The Conquest

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  Rodrigo watched man and mount. Benedict rode like a Moor, he thought, light in the saddle, supple and deadly. The young man knew his trade, of that now Rodrigo had not a single doubt. His look grew thoughtful, but when Benedict drew rein and dismounted, his face flushed with pleasure, the lord of Bivar said nothing of what was on his mind. Instead, he praised Benedict and the horse, and took his guest to meet Sancho, the overseer.

  Sancho was wizened and leathery. There was no telling how old he was, but to Benedict, he looked as if he had already been embalmed so closely did his features hug the contours of his bones. Most of Sancho's teeth were missing, and those that survived were twisted yellow pegs. One eye was milky, almost blind, the outer rim of the other was encircled with white, and yet their gaze on Benedict managed to be as sharp as a blade. Looking amused, Lord Rodrigo distanced himself from the confrontation.

  'You are a horse breeder in your own country, eh?' Sancho challenged in a cracked voice. 'That doesn't even set you on the first rung of the ladder in Castile.'

  'I learn fast,' Benedict replied, maintaining an even tone. 'And I have always been taught well… in the past.'

  The old man hawked and spat. The eyes gleamed like opaque stones. 'What makes you think I want to teach you?'

  Benedict shrugged. 'What makes you think I want you to teach me?'

  They stared at each other, the small, wrinkled veteran of more than sixty burning Iberian summers and the limber young man, supple as a young tree, full of rising sap.

  'I know horses, I know men,' Sancho said. His tone was less hostile, as if in that last, examining stare, he had discovered something of interest.

  'So do I.' Benedict's gaze flickered to the Lord Rodrigo who was supervising the encounter from the corner of his eye, a half-smile twitching his lips. Sancho glanced too, and his own seamed, thin scar of a mouth began to curve.

  'And no-one knows men better than El Cid,' he said. 'He must think you worthwhile in some way to bestow on you a horse of Kumbi's value, and promise you the pick of this stud. What it is he sees in you I do not know, but perhaps I should find out.'

  Benedict returned the smile. 'I was of the same opinion about you,' he retorted.

  CHAPTER 56

  Arlette de Brize died on a shining midsummer morning in the convent of the Magdalene. She was at peace, and as Rolf looked down on her waxen, closed face, he could almost detect a smile on her lips. Her last words of an hour since lingered with him, causing a shiver of discomfort. 'I am going to be with Gisele,' she had said. Not God, but Gisele.

  During her last week when the pain had been great, the nuns had drugged her with poppy syrup. The nostrum had taken the pain and brought lurid visions in its stead. In her waking moments Arlette had spoken in a trembling voice of beautiful gardens and angels brighter than the morning sun. She had also cried out at visions of blood and death, growing agitated despite the heavy sedation.

  Rolf was glad that her suffering was over. He wished that he could grieve, but for the moment he only felt numb, as if he too had drunk of the poppy's narcotic. They had been married for almost thirty years, and she had been a constant in his life — too familiar to be noticed until there was a cold space where her presence had once stood. It was nothing compared to the frozen landscape occupied by Ailith's ghost, but still he was aware of how threadbare his life was becoming.

  He meditated beside her body for a respectful period, and then left her to the ministrations of the nuns. She belonged to them now. They would care for her far more diligently than he ever had. He departed the chapel, a greying man almost fifty years old, the wiry grace of his youth now set in a more solid mould, his features still handsome, but showing the marks of time.

  He rode home to Brize in a reflective mood, his mind dwelling on the bitter-sweetness of the past. If only Arlette had yielded a little more; if only he had been more patient. If only… And the name his mind spoke was suddenly not his wife's.

  When he arrived at Brize, he was still preoccupied, heavy of heart, and it took him a while to realise that he had visitors. It was the sight of his grooms more than usually busy in the stable area and his automatic eye for a good horse that jerked him belatedly out of his reverie to ask what was happening.

  'Duke Robert's here, my lord,' replied the man, nodding his head at the glossy chestnut stallion that an unfamiliar squire was watering at the trough. The horse's bridle and saddle were of rich, embossed leather. The breast band was decorated with red silk tassels and so was the brightly woven saddle cloth. Rolf cursed to himself. The last thing he needed now was a serving of Duke Robert's heavy-handed jocularity at his table.

