Lady of Hay

by Barbara Erskine

  Dismissing Elen at last, she stepped wearily out of her shift, gasping at the cold, and leaving it lying where it fell, she climbed naked into the low bed and curled up beneath the heap of furs, listening to the shouts and noise of the vast encampment. It was nearly the hour of curfew when the fires would be damped, and it would grow colder still. She longed to call Elen into her bed for warmth, but she did not dare. Her husband’s lust had been roused by the king’s obvious admiration for her, and his crude fumblings and explicit leers at the banqueting board had made it clear that she was to expect him in her bed again that night.

  Sure enough, the fires were barely doused when William came stamping into the tent, already beginning to unfasten his mantle.

  “The moon’s riding in a ring tonight,” he exclaimed loudly, unclasping his cloak. “It’ll blow before morning.” He waved his esquire away and sat down to pull off his boots himself. “Well, my lady, you certainly impressed his grace the king.” He chortled. “Not many stand up to that spoiled brat of his, I gather, and come away to tell the tale without having their hair pulled.”

  He saw his wife’s eyes flash angrily in the light of the dim rushlight and stopped hastily. “I’m glad you’re to attend Isabella tomorrow, my dear.” He tried to appease her gruffly. “That’s a great honor. You’ll be right in the forefront of everything.”

  He pulled off the other boot with a grunt and threw it to the floor. “By Christ, Matilda, the king was in a fine mood today. He plans a great hunt the day after tomorrow and I for one shall be there with him. There’s good sport to be had in the forests around here at the moment. We shall have a fine day.” He threw off the rest of his clothes and, blowing out the rushlight, turned toward the bed.

  She gritted her teeth as he fell on her, and she felt his hands closing on her breasts, his knee forcing her thighs apart in the dark. “The king liked you, Matilda,” he murmured, his face nuzzling into her neck. “He said I was a lucky man and he knows a thing or two about women, does King Henry. I’ll have to watch you, won’t I?” And he laughed exultantly as he thrust his way inside her.

  ***

  The morning dawned frosty and bright, and the wisps of mist that had drifted upriver from the estuary were soon spirited away by the sun.

  Matilda stood in the chilly tent and allowed Elen and Nell to dress her. First the pleated shift, then the undertunic of blue-green, and last, over it, her gown of scarlet cloth, embroidered at the hem with gold stitching and crystals. Around her slim hips the girls placed the beautifully worked girdle that was saved for state occasions. She bade Elen pin up her long braids under her veil and then she surveyed herself critically in the polished metal hand mirror Nell held for her. She saw herself pale, her auburn hair neat beneath the snowy veil, the gilt fillet that held it in place sparkling from a ray of sun which escaped the tent flap and strayed through the shadows to where she stood.

  There was no hint on her face of the raw ache between her legs, nor the vicious marks on her breasts. She had been too proud to cry, but she had prayed for hours in the dark after William had at last fallen asleep that tonight he would be too drunk to leave the banqueting hall and that his grace the king would never look in her direction again.

  The rooms occupied by the Countess of Gloucester were on the far side of the palace. Without William, who had left early to attend the king and the Earl of Gloucester for the signing of the formal betrothal documents, Matilda was lost. She stood in the center of the courtyard around which lay a huddle of buildings, surrounded by noise and bustle, feeling bewildered. Behind her, Elen stood wide-eyed, barely able in her excitement and nervousness to refrain from stretching out to catch her mistress’s sleeve.

  Eventually they had to find a boy to guide them to the countess’s rooms. They followed him through a cluster of stone and wooden buildings, some new built, some already derelict, into the palace itself, and through dark passages and up stairs until at last they came to a heavy door hung with tapestry.

  “She be in there, my lady.” The boy jerked his thumb at the door. He sidled up to Elen and held out his hand. “I’ve brought ’e like ’e asked, mistress.”

  Elen looked at him, puzzled.

