mingling of pleasure and sorrow. 'I used to love my garden at Ulverton.'
A delicate perfume filled the room as Julitta set the jug down on the coffer at the bedside. Clearing her throat, Felice excused herself to other duties below stairs, leaving mother and daughter alone.
Julitta went to the window and looked down into the yard. The grooms had finished saddling Benedict's horse and the young man had emerged from the house to mount up. Her eyes fed on him for a moment, drawing sustenance from his graceful, competent movements. She leaned out a little to watch him collect the leading rein of a grey mare and circle round to leave. Then he chanced to look up and saw her watching from the room above. A smile broke across his face and he saluted her. Julitta felt an uplifting surge of emotion and waved in return as he passed beneath the window. Standing in the stable doorway, Mauger was party to the exchange, and directed a censorious glance in Julitta's direction.
Suddenly self-conscious, she put her hand to her hair to make sure that it was still contained within its severe braid, smoothed her sack-like gown, and withdrew into the room. Her mother had been watching her too, and Julitta blushed. 'I was waving farewell to Benedict,' she said defensively, and found it pleasurable to taste his name on her tongue. Hastily she sat down on the bed, and as Felice had done, took Ailith's hand in hers.
Her mother swallowed, making the effort to speak. 'Benedict is betrothed to your half-sister,' she warned. 'Have a care where you spend your affection, Julitta. I would not have you repeat my mistakes.'
'I did no more than wave, I haven't done anything wrong.'
'Would you have waved for someone else?'
Julitta scowled, and stared at the embroidered counterpane without answering.
'It will be your father's task to dower you and find you a suitable husband, and for that, you must be above reproach.'
'You haven't even considered if I want to go to him at all!' Julitta cried resentfully. 'You said you no longer respected him. Why should I do his bidding!'
'Would you rather the convent or the gutter?' 'You chose the gutter above him!' Julitta spat, and was immediately contrite. The indignant colour left her face and she chewed her full, lower lip. 'Mama, I'm sorry,' she said in a voice thick with tears and pressed Ailith's hand to her own hot cheek.
Ailith's fingers uncurled in a tender caress. 'So am I,' she said. 'More than you will ever know. And so tired.' She struggled to gather her failing strength. 'I know it is hard for you to understand, Julitta. I wanted more from your father than he had it in him to give… it was like donning a shimmering gossamer cloak and expecting it to keep me warm even in the deepest winter. For you, it may be that the cloak is lined with fur. You are of his blood and you will not be sharing his bed, lying there, waiting for him to come home from the arms of another woman. That is why I tell you not to grow too fond of Benedict de Remy.' She subsided against the pillows, her energy drained, and when she spoke again, her lips formed the words, but she scarcely possessed the breath to utter them. 'You are so young, and I won't be here to protect you from yourself Her eyelids fluttered and closed.
Julitta leaned over her mother, sick with terror, thinking that she had died, but Ailith's hand moved, groping blindly for hers. Julitta grasped it and squeezed with all the desperate strength in her bursting young body, and knew herself as powerless as a straw twirling on the surface of a flood.
CHAPTER 40
It was the middle of the afternoon when Benedict arrived at Ulverton. The late May sun dazzled on the sea and clothed the new green of the land with an eye-aching intensity. On the castle's outer defences, a group of labourers were digging foundations for a stone curtain wall to replace the wooden palisade. They worked bare- chested, their skins reddening beneath the first onslaught of the sun that year. The chink of their spades and mattocks, their salty language, followed Benedict through the gates and into the sun-basked lower bailey.
His dursty horses were eager to plunge their muzzles into the stone water trough. He let them drink, but only for a short time as a precaution against the colic. A groom came over to take them in hand.
'Is Lord Rolf here?'
The groom fixed his gaze on a point beyond Benedict's shoulder. 'No, sir,' he said and quickly lowered his eyes.
