abruptly upright, slamming his fist on the table.
“What!” he roared. “What does Henry of England dare to decree for Gwent?”
William paused for a moment, looking down at the other man, his face expressionless, and then slowly and deliberately he laid the parchment down on the table, raised the hand that still held his dagger, and brought the glinting blade down directly into the prince’s throat.
Seisyll half rose, grasping feebly at William’s fingers, gurgled horribly, and then collapsed across the table, blood spewing from his mouth over the white linen tablecloth. There was a moment’s total silence and then the hall was in an uproar. From beneath their cloaks William’s followers produced swords and daggers, and as Matilda stood motionless in the doorway, transfixed with horror, they proceeded to cut down the unarmed Welsh. She saw Philip de Braose lift his knife and stab the young prince in the back as the boy rose to try to reach his father, then Philip and Ranulph together left the table and ran for the door, hacking with their swords as they went. William was standing motionless as he watched the slaughter all around him, the blood of his victim spattered all over his sleeve. His face was stony.
Above the screams and yells a weird and somehow more terrible sound echoed suddenly through the vaulted wooden roof of the hall. A man-at-arms had plunged his sword through the heart of the old harper, who, seated with his instrument, had been waiting to serenade his prince’s host. The old man fell forward, clutching wildly at the strings so that they sang in a frightening last chord and then, as he sprawled to the floor, Matilda saw the soldier slice through the strings of the harp, the blade of his sword still drenched with its owner’s blood.
7
Slowly she became aware of the pain in her hands and, looking blindly away for the first time from the terror of the scene in front of her, she stared at them. For a moment she could not focus her eyes at all in the darkness, but then as the flickering torchlight played over the wall where she stood hidden she realized she was clinging to the rough-hewn architrave of the arch as though her life depended on it, and where her nails had clawed at the uneven surface her fingers were bleeding. There were smears of blood on the pale stone-her own blood.
It was the last thing she saw. In the grip of a numbing horror that mercifully blotted out the sound of the boy’s desperate screams, she began to grope her way along the wall. Her gown and shift were drenched with sweat and she could feel the sour taste of vomit in her mouth as she dragged herself back up the spiral stairs, tripping on her long skirts in her haste to escape to the upper room before she collapsed.
The only sound she could hear was her own breath, coming in tight dry gasps that tore painfully at her ribs and caught in her throat, threatening to choke her and, once, the sob of agony that escaped her as she stumbled on her hem and fell heavily, flinging out her hands to save herself with a jar that seared through her wrists and into her injured fingers.
The bedchamber was deserted. The rushlights had died in a smoky smell of tallow and the only illumination came from the fire. After climbing dazed onto the bed she lay rigid, listening to the pine logs hissing and spluttering as they showered sparks onto the floor, where they glowed for a moment before going out. The distant sound of a shout echoed up the stairs and she turned over convulsively, pulling the covers over her head, trying to blot out the noise. Then all went black at last and she felt herself spinning down into silence.
Sometime later she stirred uneasily in her sleep, still hugging the pillow to her face. She half awakened and lay still, listening. A voice was calling her name in the distance, trying to rouse her and bring her back, calling a name again and again. She listened, half roused. But she resisted. She did not want to wake. She could not face the terror that consciousness would bring.
“Let her sleep. She will wake by herself in the end!”
The words echoed in her head for a moment, so clear they must have been spoken from beside the bed; then, as she turned her face away, they receded once more and she fell back into the dark.
When she next woke the room was absolutely silent. There were no voices, no sounds from below in the great hall. She lay for a while, her face still buried in the fur of the bedcover, too stiff and dazed to move, feeling its rancid hair scratchy against her mouth and nose, then at last she managed to raise herself a little and try to turn over. At once her head began to spin and she was overwhelmed with nausea. With a sob she fell back onto the bed.
A hand touched her shoulder and something cool and damp and comforting was pressed gently to the back of her neck.
“I’ll help you, my lady, shall I?” Megan’s voice was little more than a whisper.
At the sound of it Matilda forced herself to lift her head. Then reluctantly she pulled herself up onto one elbow and looked around.
“Megan? Megan, is it you? Tell me it’s not true. It’s not. It’s not…” Her voice broke. “It must not be true.”
The room was dark as she groped for the woman’s hands and held them fast. Slowly as her sight adjusted to the gloom she could just see Megan’s face in the dying glow of the fire. Her eyes were shut and tears streaked her cheeks as, wordlessly, Megan shook her head.
They remained unmoving for a long time, huddled together on the bed, their hands tightly clasped as they listened to the logs shifting on the hearth. Then at last Matilda pulled herself up against the pillows.
“How long have I been asleep?” she said. Her voice sounded strange and high to her ears. “Where is my… where is William?” She could not bring herself to call him her husband.
Megan opened her eyes wearily and sat motionless for a moment, staring in front of her. Then she shook her head, unable to speak.
“Is he still here, in the castle?”
“
“His babies?” Matilda whispered. “William has ordered the death of Seisyll’s babies?” She stared at Megan in disbelief. “But surely there are guards? There will be men there to protect them?”
“How? When all the prince’s men came with him, thinking there is peace between King Henry and the men of Gwent, trusting the King of England’s honor!” The gentle face had twisted with hatred.
“I must stop them.” After pushing the covers aside, Matilda climbed shakily from the bed. Her feet were bare but she did not notice. Megan did not move as she made her way to the top of the stairs and listened for a moment to the silence that was broken only by the howl of the wind outside the walls. Steeling herself, Matilda began to tiptoe down, her feet aching from the cold stone.
The great hall was empty. The rushes on the floor had been swept away, leaving the flagstones glistening with water. The tables had been stacked and the chairs and benches removed. It was absolutely empty. Moving silently on her bare feet, Matilda crossed to the center of the floor and looked around. The echoing vault of the roof was quiet now and the fire had died. Two or three torches still burned low in their sconces, but there was no one to tend them and they flared and smoked by turns in the draft. The only smell that remained was the slight aroma of roasting beef.
“Sweet Jesus,” she breathed. She crossed herself fearfully as her eyes searched the empty shadowy corners, but nothing stirred. There were no ghosts yet of the dead.
Forcing herself to move, she left the hall and went in search of her husband. The solar, the guardroom, the kitchens, and the stores were all empty. And the chapel, where the wax candles had burned almost to the stub. The whole keep was deserted. Reluctantly she turned at last to the entrance and, walking out, stood looking down into the dark bailey courtyard below.
It was full of silent people. Every man, woman, and child from the castle and the township appeared to be there, standing around the huge pile of dead. Behind them some of William’s guards stood muttering quietly, looking uneasily around them into the shadows or toward the lowered drawbridge. They all appeared to be waiting for something-or someone. Nowhere was there a sign of the dark twisted face that belonged to her husband.
Matilda stepped out over the threshold and walked slowly down the flight of wooden steps. She was half- conscious of the inquiring faces turned toward her on every side, but her eyes were fixed on the bodies of the dead. The Welsh moved aside to let her pass and watched as she walked, head and shoulders taller than most of them, a stately slim figure in her gold and scarlet gown, to stand before her husband’s victims. An icy wind had arisen. It
