Lady of the English (3 page)
“Oh, I know he has plans, but not what they are.” She leaned back in the chair, beginning to relax a little. On the other side of the partition her women talked quietly among themselves.
Brian leaned back too, mirroring her posture. “When you left England, you were a serious little girl, full of learning and duty. I remember you well from that time, even if you do not remember me. You did not want to go, but you stiffened your spine and did as you were bid, because it was your duty. That part has not changed, but now you are an empress and a grown woman, accustomed to holding the reins of power and command.”
She gave an acerbic smile. “It is true I do not suffer fools gladly, my lord.”
“You are your father’s daughter,” he replied with a straight face, but there was a spark in his eyes.
Matilda almost laughed and hastily covered her mouth. It was the wine, she thought, and the tiredness. Suddenly her throat tightened with grief, because this blend of politics and near-flirting was too close to what she had had with Heinrich, and it made her ache with loss. She controlled her voice. “I am indeed my father’s daughter. If you cannot tell me what my 13
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future holds, then at least tell me about the court so that I may be prepared.”
He offered her more wine and she shook her head. He poured himself a half-cup. “If you were accustomed to your husband’s court, then you will be accustomed to this one. They have the same denizens.”
“But who is friend and who is foe? Whom can I trust, and who is competent?”
“That is for you to make your own judgement, domina, and for your father to advise you.”
“So again, you will tell me nothing.”
He let out a deep breath. “Your father is surrounded by men who serve him well. Your brother, the Earl of Gloucester, will be pleased indeed at your return. Your cousins Stephen and Theobald will be there also.”
His expression was bland. She had a vague recollection of her Blois relations. Older youths, more concerned with male pursuits and paying her small heed except when they had to serve her and her mother at table as squires in training.
“Stephen is recently married, isn’t he?” There had been a letter but she had been too caught up in worry for her sick husband to pay it much heed.
“Indeed. To Maheut, heiress of Boulogne. Your father deemed it sound policy. It keeps his northern borders strong.”
Matilda was thoughtful. Maheut of Boulogne was her cousin on her mother’s side, even as Stephen had that kinship on her father’s—and that made the family ties close indeed. What did her father intend with all this spinning of threads? He was a master loomsman and no one else could weave the cloth of politics in quite the same way. “What is Stephen like these days?”
Brian shrugged. “More settled since his marriage. He’s a fine horseman and soldier. He makes friends easily and your father is fond of him.”
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His assessment made Matilda feel uneasy. Stephen had had the time to cultivate her father and gain his attention that she had not. “Are you?”
He looked wary. “He is good company when we ride to the hunt, and we understand each other well enough. He knows when to leave me to my books and my thoughts, and I know when to leave him to the company of other men. His wife keeps him to the mark these days. She gives him backbone, and sound advice.” Brian raised his cup and drank. “Your father has imprisoned Waleran de Meulan for rebelling against him, and he is still being threatened by William le Clito.”
“That is old news,” she said with an impatient wave of her hand. “William le Clito will never be king because he has no ability and Waleran de Meulan was a fool to support him.”
“Even so, it will still inform your father’s policies and determine what he does next. Perhaps it is the reason he has raised Stephen on high—as a counterbalance.”
A gust of wind flurried the side of the tent and Matilda felt invigorated by its force. She wanted everything to blow away and leave the world swept clean. Her father had kept his throne against great opposition. He had seized England and Normandy from his rash older brother Robert and cast him in prison, where he lingered even now; but Robert had left a son William le Clito, another male for Matilda to call cousin, and one who was claiming his right to rule. Powerful young hotheads like Waleran de Meulan supported his cause, and although her father had stamped down the rising, like a soldier putting out a dangerous small fire, the smoke still lingered. And where there was one fire, others would rise. Waleran had a twin brother, and their family interests straddled both England and Normandy.
Weaving, she thought. It was all a matter of twisting the threads, and keeping an eye cocked for unravelling strands while dealing with others who were weaving designs of their own.
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She eyed Brian thoughtfully. Her father clearly found him useful and had raised him on high. He held over a hundred knight’s fees by dint of his arranged marriage to Maude of Wallingford. But what to make of him now, on this first meeting? His arrival had been less than impressive, but William D’Albini seemed to think she should give him the benefit of the doubt. She suspected he was adept at hiding his thoughts, and that they ran deep. No shallow blunderer, this one, for all the irregularity of their initial meeting.
As Brian put his cup down, her eyes were drawn again to the ink staining his elegant fingers. “Are you your own scribe, my lord?”
“Sometimes,” he said with a diffident smile. “I find it easier to think with a quill in my hand, and to assemble notes, even though scribes might make the final draft. I am indebted to your father for my education.”
“He obviously values you.”
“As I honour and serve him.” Brian cleared his throat and stood up. “I beg your leave, domina. I should go and make sure all is ready for tomorrow.”
“You may go,” she said formally. “I hope that one of your concerns is finding me a decent horse.”
“Indeed, it is my first and most urgent business, domina.” He bowed and departed the tent.
The moment he was gone, her women, Emma and Uli, bustled through the partition. She let them remove her dress and comb out her hair, then dismissed them with a flick of her fingers because she wanted to be alone to think. Fetching the coverlet from her bed, she folded it around her body, and sat cocooned in the chair, her knees drawn up and her fist pressed against her lips.
Outside, Brian stood in the wind and exhaled his tension.
He had not expected the king’s daughter to be so mettlesome 16
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and perceptive. She was as keen as a knife and just now he felt as if he had the cuts to prove it. When he arrived, she had looked at him as if he were an incompetent fool, and he was still smarting. He hoped he had salvaged something from the situation, but knew his reputation would be ruined if he did not have a horse for her by morning. There was nothing for it; he would have to put her up on his courser and use his squire’s mount. The lad could go double with one of the serjeants.
