His body was young, lean and strong, and in spite of her instant repugnance as he pressed her against him, Matilda felt her own flesh respond, yearning suddenly for the confident, clean touch of a young man after so long with only William to maul her. In spite of herself she hesitated, yielding slightly, her body torn with longing.
John laughed triumphantly. “So, we make progress at last, my lady. Come.” He caught her hand, pulling her toward the pile of rugs and furs that had been heaped on the floor in the corner. “We shall find this journey was, after all, not wasted-”
“No!” Matilda tore herself away from him. “I think, sire, you cannot know what you’re suggesting.” She spoke as repressively as she could, hoping he could not feel her violent trembling as he caught her arms and pulled her against him again. He was immensely strong. His hands gripped her cruelly tight and his face was only inches now from hers. “I am the wife of Sir William de Braose, not a common whore,” she hissed, her momentary weakness gone. She flung his hands from her arms and stood rigid, her eyes flaming. “And I think, sir, you forget your new wife. Perhaps you should reserve your attentions for her and getting that son you were so anxious for.”
There was a long silence. Then John gave a little laugh. She did not dare to look at his face as, suddenly terrified by the audacity of what she had said, she backed away from him. He was breathing fast, his eyes narrowed, his fist clenched on the hilt of his dagger as he watched her, and she felt her bones dissolve in an icy trickle of terror as, slowly, he began to unbuckle his belt. He laid his dagger aside, on the improvised table, then he turned to her again. “You may be no whore yet, my lady,” he snarled, “though some would beg to question your innocence when they speak of your friendship with Lord de Clare. Oh, yes!” He laughed again. “You color and look away. So modest and so shy, madam. Yet your tongue betrays you for a shrew and, by God’s bones, I’ll make a whore of you as well! Sir William would not begrudge me a night with his lady, I’ll warrant. He follows my star closely. You should do the same. When I’m king I shall remember my friends.” He moved purposefully toward her. “And I shall also remember my enemies, madam.”
She tried to dodge away around the blocks of stone toward the archway that led to the spiral stairs and to escape, but John was there, barring her way.
“Which are you, Matilda?” he whispered, breathing heavily. “My friend or my enemy?”
“Neither, Your Highness. I am the wife of one of your brother Richard’s most loyal subjects-” She broke off, biting her lip, seeing the blind fury in his face as she mentioned the king’s name, cursing herself for her tactlessness. “And we shall be yours too, sire, should you succeed him,” she rushed on, backing away again. “Your friends-your loyal friends-” She gave a little cry as he lunged forward and caught her arm and pushed her, stumbling, toward the pile of blankets.
He threw her down and stood for a moment over her, staring down in cold triumph. “Then prove your loyalty, madam,” he breathed.
“No!” She tried to crawl away, dragging herself across the piled furs, hampered by her heavy skirts. “Your Highness, please! Think of Isabella. You break your vows of knighthood, sire-”
Her anguished cry turned to a scream as, with an oath, he threw himself on her, pushing her violently over onto her back, one hand damped over her mouth as she tried to scream again, the other groping for her throat.
“Silence, woman!” he hissed. “Do you want the entire garrison here as spectators to our lust?”
She was struggling desperately against him, afraid now only of the pitiless fingers tightening around her throat as she fought for breath, clawing frantically at his hands, hearing nothing but the roaring in her ears as her struggles grew weaker. Then everything grew dark and she lay still.
She felt herself moved, her kirtle stripped from her, her gown unlaced and pulled from her body, and she was lying naked on the furs before the fire, struggling for breath through a swollen half-closed throat. Through the darkness she saw his face above her, his eyes intense, blue as the unfathomable sky, his hair and beard gold in the flickering light of the flames. Then all went black once more.
His lips took hers, his tongue moistening her dry mouth, his hands crushing her breasts before moving on to caress her body and push demandingly between her thighs. She did not struggle, scarcely conscious anymore of what he did to her, seeing the arched vaults of the roof, smoky and dark above his shoulders, spin and recede into the darkness, flicker in the firelight, and grow dark once more. He took her again and again, seemingly unconcerned whether she lived or died, venting his fury and his lust on her acquiescent body, then he pulled her roughly over onto her face and threw himself on her again. Her single agonized scream, dragged in pain and humiliation from her bruised throat as he drove deep inside her, was lost in the rancid sheep’s wool of the fleece that filled her mouth and nose.