  “He wants you to give him a coin, Elen,” Matilda commented abruptly, scarcely noticing as Elen, blushing, groped in the purse at her girdle for a quarter penny. She took a deep breath and, holding aside the hangings, opened the door.

  The large solar behind it was full of women. Hawise Fitzherbert, Countess of Gloucester, large and florid, was surrounded by her tiring women, her voice, shrill with impatience and ill-humor, clearly floating above the subdued chatter around her. She turned as Matilda came in and, catching sight of her, raised her narrowly plucked eyebrows till they almost vanished into her hairline.

  “Not another one. Has every woman in the country been sent to attend us?” She pursed her mouth sourly.

  “The king, Lady Gloucester, asked me to attend your daughter today.” Matilda, her cheeks burning, bobbed a small curtsy, conscious of the eyes that were all focused on her.

  The woman snorted. “You and who else? Well, madam, and who might you be?”

  “Matilda de Braose, Countess.” Matilda took a deep breath, determined not to be put out.

  “Never heard of you.” The woman seemed determined to be ill-natured. She turned to take a brooch from an attendant and then paused as another lady stepped from the throng.

  “Lady de Braose is the wife of Sir William, Countess, Lord of Brecknock in the middle March. It is a great honor that she should wait upon the little lady during her betrothal to Prince John.” She spoke in a stage whisper, designed to be heard by everyone in the room, and Matilda saw the countess pause and frown, looking at her again, and she blessed her unknown champion.

  She drew herself up. “Where is the Lady Isabella? May I offer her my greetings?”

  The countess held herself upright, holding in her stomach as her gown was laced up, and then held out her arms for her girdle. “You can try,” she said grudgingly. “She’s sniveling in the garderobe.”

  With a swift glance at Elen, Matilda strode across the room. The women stepped back to let her pass and she could feel their eyes uncomfortably on her back, but her attention was fixed on the little side room from where she could hear the sound of heartbroken sobs.

  In the corner, huddling on the floor beneath a rail of hanging clothes, a little girl was weeping as though her heart would break, clutching a rag doll. A large plump-faced nurse bent over her, coaxing, and behind, two maids hovered, clutching a selection of gowns and little mantles with which they were obviously hoping to dress her.

  “What’s the matter?” Matilda demanded, looking down at the child. She was horrified to see the little girl dirty and unkempt. Her hair was tangled with grass and there were dark smudges beneath her eyes.

  “She tried to run away, madam, that’s what’s the matter.” The nurse gave up coaxing and stood, her hands on her hips, looking down at the child in exasperation. “Here we are, with everyone nearly ready to go to the abbey, and the child refuses to dress. She says she wants none of the king’s son. Imagine! How dare she, the little minx. You wait till her father gets wind of this. He’ll take the strap to her buttocks until they’re raw.”

  The little girl gave another sob and clutched her doll more tightly.

  “Well, he won’t get to hear of it,” said Matilda quietly, trying resolutely to keep her temper with the insensitive woman. Her heart went out to the little girl. She had a sudden vivid picture of her own betrothal to William. She too had been a child, not much older than this one. She who had dreamed of a tall, radiant, chivalrous knight had been informed by her father with excitement of the great honor that had been done his family, that she had been chosen by the stocky, ill-tempered baron whose reputation even then was marred by cruelty and viciousness. Her first reaction too had been to run away. But then she sat down on her favorite spot on the hill and thought about her duty and, at heart a re
alist, about what chance she had of ever having a better offer of marriage. She had come home, apologized to her frightened mother, wheedled her angry father, and resigned herself to making the most of it, comforting herself with the thought that she was to be a great lady. But could she persuade this child to see the sense in that? This little girl whose real world was still peopled by dolls and puppies and her snow-white pony.

  “Please, nurse, will you leave us for a while?” She turned and forced herself to give the agitated woman her most brilliant smile. “I’d like a little talk with Isabella.”

