Lady of the English (54 page)

She made her way to the chapel to kneel in a holy place that had not been defiled by war and pray for the nunnery. The warm colours and the soft light in the darkness comforted her.

She counted her prayer beads through her fingers and asked God for strength and guidance.

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She was still kneeling when she heard a soft footfall. A moment later, Will eased himself down at her side and crossed his breast. An herbal scent of bathwater wafted across the space between them and his hair was a tangle of short damp curls.

The space between them was stiff with silent emotion as they each rendered their devotion to God.

Eventually Will raised his head and picked up the wooden horse that Wilkin had left on the altar step. It was the figure of Forcilez he had whittled when on campaign with Stephen several years ago.

“What’s this, an offering?”

The toy served to break the silence between them. “I expect it is,” she said. “I was teaching our son to honour all God’s creatures and all God’s people, whatever their station in life.”

He turned the piece over in his big hands.

“He was praying this morning for your return.”

Will eased painfully to his feet. “Well, he got his wish.” He took her hand in his free one. “I have always tried to do my best and be honourable. I freely acknowledge I make mistakes, but I have never acted out of false intent or malice.”

She looked at him. The cut on his cheek was an angry red stripe and his breathing was shallow. His gaze beseeched her for clemency. “I do not doubt your honour, or your intention,”

she said, “but when I think of what has been done to Wilton by men on both sides of the divide, who hold their own honour on high as an example to all, then I despair.”

He screwed up his face. “There is nothing I can do to restore Wilton to what it was or change the past, but I swear to you, and to God, that those who wish it may take shelter at Arundel, or Rising, or Buckenham. I will see to the building of the shelters and hostels, if you will see to the people.” He made the sign of the Cross. “At least I can offer refuges and new homes on lands that are unlikely to be attacked.” He set his arm around 428

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her, still clutching their son’s wooden image of Forcilez. “Do not turn against me,” he muttered against the top of her head, and she heard his voice choke. “I could not bear strife at the heart of my home. You are my only sanctuary.”

She drew her head back to look at him and even as earlier she had seen the man inside her eldest son, now she saw the child inside his father, seeking comfort and reassurance, and felt the shard in her heart slip and dissolve, even though there was a scar where it had been. “Come,” she said. “It is late and dark and the only sanctuary we should be in other than a church is that of our bed. Let all else wait until the morning.”

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Forty-nine

Devizes, Christmas 1143

The deep of winter was a time to stay indoors by the hearth and play chess. Matilda sat over a board with Henry in her chamber at Devizes and watched his gaze dart in swift thought before he picked up the chunky ivory bishop and moved him two spaces. Then he smiled at her. He was not yet eleven years old, but already he understood the complexities of the game and was offended if anyone suggested he play the simpler popular chance version of dice-chess.

She sought to work out the trap she knew he was planning.

Think ahead. Always think ahead. His tutoring at Bristol under Master Adelard was intensive and all bent towards moulding him into a king capable of ruling England and Normandy as her father had done. She had come to the bitter but inevitable realisation she would never be queen of England, no matter what men had sworn to her, because, in the end, it was beyond their capabilities to follow a woman. But a woman could still rule and advise from behind a throne. She moved her queen to block Henry’s bishop. That would give him food for thought.

Strange how queens had so much power in chess, yet kings had none.

The year had been one of advances and retreats, successes and failures. Her resources were thin on the ground but at LadyofEnglish.indd 430

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least she knew the core of men around her were dedicated and unlikely to desert. Her cause had been aided by the death of Pope Innocent in September, which meant that the bishop of Winchester no longer held the position of legate. And with a new, more sympathetic pope, the way was open for fresh negotiations on the matter of who had the right to England’s crown.

Henry had spent longer this time pondering the board, his eyes narrow and his hand cupping his chin. She was pleased with his progress. When he had come from his father, he had had difficulty in sitting still for even a moment, but these days he could focus if he was given a task that demanded concentra-tion and thought—for the time it took, at least.

He made his move, sweeping decisively down the flank with his rook, and expending some of his cooped-up energy.

Matilda made her own reply swiftly. Henry had obviously anticipated what she would do, for he immediately struck with his knight, his grey eyes shining. Once again, she saw the trap, but it was now double-edged and she was only a few moves away from defeat whatever she did.

“Oh, very clever,” she laughed. “I concede you the victory—

but you had to think hard, didn’t you?”

Henry grinned. “Yes, but I like thinking,” he said, “and I like winning.”

“Indeed!” The competitive urge in her son was as bright as his hair, and had been deliberately fostered, together with the ability to focus on the goal while keeping an eye on peripheral dangers. “But you must learn to weather the times you do not win and be prepared to endure.”

“Papa says that too.”

“Well, your papa is wise,” she said neutrally. Rising from the board she went to look out of the window on the stark winter landscape. She often had occasion to deal with Geoffrey through formal letters and discussions about their sons and 431

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the state of Normandy, but she no longer felt any emotional attachment, and the long separation had weaned her off the corrosive but compelling physical desire she had felt for him.

And with the waning of that dark need, other volatile feelings had died. She no longer hated him; she could be detached and impartial, because he meant nothing to her beyond the need for his soldierly qualities and his diplomatic skills. She saw him every day in Henry, but more strongly still did she see the royal blood of Normandy and England. Henry was the son of an empress and the grandson of a great king. Beside that, the blood of his father was a thing of no consequence—in that, at least, her father had been right.

Henry left the chessboard and came to stand at her side, stepping up to the embrasure so that he could see out of the open window and sniff the cold, damp air.

