Lady of the English

Forty-five

Arundel, Autumn 1142

F eeling exhausted but triumphant, Adeliza gazed down at the infant nestling in the crook of her arms, clean and freshly swaddled. The birth had been hard work because he was a large, robust baby and had taken his time and a deal of effort to push out, but she had him in her arms now and the miracle was as fresh as the first time: a golden moment that made a trivi-ality of the pain and blood and danger. She had been barren; now she was fecund. She only wished Will could see him, but he was away on campaign. Having recovered from the serious illness that had laid him low throughout the spring and early summer, Stephen had once more taken to the field.

She and Will had spent the first six months of the year in Norfolk, at their new castles at Rising and Buckenham, watching the progress of the builders and attending to matters of estate, dealing with business pertaining to the Church and their various foundations and patronages. She had watched her eldest son turn from a pudgy infant into a proper little boy with strong limbs and the speed of a deer. His sister Adelis had become an imperious toddler with pink cheeks, riotous golden curls, and her father’s wide candid stare. But in August, Stephen’s summons had broken their idyll and, once again, she had watched Will ride away to war, to fight for a man she regarded as a usurper.

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Juliana went to answer a knock on the door and Adeliza heard her speak to Rothard the chamberlain. Then she came over to Adeliza. “Madam, the earl has just ridden in,” she said with a curtsey.

Adeliza gasped and struggled to sit up in the bed. “What?” A firm masculine tread sounded a fast beat on the stairs outside her chamber, and Will entered, still clad in dusty travelling gear and wearing his sword.

Flustered at his sudden arrival when she was unprepared, Adeliza pulled the covers up around her body. “I did not know you were coming!” she said. “You should have sent word!” He made an awkward gesture. “I knew you were in your confinement chamber and would only fuss if I did. This way was better.” He advanced to the bedside and she inhaled the odours of outdoors and pungent hard travel on him. His lips were cold and his whiskers sharp as he kissed her. Then he looked at the swaddled baby.

“Another son,” she said proudly, but with a slight frown of exasperation. She had not decided whether his not telling her was thoughtful, or thoughtless. She placed the baby in his arms. Watching him trace the delicate little eyebrows with his forefinger and stroke its cheek, her expression softened.

“You are well?” he asked.

“The better for having you home,” she said, “whether you choose to tell me or not.”

He looked up from the baby and his eyelids tensed at the corners. “I can only stay a little while,” he said.

She searched his face. “How long is ‘a little while’?” He hesitated. “It depends on circumstances, but I hope to be here for your churching.” He returned the baby to her arms.

“You should rest; I will return later and we’ll talk.” He kissed her again and left.

Adeliza knew he was keeping things from her, but the birth 386

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had exhausted her and all she wanted to do was sleep. He was right, however. They would certainly talk later.

ttt

In the morning, Will bore his new son to Arundel’s chapel and had him baptised and christened Godfrey, for Adeliza’s father.

Her kinswoman Melisande and her husband Robert stood as godparents. Following the ceremony, Will returned his son to the confinement chamber. Even as he walked up the stairs, he was still undecided about telling Adeliza his news. Her health had been challenged enough by the birth, and he knew she would fret.

When he entered the room, she was out of bed, sitting on the window seat dressed in a loose silk robe. Her chamber attendants had set out food on a trestle—bread, honey, warm curd tarts, and a jug of hot wine—so he knew she wanted him to stay awhile. “Young Godfrey has the voice of a bull calf,” he said with a chuckle as he kissed the baby’s cheek and handed him to his nurse. “I thought he was going to roar down the roof when Father Herman baptised him. He is certainly going to be heard across a battlefield.”

“Pray God that he will not need to utilise such a skill,” Adeliza replied with a shudder. “Better he should use it to sing God’s praises than for fighting.”

Will prudently held his tongue and escorted her to the trestle, making a fuss of her and ensuring she was comfortable. He poured her wine and served her himself with bread and honey.

Adeliza ate well but daintily and as always Will was fascinated by the way she managed not to let drop a single crumb. He sucked honey off his own fingers and surreptitiously fed crusts to Teri under the table.

Adeliza rinsed her mouth with wine and then turned to him. “Tell me what you did not tell me yesterday,” she said. “I know you were holding something back.” 387

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He thought wryly he should have known he could not hide anything from her. He picked up his own cup and turned it round. “Stephen is besieging the empress at Oxford.” Her eyes widened in dismay.

“We crossed the Thames last week. A local guide found us a fording place, although we had to swim the horses across. The garrison tried to stop us, but we had their measure and they were unable to close the gates against us.” He spoke without inflection, avoiding her gaze.

Adeliza felt queasy. She knew what happened to the people when the gates were forced open by the enemy.

He opened his hands, palms spread outwards. “With Robert of Gloucester away in Normandy, it is Stephen’s best opportunity to take her and end all this. Oxford’s castellan died three weeks ago, and there is no one of sufficient military standing there to take the fight to Stephen. It will be over as soon as the castle runs out of supplies.”

“And then what?” she demanded. “What will happen to Matilda?”

“I do not know. He may send her back to Anjou, or make an arrangement with regards to Normandy, because he cannot win that back from the Angevins now.”

“Or he may imprison her.”

“Yes,” he said wearily.

“What of Robert of Gloucester and Brian FitzCount?”

“They are powerless. FitzCount does not have the resources, and even if Gloucester returns with an army, he will have to organise a campaign.” He took her hand in his. “Her back is to the wall, my love. I am sorry to give you this news because I know how much you care about her and feel responsible for her, but, truly, there is nothing you can do.”

“And did you come away so you would not be a part of it?”

“Stephen cannot keep his entire army in the field for months 388

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on end. I have leave to come home to Arundel until after your churching, but then I must return to him.” He gave her a troubled look “I hope Oxford falls in my absence. I would rather not be there when Matilda surrenders.” Adeliza set her jaw. “She will never surrender. God has always seen her safely out of danger before.”

“She has never been in so difficult a corner, my love, not even at Winchester. At Arundel, Stephen let her go. He will not make the same mistake again.” He shook his head.

“Enough. I do not want you to dwell on such thoughts when you are so recently out of childbirth. What will be, will be.”

“Whatever happens is God’s will,” she said, “not Stephen’s. I shall pray for Matilda. I want you to bring Father Herman to me.” Will wiped his hands on a napkin and stood up, relieved to have got off more lightly than he had expected. “I will go and do it now.”

“And I ask you to pray for her too.” She fixed him with a steady look.

“Willingly.” He was happy to pray in a broad sense for Matilda’s soul, and to ask God to give her the good sense to negotiate a surrender and return to Anjou.

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Forty-six

Oxford, December 1142

M atilda shivered in her chamber at Oxford Castle.

A bitter freeze had begun at the end of November with day after day of bone-chilling cold, each one hardening upon the other until the earth was like iron and the water in the moat as solid as rock crystal. Two days ago it had snowed heavily, draping the scars of warfare in a thick white blanket, and the sky was leaden with the threat of more. Stephen’s blockade of the castle meant that neither aid nor news nor supplies could reach the beleaguered defenders, and the deep snowfall served only to emphasise their isolation from the rest of the world.

The city was occupied by Stephen, who had taken over the old royal residence outside the town walls. His soldiers were billeted in Oxford with access to the food and warmth that Matilda and her garrison lacked. Here in the keep, they had almost run out of wood to fuel the cooking fires and heat the hall. They had already demolished two storage buildings and a goat shed—having eaten the goats. Now they had begun on the castle furniture and everyone was shivering in one room, trying to keep warm under a huddle of clothes and blankets.

The only sustenance was soup made with meagre handfuls of barley, a few onions, and chunks of stockfish, chewy as rawhide even after pounding and soaking for hours on end. Matilda had LadyofEnglish.indd 390

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insisted on eating the same as everyone else, and felt the same blend of ravenous appetite and queasy revolt as she forced down the disgusting fish broth. At least for the moment it was hot.

The battering of the castle walls had continued day in and day out and the garrison was becoming too weak and cold to resist. Unless she could find a way to escape, Matilda knew it was the end. Every day she prayed for Robert to arrive and lift the siege, and every day her prayers went unanswered. She did not know where he was or how he was faring because the blockade was complete.

“The only option is for me to escape Oxford and make my own way to safety,” she told Alexander de Bohun, chief of her household knights. “Without me, Stephen has an empty fishing net.”

“And just how are you going to get out?” De Bohun gave her a sidelong look. “Stephen has us surrounded.”

“There are gaps between his guard posts, and the weather is so bitter that he will not expect anyone to leave the castle at night.”

“At night?” De Bohun’s eyes widened.

“Stephen’s men will be huddled round their fires. There will only be a skeleton watch on duty. The river is frozen solid—

there are no boats and no fishermen. I can escape over the wall with a small escort, and we can make our way to Wallingford.” De Bohun continued to stare at her as if he she had grown two heads. “Without horses and in the snow?” he said. “In the dark? It’s as cold as a witch’s tit out there.” She fixed him with a resolute gaze. “I would rather trust myself to the elements and God’s mercy than kneel to Stephen.

I know I must yield Oxford because we are at the end of our endurance, but without me his victory is as hollow as his crown.”

“There will still be guards, even if reduced in number. What if you are seen and caught in the open? Prayer alone will not make you invisible.”

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“Of course not. Do you think I have not thought this through?” She glared at him. “We will go clad as if we are made of snow, and Stephen’s men will see only what they expect to see.”

He raised his brows.

“Bring me whatever white material we have,” she commanded. “Sheets, tablecloths, blankets.” De Bohun hesitated for a moment, as if he really did think she was mad, but then bowed and went to give the order.

As servants returned from turfing out the contents from various coffers and garderobes, Matilda studied their finds.

“The undyed blankets can be made into mantles by cutting a head hole,” she said. “These sheets will make good hoods.” Matilda and her women set to with a will while the escape plans were discussed. She chose Alexander de Bohun, Hugh Plucknett, and two other strong knights to accompany her, together with Ralph le Robeur who was one of her messengers. He had been born in Oxford, knew the roads and pathways well, and would see them safely to Wallingford.

“We should go by way of Abingdon,” he said. “That’s about six miles all told. We can stop at the priory to warm ourselves and borrow horses.”

Matilda agreed with him. She knew Abbot Ingulph well.

He would succour them in the name of God. With each stitch she took, her determination solidified. Better to die of cold and exhaustion than yield.

She gave orders to relax the food rationing and told the cooks to boil up full portions for everyone, and to broach the last barrels of wine. As the dim winter afternoon darkened into dusk, everyone sat down to make a feast of the last of the stockfish, onions, and barley, augmented with plenty of pepper from the spice cupboard to add increased heat. Matilda was not hungry, but forced down her portion, knowing this was her last 392

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meal before she went out into the biting cold. She tried not to think about what was to come, but her mind was locked on to a treadmill and she kept returning to the same place time and again. There was a postern door she could go out of, but it attracted too much scrutiny from Stephen’s guards. The more dangerous way physically, but which held much less chance of being seen, involved climbing down from the window of the domestic chambers by rope.

