She paled. “What oath?”
“An oath, madam, of the most sacred kind. I want you to swear on that crucifix in your hand that William, the eldest child of your body, is my son.”
She stared at him. “Of course he is your son.”
“Can you swear it?”
She stared down at the intricately carved ivory in her hand-the decorated cross, the tortured, twisted figure of the man hanging on it in his death agony. Slowly she raised it to her lips and kissed it.
“I swear it,” she whispered.
William drew a deep breath. “So,” he said. “You told the truth. He was not de Clare’s bastard.”
Her eyes flew to his face and he saw the paleness of her skin flood with color. For a moment only, then it was gone and she was as white as the crucifix she had pressed to her lips.
He narrowed his eyes. “You swore!”
“William is your son. I swear, before God and the Holy Virgin.”
“And the others? What of the others?” He took a step toward her and grabbed her wrist. He held the crucifix up before her eyes. “Swear. Swear for the others!”
“Giles and Reginald, they are yours. Can you not see it in their coloring and their demeanor? They are both their father’s sons.”
“And the girls?” His voice was frozen.
“Margaret is yours. And Isobel.” She looked down suddenly, unable to hold his gaze.
“But not Tilda?” His voice was barely audible. “My little Matilda is de Clare’s child?” He pressed her fingers around the crucifix until the carving bit into her flesh. “
Desperately she tried to push him away. “Yes!” she cried. “Yes, she was Richard’s child, God forgive me!”
Abruptly William let her go. She reeled back, and the crucifix fell between them in the dried herbs on the floor. They both stared at it in horror.
William laughed. It was a humorless, vicious sound. “So, the great alliance with Rhys is built on counterfeit goods! The descendants of Gruffydd ap Rhys will not be descendants of mine!”
“You must not tell him!” Matilda sprang forward and caught his arm. “For sweet Jesus’ sake, William, you must not tell him!” She gave a little sob. Dropping his arm, she whirled around, scrabbling on the floor until she found the crucifix. She grabbed it and thrust it at him. “Promise me. Promise me you won’t tell him! He would kill her!”
William smiled. “He would indeed-the fruit of your whoring with de Clare.”
She was trembling. The fur cloak had fallen open. “Please, promise me you won’t tell Lord Rhys, William! Promise!”
“At the moment it would be madness to tell him,” William said thoughtfully, “and I shall keep silent for all our sakes. For now it shall remain a secret between me and my wife.” He smiled coldly. “As for the future, we shall see.”
He stretched out and took the crucifix out of her hand. After kissing it, he put it reverently on the table, then he turned back to her and lifted the fur from her shoulders. “It is so seldom we are alone, my lady. I think it would be a good time, don’t you, to show me some of this passion you so readily give to others.” He carefully removed her blue surcoat and threw it after the cloak before he turned her numb body around and set about unlacing her gown.
She was shivering violently. “Please, William! Not now. It is so cold.”
“We shall warm each other soon enough.” He turned and shouted over his shoulder. “
She did not turn. Clutching her gown to her breasts, she heard the door open behind her then close again quietly. After a few moments’ silence the first breathy notes of the flute began to drift into the chamber, spiraling up into the dark, smoke-filled rafters.
She shuddered as William’s cold hands pulled the gown out of her clutches and stripped it down to the floor.
“So,” he whispered. “You stand, naked in body and naked in soul.” He took a deep, shaky breath. “Let down your hair.”
For some reason she could not disobey him. Unsteadily she raised her hands to her veil and pulled out the pins that held it. She uncoiled her braids, still long and richly auburn with only a few strands yet of silver, and began to unplait them slowly, conscious of the draft that swept under the door and toward the hearth, sending icy shivers over her skin. She still had not looked at the musician.
William watched in silence until her hair was free. It swung around her shoulders and over her pale breasts, rippled in the firelight into dancing bronzed life.
He took another deep breath and groped at last for the brooch that held his own mantle. “You have a girl’s body still, for all the children you have carried,” he said softly. ‘Trueborn or bastard, they haven’t marked you.” He put his hand on her belly.
She shrank back, her eyes silently spelling out her sudden hatred, and he laughed. “Oh, yes, you detest me-but you have to obey me, sweetheart! I am your husband.” He dropped his cotte after his mantle. “You have to obey me, Matilda, because I have the key to your mind.”
She swallowed. “You have gone mad, my lord!” As if breaking free of some spell, she found she could move suddenly. Turning, she picked up her fur cloak and swung it around her until she was covered in rich chestnut fur from chin to toe. “You hold no keys to my mind!”
“But I do.” Abruptly the music stopped. William raised his hand in front of her face. “Drop the cloak, Matilda. That’s right.” He smiled as, unnerved, she found herself obeying him. “Now, kneel.”
Furious, she opened her mouth to argue, but the argument did not come. Scarcely realizing she did it, she knelt on the rich fur and stared up at him, the firelight playing on her pale skin as slowly he began to undress himself. Watching, she saw the stocky naked body, the mat of graying chest hair, tapering down to his belly, the sturdy muscular thighs, the white ugly scars, one on his left thigh, the other on his left shoulder. She had seldom seen him naked. Though everyone customarily slept unclothed, wrapped in blankets and furs, or sprawled in summer on coarse linen sheets, she resolutely rolled herself in the covers whenever possible and kept her eyes tightly closed. Now there was no escape. Some force of will in him seemed to keep her eyes open, fixed on his body. Nervously her gaze traveled down to the rigid penis, then back to the corded muscular arms that could hold her so mercilessly as he used her. She clenched her fists defiantly, her eyes rising once more at last to meet his.
He smiled. “Lie down, wife. There on the floor.”
“No,” she breathed, summoning the last vestiges of her strength to defy him. “No, my lord, I will not. It pleases you to treat me like a whore but I am your true wife, faithful to you for many years. If I must submit to you it will be on our marriage bed!”
“Faithful?” He sneered suddenly. “You have betrayed me with de Clare. With who else, I wonder?” He looked at her, suddenly calculating.
She dropped her gaze and he laughed. “Your eyes spell out your guilt! Who was it? One man? Two? A hundred?”
“Only one other, my lord.” Why was she answering him? It was as if some force compelled her to make the admission.
“And who was that one other?”
“One to whom you yourself would have given me, my lord,” she burst out. “And I did not lie with him willingly. Before God, I swear it! He took me by force.”
William raised an eyebrow. “And who was this so eager suitor, madam?”
“Prince John,” she answered in a whisper.
“So!” The angry color rose in his cheeks. “So, you are a royal whore. And where did John take you? On a bed trimmed with cloth of gold? No matter. For me you lie on the floor where you belong.”
He stooped and picked up the broad leather belt he had dropped with the rest of his clothes. “Lie down, Matilda, or I will give you the thrashing you deserve.”
Behind them the music began again suddenly, thin and breathy, unrelated to the darkness of the chamber, the flaring smoky torches in the sconces, or the bittersweet smoke of the fire. Outside the wind had begun to moan gently across the hills, an eerie, dismal sound, as lonely as the cry of the hungry wheeling buzzard, riding the currents below the streaming clouds.
