'Of course I do,' said Julitta without hesitation. 'We went to visit the de Remys but they weren't there. You bought me some green hair ribbons from a market stall on the way home.'
'You really remember it so well?'
'I thought I was going to see Ben again, I wouldn't stop crying.'
Julitta looked sidelong at her mother. 'Yes,' she said softly. 'I do remember it well.' The bitter disappointment, the anger. 'Why didn't we visit another time?'
'Because I should never have gone in the first place,' Ailith said wearily. 'It was after Sigrid moved away to Southampton. I felt so alone, that I was tempted to try and make contact. When the de Remys were absent, it seemed to be a sign from God that I should leave well alone.' She began to cough again, and the kerchief in her hand grew red. 'It doesn't seem so important now. Perhaps I was wrong.'
'Mama!' Alarmed, Julitta crouched at her mother's side, feeling as helpless as a straw in a gale.
The paroxysm eased. Her face grey, Ailith wiped bloody foam from her lips. 'Tomorrow,' she whispered. 'Tomorrow, you will go to the nuns at St Aethelburga's, and they will send for your father.'
'But I…'
'Do not argue with me, child, I haven't the strength. I should have done this long since.'
Disobeying the hoarse command, Julitta began to protest in earnest, but Dame Agatha barged into the room like a ship in full sail, and rendered her silent. The woman puffed to a halt at the bedside and folded her arms, hitching her pendulous breasts up beneath her chin, always a sign that she was prepared to do battle.
'I have had words with Master Wulfstan,' she announced to mother and daughter, her eye fixing on Ailith in particular. 'He says that he is willing to overlook what happened earlier, if you are willing also.'
'Then Wulfstan is the only leopard who has ever changed his spots.' Ailith dabbed the kerchief at her mouth.
Agatha frowned. 'I don't say as I like him, but he's rich and he has influence. I cannot afford to turn a customer like him away from my door.'
'You once told me that this was a respectable establishment,' Ailith croaked.
'So it is!' Agatha's cheeks fattened with indignation. 'There's no thievery or evil doings. This place is clean and well ordered —just as respectable as any of the homes my clients come from. I set my standards high!'
'But not high enough to deny Wulfstan the Goldsmith.'
'You make too much fuss,' Agatha sniffed. 'You've been glad enough of a roof over your head and a place to hide these last eight years, have you not? Don't preach standards at me, my girl!'
Ailith bowed her head and said nothing. Agatha's bosom surged again, and she rounded on Julitta. 'I had to send one of the other girls out to the cookshop in your stead. There's a tub needs filling downstairs, and the couch making up. Best be sharp about it. There's other customers arriving soon.'
'But my mother…" Julitta gestured at Ailith. 'I cannot leave her like this!'
'She will be all right. You can check on her between tasks, and I'll look in myself,' Agatha said not unkindly, but with a determined glint in her eye. 'Go on, girl, the sooner gone, the sooner back!' She flapped her hands in a shooing motion.
Julitta did not want to go, but she had little choice. With a final, worried glance at her mother, she went reluctantly from the room and down to the bathhouse.
For the next quarter candle notch, she heaved the pails back and forth, back and forth until the tub in the end cubicle was filled to two-thirds of its depth and the steam rose from its surface as thickly as river mist. Her wayward hair developed a wilder curl, and her face glowed with effort. She scattered fragrant herbs in the tub and made up the couch. Her mind watched her body at work, focusing upon the red hands, the damp, wild curtains of her hair as she leaned forward, the stoop of her spine. The cruelty was knowing that there was more to existence than this. She was bursting with life and all the vital force was being wasted in bearing pails of water and watching fat merchants grope smug whores… in watching her mother die by inches before her very eyes. Julitta thumped the bolsters and shook the coverlet vigorously in the same way that she had once attacked the bread in the kitchens at Ulverton.
That memory mauled her now, springing from its forgotten corner to sink its claws into the present. She could clearly recall the gritty feel of the flour on her small palms, the smell of yeast, the sunlight patterning the kitchen shed floor; her mother's voice gently chiding, and her own tantrum in response. The princess never knew what she owned until she was made a beggar.