  The woman drew herself up to argue, but already Elen, who had followed close at her mistress’s heels, was pushing her out, and the two protesting maids with her. Then she stood, her back to the doorway, panting.

  “Silly women,” she muttered. “Clucking like so many chickens, they are indeed. Poor cariad bach.”

  Matilda knelt down in the rushes and held out her arms to the little girl. “Come here, Isabella, my love. Tell me what’s wrong. Why are you so unhappy?”

  Whether it was the sympathy in her voice, or the sight of a stranger, she couldn’t tell, but Isabella, with another strangled sob, scrambled to her feet and rushed to her, throwing herself into Matilda’s outstretched arms.

  “There, there, child. There, there.” Matilda rocked her gently for a while, touched by the feel of the tiny, frail body, so thin beneath the skimpy clothes. Then as the child’s sobbing grew less, she pushed back the fair hair from her hot face and smiled gently at her. “Come on, sweeting, tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I don’t want to be betrothed.” Isabella sniffed loudly. “I hate John. He’s a bad, wicked boy. I don’t want to be married to him, ever.”

  “Why, Isabella? Why not? Why do you think he’s wicked?”

  “He pulls the wings off sparrows.” The ready tears spilled over again as the little girl buried her head in Matilda’s shoulder. “He likes hurting things. He told me. And when I belong to him, he said he could hurt me. And he said he could make me cry.”

  “Christ blast that boy!” Matilda swore under her breath. She exchanged glances with Elen over the child’s head. “Listen, Isabella. John only said that to tease. He would never hurt you. He couldn’t. After mass in the abbey there will be a lovely party, and then you are to stay with your mother and father until you’re grown up. John probably won’t come near you again. And when you marry him, years and years from now, you’ll be a princess. You’ll be the most beautiful princess there ever was.” She smiled down at the drawn, pale little face. “Come on, remember you’re a great lady. Ladies must never be afraid.” She dropped a kiss on the tangled hair. “Now, will you let your nurse comb you and wash you and get you ready?”

  “But I saw him.” The little girl was shaking still. “He pulled the wings till the bird screamed.”

  Matilda shivered. “I’ll ask my husband to tell the king. John should be whipped for such cruelty.”

  “You promise?” Isabella rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “I promise.” Gently Matilda pushed her from her lap. “Now come on, there’s not much time.”

  The nurse reappeared so swiftly it was obvious she had been listening outside the doorway. Half resentful of Matilda, half relieved that her charge had calmed down, she pushed her way to the child’s side.

  “Would you credit that boy,” she muttered as she stripped the little girl and began rubbing the frail body with a cloth wrung out in a jug where the water had long since grown cold. “They sat there yesterday, side by side, when his grace the king brought them together, neat as two pins they were, both scrubbed and combed, and we saw John whispering to her. Then he took her by the hand and led her away. Lady Gloucester was that pleased, she was. Then the child comes racing in, screaming the place down. The earl was furious, and the king. Then young John came in all innocent. ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I don’t know what’s making her cry.’” She pulled a clean shift over the little girl’s head. Then the embroidered gown. Then she began to drag a brush through the delicate fair hair.

  Outside in the solar the other women had been too preoccupied with the Countess of Gloucester’s grumblings to pay much attention to what was going on in the garderobe, so when Matilda emerged, holding Isabella, now neat and clean and dry-eyed, by the hand, there was a moment’s astonished silence.

  “Well,” her mother said at last. “About time too.” Ignoring Matilda with calculated disdain, she went to take her daughter’s hand. But Isabella snatched it away, clinging to Matilda and dodging behind her out of her mother’s reach. Exasperated, the countess gave up without any further effort.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, you go with the child if she cares for you so much,” she snapped. “Stay with her and see she behaves. I want no more trouble.”

  Her heart beating with excitement, Matilda took Isabella’s hand again and led the way out of the room. Outside she could hear the trumpet calls as the procession lined up to await the king.

