parchment. “The Welsh are restless. I don’t like it. We’ve had reports that trouble is coming. I’ll be glad to have your men here while we finish. I can spare very few of mine for guard duty.” He glanced almost distastefully at Matilda. “Is your wife staying here?”
“Thank you, no,” she replied, stiffly, conscious of all her old dislike for the man flooding back. “I plan to travel on to Tretower, if you can spare me an escort.” She tried to keep the edge of sarcasm out of her voice. It was wasted on Poer, though.
“Spare her the minimum, de Braose. We need those men here.” He stabbed the table once more with his finger, before turning on his heel. “I can smell trouble, and I want to be prepared.”
“It seems he’s worried too.” William threw down his riding gloves after Poer had stamped out, and held his hands to the fire, glancing around at the bare stone walls and the piles of unshaped stones still lying in heaps in the far corner below the dais. “You’d be best out of here, Moll. It’ll not be comfortable anyway. Make your way as quickly as you can out of Gwent and into Brycheiniog.” He thought for a moment, scratching his head. “I think you must give up your idea of going to Tretower. It takes you too close to Abergavenny, just in case that woman spoke the truth. Ride the direct route through the mountains from Llantilio to Llanthony. The good fathers will give you shelter for the night. From there to the Hay should be only a day’s ride, even in this weather.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Poer always was as nervous as a cat in these mountains. He doesn’t believe Rhys can keep the peace in Gwent as he does in the rest of south Wales. Personally I think he still does. Just.”
Matilda shivered. She had a strong suspicion that Poer was correct in his doubts, but she kept her fear to herself. William seemed confident, and her concern was to reach her children as fast as she could. If he became too worried, he might begrudge her even the small escort he had promised and insist she remain with him. They spent the night, fully dressed, huddled on straw pallets around the fire, and Matilda left Dingestow the next morning at first light. The wind had changed as night drove in from the western hills and with it came a wet windy warmth that loosed the ice in the hard earth and turned the winding tracks to running mud. With Matilda went Elen and her two women, Gwenny and Nan, and an escort of twelve men-at-arms. She rode fast, forgetful of her sickness, half exhilarated by the strong wind, half frightened by the brooding deserted country as their horses’ hooves splashed through the shallow puddles on the hill tracks and through the deeper mud of the still, shadowy woods. In her girdle she carried a knife and, as they cantered on, she loosed it nervously in its sheath.
They paused early at the square-built tower of Llantilio, secure in its commanding position on the top of the hill, and, in spite of her eagerness to go on, Matilda reluctantly agreed that they spend the night there. She hardly slept. The sickness had passed, but her mind was in a turmoil of fear and impatience, and at first light they rode on.
They followed the old road north to where it plunged between the mountains and followed the River Honddu up the vale of Ewias toward Llanthony Abbey, the horses slipping and stumbling in the heavy rain. At midday the rain stopped at last and Matilda pushed the horses as fast as she dared beneath the threatening sky.
They passed the little church of Cwmyoy, the track leading up to it marked by one of the stone crosses that signposted the pilgrims’ way through the mountains. Out of habit Matilda reined in her horse as so often she did when William was there. Then she remembered and, contenting herself with a quick prayer as they walked past, she spurred her horse onward again. The heavy clouds threatened more rain, which would make the road across the mountains impassable. Constantly before her was the image of her children alone with their attendants at Hay, with only a small garrison to guard them and the gates trustingly open so that the townsfolk could come and go.
Once Elen begged her to stop, if not for her own sake, then for the sake of their sweating horses and for Gwenny, who was sobbing with the pain of a stitch in her side, but she ignored her pleas. Silent drifting clouds obscured the still, silent mountains either side of the River Honddu. Even the buzzards had deserted the valley. The moaning of the wind in the trees was the only sound save the creaking of the leather and the occasional sucking squelch of a horse’s hoof coming out of the mud. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that the men escorting her had drawn their swords. The sight gave her very little comfort.
It was early dusk when the exhausted horses filed into the windblown orchards that lay in the deep valley south of Llanthony Priory. There were signs of much activity and building. Llanthony, so long nearly deserted during the early wars, lying as it did so close to the border, had received substantial grants for its rebuilding from old Hugh de Lacy, the Lord of Ewias, and already a magnificent central tower and the presbytery had risen nearly to their full height in nests of wooden scaffolding.