There were tears in her eyes as she picked up the empty bath pails and prepared to leave the room. Wulfstan the Goldsmith was blocking the doorway. She gasped in surprise, and her stomach clenched with fear as he drew the curtain across, blocking the safe view of the passage and main room beyond.
'Put the pails down,' he said gently. 'You won't be needing them for some little while.'
His bulk was firmly planted between Julitta and escape. Her eyes flickered, seeking a way out, and finding none. Retaining the pail in her left hand, she relinquished the one in her right and drew her eating knife. She held it close in to her body, tilted at a wicked angle. Even at fourteen, her uncertain life had taught her the skills of survival.
The merchant smiled indulgently but his grey eyes were cold as he unpinned his cloak and wrapped it around his arm. 'Put that toy away,' he said in the same mild, comfortable voice. 'It would be a pity to hurt you.'
His tone raised the hairs at Julitta's nape. She could see in his eyes that despite his words, he intended to hurt her very much.
Wulfstan took a step forwards. 'I kissed your mother once, but I'll wager that your lips are the sweeter. No-one else has tasted them, eh?'
Julitta shifted her stance, trying to keep the bathtub between herself and Wulfstan. There was a new coarseness to his breathing and his complexion was darkly flushed. She had heard men speak of being 'hot for a woman' and now she knew what they meant, could almost see the heat shimmer of Wulfstan's lust. Her legs were suddenly weak and her heart banged against her ribs like a prisoner hammering to escape.
'Please, Jesu, please let me go!' she cried.
Wulfstan cocked his head on one side. 'I tell you what,' he said, moistening his lips, 'I'm a fair man. Some might hold my softness against me, but I'm prepared to give you a sporting chance. If you can win past me and through that curtain, I'll let you go and not pursue you further. What do you say?' Smiling, he stepped aside and spread his arm in invitation.
The mild voice was now gently playful, but Julitta knew that she was trapped. She had once seen a cat catch a bird and then toy with it, letting it flutter free then batting it to the ground before its mauled wings could carry it to safety. And when the cat had tired, it had unsheathed its claws and sunk them deep to kill. But like the bird, Julitta's terror still made her struggle for that impossible freedom.
'Don't you want to escape?' Wulfstan hitched up his tunic and loosened the drawstring on his braies. 'You want me, is that it?'
In one swift motion, Julitta scooped up a bucketful of the bath water and flung it over Wulfstan in a sparkling deluge. He staggered backwards, spluttering, and she made her bid for escape, clawing frantically at the curtain. Wulfstan caught her around the waist and dragged her back into the room where he flung her down on the floor and pinned her there with his weight. One large hand crushed over her right wrist until she was forced to relinquish her grip on the dagger. His soaking hair and beard dripped on her face. 'You little bitch!' he snarled, and his tone now was neither mild nor playful. She could hardly breathe for the pressure of his well-fed weight on her slender body. Against the juncture of her thighs, through her clothes and his, she felt the swollen pressure of his erection and she screamed. The merchant pressed his hand over her mouth and nose, cutting off her air. She bit him as hard as she could on the fleshy side of his palm and he released her with a bellow of enraged pain. Julitta screamed again. Wulfstan fetched her a clout on the side of the head that made her ears
ring, and sent black stars wheeling across her vision. Muttering curses at her and encouragement to himself, the man set about dragging up her skirts and forcing her legs apart. Julitta heaved and struggled. He had to release her while he freed his turgid organ from his braies, and Julitta made her right hand into a claw and gouged a deep line of scratches from his cheekbone to the growth of beard on his jaw. He reared back, blood welling from the wounds, and Julitta once more displayed her uncommon education by seizing his exposed testicles and twisting with all her strength.
It was Wulfstan's turn to scream. The noise rebounded off the walls and sank into the curtain. He rolled off her hand, doubled up, twisting back and forth, howling in agony. His erection deflated more rapidly than it had risen, and he clutched himself.
Gasping in terror, Julitta scrambled to her feet and groped at the curtain. Wulfstan's voice ceased abruptly in mid-howl and suddenly he was choking and struggling for air, his face turning a ghastly greyish-blue. A spasm shuddered through him and his body arched. His irises disappeared, leaving blind eye-whites. Julitta stared, knowing that she should make her escape, but rooted to the ground by sheer horror.