  St. Peter’s Abbey was packed. They walked slowly up the nave between the lofty columns that vanished into smoky darkness high overhead, where the painted colors were still blackened and tarnished by the disastrous fire that had swept the church fifty years earlier. Matilda caught her breath with excitement and unconsciously clutched Isabella’s hand even tighter. The abbey blazed with candles, and every light was reflected a dozen times in the finery of those who had crowded in to hear high mass. The air was giddy with incense.

  The king was waiting for them in the choir with Prince John, splendidly dressed, beside him. With them was the tall figure of the king’s justiciar, Ranulf Glanville, who supervised John’s education, and the Earl of Gloucester, Isabella’s father, with the bishops and clergy ranked on either side. The boy, John, stood quietly, his eyes resting on the tomb of Robert, Duke of Normandy. He looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Never once did he raise his eyes to look at the trembling little girl who stood at his side as the blessing was pronounced. Nor did he look up as the choir burst into a joyful hymn of praise.

  Once, though, he looked at Matilda. And she was surprised to see a direct challenge in his blue eyes. Amazed, she stared at him for a moment, not believing she had seen aright. The look had been so quickly veiled. I imagined it, she thought, bringing her attention sternly back to her charge and to the sacred mass, but somewhere a shadow had moved in the back of her mind, and she felt a flicker of warning.

  The celebrations with endless hunting and feasting lasted several days, and then at last it was time once more to move on. Richard de Clare had not come after all, to Matilda’s intense disappointment.

  She had seen the king only twice since the banquet that followed the betrothal formalities and the mass in St. Peter’s. On each occasion he was setting out in the cold dawn on a day’s hunting, surrounded by his barons and knights, William among them.

  Once Prince John was at his side and again she felt the boy’s gaze on her. This time he was thoughtful, even calculating in his stare, and with a shiver she pulled her cloak around her and turned away to her tent. But not before she had seen that strange challenge again flickering in the depths of those cold blue eyes.

  The next morning she was standing watching a ship being unloaded at the wharf, clutching her squirrel fur mantle around her against the icy wind from the Welsh mountains, when she heard her name called. She spun around. “Richard!” She let out a little cry of pleasure, hastily cut off as she glanced around her to see if anyone had heard. A few yards away Elen was bargaining with a packman in whose bundle she had spotted some bauble she wanted. “I had given up all hope of seeing you here!”

  Richard glanced down at her. “How could I not come, knowing you would be here?” He was breathing deeply, trying to contain the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him as he stared at her, seeing her so much more beautiful, or so he thought, than when they had parted almost a year before. She had matured—turned from a coltish child into a lovely woman, he
r hair glossy beneath the fur hood, her cheeks whipped to color by the icy wind. He clenched his fist on the hilt of his sword.

  “I hear you were delivered of a fine son, my lady,” he said slowly at last. “My congratulations.”

  She smiled at him. She could think of nothing to say. Her heart was beating too quickly. She could hardly breathe. He had not touched her—not even kissed her glove—but she could feel his touch, feel the longing that stretched like a thong between them.

  “There, my lady!” Elen returned triumphant with her purchase. “Shall we go on to the king’s hall?” She glared at the tall, fair-haired knight with the chevrons on his surcoat who was staring with such naked longing at her mistress, and she shivered. There was danger in that look.

  “My lady.” She pulled at Matilda’s sleeve. “We should go on.”

  “I’ll see you again?” Matilda could not take her eyes off Richard’s face.

  He nodded helplessly, half reaching out toward her with his hand. It fell back without touching her and, with a curt bow, he turned away.

  All day Matilda waited to see him again, but he did not come. Nor was he to be seen at the high table in the king’s great hall.

  Disappointed and worn out with longing, she retired early, her head throbbing from the smoke and noise of the dinner, which had gone on for hours. She had unstoppered a vial of poppy syrup and was mixing a little with some wine when she looked up and caught sight of a movement against the tent wall. Her heart leapt.