aggression.'
Beltran had rolled his eyes at Benedict. 'I don't intend going anywhere near that beast,' he said. 'Let Lord Mauger load him, let Lord Mauger tend to his needs. My only concern is sailing theDraca whole into Rouen. Say a prayer for me.'
And now, gazing out to sea, Benedict did say a prayer, and asked God to keep Julitta from harm.
Beltran paced the single deck of the Draca and glanced skywards with a worried frown. Storm clouds were building, one on top of the other, piling to fill the sky. Dirty grey, rimmed with heavy charcoal, expanding and contracting like the chest of a breathing giant. The sea was a choppy green-grey, the crests of the waves licked with white curlicues of spume. The Draca was holding a steady course at the moment, and running well before the wind, but Beltran did not really like the idea of rounding the tip of Brittany in the teeth of a storm. It might yet blow over, but his experience and instinct told him that it was unlikely. He turned to give instructions to one of the crew, and caught sight of Mauger leaning over the wash-strake, retching dryly into the waves. His garments were drenched from the splash of the spray against the Draca's sides, his blond hair plastered to his skull, his eyes sunken in cadaver hollows. The grooms were sick too. Only Lady Julitta went unaffected, possessed of Rolf's natural sea legs. She stood beside the steersman, talking cheerfully, her cheeks whipped to startling rosiness by the sting of the salt wind.
Beltran walked down the ship towards her, picking his way over a coil of rope, a water barrel, and past the open hold. On one side of the mast, his cargo of wine barrels was protected from the elements by a covering of oiled canvas secured with hempen ropes. On the other, hobbled, muzzled, immobilised, was Mauger's black Spanish stallion. His back was covered with a blanket to keep him from catching a chill, and he was fairly well protected from the worst of the spray, but Beltran wondered if the beast would be approachable, let alone rideable by the time they reached dry land.
He had been blindfolded at the outset of their journey while he was hobbled and tied, but that had been removed once he was secure and they were underway. The stallion's eyes showed a permanent white rim, and there were tension grooves running from nostril to orbit. The grooms had to untie his head to permit him to eat and drink, but as they were now, Beltran doubted them capable of controlling the beast should there be an accident.
Skirting the stallion, never taking his eyes from him, he continued on to Julitta.
'Storm rising,' he said, pointing at the clouds. 'Best to find a harbour soon and ride it out.'
Julitta nodded, and although concern filled her eyes, there was no serious anxiety. She knew that Beltran was more than competent which was more than could be said for Mauger. His face was almost the same shade of green as his tunic and he had retched so much that he could barely stand straight for the pain in his abused stomach muscles. Despite herself, she felt sympathy for him.
After his behaviour in Bordeaux, she had hated him, but it had been impossible to maintain such intensity of emotion for long. He was jealous of her because he was uncertain of himself, and when she saw the bewilderment in his eyes, the incomprehension of his own actions, her rage diminished. She would never cease loving Benedict, but she knew that if she continued to live on dreams, they would destroy her.
The clouds continued to scud and darken, and needles of rain prickled Julitta's face. The wind whipped the cloak that she drew around her body, and tried to tear it away. A freak gust swirled off her wimple. Her braids, dark and bright, tumbled down over her breasts. The Draca responded gallantly to the increasing surge of the sea beneath her keel. Her prow rose and dipped, rose and dipped, still knifing the waves with a keen edge. Spray shattered over her bows and spattered the crew, the passengers, and the covered cargo. Mauger's black stallion tugged on his securing ropes and neighed in protest and fear as time and again stinging drops of cold, salt water peppered his hide.
Mauger and the least incapacitated groom strove to erect another canvas cover over the stallion for protection, but the wind was too stiff and their bodies too weak, and all they succeeded in doing was wrapping the canvas around themselves and hampering the frantically working crew. Julitta hurried to help them out of their dilemma. Her hair whipped around her face, her gait was a drunken weave as she strove to walk on the heaving deck. Reaching Mauger and the groom, she untangled them from the clogging canvas, the fabric heavy and rough in her hands. All too close, the stallion threshed and struggled against the ropes confining him. Mauger reached his feet by sheer determination of will.
