'Would you do it again?'

Sancho glanced at his daughter spinning, her face rapt with concentration. 'Yes,' he said gruffly, 'I would. But I don't know about Leilah. She's been dead these past twenty years. I think she would say yes, but you never know with women. That is their beauty, and their flaw.'

Benedict smiled wry acknowledgement, and saw that Lucia was smiling too, her look quietly indulgent on her grizzled father.

Two days later, Benedict finally made the decision that he must leave for Compostella before it became too difficult to leave at all, and from there return to Brize.

Inspecting one of the herds of brood mares with Sancho, he told the overseer of his intentions.

Sancho heard him out in silence, his jaws working on a piece of liquorice root, manipulating it from one side of his mouth to the other in search of teeth with which to chew. Black juice oozed on his lips. 'You must do what is necessary for your conscience,' he said. 'A man works best without a burdened soul.' He cocked his head on one side. 'But you will return here, I think, when you have shed your load.'

Benedict looked sharply at the old man. 'Are my thoughts so obvious?'

Sancho gave a laconic shrug. 'It does not take a grand wisdom to see that you have settled here, and when you talk of Normandy, your face grows troubled and you bite your thumbnail.'

Involuntarily, Benedict cast his glance down to the hands which gripped Kumbi's reins. With a grimace, he concealed his thumbs within his palms. Sancho saw and his lips curved in a black-stained smile.

'I have been wondering when you would go. You have been restless these past few days.'

'And yet you have said nothing?'

'I have watched and listened.' Sancho spat over his mount's withers and resumed his chewing. 'You cannot go alone,' he said after a moment. 'You will need protection and escort over the mountains.'

Benedict drew a deep breath. He did not want to think about that part of his journey, retracing his steps to the place of attack. 'I intended hiring soldiers from Lord Rodrigo.'

Sancho nodded. 'Wise,' he said.

Benedict thought that the conversation had ended there, but that evening as they sat over a game of merels, Sancho carefully positioned one of the small clay balls on the board and rolling another between his palms, said thoughtfully, 'I think I might see you part of your way home.'

Benedict stared. 'Why should you do that?'

'Why should I not?'

Bemused, Benedict shook his head. 'I could give you a host of reasons, but surely you already know them.'

'The dangers of the mountain roads, my advancing years,' Sancho said with a cackle of amusement. 'Let me tell you, I've been as far as the cities of Constantinople and Nicaea in my time in search of bloodstock. I have travelled throughout Andalusia and the Moorish kingdoms.'

'But that was long ago.' Benedict looked at the wizened, leathery face across from him, the milky eye and scrawny throat.

'Not that long. Even at my time of life, a man can still have itchy feet. Besides,' he added, 'there is no need to cross the mountains. Galleys are easily hired in Corunna to make the journey up the coast. There's a huge horse fair in Bordeaux before the summer's end and I want to do some trading. In previous years I've sent younger men, but I don't see why I shouldn't indulge myself one last time.'

'It might well be your last time,' Benedict could not help but say. And yet the thought of the old man's company was comforting, and there was no conviction in his protest.

Sancho shrugged and smiled. 'It is my choice.' He gestured at the merels board. 'Your move.'

CHAPTER 58

The Draca, one of Aubert's wine vessels, docked in Bordeaux, having sailed down the French coast from Rouen. The late summer journey had been beset by unseasonable winds and some minor squalls. Mauger, never a good ocean traveller even in the calmest of conditions, spent a great length of time leaning over the gunwale, his complexion a delicate shade of green.

Julitta, in contrast, revelled in the brisk weather and the freedom from being tied to the quiet domesticity of Fauville. She took up a favourite position on the raised decking by the prow, and stood for hours on end, watching the Draca carve her way through the glistening green waves with their white netting of foam. If conditions grew too rough and she found herself becoming saturated by the spume, she would retire to one of the benches in the hold which lay amidships, and keep Aubert's cargo company. He was exporting barrels of English mead, and hoped to bring home a cargo of leather and strong southern wine. Not that he was personally on board the vessel, but one of his senior overseers was – a black-bearded, hearty soul named Beltran who had been sailing these waters for the better part of twenty years.