  'Did he say anything to you?'

  'No, lord, only to find stabling for his horse and those of his men. They did not bring a baggage wain, but they all had full saddle rolls.'

  Which meant at least an overnight stay on the road to Rouen, and not just a passing visit. Rolf nodded to the groom, mentally armed himself, and went forth to battle.

  The first thing he heard as he approached the hall was Robert's loud, hearty laugh, and a woman's voice chiming softly beside it. Julitta, he thought, and felt a little less beleaguered. And if Julitta was here, that meant Mauger was around somewhere.

  Robert, Duke of Normandy, eldest son of the Conqueror, was a well-built man of medium height. He had russet hair, slightly protuberant grey eyes, a good, straight nose, and a sensuous, full-lipped mouth. The overall effect fell just short of handsome, and was certainly attractive. His nature was attractive too, providing you were not hoping for hidden depths. There weren't any. Robert of Normandy was shallow and unreliable. He always meant to keep his promises, but somehow he seldom did, and given such a lead, his barons felt free to break their oaths to him. It led to confusion, to dishonesty, doubt, and even war.

  Robert was seated at the high table at the end of the hall where he had been furnished with food and wine. Mauger, his expression stonily controlled, sat a little to one side with the Duke's retainers, and in the lord's seat, beside the Duke himself, was Julitta. She appeared to be keeping him amused, but then beautiful women were another of Robert's weaknesses, no matter that they belonged to other men.

  'My lord,' Rolf bent the knee to the Conqueror's son. It was a matter of form. When he had knelt to the old Duke, it had been out of genuine respect.

  'Oh get up, get up,' Robert gestured magnanimously. 'No ceremony among friends! Come, sit down, it's your hall!' The Duke indicated the bench at his left hand side, and hitched his chair closer to Julitta's.

  'You will pardon me if I seem a trifle distracted,' Rolf said, warning Robert before he started his usual back-thumping, all comrades together routine, 'but my wife died at the convent of the Magdalene this morning – it was expected, but nevertheless,' he made a small hand gesture serve for the remainder and sat down heavily.

  Julitta poured him a cup of wine and looked at him anxiously. He managed a half-smile for her and an almost imperceptible grimace in the direction of the Duke. Her eyes kindled with understanding, and she pulled a face of her own. 'Papa, I'm sorry.'

  Rolf shook his head. 'She was at peace,' he said, and raised the cup to his lips.

  'My condolences,' Robert's open features sobered at the news. 'Your lovely daughter told me that you had gone to visit your lady and that she was mortally sick. I will pay for the priests to say a special mass for her this very day, God rest her soul.' He crossed himself vigorously. 'She was a gentle, pious lady, you will miss her sorely.'

  'Yes.' Rolf examined his wine, its colour the dark red of his daughter's hair. Robert of Normandy might be vainglorious and selfish, but the words, for what they were worth, were genuinely meant.

  'That makes it all the more difficult for me to impose upon you, but impose I must,' Robert added with a theatrical sigh, and leaned back in his chair.

  Rolf shook his head and murmured a polite, half-hearted disclaimer. He did not own the stamina today for Robert of Normandy's impositions. 'Must' in the new Duke's case wa
s frequently a cover for the more indulgent 'want'.

  'My father was accustomed to buying all his horses from you,' Robert said, 'and I see no reason to change that. Of course,' he added, his eyebrows puckering, 'I am not entirely at ease that you should continue to trade with my brother William. It seems to me a conflict of interests.'

  Rolf took a slow drink of wine and rolled it around his mouth, while he wondered how to reply. If Robert's imposition was a demand that he cease selling horses to Rufus, then he knew he could not, nay, would not meet it. 'In England, I am your brother's tenant, in Normandy I am yours,' he said after a moment, his tone polite, but firm. 'Many of us with lands on both sides of the narrow sea are divided in our loyalties and obligations. But you and your brothers have always looked to Brize and the new farm at Ulverton to provide you with warhorses. If you and Rufus come to friendly terms and I have refused to trade with one or the other of you, where does that leave me? No, my lord. I will conduct my business as I see fit.'

