Benedict could see nothing so dreadful in that. In fact, it seemed like an excellent idea considering Arlette's preoccupation with the Church. Not only that, but if she entered the convent now, it would be the task of the nuns to nurse her, and not Gisele who was clearly drooping beneath the burden. 'What does your father say?'
'He says that it is what she wants, and that it is a wise decision.'
'And is it not?' he asked gently.
'Oh I know it is,' Gisele croaked, 'I just don't want to think of her dying. And when she enters the convent it will be like bidding farewell. She doesn't want me with her at the end.' Gisele wrung the kerchief between her fingers and laid her head upon Benedict's chest. 'I am crying for myself. I feel so frightened!'
Benedict felt the damp of her tears through his tunic and shirt. He made soothing noises and stroked with his hands. 'It is not a burden you need bear alone,' he murmured. 'You know that I am here.'
'But you wish you weren't, and I do not blame you!'
Benedict winced and tightened his hold on her narrow shoulders. Indeed he did wish to be elsewhere, but then he would only be fulfilling her expectations and contributing to his own self-disgust. 'I am here,' he repeated firmly.
Gisele chewed on her lower lip. Her lashes, spiky and wet, clung together. She sniffed loudly, then blew her nose again. 'I… I know I have not been much of a wife to you recently…'
He shook his head. 'Do not go down that road. I have not been much of a husband either, have I?'
There was a taut silence, broken only by the howl of the weather outside the shutters. Breaking it, Gisele said, 'I know about you and Julitta.'
Benedict stiffened. His heart began to pound and he knew that Gisele was sensing it against her own body.
'I know that you love her, and that she feels the same way about you.'
'It is in the past,' he said when he was sure his voice would serve him. 'And it was only the madness of springtide blood. She is content with Mauger now… and as I have told you, I am here… for you — but you must do the same for me. If a home hearth is cold, a man is bound to seek elsewhere for warmth.'
She looked up at him from drowned eyes, their grey colour strangely enhanced by the red rims. 'I will try,' she said unsteadily.
'We will both try.' Benedict kissed her cheek, and tasted the salt of her tears. He kissed her lips too, but did not linger.
Gisele lay against him for a while as they silently acknowledged the new pact between them, then she lifted her head and said softly, 'My mother wishes me to do something for her, and I promised I would.'
'Oh?'
'Last month, when you were in England and the convent was consecrated, one of the guests talked a great deal about pilgrimages and holy relics. Mama wants me to go to Compostella to pray for her soul and she desires me to bring back a relic to donate to the convent in her name.'
Benedict pursed his lips. He tried to imagine Gisele making a pilgrimage as far as northern Spain when he knew that she hated travelling. The ordered life of the castle was for her. Spinning, weaving, supervising; regular, organised meals and prayers in a safe environment. No surprises. Even journeying to Rouen, or, God forbid, Ulverton, was a trial to her. Small wonder that she had found reason to weep. But if it was her mother's will, then nothing on this earth would prevent her from going to Compostella, not even her own fear. To reason with her was useless. Not that he intended reasoning with her this time. It would be the discharging of a final duty to Arlette, a seal to put the past where it belonged. And he had his own reasons. His arm tightened around her at the sudden leap of his thoughts.
She looked at him with anxious eyes, seeking his face for anger or impatience, but he gave her a reassuring hug and smiled.
'I will take you to pray at the tomb of St James, and if I see horses fit for purchase, I will buy them,' he declared. 'Spanish destriers are the best in the world.' A spark of relish gleamed in his eyes. Gisele would have her saint's bones and prayers by the bucketful; he would obtain his wish to inspect Spanish horseflesh at close quarters. And it was a legitimate excuse to avoid William Rufus for several months until the dust should settle and royal interest drift elsewhere.
Gisele wiped her nose a final time and tucked her soggy kerchief back inside her sleeve. 'Do you truly mean it, that you would accompany me to the tomb of St James?'
He heard the lost note in her voice. Gisele was always seeking for approval and reassurance. She had very little sense of her own value beyond that which was reflected in her mother's eyes. It was up to him to imbue it in her. 'I would not have spoken otherwise,' he said, and kissed her damp cheek.
At Easter, shortly before he departed on pilgrimage with Gisele, Benedict paid a visit to Fauville. The road was soft with mud, and the wind bit through his cloak. A watery April sky furnished brightness but little warmth, and the trees wore only the most delicate tippets of green.
Within its palisade, Fauville's hall faced the world with a stone solidity, its slate-tiled roof attesting that its lord was comfortable for funds, thatch being the norm of all lesser men. The windows faced the muddy bailey and the shutters were thrown back to admit the April daylight to the interior. Down the long side of the hall a herb bed had been planted and the soft greens of sage and lavender blended with the yellower tints of rue and fronds of early dill. Two hens scratched among the plants, clucking importantly to each other.
'And stay out, you thieving, mangy cur!' a woman shrieked. A tan deerhound shot out of the hall door on the end of the vicious sweep of a birch besom. A large chunk of blood pudding stretched its jaws, and had it been human, triumph would have glowed in its eyes. It clattered down the steps, streaked past the startled man, and scattering the hens in squawking high dudgeon, disappeared in the direction of the gates.
'I swear to you, my lady, if Ernoul Huntsman don't keep that hound of his under control, I'll have him with this broom too!'
'All right, Eda, calm yourself. I'll talk to him.' Julitta's voice came from within the hall, her tone bubbling with amusement. Benedict's stomach jolted just to hear her. Suddenly he wondered whether his visit had been such a good idea after all.
'It isn't the first time! Naught but trouble, that dog!' The maid poked her head out of the door to make sure that her quarry was not lurking on the stairs awaiting another opportunity to sneak in and steal again. She saw Benedict and jumped with surprise. Her round face reddened. She dipped him the merest curtsey and spoke rapidly over her shoulder.
Benedict dismounted as Julitta came to the doorway. She wore a homespun tunic of brown wool over an undergown of cream linen. A plain leather belt was passed twice around her waist, and from it dangled the household keys, a small pair of shears in a case, and her knife in a tooled leather sheath. Her hair was bound up in a kerchief tied with braid, and at her throat there was a simple bronze cross upon a leather cord. Her complexion had an alabaster luminosity, and her eyes were the dark blue of sapphires. She gazed at him and a pink flush crept slowly up her face.
'Will you come within?' She gestured through the open door of the hall.
Benedict smiled and shook his head. 'Thank you, but no. I am not even sure that I should be here at all.'
She folded her arms and leaned against the door post. 'Then why are you?'
'Among all the things I have taken from you, there is one that I can return. I know Mauger will not approve, but you can probably see your way to persuading him to accept it, since I know that you and he are on better terms these days.'