Richard stiffened. The pain in his face was hidden in a moment, but she had seen it. She clenched her fists in the folds of her long skirts. “Are you not going to congratulate me on fulfilling my wifely duty?”
He bowed slightly. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I couldn’t…” she whispered. “I couldn’t…”
Outside the wind was rising, funneling down the valley, turning the melted slush back to crisp whiteness. It rattled the shutters and screens and stirred the hay that covered the floors, releasing the smell of stale woodruff, tossing the firesmoke back down into the rooms.
“You said your men were waiting,” she said at last. The words caught in her throat.
“So. God be with you.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. Then he left her. She heard him walk across the room and slowly down the long winding stairs, his sword catching on the stone wall as he went until the sound died away and she was alone.
She sat for a long time on the stone seat in the embrasure, then, stiff with cold, she returned to her room and crept back beneath the covers of the bed.
Some time later Megan reappeared. She was bubbling with excitement. Prince Seisyll had arrived with his eldest son, Geoffrey, and his retinue, his harper, and his chief councillors.
“Handsome he is,” Megan reported breathlessly, her eyes sparkling. “A real prince to look at, and tall…”
Matilda dried her eyes, pushed back the covers, and slipped out of bed.
She was standing in the middle of the floor in her shift with Megan braiding her long hair to go beneath her veil when she heard William’s unmistakable step on the stairs. She glanced around wildly, looking for somewhere to hide, not wanting him to see her preparations.
“Quick, madam.” Megan threw a warm dressing gown around her shoulders. “Wait in the garderobe and I’ll tell him you’re busy.” She giggled nervously as Matilda fled for the little archway in the corner of the room.
Standing motionless among the hanging clothes just inside the doorway behind the leather curtain, shivering in the draft from the open closet hole, Matilda held her breath and listened. There was a moment’s silence, and then she heard William’s irritated exclamation as he saw that the bed was empty.
“Your lady will be back in a moment.” Megan’s voice was as firm as ever, Matilda heard, and she imagined Megan gesturing modestly toward the doorway where she was hidden. To her surprise William made no comment. There was a pause as he fumbled with the lid of a coffer, then she heard his loud step as he left the bedchamber and the squeak and clatter of his chain mail as he ran down the spiral stairs again. She emerged to find Megan pulling her gown from beneath a cover on the bed.
“Lucky I thought to hide it, madam, isn’t it?”
“What was my husband wearing, Megan?” Matilda was puzzled. “Surely he wasn’t armed for a feast?” She held up her arms as the other woman slipped the fine green cloth over her head and began to lace it up the back.
“He was wearing a hauberk, madam, then he took his tunic and mantle from over there”-she indicated the rail on the far side of the room-“and put them on over it. I suppose he can’t bring himself to trust his guest quite, even when by custom our people always leave their arms by the door when they accept a man’s hospitality.” She smiled a little ruefully. “And Prince Seisyll is the Lord Rhys’s brother-in-law, and
Matilda smiled and touched her arm gently. “Of course he is, Megan. I expect William is just being careful, that’s all, out of habit.”
She bit her lips hard to bring out the red in them, and lifted a small coffer onto the table to find her jewelry and her rouge. “Are you going to attend at the back of the hall?”
“Oh, yes, indeed, as soon as you’ve gone down. I want to see all the finery and hear the music.” Megan deftly twisted Matilda’s hair up and around her head and helped Nell adjust the veil and the barbette that framed her face.
They were pulling the folds of her surcoat of scarlet and golden thread into place and tying the heavy girdle when they heard the trumpet summons to the banquet from the great hall below. Megan looked up in excitement as the notes rose to the high rafters and echoed around the castle. Matilda met her gaze for a moment, holding her breath, then impatiently she gestured at the woman to go down the stairs and peep at the scene. She wanted to time her entrance exactly.
Nell had secured herself a place at the feast by cajoling the chataleine, and she glanced at Matilda for permission to go as Megan returned, her soft shoes making no sound on the stone.
“They are seated, madam. They have washed their hands and wine has been called for. They’re bringing in the boars’ heads now. You must hurry.” She was breathless with excitement.
Without a word Matilda crossed to the top of the stairs and, taking a deep breath, began to tiptoe down. She was scared now the moment had come, but she refused to let herself think about what would happen if William sent her away in front of everyone. She was too excited to turn back.
At the foot of the stairs she waited, her back pressed against the stone wall, just out of sight of the noisy hall. It was lit with torches and hundreds of candles, although it was full day outside, and a haze of smoky heat was already drifting in the rafters and up the stairs past her toward the cooler upper floors of the tower. The noise was deafening. Cautiously she edged a step or two farther and peered around the corner.
The archway where she stood was slightly behind her husband and his guests at the high table, and in the deep shadow she was satisfied that she would not be seen.
The prince, she could see, was seated at William’s right hand. He was clean shaven and his dark hair was cut in a neat fringe across his eyes. He was finely arrayed in a sweeping yellow cloak and tunic and she could see a ring sparkling on his hand as he raised it for a moment. He had thrown back his head with laughter at some remark from a man on his right.
Then, as she was plucking up the courage to slip from her hiding place and go to his side, William rose to his feet, and she saw him produce a roll of parchment. He knocked on the table for silence with the jeweled handle of his dagger and then, with it still clutched in his hand, looked around at the expectant hall.
Matilda stayed hidden, scanning the crowded tables, trying to recognize faces she knew. There was Ranulph Poer, one of the king’s advisers for the March, with his foxy face and drooping eye, who had visited them on numerous occasions in the summer at Bramber. And there too at the high table was plump, white-haired Philip de Braose, her husband’s uncle, and between them a youth of about fifteen, not much younger than she. That must be the prince’s son, she thought, and as he turned for a moment to lean back in his chair and look at his father she saw his sparkling eyes and flushed face. He is as excited as I am, she realized suddenly, and she envied the boy who was sitting there by right while she had to resort to subterfuge. To her surprise there were no other faces that she recognized. And there were no women at the high table at all, just as William had said. She had expected him to have invited many of the men whom she knew to be neighbors on the Welsh March, but as Walter Bloet had complained, none of them was present.
William was scrutinizing the parchment in his hand as if he had never seen it before. She could see the ugly blue vein in his neck beginning to throb above his high collar. His mail corselet was entirely hidden by his robe.
“My lords, gentlemen,” William began, his voice unnaturally high. “I have asked you here that you may hear a command from the high and mighty King Henry regarding the Welshmen in Gwent.” He paused and, raising his goblet, took a gulp of wine. Matilda could see his hand shaking. The attention of everyone in the hall was fixed on him now, and there was silence, except for some subdued chatter among the servants at the back and the growling of two dogs in anticipation of the shower of scraps that they knew was about to begin. Matilda thought she could see Megan leaning against one of the serving men at the far end of the hall, and briefly she wondered why the woman wasn’t seated at one of the lower tables if her husband was a steward. Nell, she had seen at once, had found herself a place immediately below the dais.
Prince Seisyll had leaned back in his carved chair and was looking up at William beside him, a good-natured smile on his weathered face.
“This is an ordinance concerning the bearing of arms in this territory,” William went on. “The king has decreed that in future this shall no longer be permitted to the Welsh peoples, under…” He broke off as Prince Seisyll sat
