Lady of the English (2 page)

Henry kissed her shoulder and squeezed her breast before parting the curtains and leaving the bed. She watched him scratch the curly silver hair on his broad chest. His stocky frame carried a slight paunch, but he was muscular and in proportion.

Stretching, he made a sound like a contented lion. Their union, she thought, even if it brought forth no other fruit, had released his tension. His sexual appetite was prodigious and in between bedding her, he regularly sported with other women.

He poured himself wine from the flagon set on a painted coffer under the window, and on his return picked up his cloak and swept it around his shoulders. Silver and blue squirrel furs gleamed in the candlelight. Adeliza sat up and folded her hands around her knees. The soreness between her thighs diminished to a dull throb. He offered her a drink from the cup and she took a dainty sip. “Matilda will be arriving soon,” he said.

“Brian FitzCount is due to meet her tomorrow on the road.”

Adeliza could tell from his expression that his thoughts had turned inwards to the weaving of his political web. “All is ready for her,” she replied. “The servants are keeping a good fire in her chamber to make it warm and chase out the damp. I have instructed them to burn incense and put out bowls of rose petals to sweeten the air. They hung new tapestries on the walls this afternoon and the furniture is all assembled. I…”

Henry raised his hand to silence her. “I am sure her chamber will be perfect.”

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Adeliza flushed and looked down.

“I think you will be good company for each other, being of a similar age.” Henry gave her a slightly condescending smile.

“It will be strange to call her daughter when she is older than me.”

“I am sure you will both quickly grow accustomed.” He was still smiling, but Adeliza could tell his attention lay elsewhere.

Henry’s conversations were never just idle gossip; there was always a purpose. “I want you to cultivate her. She has been a long time absent, and I need to consider her future. Some matters are rightly for the council chamber and for father and daughter, but some things are better discussed between women.” He stroked the side of her face with a powerful, stubby hand. “You have a skill with people; they open themselves to you.”

Adeliza frowned. “You want me to draw confidences from her?”

“I would know her mind. I have seen her once in fifteen years, and then but for a few days. Her letters give me news, but they are couched in the language of scribes and I would know her true character.” A hard glint entered his eyes. “I would know if she is strong enough.”

“Strong enough for what?”

“For what I have in mind for her.” He turned away to pace the chamber, picking up a scroll and setting it down, fiddling with a jewelled staff, turning it end over end. Watching him, Adeliza thought that he was like one of the jugglers he employed to entertain his courtiers, keeping the balls all rotating in the air, knowing where each one was and what to do with it, adapting swiftly as a new one was tossed into the rotation, discarding another when he had no more need of it. Lacking a legitimate son, he had to look to the succession. He was grooming his nephew Stephen as a possible successor, but now Matilda was 6

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a widow and free to come home and make a new marriage, the game had changed again. To think of making Matilda heir to England and Normandy was beyond audacious. The notion of a woman ruler would make even the most liberal of his barons choke on his wine. Adeliza’s brows drew together.

Her husband often gambled, but he was never rash and he was accustomed to imposing his iron will on everyone.

“She is young and healthy,” he said. “And she has borne a child, even if it did not survive the birthing. She will make another marriage and bear more sons if God is merciful.”

A pang went through Adeliza. If God was merciful, she herself would bear sons, but she understood his need to pursue other avenues. “Do you have anyone in mind?”

“Several candidates,” he replied in an offhand tone. “You need not trouble yourself on that score.”

“But when the time comes, you expect me to smooth the path.”

Henry climbed back into bed and pulled the covers over them both. He kissed her again, with a hard mouth. “It is a queen’s duty, prerogative, and privilege to be a peacemaker,”

he replied. “I do not think for one moment you will fail me.”

“I won’t,” Adeliza said. As he pinched out the bedside candle, she set her hand between her thighs and felt the slipperiness of his seed, and prayed that this time she would succeed.

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Two

The Road to Rouen, Normandy, Autumn 1125

A wet unpleasant morning had cleared to the east as Matilda’s entourage wound its way through the forests of the Beauvais towards the great city of Rouen, heart of Normandy on the banks of the Seine. Now, with barely an hour till sunset, the blue sky was welcome, but the wind had picked up and was blustering hard. Tonight they were making camp by the roadside. They should have been met at noon by a party from Rouen led by one of her father’s barons, Brian FitzCount, but thus far there was no sign of it, and Matilda was growing annoyed and impatient. Her mare was lame on her offside hind leg and she was having to ride pillion on Drogo’s crupper as if she were a woman of his household, rather than his liege lady. Her knights and attendants were giving her a wide berth. Drogo’s placatory remark that by tomorrow night they would be in Rouen with every comfort had not improved her mood; she was accustomed to precision and smooth order.

A gust of wind struck her side-on and she had to grab Drogo’s belt. “I refuse to ride into Rouen like this,” she hissed.

“Domina, if it comes to the worst, I will give you this horse and saddle up my remount, but there is no point doing so for what is left of the daylight.” He spoke with the pragmatic calm of one long accustomed to her demands.

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She eyed the melted gold of the westering sun and knew he was right; there was no point, but it made her angry. Why couldn’t people keep their promises?

Suddenly the knight drew rein and the jolt threw her against his spine. “My apologies, domina,” he said. “It appears our escort is here.”

Peering round him, Matilda saw a troop approaching at a steady trot. “Help me down,” she commanded.

Drogo dismounted and swiftly assisted her to do the same.

She shook out her gown, adjusted her cloak, and stood erect.

The wind snatched at her veil, but fortunately it was well pinned to her undercap. She had to lock her legs to keep her balance.

The oncoming troop splashed to a muddy halt. Their leader flung down from the saddle of a handsome black stallion and, removing his hat, dropped to one knee before her.

