She sighed, glancing at Berta, to see if the maidservant had noticed any traitorous expression in her face, any hint of expectant excitement at the thought of being wedded to Gilan. But Berta continued to walk stolidly beside her, bovine half smile pinned to her round, flat face. Gilan was by far the more handsome brother, taller and broader than Pierre. He had inherited his mother’s shining hair, his father’s muscular physique but he was more formidable, too, less approachable than his brother. She would have some work to do, but ultimately, she was sure to win him over, and force him to bend to her will. She, Isabelle of Chesterham, could surely not be denied a little happiness after all the grief she had suffered.
Sweat prickled beneath her arms, began to trickle down her sides, gather beneath her breasts. She wished she had chosen a lighter gown to wear today; although the waist belt of her houppelande sat above her growing belly, the gold-threaded embroidery around the high, tightly buttoned neck itched her throat and she longed to pull the whole thing off and sit on the warm grass in her linen shift, legs outstretched and bare.
‘Let’s walk around to the bailey,’ she barked at her maid. ‘I can’t stand much more of this heat—and the front of the castle casts a shadow. Then we will go inside.’
‘As you wish, my lady.’ Berta curtsied, then led the way to an oak-planked door, set in the stone wall that circled the formal gardens, shoving it open with stumpy, calloused fingers.
At least there was more to see in the inner bailey, thought Isabelle, as she stepped around the east turret of the castle. Anything to relieve her long-suffering apathy. Soldiers paced along the curtain walls, marching stiffly between the fluttering flags that carried the earl’s colours; younger knights practised their skills in one corner of the bailey, rushing one by one at a straw-stuffed sack that hung by a rope from a wooden scaffold, attempting to stab it with one fatal blow. Their shouts and roars of approval rose into the heavy, shimmering air. Isabelle watched covertly, her thin mouth curling with appreciation at the sight of all those honed masculine bodies clad only in flimsy shirts and buckskin trousers.
A rapid clatter of hooves, then a shout, almost a cry for help, made everyone stall in their duties and turn to stare towards the gatehouse. A tall man, head shimmering with golden strands, skidded to a stop in the middle of the bailey, a bundle of what looked like fabric, or clothes, gathered in front of him.
Gilan!
Isabelle clutched one hand to her throat. My God! She recognised him immediately: that gleaming vitality, the strong, vigorous body and the generous upward tilt of his mouth that made her feel instantly weak with longing.
‘How do I look?’ she demanded, digging her fingers into her maid’s doughy forearm.
‘Beautiful, my lady, as always,’ Berta replied.
‘Hand me my cloak! I don’t want him to see my awful stomach!’ She snatched the fine silk from Berta’s arms and swung the material around her shoulders, arranging the voluminous gathers across the front of her dress to disguise her pregnancy.
‘There,’ she declared, satisfied. ‘Can you see anything?’
‘Nothing, my lady,’ answered her maidservant, glancing across the bailey. ‘Oh, look, there’s someone with him,’ Berta said, watching as Gilan threw himself down to the dusty cobbles and reached up to lift the bundle down, slowly, carefully. Already he was shouting orders at the soldiers and they scurried off to do his bidding.
No, not a bundle of clothes. ‘What is that?’ Isabelle stuttered out.
‘I think…I think it’s a boy.’ Berta narrowed her eyes, trying to see beyond the throngs of interested people in the bailey, and caught the white flash of a bandage. ‘Looks like he’s injured.’
Carrying Matilda, her head lolling back over his upper arm, Gilan strode grimly towards Isabelle and Berta, to the spot where they loitered on the steps leading up to the main door of the castle. Holding on to the iron rail for support, and keeping her cloak firmly across her bulging stomach, Isabelle managed a wavering curtsy. ‘My lord Gilan, you’re home at last. How good it is to see you.’
He nodded briefly at the noblewoman on the steps, his piercing eyes fixing on the maidservant. ‘Run ahead and fetch my mother, as quick as you can, Berta.’ By now he was at the top of the steps, carrying Matilda over the threshold.
