She lay in silence for a while after he had gone, biting her knuckles, not knowing whether to feel anxiety or relief. At length, she too rose from the bed, but not to follow him. She slumbered in beside her mother and curled up against her, seeking a comfort that would not compromise her soul.
CHAPTER 47
Father Jerome was a Cluniac monk from the foundation at le Bee, and distantly related through a cousin to Arlette. He was erudite, ambitious, and delighted that his house had been invited to found a convent on lands granted to them by the lord of Brize-Sur-Risle.
He sat in Arlette's private bower, his powerful hands resting upon his knees, while his hooded blue eyes took in the wealth of the tapestries and hangings warming the walls, the glazed cups, the superb pale wine, which was far more expensive to produce than its rough, red counterpart. He remarked upon its excellence to his hostess.
Arlette blushed with pleasure and thanked him. In her gown of sombre-coloured, heavy linen, a silver cross shining on her breast, she was the image of the pious aristocratic lady, nor was it a disguise donned to impress the monk. It was her habitual garb. And when the time was ripe, she intended to retire behind the walls of the convent she was founding. 'My son-in-law's father is one of the foremost wine merchants in Normandy and England,' she replied. 'Doubtless you have heard of Aubert de Remy.'
'Yes indeed, my lady. He is a generous benefactor of our order, as was his father before him.'
'I trust the tradition will continue,' Arlette replied. 'Benedict is heir to a considerable fortune, albeit that the wine-trading will be conducted by Aubert's nephews.' She frowned at the sound of shouting below the window and the hollow thumping of drums.
'Gisele, close the shutters,' she said stiffly.
The young woman left her embroidery and went to do her mother's bidding.
Father Jerome raised a questioning brow.
Arlette cleared her throat. Even through the shutters the beat of the drum could still be heard as a muffled thump, thump. 'The villagers are celebrating May Eve,' she said with distaste. 'I know that it is unchristian, a terrible pagan thing, but I can do nothing while my husband permits it to flourish. Time and again I have entreated him to give it up, but he refuses. He says that it is tradition, that the villagers expect it. I have tried all ways to cure the people of their ignorance, but they pay no heed. Perhaps when the convent is built and they are set an example by the nuns, they will be deterred.'
'Perhaps, but most of humanity are weak reeds, easily swayed by the pleasures of the body,' said Father Jerome, and without the slightest twinge of conscience, took another deep drink of the wine. He was a worldly man, who knew the right words to say in the right places, the correct balance to strike with each person. He desired Arlette's patronage, but not at the expense of alienating her husband, or Benedict de Remy, who stood to inherit a great deal of wealth, and who, if he lived to a ripe age, could be milked for the next forty or fifty years.
'What then should I do?' Arlette pleaded.
The priest eyed mother and daughter, pale, nervous, moth-like women. The younger one was fiddling with what he took to be her wedding ring, tugging it on and off her finger. 'Let them celebrate,' he said.
'But…'
He held up his hand to prevent Arlette from speaking further. 'But let it be in God's name. Let them give thanks for His gift of the new season. Let the tradition prevail, but let the rejoicing be in God's name. Year by year you can make gradual changes until it becomes nothing but a harmless ceremony with none of the old power remembered. For today, if you wish, I will bless the Maypole in the name of Christ, and exhort them to celebrate in ways which will not displease the lord.'
Arlette's expression brightened slightly. 'I suppose it is a beginning.'
'Of course it is,' Father Jerome said heartily and draining his wine, levered himself to his feet. He was a tall man, who walked with a natural bounce in his step despite his bulk. 'Let us go down now, and begin the blessing. When we return, we can discuss the matter of your convent's dedication. Perchance the Blessed Virgin, or the Magdalene. She is always a favourite for returning fallen women to the fold, and of course, she symbolises spiritual rebirth.'
The cider brewed by the villagers of Brize-sur-Risle was sweet and strong. Julitta sipped from the drinking horn that one of them had given her, and moved among the throng gathered around the dripping oxen and pig roasts, the coneys and chickens skewered across small firepits, gleaming with yellow dripping. There were singing and merriment, jocular conversations, rude riddles, looks exchanged and promises made as dancers flung themselves down to rest for a while before returning to join hands around the Maypole.
