Eleyne blush and hang her head. Seeing her, Margaret laughed and hugged her. ‘Take it as a compliment, Elly. He only shows interest in the most beautiful women.’ She paused and took her sister’s hand. ‘Are you happy with Lord Huntingdon? From what you tell me he seems a kind and sensitive man.’ The way she said the words spoke volumes about her own husband. Eleyne wondered if she were wrong about John de Braose. He appeared so attractive, so amusing.
‘But Margaret, you do love your John?’ Eleyne stared at her sister anxiously.
Margaret laughed. ‘Of course I love him,’ she said lightly. ‘And I’m lucky. Things could be so much worse. I have heard that Lord Huntingdon is often ill, Elly. Is that true?’
Eleyne nodded, unconscious of the wistfulness in her eyes as she thought of her husband. ‘It was me who was ill last time, but he’s ill a lot, though he was better when I left him.’
Margaret smiled. ‘Then let us pray to the sweet Virgin to preserve his health as I pray daily for my husband.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘I have the king’s assurance that, if anything happened to John, which the Blessed Virgin and all the saints forbid,’ she shuddered, ‘he will not force me to marry someone I don’t like. You should do the same, Eleyne. If anything happened to your John you would not want Uncle Henry to choose you another husband against your wishes.’
Eleyne gasped. ‘But that would be a terrible thing to do. It would look as if I expected John to die.’
Margaret shrugged. ‘Men do die; if not of illness, then in battle, Eleyne, just as women die in childbed. It is God’s will. It is best to be prepared.’
Listlessly Eleyne picked up her needle once more and screwed up her eyes against the glare as she began inserting the tiny regular stitches into the soft blue silk. She loved this quiet place; from the vantage point of the hill on which Bramber Castle stood she could see the Downs and though they were nothing like the great mountain of Yr Wyddfa they were better than the flat lands which made up the bulk of her husband’s fief. And better still, to the south, beyond the busy quays and the broad tidal sweep of the Adur, lay the sea. She could smell the sharp saltiness of the mud now, as the low water narrowed the busy river to a trickle, leaving the ships and galleons at the wharf stranded until the next tide.
A shadow fell across her sewing. Again a cold breath had touched her skin, but the sky was still cloudless. For a moment she didn’t move, then she tucked the needle into her work and set it down again. Her heart had begun to beat uncomfortably fast. There was someone here with her in the empty garden. She closed her eyes against the urgency of the emotions which were invading her: worry, anger, love and fear, yes, real fear.
‘What is it? Where are you? Who are you?’ She found she had spoken out loud. The answering silence quivered with tension.
Eleyne stared around. Near her the neatly clipped bushes of thyme and hyssop stirred slightly; the pale, fragrant leaves of costmary moved. ‘What is it?’ she whispered, frightened. ‘Who are you?’
The silence was intense; even the shouts and bustle from the bailey beyond the hedge had died away.
‘Please -’ Eleyne moved away from the bench, her hands shaking. ‘Please, what do you want from me?’
Again she was surrounded with silence.
‘What is it, Eleyne, my dear? Who are you talking to?’ With a rustle of rose-coloured skirts Matilda de Braose swept through the box hedge which sheltered the garden and stared round.
Eleyne looked at her white-faced. ‘I’m sorry. I thought… I thought there was someone here…’
Below them a wagon rolled over the high cobbles and the sound of the heavy wheels reverberated above the shouts of the drivers. The presence in the small garden had gone.
Mattie drew the girl back to the bench and sat down with her. She picked up Eleyne’s sewing and looked at it critically. ‘You’re a good little sempstress, Eleyne. This work is lovely.’ Putting it down carefully she took Eleyne’s hand. ‘Who did you think was here?’
Eleyne shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It was just a feeling -’ She glanced shyly at the older woman, overwhelmed by the need to confide. ‘I get them sometimes.’
Mattie smiled, her gentle face framed by the crisp wimple. ‘Tell me about them.’