“You are late,” she said icily. “We have been looking for you since noon.”

“Domina, I am deeply sorry. We would have been here sooner, but one of the cartwheels broke, and there was a fallen tree across our path. The wind has made everything more difficult and slowed our pace.”

She was cold, tired, and in no mood for excuses. “Get up,”

she said with a brusque gesture.

He rose to his feet and his legs were so long that they seemed to unfold forever. They were encased in fine leather riding boots laced with red cords. His black hair swirled about his face and his eyes were a deep, peat-pool brown.

His mouth had a natural upward curve that made him look as if he were smiling, even though his demeanour was serious.

“Domina, I am Brian, son of Count Alan of Brittany, and lord of Wallingford Castle. I do not expect you to remember me. The last time we were in each other’s presence, you were witnessing one of your father’s charters in Nottingham before 9

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you went to Germany and I had not long entered your father’s household as a squire.”

“That was a long time ago,” she said, still annoyed.

“Indeed, domina.” He gestured over his shoulder at the men of his troop, who had also dismounted and were kneeling. “We have brought a fine pavilion and provisions. It will not take us long to make camp.”

“It will take you even less time if you tell those men of yours to get up off their knees and start work,” she said tartly. “My own will help if you have need.”

His expression impassive, he bowed and went to give brisk orders. A host of workmen and serjeants began unpacking sections of a large, circular, red and blue tent from a two-wheeled cart. The outer canvas was stamped with golden lions. There was a pale silk inner lining and rich woollen hangings set on curved rods for the interior. The wind billowed the canvas like the sail of a ship in a storm. Matilda watched the men struggle with their burden and mentally shook her head. Had she not been so tired and cross, she would have burst out laughing.

One of Brian’s company, a wide-shouldered young man, was examining her mare, running his hand down her lame foreleg and soothing her with soft talk. When he saw Matilda watching, he bowed and said, “She needs rest and a warm bran poultice on that knee, domina. There is nothing wrong with her beyond the strain of the road.” He gently scratched the mare’s neck.

He was not a groom, for his cloak was fur-lined and his tunic embroidered. His open features were raised above the average by striking hazel-gold eyes. “Were you at Nottingham with my lord FitzCount too?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No, domina, but my father would have been. He is William D’Albini, lord of Buckenham in Norfolk and one of your father’s stewards.”

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“I do not recall him,” she said, “but I know of your family.”

Obviously he was a spare young blood at court, sent out with FitzCount on escort duty. “Your own name?”

“Domina, it is William, the same as my father.”

“Well then, William D’Albini, you seem to know about horses.”

He gave her a wide smile, exposing fine, strong teeth. “Well enough, domina.” He rubbed the mare’s soft muzzle with a large, gentle hand.

“I hope my lord FitzCount has a spare mount.”

“I am sure he does, domina.”

Matilda was not so certain. Sounds of a heated exchange flashed across to them. Someone had mislaid the tent pegs and everyone was blaming everyone else. “This would not have happened at my husband’s court,” she said with displeasure.

D’Albini gave an equable shrug. “There are difficult days when whatever you do, you suffer mishaps; today is one such.”

Clucking his tongue to the mare, he led her away to tether her with the other horses.

The tent pegs turned up in a different pannier to the expected one and, following more bad-tempered oaths, were driven into the ground and the canvas secured. Brian FitzCount directed operations, now and then scraping his hands through his hair, looking increasingly embarrassed and exasperated.

Gradually, however, order emerged out of chaos and Matilda was able to enter the tent and at least be out of the wind, even if the canvas sides flapped like wings striving to lift the structure into the air. Her women set about making her bed, layering several mattresses on to the strung frame and topping them with clean sheets and soft blankets. A manservant hooked a partition across the middle of the tent and someone else fetched a chair with a quilted cushion. A bench and a small table arrived.

Matilda remained standing, arms folded.

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Brian FitzCount entered the tent followed by servants bearing a flagon and cups, loaves of bread, and assorted cheeses and smoked meats. “The men are making a windbreak,” he said. “At least it isn’t raining.”

“No,” she agreed, thinking that rain would have been the final seasoning. She sat down on the chair. The servants spread the table with an embroidered cloth and brought food and drink. Before she could change her mind, she indicated that Brian should join her. News of the court in advance of her arrival there would be useful.

He hesitated, went to the tent entrance to bellow more instructions, then dropped the flap and returned to serve her himself. She studied his long fingers as he poured wine into silver cups. An emerald ring glinted, and another of plaited gold. His hands were clean, the nails clipped short, but they were ink-stained, as if he were a common clerk. She tried to remember him from her childhood, but found no trace. It had been too long ago and he would have been just another youth at court.

“My father is well?” She took her first sip and felt it warm its way to her stomach.

“Indeed, domina, and eager to see you, even if the circumstances are sad.”

“I have seen him but once since I was a little girl,” she said shortly. “I know why he is pleased to welcome me home.”

Silence fell between them. She decided that the windbreak must have been successfully erected, because there were fewer flurries at the sides of the tent. She broke bread and ate it with a slice of smoked venison, gesturing him to eat too.

“Would you rather have stayed in Germany?”

The directness of his question took her by surprise; she had expected him to continue being the deferential courtier. “It was my duty to return at my father’s bidding. What would 12

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have been left for me there without my husband? His successor has his own affiliations. I would either have had to marry into them, which would not suit my father’s policies, or retire to a nunnery and live out my days in service to God.”

“That is a worthy thing to do.”

“But I am not yet ready to renounce the world.” She gave him a shrewd look. “Has my father spoken to you of his plans for my future?”

He returned her stare. “He only speaks in general terms and even if I did know his heart in the matter, it would not be for me to say. You must be aware of some of his intent yourself, domina. If he did not have plans for you, then you would still be in Speyer.”