'A good thing you've bled,' Mauger had grunted at her. 'We can start again once you're clean, breed some true heirs for Fauville.' Sick and groggy though she was, Julitta had raged at him and he had beaten her until she could not stand up. Then he had put her to bed, tended her bruises lovingly, and explained that he had only punished her for her own good, and that if she obeyed his rules as the head of the household, she need never be beaten again.
And so she obeyed his rules, and Mauger was good to her. And beneath the pretence she hated her life. The only alternative was to run away, but her years in a Southwark bathhouse had given her the practical knowledge of how vulnerable she would be, and so she stayed chained at Fauville – paying the price.
Mauger entered the bedchamber now. He was dressed in his quilted gambeson, the undergarment worn beneath mail to protect the wearer from the bruise of a blow, and from the chaffing of the thousands of iron hauberk rivets. His mail coat was rolled up in a corner of the room and beside it were his sword, shield and spear.
'Have you finished, wife?' he enquired. Unconsciously, he took up a dominant pose, legs spread apart, fist clutching his belt close to the long knife hanging on his hip.
'Yes, Mauger.' She fastened the straps on the heavy linen satchel. 'I think you have everything you need.'
He stared at her, a frown between his thick blond brows. 'I don't like leaving you,' he said belligerently, as if it was her fault that he had to perform his military service.
She met his grey eyes briefly, then looked down at the counterpane of their bed. It was a new one that he had bought from Rouen as a guilt offering after he had beaten her. Three shades of blue wool intricately woven with a chevron pattern. Against her will, she liked it. 'It will not be for long,' she murmured, wishing that it were eighty days instead of forty.
'You think so?' he growled. 'It will seem like purgatory for me. Will you miss me?'
'Yes, Mauger, of course I will.' She looked at him again. To have remained staring at the counterpane would have given her away. And indeed it was the truth. She would miss him watching her every move. She would miss being stifled. The thought of such freedom was as heady as strong wine. 'I will pray for you every morning at mass.'
He took her in his arms and kissed her with that strange, disquieting mixture of need and anger. She submitted dutifully, knowing that she was caught in a cleft stick. If she responded too much, he would doubt her integrity; if she did not, then she was failing in her role as tender wife. Perhaps a life at Dame Agatha's bathhouse would not have been so difficult after all.
Once Mauger had gone, Julitta set about loosening her bonds and rediscovering herself. It was not an immediate transformation, but came slowly and painfully over the weeks. The carefree, devil-may-care Julitta had joined the past together with the princess and the beggar maid. Now the coveted wife peered out from between her cramped prison bars and contemplated freedom.
A fortnight after Mauger had gone, Julitta felt emboldened enough to remove her wimple, shake loose her hair, and bathe herself in one of the laundry tubs, filled to the brim with hot water and a scattering of herbs. Mauger viewed such pastimes with suspicion; they spoke to him of a past that was better buried. Julitta had learned to love the luxury of a tub at Dame Agatha's and it was something that she had sorely missed. She knew without a doubt that someone would carry tales to her husband concerning her relapse into decadence, but retribution was over a month away, and in that time she could think of a believable excuse.
She spent an hour in the tub, until the skin of her fingers and toes was crinkled and the water was becoming cold. Her maid Eda helped her to dress in a clean linen undershirt and gown, topped by an embroidered dark green tunic, and looked at Julitta askance when she requested her cloak.
'You be going out, mistress?' she enquired as she fetched the garment.
Julitta twisted her damp hair into a loose braid, secured it with a strip of silk, and topped it with a wimple. 'Don't look so frightened. My husband might not approve of the bathtub, but he will find nothing wrong in my destination.' Which was why she had chosen it. She would spend an afternoon of freedom, blowing the dust from the old Julitta, refurbishing her, and the tale-tellers would have very little to relate. 'You can accompany me. We are going to visit the new convent and see how the work progresses.'
'The new convent, mistress?' Eda repeated, looking surprised. It was the first interest Julitta had ever shown in Lady Arlette's project. As far as the maid was aware, Mistress Julitta had no strong leanings towards religion, unlike the other women of her family.
'Don't just stand there, put on your own cloak,' Julitta said impatiently, having no desire to discuss her motives with the woman. Eda, although not overly bright, was shrewd, and could usually follow a trail to its conclusion unless quickly put off the scent. 'Lord Mauger has told me about it; I want to see it for myself.'
Without waiting for Eda, Julitta pinned her cloak across her breast and swept out of the room to order a groom to saddle her horse.
Rolf had granted a wooded ridge to the east of his keep at Brize-sur-Risle for the building of the Cluniac convent dedicated to the Magdalene, and with that grant, he had bestowed the revenues from one village and the rights to take tolls on the road that wound its way along the foot of the ridge towards Honfleur. It was a generous endowment, but then the lord of Brize-sur-Risle had a position to maintain among his peers, where religious endowment was fashionable, and even had he been inclined to let fashion pass him by, he had a pious wife, who was determined that he would do his duty to God and the Church, and glorify his own name in so doing.
The air was redolent with the golden feel of autumn. There was a sense of wistfulness lingering among the harvest stubble and the ripening bramble bushes as the year gathered speed towards its ending. Julitta savoured each moment of freedom, storing it in her mind against the barren times to come. She rode her mare at a faster pace than Mauger would have approved, and Eda squeaked in fear as she clung precarious pillion to the one of the escorting men-at-arms.
The ridge had been felled of its trees, and a new pathway ran like a white scar to the building site. Nuns, masons and labourers had arrived in the early spring, and now, almost seven months later, the foundations had been laid, the service buildings mapped out, and the main structure of the convent had begun to rise from the landscape in white Caen stone. A mason's apprentice with a hod load of mortar passed in front of Julitta, and ran lightly up a withy walkway to the craftsmen working on the walls. The chink of chisel on stone carried like the chime of a chapel bell, and the air was powdery with dust. In the midst of it, a brawny cook stirred a cauldron of pottage for the workforce. Julitta gazed round at the activity. People who thought Arlette de Brize had a gentle nature should come here, she thought. Every stone was a testimony to her determination to have her way.