Up on the hill, the castle was a silhouette in the twilight. Julitta knew that she ought to be there, closeted in the bower with Arlette and Gisele, praying for the erring souls of the villagers, but unless someone actually came and fetched her, she had no intention of leaving the celebrations. Her father was somewhere amongst the revellers, as were Benedict and Mauger. What harm could possibly come to her? No-one was going to lay his hands on Lord Rolf's own daughter. The atmosphere was magical. Not even that self-important Cluniac monk had been able to dampen the festivities with his warnings about what was and was not pleasing to the eye of God as he sprinkled the Maypole with holy water from the church font.
Julitta sipped the heady brew and topped up her horn from a jug standing on a trestle. She saw Benedict and her father laughing together. Her heartbeat quickened. Benedict had only been back at Brize for two days, delivering some English bloodstock, and she had had no opportunity to talk to him. His visit to Brize in the early spring, when he had bought the cream mare and her foal, had been fleeting. He had not stayed above a week, and had returned to Ulverton before Rolf arrived from France. Gisele had not gone with him, nor, from what Julitta had seen, had their reunion been more than tepid now that he was back. Between Arlette and Benedict, the courtesy was as sharp as a honed knife.
A plump village woman waddled up to Julitta and crowned her garnet braid with a chaplet of white hawthorn. 'You has to honour the Goddess on May Eve, young mistress, if you wants the corn to grow!' she chuckled.
Julitta laughed and finished the horn of cider so that she could put it down while she secured the chaplet to her hair. The woman grabbed her arm and tugged her towards the Maypole, its rounded phallic tip thrusting at the sky. 'Come, dance the sacred dance!' she exhorted.
Julitta found herself whirled into the steps of the Maypole jig. The cider coursed through her blood and filed her feet with magic. She stepped and turned in motion with the other dancers until she felt as if their movements, their very limbs were her own. The beat of drum and the skirl of bagpipes filled the night, the notes flinging skywards like the long orange sparks from the bonfire. Two circles of men and women, weaving in and out, forward and back. The sweaty paw of Brize's miller grasped hers, swung her round and passed her on to one of the grooms from the castle. She saw the flash of his white teeth, smelled his animal scent, and was whirled away to the next man in the line while the music beat relentlessly on, pulsing to the hammerbeat of her own blood.
The next man in line grasped her hand in fingers warmly strong, only a little damp, revealing that he had not long joined the circle of dancers. Benedict pulled her against him, hip to hip, and instead of spinning her round and passing her to the next man, drew her out of the dance and into the flamelit shadows at the side of the great bonfire.
Dizzy, her brain still in motion despite the fact that her feet had ceased to move, she swayed and staggered, then looked up at him.
'Shouldn't you be up at the keep with the other women?' he asked.
Julitta adjusted the crown of May which had skewed over one eye during the energetic steps of the dance. 'What other women?' she challenged. 'AH the village wives and their daughters are here. If you mean with Arlette and Gisele, then no, I shouldn't.' She tossed her head defiantly. 'I suppose you want us all safely locked away so you can go "wearing t
he green" with whomsoever catches your eye.' She leaned across him to reach for the jug of cider, for the dancing had given her an inordinate thirst.
Benedict grinned. 'I was going to say that it is neither safe nor respectable for a young woman of your rank to be here tonight, but I know that you'll only stamp on my foot. The rules do not apply to you. Perhaps I should just warn you to have a care. Men do indeed come here to "wear the green" and you are a sight to make any of them forget his reason.' His voice grew croaky on the last words.
Julitta drank straight from the jug and then offered it to him. 'Even you?' she asked provocatively.
'Especially me.' He drank and set the jug back down on the trestle with a wobble and a bang that revealed his own senses were blurred by the potency of the drink. 'You are beautiful and wild, like the May herself.'
Julitta's knees weakened at the timbre of his voice. Her whole body quivered. She was poised with the anticipation that he was going to touch her, and the fear that he would not. She did not dream of running away. Benedict might be Gisele's husband, but he had always belonged to her.
