Benedict gazed down at his hands and fought the urge to clench them into fists and punch the supercilious smile off Mauger's face. If a man could enjoy bedding with different women, then it must work the other way around too. He did not blame Julitta, but he was brimful of jealous pain all the same, and he did not need Mauger's heavy-handed boasting. He made a non-committal sound and shrugged. 'I was told that you had ridden in with the tidings that the Duke is dying?'

The smirk left Mauger's face as he was recalled to the wider arena of the political world. 'It is true. I saw him after his horse trod upon the burning ember in Le Mans, since I was the one summoned to deal with the crazed beast. Our lord Duke is not long for this world. He was in such pain that they had to bear him in a litter to Rouen. He has summoned all his vassals. You will have to represent Rolf if he does not arrive in time.'

Benedict did not miss the curl of Mauger's lip. Not only Julitta sat like a poisoned cup between them. So did the fact that Benedict was Rolf's heir, while Mauger, although he was Rolf's son-in-law too, was only a vassal. Benedict knew that Mauger thought him a jumped-up merchant's son whose only claim to nobility was through his marriage into a higher bloodline. And he, in his turn, saw Mauger in a less than favourable light and was all too willing to denigrate any good points that the man possessed. 'Certainly I will go,' he replied, 'but I hope to God that Rolf will be able to represent Brize himself. He knew the Duke well; I only saw him from a distance.'

Mauger nodded. 'It was always Rolf's prerogative to select William's mounts.'

'Oh, I have selected horses for the Duke before now. His tastes were predictable – the larger and meaner the better, but Rolf always did the negotiating himself. The Duke was not fond of younger men. I think he had been soured by the behaviour of his sons. I wonder what will happen now,' he added thoughtfully.

'What do you mean?'

'Well, if William is dying, what will happen to his lands? Will they remain whole in the possession of one son alone, or will they be divided up? And if they are, will Rolf find himself owing allegiance to more than one man?'

Mauger gently fingered the scabbed cut on his cheekbone. 'I had not thought about it,' he said. 'I suppose that by tradition the hearth lands will go to the eldest son, and the conquered lands to the second one. Robert for Normandy, Rufus for England, and whatever scraps remain to young Henry.'

Benedict pursed his lips. Mauger was probably right. Albeit that William's eldest son, Robert, was currently in rebellion against his father, the young man would doubtless inherit Normandy, and William Rufus would take England. It was a worrying prospect. The relationship between Robert and Rufus was a stormy one, compounded of brotherly love and brotherly hate in equal proportions. It would be laughable if it were not so frightening, that one day the men of Brize and the men of Ulverton might be called upon to fight against each other. Himself against Mauger. He chewed his lip on the thought. It would be all too easy. Between them there was no love to temper the hostility, only sense, and he knew how easily that was lost.

CHAPTER 51

On the ninth of September 1086, William, Duke of Normandy and King of England died at St Gervase on the outskirts of Rouen. To his eldest son, Robert, he bequeathed the duchy of Normandy; upon his second son William Rufus, so called because of his ruddy complexion, he bestowed the kingdom of England, and to his youngest son Henry, nineteen years old, he gave five thousand pounds of silver from the treasury, and his blessing.

None of the brothers was pleased with his share of their father's inheritance, the word 'share' in itself a stumbling block. Each desired the whole, and the Norman barons who had served the Conqueror faithfully found themselves having to choose between his sons. As Benedict had foreseen, men such as Rolf with lands on both sides of the narrow sea, had no option but to break their faith with one of their disgruntled overlords.

'In Normandy I will serve Duke Robert for the fealty owed by Brize,' Rolf told Benedict at William's funeral in Caen. 'In England, I will serve William Rufus, since his father designated him king. And if they come to blows, I will commute all my military service to payment in coin and let them fight it out between themselves. I have no desire to be torn in two.'

Following the funeral, Rolf repaired to Brize for the winter season. His wife was slowly dying, and he knew that he had to be with her, as he had not been with Ailith. When Benedict crossed the narrow sea to Ulverton, Gisele remained at Brize to nurse her mother, although she dutifully sent her husband an embroidered belt as a Christmas gift.

Benedict presided over the Yuletide feast in Ulverton's long hall. Despite the presence of the villagers, the priest, retainers, soldiers, grooms, servants and anyone else who could squash into the festively decorated room, he felt utterly depressed. The revelry which he had always taken pleasure in before, now seemed trivial and garish.

