ostentatiously, taking in with one quick, satisfied glance the swell of her belly beneath the flowing lines of her gown.
“How are you, my lady? I meant to be with you long before this but the king kept me with him.”
She raised her eyes from the floor to look at him, expecting to see anger and resentment there, but his eyes, behind the sternness of his face, were indifferent.
She forced herself to smile. “I am glad to see you, my lord. Very glad.” Her gaze met his for an instant. He straightened his back, pulling his cloak higher up on his shoulder, and when he followed her back into the hall it was with a confident swagger. The moment of nervousness he had felt under the scrutiny of his wife’s cool green eyes with their strange amber flecks had passed. He stuck his fingers jauntily into his girdle. He owed her no explanations; nor any man, save the king.
She herself poured the mulled wine that was awaiting him and stood beside him in silence while he drank. When he handed her back the goblet with gruff words of thanks he stood awkwardly for a moment looking at her as though about to say something else. But whatever it was, he changed his mind abruptly. He turned away, shouting commands to his men, and left her alone by the fire.
It took only a day for the castle to be transformed by the comforts carried in William’s baggage train. Hangings appeared on the walls of the great bedchamber and cushions and fine sheets and covers replaced the rougher wear lent by the Benedictines from the priory. Two men were sent at once with the archdeacon’s best chair, up the winding track to his house at Llanddeu.
Matilda continued without interruption her running of the castle, calling before her determinedly one by one the officers of her husband’s household and making it clear that, while they should all continue their duties, she intended to oversee their activities herself in future as the mistress of the household, and that the servants she had taken on were to be assimilated into it. To her intense disappointment Jeanne was not among the train, and she did not like to ask William why the old nurse had chosen to remain at Bramber. She couldn’t prevent herself from crying about it in the secrecy of the great bed, however. She had so much wanted Jeanne to be there when the baby was born. Jeanne could comfort her and help her, and would know what to do if anything went wrong.
Of William she saw little. He was constantly busy, riding to outlying castles or closeted with his scribes, writing endless long-winded letters that, according to Hugh, kept the clerks so busy that William had to pay them extra money to finish them. At night William slept in an upper chamber above hers. She was heavy and lethargic now, with the baby so close, and had dreaded that he might try to force his attentions on her even though but two months remained until the baby was due, but he remained distantly polite. Of Abergavenny they never spoke at all, and all her tormented questions, so long suppressed, remained unanswered.
It wasn’t long before she noticed the small blond serving wench so often at her husband’s side, giggling as he pressed sweetmeats and baubles on her. “He’ll not grow cold at night, that’s for sure, madam, with that puss to keep him warm,” Elen commented tartly, seeing her lady’s eyes following the girl around the hall, and Matilda forced herself to smile.
Gerald continued to visit the castle but less frequently. He combined his visits with journeys through the diocese and seemed suddenly even more preoccupied than before with church affairs. Matilda missed his attention and the talks they used to have, but she was less inclined to make any effort now, and thankfully set aside her reading save where she had to go over the household accounts. Now William’s steward Bernard was there to do it for her, and she had only to supervise him and soothe his occasional quarrels with Hugh.
The soft warmth of June succeeded the windy days of May at last. She began to spend long hours in the small garden she was making between the kitchen buildings and the chapel, tending the seedlings she had planted and pulling the ever-strangling weeds. Her three women were constantly with her, helping her to her feet after she had knelt too long on the grass and scolding her when she dirtied her fingers in the earth, never leaving her alone, crowding her till sometimes she wanted to scream. She dreamed often of her lonely hillside vigils as a girl, far from crowded castles, and fought to keep herself shouting out loud with frustration.
“Oh, God! When will this waiting be over!” She rounded on Margaret at last. “I shall go mad. How do women put up with it!”
Margaret looked shocked. “It’s our place, my lady. We must be patient like the Holy Virgin.”
“The Holy Virgin was a saint, I’m not,” Matilda retorted. She pulled viciously at a string of bindweed. “If it wasn’t for this garden I would throw myself off the top of the keep. I never dreamed childbearing could be so awful.”