'Give me the end.' He beckoned, and swallowed hard.
With some difficulty, Julitta did so. Between them, she and Mauger, and the groggy groom, managed to erect an awning over the stallion, but it was scant cover from the incoming rain and wind.
Task finished, Mauger collapsed, retching weakly. 'Why should you be gifted with sea legs?' he gasped at Julitta, his voice husky and strained.
'My father's never sick either, I get it from him,' she answered. 'Beltran says he's taking shelter. It won't be long.'
'I never want to leave dry land again,' Mauger gulped. 'Never!'
Julitta returned to Beltran. The captain's eyes were narrowed against the worsening weather, and he constantly snapped out orders to his crew. 'We're off the Breton coast,' he told her. 'There's a bay beyond the next headland. We'll ride this out close to shore. It's going to be a rough night, my lady.'
Julitta gathered her wet, dishevelled braids in her hands and squeezed out the water. She gave Beltran a rueful smile. 'I think that sailors are very hardy, very brave, and utterly foolish,' she said.
'Not so foolish as to lose their lives; my crew are the best.'
'Knowing you, and knowing Aubert de Remy, I would not argue,' she said, and went to sit in the lee of the wine cargo, out of his and the sailors' way. She said a quiet prayer, both for the safety of the Draca and for those on board the Constantine, wherever she was on this wild and stormy passage.
The Constantine also took shelter from the bad weather by hugging the Breton shoreline. Breakers drove in towards the beach – a long strip of fawn sand and shingle giving way to dark forest through the driving rain. Gulls screamed and wheeled; the air was salty with spindrift and the wind was raw.
Benedict checked on the horses in the hold, and found them uneasy and uncomfortable, but not given to outright panic. He went among them, soothing and stroking, making sure that all had sufficient feed and water. The chestnut mare was the most nervous of all of them, and he remained with her longest, talking to her, coaxing. She and Gisele had suited each other, their temperaments a match. He thought of his wife, of her simple grave in the mountains, and of the road he had travelled since then. It seemed as close as yesterday, and as distant as the end of the world.
He gave the mare a final, affectionate pat, and went back on deck. The wind howled through the lateen rigging, sounding notes like an off-key bladder pipe. The canvas sail snapped and billowed. A rope clattered against the mast.
Benedict lunged his way to the cabin and galley in the vessel's stern, where a sailor was stirring a cauldron of soup over a hearth of glazed tiles. Just before he ducked into the shelter, Benedict cast his eyes across the murky horizon. Other ships were seeking shelter inshore. There were two wine traders heading north like themselves, a smaller, southbound Scandinavian Nef, and a fleet of local fishing boats. The farthest sail was a square one, striped in yellow and red-orange, the same colours as those of the Draca. Benedict narrowed his eyes, trying to focus on the ship, but the wind gusted and the rain suddenly began to pelt down, obliterating all vision beyond a few yards. Sighing, Benedict entered the galley, to fortify himself with a bowl of the hot soup. If the weather worsened further, there would be no time for taking sustenance, and besides, the galley fire would have to be doused so that it was not a hazard.
The full force of the squall struck as evening darkened the sky and the wind rose beyond a whine to a scream. The Draca was sent writhing out of control, bucking and kicking on the waves like a runaway colt. The steersman cursed and fought the tiller, striving to bring her round. Bellowing orders, Beltran ran to help him.
Lightning ripped the sky apart, giving the struggling sailors a fleeting vision of heaven's brilliance. In the darkness as the Draca plunged into a trough, they saw the gates of hell and the black mouth of eternity rising up to devour them.
The rain slashed down in a million lances of black light. Sea water broke over the deck and waterlogged the bilges. Sailors frantically pumped and scooped. The Draca wallowed, trembled, and fought back at the sea. Like the Viking ships from which she was descended, she snarled defiance at the silver-clawed waves, her prow dripping trails of crystal and obsidian water.