  Robert continued to frown. He drummed his thick fingers on the table. 'You don't even like Rufus,' he growled.

  'No, my lord, but he has my pledge for my English lands since your lord father designated him the heir.'

  'Is that why you are here, Lord Robert?' Julitta interrupted. 'To persuade my father to change his ways?' She regarded the Duke with limpid eyes, her face turned towards him in a pose that almost invited a kiss, yet retained an air of innocence.

  Mauger almost choked on his food, and Rolf on his wine, both men wondering what devilry she was at. The Duke was partial to pretty women, and she appeared to be playing up to his weakness.

  Robert cleared his throat, and his complexion grew ruddy. 'Well partly, yes,' he said. 'It isn't a good idea for a man to have two masters.'

  Julitta nodded, as if Robert's words were pearls of ineffable wisdom. 'What about two mistresses?' she asked saucily.

  Robert threw his head back and laughed. 'That neither!' he chuckled, and glanced at Rolf. 'She has a sharp tongue, your daughter!'

  Rolf said nothing, his eyes slightly narrowed as he pondered her outrageous behaviour. Beside him, he thought that Mauger was going to have an apoplexy.

  Julitta said, 'I am like my father, so I am told.' She leaned a little closer to the Duke and made good use of her eyelashes, lowering them, looking at him through them. She wanted to put Robert of Normandy off the dangerous subject of oaths and loyalty. She knew the man, had watched Merielle manipulate him like warm clay at Dame Agatha's bathhouse, and was thoroughly confident that she could do the same.

  'Your father does not delight me half so much!' Robert warmly flirted in return.

  Julitta gave him a look of playful reproval. Then she tilted her head to one side. 'So what is the main reason for your visit, my lord?' Her voice was rich and low now, inviting confidences. And by suggesting that his complaint to Rolf was only a trifling side matter, she was able to dismiss it from Robert's mind. He might remember it later, but by then he would be so bedazzled that he would let it lie, or else, knowing him, would be too lazy to turn back and settle the issue.

  Robert basked in the light from Julitta's eyes, in her attentive expression, the slightly parted lips. 'I have come to ask your father to obtain some stock for me. I want a Spanish stallion such as my own father rode.' He patted Julitta's hand where it lay on the trestle. Then he looked at Rolf. 'Do you think that you can find one for me?'

  Rolf shifted in his chair. 'A Spanish stallion,' he said slowly.

  'I'm not saying that those you breed are not good enough,' Robert added hastily, 'but my father always had a Spanish stallion for the most important occasions, a sort of mark of prestige, and I want one too.'

  Rolf rubbed his jaw, where stubble, silver and red, was beginning to poke through the skin. But you will never be even half the man your father was, he thought. If you were, the King of Castile would have sent you such a horse by now. 'I daresay I could find what you want, but it would not come cheaply.'

  Robert took his meaty paw from Julitta's hand, and gave a profligate wave. 'Don't worry, you will be paid.'

  Rolf's lips tightened. With what? he wanted to ask. Robert's spendthrift nature was notorious. Already he was in debt to the moneylenders, and it was not even a year since his father had died with a well-stocked treasury. In silence he finished his wine. It was too much of an effort to enquire of the fine details such as colour and weight, broken or unbroken. He wondered to himself if Benedict would bring anything back from his pilgrimage that was suitable, thereby saving the need for a further excursion.

  'Well?' Robert demanded. 'Will you fulfil my commission, or shall I look elsewhere?'

  Rolf passed a weary hand across his forehead. 'Forgive me, my lord, I am tired and in a state of grief. I shall be pleased to fulfil your commission if there is nothing at Brize that takes your eye.'

  Robert's gaze admired Julitta. 'There is always something at Brize to take my eye,' he said with double meaning, 'but I still want a Spanish warhorse.' He allowed the squire serving at table to replenish his cup.

  'There is a horse fair in Bordeaux in two months' time. Belike I could find you something there. Spanish stock is frequently traded, and at better prices than in the north.'

  'As you wish.' Robert's concentration remained on Julitta. 'I am sure that I have met you before now,' he said with a puzzled frown between his russet brows.

