darling Papa, don’t make me go with him, please-”
Hastily William stepped forward, his hands on her arms, and he dragged her off the bed. “Control yourself, madam,” he hissed at her sharply. “Come away. Can’t you see your father’s upset? Don’t make it worse. Come quickly.” His voice was rough.
Tearing herself free of his grip, Matilda rounded on him. “Don’t touch me!” she almost spat at him, her eyes blazing. “I’ll stay with my father as long as I please, sir!”
William was taken aback. He stepped forward awkwardly, frowning. “You must do as I say, Matilda. You’re my wife now.”
“Yes, I’m your wife, God pity me,” she whispered in anguish, “but I’m his daughter first.” She was shaking with fear and anger.
“Matilda, please.” Reginald stretched out painfully to lay his fingers on her arm. “Obey your husband, sweetheart. Leave me to sleep now.” He tried to smile, but his lids were falling. The familiar blackness was closing around him. “Go, sweetheart,” he mumbled. “Please go.”
With one longing agonized look at him Matilda turned away. She glanced at William as he reached forward to take her arm and then dodged past him, gathering her skirts in her hands and, blind with tears, ran toward the door.
The wedding feast was interminable. She only nibbled at the food on the platter in front of her that she shared with her husband. He was drinking vast quantities of wine, roaring with laughter at the bawdy jokes of the men near him, rocking toward her every so often, trying to plant a kiss on her cheek or her shoulder.
She gritted her teeth and reached for her own goblet. Trying not to let the tiny seed of panic inside her grow, she kept thinking of the peaceful warm glow of the candle in her father’s room and of the gentle, lined face on the pillow and the loving reassuring touch of his hands.
The bed was strewn with flowers. Matilda stood, clutching her embroidered bedgown tightly around her, not daring to look at her husband as he chased the last of the giggling women out of the room. His face was blurred with wine and lust as he turned triumphantly to her at last.
“So. My wife.” He leered a little, his own fur-trimmed gown held around his waist by a gilded leather girdle. She stood transfixed, her back to the high shuttered window, her hands once more tight fists at her sides. She was much taller than he, but so slight he could have snapped her in half with one blow from his enormous fist.
Her heart was beating very fast as he raised his hands to her shoulders. She wanted to push him away, to run, to scream, but somehow she forced herself to stand still as he loosed her girdle and thrust the gown back from her shoulders. She made no attempt to hold it as it fell, sliding from her unresponsive arms to the floor, billowing out in blues and silvers around her knees, leaving her standing before him, naked. Almost wonderingly he raised a hand and touched her shoulder, drawing his calloused fingers down across her breast. Then he seized her, crushing her to him, running his hand down her back, over her buttocks, fondling, caressing. Her hair fell in a dark auburn curtain across her face as he lifted her onto the bed, and she made no attempt to push it away. She lay limp after a first involuntary struggle of protest at what he did, biting her lips in pain, trying not to cry out as the agony of his thrusting tore through her and the first dark drops of blood stained the bridal sheets. Then at last with a grunt he rolled off her and lay still.
She remained dry-eyed in the dark and tried to ease her aching body on the hot mattress, not seeing the embroidered canopy that hung over the bed. Some of the flowers had been caught beneath them and crushed, and their sweet scent mingled with the reek of sweat and drying blood.
Reginald de St. Valerie died at dawn. Lying sleepless in her chamber watching the light pale in the stuffy room, Matilda had ceased to hear the regular snores of her husband. It was as if some part of her had slipped away to hover over the deathbed, watching her father, seeing his face relax without struggle at last into peace. “He waited to see me married,” she whispered into the dark. “He waited only for that.” And then she turned at last to her pillow and began to cry despairingly.
The day after the funeral the long procession of horses and wagons set off across a bleak autumnal southern England toward Sussex. Matilda rode, upright and proud, beside her husband, her face set. She was determined not to weep now, not to show any emotion to her husband or his followers. Somewhere behind her in the train of riders was Jeanne, her nurse. Jeanne had understood, had cradled her head and rocked her as she watched beside her father’s body. Jeanne had mixed her wine and herbs to drink, “
The elder William rode in front of them, the chestnut rump of his horse glistening beneath its gay caparison in the pale autumn sunlight. They were nearing a wayside chapel when Matilda, keeping her eyes fixed resolutely on her father-in-law’s broad back, was surprised to see him raise his hand, bringing the long procession to a halt. Then he turned in the high saddle. “I’ll wait, my son,” he announced curtly. Matilda glanced at her husband, who was dismounting. He ducked under his horse’s head and came to her side. “I always pray at holy places,” he announced self-righteously. “I should like you to accompany me.” He helped her down from the horse and, taking her arm, ushered her into the chapel. Puzzled, she glanced over her shoulder. No one else had made a move to join them. The entire cortege stood in the settling dust, disinterested, bored, as their lord’s eldest son and his bride ducked into the dark chapel. For some reason Matilda suddenly felt afraid.
She knelt reluctantly beside her husband as he prayed. No words came to her own lips; her throat was dry. The Virgin had not heeded her supplications when her help had been needed so much. Now it was too late. What was the point of praying?
She glanced sideways at William. His eyes were closed, the short sandy lashes veiling the pale irises, the coarse folded flesh of his chin resting on the thick wool of his blue mantle. On his shoulder there was a large circular brooch, at its center a purple amethyst. The stone caught a little spark of light from the candle at the shrine.
They stopped a dozen times like this on the long journey and each time Matilda, too afraid to refuse, alone dismounted with her husband. But not once did she try to pray.
Bramber Castle was built high on a hill overlooking the marshes that flanked the River Adur. From far away they could see the tall keep rising against the burnished blue sky while gulls circled the towers, their laughing cries echoing across the salty reed beds.
Bertha, daughter of Milo of Gloucester, heiress of Brecknock and Upper Gwent, the wife of Sir William de Braose and Matilda’s mother-in-law, was waiting for her husband and son in the lofty great hall. She was a stout woman of middle height, some years older than her husband, with white hair falling in long plaits to her waist. Her eyes were brown as hazelnuts and very shrewd. She kissed Matilda coolly and then held her at arms’ length, scrutinizing her closely until the girl felt herself blushing uncomfortably beneath the uncompromising gaze.
“So, my son’s bride,” Bertha announced at last. “Welcome to Bramber, child.” The words were not softened by a smile.
Then Bertha turned aside, drawing her son with her, and Matilda was left standing alone. After a moment, William’s father joined her. He smiled. “I hope it won’t seem too strange, my dear,” he murmured. “My son is a good man. Harsh sometimes, but good.”
Matilda lifted her green eyes to his and forced herself to return his smile, which was friendly enough. “Thank you, sir,” she whispered. “I am sure I shall do very well with William.” Happiness, they both knew, was not part of
