“Surely you’ll feel better by then, madam, if you rest now.” The woman smiled kindly and twitched one of the coverlets straight. “It would never do to miss such a fine occasion as this one, indeed.”
Matilda smiled. “That’s what I’ve been thinking. I feel much better already.” She noticed that the plate was empty and smiled. It was no use pretending that she felt too ill to eat. She tried to compose her face. “Where’s Nell, the lady I brought with me?” she demanded, suddenly remembering. “She should have come to look after me. I want her to arrange some maids. I brought no other attendants.”
The woman concealed a smile. “Your lady, madam, is talking to Sybella, the constable’s wife. I felt you needed food first, attendants later. I’m thinking you’d have waited all day indeed if it had been up to those two.” Without comment she took the plate and cup and put them aside, then bent to pick up the mantle that Matilda had left trailing from the end of the bed.
“Tell me your name.” Matilda was watching closely out of half-shut eyes.
“Megan, madam. My husband is one of Sir William’s stewards.”
“Well, Megan, I want you to see that my clothes chests are brought up here and then later, if I do feel better, will you help me to dress for the feast?”
“Of course I will, gladly indeed.” Megan’s face lit up with pleasure.
“And listen.” Matilda raised herself on an elbow and put her finger to her lips. “We won’t let Sir William know that I might be coming. I don’t want him to forbid me, thinking I am more tired than I am.”
She lay back on her pillows again after Megan had gone, well pleased with the little Welshwoman’s conspiratorial smile of understanding.
Below in the courtyard the morning sounds were reaching a crescendo of excitement and down the winding stairs to the hall she could hear a hubbub of shouting and laughter and the crashing of the boards onto the trestles as the tables were set up. It was hard to lie idle with so much going on about her but she was content to rest for the moment. The time to get up would come later.
She watched as a boy staggered in with a basket of logs and proceeded to light a new fire, and then a man humped in her boxes of clothes. There was still no sign of Nell, but Megan was close on his heels. After throwing back the lids under Matilda’s instructions, she began to pull out the gowns and surcoats, crying out with delight as she fingered the scarlets and greens of silks, fine linens and soft-dyed wools, laying them on the bed one by one.
Matilda looked at each garment critically, considering which she should wear. Ever since she had heard about the feast she had thought about the gold-embroidered surcoat brought to her from London by William for her name day. It had come from the east and smelled of sandalwood and allspice.
“Oh, my lady, you must wear this.” Megan held up her green velvet gown trimmed with silver. “This is perfect for you. It is beautiful, so it is.”
Matilda took it from her and rubbed her face in the soft stuff. “William thinks that green is unlucky,” she said wistfully. She loved that dress and she knew it suited her coloring. It would go well below the gold.
Nell appeared at last, fully recovered from the journey and in high spirits, as Megan was hanging up the last of the gowns in the garderobe. She had brought a message.
“From one of Lord Clare’s knights,” she whispered, full of importance. “He wants to see you in the solar, now, while Sir William is out in the mews with his hawks.”
She helped Megan dress Matilda hastily in a blue wool gown and wrapped her in a thick mantle against the drafts. Then, her finger to her lips, she led the way out of the bedchamber.
Richard was waiting in the deep window embrasure, half hidden behind a screen. He was dressed for traveling.
“Richard?” Matilda stared at him as Nell withdrew.
“I am leaving. Your husband demands it.” He put out his hand toward her, then let it fall. He shrugged. “My men are waiting. I return to Gloucester.”
“No,” she whispered in anguish. “I thought he would change his mind and let you stay…I thought you would be here…”
He reached out and touched her hand. “This is your household, lady,” he said sadly. “This is where you wished to be, at your husband’s side. There is no place for me here. Better I go now.”
“But I thought it would be different—I thought it would be all right.” She looked away from him, her bravery and excitement forgotten. “I had forgotten what he is like.” She put her hands to her face, trying not to cry. “And I have to stay with him for the rest of my life!”
Richard felt the sweat start on the palms of his hands. “You are his wife,” he said harshly. “In God’s eyes you belong to him.”
They stood for a moment in silence. She wanted to cling to him. Firmly she put her hands behind her. “I am carrying his child,” she said at last with an effort. “So he is going to let me stay. Not here, but at Brecknock. He is not going to send me back to Bramber after all.” She gave a faint smile.
Richard stiffened. The pain in his face was hidden in a moment, but she had seen it. She clenched her fists in the folds of her long skirts. “Are you not going to congratulate me on fulfilling my wifely duty?”
He bowed slightly. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I couldn’t…” she whispered. “I couldn’t…”
Outside the wind was rising, funneling down the valley, turning the melted slush back to crisp whiteness. It rattled the shutters and screens and stirred the hay that covered the floors, releasing the smell of stale woodruff, tossing the firesmoke back down into the rooms.
“You said your men were waiting,” she said at last. The words caught in her throat.
“So. God be with you.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. Then he left her. She heard him walk across the room and slowly down the long winding stairs, his sword catching on the stone wall as he went until the sound died away and she was alone.
She sat for a long time on the stone seat in the embrasure, then, stiff with cold, she returned to her room and crept back beneath the covers of the bed.
