chair with a back, I should imagine. If there’s anything you need, or any help wanted, send for me. I’m usually there when I’m not traveling around the diocese.” He stepped forward and took her hand earnestly. “I’ll take my leave now, I can see you’re tired. But remember, I’m there if you need me.”
John Picard raised an eyebrow as Gerald left. “An intense young man, that. But I’m glad he’s here. He’ll keep an eye on you till your husband comes.” He leaned back, tucking his thumbs comfortably into his belt.
It was from Sir Robert Mortimer that she at last understood the full extent of the danger in which she stood and which the Picards had managed to keep from her throughout the winter. John Picard had left at dawn the next morning, bidding her a cheerful good-bye and leaving her with a smacking kiss on the cheek, then Sir Robert had found his way to Matilda’s side.
“I’ve ordered a double guard, my lady, on the walls and on the gate, and I’ve told them to keep the townsfolk out for now,” he reported.
“Why?” She stopped clearing a pile of linen from the table and turned to look at him, puzzled. Nell went on folding the material, but her eyes too were fixed on the constable’s face.
“We cannot take any risks with you here at Brecknock, my lady. Things have been peaceful this winter. We’ve had no trouble, but now you’re here I’d expect them to have a go at you.” He clenched his fist over the hilt of his sword.
“Have a go? Who?” Matilda narrowed her eyes.
“The Welshies of course, my lady. An eye for an eye; a death for a death, all that. You’ve heard of the
She looked puzzled and he shook his head. “The blood feud. They will seek revenge, my lady. It’s the law of these hills. Then, no doubt, if they get it, your descendants and relatives will seek theirs in their turn and so on it will go. It’s the way the Marches takes their justice.”
Matilda shivered. “So Seisyll’s wife died?”
He shrugged. “As to that, I haven’t heard for sure. But we’ve got to assume you’ll be a target, with Sir William away at Windsor or wherever. Did the Picards not warn you?”
Matilda licked her lips nervously. “Yes, they did mention it. Lady Picard told me of the feud, but I paid no attention-I was ill…I must have put them in great danger while I was there.” She walked over toward the hearth, her light-green skirts sweeping the rushes. “They sheltered me all winter, Sir Robert, and never let me know that.”
Sir Robert rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “Aye, they’re good folk right enough.”
“Let the townspeople come and go as usual. I don’t want them to resent me from the start. Give me a bodyguard of some sort, that’ll be enough. These are my husband’s people after all, not Seisyll’s. I’m sure they’re not involved in any feud.”
Sir Robert frowned. He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “There’s something I think you should understand, my lady.” He looked at the floor, embarrassed. “The thing is, your husband is not exactly well liked by the people. These lordships came to him from the family of his lady mother. They do not like de Braose.” His voice trailed away into silence.
“All the more reason that I should make them like me, Sir Robert,” she flashed back at him. Then she smiled. “Please. Help me make friends with them. I should hate to feel that I have enemies here. Perhaps we can win them over if we try.”
He looked at her determined, eager face and grinned. “Well, my lady, if those are your orders, I’d be glad, for one. They’re not a bad crowd in Aberhonddu. We’ll guard you well and hope they’re not over-concerned with the doings in Gwent. Will you be sending messages to Sir William?”
She nodded. “I must. He should be told I’m here, and I want some of my servants from Bramber. Will you arrange for someone to go to find him? Meanwhile I’ll choose some women to serve me and we’ll make a start at trying to make this place comfortable.” She grinned, and turned back to help Nell with her task.
The next few days passed in a bustle of activity. As word got out that Lady de Braose was there, people from the small township below the castle walls began to make their way to her presence. She was called upon to act as arbiter and judge among them. They seemed to be accepting her. She had scarcely any time at all to herself, and almost forgot the worries and torments of the long winter. She found the people ready with their tithes of provisions and supplies, all eager and curious to see Sir William’s bride, all apparently prepared to be friendly.
She spent long mornings closeted with Hugh the bailiff, who had eventually turned up between two men-at- arms, so drunk he was unable to stand. She had curbed her initial desire to have him flogged and waited to see him when he was sober. And she was pleased she had done so. He was in his own way grateful for her restraint and proved himself a competent enough steward after his initial defensiveness had worn off. He took her on a tour of the barns, storerooms, pantries, and the cellar, proud that Brecknock should still be comparatively well stocked after the long winter.
She sat for many hours, however, pondering over his accounts, desperately trying to make sense of the squiggles on the pages before her, applying her limited knowledge of reading, knowing his taunting eyes were upon her, waiting for her to make a mistake.
At last, exasperated beyond measure, she summoned Father Hugo, the priest who had been sent by Gerald to take mass at the chapel each morning.
“Father, I need your help.” She looked up at him from Gerald’s elaborate chair by the fire. “I need to know how to read properly. Can you teach me?”
Together they pored over the account book for some time. Then Hugo straightened up and put his hand to his eyes. “I can hardly read this man’s hand myself,” he muttered at last. “Especially these last few pages. I’ll bring the mass book from the chapel for you. That at least I know is legible.”
Two days later Gerald was ushered into her presence. “I hear you want to learn to read,” he said without preamble. “Hugo is not the man to teach you, my lady. His eyes are too old to see the letters himself. I shall do it.”
“You, Archdeacon? But how will you spare the time?” She was a little nervous of the energetic, handsome young man and she glanced rather apprehensively at the volumes under his arm.
“I shall teach you to write as well,” he went on. “It is unthinkable that a lady of your standing should be unable to read and write with fluency. Writing is one of the greatest arts.”
She blushed. He made her feel suddenly inadequate. Secretly she had been proud of the way she was handling the situation at Brecknock. It was the first chance she had had of applying her skills in running a household without her mother-in-law breathing down her neck, and although the household was abbreviated and inadequate, she was pleased with the way she was managing with the people she was carefully recruiting to her service.
Each day while he was at Llanddeu Gerald rode down to the castle and spent an hour or two in her company. Sometimes they read from his own writings and from his poetry, which he proudly brought to show her, and sometimes from the books from his library. They also struggled together with the bailiff’s account books, and Gerald, his eyes sparkling with amusement, pointed out that the handwriting had markedly worsened from the day that Matilda had arrived at Brecknock and shown her determination to supervise his activities.
Almost at once she discovered to her consternation that Gerald proudly claimed kinship through his grandmother with Lord Rhys himself and that he knew all about the happenings at Abergavenny.
Since John Picard had left to ride home across the mountains to Tretower she had tried to put the memory of that terrible day out of her mind completely. It was easier than she expected because of her busyness at Brecknock, but sometimes, still, at nights, in spite of her exhaustion, the noise and stench of that bloody scene would return to her in horrifying nightmares from which she would awaken screaming. Also there was the baby. Each time it kicked she would shudder in revulsion as though it joined her by a cord to the treachery she wanted to forget. And now here was Gerald, sitting opposite her, a cup of wine in his hand, his thin, intense face serious as he gazed at her, forcing her to confront that terrible memory once more.
“Your husband was the instrument of cruel excesses, but I haven’t any doubt that others, more powerful even than he is, were the real instigators of the crime.” He leaned forward and looked at her intently. “You must not judge him, my lady. You do, don’t you?”