Wulfstan shuddered again, his entire body rigid. His final breath wheezed in his throat and his body slumped. The white stare locked upon Julitta in accusation. She clutched the curtain for support, not understanding what had happened, her legs made of jelly.
'In the name of all the saints, what goes forth here?' Dame Agatha came puffing down the line of cubicles. 'What were those dreadful sounds?' She pushed past Julitta into the room, then stopped and clapped her hands to her mouth. 'God on the Cross!' She sucked a breath through her fingers.
'He… he pounced on me,' Julitta said weakly. 'I tried to fight him off and suddenly he started choking for breath and turning blue… I was only trying to stop him…" Her voice wobbled. She swallowed, struggling for composure.
'Well, you have certainly done that, my girl.' Agatha's expression was grim. She stooped to check Wulfstan's body for signs of life, then, shaking her head, stood up. 'Reckon as he had a seizure. I seen it oftimes before. A rich man in his middle yean comes seeking excitement and 'tis more than his body can stand.'
'Is he dead?' Julitta gave a small shudder.
'As a Norman's conscience,' Agatha confirmed. 'It'll ruin my custom as soon as this news hits the city. What did you have to claw him for? Them marks on his face will make it look as if he died of more than just a seizure!'
'He… he was going to rape me,' Julitta said. 'I… wanted to stop him, not to kill him.'
Agatha's ham-like arms folded around each other and hitched the mountainous bosom. The good dame pushed out her lower lip and scowled thoughtfully. 'His family won't want this cried abroad, that's for sure. I suppose there's profit to be had out of that along the way, but you and your mother must leave. I can't afford to have you here if the law comes calling. As this is, it won't do my reputation no good. I run a proper house.'
'Go?' Julitta looked at her, nonplussed. 'But my mother is too sick to make a journey.'
'She won't get any better staying here.' Agatha unfolded her arms and removed the leather money pouch from her belt. 'Here, take this silver to tide you over.'
Julitta stared at the bag of coins dangling from Agatha's fat fingers.
'Go on, take it and get you gone, before worse befalls you,' Agatha commanded. 'Do you want to be stripped naked and paraded through the streets of Southwark in an open cart before you finish on the gibbet for the murder of a prominent townsman? Well, do you?'
Julitta shook her head, her mind filling with a vision of herself standing in a ladder-sided cart, no garment save her wild, red hair, while jeering crowds threw stones at her and clods of dung, their stares a combination of lust and contempt. She knew that no-one would think to plead for an insignificant Southwark whore. The closest to mercy she was going to come was this bag of coins and the leeway to make her escape across the river to the nuns at St Aethelburga's. If only her mother was strong enough to bear the journey. If only she was strong enough herself.
CHAPTER 38
'Ever been to a Southwark bathhouse, Ben?'
Benedict de Remy paused in his examination of the dappled brood mare he had purchased at London's horse fair, and resting one hand lightly on her neck, looked across the stable at Mauger. Mauger, at eight and twenty, held a full ten years of seniority, a fact that he was fond of shoving down Benedict's throat. The younger man knew the reason, and being of an amiable nature, made allowances. Mauger worked like a Trojan, and because of his dedication, was a solid, if uninspired successor to his father as overseer at Brize-sur-Risle. In contrast, Benedict possessed the natural talent to spot a likely horse by eye alone, and one day, through his link with Rolf's daughter Gisele, he would be Mauger's employer and overlord.
He shook his head. 'No, but I've heard all about them.' A smile curved his lips. He was a good-looking young man, dark of hair and eye, his thoroughbred features taken from his mother and given character by the expressive mobility he had inherited from Aubert. At the moment, despite the smile, there was a hint of wariness in his eyes.
'Hearing's not seeing.'
'Have you ever been then?'
Mauger pursed his lips. 'On occasion. I thought I might go this afternoon — I'm free of duties and a man must have some pleasure.' He emphasised the word 'man', and thrusting his broad, square hand through his cropped blond hair, added, 'I've never asked you before because I've always thought you too young, but if you can cut yourself free of the apron strings for a while, I thought we might seek a little sport together.'