***
Some time later Megan reappeared. She was bubbling with excitement. Prince Seisyll had arrived with his eldest son, Geoffrey, and his retinue, his harper, and his chief councillors.
“Handsome he is,” Megan reported breathlessly, her eyes sparkling. “A real prince to look at, and tall…”
Matilda dried her eyes, pushed back the covers, and slipped out of bed.
She was standing in the middle of the floor in her shift with Megan braiding her long hair to go beneath her veil when she heard William’s unmistakable step on the stairs. She glanced around wildly, looking for somewhere to hide, not wanting him to see her preparations.
“Quick, madam.” Megan threw a warm dressing gown around her shoulders. “Wait in the garderobe and I’ll tell him you’re busy.” She giggled nervously as Matilda fled for the little archway in the corner of the room.
Standing motionless among the hanging clothes just inside the doorway behind the leather curtain, shivering in the draft from the open closet hole, Matilda held her breath and listened. There was a moment’s silence, and then she heard William’s irritated exclamation as he saw that the bed was empty.
“Your lady will be back in a moment.” Megan’s voice was as firm as ever, Matilda heard, and she imagined Megan gesturing modestly toward the doorway where she was hidden. To her surprise William made no comment. There was a pause as he fumbled with the lid of a coffer, then she heard his loud step as he left the bedchamber and the squeak and clatter of his chain mail as he ran down the spiral stairs again. She emerged to find Megan pulling her gown from beneath a cover on the bed.
“Lucky I thought to hide it, madam, isn’t it?”
“What was my husband wearing, Megan?” Matilda was puzzled. “Surely he wasn’t armed for a feast?” She held up her arms as the other woman slipped the fine green cloth over her head and began to lace it up the back
.
“He was wearing a hauberk, madam, then he took his tunic and mantle from over there”—she indicated the rail on the far side of the room—“and put them on over it. I suppose he can’t bring himself to trust his guest quite, even when by custom our people always leave their arms by the door when they accept a man’s hospitality.” She smiled a little ruefully. “And Prince Seisyll is the Lord Rhys’s brother-in-law, and he’s the ruler of all south Wales and at peace with your King Henry, so there would be no danger and, besides, I’ve always heard that Seisyll is a good man, and chivalrous, with honor better than many at King Henry’s court.” The color rose a little in her cheeks as she spoke.
Matilda smiled and touched her arm gently. “Of course he is, Megan. I expect William is just being careful, that’s all, out of habit.”
She bit her lips hard to bring out the red in them, and lifted a small coffer onto the table to find her jewelry and her rouge. “Are you going to attend at the back of the hall?”
“Oh, yes, indeed, as soon as you’ve gone down. I want to see all the finery and hear the music.” Megan deftly twisted Matilda’s hair up and around her head and helped Nell adjust the veil and the barbette that framed her face.
They were pulling the folds of her surcoat of scarlet and golden thread into place and tying the heavy girdle when they heard the trumpet summons to the banquet from the great hall below. Megan looked up in excitement as the notes rose to the high rafters and echoed around the castle. Matilda met her gaze for a moment, holding her breath, then impatiently she gestured at the woman to go down the stairs and peep at the scene. She wanted to time her entrance exactly.
Nell had secured herself a place at the feast by cajoling the chataleine, and she glanced at Matilda for permission to go as Megan returned, her soft shoes making no sound on the stone.
“They are seated, madam. They have washed their hands and wine has been called for. They’re bringing in the boars’ heads now. You must hurry.” She was breathless with excitement.
Without a word Matilda crossed to the top of the stairs and, taking a deep breath, began to tiptoe down. She was scared now the moment had come, but she refused to let herself think about what would happen if William sent her away in front of everyone. She was too excited to turn back.
At the foot of the stairs she waited, her back pressed against the stone wall, just out of sight of the noisy hall. It was lit with torches and hundreds of candles, although it was full day outside, and a haze of smoky heat was already drifting in the rafters and up the stairs past her toward the cooler upper floors of the tower. The noise was deafening. Cautiously she edged a step or two farther and peered around the corner.
The archway where she stood was slightly behind her husband and his guests at the high table, and in the deep shadow she was satisfied that she would not be seen.
The prince, she could see, was seated at William’s right hand. He was clean shaven and his dark hair was cut in a neat fringe across his eyes. He was finely arrayed in a sweeping yellow cloak and tunic and she could see a ring sparkling on his hand as he raised it for a moment. He had thrown back his head with laughter at some remark from a man on his right.
Then, as she was plucking up the courage to slip from her hiding place and go to his side, William rose to his feet, and she saw him produce a roll of parchment. He knocked on the table for silence with the jeweled handle of his dagger and then, with it still clutched in his hand, looked around at the expectant hall.