Her women dressed her in men’s woollen hose and three layers of gowns. One of the garrison donated his spare gambeson to her because of its stuffed, quilted warmth. Her ankle boots were lined with unwashed sheepskins, and the outers were slathered in rancid goose grease to try and water-proof them. Once clad in their white sheets and blankets the travellers resembled shapeless, living mounds of snow. One of the knights carried a stout rope, another a lantern, although it would be kept unlit so close to Oxford. Besides, there would be cold blue snowlight by which to navigate.

“It is snowing again,” said Ralph le Robeur as he and Hugh Plucknett secured a stout rope around the central mullion of the window arch.

Matilda peered out at the white flakes dancing in the dark blue. “The better to hide us,” she said, but inside she was quaking with terror. I am going to die, kept running through her head. “In God’s name, let us be about our business,” she said harshly.

Ralph dropped the rope out of the window and slithered after it like an eel over a weir. He made it look so easy. Hand over hand down the knots. Fluid filled her mouth. Alexander de Bohun followed, more bulky and less agile than the messenger. His sword chape scraped on the sill with a loud rasp and she could hear him panting with effort. She began to shake her head, to say no, she could not do this thing; but still her feet carried her forwards and Hugh lifted her up. “Hold 393

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tightly,” he said. “Let yourself down slowly and they will catch you. Have courage.” She felt the gritty stone beneath her feet and the fierce grip of the rope under her hands. The bite of the wind. The frozen air burning in her nostrils. The soft white touch of snow on her face like the wing feathers of a plucked angel. Inside she was screaming in terror, but her jaws were locked and the sound stayed in her chest and throat as a solid ball of pain. She closed her eyes, committed her soul to God, and started down the wall, hand over hand, legs sliding down the rope. Dear Christ, dear Holy Virgin. Her arms burned with the effort of holding on and bearing her weight as she swung in the blackness.

Suddenly hands gripped her thighs and steadied her, and for a brief moment she was clasped breast to breast with Alexander de Bohun as he set her on her feet in the crunchy, powdery snow.

“Domina, you have given me a memory to keep me warm throughout this journey,” he said with a forced smile as she staggered and clung to him.

Matilda managed to laugh as she straightened up, but the sound seemed to come from far away and someone else because she was still locked into her terror and it was as if a part of her was still hanging against that outer wall in dark mid-air. Hugh and the other knights shinned down the rope in turn, Hugh giving it a tug as he landed. The watchers at the top untied it and cast it down and the escapees knotted themselves together, so that should one fall through the ice, the others could pull him out. It also meant they would not lose each other if the weather worsened. Matilda strove to secure the rope around her waist but her hands were shaking so badly that de Bohun had to do it for her.

They set out with Matilda in the middle, protected from the elements by the men. The moat was the first obstacle and although they all knew it was frozen, still their steps were 394

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tentative, for they were afraid of slipping and instinctively crying out, thus alerting the enemy. Worried too that they might be seen anyway by Stephen’s guards.

Matilda crunched ankle deep in the snow until her boot soles rested on ice. She took a tentative step and then another, her eyes wide with fear and the effort to see in this monochrome world that was absorbing her, her ears straining for a raised alarm. But there was nothing but snow whirling in the wind and darkness. They navigated the moat, shuffled their way off the ice, and began trudging towards the greater stretch of the frozen Thames that lay between themselves and Abingdon. The drifts were knee deep, and without a path to follow, they had to make one of their own. The knights took turns forging a way for the others to follow, lunging like horses on the rope. It was tiring, difficult work, but at least it kept their muscles warm and each step took them further from Oxford and closer to sanctuary.

Matilda felt her scarf grow warm and wet from her exhaled breath as they snaked a route between Stephen’s picket posts.

Her stomach clenched as they passed between two shelters, but there was no sign of any guards. A fox crossed their path, streamlined and swift despite the deep snow, and was gone.

“Further north it would be wolves,” Ralph said cheerfully.

After what seemed like hours of trudging, they arrived at the riverbank. Bits of tree branch were frozen in the water like skeletal hands adorned with icicles. The snow was silvery in places and opaque white in others. Birds had scribbled tracks amid the stiff sedges. Matilda stared out across the white swathe of the river, her breath clouding the air with pale vapour.

“Well,” said Ralph, pointing to the row of paw prints leading into the night. “If the fox came this way, then he must be our portent.” He forayed gingerly on to the ice with de Bohun following, and as the rope paid out and Matilda felt the tug, she had no option but to follow them, terrified that she was going 395

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to hear the creak of strained ice, feel it shatter, and fall through a jagged crack into black, icy water to drown as her brother had done when the White Ship went to her doom. Snow continued to twirl down as they stepped like clumsy dancers across the frozen water, step after step sinking through the powdery surface until the snow compacted underfoot with a soft crumping sound, and each time that happened, she felt another surge of fear.

Then suddenly they were once more amongst frozen sedges and willows and clambering through the tangle on to the opposite bank. Panting, Matilda turned to look over her shoulder.

Their churned tracks were obvious, stretching away to the opposite side, but the way the snow was falling, all signs would be covered by dawn.

“Drink,” said de Bohun, offering her a flask. The wine had been hot when they set out and a residue of warmth remained, enhanced by added pepper and spices. Matilda felt it burn down her gullet. De Bohun produced bread and dripping from a cloth in his satchel. The bread was so hard he had to smash it into pieces with his sword hilt. Matilda pouched a morsel in her cheek and sucked on it until it softened. They still had six miles to walk to reach Abingdon, and another fifteen to Wallingford.

Climbing down from a castle window and crossing the frozen moat and river was only the start of their journey. As they set out once more, forcing a path through the snow, Matilda knew she would never again use the phrase “When hell freezes over” without remembering this night.

ttt

Will sat before the hearth in Abbot Ingulph’s parlour at Abingdon enjoying the heat from the flames on the front of his body. The part facing away from the fire was protected from the cold by a thick fur-lined cloak. Teri lay at his side, his nose between his forepaws, his brows cocking occasionally in his master’s direction. Will had brought a gift to the abbot of 396

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nuggets of frankincense and two silver censers in which to burn the precious resin. He had also brought the abbot a cover for a book of the New Testament he wanted to give to Adeliza. The monks had been copying the work over the past several months and now the book was to be bound with carved ivory plates set with rock crystals, garnets, and chrysophrases.

Will’s errand was a welcome relief from duty with Stephen’s army besieging Oxford. He knew the defenders must be at the end of their resources and that surrender was close. They could not survive much longer in these bitter conditions. Stephen was expecting to be master of Oxford before Christmas. Will had been trying not to think about Matilda trapped inside the castle with her garrison because her kinship with Adeliza—and, by association, with himself—agitated his conscience. He knew that when Matilda was taken, Stephen would incarcerate her for the rest of her life.

“War is a terrible thing,” Abbot Ingulph said quietly. “We see so many dispossessed and homeless folk at our gates and through no fault of their own. All the burned crops and slaughtered animals bring famine and suffering, but not to those who make the war.”

Will flushed at the abbot’s gentle chastisement. “I do what I can on my own lands and foundations to succour them,” he said, “and it is my lady’s main cause.” Ingulph steepled his hands under his chin. “The ordinary people are being severely hurt by this war between those who should be offering them good governance. It is your duty and responsibility to sort out a lasting peace, rather than fighting each other and everyone else into the grave.”

“I agree,” Will said. “Your advice is sound.” Ingulph opened his hands. “Then act upon it,” he said.

When Will had finished his wine, he clicked his fingers to Teri, took his leave of the abbot, and made his way to the 397

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guest house. He liked Ingulph, even if the old man did tend to lecture like a sorrowful parent to a sinful child. He was right.

There had to be a lasting peace, but in order for that to happen, there had to be the will for it too, and that was less in evidence.

He hunched into his cloak as a fresh flurry battered him side-on. Teri suddenly stiffened, his hackles rising and a low growl rumbling in his chest. Will stopped abruptly and stared at the bedraggled group staggering towards the guest lodge from the direction of the gatehouse. All wore strange white robes that flapped in the wind like wings and for a moment he was filled with gut-lurching fear as he wondered just what he was seeing.

Angels perhaps, or souls of the dead in their shroud cloths. Two of them, seeing him, moved to protect a slighter figure in their midst and laid their hands to their swords. The hair rose on Will’s nape. He was not wearing his own sword because he was on monastic lands and had come with peaceful intent. Then the slighter figure pushed the guardians aside and came forward, putting down her hood and ignoring the growling dog.

Will was stunned and shocked to see Matilda—an apparition indeed. “Domina.” He bowed. She was pinch-faced with cold and exhaustion, but her eyes were fierce. “This is an unex-pected meeting indeed.”

Her jaw was taut. “A meeting that never happened,” she said, “unless you make it so.”

He could see her shivering as fresh flurries of wet snow spun across the courtyard. What in God’s name was she doing here?

“Never mind that,” he said. “You should come inside before you freeze.”

Matilda hesitated. Her knights exchanged worried glances.

“This is a house of God,” Will said brusquely. “Neither I nor my men will harm you; you have my word.” She inclined her head. “Then I accept because I know you for a man of honour, whatever your loyalties.” 398

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While they had been speaking, a monk had run to fetch Abbot Ingulph, and he arrived as Matilda and her escort were gathering around the guest-house hearth, although not too close to the fire because of the pain in their frozen hands and feet. Ingulph was plainly disconcerted, but did his best to appear composed. “Be welcome in God’s name, domina,” he said.

“This house embraces all travellers, especially on a night such as this. I will see that you are fed and given beds.”

“Thank you, Father, but we will not be staying for long,” Matilda replied. “Just let us warm ourselves for a while, but hot food would be most welcome.”

“The loan of horses, would be appreciated too,” said de Bohun. “We have some distance still to travel.” Ingulph’s brow furrowed. “Most are out at the grange.

There are only two cobs in the stables, and my old mule, and his riding days are long over. You are welcome to the cobs, providing you return them as soon as you may.”

“Thank you,” Matilda said, although her heart sank at such news. “We are grateful for whatever you can provide.” Ingulph offered Matilda and her escort his lodging in which to revive themselves because it was warm and more private. Since there were things he needed to make straight, Will went with them. “I am lodging at the abbey tonight,” he said as they entered Ingulph’s house, “but tomorrow I shall be returning to Oxford.” Matilda sat down on the bench before the fire and opened and closed her fingers, encouraging them to thaw. “Tomorrow it will not matter,” she said, “because the castle will surrender to the king.”