Benedict shrugged nonchalantly as if Mauger was offering him a mild diversion, but a surge ran through him, part apprehension, part excitement. 'Why not?' he said. Actually, he could think of a dozen reasons why not, and only one in favour, but he would rather have cut out his tongue than say so to Mauger. Besides, he resented Mauger's remark about the apron strings. As Rolf's apprentice, Benedict had long since learned independence. Affection and respect he still possessed for his parents, and it was only natural that he should lodge in his mother's house while the family was in London. Soon enough his parents would be returning to Rouen, and he would be riding on to Ulverton with the grey mare and coin from the sale of four sumpter ponies and two geldings at the fair. He resumed his careful examination of his purchase.
Mauger seemed nonplussed and not a little disgruntled by Benedict's sanguinity. 'Ever been with a woman before?' he asked like a challenge.
Benedict ran his hand down the grey mare's slender foreleg, pleased at the strength of bone and the set of the limb. He thought about not answering, but knew that Mauger would immediately jump to conclusions that had little to do with the truth. 'Yes,' he said without looking up. 'But I don't make a habit of blabbing it abroad. You know what Lord Rolf is like.'
'He wasn't always that way. Morals of a torn cat at one time. Rutted his way through all the towns in Normandy and half of England.'
Benedict looked up. 'He took me on one side once and delivered me a lecture about the perils of sowing wild oats in furrows too close to home. Everyone at Ulverton knows about the tragedy of the woman from the north and the Lady Ailith.' He gave the mare a final slap on her muscular shoulder and wiped his hands on a wisp of hay. 'I wonder what happened to her and the little girl? Do you think they're still alive?'
'God knows!' Mauger snorted. 'He searched far and wide in the early days, but found neither hide nor hair.' He gave an impatient shrug as if the subject bored him. 'It's of no consequence now.'
Benedict frowned at Mauger's indifference. He did not remember the Lady Ailith well himself, but he knew that his mother had grieved and worried as much as Rolf when she vanished. Indeed, it had taken her a long time to forgive him for what he had done.
Benedict's memories of Lady Ailith's daughter were a little more focused. The impulsive, headstrong nature, the tantrums, the adoration she had poured out upon him. Without knowing, his expression softene
d as he remembered the day he had saved her from the greylag gander, and she had fallen asleep on the saddle behind him. How old would she be now? Growing into womanhood, surely? Was her nature still as wild, her hair still as curly? More to the point, was she still alive? Small wonder that Lord Rolf tortured himself.
The bath was hot, the woman's hands slow and sensual as she sat behind Benedict and massaged his soapy shoulders. 'Mauger tells me that you have not been to Southwark before?' Her voice was low and sweet with a strong Flemish accent. She had a lush figure, glossy brown plaits, and her name was Gudrun.
'Not to Southwark,' he murmured. 'But there are places like this in Rouen and Falaise.'
'You are well travelled for one so young.' Her hands came forward, slowly soaping his smooth chest. Despite his dark colouring, Benedict possessed very little body hair. Indeed, although fully developed in all other ways, he only needed to barber his face with a blade twice a week.
'So have you to judge from your voice,' he retorted. 'Ghent, I would say.'
Gudrun laughed and her hands plundered lower, exploring the firm bands of his stomach muscles, and then, with mischievous discovery, the equally firm length of his erect shaft which had risen to the occasion with adolescent joy. 'Bruges, my young lord,' she contradicted, 'but close enough. I was a simple townsgirl who followed my soldier lover across the narrow sea. When he abandoned me, I had to make my living as best I could.' Her hands stroked with exquisite gentleness and Benedict closed his eyes. The sensations were extremely pleasant, but not as yet unbearable.
'So Mauger visits often?' he queried.
'Whenever he is in London. He always asks for Aaliz, she's his favourite.' Her voice took on a curious note and she paused in her ministrations. 'Are you apprenticed to him? I heard him tell Aaliz that you were learning his trade.'
Benedict smiled somewhat sourly. 'I am apprenticed to the same master who taught him.' His spine stiffened with resentment. Gudrun, sensing that she had asked the wrong question, ceased speaking and resumed her fondling. Before she could bring him to his peak, he grasped her hand to stop her motions and directed her to join him in the tub. Casting off her linen robe, she straddled him. Water sloshed rhythmically onto the floor as Benedict practised what he had learned in the establishments of Rouen.
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