The Conquest

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  Benedict closed his eyes for a moment, mustering his strength. 'If I do not, then everything will have been wasted. No matter how much I want to crawl into a corner and cover my head, it is no respect to the dead to live a life of mourning. I will still go to Compostella, and fulfil her vow, and I will still find my horses.'

  Faisal pursed his lips and nodded slowly. 'That is good,' he pronounced. After a pause, he added, 'When we found your wife, she was still clutching a reliquary in her hand. That too is in my coffer with your tunic. I know that you Christians set great store by the relics of their saints.'

  'Some of us,' Benedict said, and his voice was tired and bitter. 'Gisele believed that they would take her unharmed through fire and flood. I was the unbeliever, and yet I survive. Perhaps, as they say, the devil looks after his own.'

  CHAPTER 55

  The interior of the tiny chapel glowed like a jewel. Slender wax tapers twinkled in pyramid clusters, lighting the cool stone darkness, giving the pilgrim a feeling of intimacy with God. Upon the altar, a cross of inlaid silver-gilt reflected the flames until its surface rippled like water. A statue of the Virgin Mary, blue-robed and serene, smiled down upon the worshippers. A plump Christ child sat in the crook of her arm and raised his painted wooden hand in blessing to all who knelt before him. At his mother's feet lay a treasure house of pilgrim offerings, from simple wreaths of flowers and cheap tokens in plaster and wood, to bracelets and crosses of silver and bronze inlaid with semiprecious stones, belts and cups, and even a carved cedarwood box containing myrrh.

  Benedict knelt before the silver-gilt cross and the statue with its improbably coloured pink flesh. The stone floor was cold beneath his knees; the scar in his side was sore from the strain of riding and then kneeling. It was less than a week since he had risen from his sick bed, and he knew that he had pushed himself too fast and too far in his need to make atonement at the place where Gisele was buried.

  He tried to concentrate on the chapel's gentle atmosphere rather than his own aches and pains, to project himself beyond the mire of the physical. Ave Maria, Regina caelorum, Beata Maria… The Virgin's smile filled his vision. He clutched Gisele's small reliquary in his hand, his thumb moving over its edges, the raised cold bumps of agate and emerald. He was going to leave her here, in this small, intimate hamlet on the road to Compostella. Every day pilgrims would come to pray. If her spirit chose to linger, she would not be lonely. He could not bear the thought of disinterring her body and bearing it home to England. Mile after mile it would drag like a lead shackle upon his conscience. Let her lie here, undisturbed. Benedicte.

  Behind him, someone gently cleared his throat. Turning, he saw the soldier, Angel. Hat in hand, the man knelt before the altar, genuflected to the statue, then addressed Benedict in a hushed voice. 'I am sorry to disturb you, Seсor, but Lord Faisal says that if you have had enough time, we must be riding on to reach our destination before dark.'

  Benedict looked down at the small box in his hand. 'I am ready,' he said, and rising stiffly to his feet, stepped forward to the statue and laid the reliquary at its feet. It belonged to Gisele, was no part of him. He remembered the look on her face when she first held it in her hands, the hunger; the wondering delight that such an object could actually exist and belong to her. He crossed himself once more, and then turned and walked out of the chapel without looking back. Nor did he visit the graveyard. What was there to see but a mound of earth?

  Faisal was waiting for him, holding the bridle of a cream Andalusian gelding, a steady horse, almost beyond its prime and docile, suited to the needs of an invalid who was recently and inadvisedly out of his sick bed. The Moor's dark eyes were compassionate as he handed up the reins, but he did not speak. Neither did Benedict. His heart was too full; his throat ached, his eyes stung.

  They rode in silence, the cream horse smoothly pacing the miles of dusty road, worn into a rut by the tramp of pilgrim sandals. The ache in Benedict's chest eased. He blinked the moisture from his eyes, and at length turned to his silent companion.

  'I did not love her,' he said with quiet intensity, 'but she was a part of me, and now it is as though that part has been cut out.'

  Faisal nodded compassionately, but recognising Benedict's need to talk, said nothing. A wound had to be cleansed before it would heal.

