Lady of the English (28 page)

Will’s wound made him feverish, and after an attempt to ride Forcilez split some of the stitches and renewed the bleeding, he was confined to the camp while he healed and could only watch as Stephen’s force fractured and shattered like a wave destroyed on a rock. The assault on Lisieux was postponed and then abandoned.

On the first day that Will was properly able to leave his bed, Geoffrey of Anjou, the devil himself, rode into camp under a banner of truce and the game took a new turn.

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Twenty-five

Argentan, June 1137

B rimming with restless energy, Geoffrey paced Matilda’s chamber at Argentan, a cup of wine in his hand. Matilda eyed him warily because he seemed very pleased with himself, and she did not trust him. He had but recently arrived and thus far had said nothing, preferring to greet his sons and busy himself with the domestic trivia of returning home.

“What have you done?” she demanded.

He paused and turned. He still walked with a slight limp, courtesy of the spear injury to his foot at Le Sap. “I suppose I should anticipate no other form of greeting from my loving wife.”

“Perhaps because I expect you still to be in the field. Unless you are here to tell me you have won a great victory over Stephen and driven him all the way back to Wissant?”

Geoffrey shrugged. “In a manner of speaking I have.”

A servant arrived bearing soft white towels and a bowl filled with steaming water and rose petals. Having set them down, he bowed from the room at a flick from Matilda’s fingers.

Geoffrey sat on a padded stool near the fire and extended his boots to her.

“Meaning?” Kneeling, she eased the boots from his feet. The supple calfhide was well waxed and the stitches so close-fitting that they were invisible. It was the duty of a wife to wash her LadyofEnglish.indd 217

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husband’s feet when he returned from battle campaign or came to her chamber after a day in the field, but she hated having to perform the task for Geoffrey, who was plainly enjoying her discomfort. “I would have thought you would send messengers had you accomplished such a thing.”

“Why, when I can come to Argentan, visit you and my sons, and tell you myself? That is killing three birds with one stone, which is what I have done with Stephen.” His voice sharpened as she removed the boot from the foot that had suffered the spear injury. “Careful.”

“Don’t fuss.” She gave him a look that was cold on the surface and fire beneath. It was a long time since they had shared a bed, and he still held that attraction for her. She wanted to claw his back and see the red beads well upon his shoulder blades like rubies. His expression mirrored hers.

Hastily she concentrated on the task of removing his stockings and leg bindings and soaking his feet in the water. The sole of his left foot bore a livid scar and was slightly swollen because he had had his foot in the stirrup for most of the day. His right one, high-arched and pale as alabaster, might have belonged to an angel.

“Stephen has gone,” he said. “Sent the troops to their homes and headed back to England. His campaign is over, perhaps even finished.”

Matilda ceased her task and looked up at him, frowning.

“Why are you not in pursuit?”

He gave a satisfied smile. “Because he has paid me not to do so to the tune of two thousand marks a year for the next three years.”

Anger flashed through her like a sheet of fire. “You have arranged a truce for three years without my say-so?”

Geoffrey shot her a look. “Do not take that tone with me, wife. I know what I am about.”

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“That is not the point. The point is that you did not seek my counsel!”

He rolled his eyes with exasperation. “There was not time, and you are as stubborn as a mule and have no idea how to negotiate, even when negotiation would be to your own advantage.”

She thrust the towel into his hands, indicating that she was done with serving him, duty or not. “But still it is mine to do,”

she snapped. “So what are you about, my lord husband? Grant me the fount of your deep wisdom.”

“God on the Cross, woman, you could curdle fresh milk with your looks. If you will cease your haughtiness and unstopper your ears, I will tell you.”

She made no move to pick up the towel and he had to lean over to dry his own feet.

“I am listening,” she said.

“But will you hear?” He threw the towel aside. “Stephen cannot control his troops. The Normans might hate me, but they do not like him either, and he has done nothing to appease them. Instead he has ridden over them roughshod with his Flemings. He has allowed the quarrels between his troops to become wide rifts and he can no longer trust the Normans to serve him in the field. Since the attack on your brother by D’Ypres’s men, the Normans do not trust Stephen. I have spoken to Robert, and I have letters from him to you in my baggage that you will find interesting. Your brother’s flirtation with Stephen has run its course. By next campaigning season, Caen will be ours.” He raised one golden eyebrow at her.

“Stephen thinks he can buy his way out of trouble, but we can use that money to buy equipment, and men.” A scornful smile crossed his face. “He has financed his own downfall.”

It was all very clever, like a garment cut and stitched from perfectly fitting geometric pieces. She could not fault Geoffrey’s reasoning, even if it galled her to see him so smug. “My father 219

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built up his wealth carefully for the good of all,” she said, “and now Stephen squanders it, as if it is a never-ending resource.

He just lets it trickle away through his fingers.”

“Well, at least he is pouring it in our direction. We have two thousand marks. Your brother is on the verge of changing his allegiance and Stephen’s army has broken up and turned for home. By next year, he will have even less money in his coffers to pay the hangers on, while we will be more prepared and stronger still. A truce is only a truce while both parties keep to it.” He stood up, barefoot, and stroked his forefinger down her cheek. “The day is coming. Stephen doesn’t know it yet, but then the only time he was swift on the uptake was when he stole your inheritance, and even that was the doing of others.”

He circled his arm around her waist and drew her against his body. “I have been a long time in the field,” he said. “Have you missed me?”

She followed him to the bed, step by step. She was eager to read what Robert had written, but if the truce was a fait accompli, there was no immediate hurry. “Like a pulled tooth.”

He laughed darkly. “My love, you are a constant joy.”