  Julitta had known that there were dangers inherent in flirting with Duke Robert. If he remembered that he had previously encountered her in a Southwark brothel, there would be no constraints on his lechery. 'Probably when I was a child, my lord,' she said lightly. 'I was always underfoot in the stables.'

  'Yes, perhaps.' Robert pinched his chin between forefinger and thumb. 'But I cannot help thinking it was elsewhere that I saw you.'

  She gave him a smile and a shrug, and towed the conversation into safer waters by asking him about the kind of Spanish horse he wanted. Basking in her attention, Robert followed her lead with enthusiasm, and the subject lasted them until the servants began clearing away the trestles in the main part of the hall and stacking them neatly down one wall.

  Robert gently squeezed her knee beneath the table before he rose to visit the latrine. 'You are a beautiful woman,' he murmured. 'Would that I could have more of your company.'

  Julitta had been expecting this particular move all evening, but it did not prevent her stomach from lurching now that it was played. 'You honour me, my lord,' she said demurely, and thought that his intention was more in the realm of dishonour'.

  'I speak no more than the truth. Perhaps you would like to visit the full splendour of my court?'

  Julitta lowered her lashes. 'That is most generous of you, my lord,' she murmured. 'But I have my position and duty as a wife to consider.'

  'I am sure something could be arranged,' Robert said with a slow, meaningful smile.

  Something was arranged, and in short order. Mauger found himself consulted on the matter of Spanish bloodstock by Duke Robert, who then insisted that Mauger should be the one to go to Bordeaux and bring the required warhorse back to Normandy. It made perfect sense. Rolf could not go, he had a funeral to arrange and his wife's affairs to set in order.

  'Why did you encourage him in the first place?' Mauger snarled at Julitta as the Duke's retinue rode out of Brize the following noontide. 'Or perhaps you want to parade yourself at his court, show yourself off as his latest whore!'

  Julitta whitened. 'How dare you say that to me!' she said icily, and stalked away towards the hall. Mauger caught up with her and spun her round.

  'Do you think I do not know why he demands that I go to find his blessed horse? It is so that he can have free rein to do as he likes with you!'

  'And you think that I would have anything to do with a strutting cockerel such as him?' she said scornfully.

  'What am I to think after your behaviour at table last night? God's death, you were almost in his lap!'

  'That was because he was ho
unding my father, who was in no fit state to respond to him. If I had not intervened and distracted him, Duke Robert would have insisted that Papa yield him sole fealty and abandon his oath to Rufus. There would have been hot words for certain!'

  'It was not proper or decent!' Mauger raged through his teeth, his complexion dusky.

  'No it wasn't!' Julitta retorted, her own voice rising to match his. 'And neither is this!'

  Mauger glanced around the bailey and saw that they had an interested audience of castle folk. Beneath the weight of his scowl they dispersed, but he knew that they would watch and listen from a distance, and that the tales would carry.

  'I ought to whip you,' he muttered.

  'Is that your answer to everything?' she demanded scornfully. 'Will whipping me set everything to rights, or will you just salve your wounded manhood at the expense of my hide?' She tried to shake him off, but Mauger maintained a bruising grip on her arm.

  'It is holy writ that a woman should submit to her husband!'

  Mauger said through his teeth. 'I will have your obedience!' His face thrust down into hers.

  Panting, they glared at each other. Then, with an oath, Mauger covered Julitta's mouth with his own, and kissed her forcefully.

  Julitta struggled, but he held her fast. His tongue invaded, his hands clamped their bodies together. 'Holy writ,' he repeated, as he surfaced for air. 'Willing or unwilling. You are mine.'

  Willing or unwilling.

  Aching, sore, Julitta stared at the rafters. Mauger lay upon her, his breath thundering in her ears, the driving rhythm of his buttocks reduced to spasmodic twitches. This time he had not even tried to prolong the act or give her pleasure. It had been purely for his own release.

  She shifted beneath him, trying to ease her cramped muscles, trying to breathe. There was no flab on Mauger, but he was solid and heavy-set.

  He raised his head, and looked down into her face. An expression of bewilderment crossed his own. Almost tender now that the force of his passion was spent, he touched her dark red braid. 'It would be easier for you if you were not so wilful,' he said. 'You anger me… you make me lose control.'