The Conquest

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  Her entire body jerked with the shock of the vision and her eyes flew open, a scream stifled behind her lips.

  She heard voices and the clump of footsteps on the hatchway stairs, and sat up. Her heart thumped against her ribs in rapid strokes and her cheeks were damp, not only from her hair. Even in sleep she had been weeping.

  By the hazy light of the single lantern, she saw Benedict and a sailor carrying Mauger between them. His blond head sagged, his mouth lolled open.

  'Mauger… Oh Jesu, is he dead?' Julitta was unable to move, could only watch with widening eyes as they brought him over to her.

  'No,' Benedict said, his voice constricted by the effort of setting Mauger carefully down on the hay, 'but he's barely breathing, and this gash on his head is still bleeding.'

  Julitta stared at her husband, at the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the blue tinge to his flesh, the red trickle from the deep gash in his forehead. She reached out her hand and took hold of one of his. The fingers were as cold as effigy-marble.

  Benedict studied her for a moment with brooding eyes. 'I'll go and fetch Sampson,' he said. 'He's one of the crew members, but he once trained for the church. It is the nearest Mauger will get to a priest.'

  Julitta silently nodded, and did not look up as he turned and left.

  Mauger was shriven by Sampson, who, despite having given up the church more than ten years ago, was still comfortingly familiar with its rituals. Certainly Mauger did not seem to notice the difference as he weakly made confession and was absolved of sin.

  For the rest of the day, watched over by an exhausted Julitta, Mauger drifted in and out of consciousness, but never regained coherence. His grey eyes were opaque and unfocused, his breathing rapid and shallow. Just before midnight, in the presence of herself and Benedict, it stopped altogether.

  Julitta composed Mauger's hands upon his breast and drew the blanket up to his chin. His eyes were closed and he looked as if he fallen from utter weariness into sound sleep. She bowed her head, unable to weep, for she had wept herself dry before he was found.

  'He tried to be good to me in his way,' she said. 'Only I never wanted to wed him; never gave him a chance.'

  'It isn't your fault,' Benedict said sharply, alarmed at her response even while he understood it.

  'But it is. He was always trying to prove himself to me. I made him lose his judgement. He would never have bought that horse of his own accord.'

  Benedict looked at her with pain in his eyes. He well understood her attitude. After Gisele's death, he had felt the scourge of guilt, still did on occasion if he had the time to brood. 'Grief heals,' he said, laying his hand upon hers. 'Guilt destroys.'

  'Playing the priest again?' she bit out, and flashed him a glance full of anger. But there was misery there too, and need.

  'No, just a man who lost the wife he had wronged before he could make atonement,' he said.

  She flinched as his pain pierced hers. 'I'm sorry,' she said in a small voice with a break at its edge. 'I didn't think.'

  'Ah, Julitta.' He folded her in his arms, and she accepted the embrace, her body stiff and hesitant. 'I don't want to lose you too. All our lives we have been coming together and breaking apart.' He swallowed, then raised one of his hands to touch her gaunt, hollow face. 'I want you, Julitta, not your guilt, not mine, just the two of us, and a new start. No,' he added, as she opened her mouth to speak. 'Now is not the time. We still have Mauger to honour and lay to rest, and there is grieving to be done. Let the time turn under heaven. Just think on what I have said.' Gently he released her, and went up on deck to fetch such things as would be needed for the washing and laying out of a corpse.

  Dry-eyed, Julitta gazed upon the body of her husband and wished that she could weep.

  CHAPTER 60

  BRIZE-SUR-RISLE, SPRING 1088

  Julitta knelt at the feet of the statue of the Magdalene Mary in Brize's convent. The flagged floor was cold beneath her knees, and the breath of her prayers broke from her lips in puffs of white vapour. This was Arlette's domain. Even in death, her father's wife dominated the place. Not content with the small chapel dedicated to her beyond the high altar, her presence pervaded the rest of the church. The wood and ivory statue of the Magdalene was clad in a green robe, a neat white wimple framing a vacant, half-smiling face, its complexion made luminous by the glow of the sanctuary lamp.

  A thick wax candle burned on a spike. Beside it, in a specially cut niche, a pyramid of votive tapers flickered, each one a prayer for the souls of Arlette de Brize, her daughter Gisele, and now for Mauger of Fauville. Julitta crossed herself, rose from her knees, and lit another taper to add to those already burning. Since her return, she had made it her daily ritual to visit the church and pray for the soul of her dead husband.

  Coming to terms with his death had been difficult, because it had meant coming to terms with herself and the guilt which Benedict had warned against. She could well recall the bitterness and rage of her childhood on discovering that the world did not revolve around herself alone, and that a hitherto unknown half-sister had laid claim to all that Julitta held dear — her standing in the world, her father's love, Benedict. She had hated Gisele even without knowing her. There had been a dark triumph in lying with Benedict, in taking him from her sister. A fleeting victory, paid for a hundred times over by her marriage to Mauger — and Mauger had done much of the paying.