“But you will not be inside it.”

“No.” She gave him a thin smile. “Whatever he steals, it will always lack its true worth in his hands—like his crown. All glitter and no substance.”

“You will forgive me, domina, if I beg to differ.” 399

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“Will I?” she said, barely smiling at all now, and changed the subject. “How is Adeliza?”

“She is well. We have another son, Godfrey.” He added after a hesitation, “You are often in my wife’s prayers.”

“As she is often in mine. I will write to her as soon as I am able.”

Will concealed a grimace. “Is it worth it all?” he asked.

She drew a deep breath. “I know you will never abandon your oath to serve Stephen, but what happens when he is gone?

Would you bend the knee to that brat of his, Eustace? Or would you look to my son?”

Will considered this woman, sitting before the fire, her fine bones sharpened by the cold and dark smudges of exhaustion under her eyes. Even if he thought her misguided, he acknowledged her courage and resolution. “As much as his breeding, it would depend on the kind of man he becomes, and the same could be said for Eustace.”

“But you would consider?”

“Yes, domina, I would, but very carefully indeed.” He bowed to her and turned to leave, but on the threshold he paused, torn between his duty to Stephen and the obligation to Matilda born of the kinship bond between her and Adeliza. Before he could think better of it, he said, “If they are of use to you, you may take three of my horses from the stables. The chestnut is sturdy and will bear two of you with ease, the bay with the white star is steady, and the grey bites, but he’s a worker.”

“Thank you.” Her eyes glinted with moisture, and her expression dared him to notice.

“It is the most and the least I can do,” he said.

She swallowed. “I ask also of your goodwill and for the kinship your wife bears to me that you intercede for the garrison and those of my household who are still trapped inside the castle.”

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“I will do what I can.” He left the room and returned to the guest lodge, and when his men asked him what had transpired, he put them off with a bland comment and, retiring to his mattress, put his back to them.

In the morning the empress and her party had gone. A fresh fall of snow had obliterated all tracks beyond those of monks going down from dorter to chapel in the dead of night. Were it not for the fact that his chestnut stallion and the bay and grey geldings had gone from their stalls, he could have believed it all a dream. As it was, he faced a long trudge back to Oxford.

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Forty-seven

Wallingford, December 1142

M atilda drooped in the saddle. Every muscle was aching and tight with cold and she felt as if the marrow had been sucked from her bones and replaced with ice. They had been struggling through the snow for most of the night, trying to cover the ground between Abingdon and Wallingford before dawn. The light was grey in the east with a streak of oyster white low on the horizon. It had stopped snowing an hour ago and the world was hushed and colourless, the only sound the crump of the snow under the horse’s hooves and the jingle of harness.

Now, finally, the walls and towers of Wallingford Castle rose out of the dawn in lime-washed stone and timber like a sketch on an embroiderer’s linen cloth. Relief coursed through her at the sight, but there was misery too, because although this place guaranteed safety, she did not want to be here, and the circumstances driving her were of defeat and failure.

At the outer works, a herald rode out to greet them and establish their credentials. Matilda realised what an odd party they must look, sharing horses and still clad in their disguising white robes for warmth. The moment the herald recognised them, he raised the horn he was carrying and blew three strong blasts, and the guards hastened to open the gates.

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As Matilda entered Wallingford, folk were shovelling pathways through the night’s fresh snowfall. A groom hastened to take her bridle. De Bohun dismounted and turned to help Matilda from the saddle, but Brian was there before him to claim the privilege.

She felt the hard grip of his hands as he lifted her down, and for an instant they stood as close as lovers. Then he stepped back, putting a body’s distance between them, even while their breath mingled in the icy air.

“Domina, I do not know what you are doing here,” he said,

“but I thank Christ to see you, and know you are safe.” Falling to his knees, he bowed his head.

Matilda wanted to weep aloud, but suppressed her emotion with rigid control. Beyond Brian, everyone else was kneeling too, so that in this bleak courtyard, piled with snow, muddy straw underfoot on the walkways, she was queen of all she surveyed.

“All that is here is yours,” Brian said, as if reading her mind.

It began to snow again in light, fine flakes. She saw the relief and raw anguish in his eyes, and all the tally of the things so long unsaid between them. She swayed on her feet. “All I want is to be out of this bitter cold,” she said, her voice cracking.

Immediately he was contrite. “Come within. I will send a messenger to Cirencester, to my lord of Gloucester, immediately. He will not yet have marched on Oxford.”

“He has no need,” she said wearily. “It is too late; the castle is lost.”

“Then how did you…”

“I do not know.” She blinked hard and rubbed her forehead.

“Dear God, Brian, I do not know.”

He beckoned and his wife stepped from the throng and curtseyed. “Domina,” she said. “Let me show you to a comfortable chamber.”

Matilda summoned the last of her strength and followed 403

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the lady of Wallingford to a room on the upper floor of a fine timber hall. A large, warm fire burned in the hearth and a bed with a soft blanket of red and green stripes, topped by a folded silk quilt, was pushed against one wall. A pleasant scent of incense and beeswax filled the room. There were numerous shelves lined with scrolls and parchments tied up with ribbons, and there were books too. A lectern stood under a window to catch the best light,

“This is the warmest chamber in the castle,” Maude said. “I hope you find it fitting, domina.” Her gaze was closed and wary.

Matilda just wanted to lie on the bed and fall asleep, but would not do so in the presence of Brian’s wife. “It will suit me very well,” she said.

Servants arrived bearing fresh bread and hot wine. Maude directed them to set it down near the bed. A woman brought in a ewer of hot water and a towel.

“You should remove those wet boots or you will catch a chill,” Maude said with a cluck of her tongue. “Come, sit.” Matilda was reminded of her old nursemaids. The woman had that deferential but bossy air about her and, apart from a gold brooch on her dress, was garbed like a peasant. Turning her back, Brian’s wife straddled Matilda’s legs to pull off her boots, grunting and tugging with effort, but eventually succeeding.

Maude then bathed Matilda’s icy feet in the warm water with thorough efficiency, all the time keeping her eyes lowered and her mouth set in a straight line. She brought some soft shoes lined with lambskin from their warming place at the hearth.

Matilda pushed her feet into them and the feeling was utter bliss. “Thank you,” she said with a more genuine smile for her hostess.

“I may be a simple woman,” Maude said, “but I know the things that matter. If you will excuse me, I have arrangements to make.”

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She left the room, followed by the maid with the used water.

A different girl arrived with a fresh bowl, a chemise of clean linen, and an old-fashioned gown of dark red wool with a simple braid belt. Matilda removed the various layers of garments in which she had travelled, washed, donned the chemise and gown, then sat down on the bed and put her face in her hands. She wanted to cry, but her eyes were dry, and besides, tears were a waste of time. She had to think her way out of this. What was going to happen to her? What was she going to do now? Wallingford was a safe haven but she could not stay here indefinitely. She could do nothing until Robert arrived, but what after that? She could see no way out of the forest.

Leaving the bed, she sought distraction by drinking a cup of wine and looking at the books and scrolls of parchment on the shelves. Some of the writing was in the hand of a scribe, but she recognised most of it as Brian’s neat, swift script. She realised that this was Brian’s chamber—his private place—and the notion both disconcerted and comforted her. She picked up a small book bound in plain leather and found herself gazing at a copy of a treatise expounding her right to be queen of England.

She put her hand to her mouth as she read the erudite Latin.

Brian argued with the incisiveness of a lawyer, the simplicity of a monk, and the elegance of a man whose lifeblood was ink.

Reading the words, feelings of grief and love assailed her in equal measure. She was in his chamber, at the heart of the man, and she was between the words and the fire.

She lay down on the bed with the treatise clasped in her arms, curled her knees towards her chest, and closed her eyes.

Breathing in she inhaled his scent from the sheets, mingled with a faint aroma of incense.

ttt

“She is still asleep,” Maude said to Brian. She stooped to pick up the newest version of Rascal and fondled the pup’s silky 405

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ears. They were standing in the hall before the fire and the servants were setting up trestles for the main meal of the day.

“Leave her,” he said. “She will wake when she is ready.” He looked at her with his eyes full of wonderment. “Do you know what she did? Escaped out of a window at Oxford Castle by rope, crossed the frozen moat and the river, walked to Abingdon, and then made her way here through the night.”

“Indeed, she has great fortitude and courage,” Maude said, and pressed her lips against the top of the dog’s head.

“More than anyone I have ever met.” She gave a small sniff. She admired the empress for fighting for what was hers by right, but Brian never stopped to think that those same qualities had to be applied to the daily grind.

To portion out rations and keep a level head whilst constantly surrounded by enemies and with the castle in a state of semi-siege. Month upon month; year upon year. Sometimes she felt like a donkey, staggering along under a heavy burden of firewood, while Brian ignored her to look at the fancy glossy horses prancing past on the road with bells tinkling on their harness. Her own fortitude was about to be severely tested by the arrival from Cirencester of Robert of Gloucester and his entourage. Providing food and lodging for such numbers was no simple matter and she loathed all the pomp and ceremony.

“How long will the empress stay?”

“For as long as she has need,” Brian said, giving her a sharp look. “She is entitled to all the help we can give her.” Maude said with quiet conviction, “She will destroy you.

I can see the hunger in your eyes.” Brian gave her an impatient look. “No,” he said. “You do not understand. She is what keeps me alive.”

“Then you should find other sustenance before it is too late,” Maude retorted and, the dog in her arms, walked briskly from the hall.

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Brian watched her leave and clenched his fists. He did not want any other sustenance and it was already too late. Either she would feed him, or he would die, and be glad to do so.

ttt

Three days later the snow was still thick on the ground, but the wind was less cold and there had been no fresh falls. Standing in the outer bailey Matilda studied the selection of horses milling in the enclosure, their winter coats plush and thick and their breath clouding the air.

“Choose any you want,” Brian said.

She perused the animals with a keen eye. Most were in the slack condition of winter stalling, but she considered the underlying conformation. She wanted a horse that had stamina, a good pace, and even temper.

“Just one?” She gave him a half-smile.

His mouth curved in reply. “You may have them all, but you can only ride one at a time.”

Matilda indicated a mare with a rich golden coat and pale mane and tail. “That one,” she said Brian had her tacked up and fitted with a lady’s saddle. Matilda mounted from the block in the yard and took the horse on a circuit of the training ground. The mare was smooth-paced and strong, but tugged to the right and Matilda felt her spine twist and jar. Unsuitable for a long journey, she thought. Returning to Brian, she accepted his aid to dismount and, stepping out of his grasp, indicated a grey gelding. “Now this one,” she said.

Brian gave a wry smile. “So you do intend to try them all?” He gestured to the groom and the men set about changing the tack.

“At least until I find the right one.” She gave him a sidelong look.

