But blighted or not, the baby grew and her own health improved. Nell tended her as best she could, and with her a new maid, Elen, one of Dame Picard’s women, an orphaned Welsh girl with a plump cheery face and an infectious smile who made Matilda laugh and stilled for a while with her stories and songs the deep restlessness within her. There was no word from William.
As the winter weather began to ease its iron grip Matilda longed more and more to leave Tretower. She wanted to travel on to Brecknock where at least she would be her own mistress in her husband’s castle. But it was nearly Easter before the weather broke at last and the first chilly primroses began to force their way from the iron ground into the fitful sunshine. Matilda had long given up the idea of taking a horse and riding alone to Brecknock, trusting on speed and surprise to get her there safely. Such tomboy escapades were beyond her now, but she was still resolved to go. Anxiously she watched the trees bending low before the March gales, willing the winds to dry the earth and make the roads passable. For that she had to wait until the first day of April. It was a beautiful bright breezy day, the trees tossing their buds, the river peaceful, the sky a pure azure.
She dressed herself quietly before the women with whom she shared the chamber were awake and slipped silently down into the great hall, where she knew John Picard would be taking some ale and bread before going out with his dogs.
He gazed at her appalled when she faced him with her cool demand for a litter and an escort to Brecknock, his eyes staring from beneath his heavy eyebrows, his mouth slightly open.
Then he turned to his wife, who had appeared at the door of the stillroom, an apron tied over her gown.
“She wants to leave us. She wants to go to Brecknock.”
“And will go, by your leave, John Picard.” Matilda smiled coolly down at him.
She turned to her hostess. “My mind is made up. I can’t impose on your kindness any longer.”
“But the danger!” Anne Picard stepped down into the hall and came to take her hands. “My dear, think of the dangers. And in your condition.”
Matilda flinched away and drew her mantle around her shoulders as though trying to conceal her thickened body. “There can be no danger if you will lend me a litter and an escort,” she repeated stubbornly.
She stood looking down at the couple, a tall, lonely girl, her face and hands grown thin, her eyes weary but resolute, and both knew that they would have to do as she asked.
John Picard insisted that he should ride with her to Brecknock, and Anne pressed on her the services of two of her own women, Margaret and Welsh Elen.
“There will be hardly any household over there, beyond the garrison,” she pointed out. “It’s no place for a woman. Oh, please change your mind. Stay, at least till the babe is born.” She gazed earnestly at Matilda’s face, unable to hide her anxiety, but the girl was adamant. She refused even Anne’s pleas that she postpone her start for a day or two to give them time to get ready. “No preparations are needed,” she announced firmly, trying to keep the impatience out of her voice. “Nell and Margaret and Elen can pack my boxes in the time it takes to harness the horses.” She was not prepared even to remove her cloak again while she waited. The restlessness of the past weeks had suddenly become unbearable.
She did feel a pang of sorrow as she hugged Anne before climbing into the waiting litter, but as she settled herself beneath the fur blankets excitement began to take over again. The women who were to go with her mounted their ponies, and John Picard, blowing a kiss toward his wife as she stood beneath the gateway, led the small cavalcade across the bridge.
Only a matter of minutes after they set out Matilda had begun to regret her impetuosity. She had not foreseen the horrors of traveling over the mountain tracks in a litter. She swayed and bumped inside the uncomfortable vehicle, unable to rest or balance, not knowing which way the next lurch would go.
John Picard rode close at her side, his hauberk over his linen shirt beneath a warm mantle, his helmet in place, his eyes ever searching the budding thickets and bramble scrub along the road. The day was bright and it seemed quiet, but he was certain that from the moment they clattered across the lowered drawbridge they were being watched.
Secretly he was very relieved to be seeing Matilda away from Tretower at last. He was genuinely concerned for her safety, but he had daily been expecting trouble from the Welshmen in the hills since the paths and tracks had reopened. They must know that the wife of de Braose was there and her life surely would be a fitting revenge for the death of their prince and his sons.
The castle of Brecknock was not prepared for its lady. The small garrison in the outer bailey lived in wooden lean-tos and small stone outbuildings within the outer wall. The private chambers inside the keep-the great hall and the solar above it-were bare.
Standing in the drafty, damp upper chamber, Matilda felt herself ready to weep. Never before had she arrived somewhere before it had been ready for occupation. Turning, she swept back down the newel stair into the main hall and confronted the constable of the castle.
“The place seems hardly prepared,” she said to him with a forced smile. “However, have your men light a fire so at least we can be warm. What is your name, sir?”
“Sir Robert Mortimer, my lady.” He gave a slight bow, turning to relay her orders to the men hovering in the doorway.
“Where is the chatelaine? Why isn’t she here to greet me?”
Sir Robert seemed embarrassed. “My wife died eighteen months back, my lady. The village women have done their best…”
“I’m sorry.” Matilda bit back the rude words that had been on the tip of her tongue. “Where, then, is the bailiff? I want him here by sundown.”
With energy born of despair she set about directing the inhabitants of the castle to work. Torches blazed in the sconces, the fire burned up at last, and wooden shutters were found and fastened over the narrow windows. John Picard lounged on a bench in the great hall, holding out his hands to the fire. The lack of comfort made no difference to him but he watched with admiration the figure of his hostess, still swathed in her mantle against the cold, as she moved from place to place directing operations. He saw her pause and look toward the door as a group of new figures appeared from the dusk outside.
“Clerics,” he muttered to himself. He had no time for the church but he was pleased to see them for her sake.
Matilda gazed at the senior among the black-robed figures and smiled uncertainly. He was a grave, thin man in his late twenties, dressed with restrained sumptuousness, his mantle trimmed with miniver that showed up the plain black habit of the monk at his side. His eyes, ranging around the hall, took in every detail of the place and of the lady standing in front of him. Then he bowed courteously and held out his hand in the gesture of benediction.
“I am Gerald, madam, Archdeacon of Brecknock.” He spoke softly and yet with great presence.
Matilda bowed her head to accept his blessing.
“I was with Prior John when I heard of your plight, my lady,” he went on. “Some of the lay brothers are bringing furnishings across for you and I have sent to my house at Llanddeu for other comforts that may help you. I am sorry you should find Brecknock so unready for you.”
“It’s my own fault.” She found herself responding to his warm smile. “I brought no retinue, Archdeacon. No escort except for the one John Picard there could spare me, out of his kindness. I was foolish to come, I suppose.”
He scrutinized her face for a moment and then grinned boyishly. “I can understand you wanting to come here. One’s home is always the best place to be, and I believe women in your condition frequently conceive such fancies. After all, where else should your child be born but here?”
She felt herself blushing at his outspokenness and, drawing her mantle more closely around her, she retreated to the fire where she stood and watched as two sandaled lay brothers from the priory carried in a folding stool and set it down near her. They were followed by others with trestles and tabletops for the dais, benches, and candlesticks. Finally a linen cloth was produced and carefully laid on the table. Matilda waited in silence as the hall was transformed. Slowly, through Gerald’s eyes, she was beginning to see the funny side of her undignified arrival. He had been watching her closely and he didn’t drop his eyes when she caught his stare, but grinned pleasantly once more. “Better?” he inquired humorously.
She laughed. “Much better, Archdeacon. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Don’t bother. My own reading chair is on its way down to you from Llanddeu. You will find it easier sitting on a