She flashed him a look full of challenge and desire. “Liar,”

she said. Physical appetite was something she could control and ignore unless he was with her. When they were together, it was like a firesteel striking sparks on dry tinder, but without that proximity, there was nothing. It wasn’t love, but it was need, and it was mutual.

“No more than you,” he answered, and pulled her down with him.

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Twenty-six

Fugglestone, Berkshire, Spring 1138

A deliza watched the gravediggers shovel earth over the coffin of the young woman who had died in the leper hospital the previous evening. Her name was Godif and her father had been one of Henry’s minor chamber servants.

Adeliza had prayed, given alms, and paid for masses to be said.

Standing now by the grave with the nuns and others of Godif’s community, she shivered despite her fur-lined cloak. Life was so short, and filled with suffering. Godif had been a gentle, sweet creature, never complaining about her pain and the vile indignities that the disease visited upon her body. She was in a better place now; she had to be. Adeliza rubbed her arms and tears pricked her eyes. For poor Godif; for herself.

When the grave had been filled in, Adeliza returned to the nunnery. Since arriving more than two years ago, she had moved into a purpose-built small lodge. The nuns called it

“the queen’s hall” and she had not discouraged them. Part of her pain at losing Henry had been the loss of her rank and influence as Stephen’s queen took over her role. Stephen had removed the patronage of Waltham Abbey from her and given it to his wife, and Adeliza was deeply hurt because Waltham, like Wilton, was personal to her, but Stephen had claimed it, saying it was the prerogative of a reigning queen.

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Adeliza still had the wealth of Arundel and the income from Shrewsbury, but no longer was it her task and privilege to sit in state at official crown-wearings, and she was not encouraged to visit the court. Not that she had any desire to do so because everything had changed since Henry died. All that formidable power was gone and without a controlling hand on the reins the different factions were free to foment suspicion and unrest.

All Henry had worked for was being torn down and replaced by something less robust and true. Wealth poured out of the treasury like blood from an opened vein and no one was doing anything to stanch it. Instead they were queuing to drink their fill. Waleran de Meulan strutted the corridors of the court like a beady-eyed cockerel. Henry of Winchester paraded as if he were already the archbishop of Canterbury. Hugh Bigod was swollen with false importance, waiting for Stephen to pour out yet more largesse and grant him an earldom, always dropping unsubtle reminders that he had been the recipient of the old king’s last words, where he absolved everyone of their oaths to Matilda.

A cheerful fire burned in the hearth of her hall and Melisande, her kinswoman and attendant, had arranged a jug of spring flowers on the bench near the window. A pleasant background smell of incense filled the air, mingling with the aroma of warm bread from a basket of small loaves. Adeliza gave her cloak to her other lady, Juliana, and smoothed her dress. She felt relieved to be back in her quarters and, at the same time, a little guilty and unsettled. Here, life was safe and comfortable and enclosed, but it felt like an indulgent bolt hole sometimes.

She turned to the jug of flowers and lightly touched the petals.

“Madam, you have a visitor,” Rothard her chamberlain announced from the doorway. “Messire William D’Albini is in the guest chamber.”

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not seen him since Henry’s funeral and could not imagine what he was doing here. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“No, madam, save to pay his respects.”

“Then by all means admit him.”

Rothard departed. Feeling flustered and curious, Adeliza directed Juliana to fetch the silver goblets from the small sideboard. Melisande plumped the cushions on the hearth bench and put a new log on the fire.

When Will D’Albini entered the room, his vigour seemed to fill it with such robust masculine virility that it took Adeliza’s breath, because she had grown accustomed to a life among nuns.

“Madam, my Queen.” Removing his hat, he knelt at her feet and bowed his head. His hair was as she remembered: a tumble of dark, glossy curls, thick and strong.

“That is no longer my title,” she said, gesturing him to rise,

“but I thank you for it nevertheless; it was gallantly spoken.”

He rose to his feet. “Madam, you will always be a queen to me.”

Adeliza stepped back a little so that she would not have to crane her neck. The light streaming through the window emphasised the tawny colour of his eyes, and picked up the green flecking around the pupils. It also revealed that he was red to the tips of his ears. “Please, sit,” she said, and gestured to the bench. “Will you take wine?”

He gave an awkward smile as he sat down. “I should be pouring yours.”

“Not at all. You and your father might have been the king’s wine stewards, but you are my guest and it is kind of you to visit.” She gave him the larger of the two silver cups, but his broad hand still dwarfed it. “What brings you to Wilton?”

His flush intensified. “I was in Winchester with the king, and Wilton was not far. One of my family’s serjeants recently died a leper, and I wanted to give alms to a lazar house. I intend founding a leper hospital of my own and I wanted to ask your advice.”

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“Indeed?” She was warmed and flattered by his attention.

“I would need to know the size of the foundation you were thinking of building and whether you want to house men and women both.”

They spoke for a while on the specifics of what he wanted to do, and Adeliza found herself enjoying the conversation. It was a subject she could discuss with expertise and authority and she was flattered he had thought to come to her rather than seek the wisdom of clerics and priests. On their second cup of wine, she told him as much.

He fidgeted with his cup. “I wanted a gentle opinion,” he said,

“one I could trust, and I wanted to see how you were faring.”

“That is kind of you,” she replied. “As you can see, I am well. I have everything I need, and I am content to do my duty to God.”

He looked at her sidelong. “But you do not take the vows of a nun?”

“I am not worthy.” She looked down. “I am waiting for a sign from God to show me what He wants.” She put her cup to one side, aware that in a moment she would be in tears and that she had drunk too much and said more than she should.

“Will you stay to dine?”

He shook his head and eased to his feet. “I will not trouble you further today. I can see I have tired you.”

“Not at all,” she said quickly. “I am just a little saddened, that is all.”

He hesitated. “I am sorry if I have brought you to that sadness.”