'Will you come within, can I offer you food and drink, Sire?' Benedict enquired, thinking that it was all Rufus was going to get.
'It will do for a start,' Rufus answered, 'although I'm hoping for more…' He let the ambiguity hang in the air for just a moment too long, before adding, 'I've come to look at your horses.' A half-grin at the pouting youth. 'Time I had a new mount.'
Benedict stretched his lips in the semblance of a smile, gave the King's horse to his senior groom, and led the way towards the hall. At least Rufus had not brought his entire court, for they would have eaten Ulverton clean down to the bone. Here was just a minor entourage consisting of the King's favourites and hangers-on. No sign of the venerable Archbishop Lanfranc to lend dignity to the proceedings. This was a private jaunt. Probably the main court was keeping warm in the royal hunting lodge in the great forest to the east. Still, it was uncomfortable and annoying. He wondered if Rufus intended paying for the horse he chose. The royal stables always received a quota of beasts each autumn as part of Brize and Ulverton's feudal dues. Perhaps Rufus was going to increase his demands. He was known to have a grasping, avaricious nature.
'Where is your father-by-marriage?' Rufus asked, as he was given the lord's chair in the hall and served with the best wine. His hazel eyes roved the plastered walls with their embellishment of embroidered hangings and bannered lances. 'Skulking at Brize, I suppose, and licking my brother's boots?'
'He is indeed at Brize, Sire, for the winter season. His wife is sick unto death and he is there for her sake too.'
Rufus snorted. 'It would be the first time!' he said nastily. 'Unless he's changed his spots, which I very much doubt.'
'Even so, it is true,' Benedict said with quiet dignity.
Rufus snorted. 'And pigs nest in trees,' he scoffed, and drank down the wine in five hard gulps, wiping his mouth on his gorgeously embroidered sleeve. 'Your father-in-law knows a good excuse when he sees one!'
'Do you blame him?'
Rufus stared at Benedict as if he had been pole-axed. Around him, his sycophants held their breath, awaiting the explosion of the royal rage. The red cheeks darkened, the barrel chest expanded, threatening to rip the stitches on the crimson, fur-trimmed tunic. Benedict found himself wondering what would happen if someone stuck a cloak pin in Rufus's belly. Would he pop like a Yuletide bladder?
'You have a bold tongue to say that when you are scarce out of tail-clouts!' Rufus growled. It was significant that it was a growl, not a full-throated bellow. It meant that for the moment he was prepared to find Benedict's insolence intriguing. 'I wonder how bold you truly are.' He tapped his forefinger against his square front teeth, and abruptly jerked to his feet. 'Come, show me your horses,' he said. 'I need one fit for a king.'
Benedict rose too. 'A destrier, Sire?' he enquired. 'Or a palfrey?'
Rufus shrugged and hitched at his belly where it hung over his embossed belt. 'I want a beast that will make my brother Robert's eyes pop out with jealousy,' he said, and his pugnacious jaw jutted. 'The best.'
Benedict discovered that the King's taste in horses was about as dubious as his taste in clothes and cronies. Gaudy not good, brash not brilliant. He was drawn too much by markings and colour, and all the superficial cladding that meant nothing when it came to stamina, quality, and endurance. Benedict tried to interest Rufus in a young dappled grey stallion of sound conformation. The horse was alert and confident without being too spirited to handle, but Rufüs dismissed it with a wave of his hand as being 'naught but a peasant's nag' – a totally unfair remark, since even the meanest horse on the stud was worth more than a peasant might earn in an entire year.
Rufus tried several animals, and declared them all unsuitable. Finally his eye settled upon a steel-grey stallion which was giving the grooms a deal of trouble, backing and sidling, rolling its eyes. Foam lathered its neck, matching the glittering white of its mane and tail, the latter switching angrily from side to side.
'That one,' Rufus said, and his lower lip joined the outward jut of his jaw. 'I want that one.'
'His temper is uncertain, Sire,' Benedict warned.
'So is mine, we'll match well.'
Benedict could not argue with that. 'He is not saddle-trained, Sire,' he said, adding a rapid 'thank Christ' beneath his breath. The last thing he needed was for Rufus to try the brute out and get tossed into the midden.
