give thanks for His gift of the new season. Let the tradition prevail, but let the rejoicing be in God's name. Year by year you can make gradual changes until it becomes nothing but a harmless ceremony with none of the old power remembered. For today, if you wish, I will bless the Maypole in the name of Christ, and exhort them to celebrate in ways which will not displease the lord.'

Arlette's expression brightened slightly. 'I suppose it is a beginning.'

'Of course it is,' Father Jerome said heartily and draining his wine, levered himself to his feet. He was a tall man, who walked with a natural bounce in his step despite his bulk. 'Let us go down now, and begin the blessing. When we return, we can discuss the matter of your convent's dedication. Perchance the Blessed Virgin, or the Magdalene. She is always a favourite for returning fallen women to the fold, and of course, she symbolises spiritual rebirth.'

The cider brewed by the villagers of Brize-sur-Risle was sweet and strong. Julitta sipped from the drinking horn that one of them had given her, and moved among the throng gathered around the dripping oxen and pig roasts, the coneys and chickens skewered across small firepits, gleaming with yellow dripping. There were singing and merriment, jocular conversations, rude riddles, looks exchanged and promises made as dancers flung themselves down to rest for a while before returning to join hands around the Maypole.

Up on the hill, the castle was a silhouette in the twilight. Julitta knew that she ought to be there, closeted in the bower with Arlette and Gisele, praying for the erring souls of the villagers, but unless someone actually came and fetched her, she had no intention of leaving the celebrations. Her father was somewhere amongst the revellers, as were Benedict and Mauger. What harm could possibly come to her? No-one was going to lay his hands on Lord Rolf's own daughter. The atmosphere was magical. Not even that self-important Cluniac monk had been able to dampen the festivities with his warnings about what was and was not pleasing to the eye of God as he sprinkled the Maypole with holy water from the church font.

Julitta sipped the heady brew and topped up her horn from a jug standing on a trestle. She saw Benedict and her father laughing together. Her heartbeat quickened. Benedict had only been back at Brize for two days, delivering some English bloodstock, and she had had no opportunity to talk to him. His visit to Brize in the early spring, when he had bought the cream mare and her foal, had been fleeting. He had not stayed above a week, and had returned to Ulverton before Rolf arrived from France. Gisele had not gone with him, nor, from what Julitta had seen, had their reunion been more than tepid now that he was back. Between Arlette and Benedict, the courtesy was as sharp as a honed knife.

A plump village woman waddled up to Julitta and crowned her garnet braid with a chaplet of white hawthorn. 'You has to honour the Goddess on May Eve, young mistress, if you wants the corn to grow!' she chuckled.

Julitta laughed and finished the horn of cider so that she could put it down while she secured the chaplet to her hair. The woman grabbed her arm and tugged her towards the Maypole, its rounded phallic tip thrusting at the sky. 'Come, dance the sacred dance!' she exhorted.

Julitta found herself whirled into the steps of the Maypole jig. The cider coursed through her blood and filed her feet with magic. She stepped and turned in motion with the other dancers until she felt as if their movements, their very limbs were her own. The beat of drum and the skirl of bagpipes filled the night, the notes flinging skywards like the long orange sparks from the bonfire. Two circles of men and women, weaving in and out, forward and back. The sweaty paw of Brize's miller grasped hers, swung her round and passed her on to one of the grooms from the castle. She saw the flash of his white teeth, smelled his animal scent, and was whirled away to the next man in the line while the music beat relentlessly on, pulsing to the hammerbeat of her own blood.

The next man in line grasped her hand in fingers warmly strong, only a little damp, revealing that he had not long joined the circle of dancers. Benedict pulled her against him, hip to hip, and instead of spinning her round and passing her to the next man, drew her out of the dance and into the flamelit shadows at the side of the great bonfire.

Dizzy, her brain still in motion despite the fact that her feet had ceased to move, she swayed and staggered, then looked up at him.

'Shouldn't you be up at the keep with the other women?' he asked.

Julitta adjusted the crown of May which had skewed over one eye during the energetic steps of the dance. 'What other women?' she challenged. 'AH the village wives and their daughters are here. If you mean with Arlette and Gisele, then no, I shouldn't.' She tossed her head defiantly. 'I suppose you want us all safely locked away so you can go "wearing the green" with whomsoever catches your eye.' She leaned across him to reach for the jug of cider, for the dancing had given her an inordinate thirst.