slightly.
'It is a trading place, far, far from here; across the sea, across a vast desert larger than an ocean; a market for the gold that is mined in a kingdom the Moors call Gana. Horses, smaller than this, but of great endurance are to be found in the desert.'
Benedict smiled. 'My father-by-marriage would be interested to know of such lands. He has always had a wanderlust for new places and new experiences.'
'You say he is a renowned breeder of horses on his own lands. I am surprised that he has never travelled beyond the Pyrenees himself'
'It has always been on his horizon, a 'one day' destination,' Benedict said. 'The last dream when all others have been broken.'
Rodrigo raised his eyebrows, but Benedict did not offer to elaborate. The golden horse, sensing the division of concentration, tried to play up again and for the next few minutes Benedict was occupied in exerting his authority. The stallion put up a struggle, but finally settled down to perform as the man commanded. Benedict asked for a lance and a shield, and when the two were handed up to him, he threaded his left arm through the leather shield straps, and couched the lance in his right. His control of the reins was now negligible, and he had to command the horse through leg pressure and tone of voice. This was where the sensitivity and intelligence of the animal was important. Kumbi possessed full measure of both, and beneath Benedict's gifted handling, performed magnificently.
Rodrigo watched man and mount. Benedict rode like a Moor, he thought, light in the saddle, supple and deadly. The young man knew his trade, of that now Rodrigo had not a single doubt. His look grew thoughtful, but when Benedict drew rein and dismounted, his face flushed with pleasure, the lord of Bivar said nothing of what was on his mind. Instead, he praised Benedict and the horse, and took his guest to meet Sancho, the overseer.
Sancho was wizened and leathery. There was no telling how old he was, but to Benedict, he looked as if he had already been embalmed so closely did his features hug the contours of his bones. Most of Sancho's teeth were missing, and those that survived were twisted yellow pegs. One eye was milky, almost blind, the outer rim of the other was encircled with white, and yet their gaze on Benedict managed to be as sharp as a blade. Looking amused, Lord Rodrigo distanced himself from the confrontation.
'You are a horse breeder in your own country, eh?' Sancho challenged in a cracked voice. 'That doesn't even set you on the first rung of the ladder in Castile.'
'I learn fast,' Benedict replied, maintaining an even tone. 'And I have always been taught well… in the past.'
The old man hawked and spat. The eyes gleamed like opaque stones. 'What makes you think I want to teach you?'
Benedict shrugged. 'What makes you think I want you to teach me?'
They stared at each other, the small, wrinkled veteran of more than sixty burning Iberian summers and the limber young man, supple as a young tree, full of rising sap.
'I know horses, I know men,' Sancho said. His tone was less hostile, as if in that last, examining stare, he had discovered something of interest.
'So do I.' Benedict's gaze flickered to the Lord Rodrigo who was supervising the encounter from the corner of his eye, a half-smile twitching his lips. Sancho glanced too, and his own seamed, thin scar of a mouth began to curve.
'And no-one knows men better than El Cid,' he said. 'He must think you worthwhile in some way to bestow on you a horse of Kumbi's value, and promise you the pick of this stud. What it is he sees in you I do not know, but perhaps I should find out.'
Benedict returned the smile. 'I was of the same opinion about you,' he retorted.
CHAPTER 56
Arlette de Brize died on a shining midsummer morning in the convent of the Magdalene. She was at peace, and as Rolf looked down on her waxen, closed face, he could almost detect a smile on her lips. Her last words of an hour since lingered with him, causing a shiver of discomfort. 'I am going to be with Gisele,' she had said. Not God, but Gisele.
During her last week when the pain had been great, the nuns had drugged her with poppy syrup. The nostrum had taken the pain and brought lurid visions in its stead. In her waking moments Arlette had spoken in a trembling voice of beautiful gardens and angels brighter than the morning sun. She had also cried out at visions of blood and death, growing agitated despite the heavy sedation.
Rolf was glad that her suffering was over. He wished that he could grieve, but for the moment he only felt numb, as if he too had drunk of the poppy's narcotic. They had been married for almost thirty years, and she had been a constant in his life — too familiar to be noticed until there was a cold space where her presence had once stood. It was nothing compared to the frozen landscape occupied by Ailith's ghost, but still he was aware of how threadbare his life was becoming.
He meditated beside her body for a respectful period, and then left her to the ministrations of the nuns. She belonged to them now. They would care for her far more diligently than he ever had. He departed the chapel, a greying man almost fifty years old, the wiry grace of his youth now set in a more solid mould, his features still handsome, but showing the marks of time.
He rode home to Brize in a reflective mood, his mind dwelling on the bitter-sweetness of the past. If only Arlette had yielded a little more; if only he had been more patient. If only… And the name his mind spoke was suddenly not his wife's.
When he arrived at Brize, he was still preoccupied, heavy of heart, and it took him a while to realise that he had visitors. It was the sight of his grooms more than usually busy in the stable area and his automatic eye for a good horse that jerked him belatedly out of his reverie to ask what was happening.
'Duke Robert's here, my lord,' replied the man, nodding his head at the glossy chestnut stallion that an unfamiliar squire was watering at the trough. The horse's bridle and saddle were of rich, embossed leather. The breast band was decorated with red silk tassels and so was the brightly woven saddle cloth. Rolf cursed to himself. The last thing he needed now was a serving of Duke Robert's heavy-handed jocularity at his table.
'Did he say anything to you?'
'No, lord, only to find stabling for his horse and those of his men. They did not bring a baggage wain, but they all had full saddle rolls.'
Which meant at least an overnight stay on the road to Rouen, and not just a passing visit. Rolf nodded to the groom, mentally armed himself, and went forth to battle.
The first thing he heard as he approached the hall was Robert's loud, hearty laugh, and a woman's voice chiming softly beside it. Julitta, he thought, and felt a little less beleaguered. And if Julitta was here, that meant Mauger was around somewhere.
Robert, Duke of Normandy, eldest son of the Conqueror, was a well-built man of medium height. He had russet hair, slightly protuberant grey eyes, a good, straight nose, and a sensuous, full-lipped mouth. The overall effect fell just short of handsome, and was certainly attractive. His nature was attractive too, providing you were not hoping for hidden depths. There weren't any. Robert of Normandy was shallow and unreliable. He always meant to keep his promises, but somehow he seldom did, and given such a lead, his barons felt free to break their oaths to him. It led to confusion, to dishonesty, doubt, and even war.
Robert was seated at the high table at the end of the hall where he had been furnished with food and wine. Mauger, his expression stonily controlled, sat a little to one side with the Duke's retainers, and in the lord's seat, beside the Duke himself, was Julitta. She appeared to be keeping him amused, but then beautiful women were another of Robert's weaknesses, no matter that they belonged to other men.
'My lord,' Rolf bent the knee to the Conqueror's son. It was a matter of form. When he had knelt to the old Duke, it had been out of genuine respect.
'Oh get up, get up,' Robert gestured magnanimously. 'No ceremony among friends! Come, sit down, it's