Slowly she raised her hand and laid her palm upon his chest, uncaring who saw. Tonight was May Eve, and people's eyes were dazzled. Even Mauger, her watchdog, had gone into the shadows with one of the village women, and there was no sign of her father.
Benedict swallowed and clasped his fingers over hers. 'Your father said that I was to bring you home in a while,' he murmured, and pulled her tight against him, hip to hip, groin to groin, then spun her away in a muted rhythm of the wilder dance around the phallic pole.
'But not yet.' Julitta stepped lightly, a smile on her face, her breathing pleasantly short as he drew her against his body once more. They arched together, side-stepped and parted, maintaining the link of hands.
'No, not yet.'
They danced and drank, drank and danced. Julitta's hair began to wisp free of her braid and with an impatient twist of her fingers, she shook it free. The crown of May blossom slipped down again, and she would have cast it away, but Benedict caught her hand, and taking the chaplet from her, replaced it delicately on her brow.
'Queen of the May,' he said softly and traced one forefinger gently down her cheek. Julitta lifted her face, mutely offering him her lips. He took them, meaning only to salute the new season, but the spark engendered was beyond all his knowledge, and within moments, beyond his control.
When he was with Gisele – the times she permitted — there was nothing, a pale, cold flame that gave off little warmth despite all his efforts to kindle it to a more robust heat. This was true fire, blood-red of flame, molten-white at its core, beating with the night. Julitta's lips clung to his, sweet and warm, tasting of cider. Her body followed his, as fluid as a shadow, a mirror-image. Whatever his hands did, so did hers, and her lips and her tongue; without hesitation, without shame, until they were both incandescent with lust.
By mutual need, they moved deeper into the shadows, playing out the ritual of the deeper fertility dance. She wound her hair round him like the ribbons on the Maypole. His fingers wove a pattern of desire over her flesh, the cold silkiness of her thighs, the stems of grass between them. Her hips, the dark triangle of the Maythorn gateway. And then his own thighs over and between hers, and the first sure, blood-hot thrust.
Her throat arched and her fingers clutched convulsively at his sleeves.
'Did I hurt you?' He ceased moving, although it was torture to do so; his entire groin was one magnificent, swollen ache.
'Yes,' she whispered, but clasped him to her and raised her hips. 'But if you stop now, I will kill you.'
'Then I won't stop,' he said breathlessly. 'This is a far better way to die.' He lowered his mouth to hers, teasing the outline of her lips, then covering her mouth, enclosing the cry in her throat. The kiss moved in concert with the surge of his hips. She pushed down upon his swollen flesh, desiring to be one with him, and although it hurt, it was the pleasure that was almost too much to bear. She broke the kiss to cry out and clutch at him. She pressed her hot face against his throat. 'Ben!' she wept. 'Oh, Ben, please…' Striving for she knew not what, only that she would die without it.
Panting harshly, Benedict knew that he could wait no longer. Julitta's voice, the wild innocence of her need brought him to the edge. He braced himself on one forearm, and sought down between them to the sensitive little nubbin above the passage he was filling. Once, twice he stroked it, and Julitta suddenly caught her breath and went rigid in his arms. Removing his hand, he pushed forward hard, and groaning her name, burst within her. He felt the ripples of her climax swallow over him, drawing each surge of his own pleasure into her body until both of them were spent. But even then, they could not bear for it to be finished, and lay in the grass together, touching and stroking, while around them the celebrations continued, and above them the stars glittered like salt crystals. The enormity of what they had done lay heavy on both their minds, but neither of them was willing to break the joy of the moment by admitting that a world beyond themselves existed. 'Is it always like that?' Julitta asked after a while. Benedict smiled and drew a tendril of her hair through his fingers. 'No, not always,' he said with a gentle wryness, knowing that nothing would ever be able to match tonight. May Eve, the soft spring earth and a beautiful virgin. And yet it went much deeper than the venting of springtime heat. Julitta, his lovely, wild Julitta. His throat ached with poignant grief.
Julitta sat up. 'Then it gets better?' she asked with spurious innocence as she shook back her hair and tidied the disordered bodice of her gown.
Benedict's eyes widened. For one brief instant he was taken in, and then he realised that she was teasing him. He lunged at her. She squealed and tried to escape, but not very hard. Accidentally on purpose, her hand brushed his now flaccid manhood, enchanting it into immediate hardness. She wriggled and squirmed but not to escape.
