The Winter Mantle (38 page)

The tending of the garden was a suitable task for a female, and since Judith did not enjoy the pursuit herself she was glad to leave it to her daughter. Matilda delighted in the solitude and the breathing space, much preferring the vagaries of the elements to the hencoop of the women's chamber.

She scattered the final glistening droplets around the roots of the tree and watched them soak into the ground. The garden gate squeaked, announcing Helisende's return. Matilda had sent the young woman who was both maid and companion to the solar with a basket of lavender for strewing among the rushes, thus giving each of them the excuse for a few moments alone.

'We have visitors,' Helisende announced, cheeks pink and eyes sparkling with excitement. 'A whole troop of them.'

Visitors to Northampton were frequent. Northumbria had been taken away on her father's death and given to the bishop of that diocese to administer, but Huntingdon and Northampton remained beneath her mother's vigorous rule. However, while stewards and administrators, merchants and soldiers came and went in a constant trickle, an entire troop was a different matter.

'Do you know who they are?' Matilda's first thought was that they were her grandfather Eudo's soldiers from his lands of Holderness. He brought them to Northampton several times a year, usually with his son Stephen in tow. But then Helisende would have said so.

'No,' Helisende shook her head, 'but I saw my father and their leader giving each other a handclasp and smiling as if they were old friends. They were speaking English too.'

Matilda's curiosity sharpened. English noblemen were rare these days. What one was doing at Northampton, where Norman ways were encouraged, was intriguing. Glancing down, she realised that there was soil on her hands and bits of leaf and twig festooning her gown, which was her oldest one of plain grey homespun. Hardly the garb in which to greet a visitor whatever his status. Whilst not overly vain, Matilda well knew that first impressions were often lasting ones. Nor with her mother's strictures ringing in her ears could she fail to be aware of her duty to keep up appearances.

Leaving the garden, she hastened towards the women's solar. There was no sign of the visitors, although several fine horses were being turned out in the paddock beside the stables. 'Was he old or young, this lord?' she asked the maid.

Helisende's flush deepened. 'There was no silver in his hair,' she said.

Hastily Matilda exchanged her old grey gown for one of sky-blue linen with a yoke and sleeve trim of darker blue that picked up and highlighted the colour of her eyes. Although as an unwed daughter of the house she was not forced to wear a wimple, her mother preferred her to cover her braids in formal company. Matilda settled a veil of plain cream linen over her copper-bronze braids and secured it with a woven band stitched with tiny seed pearls.

'You've a smut of soil on your cheek.' Helisende dabbed it away with the end of a kerchief she had dipped in the laver jug. 'You should pinch your cheeks and bite your lips to give them colour.'

Matilda laughed and waved a hand in dismissal. 'Why-should I do that?' she demanded. 'Whoever our visitor is, I doubt that he's come courting.'

'You never know,' said Helisende.

Matilda shook her head. 'No,' she said. 'My mother does not like men. She founded the nunnery at Elstow for her spiritual comfort, and she wants this place to be like a nunnery too.'

'She will never manage that,' Helisende replied stoutly.

'It does not stop her from trying.' Matilda smoothed her palms over her gown and adjusted the side lacings so that they flattered her trim waist and full bosom.

'Perhaps you should elope,' Helisende suggested.

'Find me a suitable mate and I will,' Matilda retorted, going to the door.

When she arrived in the hall, it was to find the visitor's troop supping at trestle tables with the soldiers of her mother's guard. Her sister Jude was seated at the dais table in their mother's place, playing host to a quartet of knights. Matilda assessed them. Two were grey, one was going bald and the other had a beard. There was also a handsome squire, but he was in mid-adolescence and in no wise a man.

'He's not here,' muttered Helisende out of the side of her mouth.

'Neither is my mother,' Matilda said. Jude had seen her and was making frantic eyes for help. Lifting her chin, Matilda walked down the length of the hall and tried to remember to keep her steps small. Her mother was always taking her to task for striding out like a warrior.

The men rose to greet her and she inclined her head and smiled graciously. Jude stammered out introductions. She had a quiet nature and playing hostess was daunting.

