Matilda waited until his footsteps had died away. Then she slipped triumphantly from the bed and pulled a fur- lined dressing gown around her shoulders. She ran to the high window and peered out, feeling the cold wind lift her hair, listening to the sounds of life that were beginning to stir in the bailey below. It was a gray morning. The watery sun above the hills to the east was so shrouded in mist and cloud that it gave off as little heat as the waning moon.
Shivering a little, she glanced around the room. It did not look so comfortable in the cold light but she hugged herself excitedly. Her plan had worked. She was free of Bertha, was mistress of her own large household, or would be very soon, and had ensured that she was free of her husband’s loathsome attentions until her baby was born. She gave a wistful smile. She had never felt better nor stronger than in the last two months, and she knew there was no risk. She was strong and healthy and had had no premonitions for the baby or for herself. She frowned suddenly as she gazed from the window, for premonitions she had certainly had, strange formless terrors that had plagued her for the last three nights in her dreams. She shrugged away the thought. Whatever they meant, she was not going to let them spoil today’s excitement.
She wondered where Richard was this morning, then abruptly she put him out of her mind. To think about Richard de Clare was dangerous. She must forget him and remember that she was another man’s wife.
She dragged her thoughts back to the day’s feasting. She had no intention of keeping her promise to William and staying in bed. She meant to be there at his side.
There were about five hours to wait until it began, she judged, squinting up at the sun. Many of the guests were probably already at the castle or camped around its walls, others would be riding down from the Welsh hills and from Prince Seisyll’s court, wherever it was, with their attendants and their bards and their entertainers. She felt a tremor of excitement.
At the sound of a step on the stairs she turned from the drafty window and ran back to the bed, shivering. A small woman entered, her hair gray beneath a large white veil. She was bearing a tray and she smiled at Matilda a little shyly. “Good morning, my lady. I’ve brought you some milk and some bread.”
“Milk!” Matilda was disgusted. “I never drink milk. I’d much rather have wine.”
“Milk is better for you, madam.” The older woman’s voice with the gentle lilt of the hills was surprisingly firm. “You try it and see, why don’t you?”
Matilda pulled herself up on the pillows and allowed the woman to feed her broken pieces of the fine wastel bread. She found she was very hungry.
“Did I see you in the hall last night?” she asked between mouthfuls.
The woman smiled, showing rotten teeth. “No, madam, I was in the kitchens most of yesterday, helping to prepare for the feasting.”
Matilda sat up, her eyes shining with excitement. “Do you know how many people are coming? Was there much food being brought in? Are the guests already arriving?”
Laughing, the woman spread her strong, work-worn hands. Her nails were badly broken. “Oh, enough for two armies, madam, at least. They seem to have been at work for days, ever since Sir William even hinted at a feast. But yesterday and the day before, I have been helping too with a lot of the women, to see that all is ready in time.”
Matilda lay back, stretching luxuriously beneath the rugs. “I wish I were coming,” she commented cautiously. “Sir William feels that I should rest because of my condition, and not attend.” She glanced at the other woman and saw with satisfaction that she looked astonished.
“Surely you’ll feel better by then, madam, if you rest now.” The woman smiled kindly and twitched one of the coverlets straight. “It would never do to miss such a fine occasion as this one, indeed.”
Matilda smiled. “That’s what I’ve been thinking. I feel much better already.” She noticed that the plate was empty and smiled. It was no use pretending that she felt too ill to eat. She tried to compose her face. “Where’s Nell, the lady I brought with me?” she demanded, suddenly remembering. “She should have come to look after me. I want her to arrange some maids. I brought no other attendants.”
The woman concealed a smile. “Your lady, madam, is talking to Sybella, the constable’s wife. I felt you needed food first, attendants later. I’m thinking you’d have waited all day indeed if it had been up to those two.” Without comment she took the plate and cup and put them aside, then bent to pick up the mantle that Matilda had left trailing from the end of the bed.
“Tell me your name.” Matilda was watching closely out of half-shut eyes.
“Megan, madam. My husband is one of Sir William’s stewards.”
“Well, Megan, I want you to see that my clothes chests are brought up here and then later, if I do feel better, will you help me to dress for the feast?”
“Of course I will, gladly indeed.” Megan’s face lit up with pleasure.
“And listen.” Matilda raised herself on an elbow and put her finger to her lips. “We won’t let Sir William know that I might be coming. I don’t want him to forbid me, thinking I am more tired than I am.”
She lay back on her pillows again after Megan had gone, well pleased with the little Welshwoman’s conspiratorial smile of understanding.
Below in the courtyard the morning sounds were reaching a crescendo of excitement and down the winding stairs to the hall she could hear a hubbub of shouting and laughter and the crashing of the boards onto the trestles as the tables were set up. It was hard to lie idle with so much going on about her but she was content to rest for the moment. The time to get up would come later.
She watched as a boy staggered in with a basket of logs and proceeded to light a new fire, and then a man humped in her boxes of clothes. There was still no sign of Nell, but Megan was close on his heels. After throwing back the lids under Matilda’s instructions, she began to pull out the gowns and surcoats, crying out with delight as she fingered the scarlets and greens of silks, fine linens and soft-dyed wools, laying them on the bed one by one.
Matilda looked at each garment critically, considering which she should wear. Ever since she had heard about the feast she had thought about the gold-embroidered surcoat brought to her from London by William for her name day. It had come from the east and smelled of sandalwood and allspice.
“Oh, my lady, you must wear this.” Megan held up her green velvet gown trimmed with silver. “This is perfect for you. It is beautiful, so it is.”
Matilda took it from her and rubbed her face in the soft stuff. “William thinks that green is unlucky,” she said wistfully. She loved that dress and she knew it suited her coloring. It would go well below the gold.
Nell appeared at last, fully recovered from the journey and in high spirits, as Megan was hanging up the last of the gowns in the garderobe. She had brought a message.
“From one of Lord Clare’s knights,” she whispered, full of importance. “He wants to see you in the solar, now, while Sir William is out in the mews with his hawks.”
She helped Megan dress Matilda hastily in a blue wool gown and wrapped her in a thick mantle against the drafts. Then, her finger to her lips, she led the way out of the bedchamber.
Richard was waiting in the deep window embrasure, half hidden behind a screen. He was dressed for traveling.
“Richard?” Matilda stared at him as Nell withdrew.
“I am leaving. Your husband demands it.” He put out his hand toward her, then let it fall. He shrugged. “My men are waiting. I return to Gloucester.”
“No,” she whispered in anguish. “I thought he would change his mind and let you stay…I thought you would be here…”
He reached out and touched her hand. “This is your household, lady,” he said sadly. “This is where you wished to be, at your husband’s side. There is no place for me here. Better I go now.”
“But I thought it would be different-I thought it would be all right.” She looked away from him, her bravery and excitement forgotten. “I had forgotten what he is like.” She put her hands to her face, trying not to cry. “And I have to stay with him for the rest of my life!”
Richard felt the sweat start on the palms of his hands. “You are his wife,” he said harshly. “In God’s eyes you belong to him.”
They stood for a moment in silence. She wanted to cling to him. Firmly she put her hands behind her. “I am carrying his child,” she said at last with an effort. “So he is going to let me stay. Not here, but at Brecknock. He is not going to send me back to Bramber after all.” She gave a faint smile.