Turning, Benedict found himself facing Gisele, his betrothed. Their wedding was set for the autumn, her mother having finally decided that at nineteen years old, her daughter was robust and mature enough for child- bearing. 'My father is riding by the shore,' she said. 'Do you want to-come within?'
Gisele was attractive to look upon, being tall and slender with fine, silvery-brown hair and clear grey eyes. Her nose was dainty and sharp, her cheekbones high. Her mouth was small with a tendency to purse when she thought she was being put upon, or when, like her mother, she was judging others and finding them lacking. Benedict had been graciously permitted to kiss that mouth once or twice and had made his own judgements. He did not attempt to kiss it now, not in public before the groom.
'No, I have to see him, it's urgent. But if you could bring a cup of cider out?'
She nodded and started to turn away, but not before he had seen the curiosity in her eyes. 'I can't tell you,' he said. 'Not until I've spoken to your father.'
Alarm joined the curiosity. Ignoring it, he swung to the groom and commanded him to saddle up Cylu the grey. By the time Gisele returned, Benedict had stripped his cloak and tunic and was already astride the fresh horse. Leaning down, he accepted the brimming cup from her hands and downed the contents in a few fluid swallows of his strong, young throat. The taste was acid and clean, clearing the dust from his mouth, stinging slightly in his nostrils.
'That's better,' he said gratefully and handed the empty cup back down to her.
Although Gisele smiled at him, it was with a closed mouth and he saw her nose wrinkle fastidiously. He was immediately aware of the stale condition of his garments – five days on his body without a change, and since the episode in the bathtub at Southwark, he had washed nothing more than his hands and face. The horse swung its head, hooves dancing eagerly. Flecks of foam spattered from the bit. Gisele trod hastily backwards before her immaculate blue linen gown could be smirched.
'While you're gone, I will have the maids prepare a tub,' she announced. Although she was looking at him through her lashes, the glance was far from provocative; her lips were pursed. And when he did step into the tub, he knew that the proprieties would be rigidly observed. No taking liberties until the nuptial knot was securely tied, and probably not even then, he acknowledged wryly. Still, the thought of a warm tub and fresh raiment was fortifying, and he smiled his gratitude at her before turning the horse.
Cylu was fresh and responded to the touch of his heels with a half-buck and an exuberant breaking of wind. The slight wrinkling of Gisele's nose became an outright grimace of distaste and sent her in full retreat back to the hall. Grinning, Benedict patted the muscular, glossy neck, and urged the horse to a pacing trot.
Rolf was riding Cylu's sire, Sleipnir, along the path which led between Ulverton and one of the small fishing communities beholden to the main village. Benedict, having enquired first of the miller and then the reeve, caught up with him on the dark stone cliffs, negotiating the track which meandered down to the sand and shingle beach. Some of the downland was cultivated with maslin, the green shoots of wheat and rye rippling in the warm wind blowing off the sea. Gulls wheeled and spiralled, and a white-tailed eagle soared on spread pinions. Sheep grazed the clovery turf, watched over by an elderly man, his weathered faced tanned a deep soil-brown.
Rolf looked over his shoulder and reined to a halt. 'I thought that I heard hoofbeats,' he said, and having looked Benedict up and down, his eyes narrowed. 'Is there a reason for such haste?'
There was just room for two horses to ride abreast on the track and Benedict joined his lord. The sun was bright on the older man's face, emphasising the deep creases at the eye corners and between nostril and mouth. Threads of silver were beginning to dim the garnet brightness of his hair, but enough fire remained to reveal from whence Julitta had inherited her colouring. 'Sir, there is indeed,' Benedict replied, and wondered how he was going to tell Rolf what had happened in London, that the woman and child over whom he had long grieved were resurrected. There was no easy way.
'Well, what is it, spit it out!' Rolf snapped impatiently as Benedict hesitated. 'If you've bought a sow instead of a mare at Smithfield, or sold those nags I entrusted you at a loss, you might as well say so.'
'No, sir, I fared excellently at the horse fair.' Benedict deliberated a moment longer, and as they reached