Margaret lowered her eyes, embarrassed. “My lady, it’s not for much longer,” she whispered soothingly.
“It’s long enough. Every minute is too long. And we need rain for these godforsaken herbs. Why doesn’t it rain?” She stared up, furious, at the clear blue sky, determined to be out of temper. Nearby Nell and Elen were sitting on the wall chatting quietly together, their veils pulled forward around their faces to keep off the sun.
Matilda put her hand up to Margaret’s shoulder and pulled herself heavily from the ground, shaking out her skirts. From the forge on the far side of the bailey came the sound of hammering and the hiss of a horseshoe going into cold water. She looked around, vaguely soothed by the familiar sights, but only the promise she had made to herself that once she was free from the burden of the child she would ride up to see Gerald in his own house bolstered her in the long dreary days. She put her hand to her back wearily. The lying-in woman had been at the castle now for two weeks. The wet nurse had been chosen and sat this very moment on the steps of the chapel, suckling her child in the drowsy sun, oblivious of the horses that stamped around her, waiting their turn at the forge.
Throwing down her trowel, Matilda lowered herself onto the little wall beside Elen. She had had it built bounding the garden on the side that faced the bailey, and although it was designed to keep marauding dogs and animals out and keep the hooves of excited horses from the tender young plants, it made a useful seat. She turned to watch the activity in the bailey beyond. On the far side of the cobbled area beyond the kitchens a knot of Welshmen stood talking together urgently, their excitable lilt plainly audible above the noise of the horses. Then, as she listened idly to the unintelligible music of their speech, they suddenly fell silent, listening to one of their number who, with waving arms and much gesticulation, had moved into the center of the group. They all looked at each other and then to her surprise over their shoulders toward her, and she saw that they were crossing themselves and making the sign against the evil eye.
“What’s the matter with those men?” she asked uneasily.
Elen, following her gaze, smiled a little ruefully. “They’ll be talking about the green water, my lady. I heard in the hall this morning. It’s magic, so they say, and a message from God.”
“Green water?” Matilda turned to her with a little frown. “I’ve heard nothing of this. Tell me about it.”
“It’s nothing, my lady. Stupid gossip, that’s all,” Margaret interrupted hastily. “Don’t be foolish, Elen, talking like that. It’s serfs’ talk.” Her plump face flushed with anxiety.
“It’s not indeed,” Elen defended herself hotly. She put her hand up to the irrepressible curly hair that strayed from her veil no matter how hard she tried to restrain it. “Everyone was talking about it this morning. It happened before, a hundred years ago, so they say, and then it was a warning from God that he was displeased about a terrible murder there had been.” The blue eyes in her freckled face were round with importance. “It’s a warning so it is.”
Matilda shivered as though the cold shadow of the mountains had reached out and fallen over her. “If it’s a warning,” she said quietly, “it must be meant for me. Where is this water, Elen?”
“It’s Afon Llynfi, madam, and the Lake of Llangorse that it flows from, up in the Black Mountains yonder.” She crossed herself hastily. “They say it is as green as emeralds and runs like the devil’s blood the whole way down to the Wye.”
Nell pushed a furious elbow into her companion’s side. “Be quiet,” she hissed. She had seen Matilda’s face, chalk-white, and the expression of horror in her eyes. “It’s stupid to talk like that, Elen. It’s all nonsense. It’s nothing more than pondweed. I heard Hugh the bailiff say so himself. He’s been down to Glasbury to take a look at it.”
Matilda did not seem to have heard. “It is a warning,” she whispered. “It’s a warning about my child. God is going to punish my husband for his cruelties through my son.” She stood up, shivering.
“Nonsense, my lady. God would never think of such a thing.” Margaret was crisply practical. “Elen had no business to repeat such stupid gossip to you. No business at all.” She glared at Elen behind Matilda’s back. “It’s all a fantasy of these people. They’re touched in the head.” She looked disdainfully at the group of Welshmen still huddled near the kitchens. “Now, my lady, you come in and lie down before the evening meal. You’ve been too long
