'I speak no more than the truth. Perhaps you would like to visit the full splendour of my court?'

Julitta lowered her lashes. 'That is most generous of you, my lord,' she murmured. 'But I have my position and duty as a wife to consider.'

'I am sure something could be arranged,' Robert said with a slow, meaningful smile.

Something was arranged, and in short order. Mauger found himself consulted on the matter of Spanish bloodstock by Duke Robert, who then insisted that Mauger should be the one to go to Bordeaux and bring the required warhorse back to Normandy. It made perfect sense. Rolf could not go, he had a funeral to arrange and his wife's affairs to set in order.

'Why did you encourage him in the first place?' Mauger snarled at Julitta as the Duke's retinue rode out of Brize the following noontide. 'Or perhaps you want to parade yourself at his court, show yourself off as his latest whore!'

Julitta whitened. 'How dare you say that to me!' she said icily, and stalked away towards the hall. Mauger caught up with her and spun her round.

'Do you think I do not know why he demands that I go to find his blessed horse? It is so that he can have free rein to do as he likes with you!'

'And you think that I would have anything to do with a strutting cockerel such as him?' she said scornfully.

'What am I to think after your behaviour at table last night? God's death, you were almost in his lap!'

'That was because he was hounding my father, who was in no fit state to respond to him. If I had not intervened and distracted him, Duke Robert would have insisted that Papa yield him sole fealty and abandon his oath to Rufus. There would have been hot words for certain!'

'It was not proper or decent!' Mauger raged through his teeth, his complexion dusky.

'No it wasn't!' Julitta retorted, her own voice rising to match his. 'And neither is this!'

Mauger glanced around the bailey and saw that they had an interested audience of castle folk. Beneath the weight of his scowl they dispersed, but he knew that they would watch and listen from a distance, and that the tales would carry.

'I ought to whip you,' he muttered.

'Is that your answer to everything?' she demanded scornfully. 'Will whipping me set everything to rights, or will you just salve your wounded manhood at the expense of my hide?' She tried to shake him off, but Mauger maintained a bruising grip on her arm.

'It is holy writ that a woman should submit to her husband!'

Mauger said through his teeth. 'I will have your obedience!' His face thrust down into hers.

Panting, they glared at each other. Then, with an oath, Mauger covered Julitta's mouth with his own, and kissed her forcefully.

Julitta struggled, but he held her fast. His tongue invaded, his hands clamped their bodies together. 'Holy writ,' he repeated, as he surfaced for air. 'Willing or unwilling. You are mine.'

Willing or unwilling.

Aching, sore, Julitta stared at the rafters. Mauger lay upon her, his breath thundering in her ears, the driving rhythm of his buttocks reduced to spasmodic twitches. This time he had not even tried to prolong the act or give her pleasure. It had been purely for his own release.

She shifted beneath him, trying to ease her cramped muscles, trying to breathe. There was no flab on Mauger, but he was solid and heavy-set.

He raised his head, and looked down into her face. An expression of bewilderment crossed his own. Almost tender now that the force of his passion was spent, he touched her dark red braid. 'It would be easier for you if you were not so wilful,' he said. 'You anger me… you make me lose control.'

She was not surprised to hear that it was all her fault. Mauger had never admitted to a single mistake in his life. She said nothing; there was no point.

Frowning slightly, he withdrew from her. His colour high, he straightened her skirts which he had dragged up around her waist in his desperation to be at her. Then he turned his back to adjust his own clothing. Modesty now had precedence over lust. 'You're not going to Duke Robert's court,' he said brusquely as he retied his loin cloth. 'I won't permit it.'

'You would defy the Duke?'

'It was an invitation, not a command.'

Julitta looked at her husband's broad back and thick, muscular neck. 'Then what will you do?' She sat up on the bed. 'Refuse outright?'

'You are a dutiful wife, are you not?' Mauger's tone was sarcastic. He turned round to her once more. 'It is your obligation to provide me with an heir of my blood, and that cannot happen if we are apart. I am taking you with me to the Bordeaux horse fair.'

Julitta slowly covered her braids with her wimple. Many women would have leaped at the opportunity to visit the court of the Duke of Normandy, but Julitta's breathing quickened at the mention of the horse fair. She loved such gatherings, the sights, sounds and smells; the thrill of the chase, of finding gold among dross.