  Outside, a February dusk was gathering strength, the light a pale grey-blue. With a sigh, Julitta adjusted her cloak and walked towards the open doorway. Before she could reach it, she heard the snort of a horse and the ring of hoof on stone. Freya whinnied and was answered by a low, stallion nicker. Julitta's heart began to thump. But it was her father who stepped inside the church and made the sign of the Cross on his breast, and she was aware of a pang of disappointment.

  He was nine and forty now and still handsome, although he wore the lines of his years and the brilliance of his hair had faded to a dusty ginger. During her absence, he had begun negotiating to marry a widow twelve years younger than himself, a merry, handsome woman with three children to her credit and a dowry as magnificent as her bosom. Julitta approved of the Lady Amicia. At least she need not worry about her father. There was a twinkle in his eye and a bounce to his stride.

  'Daughter,' he acknowledged. 'I knew I would find you here.'

  'I was about to leave.'

  He nodded. 'It'll be dark soon.'

  His way of saying that she had stayed too long. She knew that he had come to fetch her. Praying at his wife's tomb in the winter dusk was not one of her father's habits.

  'Wait but a moment and I'll accompany you back,' he added, and went to bow his head at the altar and light four candles to add to the pyramid — one each for his wife and daughter, one for Mauger, and one for Ailith. A nun appeared from a recessed doorway, respected the altar, then Rolf, and went to trim the sanctuary lamp and attend to the candles. He crossed himself, left the woman at her task and returned to Julitta.

  She eyed the nun wistfully. 'I wish that I possessed such tranquillity,' she murmured.

  Rolf took her arm and led her out to the horses. The air was dank and raw, the trees bare and black. 'It will come,' he said. 'You are too impatient with yourself.'

  Julitta gave him a bleak smile. 'Whose trait is that?'

  'Assuredly your mother's.' He cupped his hand to boost her into the golden mare's saddle.

  'Not yours?'

  'I am merely impatient with others.'

  'Then it seems I have both failings.' She settled herself in the saddle and took up the reins.

  'And a stubborn will, too,' he said.

  They rode in silence for a while, until the stone keep of Brize rose from the landscape, its high windows flickering with torchlight. Smoke wisped from the cooking fires in the bailey, promising food and comfort.

  Rolf said softly, 'You are younger than your mother when I first knew her. You have all your life before you.'

  'A
s she had hers?' She was shocked at the bitter note in her own voice.

  Rolf winced. 'There was a time when we had great happiness,' he said. 'I know that what happened later was my fault. If I could undo it, I would.' He eyed Julitta's wooden expression. 'I still think of her, I still miss her. The regrets are carved so deep they are always with me, but I have learned to live with them. What use is there in looking back except to gain the experience of hindsight?' His hand rose to touch his cloak fastening – a brooch in the shape of Odin's six-legged horse, Sleipnir.

  'So, what would you have me do?' She dismounted rapidly, a sure sign that she was agitated. 'Return to my old, hoyden ways?'

  'That is not what I meant and you know it.' Rolf swung himself out of his saddle. His knee joints ached, and he had to flex his legs several times before the stiffness eased. 'All I am saying is that if you are going to drag a cross around with you, there is no need to carry it so high that you can't even see where you're going… or who walks beside you. In God's name, daughter, go with Benedict now and make your life with him. You have my blessing. Indeed, if you weren't so contrary, I'd order you to it.' He looked her up and down, exasperation and humour in his eyes. Then he said calmly, 'He would have come to the chapel himself, but I wanted to see you first.'

  She caught her breath and her eyes widened. 'Benedict is here?'

  Her father rubbed his jaw, feigning nonchalance before her surprise, but secretly delighted. 'He rode in from Rouen about the hour of nones. At the end of the week he sails for Corunna on board his father's new salandrium galley – but then he'll probably tell you himself. It is the reason he is here.'

  Julitta's fingers tightened in the folds of her gown. 'Where is he, Papa?'

  Rolf shrugged. 'I left him in the solar, but that was a while ago. Best find him. The dinner horn will be sounding soon.' He cocked his head on one side. 'Well, what are you waiting for? Go on!' He made a shooing gesture.

  Julitta dithered a moment longer, then gathered her skirts, turned from her father, and hurried away in the direction of the keep. He stared after her, a smile on his lips, poignance in his eyes.

  'I am leaving in the morning, and I want her to be with me.' Benedict laid his hand against the dormant bee skep. Sleeping. There was scarcely a vibration, but he knew that the insects were still alive. Rain misted down, cobweb-fine, dewing his hair and his dark woollen cloak. The heavy scent of soil filled his nostrils, of spring renewal, and the turned earth of graves, both awarenesses strong within him.

  September it was when the Constantine had docked in Honfleur. Now in mid-February the spring bulbs were poking through the soil and milder days interspersed winter's cold. He had given Julitta her period of mourning, keeping his distance, letting the season mature and turn, but he did not know if she had turned with it, or whether her world remained frozen at the moment of Mauger's death. He had watched her pray, even joined her on occasion, but whether prayer had healed her wounds or kept them open, he could not be sure. But now he was about to find out.

