groped in the purse at her girdle for a quarter penny. She took a deep breath and, holding aside the hangings, opened the door.
The large solar behind it was full of women. Hawise Fitzherbert, Countess of Gloucester, large and florid, was surrounded by her tiring women, her voice, shrill with impatience and ill-humor, clearly floating above the subdued chatter around her. She turned as Matilda came in and, catching sight of her, raised her narrowly plucked eyebrows till they almost vanished into her hairline.
“Not another one. Has every woman in the country been sent to attend us?” She pursed her mouth sourly.
“The king, Lady Gloucester, asked me to attend your daughter today.” Matilda, her cheeks burning, bobbed a small curtsy, conscious of the eyes that were all focused on her.
The woman snorted. “You and who else? Well, madam, and who might you be?”
“Matilda de Braose, Countess.” Matilda took a deep breath, determined not to be put out.
“Never heard of you.” The woman seemed determined to be ill-natured. She turned to take a brooch from an attendant and then paused as another lady stepped from the throng.
“Lady de Braose is the wife of Sir William, Countess, Lord of Brecknock in the middle March. It is a great honor that she should wait upon the little lady during her betrothal to Prince John.” She spoke in a stage whisper, designed to be heard by everyone in the room, and Matilda saw the countess pause and frown, looking at her again, and she blessed her unknown champion.
She drew herself up. “Where is the Lady Isabella? May I offer her my greetings?”
The countess held herself upright, holding in her stomach as her gown was laced up, and then held out her arms for her girdle. “You can try,” she said grudgingly. “She’s sniveling in the garderobe.”
With a swift glance at Elen, Matilda strode across the room. The women stepped back to let her pass and she could feel their eyes uncomfortably on her back, but her attention was fixed on the little side room from where she could hear the sound of heartbroken sobs.
In the corner, huddling on the floor beneath a rail of hanging clothes, a little girl was weeping as though her heart would break, clutching a rag doll. A large plump-faced nurse bent over her, coaxing, and behind, two maids hovered, clutching a selection of gowns and little mantles with which they were obviously hoping to dress her.
“What’s the matter?” Matilda demanded, looking down at the child. She was horrified to see the little girl dirty and unkempt. Her hair was tangled with grass and there were dark smudges beneath her eyes.
“She tried to run away, madam, that’s what’s the matter.” The nurse gave up coaxing and stood, her hands on her hips, looking down at the child in exasperation. “Here we are, with everyone nearly ready to go to the abbey, and the child refuses to dress. She says she wants none of the king’s son. Imagine! How dare she, the little minx. You wait till her father gets wind of this. He’ll take the strap to her buttocks until they’re raw.”
The little girl gave another sob and clutched her doll more tightly.
“Well, he won’t get to hear of it,” said Matilda quietly, trying resolutely to keep her temper with the insensitive woman. Her heart went out to the little girl. She had a sudden vivid picture of her own betrothal to William. She too had been a child, not much older than this one. She who had dreamed of a tall, radiant, chivalrous knight had been informed by her father with excitement of the great honor that had been done his family, that she had been chosen by the stocky, ill-tempered baron whose reputation even then was marred by cruelty and viciousness. Her first reaction too had been to run away. But then she sat down on her favorite spot on the hill and thought about her duty and, at heart a realist, about what chance she had of ever having a better offer of marriage. She had come home, apologized to her frightened mother, wheedled her angry father, and resigned herself to making the most of it, comforting herself with the thought that she was to be a great lady. But could she persuade this child to see the sense in that? This little girl whose real world was still peopled by dolls and puppies and her snow-white pony.
“Please, nurse, will you leave us for a while?” She turned and forced herself to give the agitated woman her most brilliant smile. “I’d like a little talk with Isabella.”
The woman drew herself up to argue, but already Elen, who had followed close at her mistress’s heels, was pushing her out, and the two protesting maids with her. Then she stood, her back to the doorway, panting.