Brian was relieved to see that sudden gleam. Oxford had taken so much out of her. Despite all the sleep she had had, her eyes were still ringed with exhaustion. The look she had given 407

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him was at least a sign that somewhere deep within her spirit still burned.

Matilda tried out several horses, but finally returned to settle on the grey. “Definitely this one,” she said, riding back to Brian and patting the horse’s neck. “The roan is too headstrong. A man might say such a horse can be mastered with whip and curb, but why ride something unruly when you can have a good mount that will not cause you trouble?” Brian patted the grey and ran his hand down its shoulder. “A pity this horse is not England.”

“Indeed,” she agreed.

Taking the bridle, Brian led the grey back to the stable with Matilda still mounted, then he tethered the horse to a post and helped her dismount. For an instant they stood pressed closely together with his hands either side of her waist. She touched the side of his face, and he turned so that his lips kissed her palm. He grasped her fingers to hold her there.

She closed her eyes for a moment. “Brian,” she whispered.

“Dear God…” She tugged her hand free and pulled away from him. Her limbs felt weak and heavy. She wanted to kiss his mouth and the place beneath his ear where his hair lay in a vulnerable curl, but knew it was crossing a boundary, and once it happened, there would be another step and another on the forbidden side and no turning back. Already they stood on the cusp of scandal.

“This can never be,” she said. Making a tremendous effort, she turned away and walked swiftly towards the keep.

“I wasn’t tempting you,” Brian said wretchedly to the space where she had been. “I was torturing myself.” ttt

Matilda retired to her chamber, washed her face and hands, and changed her stout boots for soft indoor shoes. She was trapped here, she thought, and in this room which was Brian’s through and through and gave her neither respite nor tranquillity.

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Riding the horses had lifted her spirits for a short while, but knowing she could not just leave as she chose, knowing that her every move was being observed and judged, made her feel like a prisoner.

The lady Maude entered the room. Her dark gown was flecked with dog hairs as usual and she smelt faintly of the kennel. “Heralds from the Earl of Gloucester have arrived, domina,” she said. “He will be here by noontide.” A great wash of relief swept through Matilda and she felt as if a crushing weight had lifted from her chest. “Thank God, thank God! That is great news!” With Robert here, Wallingford would feel more like a court and she could begin the business of governing again in earnest. She needed to talk to him and find out what had happened in Normandy, and especially how much aid Geoffrey had sent, even though he had obviously not come himself. They could take stock and regroup; recover and evaluate.

Maude made a stiff curtsey. “If you will excuse me, domina.

The castle is going to be full at the seams and there is food and accommodation to prepare.”

Her voice was neutral, but Matilda sensed the resentment lurking in the impassive gaze. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

“I know this is a hardship for you.”

“It is my duty, domina.” Maude raised her head proudly. “I am lady of Wallingford, and have been since well before your father of blessed memory was a crowned king.”

“Nevertheless, you have my gratitude.” Maude curtseyed again, woodenly, as if Matilda had offered her an insult.

ttt

Matilda prepared for Robert’s arrival. She dressed in one of the gowns she had brought from Oxford, worn as an underlayer that snowy night. It was of red wool, the sleeves and neck 409

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trimmed with silk of the deep royal purple that was the hue of a western sky at midnight, and stitched with jewels. She wore her father’s sapphire ring and a large glossy ruby that matched the gown. She had brought her crown of gold flowers from Oxford, and she set this on her head, over her silk veil. The feel of the band across her brow reassured her, carrying as it did the pressure of regal authority.

An usher came to tell her that the Earl of Gloucester and his entourage had arrived and were dismounting in the outer bailey. Matilda smoothed the dress and, with mingled feelings of relief and apprehension, went to greet her brother.

There was no sign of Brian, who had gone out to meet the party and escort Robert to the hall in honour, but Maude was there, and she too had changed her dress for one of plain but clean blue wool. Jugs of wine had been set out on a table together with baskets of bread and pastries.

Robert entered the hall with his customary vigour, the manner of his stride emphasising his height and his strong body.

However, there were tired pouches beneath his eyes and far more grey in his hair than Matilda remembered. She hastened to embrace him, but stopped in her tracks as she saw the boy standing a little behind him and to one side like a squire. He was sturdy, with golden-red hair, freckles, and brilliant grey eyes. “Henry,” she whispered, close to disbelief. “Henry?”

“I have brought you a rare and precious Christmas gift,” Robert said, smiling.

“My lady mother,” Henry said and knelt to her.

Matilda stared and stared. She wanted to bend down and scoop up the little boy she had left behind, but in his stead was this older being, self-contained and already marked for manhood. It was as if she had put down a precious object and returning to it a while later had discovered it utterly changed.

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survive and keep hope alive now threatened to flood up and overwhelm her. Her chin wobbled and her mouth moved in different directions as she tried to control herself. She had a position to uphold, and knew she should not be acting like this in public, in front of her son. People were gazing at her in consternation.

“Mama, don’t cry,” Henry said, looking at her askance. “I am here now. All is well. I will protect you.” She tried to hold back her tears and failed. “I am so pleased to see you, I am overcome,” she choked. “Let my lord FitzCount show you to your chamber and I will come and talk to you in a little while.”

Henry blinked for an instant, then adapted his mental stride and bowed to her again, and when he stood up, gave her a smile as bright as the sun.

“Come, sire.” Brian gave Matilda a worried look, but smoothly dealt with matters. “There is a fine chamber prepared for you and my lord of Gloucester, right up near the battlements.”

“Can I see the dungeons too? And the armoury?” Henry’s voice filled with excitement, his meeting with his mother already losing its importance in the face of more interesting, masculine fare.

“You can see the entire castle and I will show you where everything is and answer as many questions as you can ask,” Brian replied, “but first your chamber. Give your mama a moment to herself.”

As Brian left with Henry and Robert, Matilda allowed Maude and her women to help her to her room, but once there, she shrugged them off, furious at her own weakness. She gestured everyone to leave, and lay down on her bed with the curtains closed. Dear God, she thought. What sort of example was this to set to her son? She wrapped her arms around a pillow and held it against her body with her fists, trying to 411

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stem the spasms as other memories welled to the surface. All the things she had dammed behind the façade of being the empress now poured out of her. The flight from Winchester; the jolting over rough ground; the pursuit and the terror that she might be caught. Climbing down from the tower at Oxford into the bitter air. The long, dark drop and the fear that she was going to die. The moments with Brian when she had pulled back from intimacy and denied herself that comfort, choosing to walk alone. The nugget of concentrated emotion she had felt on seeing Henry so grown up had breached the flood banks and suddenly she had become a mother and a person. She couldn’t let Henry see her thus. He must not think she was weak.

At last the spasms subsided, leaving her like the survivor of a shipwreck cast up on a beach, wrung out and exhausted.

She lay on the bed for a while, but eventually rallied enough to rise and wash her face. Then she drank a cup of wine and summoned the women back into the room.

“Are you feeling better, domina?” Maude enquired.

“Thank you, yes,” Matilda said stiffly. “I have not seen my son in more than three years. Small wonder I should be overset.” From the middle finger of her left hand she removed her ruby ring and gave it to a chamberlain who was standing in the doorway. “Take this to the lord Henry,” she said. “Tell him I will talk to him in a little while, but that this comes to him with all the love of a mother’s heart.” And the red of a woman’s womb, she thought as the man bowed and departed.

ttt

Henry looked at the ring. It was far too big for any of his fingers and he had set it around his neck on a length of thin gold braid. The ruby was as big as his thumb and glowed like an illuminated drop of blood. It was a gift fit for a king, not just a trinket. He had decided it was going to be part of his regalia 412

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when his turn came to rule, and such a time could not be far away because it was the reason he had been sent here—to finish his education and to learn what he needed about becoming king of England. As far as he was concerned, he was already the uncrowned ruler of the country. His mother had done what she could, helped by his uncle Robert, but she was a woman, while he was growing into a man—albeit too slowly for his patience. The way she had wept in front of him and had to retire had been a little disconcerting, but that was just a part of her womanhood. His own eyes had tingled in response to the moment, but he had not cried, because he was a man, and there was nothing to cry about.

Wallingford Castle fascinated him and once he had been shown his chamber and where he was to sleep, he had been eager to be about the fortress, exploring the defences, the chambers, and all the nooks and crannies. He enjoyed himself at the kennels, making the acquaintance of various dogs, thus earning the approval of Brian FitzCount’s wife, the lady Maude.

She patted his head and said if he wanted he could have a puppy when he left. Henry had been delighted. Having a puppy was not as good as having this ring, but it all added to the excitement and the largesse being poured on him. Vassals often gave hawks and dogs in tribute. He had been taken to see the huge storage barns and undercrofts with their supplies laid down for years of siege. He screwed up his face as he recognised the bales of stockfish. It was one of the hazards of Lent, and of course people under siege, although you had to have a plentiful water supply in order to soften the stuff.

“How long could you hold out?” he asked Brian and his uncle, who were examining the stores.

“For as long as the enemy chooses to lay siege, sire,” Brian said.

“How long would that be?”

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“It depends. Might be days or weeks or months, but they would break first.”

Henry was thoughtful. “Will Stephen follow Mama to Wallingford?”

His uncle shook his head. “I doubt it. He has bitten off more than he can chew, especially when he cannot trust his teeth.” He ruffled Henry’s red-gold curls. “You need have no fear, lad.”

“I’m not afraid. I want to fight him. It’s my crown.” Henry was aware of the adults casting amused glances over his head and was affronted.

“All in good time,” his uncle Robert said. “But first you have more learning to put under your belt and some growing to do if you are going to fit into your hauberk, hmmm?” That was true, but the eagerness bubbling up within him was impossible to contain. He wanted it now, not in several years’ time.

“I promised your father I would keep you safe, and that is what I intend to do. You will be dwelling in Bristol and learning what a king needs to know in order to rule.” Henry tucked the ring back inside his tunic. The stone and the gold were cold for a moment, but gradually warmed against his skin. He returned to the great hall with his uncle and FitzCount and found his mother waiting there for him. She was composed now and smiling, albeit in a strained way. Henry knelt to her again as he had been taught.

“I am sorry for weeping earlier,” she said a little breathlessly.

“I did not realise how overwhelmed I would be to see you.” Raising him to his feet, she embraced him; with an effort, she kept her touch light. “How you have grown!” He puffed out his chest. “I am here to help you, Mama,” he said. “It’s my turn now.”

Her eyelids tightened, but her smile became less strained.

“Indeed, and I am glad, because I have an important task for you.” 414

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Henry swelled further.

She set her hand on his shoulder. “Your uncle has told you that you are to go to Bristol and continue your studies there?” He nodded.