  'We were betrothed when we were children. My father could see that I was better with horses than I was with barrels of wine, so he secured me a future with the best breeder of horses in Normandy, who was also his very good friend.' Benedict grimaced at the Moor. 'The trouble was that in his enthusiasm, he betrothed me to the wrong daughter.'

  Faisal arched his brows. 'Your wife has a sister?'

  'A half-sister. Gisele was the fruit of Rolf's legal marriage. Julitta was born to his Saxon mistress.'

  'Mistress?' Faisal frowned, the word evading him.

  'Concubine… although she was more like a wife.'

  'Ah.'

  Silence descended again and persisted for several minutes. Then Benedict drew a shuddering breath. To speak of Julitta was difficult, although she dwelt in his memory far more brightly than did Gisele. 'She used to follow me round when I was a boy, chattering nineteen to the dozen, being a nuisance as little girls are — I am four years older. On one occasion, I rescued her from a vicious gander, and from that day forth I became her hero. She was funny and high-spirited, always into mischief— and not much of that has changed,' he added wryly. 'I tolerated her, treated her like a little sister.'

  Faisal sucked his teeth. 'You are going to tell me that this changed as you grew up.'

  'There was a gap of many years when we did not see each other. Julitta's circumstances changed, and when I did meet her again, she was just turning into a woman, and I had been betrothed for more than eight years to Gisele. The gap had been too long; I could not see her as my sister any more.' His expression grew bleak as he told the silent Faisal the remainder of the tale. 'I thought that perhaps this journey with Gisele would bring us together as husband and wife… You can see where it brought us.'

  Faisal looked thoughtful. 'To a crossroads,' he said, 'from which you go on alone with your burdens. The time will come when you will shed them, I think, but for now, you must bear them as best you can.'

  'The wisdom of the prophet?' Benedict blinked moisture from his eyes. Self-pity would only weigh him down farther. He wondered if Faisal knew that in the Frankish lands, crossroads were places where the dead and the living were reputed to be able to meet.

  'No, the words of a friend.'

  Benedict managed a tight smile. 'Inshallah,' he said, murmuring the customary Arabic words of protection. 'If God wills it.'

  'Inshallah,' Faisal responded gravely, his hands together in a gesture of prayer.

  Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar, better known as 'El Cid', looked every inch his title. He was tall, with the wide shoulders and narrow hips of an athlete. His tanned face was wide at the brow, with a long, powerful jaw, and prominent cheekbones. Swept-back silver-black hair was trimmed just above the collar of a crimson silk tunic crusted with gold embroidery. It was court dress and not at all customary. Faisal and Benedict could as easily have found him wearing a warrior's quilted gambeson and his swordbelt.

  Benedict stared around the great hall as they were led by an equerry towards Lord Rodrigo. It was not so different from the hall at home; although larger and more sumptuous, The architecture was similar, but the painted designs on the plasterwork were bolder and bore a Moorish influence, and on the dais, a brightly coloured rug had been spread on top of the rushes.

  Two white and gold Balearic hounds with broad hunting collars trotted up to Benedict, and sniffed him thoroughly. Faisal they accepted with wagging tails and a joyful dance of paws. Faisal laughed and fussed the dogs, sending them into wriggles of ecstasy.

  The Lord Rodrigo glanced up from his business on the dais, saw the physician and, with a smile, beckoned him forward to the high table.

  Benedict hung back out of
courtesy, but Faisal took him by the arm and drew him to the dais. The dogs gambolled underfoot, making it difficult for the men to walk, and a squire hastened to grab the animals by their collars and bring them to heel.

  'Well,' said the Lord Rodrigo as Faisal and Benedict bowed the knee before his ornate chair. 'You have finally decided to return, eh? I give you leave to gather herbs in the mountains and attend a sick friend, and you disappear from the face of the world.'

  The tone was strong and controlled, bearing no particular inflection. Benedict risked a glance from beneath his lids to see if Rodrigo was angry, and was reassured to perceive a glimmer of dry humour in the dark, almost black eyes.

  'It grieves me deeply not to have been here sooner, but there were grave doings that kept me from your court, my lord.' Faisal bowed even further, almost as he did when he faced the east to pray to Allah.

  Rodrigo looked down and concern coloured his next words. 'Lord Pedro is well, I trust?'