Desolation crashed down around Isabelle as she stared up at Gilan’s retreating figure. My God, he had practically ignored her. Her! His late brother’s wife! Surely she deserved a little more respect than a cursory bow? She watched as Berta scuttled after him, keen to follow his orders. Why had he not asked her? She could have helped him, helped to offer comfort to the injured lad. Then he could have seen how caring she was, how kind she could be in difficult circumstances.
A soldier paced towards her, hefting saddlebags against his chest. No doubt they belonged to Gilan. He was the only person who had arrived at the castle that day.
‘Stop,’ Isabelle said imperiously. The suspended pearls quivered in her headdress.
The soldier halted before her, bowed as low as he was able.
‘Tell me, what was the matter with that lad?’ she asked. ‘Has he been injured in a fight?’
‘Lad, my lady?’ The soldier’s eyes observed her with surprise. ‘No, you have it wrong. It was a maid who has been hurt. It was a maid who my lord Gilan was carrying.’
* * *
Following Gerta’s bobbing figure, Gilan pushed through the thick, woven curtains that screened the great hall from the castle’s main entrance. Adjusting his grip on Matilda, he hoisted her more securely against his chest; she groaned faintly at the movement, lifting one hand to the makeshift bandage on her head.
‘Where are we?’ she whispered, swallowing hastily, trying to relieve the parched state of her mouth. Her tongue moved woodenly.
‘My home.’ Gilan glanced down at her, appalled by the pallid greyness of her face. ‘I can take care of you here.’
‘You always take care of me, Gilan,’ she murmured, her head rolling back against his shoulder, eyelashes fluttering down once more.
Anxiety pierced his heart. He couldn’t, wouldn’t lose her! A horrible vulnerability washed over him, a desperate powerlessness in the face of injury, of death. As he strode forwards across the vast flagstone floor, his piercing gaze switched towards the high dais, watching as Berta bustled up the wooden steps and over to a solitary figure, bent over some rolls of parchment. The white-gold hair flashed in the sunlight streaming down from the diamond-paned windows. His mother, Marie! He almost choked with relief at the sight of her. A rush of love washed through him, a powerful surge of family connection, of memory. Marie glanced up, her willowy frame half rising in her seat, mouth falling open in surprise. Tears spilled from her beautiful grey eyes, running freely down her cheeks, scattering droplets across the stretched parchment.
‘Oh, my son, my son!’ she called out, her smile shining through the tears. Her voice echoed up to the rafters of the hall. ‘I never thought I would see this day! You have come home!’
His parents would want to know, of course. They would want to know all the details of Pierre’s death. And he would tell them everything; how he had caused the whole sorry mess. Sadness puckered his heart. But there would be time to tell them later. Right now, Matilda needed him.
Marie saw immediately that Gilan’s main concern was the injured maid in his arms. Now was not the time for celebrations, or questions, despite the dancing skip of her heart. Descending the wooden steps, she walked briskly towards her son, her brain rapidly absorbing all the wonderful familiar details of him: his bright head of hair, the pewter eyes that matched her own, his formidable breadth and height.
Standing before him, she reached up with the flat of her hand and laid it gently against his cheek, a gesture of welcome, of love, before dropping her gaze to the woman in his arms. ‘I think we need to find this maid a be
dchamber.’ With narrowed, critical eyes, she assessed the girl swiftly, taking in her ashen skin, the fraying linen around her head. ‘What happened to her?’
‘Someone hit her with a rock,’ Gilan spat out, surprised by the tremble in his voice. ‘There’s a nasty gash on her forehead.’
‘Come this way.’
Moving through a low doorway in the corner of the great hall, Marie led him up a spiral staircase and into a chamber on the first floor. Berta was already in the room, lighting the charcoal brazier in the corner, tucking in clean linens around the mattress, throwing a huge fur across the top. Thank God for his mother, he thought, with her calm foresight, her ability to see ahead.
‘Lay her down, Gilan,’ Marie ordered.
