She was there, standing beside the straw bee skeps, her hand lightly pressed against the nearest one, and she was talking in a low voice, too low for him to hear what she was saying. Her hair was loose, curling to her hips, and her discarded wimple was draped over the chamomile seat at her side.

'Talking to the bees again?' he said softly. 'I thought that I would find you here.'

She gave a small cry and spun to face him, her hand going to her throat.

'I didn't mean to startle you,' Benedict said swiftly, 'but if I had made my presence known before, I feared you would run away.' He straddled the path, blocking her exit.

Julitta lowered her hand. 'And not without cause,' she said, but made no move to try and escape. Her eyes gleamed in the darkness. The rich tendrils of her hair framed her face. He could see the rapid rise and fall of her breasts and knew that her breathing was no less rapid than his own.

'I haven't spoken to you… God's eyes, even seen you since that last May Eve we were together.'

Her jaw tightened. 'I thought that there were reasons for that, good reasons.'

'Oh yes, the reasons were good,' he answered grimly. 'I was given them from all directions until I was nearly out of my mind. I have reached the conclusion that I have no reason where you are concerned. You have left your footprint on my soul.'

She drew a shuddering breath. 'You have always had a way with words.'

'It goes much deeper than words. May Eve… was more than lust. We both know that.'

Almost without realising, she swayed a step towards him, then checked herself as he reached for her. In a moment she would be lost. 'What purpose does this serve?' she said hoarsely.

He spread his hands. 'I just wanted to see you in the flesh and… and talk the way we used to.'

'Talk.' Julitta fixed on the word as if it were an anchor in the midst of a stormy ocean. Half-turning, she sat down on the turf seat and spread her wimple across her knees — symbol of respectability, a married woman's prop. 'Very well,' she said, a quaver in her voice, 'sit down and talk to me.'

Benedict hesitated, then sat down gingerly beside her. 'Where do I begin?' he said. 'Are you happy with Mauger?'

Julitta stared out over the moon-silvered garden and deliberated her reply. Benedict's shoulder was almost touching hers. She could feel his breath, his body; the danger of the moment. How easy it would be. 'I have been happier in my life,' she said at length, 'but also I have known more grief. There is a roof over my head, I am mistress of my own household, saving Mauger's word, and he provides well for me.' She looked at him from beneath her lids and wound her wimple around her fingers. 'It must be the same between you and Gisele — not what you want, but enough to keep you from starving?'

Benedict laughed bitterly. 'Enough to keep me from starving,' he repeated, as if the word was a great jest at his expense. 'Ah God, Julitta, you are as much Rolf's daughter as she is Arlette's. How much love is enough to keep me from famine?'

Julitta bit her lip and looked away, her fingers tightening in the cloth.

Benedict's grimace deepened. 'Did you know that we were in Rouen for the purpose of praying at the tomb of St Petronella?'

'Arlette said as much.'

'I tell you, if prayer was the way to fruitfulness, we would have half a dozen offspring by now. St Petronella might grant a miracle, but how I can sow seed when the garden door is barred, is beyond my understanding.'

'Do you mean Gisele is unable to bear children?'

'No, just unwilling to beget them,' he said dryly. 'An immaculate conception would suit her. That is why I say she is Arlette's daughter. Everything she is has been learned by rote from her mother, nor can she be persuaded to question the rule. Mama says so, therefore it is true… but then I suppose you know most of this already. You used to dwell in the bower.'

'They tried not to involve me in their conversations.' Julitta laughed shortly. 'I used to disrupt them with my "bathhouse" morals. I do admit that I cut off my own nose to spite my face by saying truly outrageous things just to see how horrified I could make them, so that they took to ignoring me. A blessing in disguise, I think. Arlette used to try and curb my excesses, but I would just escape to you and Papa.'

'Yes, I remember,' Benedict said softly. He took a lock of her hair between forefinger and thumb and played with it. 'And then your poor father would have to keep the peace.' He was smiling as he spoke.

'It wasn't my "poor father" who had to live among them,' she retorted. 'He scarcely spent any time in the bower. And neither do you, I hazard.'

'No,' he admitted reluctantly, 'not at Brize, although I do at Ulverton. Many men do not dwell in their wives' working chambers.'

'Mauger does.'

'So would I in his place.'

