She stood up and walked across to the window, gnawing her thumbnail as she stared down at the broad glitter of the Thames. In spite of the heat of the afternoon she was feeling very cold.
Tim was gazing up at the massive gray ruins of Raglan Castle. “I’m glad your friend Pugh told us to come here,” he said in awe. “It’s magnificent.” Then he glanced at her sideways. “But you don’t have to tell me. It’s not your castle.”
Jo laughed softly. “It was too long ago, Tim. Of course everything has changed. Let’s stay out here on the grass-just for now.”
He looked longingly over his shoulder at the castle. “Why don’t I go away? I could leave you to it, while I explore.”
She nodded. “Good idea.”
He looked down at her fondly as she knelt on the mossy grass, then, camera in hand, he turned away and strode up the steep bank toward the enormous walls.
Jo closed her eyes. Her hands were shaking slightly as she tried deliberately to empty her mind. The castle grounds were silent. The air was heavy, the sky soft with deep black cloud. It was very hot. She forced her eyes open slowly, staring down at the grass, feeling the heat and her exhaustion overtake her, suddenly fighting sleep.
Tim was coming back. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw him walking toward her, tall, loose-limbed. She frowned. It was too soon; it should have taken him hours to go around the castle and she wasn’t ready. Behind him she saw a flicker of lightning dance for a moment behind the majestic walls of the castle, lighting up the windows as though candles still burned there against the black of the sky. Then she heard the music of a harp.
24
Matilda was standing resting her hand on the stones of the new high wall of Radnor Castle. It seemed strange that she could look out at the Welsh tents all around the castle, a sight she dreamed of with dread for so long, and yet know them to be friends. The red prancing lion flag of Prince Rhys flew gaily in the cold wind near them, as she looked down at her small daughter, who stood shivering at her side, her fur-lined mantle whipped open by the wind.
“Well.” She smiled. “To think my little girl is to be a princess.”
Tilly uncharacteristically groped for her mother’s hand, giving rather than seeking comfort. “I like Lord Rhys. He sent me a necklace of crystals.” The child gazed out toward the tents and pavilions encamped around them in the valley, her eyes shining. “And I’m to have a white pony with scarlet harness and John Spang, the prince’s fool, has promised me two puppies from his own bitch. I like him.”
Matilda was staring at the heavy cloud that hung over the encircling mountains, her heart heavy as Tilly prattled on. Then she stooped and kissed the top of her little girl’s head. “You’ll be happy in your new home, Tilda. Lord Rhys will be a kind father.” Her voice broke at the word, and she fiercely blinked back her tears, turning her face away.
“Can I go and play with ’Sbel and Margaret now?” The child was itching to run off, uncomfortable as she sensed her mother’s tightly controlled misery, not understanding.
Matilda forced herself to smile. “Of course, darling. Run along. I’ll come and kiss you good night later.”
She did not let herself watch the small head as it darted from her side and ran down the stairs inside the thick wall. Instead she turned back to watching the bleak hills beneath the threatening sky.
It was not until very late that she took a candle and climbed slowly, her heavy blue kirtle gathered in her hand, to the little girls’ bedroom high beneath the stone roof of the main keep. Tilly was already asleep, worn out with excitement, in the big bed that she shared with her sisters. Matilda tiptoed toward the bed and saw Eleanor, the children’s nurse, sitting in the shadows beside the dying fire. The girl was sobbing quietly into her apron.
Matilda stopped, her heart beating fast. “What is it, girl? Why are you crying?” Her voice was sharper than she intended.
Eleanor jumped and raised a reddened face from her lap. “Oh, my lady!” She screwed up her kerchief and rubbed her eyes with it. “My lady. I don’t want to leave you all and go to them heathens.” She hugged herself as the tears began to fall again.
Matilda felt her heart sink, the tears rising unbidden behind her own lids. She swallowed hard. “Don’t talk such nonsense, Eleanor. Rhys is a good Christian prince. And he is a kind man. I should never let a child of mine go to him otherwise.” She dropped her voice suddenly. “I hope you didn’t let Tilda see you cry like that.”
“Of course not, my lady.” Eleanor sniffed indignantly. “I would never let her, she’s so happy about going.” She dissolved into tears again.
Matilda crossed to the bed, looking at the three sleeping heads: Tilda serene and pale; Margaret with her shock of copper hair tossed on the pillow, so like her mother in miniature; and little frail Isobel, no more than a baby, so happy to be promoted to her sisters’ bed, not realizing she had come so that Margaret should not suddenly be alone. Margaret had her arm protectively around the little girl’s shoulders. But Tilly slept apart, her back to the others. Matilda wondered if she even realized that tomorrow she was to leave them. She sank slowly to her knees beside the bed, swallowing hard, and, crossing herself quietly, she began to pray, suppressing the sudden treacherous thought that far away in Deheubarth Tilly would be able to betray neither her mother nor her true father.
The wedding ceremonies were over and the feast had already lasted an age. Matilda looked anxiously at her little daughter sitting in the place of honor next to her husband. Gruffydd was a good-looking young man, rather florid, with tightly curling golden hair. He drank often and deeply and ate hungrily from the platter he shared with his new wife. Tilly had touched almost nothing. She looked around her with unnaturally brilliant eyes, a deep flush on her usually pallid cheeks. The crystals at her throat gleamed and reflected from the candelabra on the table and the pure gold band in her hair glowed on the silk veil. She looked, among the solid men and robust women at the high table, like a delicate little fairy. Matilda eyed the Princess Gwenllian, Gruffydd’s mother, a raw-boned woman with eyes rather too close together over the high-bridged nose, with unease. But she saw the woman lean over and pat Tilda kindly on the shoulder, her eyes smiling, and she felt a little reassured.
The wedding celebrations continued for several days, and then at last came the morning when the Welsh party began to pack their tents and shelters. Matilda and William in Rhys’s great pavilion gravely kissed their solemn little daughter and her tall groom and watched as with Prince Rhys and his glittering throng of followers they mounted and prepared for the ride to Rhys’s palace of Llandovery in Cantref Bychan.
“So that seals the peace as long as King Henry lives, at least,” William commented tersely as they rode away.
Matilda turned to him, her heart growing suddenly cold at his tone. “And if the king should die, what then?”
William shrugged. “Who knows? We’ll pray he lives long and heartily. If he should die and Rhys and his sons do not acknowledge his heir, then I will have played my hand badly.” He frowned. “Tilda will be all right, whatever happens. They will keep her away from the fighting if there is any. But, by God, if they try to use her against me…” He left his threat unspoken.
Matilda found herself gazing at him in blank despair. Had he then washed his hands of the child the day she went to another man’s table? Was she nothing to him any longer other than a pawn that he might have carelessly let slip in a chess game of far more important pieces? She gazed into William’s eyes and shuddered. If his eldest daughter could look to no mercy from him, who could? She silently prayed that none of the rest of her children should find themselves dependent on his mercy one day; nor she herself.
Miserably she looked over her shoulder, back toward the west, where the sun was sinking in a blaze of gold