Bending easily, he placed Matilda down on the furs, crouching over her. His fingers flew to the bandage at her head and he plucked frantically, trying to release the tightened knot that he himself had fastened. His fingers wouldn’t work! His mind skittered haphazardly, he couldn’t think straight! In harried despair, he seized the knife from his belt, intending to slice the bandage away.
‘Gilan, stop! Move away from her now. Much as I love you, you’re in no fit state to deal with this.’ Marie pushed him gently aside, sitting on the edge of the bed alongside Matilda. Her slender fingers worked deftly, expertly, at the white length of cloth, until she had unbound Gilan’s handiwork to reveal the ugly, purpling gash. Her son stood over her, scuffed leather boots inches from his mother’s embroidered silk slippers, burly arms crossed over his chest, watching closely.
‘What do you think?’ he demanded. ‘Does it need stitches?’
Someone rapped at the door. ‘Gilan, fetch that, would you?’ Marie flicked her eyes up to the brooding figure of her son, frowning. ‘I asked for a bowl of hot water, cloths, to be sent up.’
He held the bowl, as his mother dropped cloth after cloth into the steaming liquid, slowly cleaning the wound, dabbing away the clots of drying blood. ‘She’s not going to die, Gilan,’ Marie reassured him, smiling gently. ‘She’ll have a pretty bruise for a week or two, but no untoward effects, as far as I can judge. Right now, she needs to sleep and rest.’
To his mother’s complete surprise, Gilan sank to his knees by the bed, grabbing one of Matilda’s pale, limp hands in his big, bearlike grip. ‘Thank God,’ he breathed, kissing the pale, frozen digits, ‘I don’t know what I would have…’
He stopped. I don’t know what I would have done without her. The unspoken words hung in the air, mocking him. Was that what it had come to? That he couldn’t live without her? That this vibrant, feisty girl, who had burst into his life with such energy and such self-possession, who had given herself so freely to him, had come to mean so much to him? He knew the answer. He felt his mother’s eyes upon him, and Berta’s, both watching him intently, closely.
‘Who is this maid, Gilan?’ Marie asked, pushing herself on to her feet, pressing her hands to the front of her gown.
‘It’s a long story.’ He threw his mother a rueful smile.
‘Then we had best summon your father,’ Marie suggested, ‘for it will save you telling the same story twice.’
* * *
At first, Matilda had no idea where she was. Her aching head was propped up against a soft pillow and a linen sheet covered her body, heaped with furs. A fire crackled away in the corner of the chamber; shifting her head against the pillow, she realised it was a charcoal brazier, the coals glowing merrily, despite the summer heat outside. The chamber was expensively furnished: elegant, colourful tapestries covered the plastered walls; intricate carving decorated the oak coffer beneath the window. The wood shone warmly. The low trajectory of light from outside suggesting that the day moved towards evening. A daddy longlegs skittered lazily along the ceiling, bouncing randomly along the wooden rafters.
Her head pounded; removing her hand from beneath the covers, she lifted her fingers tentatively to the throbbing patch on her temple. She remembered that attack in the forest, Gilan’s frantic shouts. Then being carried against his muscular frame, on horseback, and feeling ill, not wanting to be sick in front of him. Was this his home? Frowning, she screwed up her eyes, trying to remember. Was it he who had tended to her wound? There had been another voice, a gently accented voice delivering orders in a soft, calm manner and cool, deft fingers against her head. That hadn’t been Gilan, surely?
‘So, you’re awake then.’ A voice grated out beside Matilda. A shrill, clipped tone.
Surprise juddered through her. She had thought herself to be alone in the room. A woman sat in a low chair beside the bed, narrow lips curling into a lopsided smile, hands resting atop a huge, pregnant belly, fingers laced tightly together. Her knuckles gleamed white, as if the bone in her hands tried to escape the thin stretched skin. Hundreds of tiny pearl buttons secured the front of her gown from throat to waist, an exquisite gown, fashioned from a deep red satin. A jewelled headdress highlighted the brown curls of the woman’s hair, gold-threaded net covering plaited coils over each ear.
Self-consciously, Matilda touched her own hair. Someone had released the glossy tendrils from the hairpins and now the full length of chestnut silk looped down across the sable bed furs. Tucking several strands hurriedly behind each ear, she shuffled her hips up against the pillow in a vague attempt to raise herself into a seated position.