“But first you will come to court at Devizes, and everyone will swear fealty to you as my heir, and acknowledge you as the heir to England. Everyone will know you are the future for which they must hold firm. You have taken oaths before in Anjou and Normandy with your father. It will be similar to those times, but more important.”

Henry’s breathing quickened. “Will I wear a crown?” Matilda’s expression warmed with proud amusement. “You will indeed,” she said. “If you are to rule England, no one must be in any doubt, but you have to act like a king as well as look like one.”

Henry raised his head. “I can do that.” The words and the tone of voice were adult and serious, and a pang squeezed Matilda’s heart and womb. She had failed at so many things, and the terrible grief was still close to the surface, but she could cope; and this child was a precious shining light on the path to the future even if there was still much to do to educate and steady him. The fight was only going to grow harder the nearer he came to being of an age to rule the kingdom. But rule it he would, of that she was certain, even if her own time was slipping away.

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Forty-eight

Arundel, March 1143

A deliza knelt on the altar steps of the chapel at Arundel with her eldest son and supervised his prayers.

He was two months short of his fourth birthday and every day he brought her joy with his questions, his brightness, and his existence. His hair was a tousle of warm brown curls and his eyes were a bright tawny hazel, like Will’s. He had lined up his collection of toy wooden figures on the altar step together with a representation of the Virgin Mary wearing a painted blue cloak. There was a little manger too with the Baby Jesus and a wooden donkey.

“You were once a tiny baby in the cradle,” she said. “Just like your brother Godfrey, and just like little Jesus.” He wrinkled his nose. “But Jesus was born in a stable,” he said. “I wasn’t born in a stable, was I, Mama?” Adeliza swallowed a smile. “No, my love, you were born in the bedchamber with many attendants and soft feather pillows.

But Jesus only had a poor manger for a bed. You should never judge people by how much wealth they have. The poorest person may have the greatest gift. If you ask Jesus he will help you and sustain you and look after you all of your life, although he was born in a manger and you were born in a feather bed.

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Wilkin nodded and sucked his bottom lip, the way he did when he was unsure about something. Adeliza gently stroked his head.

“If I pray to Jesus to bring Papa home soon, will he make it happen?” he asked.

Adeliza’s stomach gave a small leap. She had been praying for that herself. There had been no word from her husband for several weeks. He had come home after Stephen’s Christmas court in a subdued frame of mind and had told her about his meeting with Matilda at Abingdon, and how he had let her go, instead of taking her prisoner. “I could have stopped the conflict at a stroke, but I did not,” he said. “Nor did I tell the king what I had done, but perhaps I should.” She had kissed him and put her arms around him. “You did what was right and what your conscience told you to do.” He had shrugged and said nothing. A few weeks later, when it thawed, Matilda had returned the horses he had lent her with words of gratitude and a long letter for Adeliza. She said that her son Henry was in England to further his education, and to learn more about the kingdom to which he was heir. Adeliza had wondered if she could persuade Will to swear allegiance to Henry, but he was a stubborn ox when the mood was upon him. He said that Henry was a child and he had no intention of jeopardising himself or his family by stepping out on such a precarious limb.

“Mama?” Wilkin tugged on her sleeve. “Will he? Will Jesus make Papa come home?”

Adeliza shook herself. “Yes,” she said. “Yes he will.” She set her hand lightly on her son’s head and sent up her own silent prayer.

ttt

Seventy miles away, on the outskirts of Wilton, Will was attending to his own prayers in the chapel of the leper hospital 417

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of Saint Giles at Fugglestone. He had given four pounds of silver to the master to help sustain the brothers and sisters of the establishment, and also given them a cow he had brought from Arundel. She was in calf and would provide the inmates with good sweet milk come full spring when she gave birth.

Adeliza would be pleased, he thought, and put from his mind the knowledge that she would certainly be a deal less pleased to know her nunnery of Wilton, less than half a mile away, had been invaded by Stephen and was being used by him as a camp from which to attack Robert of Gloucester at Wareham.

Fresh from his success at Oxford, Stephen was in a bullish mood and determined to retake the port and thus deny the Angevins a secure landing with easy crossings to their supplies in Normandy.

Indeed, Will thought, his wife would be furious, which was one reason he had not written to tell her where he was, although of course she would find out and he would have to weather the storm when he returned home.

He had tried to dissuade Stephen from taking over the abbey, but the king had been adamant. He said he would compensate the nuns in due course, but he needed the buildings. It had been pointless to argue because the bishop of Winchester had been present and had made no protest, and since he was the papal legate, and had ultimate authority, it was a lost cause.

Will had billeted his own troops at Fugglestone, sufficiently removed from the leper hospital to assuage the fears of his men, but not on the nunnery site. It was making a silk purse of a sow’s ear, but at least it had mollified his conscience, as had the four pounds of silver and the cow. He was not afraid of the lepers, as many were, and he did not revile them because all men were sinners and Christ taught that one should have compassion for the afflicted. Adeliza had always concerned herself with the sick and the poor in practical ways and he loved 418

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her dearly for her compassion and dedication. So he talked to the lepers, listened to their stories, and cherished his own good health with renewed thanksgiving.

Back at the camp a summons had arrived from Stephen to attend a council at the abbey. The summons was delivered by Serlo, one of Adeliza’s clerks, who was serving Will on campaign as his scribe. Serlo had been conducting routine business with Stephen’s clerks and reacquainting himself with his birthplace. “It has all changed,” he said morosely. “The house where I was born is no longer there. There’s a new one of stone with a tiled roof when it used to be all timber and thatch.”

“Is that not a good thing?” Will asked, sending a groom to fetch Forcilez.

Serlo grimaced. “I suppose it is, but I always thought my house would be there, even if my parents were not. I expected to see something familiar, and for a moment I did not know who or where I was.”

Will shook his head. “I have come to the conclusion that there is no point dwelling on the past or worrying about the future.”

“There was talk at the clerks’ tables that they’ve sent the boy to Bristol.”

“What boy?” Will said with mild exasperation at Serlo’s habit of leaping from one thought to another.

“The empress’s son. She and the Earl of Gloucester have employed tutors for him—Adelard of Bath no less.” Serlo’s eyes gleamed with admiration. “They have set him up with his own household, so it seems that he is staying for the moment.”

“It is to be expected if they want him to be recognised as heir to the throne, but they have to keep him safe too.”

“The empress’s barons have sworn to recognise him as king when the time comes,” Serlo said. “They held an oath-taking in Devizes at Christmas.”

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“Is there anything you do not know?” The groom arrived with Forcilez and Will turned to mount the stallion.

“I try my best not to leave gaps in my knowledge, sire.” Will grunted with sour amusement.

“Would you swear for him?” Serlo asked curiously.

“Not to the detriment of the king,” Will replied as he swung his leg across the saddle. “Besides, swearing allegiance to an untried child would be leaping out of the cauldron into the fire, would it not?” He wondered if Adeliza had asked Serlo to work on him concerning that particular subject, and thoughtfully eyed the little clerk as he went off on some business at the leper house.

He turned Forcilez towards the abbey, then drew rein as he heard the sound of shouts and the clash of weapons from the direction of the nunnery. His men came hastening from their tents and cooking fires, eyes wide and bodies tense with alarm.

“Arm up and get your horses!” Will commanded. “Martin, see if you can find out what’s happening but don’t take risks.”

“Sire.” A young serjeant saluted and ran to his horse.

Will dismounted and gave Forcilez to the groom. “Hold him while I put on my hauberk.” Cursing under his breath, Will ran to his tent and, with the aid of a squire, swiftly donned his padded undertunic and mail shirt. As he buckled his swordbelt, he ordered the youth to harness up the baggage ponies and pack the valuables, just in case.

Outside, Adelard had assembled the Albini troop into tight formation. The sounds of battle had escalated and as Will was remounting Forcilez, the smell of smoke began to waft on the evening wind from the direction of the abbey. He leaned down to take his shield and spear from the squire.

“There is only Robert of Gloucester in the vicinity,” Adelard said grimly.

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“You think he is preempting the king’s strike at Wareham?”

“Could be, sire.”

Will nodded. “It is what I would do, and Gloucester is always ready to seize an opportunity.”

“But what about the king?”

Will compressed his lips and urged Forcilez out of the leper-house gates on to the road that led one way to Wilton and the other to Salisbury. Dusk was closing in, the sun sinking in a yellow pool, smudged by long streamers of charcoal cloud. The smell of smoke was thicker now and Will could hear the crackle of flames. As he picked up the pace, Martin came galloping back towards him and drew rein in a swirl of dust.

“It’s the Earl of Gloucester, sire,” he panted. “And Miles FitzWalter and William of Salisbury. They’ve fired the village and the abbey!”

“The king, did you see the king?”

“No, sire, but one of William D’Ypres’s Flemings said that he and the bishop of Winchester have fled under hard pursuit to the legate’s castle at Downton, and everyone should scatter as best they may!”

Several fleeing horsemen burst out of the dusk at full gallop.

“Go!” one of them bellowed at Will. “Gloucester has overrun the abbey—flee for your lives! The roads south and north are cut off!” He reined his horse around Forcilez and spurred away.

Before Will could turn to give orders, more soldiers arrived at a hard gallop in pursuit of those who had just raced through.

He barely raised his shield in time to ward off a vicious blow from the mallet wielded by a knight on a roan stallion. He groped for his sword, drew it, and twitched the reins. Forcilez half reared and struck out at his opponent’s horse with pawing forehooves. The other stallion shied, and Will was able to land a blow on his adversary’s unguarded leg. Blood spattered and the man screamed and reined away. Will pivoted Forcilez to 421

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take on another opponent, this time slashing through the reins and clipping the destrier on its neck. The knight retaliated, his blade nicking Will’s cheek.

“Sound the retreat!” Will bellowed to Adelard, aware that reinforcements could arrive from Wilton at any moment. A flail connected with his ribs and the blow shot the air out of his lungs. Forcilez turned and lashed out and turned again, and he praised God for the stallion’s courage, training, and implacable nature. He rallied enough to strike again and heard the blare of the horn. Once, twice. His knight Milo Bassett came to his aid and they hacked themselves free and clapped spurs to their destriers’ flanks. The Angevin knights hurtled in pursuit, eager to capture an earl. Forcilez lacked speed but was sure-footed and strong, and this paid off as one of the chasing men drew level. As he reached to seize hold of Will, his horse stumbled. There was a sickening crack as the destrier’s foreleg snapped, and the man was thrown and hit the ground hard.

Two other pursuing knights were too close to swerve and were brought down, and the others, now lacking superior numbers, drew back.

Will and his men rode on hard, using the last of the light to put more distance between them and their enemy. Looking over his shoulder Will could see the glow of fire from the direction of Wilton. The village and abbey were well and truly alight, and it was obvious that the Angevins had carried all before them. He put his hand up to his face and brought it away red-fingered. Most of his men bore superficial wounds. A couple had deeper cuts that needed binding and stitching, and there was one empty saddle where one of his serjeants had died in the skirmish. They had some of their baggage, but all the tents and food supplies were lost.