The men all had Norman names, none of which Matilda recognised, and they spoke French, not English. 'You are most welcome to our hospitality,' she said formally as she took the high-backed chair her sister had vacated. 'Has my mother greeted you also?'

Indeed, Lady Matilda, she has,' said the one named Aubrey de Mar. 'If the Countess is not here now, it is because our lord desired to have words of a private nature with her.'

'Your lord?'

'Simon de Senlis, my lady. He is here on the orders of King William.'

'For what purpose?' The question was surprised out of her before she could think better of asking it.

The men looked at each other and she could see their thoughts clearly. Countess Judith's daughter was cast in the same autocratic mould as her mother, and still only a chit of a girl.

Outwardly calm, inwardly quaking, she signalled an attendant to refresh the goblets and directed another servant to place a dish of honey cakes before the men. Food and drink always served to appease and mellow.

'Forgive me if I was brusque,' she said. 'But it is not every day that we receive a visitor with orders from my cousin, the King.'

She saw grudging humour light in the eyes of Aubrey de Mar as she reminded them of her rank while apologising for her lapse of grace.

'Not at all, my lady,' he responded in a hoarse voice that sounded as if he had eaten the road rather than ridden on it 'Indeed, you will learn my lord's purpose soon enough. But it is only mete that he informs your mother first.'

Matilda inclined her head and took a sip of wine from her cup while she recovered from that particular exchange and prepared herself for the next. Simon de Senlis. The name echoed in the halls of her memory, but was too distant to be more than the merest distortion. If she had met him, it must have been a long time ago.

'Tell me,' she said, 'Does your lord speak English?'

'He does, my lady, and taught by your late father.'

Matilda's stomach leaped and she looked at the knight with widening eyes. 'He knew my father?'

'Aye, my lady, he did. It was before I entered my lord's service, so I know few details, only that they were master and pupil. Doubtless, my lord will tell you himself. He prefers to do his own speaking.'

Matilda's hand shook slightly as she took another drink of the wine. She might not be able to remember Simon de Senlis, but the image of her father was still as sharp and clear as the day on which he had ridden out and not come back. Shining hair of deep copper-red, a soft golden beard, the smile that was for her alone, and the sadness behind it. She had prayed so hard for him to return - and eventually he had. Now he lay in his shrine in the chapter house at Crowland. So near and yet so far. They never spoke of him in this household — or at least not in front of her mother, who would not stand to hear the mention of his name. Sometimes she and her sister would whisper together, or Sybille would talk of him, or Toki spin memories, but all in a clandestine fashion to avoid detection by Judith. The ordinary folk had more access to her father than she had ever done. Now, with this visitor from the past, this Simon de Senlis, she had a chance to strengthen the fragile memories and build a solid edifice worthy of him.

'Do you know how long you will be staying?' she asked when she was sure that her voice was steady. 'I need to ensure that the household is provisioned.'

'No, my lady.' De Mar spread his huge hands. 'My lord has not told us, and it will depend on how matters progress… If it helps you, I would say that you could plan for a sennight at least.' He reached for a honey cake, bit into it, and smiled. 'Mayhap longer if this is any judge of the fare on offer.'

Matilda returned the smile, but in a slightly preoccupied manner. It was all she could do not to leap from the table, rush to her mother's apartment and seize hold of this Simon de Senlis. The knight said they would be staying at least a week. There was time enough. She just wished that it were now.

Simon stood in Countess Judith's private chamber, and took in his surroundings with a feeling of unease that raised the hair on his nape. An embroidered frieze depicting the lives of various female saints relieved the plainness of the limewashed wall. There was also a wooden crucifix nailed above a small prie-dieu. The Countess's bed spanned a scant body-width and was made up with coarse blankets, not a fur in sight. She was living the life of a secular nun, he thought, and that did not bode well for what was to come.

The Countess did not invite him to sit. Nor did she offer him wine. Both should have been courtesies extended to a guest, but it was already clear that she viewed him as an intruder.

Facing him, she lifted her chin. 'Well, my lord, are you going to inform me of the reason for your visit and why it is belter told in secret than in the open company of the hall?'