  'I left him in good health, my lord. His chest will always pain him somewhat, but I have given him a medicine to take every day, and if he obeys, he will yet live out a long life.'

  Rodrigo's expression softened. 'Then it is well. Both of you, rise and sit by me a while.' He indicated the cushioned bench beside his carved chair. A squire was summoned. Food and drink were brought, and while Rodrigo finished his business with his officials, Faisal and Benedict ate and drank.

  Benedict had not had much appetite these last few days on the road. Wrestling with his thoughts and his conscience had left very little room to be concerned for bodily sustenance. Now he realised, as he dipped his bread in a bowl of seasoned olive oil, that he was ravenous. He forced himself to chew and swallow at a measured pace and not to overeat, although that was difficult, since the food was the best he had tasted in a long time — succulent roast lamb with mountain herbs, pigeons served with a peppery sauce of wine and garlic, biblical fruits, and small, sweet fritters.

  Lord Rodrigo finished his business and turned his attention to the diners, helping himself to a fig from the bowl of fruit. 'Now, then,' he said with a sharp glance at Benedict, 'to grave doings. Your name is?'

  Benedict hastily swallowed his mouthful of fritter. 'Benedict de Remy, my lord, from Rouen in Normandy.'

  'We came across him almost dead from exposure and arrow wounds,' Faisal explained. 'He was the only one of his pilgrim group to survive. It was an organised attack by Basque hill men. His wife was among the dead. I have been caring for him these past few weeks, and now I bring him to you.'

  The Lord Rodrigo's face had turned to stone as Faisal spoke of mountain robbers. 'Such men are beneath mercy,' he said, his lips curling back from his large, white teeth. 'To rob and murder pilgrims bound upon errands of prayer is an act beyond salvation.' He looked at Benedict with anger and compassion. 'I am sorry that you should bear such a burden of grief. Rest assured, I will pursue this matter. The mountains are beyond the reach of my writ, but I will do what I can to influence those who do have jurisdiction.'

  'Thank you, my lord.'

  'I know it is small comfort to you. The loss of your wife must be a great sorrow.'

  Benedict lowered his eyes and said nothing. He did not want to talk about Gisele. He had said enough to Faisal. Nor did he wish to speak of the attack. He remembered very little except the horror of the vultures settling to feed, and Gisele's dead weight stirring back and forth against him in the water's current.

  'Do you continue on to Compostella?'

  'In time, my lord.' Benedict relaxed slightly. 'It was my wife's intention to pray at the shrine, and I will do so to honour her. But I also came to your country to buy horses. My father-by-marriage is a famed breeder of destriers in Normandy and England. Iberian bloodstock would enhance his reputation even more… and mine.'

  Rodrigo looked him up and down. He saw a young man, handsome and slender. The eyes were careworn, the mouth held in the tight line of recent suffering, the hands lean and clever. A horse breeder of repute, so he said, and yet he scarcely looked old enough to grow a beard. Rodrigo could imagine him dallying in the company of women with a harp and pretty love songs, but not assessing warhorses in a dusty tiltyard. Appearances could be deceptive, and Faisal certainly seemed to have taken to the pilgrim, but Rodrigo had learned from bitter experience never to take anyone by word alone.

  'I can find you horses,' he said. 'When you are rested, I will show you the herds on my own estates.'

  The weariness lifted slightly from the young man's expression. A spark kindled in his eyes and he thanked his host in a tone less dull than his previous exchanges.

  Rodrigo shrugged his powerful shoulders. 'It will be my pleasure,' he said, and perused Benedict once more. 'Are you a fighting man? Have you ever been trained to arms?'

  Benedict pinched his upper lip between forefinger and thumb and considered the reply. 'I am not sure how to answer, my lord. I know the rudiments of sword play and I can use a spear and shield as well as any footsoldier, and I am competent with both on horseback. I have to be for testing how a particular horse will respond to the weight of an armed man on his back. Not every animal of destrier stock is suitable to become a warhorse.'

  Rodrigo nodded. Deceptive appearances again. Perhaps a deceptive tongue too. He reserved his judgement.

  The young stallion's hide flowed like molten-bronze, rippling over powerful muscles and strong bones. His mane and tail were an attractive contrast of silver-blond, the latter sweeping to the ground.