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a white mule emerged through a narrow gap in the hedgerow with Serlo astride. Will slumped with relief. “You fool, I could have cut off your head,” he snapped.

Looking aggrieved, Serlo gestured to the panniers attached to the mule. “I have clean bandages in here and ointments, and needles for stitching flesh if anyone is in need of attention. I thought you would be pleased to see me.” Will exhaled hard. “Indeed I am. If nothing else this night, you at least are a godsend.”

Serlo glanced back towards the glow from Wilton. “My lady the queen is not going to like this,” he said.

Will grimaced and felt the sword cut tug along his cheekbone. “No,” he said, his heart sinking further. “She isn’t.” ttt

Adeliza tiptoed into the bedchamber to look at the sleeping children. The soft glow from a lantern set in a niche near the open bed curtains illuminated Wilkin spread-eagled on his back, his chest lightly rising and falling and his face flushed in slumber. Two-year-old Adelis was curled up like a little hedgehog, her thumb in her mouth, and Godfrey, five months, was making soft snoring sounds in his crib. Sarah, his nurse, was gently rocking the cradle and working wool from her distaff to her spindle, a task that could be done in dim light. Watching their innocent and vulnerable slumber, her eyes prickled with tears. It grieved her to think of the many children unable to sleep safely in their beds because of all the strife in the world.

After a while, she crept out and, in a pensive mood, sat down by the open window in her chamber to work on some plain sewing by the last of the light. She glanced at the length of sheeting draped over two trestles. Earlier, Wilkin had constructed a campaign tent for himself and a couple of play-mates. They had pretended to be soldiers at war. Listening to the martial talk of little boys still firmly tied to the apron strings but 423

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fiercely practising their future roles had saddened Adeliza deeply.

She knew that, to survive, they had to learn to be warriors, and how to control and command, but it was as if nowhere was free from the taint of violence, even her own chamber.

Hearing a shout from the walls and the sound of the gates being opened, she set down her sewing and gazed out of the window.

Melisande joined her. “Who is it?”

The servants were kindling torches and she could hear the jingle and clatter of mounted men. “It’s the earl!” Adeliza said in astonishment. “Will’s home!” She clapped her hands, and bade servants bring food and prepare a tub. Remembering Wilkin’s prayer in the chapel earlier, she praised God for answering so promptly, but at the same time felt worried. To return at this late hour suggested they had pushed the horses, which could mean either good news or bad.

Arriving in the great hall to greet the returning men, she recoiled from the powerful stench of sweat, blood, and hard-ridden horses. Will, clad in his mail, was staggering with exhaustion. A clotted cut slashed one cheek and his eyes were glassy.

“We have wounded,” he said. “Do what you can.”

“Wounded?” She stared at him in consternation and dismay.

“Robert of Gloucester caught us unawares,” he said. “We escaped by the skin of our teeth.” His gaze slid from hers as if he was unable to bear the weight of contact. “Stephen is free and clear, thank Christ, but others have not been so fortunate…” He broke off and rubbed his forehead with his cuff, leaving a black smear. “Martel’s been taken prisoner by Robert of Gloucester…” He staggered again. Frightened, Adeliza called two burly menservants to support him and bade them bring him to her chamber, but he pushed them off. “No,” he said. “I must see to my men first.” She gave a slight nod because she knew about duty and responsibility. However, she bade the servants stay close as she 424

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accompanied him to see what she could do. Most of the injuries were cuts and contusions and small broken bones. The main need was clean water, bandages, sustenance, and rest. These things having been provided, together with words of comfort, she eventually managed to persuade Will to their chamber.

Food and drink had been set out, and water was heating in two cauldrons over the hearth, which attendants now poured into a tub, mixing in jugs of cold to adjust the temperature.

Will’s squire helped him to remove his armour and Will hissed through his teeth as he bent over so the youth could pull the garments over his head.

“You are injured!” Adeliza reached to him in consternation.

“Cracked ribs,” he panted. “I took a blow from a flail when we were fighting our way out.”

The armour removed, he dismissed the squire and let Adeliza finish helping him undress. She gasped at the sight of the purple and red mottles flushing his right side. “Dear Jesu! And your face!”

“It could have been much worse, believe me.” He stepped gingerly into the tub and eased down into the hot water.

“Where was this battle? You have not said?” She tried to keep the panic from her voice, hoping it was not close to home.

He clenched his eyelids. “It was at Wilton.” Adeliza went rigid. “Wilton?” That was very close to home indeed.

He uttered a soft groan. “I wish I did not have to tell you.

Stephen wanted to capture Wareham from Robert of Gloucester and bade us muster at the abbey.”

“You did not tell me that when you left to join him.”

“I did not want to upset you, and all I knew was that it was the muster point. I did not know he was fortifying the nunnery until we arrived.”

“He put soldiers in the nunnery?” Her voice rose in outrage.

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stabbed. “To occupy a nunnery is against God’s holy word!

How could Stephen do such a thing—and how could you let him?” Her voice was harsh with disgust.

“I didn’t let him.” Will snapped. “He was already in occupation when we arrived. I made my camp at Fugglestone—

and before you rail at me about that, I gave alms to the lazar house, and my men made their billets in a field away from the chapel.”

She turned away from him and, in a fruitless attempt to calm her anger, began fussing with a pile of towels. He spoke as if he thought his actions made everything all right.

“Stephen might have taken over the nunnery to billet his men and discuss his strategies,” he said in a hard voice, “but it was Robert of Gloucester and Miles of Hereford who threw torches into the buildings and burned the place to the ground.”

“Wilton is burned?” Adeliza whirled to face him, and now she truly was furious.

He grimaced. “Gloucester’s troops sacked the abbey and set it alight. I heard that they even seized men who had claimed sanctuary at the altar.”

Adeliza pressed her hand to her mouth and sat down abruptly as the strength left her legs. “Dear God,” she said with revulsion. “There is no end to this, is there?” Wilton. She tried to envisage the sanctuary in flames. Her retreat from the world after Henry’s death. The nuns who had been her comfort and her support. She thought of the rough tramp of soldiers’ feet in the cloister, and imagined the torches whirling through the air and landing in the thatch. “What happens now? What of the people burned out of their homes? They cannot turn for succour to secure castle walls and the arms of a waiting wife.

How can the Church help them, when the Church itself is naught but ashes? It does not matter who set the torches, husband, the result is the same.”

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He continued with his ablutions, his movements slow and painful and his shoulders rigid. She wondered if he was trying to cleanse himself of more than just the grime of hard riding and battle.

“You may not have thrown the torch, but you have dwelt in the house of God with a sword in your hand,” she said, hurling her words against his silence.

“Peace, wife,” he replied in a dull voice. “What has been done to Wilton is a terrible thing and a sin, I agree. I am no callous warmonger to be ignorant of the desperate plight of the people caught up in this battle.”

“Peace? How can I be at peace when my house has been razed by the man my husband follows and honours?” Bitterness scalded her throat. “What is going to happen to all of us if we continue to burn and rend and destroy? What will be left for our sons and daughters but a wilderness of ashes and bones, bereft of all moral worth?”

“I said peace!” he snarled. “I have enough bruises and cuts without taking more from your tongue!”

“As you wish, sire.” She plucked her cloak from the peg in the wall and flung it on. “Have your peace!” She spat the last word as she swept from the room. Once outside, she put her face in her hands and allowed herself a brief shudder of tears, and then felt guilty because tears were not going to help Wilton.

She felt as if a hard splinter had entered her heart. Was this how Matilda felt? Was this how it began, before gradually everything solidified as the splinter worked its way inwards and there was no longer any flexibility and no joy from which to fashion a smile?

She made her way to the chapel to kneel in a holy place that had not been defiled by war and pray for the nunnery. The warm colours and the soft light in the darkness comforted her.

She counted her prayer beads through her fingers and asked God for strength and guidance.

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She was still kneeling when she heard a soft footfall. A moment later, Will eased himself down at her side and crossed his breast. An herbal scent of bathwater wafted across the space between them and his hair was a tangle of short damp curls.

The space between them was stiff with silent emotion as they each rendered their devotion to God.

Eventually Will raised his head and picked up the wooden horse that Wilkin had left on the altar step. It was the figure of Forcilez he had whittled when on campaign with Stephen several years ago.

“What’s this, an offering?”

The toy served to break the silence between them. “I expect it is,” she said. “I was teaching our son to honour all God’s creatures and all God’s people, whatever their station in life.” He turned the piece over in his big hands.

“He was praying this morning for your return.” Will eased painfully to his feet. “Well, he got his wish.” He took her hand in his free one. “I have always tried to do my best and be honourable. I freely acknowledge I make mistakes, but I have never acted out of false intent or malice.” She looked at him. The cut on his cheek was an angry red stripe and his breathing was shallow. His gaze beseeched her for clemency. “I do not doubt your honour, or your intention,” she said, “but when I think of what has been done to Wilton by men on both sides of the divide, who hold their own honour on high as an example to all, then I despair.” He screwed up his face. “There is nothing I can do to restore Wilton to what it was or change the past, but I swear to you, and to God, that those who wish it may take shelter at Arundel, or Rising, or Buckenham. I will see to the building of the shelters and hostels, if you will see to the people.” He made the sign of the Cross. “At least I can offer refuges and new homes on lands that are unlikely to be attacked.” He set his arm around 428

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her, still clutching their son’s wooden image of Forcilez. “Do not turn against me,” he muttered against the top of her head, and she heard his voice choke. “I could not bear strife at the heart of my home. You are my only sanctuary.” She drew her head back to look at him and even as earlier she had seen the man inside her eldest son, now she saw the child inside his father, seeking comfort and reassurance, and felt the shard in her heart slip and dissolve, even though there was a scar where it had been. “Come,” she said. “It is late and dark and the only sanctuary we should be in other than a church is that of our bed. Let all else wait until the morning.” 429

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Forty-nine

Devizes, Christmas 1143

The deep of winter was a time to stay indoors by the hearth and play chess. Matilda sat over a board with Henry in her chamber at Devizes and watched his gaze dart in swift thought before he picked up the chunky ivory bishop and moved him two spaces. Then he smiled at her. He was not yet eleven years old, but already he understood the complexities of the game and was offended if anyone suggested he play the simpler popular chance version of dice-chess.

She sought to work out the trap she knew he was planning.

Think ahead. Always think ahead. His tutoring at Bristol under Master Adelard was intensive and all bent towards moulding him into a king capable of ruling England and Normandy as her father had done. She had come to the bitter but inevitable realisation she would never be queen of England, no matter what men had sworn to her, because, in the end, it was beyond their capabilities to follow a woman. But a woman could still rule and advise from behind a throne. She moved her queen to block Henry’s bishop. That would give him food for thought.