  With or without her, he would leave on the morrow. From Rouen he was bound for Castile with three brood mares for Rodrigo Diaz as a gift from Rolf. It would be good to feel the wind in his hair again and the call of the sea birds, the peppery Iberian heat, the scent of lemons. He would be subjected to Sancho's acerbic tongue, and fed until he burst by Faisal's dark-eyed wife and pig-tailed daughter. The thought warmed him, even brought a smile to his face.

  The wicket gate creaked and he heard a whistle, then Julitta's voice in stern rebuke. The sound of paws pitter-pat-tered along the path, there was a gruff bark of greeting, and suddenly he was assaulted by Rolf's slot-hound Grif, its jaws slobbering and its huge, dirty pads staining his breeches as the dog jumped up at him. An exuberant tail swished like a whip against his thighs.

  'Down!' he commanded sternly. 'Down, Grif.'

  The dog yodelled at him and trotted away to the wall where a mount of fresh earth had been dug. The sound of copious urination filled the evening.

  Julitta appeared, a flambeau in her hand. Smoke eddied from its pitched tip, and filled the air with the smell of resin. 'I've been looking for you,' she said. 'You weren't in the solar.'

  'I was too restless.' He gave her a pained smile.

  The torch flared and spat in the garden silence. He could see that she was gnawing her lip. 'My father said that you had come to make your farewells,' she said. Her hand shook slightly on the torch, her wrist quivering with the prolonged holding.

  'Yes, I have. The Doro sails with the evening's tide tomorrow, bound for Corunna. We've a cargo of horses and wool on board. She'll return with more horses and wine.' His tone was conversational. It was also forced. The things that he really wanted to say hovered like the smoke from the flambeau, tangible but out of his grasp.

  'Your father is pleased with the Doro?' She followed his wooden lead, as if they were two strangers, but recently introduced. And perhaps they were, he thought, so much had happened to change them.

  'It has taken his mind from the loss of the Draca. Yes, he is well pleased. She is higher-sided than his other vessels, better freeboard and handling, if not quite so fast.'

  She nodded. Chew, chew, went her lower lip, until it was all he could do not to lean forward and cup her mouth, preventing the motion.

  In the distance, a horn sounded, the note long and sustained, summoning the castle folk to eat in the great hall. They gazed at each other in the twilit darkness. Beyond them, Grif snuffled among the borders, his keen bloodhound's nose intoxicated by the powerful, damp scents.

  'There was another reason I came here, to the garden, besides my restlessness,' Benedict said. 'I came to talk to the bees.' He pointed over his shoulder at the skep. 'You used to tell them everything. I thought it was only common courtesy if I told them too.'

  'Told them what?'

  'That depends on you.'

  There was a long silence. Two strangers who had run out of things to say. Then, the flambeau Julitta was holding wavered and dipped. 'I am afraid,' she whispered, and it was not just her wrist that trembled, but her entire body.

  'Of what?'

  'Of having wanted too fiercely and for too long. Of having my heart's desire offered on a platter.'

  Benedict grimaced. 'Hardly on a platter,' he said. 'The pain has been too fierce and endured far too long.' A considering frown lined his brow. 'Ah Christ, let there be an end to this, let me tell the bees the truth as I feel it.' Taking a pace forward, he removed the torch from her hand and thrust it into the dug earth beside the skep. Then he drew her into his arms, gently lowered her chin with his thumb so that she was no longer chewing her lip, and kissed her.

  It was fierce and tender, swift and slow, subtle and raw. She felt the pattern of the dance in her veins as she had felt it on that long ago May evening, and again in the garden at this very place when she was a married woman on the verge of adultery. Her loins were suddenly liquid. She pressed against him and the anguish of his voice in her ear melted her bones.

  'I swear I will go mad if I cannot have you — tonight and for a lifetime,' he muttered. 'Julitta, say yes.'

  Julitta laid her head against his breast and felt the swift thump of his heart. Lower down, against her belly, she could also feel the hard proof of his need. 'I choose the future,' she said, and gripped him, clenching her fists to grasp her decision so that it could not be taken from her as so much else had been.

  He gripped her in return, speaking her name over and again, kissing her, and being kissed.

  Their embrace was curtailed by the hound. He pushed his moist muzzle at them and stood on his hind legs, pressing muddy, wet forepaws against their joined bodies. Gasping for breath, laughing, they broke apart. Benedict snapped at Grif to get down. The dog whined and sat back on his haunches, his wrinkled face reproachful. Then he yodelled at them.

  Dizzy with emotion, Benedict looked at Julitta. Her wimple was unpinned, her braids an unwinding dark tumble over her breasts. His Julitta, his love
ly, brave, Maytime Julitta. 'Come,' he said. 'Grif is right. It is time to go in.' He held out his hand, and she linked her fingers through his.

  Handfasted, like a bride and groom, they entered the keep.

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  Document ID: 269cdf6b-d3ba-4561-8310-2f0f13a7fc19

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  Document creation date: 12.11.2013

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  Elizabeth Chadwick

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