'I've got grooms enough to break him.' Rufus approached the stallion and despite being held by two attendants, it still managed to lunge at him, teeth bared, one forehoof pawing in threat. Rufus laughed buoyantly. 'Satan!' he cried. 'I will call him Satan!'
His paramour tittered behind his hand. Benedict knew the King's reputation of disrespect for the Church. There was even the whispered rumour that he followed the old religion. Still, the name was more than appropriate to the animal. The only way to remove the devil from his nature was to geld him, and he very much doubted that Rufus would do anything so sensible.
The King went on to examine the destrier herd, and then the ponies which Rolf had brought out of the north so many years ago, and for which Ulverton was now justly famous. 'Ponies!' Rufus snorted, eyeing the sturdy, ugly little animals which contrasted so strongly with the proud, graceful warhorses. 'What in the world possessed your father-by-marriage to invest in them?'
'Is it not better to have more than one dish on a table, Sire?
Rich and powerful men come to purchase warhorses, palfreys and coursers from our stock. Between times, we take the custom of merchants and carriers. And in times of war, rich and powerful men return to us to buy our ponies for sumpter work. They look nothing, I know, but they have an endurance beyond all believing. I would wager with confidence that one of those ponies bearing two pannier-loads of rocks could outpace a destrier in the course of a day, and still be fit on the morrow for another dawn-to-dusk trek.'
Rufus looked thoughtful. 'In times of war,' he repeated and eyed Benedict. 'Does Rolf breed ponies at Brize?'
'No, Sire, only at Ulverton.'
'Then I will buy what you have.' He nodded to himself with satisfaction, a gleam in his eye at having access to something that his brother Robert did not.
His paramour loudly cleared his throat to attract the King's attention. 'Sire, would I not look divine beside you on this one?' He pointed a lily-white finger at a horse which had been grazing among the ponies and now had come in curiosity to examine the visitors. It was a mare of a good average size, with neat, sharp ears, intelligent liquid eyes, and proud carriage. Her colouring was a glorious golden dapple, beautiful and rare.
Rufus just stared, his small eyes widening and widening in covetous greed. 'Saving the best until last?' he said, and moistened his lips. 'I should have expected such. You horse-traders are all the same, whatever your rank.'
The effeminate young man made kissing noises at the mare and she snorted gustily at him before walking directly up to Benedict with a nicker of greeting. Benedict stroked her cheeks and rubbed her soft muzzle. 'She is not for sale, Sire.'
'I want her,' Rufus said as if that was the end of the matter. 'Name your price.'
'There is no price, Sire. Even if you offered me her weight in gold, I would not sell. I purchased her as a gift for someone else.'
The King's eyes narrowed. 'You seem eager to bring hardship upon yourself. I could take my custom elsewhere.'
Benedict braced his shoulders as if to withstand a blow. 'That is your prerogative, Sire,' he said quietly.
Rufus glared. His pretty boy pouted. 'Make him give you the horse, Sire,' he challenged in a light, spiteful voice, and posed dramatically with his hand on one hip, his white, pretty fingers tapping on the decorated hilt of his eating dagger. The King's eyes flickered from Benedict to his favourite.
'Be quiet, Godfroi,' he snapped, and took a step nearer to Benedict. 'So, you deny me this horse?' If he had intended to intimidate the younger, slightly built man by the force of his presence, he was disappointed.
'With regret,
Sire, I do,' Benedict answered without flinching. He could smell the wine on the King's breath, see the broken veins spidering the ruddy cheeks, and the dewdrops of sweat in the receding chestnut hair. Godfroi was looking at his fingernails, his cheeks sucked in to display his affront.
'You will do more than regret,' Rufus snarled, and barging past Benedict, called for his grooms. Benedict watched him warily. He did not believe that Rufus would order anything so crass as an armed assault upon Ulverton, but one did not stand in the path of a wild boar with impunity.