“Silly women,” she muttered. “Clucking like so many chickens, they are indeed. Poor
Matilda knelt down in the rushes and held out her arms to the little girl. “Come here, Isabella, my love. Tell me what’s wrong. Why are you so unhappy?”
Whether it was the sympathy in her voice, or the sight of a stranger, she couldn’t tell, but Isabella, with another strangled sob, scrambled to her feet and rushed to her, throwing herself into Matilda’s outstretched arms.
“There, there, child. There, there.” Matilda rocked her gently for a while, touched by the feel of the tiny, frail body, so thin beneath the skimpy clothes. Then as the child’s sobbing grew less, she pushed back the fair hair from her hot face and smiled gently at her. “Come on, sweeting, tell me what’s wrong.”
“I don’t want to be betrothed.” Isabella sniffed loudly. “I hate John. He’s a bad, wicked boy. I don’t want to be married to him, ever.”
“Why, Isabella? Why not? Why do you think he’s wicked?”
“He pulls the wings off sparrows.” The ready tears spilled over again as the little girl buried her head in Matilda’s shoulder. “He likes hurting things. He told me. And when I belong to him, he said he could hurt me. And he said he could make me cry.”
“Christ blast that boy!” Matilda swore under her breath. She exchanged glances with Elen over the child’s head. “Listen, Isabella. John only said that to tease. He would never hurt you. He couldn’t. After mass in the abbey there will be a lovely party, and then you are to stay with your mother and father until you’re grown up. John probably won’t come near you again. And when you marry him, years and years from now, you’ll be a princess. You’ll be the most beautiful princess there ever was.” She smiled down at the drawn, pale little face. “Come on, remember you’re a great lady. Ladies must never be afraid.” She dropped a kiss on the tangled hair. “Now, will you let your nurse comb you and wash you and get you ready?”
“But I saw him.” The little girl was shaking still. “He pulled the wings till the bird screamed.”
Matilda shivered. “I’ll ask my husband to tell the king. John should be whipped for such cruelty.”
“You promise?” Isabella rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand.
“I promise.” Gently Matilda pushed her from her lap. “Now come on, there’s not much time.”
The nurse reappeared so swiftly it was obvious she had been listening outside the doorway. Half resentful of Matilda, half relieved that her charge had calmed down, she pushed her way to the child’s side.
“Would you credit that boy,” she muttered as she stripped the little girl and began rubbing the frail body with a cloth wrung out in a jug where the water had long since grown cold. “They sat there yesterday, side by side, when his grace the king brought them together, neat as two pins they were, both scrubbed and combed, and we saw John whispering to her. Then he took her by the hand and led her away. Lady Gloucester was that pleased, she was. Then the child comes racing in, screaming the place down. The earl was furious,
Outside in the solar the other women had been too preoccupied with the Countess of Gloucester’s grumblings to pay much attention to what was going on in the garderobe, so when Matilda emerged, holding Isabella, now neat and clean and dry-eyed, by the hand, there was a moment’s astonished silence.
“Well,” her mother said at last. “About time too.” Ignoring Matilda with calculated disdain, she went to take her daughter’s hand. But Isabella snatched it away, clinging to Matilda and dodging behind her out of her mother’s reach. Exasperated, the countess gave up without any further effort.
“Oh, for pity’s sake, you go with the child if she cares for you so much,” she snapped. “Stay with her and see she behaves. I want no more trouble.”
Her heart beating with excitement, Matilda took Isabella’s hand again and led the way out of the room. Outside she could hear the trumpet calls as the procession lined up to await the king.
St. Peter’s Abbey was packed. They walked slowly up the nave between the lofty columns that vanished into smoky darkness high overhead, where the painted colors were still blackened and tarnished by the disastrous fire that had swept the church fifty years earlier. Matilda caught her breath with excitement and unconsciously clutched Isabella’s hand even tighter. The abbey blazed with candles, and every light was reflected a dozen times in the