A villager capered beneath the high table. He wore a fantastic costume composed of shredded fabric in different shades of green — pea and emerald, sage and olive. His face was smeared with the colour too, and a pair of antlers crowned his shaggy brown hair. He was The Green Man, Jack-in-the-Green, denizen of Maytime and Yule alike.

Benedict desired no reminders of the month of May. Once it had dwelt like fire within him. Now there were only ashes. Taking a flagon of wine, he left the hall and went to his solitary chamber. To think about Julitta increased his depression. Not to think of her was almost worse. Torn between one and the other, he sat in a grey haze of self-pity while Christmas, season and spirit, passed him by.

Late the following month, he was out in the fields, inspecting the mares soon to foal, when King William Rufus arrived at Ulverton unannounced, and demanded to see the bloodstock. Summoned by a groom, Benedict hurried back to the wooden keep, and bent the knee to the monarch who still sat upon his horse, his pudgy hands toying with a decoration on the saddle pommel.

'Get up, boy,' Rufus commanded.

Benedict concealed his irritation at being addressed as 'boy' and rising, went to hold the grey stallion's headstall whilst the King dismounted. 'Sire, this is an unexpected pleasure.'

'I have no doubt that it is,' Rufus answered with an edge to his voice. It was gravelly and harsh, suiting the scoured, ruddy features. He was smaller than the Conqueror, but possessed the same stockiness of build. A barrel on bandy legs was how Rolf had once described Rufus, and the comparison was entirely appropriate. Benedict was slightly above average height and Rufus's eyes were on a level with his mouth, and this the King stared at for a long moment, before his gaze drifted down Benedict's body in a fashion that men usually used when they were eyeing women.

It was not the first time that William Rufus had made his interest known. Glancing round the group of retainers accompanying the King, Benedict caught the pouting scowl of the current court favourite, a slender young man with a bright blue Phrygian cap set at a rakish angle on his blond curls.

'Will you come within, can I offer you food and drink, Sire?' Benedict enquired, thinking that it was all Rufus was going to get.

'It will do for a start,' Rufus answered, 'although I'm hoping for more…' He let the ambiguity hang in the air for just a moment too long, before adding, 'I've come to look at your horses.' A half-grin at the pouting youth. 'Time I had a new mount.'

Benedict stretched his lips in the semblance of a smile, gave the King's horse to his senior groom, and led the way towards the hall. At least Rufus had not brought his entire court, for they would have eaten Ulverton clean down to the bone. Here was just a minor entourage consisting of the King's favourites and hangers-on. No sign of the venerable Archbishop Lanfranc to lend dignity to the proceedings. This was a private jaunt. Probably the main court was keeping warm in the royal hunting lodge in the great forest to the east. Still, it was uncomfortable and annoying. He wondered if Rufus intended paying for the horse he chose. The royal stables always received a quota of beasts each autumn as part of Brize and Ulverton's feudal dues. Perhaps Rufus was going to increase his demands. He was known to have a grasping, avaricious nature.

'Where is your father-by-marriage?' Rufus asked, as he was given the lord's chair in the hall and served with the best wine. His hazel eyes roved the plastered walls with their embellishment of embroidered hangings and bannered lances. 'Skulking at Brize, I suppose, and licking my brother's boots?'

'He is indeed at Brize, Sire, for the winter season. His wife is sick unto death and he is there for her sake too.'

Rufus snorted. 'It would be the first time!' he said nastily. 'Unless he's changed his spots, which I very much doubt.'

'Even so, it is true,' Benedict said with quiet dignity.

Rufus snorted. 'And pigs nest in trees,' he scoffed, and drank down the wine in five hard gulps, wiping his mouth on his gorgeously embroidered sleeve. 'Your father-in-law knows a good excuse when he sees one!'

'Do you blame him?'

Rufus stared at Benedict as if he had been pole-axed. Around him, his sycophants held their breath, awaiting the explosion of the royal rage. The red cheeks darkened, the barrel chest expanded, threatening to rip the stitches on the crimson, fur-trimmed tunic. Benedict found himself wondering what would happen if someone stuck a cloak pin in Rufus's belly. Would he pop like a Yuletide bladder?