Strange how queens had so much power in chess, yet kings had none.

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least she knew the core of men around her were dedicated and unlikely to desert. Her cause had been aided by the death of Pope Innocent in September, which meant that the bishop of Winchester no longer held the position of legate. And with a new, more sympathetic pope, the way was open for fresh negotiations on the matter of who had the right to England’s crown.

Henry had spent longer this time pondering the board, his eyes narrow and his hand cupping his chin. She was pleased with his progress. When he had come from his father, he had had difficulty in sitting still for even a moment, but these days he could focus if he was given a task that demanded concentra-tion and thought—for the time it took, at least.

He made his move, sweeping decisively down the flank with his rook, and expending some of his cooped-up energy.

Matilda made her own reply swiftly. Henry had obviously anticipated what she would do, for he immediately struck with his knight, his grey eyes shining. Once again, she saw the trap, but it was now double-edged and she was only a few moves away from defeat whatever she did.

“Oh, very clever,” she laughed. “I concede you the victory—

but you had to think hard, didn’t you?” Henry grinned. “Yes, but I like thinking,” he said, “and I like winning.”

“Indeed!” The competitive urge in her son was as bright as his hair, and had been deliberately fostered, together with the ability to focus on the goal while keeping an eye on peripheral dangers. “But you must learn to weather the times you do not win and be prepared to endure.”

“Papa says that too.”

“Well, your papa is wise,” she said neutrally. Rising from the board she went to look out of the window on the stark winter landscape. She often had occasion to deal with Geoffrey through formal letters and discussions about their sons and 431

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the state of Normandy, but she no longer felt any emotional attachment, and the long separation had weaned her off the corrosive but compelling physical desire she had felt for him.

And with the waning of that dark need, other volatile feelings had died. She no longer hated him; she could be detached and impartial, because he meant nothing to her beyond the need for his soldierly qualities and his diplomatic skills. She saw him every day in Henry, but more strongly still did she see the royal blood of Normandy and England. Henry was the son of an empress and the grandson of a great king. Beside that, the blood of his father was a thing of no consequence—in that, at least, her father had been right.

Henry left the chessboard and came to stand at her side, stepping up to the embrasure so that he could see out of the open window and sniff the cold, damp air.

“One day all of this will be yours.” She set her arm around his narrow shoulders. “You must rule it wisely, like your namesake, your grandfather and his father before him, who was brought here by God. God has ordained that you should rule this country in honesty and humility, tending always to its needs and administering with justice. That is a big lesson to learn and a great responsibility.”

“I know, Mother.” He jutted his jaw. “I will govern as king, and I will do it until I die and nothing will hold me back.” The earnest tone of his voice made her look at him fondly and smile and ruffle his hair because he was a child, and yet he spoke like a man and she was proud of him.

“I mean it,” he said with intensity.

She gave him an assessing look and pursed her lips. A feeling of recognition settled in her stomach. She knew how he felt because she felt that way too, and it was as if the spark had passed one to the other.

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brother Robert. At the sight of his grave expression, her pleasure vanished. “What is it?”

Robert’s gaze flicked to Henry and back to her. “Prepare yourself for bad tidings,” he said.

“How bad?” Her arm was still around Henry’s shoulder and she cupped her hand protectively. “Has Stephen…?” Robert shook his head. “It is nothing to do with Stephen.

Miles FitzWalter is dead, God rest his soul.” Matilda stared at her brother in shock. “How?” Miles was a senior commander and good friend. He had opened Gloucester to her when she first came to England. He was a constant. He couldn’t be dead.

“Hunting deer,” Robert said. “One of his own knights shot wildly and struck his lord instead of the stag. He died almost instantly.”

“I should have kept him at court,” she said, feeling sick. “He would have lived then.”

Robert shook his head. “You could not have prevented this.

If you set a fence around him, he would have broken out. He lived his life as if it was one long hunt.”

“But such a waste, God rest his soul.” She crossed herself and her voice shook. “He was a brave man and a loyal vassal.” And how will I replace him?

Robert looked at Henry who had crossed himself too. “Do you remember Miles FitzWalter, lad?”

“He gave me sword lessons,” Henry said, his eyes wide. “He promised to take me hunting.”

“Thank Christ he did not.” Matilda resisted the urge to hug him to her breast. How vulnerable they all were. Who knew when death would strike and scatter all their plans like straws on the flood?

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Fifty

Bristol, March 1144

Matilda patted her mare’s neck and inhaled the dank air of late winter as she trotted along a forest path with Brian. Ahead Henry cantered along on his grey pony, dogs running at his side as he chased small game through stands of oak, ash, and elm, their branches stark and black in the early spring afternoon. Various members of the court rode ahead and behind and the atmosphere for once was relaxed and informal.

Earlier in the day, Henry had jointly witnessed a charter to Humphrey de Bohun and another to Reading Abbey.

Matilda had come to Bristol to celebrate Easter and discuss Henry’s education. His progress thus far pleased her greatly and although times were difficult, his presence had put new heart into their cause. Henry’s charm, his fierce energy and obvious deep intelligence had won over her own supporters and convinced them that this was indeed their future king. Watching him yell and spur faster, she smiled with pride at his fearless vitality, and tried not to think that he might take a tumble.

“He rides better than I did at that age,” Brian said.

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were all exhausted from the long drag of war, and this time of year was never easy with its endless dark days and sparse rations. The evenings had started to draw out, but as yet there was no sign of spring greenery to alleviate the grey. She had intentionally come on this ride to raise her spirits and sweep away the cobwebs. “I wager you were a fine boy though,” she said to him.

He raised his brows. “What do you mean by that, domina?”

“I imagine you were as active as my son and ranged far and wide before my father took you into his household.” The lines at his eye corners deepened, but in the direction of a smile. “Yes, I did enjoy roaming free, and even at your father’s court I was allowed to do so. He let us all off the leash now and again. He knew how to train unruly pups, did your father.” His expression sobered. “Of course, in those days anyone in the land could roam free in safety and not be bothered. It was a different world when your father was alive.”

“Yes,” she said, “sadly it was, but those times will come again.”

“Will they?” He looked grim. “I have had to turn robber to keep my men and horses fed. I raid merchant trains. I steal horses and sacks of grain. I waylay anyone who looks as if they might have wealth about their person and I rob them down to their braies. I never imagined I would do such things to survive, but I have to, and it sickens me.”

She knew he was referring to an incident before Christmas when he had intercepted some merchants on their way to the bishop of Winchester’s fair and confiscated their goods and chattels. The bishop had threatened to excommunicate Brian, who had written a blistering response to the effect that the good bishop had changed sides more often than the wind changed direction, and that had his support of Matilda stayed constant and had he upheld her as queen, the raids would never have taken place because there would have been no need.

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She gave him a firm look. “We have all been forced to act in ways we would not choose.”

Brian said quietly, “Your sire was a father to me. I honour his memory in the best way I know—by honouring and serving his daughter to the best of my ability, and while there is breath in my body, I shall do so.”

She put out her hand to his across their horses and touched his sleeve in a brief gesture. He swallowed and set his jaw.

Henry arrived in a flurry of dogs and galloping pony. As she withdrew her hand, Brian raised his own to rub the back of his neck as if at an irritation, but when he saw her looking, he redirected the movement to check that the neck brooch of his tunic was secure.

On their return, a messenger from Geoffrey was waiting for them, his eyes alight as he knelt and handed her a sealed letter.

“Great news, domina!” he cried. “Rouen has surrendered to the Count of Anjou. Normandy is won!” Matilda hastily broke the seal and opened the letter. Triumph coursed through her, and joy, but mingled with it was a thread of vile darkness because Geoffrey’s success emphasised her own inability to take and hold England. Her golden husband had achieved what eluded her. “That is wonderful news!” she said, swallowing the bitter and celebrating the sweet. Gesturing the messenger to his feet, she took a ring from her finger and gave it to him in payment for the tidings.

Henry had been listening to the exchange. “Papa has won?” His grey eyes shone. “I knew he would!” He drew his toy sword and saluted the air. Robert had heard too, and Brian, and they were smiling broadly. The news spread through the hall like fire and with the same warming effect. England might still be a frozen struggle, but Normandy was achieved. Matilda turned away while she composed herself, because the letter contained other news that cut her heart.

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She heard Robert calling for a tun of the best wine to be broached in celebration. Tonight there would be feasting and toasts and she would wear her jewelled silks and furs to honour Geoffrey’s success—which was her success too, and Henry’s.

She would rejoice with a glitter so bright and hard that no one would see how she bled.

ttt

Henry was supposed to be preparing for bed, but when Matilda entered his sleeping chamber, he was still clad in the tunic he had worn to the feast. His bedcover was strewn with an eclectic jumble representing his interests: a bridle, a hawking gauntlet, a gaming board, two books, several pieces of parchment with diagrams and bits of untidy writing…and Rumpus, the terrier Maude of Wallingford had given him. Rumpus had spread an inscription of muddy paw and belly marks across the embroidered quilt. At the sight of Matilda, he began thumping his tail on the bed as if beating a drum, and she hastily looked away before she became the recipient of his enthusiasm. To add to the detritus, Henry’s clothing chest was open, spilling entrails of garments across the floor.

“Where is your chamberlain?” she demanded. Henry was too old to need a nurse, but there should be servants to attend to him.

“I said I could see to myself.” He gave her a mulish look. “I am old enough.”

“Are you indeed?” She looked round. “This place is a pigsty.”

“I was going to tidy it, but I had to take Rumpus for a piss first.”

That explained the muddy paw prints and why he was still in his clothes. “Do you often wander about the castle at night?” He shrugged. “I talk to the soldiers if I can’t sleep, or I walk about and think. Sometimes I read or I write things, or I play chess with myself.”

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Given his prodigious energy, she suspected he did not spend much time in slumber. She wondered how well she really knew this child of hers. For certain he had the will and intelligence to be a king, and the education and the curiosity. She was unsure where his inclination to tear through life like a whirlwind came from, unless it was a trait that had been her father’s as a child and had become weighted down with time and the burdens of kingship.

“Your father wants you to return to Normandy,” she said.

“Now that you have spent time in England and have come to know the men who will help you rule when you are king, he needs you with him, because even as you will be a king in England, you will be a duke there and the barons need reminding.”

She watched him weigh up her words thoughtfully in a way that spoke of a calculating man, not an eleven-year-old boy, and, as she studied his expression, she knew it would not be long, irrespective of his years, before he truly was capable of governing a country. “When must I leave?” he asked. There was no regret in his voice but neither did she receive the impression he was eager to go.