‘Sometimes pictures, like dreams…’ Eleyne looked down at her hands. ‘Like Sir William… I saw Sir William before…’ Her voice trailed away.
‘You have the Sight?’ Mattie made it sound quite ordinary. ‘I know many people in Wales have that gift. And you are your father’s seventh child, are you not? Margaret told me. That is a special blessing.’ She paused. ‘And did you see something just now?’
Eleyne shook her head. ‘No.’
‘What then?’ There was no impatience in the question. Mattie sensed Eleyne’s loneliness and uncertainty, and impulsively she put her arms around her.
‘I just felt there was someone here. Someone trying to speak to me.’ Nestling into her shoulder, Eleyne sighed. ‘And she is afraid – ’
‘She?’
‘Yes.’ Eleyne hesitated. ‘Yes, it was a woman.’
Mattie smiled sadly. ‘Perhaps you are right. I have sometimes thought… felt that there was someone in this garden. Another Matilda.’ She stood up. ‘My husband’s mother. She never liked Bramber much, but this was her favourite place here. She built this garden. I think from time to time she comes to watch over John. He was always her favourite grandchild. She loved him so much.’ Her eyes filled with tears as they often did when she thought about her adored mother-in-law, the woman whom her father, the Earl of Clare, had loved so devotedly for most of his life, the woman after whom she was named, the woman whom King John, this child’s grandfather, had so viciously murdered.
Eleyne stared at her. ‘Matilda? She is the lady… my lady who I saw at Hay Castle.’
‘You saw her?’ Mattie’s eyes widened.
Eleyne nodded. ‘I thought she liked me then. But not here, not now. She wants me to go.’
‘No, of course she doesn’t!’ Mattie closed her eyes against the superstitious shiver which ran across her shoulders. ‘Why should she want you to go? Silly goose, of course she doesn’t want you to go.’ She paused. ‘What did she look like when you saw her at Hay, my dear?’
‘She’s very tall, with dark red hair and grey-green eyes – ’
Mattie caught her breath.
‘I used to see her shadow, sometimes strongly, sometimes just fading away.’ She looked around the garden. ‘But not here, I didn’t see her here. I sort of felt her in my head. I don’t even know that it was her…’
She broke off as young Will ran into the garden.
‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere! I’ve finished my lessons. Now we can ride. We can, can’t we, grandmama? Eleyne said she would ride with me.’ He was tall for his eight years, with grey-green eyes and a shock of blond hair above a tanned face and a torn tunic. In only a few weeks, he had confided in Eleyne, he was to leave Bramber to serve as a page in the household of Sir Walter Clifford. He was reluctant to go; and Margaret was reluctant to let him. It was Mattie who had seen the danger; seen how he clung to his mother’s skirts, and had persuaded her son to insist.
‘Of course you can go, if Eleyne wants to.’ Mattie smiled. She stood up and shook out her skirts.
‘Oh yes I do!’ Her face clearing, Eleyne said eagerly, ‘Will has promised to take me to the sea.’
Watching them run together down the steps which led from the garden into the bailey Mattie frowned. The children were quite safe here. They would have an escort, and of course the devoted Cenydd would go with them, so why did she, too, feel a tremor of unease?
‘May I ride Invictus one day?’ The boy looked longingly at Eleyne on the great stallion as she arranged her skirts around her.
She shook her head. ‘I’ve already told you, he’s too big for you.’
‘He’s too big for you!’ the boy retorted, and turned to his own pony, shorter by some half-dozen hands.
‘I’m the only person who rides him now,’ Eleyne said and bit her lip. It was true. Since Sir William had been hanged no one else, save the groom, had ridden the great horse. She leaned forward in the high saddle and fondled his mane. ‘You’re mine, aren’t you, my love.’
They followed the curve of the broad river south, cut behind the port of Shoreham and rode west along the coast, from time to time riding down on to the beach where, with the tide still low, they could gallop on the firm sands. By the time they returned to Bramber they were exhausted, and the horses walked slowly through the warm evening sun.