At six and thirty she was still an attractive woman, although her features, like her nature, had sharpened with the years and he could see that in old age she would be a replica of her fearsome mother.

'Not in secret,' he said, refusing to be intimidated. 'But in private. Since the matter is somewhat delicate, I thought it best discussed between us without an audience.'

'I cannot see that I have anything to discuss with you, witnesses or not,' she said gracelessly.

She had not offered him a seat but he took one anyway, settling himself on the cushioned bench that ran along the far wall. Irritation and resentment sparked in her eyes and Simon sighed. He could see that his purpose was already doomed. She might listen, but she was determined not to hear. He reached into his tunic. Secured between it and his shirt, held in place by his belt, was a letter bearing the royal seal. 'King William Rufus has entrusted me with the care of the earldom of Northampton and Huntingdon,' he said. 'His instructions are here.'

She stared at him, her body stiffening as if she was turning to stone. 'I am the Countess of Northampton and Huntingdon,' she said icily. 'He cannot do this.'

'The dowager Countess,' Simon corrected, 'and the lands are within the King's gift. He can bestow them where he chooses.'

Her complexion was ice-white. 'It is ten years since my husband's death. I have ruled these lands competently. He has no reason to issue such a command.' She almost snatched the packet from him.

'The King needs them to be held with military strength.'

'Hah!' she snapped. 'If that is so, then why has he sent a cripple?'

The words were intentionally cruel. Simon had learned in boyhood not to flinch, and he matched her gaze stone on stone. 'That is unjust of you, my lady. I thought you above casting cheap insults.'

Her cheeks reddened and her dark eyes glittered. She was beautiful in a strange, hard way that made Simon want to shiver. How many brittle layers had she grown since Waltheof's death, each one more frozen than the last?

'And is it not "unjust" of you to come and take these lands when I have ruled them competently since my husband's death?' she demanded. 'Is it not an insult to me, to my governance?'

'No my lady, it is not,' Simon said evenly. 'No one is disputing your administrative abilities or your judgement. But you cannot lead men in war or make military decisions based on the training of experience. You can only appoint deputies.' Even as he spoke, he knew that his words must sound like the greatest insult of all. How could he not offend her when he came to remove her authority?

'Neither can you, my lord,' she said, sweeping his slight build with a disparaging look.

'In that you are wrong, Countess,' he said quietly, for he had long since learned that keeping his temper was more than half the battle. 'If I were a boastful man, I could present you with a list of campaigns and military services to the house of Normandy that would take the day to recite. I may not be capable of swinging a battleaxe like your late husband, but no one has ever found me lacking. You are a wealthy widow of childbearing age and you have young daughters. This earldom is a plum, and in plain terms the King wishes to secure it to a man of his choosing rather than those who would profit at his expense - including your mother and stepfather and their son. I am sorry for your distress, but rail as you will, Countess, you can change nothing.'

'The people will never accept you,' she spat.

'They accepted you,' he pointed out, 'despite the rumours that you had connived at your own husband's death.'

That blow hit a soft part and Judith recoiled. 'I did not!' she gasped and drew herself up. 'I went to my uncle on bended knees to beg that my husband's body be allowed to rest at Crowland.'

'But that is guilt,' Simon said softly, 'not sorrow. You may not have connived at your husband's death, but neither did you plead for his life.' Suddenly he felt as exhausted as if he had fought a daylong battle. Making the effort, he rose to his feet and forced himself to go to the door. Each step burned, but his pride would not let him limp.

The maidservant Sybille was seated outside on a stool, awaiting her mistress's call, her ear inclined towards the heavy, studded oak. 'I would appreciate a flagon of wine,' Simon said courteously.

Sybille curtseyed. A smile curled her mouth corners. 'You have changed since last I saw you, my lord,' she ventured.

Simon returned the smile and felt some of his tension dissipate beneath the warmth in her tone. It had always astonished him that someone as proper and glacial as Judith could have a maid who was earthy, mischievous, and completely lacking in the propriety of which the Countess seemed so fond. 'Whether for the better I do not know,' he murmured ruefully, 'and I could say the same for your mistress.'