It was a long time before she realized that he had at last moved away from her. Her bruised body, spreadeagled over the untidy heap of blankets, refused for a moment to respond as she tried to ease her position, wanting to curl up against the cold that hit her now the sweating body of the man left her uncovered. With a groan she rolled onto her side and managed to drag the fleece over her, then she lay still, her eyes still closed, her body a mass of aching bruises.
John had pulled on his tunic and mantle. Buckling on his belt with its jeweled dagger, he turned to her at last and stood looking down at her for several moments. Then he smiled. “If you will excuse me, Lady Matilda,” he said softly, “I will go and see that the horses are comfortable and fed.” She heard him cross the room and run down the steps. He did not come back.
She did not move for a long time, then, driven by cold as the fire died, she dragged herself to her feet and, still dizzy and confused, groped wearily for her clothes before taking wood from the basket and dropping it on the cooling embers.
For ages she stood rigid by the fire as it blazed up again, then at last, weary beyond endurance, she sank to her knees and, wrapping herself in her cloak, rested her head on her arms on one of the upturned boxes.
She slept fitfully, half listening for John’s returning footsteps, but they did not come. Toward dawn she fell more deeply asleep for a while and then awoke abruptly when somewhere just outside the window of the keep a cock crowed. She was painfully stiff and very cold. The fire had died to white ashes and through the badly improvised shutters in the windows the cold morning light stretched across the floor. A pool of dull light showed in the hearth beneath the broad chimney.
Climbing numbly to her feet, Matilda crossed to the window and pulled down the shutter. A mist swam outside, lapping the mountains, condensing like rain on the sill of the embrasure. She shivered.
The great hall had been cleaned. A fire had been lit in the fireplace and a makeshift table was already standing on the dais. At it sat John, finishing his breakfast. He half rose when she appeared, giving her a mocking bow, then he continued eating. His eyes were cold and uncompromising.
Matilda stood for a moment watching him, fighting her revulsion and terror as she pulled the hood of her cloak more closely around her bruised throat.
“Come, join me for breakfast, my lady,” he called, not looking up. “You must be hungry after so disturbed a night.” He beckoned a servant from the shadows and indicated his empty goblet.
Summoning every shred of dignity to her aid, Matilda walked toward him across the floor. By the dais she dropped him a haughty curtsy. The castle seemed full of people this morning as, reluctantly, she took her place beside the prince. A shame-faced servant brought her bread and mulled wine, while another scattered fresh rushes on the floor. From somewhere in the bailey came the sound of hammering. John looked up again.
“Where is the castellan?” he snapped to the man with the rushes. “Now that Lady de Braose is here, bring him at once-let us hear the reasons for the state of this place.”
The servant bowed and ran out, returning almost at once with a tall man dressed in his hauberk and fully armed. He fell on his knees before Matilda. John, seemingly uninterested, continued eating.
Matilda swallowed painfully. “Well,” she said with an effort, “what have you to say?”
The man’s face was gray. “I am Bernard, my lady. Forgive us.” He clasped his hands pleadingly. “This castle is a terrible place. No man can stay here and keep sane. I’ve begged for a transfer, but no one comes to relieve us.” He glanced at the prince. “My lord, have pity.”
John snorted. “Pity. When you can’t take a little discomfort!”
“It’s not the discomfort, sir, no indeed.” The man leaned forward earnestly.
“What, then?” John looked scornful. “Have the Welsh prince’s men been frightening you, then?” He put on a singsong voice full of sarcasm and scorn.
“No, sir. We’re not afraid of the Welsh.” Bernard was indignant. “No, my lady, it’s something else.” He dropped his eyes suddenly and shifted his weight uncomfortably from one knee to the other.
“What?” John demanded unsympathetically.