  Rodrigo smiled inside his mouth at the rapt, almost stunned expression on Benedict de Remy's face as a groom led the animal up and down. 'He is yours,' he said. 'A gift to replace the mount you lost when you were robbed.'

  Benedict stared at the vision before him, and was mute with longing, delight, and awe. Cylu, beloved even though he had been, would have fetched only half the worth of this horse in trade. 'My lord, I can never repay you,' he said huskily. 'I know many a lord in Normandy who would give his teeth for a such a horse to use in the hunt.'

  'Let me hear no talk of repayment,' Rodrigo said with a shrug. 'What I give, I bestow freely without obligation. Other horses on this stud you may buy, but this one is yours to do with as you wish. He comes from the south, from the Andaluz, and he has a pedigree that goes back to the bible… or so my overseer tells me.'

  Benedict stepped up to the horse, approaching it from the side so that it could obtain a full view of him. The liquid eye appraised. The head swung and the nostrils drank in Benedict's scent. In preparation for a morning of examining Lord Rodrigo's horses, Benedict had filled his pouch with dates. Unerringly, the horse extended his neck and snuffled at the leather bag hanging from Benedict's belt.

  Rodrigo laughed. So did Benedict as he stepped adroitly to one side and turned his back while he removed two dates and laid them across his palm. The horse followed him, tugging against the groom, until its head rested over Benedict's shoulder. An insistent muzzle quested, and the dates vanished in short order. The horse tossed his head up and down as he chewed, see-sawing the poor groom like a man stuck on a bell rope. As daintily as a nun in a refectory, the horse spat out the cleaned fruit stones, then looked round for more.

  Benedict took the bridle from the groom, and setting his foot in the stirrup, swung across the saddle. The wound in his side twinged, but it was an uncomfortable rather than incapacitating pain. The stallion grunted as Benedict's weight came down in the saddle, a sound out of all proportion to the light bulk of the man, and gave a vigorous back-kick of protest. Benedict rode with the move, keeping his body supple, and began to draw in the reins. He recognised the stallion's temperament. The spectacular bronze hide and silver mane and tail were for show and these antics were merely an addition, a way of ensuring attention. Look at me, am I not fine. Benedict had met people who said that a horse was a horse. If it was sound and capable of doing the work for which it was purchased, what more was there to consider?

  Benedict thought of gentle Cylu, even-temper
ed and with the endurance of a rock, of the sparky bay pony of his childhood, and the stubborn pied gelding which had replaced it as he grew. Sleipnir, Cylu's sire, old and whiskered, nigh on thirty years old, a veteran of the great battle on Hastings field. And Freya, Julitta's golden dappled mare. If she was mated to this stallion beneath him, the offspring would likely be beyond price. His mind flooded with the possibilities.

  'Does he have a name?'

  Rodrigo nodded. 'Kumbi.'

  'Kumbi?' The stallion's ears flickered at the familiar sound and he bucked again, more vigorously. Benedict tightened in the reins hard, letting him know who was master, and the warning issued, slackened them slightly.

  'It is a trading place, far, far from here; across the sea, across a vast desert larger than an ocean; a market for the gold that is mined in a kingdom the Moors call Gana. Horses, smaller than this, but of great endurance are to be found in the desert.'

  Benedict smiled. 'My father-by-marriage would be interested to know of such lands. He has always had a wanderlust for new places and new experiences.'

  'You say he is a renowned breeder of horses on his own lands. I am surprised that he has never travelled beyond the Pyrenees himself'

  'It has always been on his horizon, a "one day" destination,' Benedict said. 'The last dream when all others have been broken.'

  Rodrigo raised his eyebrows, but Benedict did not offer to elaborate. The golden horse, sensing the division of concentration, tried to play up again and for the next few minutes Benedict was occupied in exerting his authority. The stallion put up a struggle, but finally settled down to perform as the man commanded. Benedict asked for a lance and a shield, and when the two were handed up to him, he threaded his left arm through the leather shield straps, and couched the lance in his right. His control of the reins was now negligible, and he had to command the horse through leg pressure and tone of voice. This was where the sensitivity and intelligence of the animal was important. Kumbi possessed full measure of both, and beneath Benedict's gifted handling, performed magnificently.