Matilda breathed a sigh of relief as she slipped from her horse. Here at least, amid the orchards, gardens, and vineyards, they were safe and might pass the night in the canons’ guesthouse without fear of attack.
“So, Elen, we are halfway home. I’m sorry I made you all ride so fast. I had no feeling of being watched, yet I was afraid, out there, on the road.”
Elen snorted. “You afraid, my lady! And how is your sickness now, may I ask? Quite better, I’ll be bound, while we’re all as exhausted as kittens.” She gestured toward the two wilting women who had dismounted behind them.
Matilda smiled. “Poor Elen. Perhaps my illness was all in my head. Perhaps I’m not even with child.” She pressed her hand hopefully to her stomach.
“Indeed I think you are, madam.” Elen smiled grimly. “But it’ll be a miracle if you don’t lose it, riding like that.” She flounced indignantly ahead of her mistress into the newly built guesthouse.
With fire, and light, and succulent meat from the prior’s kitchens washed down with raw wine from the vineyards along the Honddu, Matilda felt better.
“Only a few hours’ ride till we reach the children.” She smiled at Gwenny, who was helping her off with her gown. It was the first time she had undressed for three days.
Gwenny nodded shyly. “They’re safe enough, madam. Mistress Nell would never let anything happen to them.”
“Could Mistress Nell do anything against an army?” Matilda replied more sharply than she meant. She repented as she saw Gwenny’s chin tremble. “Oh, I’m sorry, Gwenny. I know I could probably do no more than she could, but we are bringing twelve more men with us.” She sat down heavily on the bed and took her brush from Gwenny’s hand. “You go and sleep. Tell Nan and Elen to as well.” She looked around the tiny cell-like room, so unlike the great chambers she was used to. “But you’ll hear me if I call, from next door. Go on, girl, get some sleep.”
She sighed as the door closed and she was left alone. Perhaps tonight she too would be able to sleep, lulled by the safety and serenity of the great priory, soothed and protected by the chanting of the monks in the choir of their beautiful new church.
She had only just dozed off, or so it seemed, when she was awakened by a furious knocking on the guesthouse door. It took a moment to remember where she was, then she was out of bed, groping in the dark for her fur-lined bedgown, trying to find the latch of the door to her room in the impenetrable blackness. She cursed herself for blowing out the light before she went to sleep. She ached with exhaustion.
The main door had been opened by one of her young men-at-arms, his eyes still bleary with sleep, his fingers fumbling to buckle on his sword belt as he dragged the heavy oak back and let in the cold night air.
It was the prior himself who hurried in, followed by two of his black-robed canons. His pale face was drawn and anxious. “Forgive me waking you so early, my lady.” He motioned the man to shut the door as one of the canons put a lantern on the table and filled the dark room with leaping shadows. The man-at-arms went to the fire and, kicking off the turves on the embers, squatted down to feed it dried apple twigs from the basket near it. Soon it was blazing up. The prior sat down heavily on the stool by the table, his white hands twisting nervously together. “I had just come from celebrating prime when a messenger arrived.” He gulped nervously. “He had galloped over the hills from Abergavenny, my lady. The castle has fallen. As far as is known no one has escaped.”
Matilda felt Elen’s steadying arm around her as she gazed appalled at the old man’s face. She was conscious of Gwenny and Nan hovering behind her.
“Your husband, madam.” The prior’s voice was gentle. “Was he at the castle?”
She shook her head numbly. “He’s at Dingestow, Father Prior. We were warned not to go to Abergavenny, and messengers were sent to the garrison there.” She shook her head, anguished. “They should have been prepared.”
“No messenger can have reached them.” The prior made a wry face. “The boy who came to warn us said the Welsh hid in the underbrush that has overgrown the moat. They surprised them yesterday at dawn.” He crossed himself. “The castle is burned. Apparently a Welshman spoke to the constable the night before and actually taunted him that they were going to take the castle, and for a while the garrison took the threat seriously and waited up.