'You truly mean that?' she said to her husband in a tone much brighter than that of a moment since.

His eyes narrowed and she saw him try to gauge her response. 'My mind is made up. I'll not have Robert of Normandy sniffing around your skirts like a dog after a bitch while I'm conveniently absent.'

Julitta tucked the end of her wimple through her circlet and stood up. Her body was sore from Mauger's rough lovemaking, but she put the discomfort to the back of her mind. For once, in his jealousy, he was giving her what she wanted.

'How soon do you want to leave?' she asked. 'Shall I begin packing the saddle rolls?'

Mauger rose to adjust his belt and tunic. 'As you wish,' he said. His voice was gentler now, for her eagerness had mollified him. Her smile was for him, and the sparkle in her eyes. Robert of Normandy could go whistle.

CHAPTER 57

Benedict spent two months with Sancho, learning his ways, which in many did not differ from Rolf's, learning to handle the spirited Iberian horses, becoming acquainted with Kumbi. His injuries ceased to pain him and the bright, raw colour of the scars faded to pink. The wounds of the mind healed a little too. Two months lent distance to the memory of the attack! He still relived it when his mind was unoccupied, but he could fight down the waves of sick panic now. Nightmares continued to plague him, but Faisal said that in time they would fade.

Learning from Sancho involved living with him for much of the time. The Lord Rodrigo, for all his interest in Benedict, was a man with deep political concerns, a great landholder, a vassal-in-chief of Castile's King, a warrior lord. Although welcome at Rodrigo's court, Benedict knew that his way was more or less his own to make. One day soon, he knew that it must be to Compostella, and then home, to Brize-sur-Risle as the bearer of bad tidings. As the days passed, and the need to leave grew more pressing, so did Benedict's reluctance.

He liked Iberia, the land, the people, their rich and varied culture. Christian fought Moor, but weaving between the flash of sword and cut of scimitar was great knowledge, religious tolerance, and a wealth of trading opportunities such as would have made his father weep with envy: the patterned silks of Andalusia; the gold, ivory and hides of Africa; perfumes, spices and rare books in the Arabic text on philosophy and medicine. Rice, long-storing wheat, oranges, lemons, figs and pomegranates. The opportunities begged to be grasped in both hands, and Benedict's merchant origins stirred with excitement.

Living with Sancho was not as difficult as he had thought. Benedict had never possessed a grandfather, but Sancho came close to fulfilling this role. The old man was cantankerous and difficult, especially in the early morning and late at night when his joints were stiff, but he possessed a vast store of wisdom, and a dry, salty wit. By turns, Benedict was aggravated, amused, or goaded to do better. Sancho liked to talk about himself and possessed a seemingly endless fund of anecdotes, and yet he was a good listener too, with more than a streak of natural curiosity.

Benedict told him about his past, about Julitta and Gisele. Sancho snorted and called him a young fool with no brains above his belt. Sancho's daughter, Lucia, a widow in her middle years who now looked after her father, brought Sancho a cup of the spiced red wine of which he was so fond, and went quietly away to pick up her distaff. She was fine-boned, graceful of carriage, with masses of black hair coiled upon her head, and almond-shaped green-hazel eyes. She was handsome now. In her youth, Benedict thought that she must have been quite beautiful.

'Did the same, thing myself with her mother,' Sancho declared, and took a noisy sip of the wine, washing it around the yellow stumps of his teeth. 'Leilah was Moorish — Christian convert married to a fat merchant. It was lust at first sight, the love came later.'

Benedict eyed Sancho. It was hard to imagine any woman falling for him, but perhaps he had been handsome long ago. Put the teeth back in his mouth, whiten them, add flesh and eyesight, banish the wrinkles and a presentable rogue might emerge. 'So you had a future together?'

'Oh aye.' Sancho ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. 'We eloped in the middle of the night, with all our belongings in a bundle. Spent three months on the road running from place to place. It was hard, I tell you, especially on her. A respectable married woman going off with a stallion man. If they had caught us, I would have lost my balls, and her the skin off her back. Not surprising that we didn't know much tranquillity those first few years. It was worse after Lucia was born. Leilah was worried what would happen to her if we were caught. We never really had peace of mind, but we had each other.'