Lady of the English (12 page)

“Yes.” Matilda nodded stiffly. Behind her, the women fussed with the bed, freeing the hangings from their hooks and turning down the covers. Matilda climbed between the sheets, pulled her chemise straight, and accepted a cup of wine from Adeliza.

Was it better to be drunk or sober? she wondered.

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The groom arrived in a rowdy jostle of companions and Matilda began to feel queasy. Geoffrey wore a plain white shirt, the equivalent of her chemise, and was still dressed in his hose and braies with a fur-lined cloak clasped across his breast.

Matilda prayed for him not to remove his clothes because she didn’t want to see his narrow white boy’s body.

Geoffrey’s companions were laughing uproariously and unsteady on their feet. Two of them swung each other around in an impromptu dance, legs flicking, heel and toe. Matilda clenched her jaw, determined to be regal in the face of this adolescent buffoonery. One young man removed the crown of flowers from his head and, dancing over to the bed, set it slantwise on her dark hair. She hesitated, torn between adjusting it to stay, or dragging it off and hurling it across the room. Adeliza leaned to take it from her, the smile on her face now set like stone.

“This is a circus!” Matilda hissed at her. “Are you still going to tell me that it will be all right?”

“All weddings have moments like this,” Adeliza said, a catch in her voice. “You must trust in God. Your husband is sober and that is a good thing.”

Matilda would rather he were dead drunk on the floor.

Her father arrived, his steps unsteady because, unlike his sonin-law, he had imbibed liberally. Geoffrey’s father swayed with him, and the bishop of Le Mans, all three cloaked in an air of well-fed and smug bonhomie. Geoffrey was manhandled to the bed by his cronies and bundled in beside Matilda. He pushed away the more inebriated of his knights with irritation. The guests gathered in a circle round the bed to watch the bishop bless the couple and wish them fruitfulness. Matilda thought of the moss sponge blocking the opening to her womb and felt triumph tinged with nausea. It was a sin, a terrible sin, but if it won her an annulment, it was a price worth paying.

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The blessing performed, the guests left the room, her father and Fulke of Anjou clasping shoulders and laughing like old friends. Adeliza went out with a parting glance of encouragement for Matilda, the smile still patched on to her face. Some of Geoffrey’s friends lingered, too drunk to be aware of etiquette.

Geoffrey left the bed, manhandled them out, and then slammed and bolted the door, ramming home the bar with force. He returned and stood at the foot of the bed and gazed at Matilda.

She took a swallow of wine and for the first time that day, studied him properly.

His hair fell over his brow in a red-gold tumble; a slender youth whose beard was little more than fluff, and whose smooth skin had yet to coarsen with stubble. Yet he had a shine about him and the looks of a fallen angel. A shiver ran through her. She wondered how much of his foolishness just now was bravado in the face of danger, and she did indeed have it within her to be as dangerous as a lioness stalking her prey.

His fine red brows drew together in a scowl. Squaring his shoulders, he came to her side of the bed. He took the cup from her and set it decisively to one side. Then he threw back the covers and pulled her to her feet. “Now,” he said, breathing swiftly, “let me see what I have given my oath for.” He had grown since their betrothal and was taller than her, and his grip was hard and confident. Through her revulsion, Matilda felt a frisson of desire. That he had taken the lead and pulled her out of the bed had surprised and unbalanced her; she had expected him to fumble when the moment came, and be gauche and indecisive. These were not the actions of a boy, but of a man accustomed to getting his own way.

Geoffrey unfastened the ties of her chemise and pulled the garment over her head. He looked her up and down with leisurely thoroughness before reaching out to fondle her breasts. Her nipples had stiffened in the cold and his hand was 88

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soft-skinned but firm with intent. “Your father wants a young stallion to prove his worth at stud,” he said huskily. “I thought you’d be a hag, but you’re not. It’s going to be a pleasure to do my duty.” His hand trailed down her body to her pubic hair. “I am adept at hunting through forests and finding hidden streams.”