‘Who are you?’ The woman was staring at her intently.
‘I…I am Matilda of Lilleshall,’ Matilda managed to stutter out. Where was Gilan? Maybe this wasn’t his home after all, and he’d left her somewhere. A sense of wretchedness rushed through her and she recalled his words by the river: ‘Stop trying to make me a better man than I really am.’ Would he really leave her at a stranger’s house, without saying goodbye?
‘Never heard of you,’ the woman remarked, her tone instantly dismissive. ‘Are you one of the Marcher families? Who are your people?’
The woman’s abrasive manner grated on her nerves. ‘I told you, at Lilleshall, south of here.’ Matilda sucked in her breath, propping herself up more securely on one elbow. Her head swirled dangerously with the bold, decisive movement. ‘Er…is Gilan here?’
‘Lord Gilan? What on earth would you want with him?’ The woman’s scant eyelashes flew upwards, her hazel eyes openly challenging, aggressive.
Matilda frowned. Why was this woman behaving in such an odd manner? Her fingers played nervously along the front of her chemise, the gauzy lace at the neckline ruffling against her wrist. ‘He brought me here, didn’t he? Is this his home?’
‘Yes, it is. His parents live here and so do I.’
‘Could you send one of the servants to fetch him for me, please?’ Matilda asked quickly. She wanted to thank him, at least, for all he had done, and hopefully, release him from any responsibility he might feel towards her. He hadn’t counted on her becoming injured; taking her to a place of safety was probably the last thing he had wanted to do. Still, if he hadn’t picked her up, and looked after her, then Lord knew what Henry would have decided to do with her. Sickness rushed through her and she slumped back on the pillow, perspiration beading her hairline.
‘Oh, he’s very busy at the moment with preparations.’
‘Preparations?’ Matilda queried. The daddy longlegs now batted spindly legs against the stone arch of the window frame. The heat in the chamber seemed oppressive, leaden, pressing down on her thumping head. ‘Oh, is he planning to leave?’
The woman laughed, a discordant, jangling sound. ‘I should hope not! I mean…’ she leaned forwards conspiratorially, lowering her voice ‘…that now he’s home, he’s making preparations for the wedding. Our wedding. I’m Isabelle, Pierre’s widow. There’s an agreement, you see, because Pierre died.’ She crossed herself, raising her eyes heavenwards. ‘God rest his soul.’
Marriage. The word tore into her with the force of a lightning storm,
ripping into her heart. Matilda gripped her bare arms tight about her middle, trying to control the deluge of pain, of despair that coursed through her, trying to maintain some outward display of control. From the chair, the woman’s eyes bore into her, assessing her reactions, the woman who was Gilan’s sister-in-law, pregnant with his brother’s child.
And Gilan was to marry her. Matilda collapsed back into the pillows, eyelashes shuttering down, black velvet fronds fanning across her heated cheeks. Waves of misery swung through her. Had Gilan known this all along? Known that, eventually, he would return home to marry his brother’s widow? Had he known as their two bodies joined with shivering delight, rolling with utter pleasure at the river’s edge, or when his lips touched hers in the dim glow of the cave, the rain crashing down outside? She had told him that nothing mattered but the memory of his body against hers. But now, she realised she had lied. It did matter. However much she tried to stifle the love she felt for him, to patch up the heartache of his rejection, the pain continued to surface, again and again. The pain of loving him, and knowing that he would never be with her. Tears crept silently from beneath her lashes, silvery trails across the peerless skin.
‘I need to get out of here.’ Matilda switched her gaze to the woman in the chair. ‘Will you help me?’
‘It would be my pleasure,’ Isabelle replied, tracking Matilda’s tears with secret glee. She rose from the chair with a sense of victory, of triumph. She had effectively snuffed out whatever fledging relationship had existed between this girl and her future husband, like a shot of air against a guttering candle. The maid might be sad, heartbroken even, but Gilan was hers, and there was not a thing this chit could do about it.
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