He watched a Spanish trader trot a bay colt up and down, and forced himself to concentrate upon the horse rather than imagining Julitta's lovely white throat beneath his hands. Even if he did tell her, she would probably toss her head and ignore him. He could see the expression on her face now.
'You like, my lord?' demanded the trader of Mauger's deep scowl.
'No, show me something else, something with more fire.' Robert of Normandy wanted a warhorse. Well and good, he would find Robert of Normandy such a beast. A savage glint in his eye, Mauger set himself to find a stallion that matched the state of his temper.
It was an hour and ten traders later that he came across the young, unbroken black colt which the Catalan dealer's lad was striving to calm. Sweat creamed its neck along the line of the bridle, and it fretted at the sharp bit, specks of blood mingling with the foam at its mouth corners. Its hide was a glossy jet-black, its mane and tail in contrast a dazzling silvery white. Usually Mauger would have kept his distance, but now he plunged into bargaining with a vengeance.
The merchant's wife escorted Benedict to the door of her handsome timber house, and stood with him on the threshold. She was thickly set, with a florid complexion and heavy-lidded brown eyes. Her gown was of the thickest, costliest wool to mark her rank, but the sweat stains encircling the armpits had ruined the fabric. In the room behind her was a family gathering of adult sons and daughters, and several noisy grandchildren. Benedict was not sorry to leave. Out of charity he had made enquiries and brought them the sad news of the death of the family's head on the road to Compostella.
There had been a suitable amount of dramatic wailing for effect, but no deep-seated grief as far as he could tell. The merchant had not been the kind to engender affection, even among those closest to him. Oh they would do all that was necessary to mourn him, exalt his position amongst Bordeaux's merchant fraternity by staging sumptuous masses and giving freely of alms, but it would all be for show.
'Thank you for bringing us the tidings,' the woman said formally.
Benedict bowed. 'It was my duty, Madame.' He did not say 'Christian' duty, since it was Christians who had murdered the pilgrims, and a Moor who had enabled him to be here to give the news.
The woman stepped into the street, gave him directions back to the main thoroughfare and wished him Godspeed. Benedict bowed again and set out. He was in no particular hurry and took his time, admiring the fine merchants' houses which a prospering wine trade had funded. There was a mixture of wooden shingles, thatch and tiles on the roofs. Many had fine first- or second-floor galleries. Women stood gossiping outside their doors, their fingers busy twirling raw wool into yarn on their distaffs. Young children played. Older ones were employed in household tasks. Various cooking smells wafted past his nostrils, and once the stink of burned pottage, where a wife had been so busy chattering that she had forgotten to add more water to her cooking pot.
Without conscious thought he strolled towards the wharf-side where the wine galleys bobbed at anchor. He could see the vessel in which he and Sancho had sailed from Corunna; a Byzantine horse transport, three-decked, sturdy and large. It had been Sancho's idea to commission her in Corunna and sail her up the coast, rather than face the dangerous trek over the mountains. She was specifically designed to carry livestock, with large holds in her port hull. Once he and Sancho completed their business in Bordeaux, they would take her on up the coast to Rouen and disembark the horses there.
He stepped back to admire her lines and thought about discussing with his father and Rolf the possibility of building one of these vessels for transporting stock between Iberia and Normandy. Ordinary trading vessels could carry horses over short distance, but they were no use for longer sea voyages.
Pondering the thought, he continued along the banks of the Garonne, passing other transports, Mediterranean round ships, northern narrowboats, and Flemish cogs. And then he saw theDraca, his father's wine galley, bobbing at anchor, its great mast and canvas sail lying along the deck, its oars neatly stacked across the rowing benches. There was no cargo in her mid-deck open hold and no members of crew on board guarding her. She was obviously at rest and waiting to be reloaded.
Benedict knew that it was unlikely his father was here in Bordeaux. Aubert seldom made the journey; he said that the sea was bad for his ague, but Beltran was almost certain to be in port somewhere, purchasing a cargo for the return trip to Normandy. Benedict's heart lightened, and for the first time in several days a smile came to his lips.
He walked on, intending to visit the horse sales and inform Sancho of his discovery, but he had scarcely changed his direction when he saw a young woman burst out of an alleyway like a hunted doe and join the main thoroughfare, her soft shoes scarcely making any sound as she ran. A veil of light silk covered the top of her head, but not the heavy, dark red braids which snaked from side to side with her motion.
'Julitta,' he said in astonishment. It was her, he would have recognised her anywhere. But what was she doing in Bordeaux? Obviously she must have sailed in on the Draca. But why?
A man was chasing her, shoving his way rudely through the crowd. Benedict recognised Austin, Mauger's chief groom, and in a regular rage to judge by the glower on his perspiring features. Shock had rooted Benedict to the spot, but now he regained the use of his limbs and set off in pursuit of Julitta, determined to reach her first and discover what she was doing and what was wrong.
He cut diagonally through the bustle, weaving and dodging, making breathless apologies. At first he thought that he would lose her, for despite being hampered by her gown, she was as swift as an arrow, and nimble too. But she had been running for longer than he, and gradually he gained on her. At last, she stopped for breath, leaning against a house wall, her hand pressed to her side, and he was able to catch her.
She flung round at the touch on her arm, her blue eyes immense with fear and fury. Her foot drew back to kick her assailant in the shin, and was arrested in mid-motion. 'Benedict?' she gasped, and then her eyes flooded with tears and instead of launching an attack, she threw herself into his arms and hugged him tight. 'You're safe! Oh thank God!'
Austin arrived then, his breath whistling in his throat, and his face the hue of an over-ripe raspberry. He was too exhausted to speak and could only glare at the two of them.
Julitta raised her head from Benedict's chest, tears brimming. She bit her lip. Her own breathing was still rapid and uneven. 'I quarrelled -with Mauger — about you as it happens, and he confined me to our lodging house with Austin as my guard. So… so I ran away.'
'Where is Mauger now?'
'At the horse market – I think. Either there, or in a drinking house.'
'And your quarrel was about me?'
'I thought you were in trouble. He said that you were like a cat — always landed on your feet, and that he did not have the time to seek you out just to discover that you were all right.'
Benedict's lips twitched at her summary of Mauger's response, but there was pain in his smile too. 'Like a cat,' he repeated, and shook his head. 'He is right and he is wrong. I have landed on my feet, but not before being first beaten to my knees.'
By now, Austin had recovered enough to stand straight and his complexion was less congested. 'Mistress Julitta, you must return to the lodging house,' he panted.
'Mistress Julitta must do nothing unless it be her will,' Benedict said sharply to the groom.
The man clamped his jaw. His eyes were nervous. 'Lord Mauger will whip me.'