Beltran took Julitta and Mauger to the lodging house where he himself usually stayed when he was in Bordeaux and within moments secured them a bed for the night and the promise of a substantial meal. At the mention of food, Mauger compressed his lips and excused himself, declaring that all he wanted was a bed that did not move.

Beltran and Julitta exchanged amused, pitying glances, and guided by their landlady, a talkative, tiny woman with sallow skin and beady black eyes, they descended from the sleeping loft and entered the main room below.

Gulls screamed overhead. The sounds of the bustling, dusty streets percolated through the cool stone walls, which kept out the worst of the day's burning heat. Their hostess brought them a jug of wine, a loaf, and earthenware bowls of steaming fish soup. 'Are you on a pilgrimage?' she asked curiously as she set the food down on the trestle.

Julitta shook her head. 'We are here to buy horses at the fair.'

'Ah.' The woman absorbed the information, and if anything, her curiosity increased. 'I think you are newly married then? He does not leave you at home with your children?'

Julitta half-smiled a response and curbed the impulse to tell the woman it was none of her business. Let her believe that this as a journey undertaken by an ardent groom and his new bride.

'You should travel down to Compostella,' advised their hostess. 'Ask his blessing.' She patted her belly, her meaning obvious.

Julitta reddened. At Dame Agatha's she had learned how to protect herself against the fate of pregnancy. Merielle, in one of her rare spurts of benevolence, had shown her the method employed by the cannier whores. You took a small piece of moss or sponge, soaked it in vinegar, and inserted it into your passage. So far the method had worked remarkably well and Julitta desired no intervention from St James.

'Me, I have eight sons, and twenty-four grandchildren,' the woman declared proudly, and proceeded to regale Julitta with all their names and circumstances. Julitta ate her soup, which was delicious, and tried to look interested. She was aware of Beltran's amusement and wondered why on earth he chose to lodge here. He did not strike her as a man who liked having his ears talked off, even for the sake of good cooking.

Finally the garrulous old biddy removed their dishes to rinse them out by her well in the yard. Julitta wondered which was worse, retreating to lie down in bed beside Mauger, or remaining here to be verbally assaulted by her landlady.

'How far is the horse fair?' she asked.

Beltran's lips twitched. He wiped his palm across his bushy moustache and beard. 'Not far,' he said.

They left the lodging house, and walked along the banks of the Garonne. Numerous trading galleys were moored along the wharves and the vinegary smell of split wine casks pervaded the air, reminding Julitta of the time spent at Aubert's house in London.

'Clothilde means well,' Beltran said. 'Usually she gives lodging to ships' masters and the like. It is not often that she plays host to another woman.'

Small wonder, Julitta was tempted to say, but she managed to curb her tongue.

They walked past other moored vessels, including Italian and Byzantine horse transports. At one of them, she saw a small, leathery old man guiding a mare and colt down a ramp. He issued orders in rapid Castilian Spanish to a groom. From between his clamped lips there protruded a stick of liquorice root.

'Iberian horses,' said Beltran. 'Your husband will be spoiled for choice.'

Julitta admired the mare and foal and stepped forward for a closer look. The man with the liquorice root swivelled milky eyes in her direction and looked her up and down. His stare was disconcerting, for although he looked blind, Julitta could tell that he saw her perfectly well.

'They are fine horses,' she said to him.

'Aye, that they are, my lady.' His tone was dour.

'Are they to be sold at the fair?'

'No, they're already spoken for —just resting them a couple of days before we sail on.'

'Do you have others?'

'Already taken to the market place.' He gave a nod of dismissal, spat a wad of black saliva at his feet, and recommenced talking to the groom as if Julitta did not exist.

That was the drawback with Spanish horses, Julitta thought. They were so much in demand that those who sold them could be as objectionable as they liked and still reap a profit. Even if she told this particular trader that her husband was commissioned to purchase a horse for Duke Robert of Normandy, she doubted that it would increase the level of his courtesy.

Julitta moved on. A glance over her shoulder for a final look at the mare and foal caught the small trader in the act of staring after her and Beltran, a thoughtful look on his wizened features.