“One day all of this will be yours.” She set her arm around his narrow shoulders. “You must rule it wisely, like your namesake, your grandfather and his father before him, who was brought here by God. God has ordained that you should rule this country in honesty and humility, tending always to its needs and administering with justice. That is a big lesson to learn and a great responsibility.”

“I know, Mother.” He jutted his jaw. “I will govern as king, and I will do it until I die and nothing will hold me back.” The earnest tone of his voice made her look at him fondly and smile and ruffle his hair because he was a child, and yet he spoke like a man and she was proud of him.

“I mean it,” he said with intensity.

She gave him an assessing look and pursed her lips. A feeling of recognition settled in her stomach. She knew how he felt because she felt that way too, and it was as if the spark had passed one to the other.

She turned at a sudden touch on her arm, and faced her 432

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brother Robert. At the sight of his grave expression, her pleasure vanished. “What is it?”

Robert’s gaze flicked to Henry and back to her. “Prepare yourself for bad tidings,” he said.

“How bad?” Her arm was still around Henry’s shoulder and she cupped her hand protectively. “Has Stephen…?”

Robert shook his head. “It is nothing to do with Stephen.

Miles FitzWalter is dead, God rest his soul.”

Matilda stared at her brother in shock. “How?” Miles was a senior commander and good friend. He had opened Gloucester to her when she first came to England. He was a constant. He couldn’t be dead.

“Hunting deer,” Robert said. “One of his own knights shot wildly and struck his lord instead of the stag. He died almost instantly.”

“I should have kept him at court,” she said, feeling sick. “He would have lived then.”

Robert shook his head. “You could not have prevented this.

If you set a fence around him, he would have broken out. He lived his life as if it was one long hunt.”

“But such a waste, God rest his soul.” She crossed herself and her voice shook. “He was a brave man and a loyal vassal.”
And
how will I replace him?

Robert looked at Henry who had crossed himself too. “Do you remember Miles FitzWalter, lad?”

“He gave me sword lessons,” Henry said, his eyes wide. “He promised to take me hunting.”

“Thank Christ he did not.” Matilda resisted the urge to hug him to her breast. How vulnerable they all were. Who knew when death would strike and scatter all their plans like straws on the flood?

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Fifty

Bristol, March 1144

Matilda patted her mare’s neck and inhaled the dank air of late winter as she trotted along a forest path with Brian. Ahead Henry cantered along on his grey pony, dogs running at his side as he chased small game through stands of oak, ash, and elm, their branches stark and black in the early spring afternoon. Various members of the court rode ahead and behind and the atmosphere for once was relaxed and informal.

Earlier in the day, Henry had jointly witnessed a charter to Humphrey de Bohun and another to Reading Abbey.

Matilda had come to Bristol to celebrate Easter and discuss Henry’s education. His progress thus far pleased her greatly and although times were difficult, his presence had put new heart into their cause. Henry’s charm, his fierce energy and obvious deep intelligence had won over her own supporters and convinced them that this was indeed their future king. Watching him yell and spur faster, she smiled with pride at his fearless vitality, and tried not to think that he might take a tumble.

“He rides better than I did at that age,” Brian said.

She glanced at him. He looked weary, with deep lines carved in his cheeks and seaming his eye corners. In the pale light his complexion still wore winter’s indoor grey. She was concerned for him. He had recently been sick with a heavy cold. They LadyofEnglish.indd 434

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were all exhausted from the long drag of war, and this time of year was never easy with its endless dark days and sparse rations. The evenings had started to draw out, but as yet there was no sign of spring greenery to alleviate the grey. She had intentionally come on this ride to raise her spirits and sweep away the cobwebs. “I wager you were a fine boy though,” she said to him.

He raised his brows. “What do you mean by that, domina?”

“I imagine you were as active as my son and ranged far and wide before my father took you into his household.”

The lines at his eye corners deepened, but in the direction of a smile. “Yes, I did enjoy roaming free, and even at your father’s court I was allowed to do so. He let us all off the leash now and again. He knew how to train unruly pups, did your father.” His expression sobered. “Of course, in those days anyone in the land could roam free in safety and not be bothered. It was a different world when your father was alive.”

“Yes,” she said, “sadly it was, but those times will come again.”

“Will they?” He looked grim. “I have had to turn robber to keep my men and horses fed. I raid merchant trains. I steal horses and sacks of grain. I waylay anyone who looks as if they might have wealth about their person and I rob them down to their braies. I never imagined I would do such things to survive, but I have to, and it sickens me.”

She knew he was referring to an incident before Christmas when he had intercepted some merchants on their way to the bishop of Winchester’s fair and confiscated their goods and chattels. The bishop had threatened to excommunicate Brian, who had written a blistering response to the effect that the good bishop had changed sides more often than the wind changed direction, and that had his support of Matilda stayed constant and had he upheld her as queen, the raids would never have taken place because there would have been no need.

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She gave him a firm look. “We have all been forced to act in ways we would not choose.”

Brian said quietly, “Your sire was a father to me. I honour his memory in the best way I know—by honouring and serving his daughter to the best of my ability, and while there is breath in my body, I shall do so.”

She put out her hand to his across their horses and touched his sleeve in a brief gesture. He swallowed and set his jaw.

Henry arrived in a flurry of dogs and galloping pony. As she withdrew her hand, Brian raised his own to rub the back of his neck as if at an irritation, but when he saw her looking, he redirected the movement to check that the neck brooch of his tunic was secure.

On their return, a messenger from Geoffrey was waiting for them, his eyes alight as he knelt and handed her a sealed letter.

“Great news, domina!” he cried. “Rouen has surrendered to the Count of Anjou. Normandy is won!”