Benedict had intended returning her to the castle before the night grew much older and questions began to be asked, but he could not resist the lure of her body. This time they took each other with laughter, with breathless, snatched kisses and teasing touches. Julitta was an apt pupil. As the moment of crisis approached, she stopped moving, lay perfectly still until it had passed, with Benedict, scarcely breathing, poised within her. And then, when it was safe, they began to build again. Higher, faster, hotter, until they were molten. And then, the moment before they were welded into one, Julitta saw her father standing in the shadows, staring at them in disbelief, and with him was the Cluniac monk whom Arlette had been entertaining earlier.
Julitta stiffened, the fire turning immediately to ice. She pushed at Benedict, whimpering, and when he only groaned and gripped her closer, she cried out in panic and struggled to free herself.
Benedict opened his mouth to ask her what was wrong, but Rolf pre-empted him, his voice a soft snarl.
'I should kill you,' he said. 'Get up.'
Benedict closed his eyes. Beneath him Julitta was shaking. He bent his head, took a deep breath. 'Will you turn your backs?' he requested.
'For decency's sake?' Rolf bit out acidly, but turned away, drawing the monk with him.
Benedict rolled off Julitta and adjusted his clothing. He pulled her skirts back down to cover her legs. She struggled to fasten her gown, but her fingers were shaking so badly that she was unable. Benedict in contrast was calm and controlled. Leaning over her, he tied the drawstring on her shift, kissed her cheek in reassurance, then rose and joined Rolf and Father Jerome.
'It is my fault,' he said. 'Do not punish her.'
'The lust of Eve is common to every woman,' said the Cluniac. His eyes roved the scene of May revelry. 'My son, to the peril of your soul, you have yielded to the temptations of the flesh. You have sinned greatly against God and nature.'
A muscle worked in Benedict's jaw as the monk spoke. There was an open wound. Salt had to be ground vigorously into it. Rolf stood rigid as stone. Feeling sick, Benedict faced him. 'I will take all the blame. It was
not intentional between us; it just happened.'
Rolf nodded viciously and ground his teeth. 'It just happened,' he repeated. 'Came out of nowhere, hit you so fast you did not know?'
'I…'
'Christ Jesu, Ben, nothing "just happens" without our will!'
Julitta came unsteadily to Benedict's side. Her hair was loose, her clothes burred with bits of grass, and fear trembled through her body. 'It is as much my fault as his,' she owned with a stubbornly lifted chin. 'As Ben says, it was not intenttional at the beginning, but I am not sorry, and I will gladly pay the price.'
'Harlot, have you no shame?' thundered Father Jerome in outrage. 'Your own sister's husband!'
'He was mine first,' Julitta retorted, her lips curled back from her teeth in a snarl. 'I do not care what you do with me. Now and forever it was worth it!'
'Then you are more foolish than I ever believed.' Rolf seized her arm in a grip of iron. 'You are coining back with me now to the keep. Tomorrow, I'll decide what is to be done with you. Benedict…' His jaw worked, the sinews cording in his throat. 'Just get out of my sight.'
'Sir, it wasn't her fault,' Benedict repeated, his voice cracking. 'Don't punish her.'
'You should have given thought to the consequences before you lowered your braies!' Rolf said contemptuously.
Benedict was not drunk, but he had consumed liberal quantities of the villagers' rough, potent cider. As well as loosening his moral inhibitions, it also served to unchain his tongue. 'As you gave thought when you took and then ruined her mother?' he retorted.
Rolf flinched. His grip on Julitta's arm tightened until she gasped aloud with the pain and then bit down on her lower lip. 'I said get out of my sight!' he hissed. 'Or I swear on the Cross of Christ and the Tree of Odin that I will personally geld you!'
Father Jerome frowned at the profanity of Rolf's pagan oath. He took Benedict by the arm, much as Rolf had hold of Julitta. 'Come,' he said coldly. 'You may spend the night with me in the church before the altar, praying for God's forgiveness, for I doubt that human forgiveness will be forthcoming.'
The Conquest Page 39