“As soon as the wind is set fair for a sea crossing and your baggage packed.” She gave the wreckage of his room a meaningful look.

He jutted his jaw. “And when I come back to England again, it will be to rule it.”

Matilda swallowed. She might never be England’s queen, but she would be the mother of the greatest king Christendom had ever seen, of that she was certain, even if for the moment he had an unbroken voice and only came up to her shoulder.

“Yes,” she said. “That is your destiny.” 438

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Fifty-one

Castle Rising, Norfolk, Late Summer 1144

I can see the castle, Mama, I can see the castle! I was the first!” Wilkin leaped up and down on the ship, and pointed to a distant gleam of white, his voice shrill with excitement. Will had been telling him for a while to look out for the castle and he had been leaning at the prow, eager to be the first.

“Yes, indeed you were,” Adeliza said, and picked up two-year-old Godfrey in her arms to show him too. “See the castle.”

“Cackle,” said Godfrey.

“Almost there,” Will said to his three-year-old daughter, who sat on his shoulders, her pale gold curls ruffling in the stiff sea breeze.

Across the flat sandy heathland, the new castle at Rising stood like a gleaming white tooth in a gum. The surrounding ringwork was low and offered little defence, but that had not been his intent. He wanted Rising to proclaim itself and be an aesthetic haven amidst the chaos of war.

In the basketwork travelling cradle, six-month-old Reiner had started to wail like a little gull. The nurse picked him up, but Will gestured. “Give him to me,” he said.

“Sire, his swaddling is wet.”

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Taking his youngest child in his free arm, ignoring the heavy dampness of the swaddling clouts, Will faced him towards the shoreline and the lime-washed gleam of Rising’s walls. He wanted all of his children to see this, whether they understood or not. Scaffolding still caged the edifice and not all of the stone was painted, but enough had been to give a fine impression, especially against the deep blue of sky and sea, and the green of the reclaimed land dotted with grazing sheep.

As the ship navigated the river channel, Will handed Reiner back to the nurse and went to stand beside his wife. Adeliza had been unwell for several months following their son’s birth and was still frail; he wanted to see the pink return to her cheeks and to give her something beyond the continuing conflict to think about. He had chosen to sail rather than ride because there was less chance of meeting opposition and the late August weather was fine and clear with a good breeze for the sails. The journey would be less wearing for his wife and the sea approach would show the castle to its best advantage.

There had been fighting in East Anglia earlier in the year as Stephen had subdued the rebellious Hugh Bigod, and there had been a skirmish at Lincoln with Ranulf of Chester, but for now the area was reasonably stable.

“You will see many changes since we were here last,” he said, slipping his arm around her shoulders. “Before it was only dreams and plans built on scant foundations.”

“Is that not the story of many a life?” she asked him with a smile.

His eyes sparkled. “Indeed, but not everyone sees them brought to fruition.”

Adeliza felt a warm pang of affection as she leaned against Will’s reassuring solid strength. He loved to plan and build.

She would come upon him sitting at a trestle surrounded by 440

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heaps of parchment covered in drawings and sketches. He often entertained master masons at his board and exchange ideas with them. He would sit on the floor with Wilkin, constructing miniature buildings out of pieces of wood and stone, and his big hands would be sensitive and knowing—as they were on her body. His childlike enthusiasm always pricked a tender spot within her. Far better the builder than the warrior intent on destruction. She knew this visit was only a lull, that he would go to war again once the harvests were in the barns and his lands visited, but for a while she had him and the children to herself, and perhaps here she could find the space to recoup the energy she had lacked ever since Reiner’s birth. She felt well today; the tingling sea air was rejuvenating.

Meandering upriver towards the castle, they passed a white dovecote with the Albini lion banner flying from its tiled roof.

A flock of birds took off from the shingles and haloed the building, their breasts dazzling in the sunlight. Godfrey pointed to them with a squeal, and Adeliza kissed his soft cheek. The briny smell of the river filled her nose and mingled with the green of the land. Grazing sheep lifted their heads to watch the boat sail past and the shepherd’s dogs ran along the bank, barking, which set Teri to barking too until Will silenced him with a sharp command and a click of his fingers.

The ship nudged in gently to moor at a landing stage that gave access to a small, moated building where grooms waited with horses and a two-wheeled cart lined with cushions for the nurses and children. Adeliza and Will had two matching grey palfreys, one adorned with a sumptuous padded ladies’ saddle.

Will helped Adeliza to mount and handed up to her a fat pouch of silver coins. “You will need this,” he said.

He had been busy planning not just the castle, but a town to prosper around it, and also a leprosarium. The hospital of Saint Giles stood outside the town wall and consisted of individual 441

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dwellings for twenty lepers attached to a small chapel, where they could attend daily prayers. The timber houses, white-washed and neatly thatched, were ready to receive occupants.

Adeliza’s task while at Rising was to select the first ones.

The master of the hospital and five lay attendants waited before the church to greet Adeliza and receive the bag of silver in alms. She spoke warmly to the master and bade him attend her on the morrow to discuss plans for the leper house, and then rode on into the town, noting the neat plots and thoughtful layout. The decorated west front of the new church, dedicated to Saint Lawrence, filled her heart and she gave Will a look brimming with love because his efforts were much more than a token gesture; they showed a true desire and enthusiasm to give glory to God.

Beyond the town, a short ride brought them to the castle, and having crossed the ringwork ditch they entered under the arch of the gatehouse.

“Portcullis!” announced Wilkin proudly, pointing at the jagged teeth above their heads. “That’s a portcullis!”

“Clever lad!” Will ruffled his son’s curls.

“Portcullis!” Adelis aped her brother, shouting the word from the cart much to everyone’s amusement.

Once dismounted, Adeliza gazed at the castle, perfectly framed in the gatehouse archway. The forebuilding was decorated with blind arcading and geometrical designs that echoed the church. Two rondels depicted amusing animal faces, the right-hand one having a distinct look of Teri. The great doors, banded in wrought-iron shapes and curlicues, stood open to reveal a long series of steps, rising under an archway and leading towards a vestibule.

“I wanted to build you a palace,” Will said with anxiety in his eyes. “I hope you approve.”

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outside (except perhaps for the rondels) was designed to her taste, not his. “I am overwhelmed,” she said. “Approve is not an adequate word.” She wiped her eyes on the corner of her sleeve.

He held out his arm. Adeliza laid her hand along his wrist and processed with him in courtly fashion through the first door and up the stairs, the children following behind with their nurses. Passing under an arch with decorated columns, she came to a vestibule facing a splendid series of arches curving one over the other, leading into a great hall with a fireplace set on a stone slab in the centre of the room. A hanging bearing the gold Albini lion decorated the end wall, with two carved and painted chairs set on the dais below it.

Adeliza felt as if her eyes were not large enough to take in all the detail. It was like having a serving dish piled high with so many delectable foods that just by looking you could almost lose your appetite.

Beyond the great hall lay the chapel, embellished with ornate arches and more blind arcading. Painting had begun and the main colours were blue and white, for the colours of the Virgin’s cloak and veil. A lamp burned above the altar, which was adorned by a silver cross and candlesticks.

Adeliza could only shake her head. Will opened his arms and she went into them and pressed her head against his breast.

“Why is Mama crying?” Wilkin demanded.

“Because this is a big surprise she was not expecting.” Wilkin frowned. “I like surprises,” he said. “Doesn’t Mama?”

“Yes, she does; her tears are happy ones. Go with Bernice and she will find you something to eat and drink. Your mother will talk to you later.”

The nurses removed the children, and Adeliza knelt to pray.

Knowing her foibles, Will knelt with her, waiting until she was ready.

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have to explain to him now why sometimes people cry with joy,” she said wryly.

“But not just yet,” he said. “There is something else I want you to see.”

Adeliza shook her head. “I am not sure I can bear any more surprises. My cup is already overflowing.”

“You can bear this one, I promise.” Smiling broadly, he led her by the hand from the chapel, back to the hall, and then through to a well-appointed living chamber with two recessed south-facing windows and between them a large fireplace.

An ample bed stood at the back of the room, made up with mattresses, but as yet no hangings and covers.

Adeliza gazed round. “It is very fine,” she said, relieved that there was nothing here to overwhelm her saturated emotions, but cautious because his grin was brighter than ever.

“And I will show you something finer yet.” He gestured towards two narrow doorways set in the west wall. Her curiosity piqued, Adeliza went to the first one. Along a narrow, skewed passageway, she came to a door, and beyond that, a latrine with a small looped window giving air and light.

There was a recess for a candle and a polished wooden seat.

“You show me a latrine as a thing of wonder?” She eyed him askance.

He shrugged and gestured. “Now look at the other one.” Mystified, she did so, and found an almost identical garderobe, except that this one had a triangular urinal set into the wall.

“You always complain I splash the seat,” he said. “That will no longer be a problem if we have one each.” Adeliza stared and her shoulders began to shake again.

Tears filled her eyes. “Oh Will!” She was laughing so hard she could scarcely breathe and it was his turn to look askance.

Clutching her aching stomach, she stumbled to the bed and collapsed on the mattresses. “You showed me a town and a 444

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hospital,” she said, raising one hand to wipe her eyes. “I was expecting that. You showed me a church and a castle with fine decoration, and I thought you had excelled yourself.

You showed me a chapel that is so beautiful that it hurts me in here.” She pressed her hand to her heart. “And then you bring me here, and as if it is the greatest prize of all, you show me a pair of latrines!”

“Are you not pleased?” He looked anxious.

She fought to contain her hilarity because her stomach was aching, and she did not want to hurt him. “Of course I am pleased! It is a wonderful surprise and I bless your kindness. Not many husbands would be so thoughtful.” His colour heightened.

He seldom bought her fripperies such as silks and jewels. If she wanted those she had to see to it herself via her chamberlain. Will rarely noticed details such as the colour of her gown or if she had made a special effort to dress for him. He took it all for granted and she had to fish for compliments. But then he would suddenly surprise her by bringing her a copy of Aesop or an ivory-covered prayer book. He would build her a chapel beautiful enough to make her cry…and her own private latrine, revealing that, in his own way, he had been paying attention to her after all and all the time. It was something very rare and precious that Henry had never done, despite making her a queen.

He came and sat beside her. “I tried to think of the things you would like—or find appropriate,” he said and kissed her, softly at first, and then with growing ardour.

“I am not certain this is appropriate, my lord,” she said, but with a smile in her voice and quickened breathing. “We should have hangings on the bed at the least. What if someone comes in and finds us like this?”

He rose and going to the door, he shot the bolt across.

“They won’t.”

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Her blood turned to honey in her veins. Lying together in daylight did seem slightly sinful, but that very sense of daring was erotic and it was her duty to love her husband and procreate with him; and in that sense, it was very appropriate indeed.

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