When he enquired as to her whereabouts, the elderly priest spread his hands.
'I do not know. I only met her in passing in the bailey. You could ask the guards.'
'Thank you, I will.'
Within the keep torches, candles and rush dips shed their light and shadow over plastered walls, embroideries and hangings. Hazy ribbons of blue smoke layered the hall and meandered without any great haste towards the vent holes.
Viewed from the wooden stairway connecting the upper and lower sections of the castle, the river Risle possessed the black sparkle of a jet necklace and the surrounding land was an ocean of soft, dark-blue hummocks. He heard the snort of a dozing horse, and the intermittent creaking of a storeshed door.
The guards on duty near the gates in the lower bailey were warming themselves at a brazier filled with firewood. One of the wives had brought out a covered iron container of pottage for their supper, and her husband was setting it to keep warm. Benedict's query was met with shaken heads and frowns. No, she had not left the keep. Yes, she had been in the bailey talking to the priest, but they hadn't taken much notice of where she went after that.
Benedict did not want to make too much of an issue of his search and arouse unwelcome curiosity. 'If you see her, tell her that I will be in the solar or the hall,' he said casually, and turned away.
A child belonging to the soldier's wife had wandered across his path and he almost tripped over the infant. Its face and hands were shiny and sticky from the piece of honeycomb it had been sucking with total absorption. A glistening smear dripped down the expensive blue wool of Benedict's tunic. Mortified, the mother grappled her offspring away, apologising profusely.
Her words fell upon deaf ears. 'Of course, the bees,' Benedict said with a gleam of comprehension, and to the bewilderment of the gathering around the brazier, set off in the direction of Arlette's garden. It was built against the outer wall, a haven of retreat, a pleasant suntrap, where Arlette and Gisele came in fine weather to sew and listen to moral fables and readings from the scriptures. The garden was surrounded on three sides by walls, with a gated entrance to prevent animals from wandering in and destroying the plants, of which Arlette was inordinately proud.
The moonlight cast a luminous, silverish light over trees and shrubs, herbs and flowers. Scents assaulted him, sweet, bitter, astringent, muskily soft. Drugged moths floated from flower to flower, and above his head he heard the shrill squeaks of hunting bats. He followed the path to the well which was the garden's focal point. The gardener had left a hoe leaning against its side, and a wooden dibbing stick, the soil dark on its tip. Benedict continued along the path until he came to the corner against the outer wall, his footfalls and breathing cat- light.
She was there, standing beside the straw bee skeps, her hand lightly pressed against the nearest one, and she was talking in a low voice, too low for him to hear what she was saying. Her hair was loose, curling to her hips, and her discarded wimple was draped over the chamomile seat at her side.
'Talking to the bees again?' he said softly. 'I thought that I would find you here.'
She gave a small cry and spun to face him, her hand going to her throat.
'I didn't mean to startle you,' Benedict said swiftly, 'but if I had made my presence known before, I feared you would run away.' He straddled the path, blocking her exit.
Julitta lowered her hand. 'And not without cause,' she said, but made no move to try and escape. Her eyes gleamed in the darkness. The rich tendrils of her hair framed her face. He could see the rapid rise and fall of her breasts and knew that her breathing was no less rapid than his own.
'I haven't spoken to you… God's eyes, even seen you since that last May Eve we were together.'
Her jaw tightened. 'I thought that there were reasons for that, good reasons.'
'Oh yes, the reasons were good,' he answered grimly. 'I was given them from all directions until I was nearly out of my mind. I have reached the conclusion that I have no reason where you are concerned. You have left your footprint on my soul.'
She drew a shuddering breath. 'You have always had a way with words.'
'It goes much deeper than words. May Eve… was more than lust. We both know that.'
Almost without realising, she swayed a step towards him, then checked herself as he reached for her. In a moment she would be lost. 'What purpose does this serve?' she said hoarsely.
He spread his hands. 'I just wanted to see you in the flesh and… and talk the way we used to.'
'Talk.' Julitta fixed on the word as if it were an anchor in the midst of a stormy ocean. Half-turning, she sat down on the turf seat and spread her wimple across her knees — symbol of respectability, a married woman's prop. 'Very well,' she said, a quaver in her voice, 'sit down and talk to me.'
Benedict hesitated, then sat down gingerly beside her. 'Where do I begin?' he said. 'Are you happy with Mauger?'
Julitta stared out over the moon-silvered garden and deliberated her reply. Benedict's shoulder was almost touching hers. She could feel his breath, his body; the danger of the moment. How easy it would be. 'I have been happier in my life,' she said at length, 'but also I have known more grief. There is a roof over my head, I am mistress of my own household, saving Mauger's word, and he provides well for me.' She looked at him from beneath her lids and wound her wimple around her fingers. 'It must be the same between you and Gisele — not what you want, but enough to keep you from starving?'
Benedict laughed bitterly. 'Enough to keep me from starving,' he repeated, as if the word was a great jest at his expense. 'Ah God, Julitta, you are as much Rolf's daughter as she is Arlette's. How much love is enough to keep me from famine?'
Julitta bit her lip and looked away, her fingers tightening in the cloth.
Benedict's grimace deepened. 'Did you know that we were in Rouen for the purpose of praying at the tomb of St Petronella?'
'Arlette said as much.'
'I tell you, if prayer was the way to fruitfulness, we would have half a dozen offspring by now. St Petronella might grant a miracle, but how I can sow seed when the garden door is barred, is beyond my understanding.'
'Do you mean Gisele is unable to bear children?'
'No, just unwilling to beget them,' he said dryly. 'An immaculate conception would suit her. That is why I say she is Arlette's daughter. Everything she is has been learned by rote from her mother, nor can she be persuaded to question the rule. Mama says so, therefore it is true… but then I suppose you know most of this already. You used to dwell in the bower.'
'They tried not to involve me in their conversations.' Julitta laughed shortly. 'I used to disrupt them with my 'bathhouse' morals. I do admit that I cut off my own nose to spite my face by saying truly outrageous things just to see how horrified I could make them, so that they took to ignoring me. A blessing in disguise, I think. Arlette used to try and curb my excesses, but I would just escape to you and Papa.'
'Yes, I remember,' Benedict said softly. He took a lock of her hair between forefinger and thumb and played with it. 'And then your poor father would have to keep the peace.' He was smiling as he spoke.
'It wasn't my 'poor father' who had to live among them,' she retorted. 'He scarcely spent any time in the bower. And neither do you, I hazard.'
'No,' he admitted reluctantly, 'not at Brize, although I do at Ulverton. Many men do not dwell in their wives' working chambers.'
'Mauger does.'
'So would I in his place.'
The conversation was becoming dangerous, Benedict's proximity even more so, and Julitta knew that she must make an end of the meeting for both their sakes. 'But you are not in his place,' she said, and would have risen to her feet except that he still held her prisoner by her hair. 'Benedict, let me go.'
'I cannot,' he whispered. 'God forgive me, I cannot.' And set his mouth upon hers.
Julitta quivered beneath his touch. Torn between the urge to yield and the need to fight, she remained where she was, trapped like a moth dancing in a candle flame. And then the flame began to consume her, licking delicately at first, but growing hotter, beginning to singe. Her mouth responded to his; she set her arms around his neck and dug her fingers into his hair. His hand opened and trailed its way down the strand of hair he had been grasping. Light as a feather, he touched her breast, and Julitta gasped, stiffened, and then pressed herself closer. It was wrong, she knew that it was, but now she too could only think 'God forgive me.' Her tongue followed his,