The King mounted up and thrust his feet into the stirrups. He snapped his fat fingers and two equerries fetched the steel-grey destrier. Ignoring their struggles to control the beast, he turned his own horse in a semi-circle and reined him in hard before Benedict. Rufus's eyes were narrow and bright, his nostrils flared with a mingling of choler and lust, and it was all Benedict could do to stand his ground. 'It is a fine line between honour and stupidity,' Rufus said, and slapped the leather down on his horse's neck. The horse lumbered forwards and Benedict was forced to leap aside to avoid being trampled.
The King cantered out of the keep gates. His bon ami followed at his heels, nose cocked high, chin puckered.
Benedict held himself straight until the last man had ridden from sight, and then sat down weakly on the lowest step of the mounting block, and closed his eyes.
Julitta crossed herself and rose from her knees. Before her, on the altar in the chapel of Arlette's convent, the creamy wax candles gleamed with translucence. Between them, a cross of silver-gilt, amethyst and rock crystal commanded the congregation to worship. Father Jerome, resplendent in robes of scarlet and crimson silk damask performed the blessing, his fingers eloquent and lean, contrasting with the bull-like solidity of his body.
The chapel itself was a place of contrasts, of practical, sturdy arches and intricately decorated columns, the reliefs brightly painted to war with the natural gloom of the thick stone walls. And yet everything blended with harmonious individuality. Julitta's attitude to religion was dutiful rather than devoted, but here, today, at the convent's consecration to the Magdalene, she felt uplifted.
At her side, Mauger was listening intently to Father Jerome as if he understood every word of Latin spilling from the priest's lips. She glanced at her husband sidelong. He was wearing his best blue tunic with the red braid, and his pale hair gleamed like barley in the chapel's soft light. He had been different of late, more at ease, she thought, and her own life was more bearable because of it. Mauger was still gruff and brusque, not given to conversations beyond the practical, but he permitted her a larger degree of freedom than in the early days of their marriage, and their bed was no longer a battlefield on which he sought to subjugate her to his will. Indeed, sometimes Julitta even derived pleasure from the encounters. If she could never come to love Mauger, then at least she no longer hated him. The thought of Benedict was like an aching tooth that could not be pulled, but she was disciplining herself to live with the pain.
Benedict was not here now for the consecration of the convent's chapel, and she was both disappointed and relieved. What would they say to each other after their last meeting? She had not seen him after that incident in Arlette's garden, not even to bid farewell before she returned to Fauville the following morning. He had not come seeking her again and she had avoided him. It was safer that way. Even a meeting of their eyes would have betrayed them.
The witnesses to the chapel's consecration had all been standing throughout the ceremony. Arlette, due to her frailty, sat on a bench at the front of the nave. Her condition had improved a little recently, but it was caused more by the knowledge that her convent was close to completion than by any return to health. She was painfully thin, her bones almost poking through her skin, and her eyes were feverbrilliant in their sockets.
Gisele looked ill too, her complexion pasty-white with puffy welts of exhaustion beneath her eyes. Julitta knew that it was not the nursing that was taking its toll, but the sight of her mother growing progressively worse, no matter how hard Gisele tried. Julitta felt genuine pity for her half-sister. She knew what it was like to lose a mother, to be powerless in the inexorable face of death.
Back at Brize, sitting with the women in the bower, Julitta listened as one of the consecration guests held forth upon the wonders of her recent pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostella in Galicia, where the remains of the blessed apostle St James were supposedly interred. The woman's name was Matilda de Vey. She was wealthy and devout, a combination of great benefit to the Church. She was also garrulous and loud, and with the aid of a couple of goblets of Aubert's fine wine was sailing very close to being outrageous. Julitta found herself longing to giggle, something that she had not done in a long, long time.
'I tell you, my dear,' she shouted at Gisele, who actually flinched, 'you have not lived unless you have been on a proper pilgrimage — not just to Rouen, but further afield. It not only does wonders for the soul, it bestows wisdom and understanding!' She plumped herself down on the bed where Arlette was resting. The entire mass sagged to the left beneath her exuberant weight. Her face reflecting the red of the wine she had so liberally consumed, Matilda pushed at her wimple which had come askew. 'On my way to visit the blessed saint, we stayed in Toulouse, at a pilgrim hospice, and there was a priest who owned a piece of the True Cross. We were all permitted to touch it.' She waggled a forefinger at her bemused audience. 'My hands were swollen up with the dropsy, but when I laid them upon that tiny piece of wood, within moments my fingers were as thin as they were on the day that I was married. I swear it to you.'