Matilda stayed hidden, scanning the crowded tables, trying to recognize faces she knew. There was Ranulph Poer, one of the king’s advisers for the March, with his foxy face and drooping eye, who had visited them on numerous occasions in the summer at Bramber. And there too at the high table was plump, white-haired Philip de Braose, her husband’s uncle, and between them a youth of about fifteen, not much younger than she. That must be the prince’s son, she thought, and as he turned for a moment to lean back in his chair and look at his father she saw his sparkling eyes and flushed face. He is as excited as I am, she realized suddenly, and she envied the boy who was sitting there by right while she had to resort to subterfuge. To her surprise there were no other faces that she recognized. And there were no women at the high table at all, just as William had said. She had expected him to have invited many of the men whom she knew to be neighbors on the Welsh March, but as Walter Bloet had complained, none of them was present.
William was scrutinizing the parchment in his hand as if he had never seen it before. She could see the ugly blue vein in his neck beginning to throb above his high collar. His mail corselet was entirely hidden by his robe.
“My lords, gentlemen,” William began, his voice unnaturally high. “I have asked you here that you may hear a command from the high and mighty King Henry regarding the Welshmen in Gwent.” He paused and, raising his goblet, took a gulp of wine. Matilda could see his hand shaking. The attention of everyone in the hall was fixed on him now, and there was silence, except for some subdued chatter among the servants at the back and the growling of two dogs in anticipation of the shower of scraps that they knew was about to begin. Matilda thought she could see Megan leaning against one of the serving men at the far end of the hall, and briefly she wondered why the woman wasn’t seated at one of the lower tables if her husband was a steward. Nell, she had seen at once, had found herself a place immediately below the dais.
Prince Seisyll had leaned back in his carved chair and was looking up at William beside him, a good-natured smile on his weathered face.
“This is an ordinance concerning the bearing of arms in this territory,” William went on. “The king has decreed that in future this shall no longer be permitted to the Welsh peoples, under…” He broke off as Prince Seisyll sat abruptly upright, slamming his fist on the table.
“What!” he roared. “What does Henry of England dare to decree for Gwent?”
William paused for a moment, looking down at the other man, his face expressionless, and then slowly and deliberately he laid the parchment down on the table, raised the hand that still held his dagger, and brought the glinting blade down directly into the prince’s throat.
Seisyll half rose, grasping feebly at William’s fingers, gurgled horribly, and then collapsed across the table, blood spewing from his mouth over the white linen tablecloth. There was a moment’s total silence and then the hall was in an uproar. From beneath their cloaks William’s followers produced swords and daggers, and as Matilda stood motionless in the doorway, transfixed with horror, they proceeded to cut down the unarmed Welsh. She saw Philip de Braose lift his knife and stab the young prince in the back as the boy rose to try to reach his father, then Philip and Ranulph together left the table and ran for the door, hacking with their swords as they went. William was standing motionless as he watched the slaughter all around him, the blood of his victim spattered all over his sleeve. His face was stony.
Above the screams and yells a weird and somehow more terrible sound echoed suddenly through the vaulted wooden roof of the hall. A man-at-arms had plunged his sword through the heart of the old harper, who, seated with his instrument, had been waiting to serenade his prince’s host. The old man fell forward, clutching wildly at the strings so that they sang in a frightening last chord and then, as he sprawled to the floor, Matilda saw the soldier slice through the strings of the harp, the blade of his sword still drenched with its owner’s blood.
7
Slowly she became aware of the pain in her hands and, looking blindly away for the first time from the terror of the scene in front of her, she stared at them. For a moment she could not focus her eyes at all in the darkness, but then as the flickering torchlight played over the wall where she stood hidden she realized she was clinging to the rough-hewn architrave of the arch as though her life depended on it, and where her nails had clawed at the uneven surface her fingers were bleeding. There were smears of blood on the pale stone—her own blood.
It was the last thing she saw. In
the grip of a numbing horror that mercifully blotted out the sound of the boy’s desperate screams, she began to grope her way along the wall. Her gown and shift were drenched with sweat and she could feel the sour taste of vomit in her mouth as she dragged herself back up the spiral stairs, tripping on her long skirts in her haste to escape to the upper room before she collapsed.
The only sound she could hear was her own breath, coming in tight dry gasps that tore painfully at her ribs and caught in her throat, threatening to choke her and, once, the sob of agony that escaped her as she stumbled on her hem and fell heavily, flinging out her hands to save herself with a jar that seared through her wrists and into her injured fingers.
The bedchamber was deserted. The rushlights had died in a smoky smell of tallow and the only illumination came from the fire. After climbing dazed onto the bed she lay rigid, listening to the pine logs hissing and spluttering as they showered sparks onto the floor, where they glowed for a moment before going out. The distant sound of a shout echoed up the stairs and she turned over convulsively, pulling the covers over her head, trying to blot out the noise. Then all went black at last and she felt herself spinning down into silence.
Sometime later she stirred uneasily in her sleep, still hugging the pillow to her face. She half awakened and lay still, listening. A voice was calling her name in the distance, trying to rouse her and bring her back, calling a name again and again. She listened, half roused. But she resisted. She did not want to wake. She could not face the terror that consciousness would bring.
“Let her sleep. She will wake by herself in the end!”
The words echoed in her head for a moment, so clear they must have been spoken from beside the bed; then, as she turned her face away, they receded once more and she fell back into the dark.
Lady of Hay Page 8