'It wouldn't be seemly,' she protested tearily.
'Who's to see in this?' he growled. 'Do you think anyone besides yourself cares? Do it now, before you fall.'
With trembling chin, Gisele fumbled beneath her cloak and tugged the merest token of dress through her belt. Benedict clamped his jaw on his irritation. It was at moments like this that he longed for Julitta, for her forthright, practical nature. She would have hitched her gown without a qualm, perhaps even have donned a pair of men's breeches. The word 'seemly' would not have disturbed her, unless it was being yelled at her by a purple-faced Mauger.
The pilgrims' hostel that greeted their arrival in the valley was a low-roofed timber dwelling with a balding thatched roof. The heavy rain had advanced the dusk and at first the proprietor did not want to admit them for the place was already bulging with travellers. There were no beds to spare, or even spaces in beds. At last, however, he was persuaded to sell the late arrivals floor space around the fire in the main hall. The merchant was furious, but no amount of railing made any difference to the proprietor's assertion that he had no beds.
'Even if you was the Queen o' Sheba, you'd sleep on the floor!' he declared. 'If you want to go higher than that, then you can sleep in the stables like our Blessed Lord.'
Complaining, the merchant opted for the main room, the smoky fire, and sleeping space on the filthy, trodden rushes. Benedict chose the stables, where the bedding was marginally cleaner, and the company more wholesome.
Gisele disappeared behind a stack of hay to change into dry garments from their pack, dry being a relative term, for even the fresh clothing was damp to the touch. Benedict stripped down to his loin cloth and set about making a thick, deep nest in the hay, then spread out the spare garments from his own pack to air, so that in the morning they might seem slightly drier.
The watery stew in the main room had not appealed to him, and he delved amongst his pack rations to see what he could find. There were small, hard cakes made of oats, raisins and honey, dried figs, a small cheese purchased from a shepherd's wife along the way, and some salty, spiced sausage from the same source. To wash it down there was wine mixed with water from a mountain stream. It was hardly a feast, but it was an improvement on the meal being served in the main room across the courtyard.
Gisele emerged from her hiding place and looked at Benedict with startled eyes when she saw his near-nudity.
'It will be warm enough beneath the hay,' he said. 'I don't want to sleep in damp clothes. If you had any sense, you'd take yours off too.'
Her colour heightened and her right hand rose to clutch at the silver cross hanging round her neck, and beside it, the reliquary she had bought in Toulouse. The small box with its facing of polished agates and emeralds purported to contain three eyelashes belonging to Mary Magdalene, who had, apparently, lived out her latter years in Southern Gaul. It had cost as much as a top quality warhorse, but Gisele had thought it worth every last silver penny. Benedict knew what he thought, but had reserved comment. The matter of the relic for Brize-sur-Risle was not his concern.
'Sit.' He gestured at the food.
Gisele abandoned her clutch on the reliquary and did as he bade her, tucking her gown neatly around her legs. Her gaze flickered over his shoulders and chest, the narrow smudge of hair running from nipple to nipple, and the fine line feathering down over the firm bands of stomach muscle and disappearing into the linen loin cloth. Her colour remained high. She nibbled daintily on a fig and sipped at the watered wine.
Benedict ate hungrily. The cheese was excellent, the sausage revolting, but he was famished and devoured both. Gisele ignored her portions, preferring instead to chew slowly on a honey cake. Her delicate stomach echoed her sensibilities.
The end of their meal was interrupted by Pons, who entered the stables with a laughing woman in tow, her brown hair indecently loose and her bodice in disarray.
Pons jerked to a halt when he saw Benedict and Gisele, and his foxy face became sharp with hostility. 'I thought everyone was in the hall. I always sleep here when I am guiding people through the passes.'
Benedict gestured around. 'There is room enough,' he said.
The woman with Pons murmured in his ear, detached herself from his embrace, and disappeared into the night. Pons scowled furiously at the interlopers. 'It is not safe out here. You should stay with the others.'
Benedict arched his brows. 'I'll take my chance.'
The Basque glanced over his shoulder at the stable entrance, then back at Benedict and Gisele. 'You Franks,' he sneered contemptuously. 'You think that you own the world.'
Benedict almost laughed at the irony of the statement. He wondered if Pons had ever listened to his own words. Mountain guides were notoriously arrogant. He said nothing, meeting the angry black stare with indifference.
Pons made to leave, but changed his mind and paused, his shoulder leaning against the door jamb. 'Travelling does not burden you the way it does some of the others,' he remarked. His posture remained hostile, but there was curiosity in his voice too. At his belt there were two knife scabbards, one sheathing a nine-inch hunting dagger, the other a smaller meat knife. Pons drew the latter and began paring his nails.
'I am accustomed to making long journeys.' Benedict tried to appear nonchalant, but he kept a wary eye on the knife. Beside him, Gisele was rigid with fear.
'Then you are a merchant?'
'Of sorts. I breed horses – destriers and sumpter ponies.'
Pons nodded and looked over the curve of his knuckles at Benedict. 'In Castile and Navarre, you will find the greatest horses on God's earth.'
'Yes, I know.'
'You come to buy?'
'Perhaps.'
The Basque sucked his teeth. 'These horses, they are expensive.' He rubbed his fingers and thumb together. 'Perhaps you do not have enough silver.'
'We shall see.'
Pons nodded. His eyes were still narrow, but the edge of anger had vanished, replaced with a glint of what might have been amusement. 'I am a merchant too,' he said. 'My whole family, they trade between our lands and yours, Frank.' He wiped the knife blade on his breeches and stabbed it into its sheath. 'I'll leave you to sleep now. Marisa and I will find somewhere else.' Bestowing a mocking flourish upon Benedict and Gisele, he disappeared into the night as silently as a cat. Like a dog, Benedict's hackles rose.
'As soon as we reach the plains, we'll hire a different guide,' he murmured to Gisele.
She clutched the reliquary at her breast, her grey eyes filled with fear. 'I don't like him,' she whispered.
Benedict made a wry face. 'And I don't trust him.'
The morning dawned bright and golden, with not a single cloud to mar the stunning blue of the sky. Shabby became quaint, primitive became rustic. The pilgrims took genuine pleasure in breaking their fast at the trestles set up in the meadow behind the hostel. Woodsmoke from the cooking fires hazed the air and carried upon it the smells of frying ham and batter cakes. There was milk and buttermilk to drink, and the air was clear and pleasantly warm.
Pons, who had not been in evidence for morning prayers, nor the main part of the meal, appeared as folk were rising from the tables. He snatched some left-over bread from a basket, speared a brown batter cake off the griddle iron on the point of his knife, and taking alternate bites from each one, set about mustering his charges.
He was in high good humour, whistling and singing as if the weather itself had entered his veins. But there was a tension about him too, like a storm building behind the sunshine.
'The road is easier today,' he announced. 'And the weather is fine. We'll make good progress.'