the Bordeaux merchant was a pompous windbag and his attitude did not merit respect. All the way from Bordeaux he had blustered his own self-importance abroad. Everyone knew how rich he was, how influential, how intelligent a business man. Benedict, whose own wealth and connections put the merchant's in the shade, could not be bothered with such petty conflict and avoided the man as much as possible.
Receiving no response from Benedict now, the merchant sought approbation among the other travellers. There were a dozen in all, ranging from three Cluniac nuns and a priest, under Benedict's and Gisele's patronage, to a travelling musician with an extensive repertoire of songs, both sacred and profane, with which he regaled the company at intervals. Now he placed his precious harp in a waxed linen bag, and drew his hood up over his tawny curls. The nuns twittered nervous agreement with the merchant. The priest, like Benedict, held aloof, retreating into the depths of his cowl and thrusting his hands into the wide depths of his sleeves.
Without any warning except a brief, wind-snatched shout from Pons, the road narrowed, becoming a bitten white ribbon with a grass-tufted rock wall on one side, and a sheer drop on the other. Through a bluish haze of rain, Benedict stared at the stiff green spears of pine trees, at the jagged thrusts of stone, grey as solidified cloud, and in the chasm below, the thin, white twist of fast water, menacing and beautiful at one and the same time. He perceived it with the eyes of an eagle, yet he knew that if he flung himself into the void, he would drop like a stone.
The company had been riding two abreast, but now the line was forced down to single file. Gisele sat rigid upon her mare, her face averted from the steep emptiness beyond the crumbling track. Her lips were bloodless, so hard were they compressed by her terror. Benedict thought it ironic that she could worship God so thoroughly in the edifices built by man, but when confronted by God's own elements, she shrank in fear.
Thunder rumbled in the distance behind them, and the clouds were an ominous purple. The merchant's horse whinnied and sidled, its ears flickering. Loose stones skittered from beneath his hooves and tumbled over the road's edge, bouncing and rebounding into rain-driven oblivion. The nuns began to pray, their voices thin and puny against the power of the storm. The priest joined them, his baritone more powerful, but still as nothing. Lost voices in a vast cathedral.
Lightning daggered the boiling clouds and the thunder cracked overhead. The merchant's mount squealed and bucked, its hooves striking solidly in the chest of the following pack pony. The smaller beast shied, lost its balance, and slipped over the edge with a scream of terror. The pony's lead rope was wrapped around the merchant's saddle cantle, and now the falling weight slewed the larger horse around, dragging it towards the chasm. Soil-loosened stones bounded down the steep sides. The merchant's mouth widened in a silent scream.
Without pause for deliberation, Benedict leaped from Cylu's back. As he reached the merchant, his knife was already in his hand. He laid his hand on the taut lead rope and slashed. Fibres parted, the final thread clinging for what seemed an eternity before it snapped and the pack pony's weight surged free with a catapulting jar. The sound of the animal's falling flesh smacking on stone rose through the rainfall until, with a final bump, there was silence.
Soaked to the skin, his hair plastered to his skull, Benedict grasped the merchant's cob by its headstall, and held the beast steady. 'Get off and walk,' he snapped to its corpulent rider, and stared round at the rest of the pilgrims who were looking on with shocked eyes. 'All of you, dismount. At least if another horse goes over, you won't be sitting on its back.'
Frightened and miserable, they did so. Tremors shook the merchant's vast bulk and his legs would scarcely support him. 'You did not have to cut the rope!' he cried.
'No, I didn't!' Benedict responded tersely. 'I could have left you to go over the edge.' He thrust the cob's wet reins into the merchant's slack fingers and turned away to deal with his own horses.
Pons was unmoved by the incident when he came to see what was keeping his charges so long. 'It happens,' he said, spreading his hands and shrugging. 'Lucky he was only a pack animal.' And then he looked shrewdly at Benedict. 'You cut the rope?'
'There was no time to do anything else.'
'You think on your feet, Frank,' Pons said. 'You are not such a fool as the others.' Swinging round, he began to slog onwards through the rain. Benedict received the impression that the guide's words were not by way of a compliment.
The journey continued, the weather growing murkier by the moment. No more horses were lost over the edge of the path. Within a hundred yards, it widened slightly, allowing room to breathe, and soon they were descending into the valley. But no-one dared to remount. Cold, dispirited, soaked to the bone, they plodded on. The beauty of the mountains was screened by thick curtains of rain.
Hampered by her skirts, Gisele tripped and stumbled.
'Tuck your gown through your belt,' Benedict said impatiently as yet again she almost went to her knees.
'It wouldn't be seemly,' she protested tearily.
'Who's to see in this?' he growled. 'Do you think anyone besides yourself cares? Do it now, before you fall.'
With trembling chin, Gisele fumbled beneath her cloak and tugged the merest token of dress through her belt. Benedict clamped his jaw on his irritation. It was at moments like this that he longed for Julitta, for her forthright, practical nature. She would have hitched her gown without a qualm, perhaps even have donned a pair of men's breeches. The word 'seemly' would not have disturbed her, unless it was being yelled at her by a purple- faced Mauger.
The pilgrims' hostel that greeted their arrival in the valley was a low-roofed timber dwelling with a balding thatched roof. The heavy rain had advanced the dusk and at first the proprietor did not want to admit them for the place was already bulging with travellers. There were no beds to spare, or even spaces in beds. At last, however, he was persuaded to sell the late arrivals floor space around the fire in the main hall. The merchant was furious, but no amount of railing made any difference to the proprietor's assertion that he had no beds.
'Even if you was the Queen o' Sheba, you'd sleep on the floor!' he declared. 'If you want to go higher than that, then you can sleep in the stables like our Blessed Lord.'
Complaining, the merchant opted for the main room, the smoky fire, and sleeping space on the filthy, trodden rushes. Benedict chose the stables, where the bedding was marginally cleaner, and the company more wholesome.
Gisele disappeared behind a stack of hay to change into dry garments from their pack, dry being a relative term, for even the fresh clothing was damp to the touch. Benedict stripped down to his loin cloth and set about making a thick, deep nest in the hay, then spread out the spare garments from his own pack to air, so that in the morning they might seem slightly drier.
The watery stew in the main room had not appealed to him, and he delved amongst his pack rations to see what he could find. There were small, hard cakes made of oats, raisins and honey, dried figs, a small cheese purchased from a shepherd's wife along the way, and some salty, spiced sausage from the same source. To wash it down there was wine mixed with water from a mountain stream. It was hardly a feast, but it was an improvement on the meal being served in the main room across the courtyard.
Gisele emerged from her hiding place and looked at Benedict with startled eyes when she saw his near- nudity.
'It will be warm enough beneath the hay,' he said. 'I don't want to sleep in damp clothes. If you had any sense, you'd take yours off too.'
Her colour heightened and her right hand rose to clutch at the silver cross hanging round her neck, and beside it, the reliquary she had bought in Toulouse. The small box with its facing of polished agates and emeralds purported to contain three eyelashes belonging to Mary Magdalene, who had, apparently, lived out her latter years in Southern Gaul. It had cost as much as a top quality warhorse, but Gisele had thought it worth every last silver penny. Benedict knew what he thought, but had reserved comment. The matter of the relic for Brize-sur-Risle was not his concern.
'Sit.' He gestured at the food.
Gisele abandoned her clutch on the reliquary and did as he bade her, tucking her gown neatly around her legs. Her gaze flickered over his shoulders and chest, the narrow smudge of hair running from nipple to nipple, and the fine line feathering down over the firm bands of stomach muscle and disappearing into the linen loin cloth.