The conversation was becoming dangerous, Benedict's proximity even more so, and Julitta knew that she must make an end of the meeting for both their sakes. 'But you are not in his place,' she said, and would have risen to her feet except that he still held her prisoner by her hair. 'Benedict, let me go.'

'I cannot,' he whispered. 'God forgive me, I cannot.' And set his mouth upon hers.

Julitta quivered beneath his touch. Torn between the urge to yield and the need to fight, she remained where she was, trapped like a moth dancing in a candle flame. And then the flame began to consume her, licking delicately at first, but growing hotter, beginning to singe. Her mouth responded to his; she set her arms around his neck and dug her fingers into his hair. His hand opened and trailed its way down the strand of hair he had been grasping. Light as a feather, he touched her breast, and Julitta gasped, stiffened, and then pressed herself closer. It was wrong, she knew that it was, but now she too could only think 'God forgive me.' Her tongue followed his, then took the initiative. He reached to the brooch fastening the neck of her gown. Her hand went to his belt, and then travelled below it. Benedict groaned and pulled her into his lap. Julitta wriggled, seeking out the hard length of his manhood, her own desire heightening with each shifting movement.

'Ah God, Julitta,' he said hoarsely, and clutched her in an agony of pain and pleasure. 'Julitta, please.' His hands cupped her buttocks, assisting her to rise and fall against him. Her head went back, her throat arching, and her red curls stroking his knees.

Outside the haven of the garden, the gate guards shouted a challenge, were answered peremptorily and immediately set about opening the great wooden barriers to the troop demanding admittance. Fresh torches flared, illuminating the progress of mounted knights and footsoldiers.

Through a haze of sensation, Julitta heard the cries of the guards, the clatter of hooves and jink of armour. Her mind shrieked danger! even while her body sought its pleasure. Benedict had heard it too, for his hands gripped her now to hold her still, and his harsh breathing was suddenly held silent, the better to listen.

'Who could it be at this hour?' he asked. 'Surely not your father. He has no such troops with him, unless he has gathered them on his way home.'

The clattering and shouting continued. They heard the rumble of iron-shod wheels on the bailey cobbles, denoting the arrival of a baggage wain.

Julitta scrambled from Benedict's lap and rapidly shook out and smoothed her gown. 'Whoever it is, I will be sought to find them bed and board,' she said in a flustered voice. She flung her wimple over her head, secured her circlet, and drew the loose end of cloth through the loop.

Benedict watched her rapid movements and gnawed his lip. 'Julitta.'

She darted him a rapid glance through her lashes. 'No, Ben, say nothing. It would have been like the last time — great pleasure, and then great grief.'

'I only wanted to…'

'So did I,' she interrupted, her eyes suddenly bright with tears. 'It is not wise for us to be alone together. I do not trust you, Ben, but most of all, I do not trust myself! No, do not follow me,' she snapped. 'What will be said of us if we are seen emerging from the garden together at this late hour?'

She hurried down the garden path, still smoothing her gown and checking her wimple. Benedict cursed and struck his fist upon the soft turf of the seat. Some of it was natural frustration at the untimely interruption, but most of the anger was directed at himself for handling the moment with such crass clumsiness. He had intended seeking her out to smooth the ground between them, and ended up strewing yet more thorns. Tool,' he muttered to himself, and rising, went slowly to the silent bee hives. 'I am a fool,' he reiterated, and laid his hand against the side of the woven skep. A sense of the enclosed energy of the insects throbbed through his palm and along his fingertips. When a suitable amount of time had passed, he left the garden quietly, and went to discover whose arrival had both saved and stranded himself and Julitta.

Julitta closed the garden gate behind her, took several deep breaths, and then walked briskly towards the bailey entrance. There was a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, a combined broil of thwarted lust, guilt, relief, and disappointment. She knew exactly how far she and Benedict would have gone without this interruption, and that she ought to be grateful. But no such emotion beat in her blood just now. With loins that still flickered, and with aching breasts, she went forward to perform the duty of respectable chatelaine.

A man clad from head to toe in chain mail was dismounting from a stocky chestnut stallion. The horse's neck was crusted with sweat and the scars of recent wounds were dark scabs upon its hide. Julitta's heart lurched and she almost screamed aloud in fear.