Matilda swallowed. She wanted to strike him aside, and at the same time she was aroused. Whatever he was or was not, this boy-husband of hers had a powerful physical charisma.

“I am going to get you with child. That’s what you want, isn’t it? That’s what you and your father need?”

She gave him an icy stare. “Do what you must and let us be finished.”

He pushed her back against the wall and began kissing her, and she felt his hardness through the fine linen of his braies, and in that too he was most definitely a man. Plainly he was already experienced, because he was not awkward. She had thought to be able to disconnect from the event, but found herself responding and becoming involved, and while it was distasteful, there was pleasure too. She closed her eyes and made her mind a blank. She would think about it all later. His body was sinuous and smooth, but it was masculine too. The youth. The man. Desire wound through her veins like a drug. He pressed her against the wall, his hips grinding, and then he swung her round and pushed her on to the bed. His mouth covered hers and his lips and tongue were fierce. He dragged off his shirt and pulled down his hose and braies, impatient now. Matilda kept her eyes shut because she did not want to see that part of him.

Geoffrey was swiftly inside her, but there was no pain because her body was moist and ready. He had indeed found the hidden stream. He held himself over her and Matilda clenched her fists as he thrust back and forth. He took her parted legs and rested them on his shoulders and heaved into her, and she felt a growing pressure deep within her loins. She 89

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wanted him to finish and let her escape, and at the same time she needed him to continue and throw her off the edge of the precipice into oblivion. But Geoffrey ceased moving and lifted his chest and shoulders off the bed and suspended her there for a long, long moment. Their eyes met and held and it was like enemies facing each other on a battlefield. And then he let go with a curse of pleasure and a final thrust while Matilda stiffened as a tide of sensation rippled over her, wave upon wave of surge and release.

Geoffrey withdrew from her and rolled over on to his back.

“For all that you look at me as if you hate me, you didn’t hate me then, did you?” he smirked, pillowing his arms behind his head, revealing tufts of ruddy-gold hair. “In fact I think you liked it a lot.”

Matilda said nothing. There was a bitter taste at the back of her throat.

“He was an older man, your first husband,” Geoffrey continued. “I intend to be more vigorous in your bed than he was.”

“You know nothing of my first husband,” she said, feeling sick. “He was a great man.” She puts emphasis on the final two words.

“I do know that he is dead.” He gave her a sidelong glance from his beautiful eyes. “You are mine now. I know you think of me as a nothing and I know your father thinks of me as little more than a strutting Angevin cockerel to tread his hen, but I am Count of Anjou and my father is to be the king of Jerusalem—and I have time to build my own empires.”

“But you will never be a king, even when I become Queen,”

Matilda retorted. “And you will never be an emperor either.”

Geoffrey rolled on to his stomach and faced her. “It matters little in the scheme of things whether I have gold at my brow or not, although I see the store you set by it, madam. What 90

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matters is power. You may call yourself an empress and one day you may be a queen, but here, in this household, I am your lord and master, and I command your obedience. If I order you to kneel at my feet, then you kneel.”

Revulsion surged through her. “And you would think yourself all powerful for such a petty ability…my lord?”

He clenched his fist and then grazed it gently against her jaw in a caress that nevertheless threatened violence. “Yes,” he said.

“I would.”

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Eleven

Rouen, August 1128

W ill D’Albini was enjoying himself. A select number of courtiers had joined the king in his private chamber for a few hours of socialising and mirth. Will always enjoyed these occasions and took a childlike delight in the singing and stories.

He had a good ear for a tune and as well as possessing a rich singing voice, he could play most instruments, both the stringed and the woodwind, and his talents were always in demand.