The white-haired knight who headed her escort stepped out of his own small tent, where he had obviously been keeping a lookout for Brian. “My mistress is always vexed when things do not run as smoothly as she wishes.” He spoke not to excuse Matilda, but rather to reproach Brian.
“I have apologised and done my best to mend matters,”
Brian replied. “Be assured the empress will enter Rouen in full dignity.”
The knight gave him a strong look. “Sire, you will find that my mistress does not know how to compromise.”
Brian bit his tongue on a sharp retort. “The empress will find that a fitting welcome has been prepared.”
“I have served my lady since she was a child,” the knight said. “I have watched her become a woman, and wield power as consort to an emperor. She has greatness within her.” He glanced at the tent from which Brian had just emerged and lowered his voice. “But she is fragile too, and in need of tender care. Who will give her that, when her pride is both her shield and her sword? Who will look beyond all that and see the frightened child and the vulnerable woman?”
Something stirred within Brian that he was at a loss to iden-tify: neither pity nor compassion, but a glimmer of something more complex and disturbing. Her eyes were the grey of lavender flowers but clear as glass and they had met his with steady challenge, and even contempt. He did not see what this 17
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ageing knight saw, but he did not know her. What he had seen was truth and integrity, and it was as if she had taken a sharpened quill and written those words indelibly across his skin.
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Three
Tower of Rouen, Autumn 1125
T he gale had blown itself out, and a calm sun sparkled on harnesses and trappings. Matilda’s red silk gown gleamed in its light, as did the sleek ermines lining her cloak and the jewelled coronet securing her white silk veil. The citizens of Rouen had turned out in force to watch her arrive and she had her knights distribute alms and largesse in her name while the heralds rode ahead with their fanfares and proclama-tions that here was the dowager empress of Germany, the king’s daughter. Her heart filled with triumph and pride as she rode through the midst of the cheering crowds, and although she carried her head high with proper dignity and pride, she also smiled as much as was appropriate.
Brian FitzCount’s horse, Sable, was a spirited beast, but well schooled and mannerly. FitzCount himself rode a sturdy chestnut cob that was slightly too small for his long legs, but he was obviously pretending not to notice. Following the previous day’s mishaps, there had been no further difficulties and all had run to plan. She was not yet ready to give him the benefit of the doubt, but was prepared to wait and see.
As they entered the precincts of the ducal palace on the banks of the Seine, her horse flicked its ears and pranced, responding to her tension. It was almost sixteen years since she LadyofEnglish.indd 19
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had last stayed here shortly before her betrothal. Her memories were hazy ghosts of the past flitting among the solid stones and cobbles of now.
A groom hastened to take her bridle. Drogo dismounted to help her down, but Brian FitzCount was quicker to offer assistance. As he took her hands, she noticed that the ink stains were still there, with some fresh ones to boot; he had obviously been at work in his tent after he left hers, and she approved of him for that. It was almost comforting to think of him busy and watchful in the dark hours of the night while others slept.
A tall, broad man came striding towards her with arms outstretched. She stared at him for a moment in perplexity, and then the ground shifted under her feet and the past melded with the present as she recognised her older half-brother. “Robert?”
she whispered, and then again in a full voice, “Robert!”
His dark blue eyes lit with welcome as he grasped her hands and kissed her on either cheek with hearty warmth that yet managed to preserve public decorum. “Sister! Have you journeyed well?”
“Most of the way. My mare went lame yesterday.”
“I wondered when I saw you up on Brian’s Sable.” He glanced at Brian. “I trust he looked after you?”
“To the best of his ability,” she said with a straight face.
Brian raised his brows and Robert chuckled. “That sounds ominous.”
“I was late to the meet,” Brian said, “and last night’s gale made pitching the tents awkward to say the least. I thought we were all going to be blown to Outremer!” Bowing, he excused himself to make sure that Matilda’s baggage was borne to her chamber.
Robert sobered. “You can trust Brian with your life. I’ll go surety for him. He’s also one of the cleverest men in our father’s entourage.”
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“I will take your word for it,” she said, smiling. Robert was her senior by twelve years and had been a young adult when she went to Germany, but the rapport between them was immediate. It was like donning a favourite garment that had been put away in a chest for years, and feeling the comfort again.
“I hope that whatever Brian has done to offend you, you won’t be too harsh on him.”
“He has not offended me, and he has a very fine horse.
Everything is unsettled, that is all.”
Her half-brother gave her a compassionate look as they walked towards the tower entrance. “I am sorry you are here in bereavement. I wish these were happier circumstances.”
“Indeed, thank you, and I do deeply grieve for my husband,”
she said, “but I must look to the future. That is why I am here, after all. My father has summoned me for purposes beyond mourning.”
Robert said nothing, but his expression was eloquent.
The doors to the great hall stood wide to receive her and a path of red cloth strewn with flowers had been laid for her to walk upon. Courtiers stood to either side and, with a great rustling of fabric and soft clink of jewellery, knelt as she passed. Matilda paced with slow dignity, looking straight ahead, every inch the empress, her soul comforted by the propriety and the ceremony.
At the far end of the hall, two ornate thrones stood upon a dais. Her father sat upon the larger one, holding a jewelled rod in his right hand. His Queen, Adeliza, sat upon the other, robed in a gown of shimmering silver silk that glittered with pearls and amethysts. Matilda processed to the foot of the dais and knelt, bowing her head. Robert knelt too, but a step behind her.
She heard the swish of her father’s robe as he rose, and then his soft footfall descending the steps. “My dearest daughter.”
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