Julitta wondered why the miracle had stopped at the fingers. If Matilda had been truly blessed, then her figure would be sylph-like too. She wondered how much the woman had paid the priest for the privilege of touching the relic. Benedict had told her that he had encountered many corrupt clergymen on his journeys, who would sell anything to the gullible. 'I have seen enough nails from the True Cross to shoe an entire conroi of cavalry!' he had laughed.
'And this,' Matilda continued, delving in her ample bodice and withdrawing a small, wooden box threaded upon a leather cord, 'holds the nail clippings of the blessed St James himself!'
The other women clustered around the bed to gasp and exclaim over the dubious contents of the box. Julitta remained aloof, and busied herself replenishing the cups with wine. Am I mad, or are they? she asked herself, and grimaced to wonder whose nail clippings really occupied the little box. Why did all these saints have nails, hair, bones and clothing to spare, but never the more intimate parts? The Virgin Mary's right nipple from which the Christ child sucked? Her left one for good measure? Julitta almost choked on the thought, torn between mirth and horror at her own blasphemy. Jesu, if those biddies by the bed knew what she was thinking she would be locked up in a penitent's cell on bread and water for the next month at least!
The Lady Matilda continued to hold forth, and her audience hung on her every word. Julitta had to admit to herself that the woman possessed a story teller's skills. Her descriptions brought places and incidents to colourful life in her audience's imagination. Julitta could smell the dust of the road, feel the blaze of the sun on her spine, and taste the sweetness of the bloomy cluster of grapes that the pilgrims had eaten as they rode through the vine fields on their road to Compostella. Arlette seemed to derive pleasure from the minute details of the many churches which Matilda had visited along her route, with the various legends and saints attached to them.
'I wish that I could have seen them,' she said wistfully. 'It is too late now, my time is too short. When I was younger I wish…" Her voice trailed off and she stared into the distance and sighed heavily.
The garrulous Matilda was temporarily silenced, but quickly regained the use of her tongue, having loosened it in a long swallow from her replenished cup. 'Oh indeed, it is too late for you,' she said with a total absence of tact, 'but it is not too late for your daughter. Mayhap if you send her to pray for you, the blessed St
James will grant a miracle.' She smiled at Gisele, who could only stare at her in mute shock. 'Besides,' Matilda added practically, 'she could seek out a relic to grace the new convent and bring it prestige and respect. I know places in Compostella where such things can be obtained. One of our number, a merchant from Caen, obtained a vial of the Holy Virgin's milk. Think how such a thing would glorify your convent!'
Julitta spluttered and turned the sound into a cough. The Holy Virgin's nipples suddenly did not seem so far-fetched. 'Forgive my ignorance,' she interrupted, 'but surely there are many dishonest traders in these relics. How will she know that she is not being cheated?'
Matilda stared down her nose at Julitta. 'Of course there are many dishonest traders, child. You should always ask a priest's advice before you purchase anything.'
'Oh, I see,' Julitta nodded slowly. 'Ask a priest,' she repeated.
'And use your common sense.' Matilda's eyes flashed at Julitta, daring her to speak again. 'That goes without saying, I would have thought.'
'Oh certainly.' Julitta took Matilda's advice and retreated from the confrontation. There was nothing wrong with her own common sense.
CHAPTER 52
Benedict sat at a trestle in his chamber at Brize, and counted the silver he had brought with him from Ulverton. Payment for horses by clients, the coins displayed a wide variety of mints, monarchs and petty rulers. Eric Bloodaxe, Harold Godwinson, the Confessor, the Conqueror, and even a recent William Rufus, bright as a fish scale. Benedict had deemed it prudent to remove not only himself from England, but the bulk of Ulverton's surplus coin, and if that was treason, then so be it. Rolf had entirely endorsed his decision, but his look had been wry and not a little irritated.
'You have a nose for trouble,' he had commented with a sigh and a scowl.
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