The king was nodding his head and tapping his feet as Adeliza told a story to the gathered audience, including several children from the royal household. “Far across the sea there was a lady who lived in a tall tower and many knights sought her hand in marriage…” Adeliza made the motion of the waves with undulations of her hands and forearms, and then stretched up to describe a tall tower. Will avidly watched her graceful movements. Her gauzy veil was neatly held in place with small gold pins, and two of ivory shape like little mice. Her eyes shone like a silky sea on an autumn morning. A small pain tugged at Will’s heart, but it was a good pain. The queen was so far above him that he could dream from a distance and not be in danger. The night sky was beautiful, but you couldn’t touch it.

Since the empress had gone to her marriage, everything had settled into its normal routine. There were still some rough LadyofEnglish.indd 92

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edges as folk waited for news that she was with child, but it was only two months since the wedding, and too soon to know.

Will had never been comfortable in the empress’s presence. She gave him the impression of being as cold and hard as a beautiful gemstone—and a little mannish in her attitudes. He admired her, but he did not particularly like her.

“All of the knights brought the lady rich and costly gifts, silk and fur, perfumes and jewels and gold.” Adeliza’s fingers wove the story, and as she raised her arms, the gold thread in her sleeves twinkled. William smiled to see the children’s rapt faces. Innocence was a fine thing to possess and so easily lost.

Adeliza still had that air of untouched purity despite having being wed to a political merchant and cynic like Henry for seven years.

Henry chuckled as Adeliza pirouetted, waved her arms, and pretended to be a storm at sea as the hero of the tale battled his way towards his destiny with the lady. Adeliza made all the children sit in a row and pretend to be oarsmen on the ship.

“You too, Will,” she said, beckoning briskly, laughter in her face. “Come out of your corner and take the steerboard!”

There was no escape. Grinning, flushed with embarrassment, Will joined the youngsters and took up his appointed role. It would have been awkward to refuse and, anyway, he liked children and once he began performing, he forgot himself in the drama. Taking the part of steersman to heart, he shouted orders to the rest of the “crew,” improvising as they battled storms and sea monsters, until the audience was helpless with laughter.

Once the boat had been rowed safely to shore, Adeliza led the applause and allowed William to stand and flourish a bow, his dark curls tumbling over his face. Adeliza paused to refresh her voice with a cup of wine, and one of Henry’s bastard sons, Reginald, took up the tale.

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Adeliza set her arm lightly on Will’s. “Who would have thought what a fine and trusty sailor you are!” she said with a gentle laugh.

He cleared his throat. “Madam, I do my best on stormy seas,” he answered gruffly.

“I knew you would win through.” She squeezed his arm to end the moment. An instant later, her smile faded as a mud-spattered messenger was ushered into Henry’s presence by Gilbert the marshal. As he drew closer, the stink of sweaty man and hot horse filled the air with a pungent note of urgency.

The story stopped in its tracks, and everyone stared as the messenger knelt by the king’s chair. The hair rose on the back of Will’s neck.

The man knelt and extended a sealed letter to Henry. “Sire, I bring tidings from Flanders. William le Clito is dead.”

Henry took the letter and stared at it. “Speak on,” he said.

“Sire, he was injured in the hand during a skirmish with a foot soldier while besieging Aalst. The wound festered and he died of a fever; there is nothing more to say.”

Adeliza bowed her head. “God rest his soul.”

Henry slit the seal on the letter, his expression sombre, despite the fact that William le Clito had been such a thorn in his side. “He was my nephew,” he said. “This grieves me deeply. I will have masses said for his soul.”

Adeliza held out her hand to Henry. “Sire, his father should be told.”

Will admired her courage in speaking out. She was treading dangerous ground by mentioning Henry’s older brother Robert, who had been a prisoner for more than twenty years at Henry’s behest and was currently locked up in Cardiff Castle.

“I commend your gentle heart.” Henry sent Adeliza a flat look. “I will write to him.” He flicked his hand at the messenger. “Find a fresh horse and be ready to ride.”

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“Sire.” The messenger bowed from the chamber.

Henry’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “A new count of Flanders will have to be chosen now.”

“What happens next in the story?” an impatient little boy piped up from among the group of children, and was hastily shushed by his nurse.