strange green eyes flecked with gold that she had from her dead mother. She was all he had left, this tall graceful girl. And he was all she had, and soon…He shrugged. He had made provision long ago for the future when he had betrothed her to William de Braose. And now the time had come.
“Sit here, Matilda. I must talk to you.” Feebly he patted the blankets that covered him, and the lines of his face softened as she took his hand, curling up beside him, tucking her long legs under her.
“Will you eat something today, Father? If I prepare it myself and help you with the spoon?” she coaxed, nestling close. “Please?” She could feel the new inexorable cold in his hand and it frightened her. Gently she pressed it to her cheek.
“I’ll try, Matilda, I’ll try.” He pushed himself a little farther up on the pillows with an effort. “But listen, sweetheart, there is something I must tell you first.” He swallowed, trying to collect his thoughts as he gazed sadly into her anxious face. So often he had hoped this moment would never come. That somehow, something would happen to prevent it.
“I have written to Bramber, Matilda. Sir William de Braose has agreed that it is time the marriage took place. His son could have married long since, but he has waited until you were of age. You must go to him now.” He tried not to see the sudden anguish on her face.
“But, Father, I can’t leave you, I won’t.” She sat up straight, her eyes bright with tears. “Nothing will make me leave you. Ever.”
He groped for her hand again and held it gently. “Sweetheart. It is I who must leave you, don’t you see? And I couldn’t die happy without knowing that you were wed. Please. To please me, go to him. Make him an obedient wife.”
He was seized by another fit of coughing and Matilda slipped from the end of the bed and ran to the pillow, cradling his head on her breast. Her eyes were full of tears as she clutched him, desperately clinging to him. “You can’t die, Father, you can’t. You’ll get well. You will. You always have before.”
The tears spilled over and dropped onto her father’s gray head. He looked up, trying to smile, and raised a shaky hand to brush her cheek. “Don’t cry, darling. Think. When you marry William you will be a great lady. And his mother will take care of you. Come, please don’t be so unhappy.”
“But I want to stay with you.” She still clung to him stubbornly. “I hate William, you know that. He’s ugly and he’s old and he smells.”
Reginald sighed. So often he had given her her way, this girl of his, and he longed to do so again. But this time he had to stand firm. For her own sake. He closed his eyes, smelling the lavender of her gown, remembering. She was so like her mother had been: willful, beautiful, wild…
Sleep came so suddenly these days. He could feel his lids drooping. There was no way to fight it. He supposed death would come like that and he welcomed the thought. He was too old now, too racked with pain to regret the young man’s dream of death on the field of battle. Smiling a little, he relaxed against her, feeling the soft warmth of her body, the gentle brush of her lips on his hair. Yes. She was very like her mother…
Instinctively Matilda ran first to the chapel for comfort. She pushed open a heavy door and peered in. It was empty. She could see the statue of Our Lady, lit by the single flickering candle that stood on the altar. After running to it, she crossed herself and knelt. “Please, Holy Mother, don’t let him die. You mustn’t let my father die. I won’t marry William de Braose, so there’s no point in trying to make me.” She gazed up at the serene stone face of the statue. It was cold in the chapel. A stray draft coming from the slit window high in the stone vault above the altar sent a shiver of cold down her spine and she wondered suddenly with a tremor of fear if anyone was listening to her at all, if there was anyone there to care. She pushed away the thought and, ashamed, she crossed herself again. “You must help me, Holy Mother, you must.” Her tears were blinding her again and the candlelight hazed and flickered. “There is no one else. If you don’t help me, I’ll never pray to you again. Never.” She bit her lip, scared by what she had said. She shouldn’t have done it, but the chapel held such echoing emptiness…
She scrambled to her feet then crept out, closing the door softly behind her. If she could find no comfort there, there was only one other thing to do. Ride. When you galloped fast into the wind you could forget everything but the speed and the cold and the power of the horse between your legs. She ran to the chamber she shared with her nurse and the two maidens who were supposed to be her friends, and rummaged through the rail, looking for her heaviest mantle.
“Matilda, come to your embroidery now,
After grabbing a fur-lined cloak, Matilda threw it around her shoulders and tiptoed to the door. Then, deaf to Jeanne’s indignant shouts, she pelted down the spiral stairs.
“Shall I come with you, young mistress?” The groom who held her excited horse knew as well as she that her father had forbidden her to ride alone.
She flung herself into the saddle. “Not this time, John. Blame me if anyone’s angry.” She raised her whip and set the horse across the high slippery cobbles of the courtyard at a canter. Once beyond the crowded muddy village she pushed the animal into a gallop, feeling her hair stream behind her in the cold wind. Galloping like this, fast, she didn’t have time to think. Not about her poor, sick father, or about the squat, red-haired man at Bramber who was destined to become her husband. Nothing mattered out here. Here she was free and happy and alone.
At the top of the hill she reined in breathlessly, pushing her tangled hair back as the wind tugged it across her eyes. She turned to look back at the village far away in the valley, and her father’s castle behind it. I need never go back, she thought suddenly. If I don’t want to, I need never go back. I could ride and ride and ride and they would never find me. Then she thought of Reginald lying so pale in his chamber, and imperceptibly she straightened her shoulders. For his sake she would go back. For his sake she would marry William de Braose. For his sake she would go to the end of the world if he asked it of her.
Sadly she turned the horse and began to pick her way back down the steep track.
For two days before the wedding the attendants of the de Braose household crowded them out, overspilling from the small castle and its walls into tents and marquees on the edge of the village. Old Sir William, a wiry hawklike man with piercing gray eyes, spent much of his time closeted with Matilda’s father while his son hunted across the hills, sparing no time for his betrothed. Matilda was extremely glad. She had been horrified by her glimpse of the younger William, whom she had barely remembered from their introduction at their betrothal years before. She had forgotten, or perhaps then he had been different. His reddish hair and beard now framed a coarse, heavily veined face with an uncompromisingly cruel mouth. He had kissed her hand once, running his eye expertly up her body, judging her, Matilda thought furiously, as if she had been a filly he was contemplating buying for his stable, then he turned away, more interested in his host’s hunting dogs than in his bride.
Reginald was too ill even to be carried in a litter to the wedding ceremony, so he summoned his daughter and new son-in-law to his room as soon as they returned from the parish church. Matilda had spent the first part of the day in a frozen daze. She allowed herself to be dressed in her finest gown and mantle without interest. She followed Jeanne down to the hall and gave her arm to old Sir William without a flicker of emotion on her face. Then she walked with him to the church without any sign that she heard or even saw the gay procession of men and women who followed them. But her fists were bunched so tightly into her skirt that her nails had bitten into her palms. “Please, Holy Mother, don’t let it happen. Please, Holy Mother, don’t let it happen.” She was murmuring the phrase over and over again under her breath like a magic charm. If she kept on saying it, without stopping, it would work. It must work.
She scarcely saw when Sir William left her side in the church porch and his son took his place. She didn’t hear a word of the service as the old half-blind priest gabbled the form, shivering in his surplice as the autumn leaves tossed around them and a few drops of icy rain splattered in under the porch roof. Even later, as she knelt to kiss her father’s hand, she was dazed. It was not until he put gentle fingers beneath her chin and tilted it a little to look into her face, murmuring “Be happy, sweetheart, and pray for your old father” that her control broke. She flung herself at him, clinging to him, her fingers wound into the wool of the blankets. “Please, please don’t die. Darling,
