running up her body, and swallowed nervously. He feels the same, she thought and she felt herself beginning to tremble. She looked away first.
‘William joins me here soon for the autumn hunting.’ Her voice was barely more than a whisper.
‘Autumn is a long way away, my lady.’ Taking her hand, he raised it almost to his lips. Then he let it fall. ‘Come, where is that music? We must have music while we eat.’
Matilda lay awake a long time that night, listening to the owls hooting in the yew trees below the Login Brook. She could feel the touch of Richard’s hand on hers, and sense the message in his eyes as, sitting next to her, he had shared her dish as they ate, listening to the boy who piped one dance tune after another for them. The firelight had played on his face as he leaned back in his chair and she had seen him watching her, his eyes never leaving her face. She lay still and fought back the longing which overwhelmed her, trying to think instead of her two baby sons, asleep with their nurses.
The river was lapping gently over its stones, murmuring peacefully beyond the bailey wall. The castle was silent. She gazed up at the ceiling over her head and the rail from which her bed curtains hung, and stared, near to tears, into the darkness.
Somewhere in the blackness of the room beyond the curtains a board creaked. She moved her head slightly, trying to see between the heavy folds of material. Perhaps one of her women had stirred in their sleep? Not a breath of wind moved in the trees outside. She stiffened. A slight scraping noise caught her ear, followed by profound silence. It was as though someone else, too, was listening in the dark.
She swallowed nervously, trying to forget the sudden awful memory of the shadow outside the walls of her tent at Gloucester. The entire garrison was within earshot if she screamed, and there could be no enemies within the castle. She shut her eyes, her fingers clutching the thin sheet up round her face.
Then distinctly she heard the slight rattle of a curtain ring. Someone was touching the curtains of her bed. Her mind flew to Richard. Surely he would not be so stupidly reckless? She lay tense, waiting, not daring to open her eyes.
The curtains were eased back a little more and she felt a slight pressure on the bed as someone leaned over her. Little prickles of panic were beginning to chase up and down her back and she fought desperately to remain still. Something wet fell on her hair, then on her face and her shoulder. A light mist like spring rain. Then she heard whispered words. She strained her ears trying to hear, wondering what prevented her still from crying out. It was a woman’s voice, intoning softly. It sounded like a prayer. Or a spell. She felt herself grow cold. It was Jeanne; Jeanne was casting a spell on her. She tried to sit up, to shout at the old woman, to scream for Elen or the guards, but a black silken web seemed to be holding her down. She opened her mouth, but no sound would come. The voice was silent and she heard the curtains being closed gently once more. The old woman had gone. Whatever her spell had been, it was complete. It was too late to fight it. Matilda tried to raise her hand to make the signs against evil and the sign of the cross but her hands were too heavy to raise. Surely, she told herself sleepily, Jeanne could mean her no harm. Slowly her eyelids dropped. Her sleeplessness had gone. Relaxed and at peace she turned over and was instantly asleep.
She rose at dawn and Elen dressed her in her gown of wachet green; she twisted her heavy hair up beneath a simple veil, held in place by a woven fillet. It was too hot for a wimple or barbette, or even a mantle, and she did not send for Jeanne. There had been no sign of the old woman. Richard was already in the bailey surrounded by men and horses and dogs. ‘I hope you’re coming hawking,’ he called cheerfully when he saw her. ‘The birds are ready.’ The sky was limpid and clear. It was going to be another hot day.
She forgot the fears of the night as she gathered up her skirts and ran down the steps to her horse. They were no more to her now than some uneasy nightmare about which, though she remembered having been frightened, she could recall no details.
They rode out of Hay away from the sweeping escarpment of Peny Beacon, which rose sharp as a knife against the sky, back across the shallow Wye, this time turning north towards the meadows which bounded Clyro Hill; the grooms and austringers with the precious hawks, Richard’s chief falconer – some dozen horsemen altogether – clattering after them along the stony track, and another dozen or so men on foot. In the distance a curlew called.
All at once from a bed of reeds nearby they put up a heron. With an exclamation Richard pulled the hood from the bird on his wrist and tossed her into the air. They reined their horses in and watched as the humped figure of the heron flew low and lumbering for the river, but it was too late. The hawk struck it down within seconds. Excited, Matilda turned and called for her own bird, a small but swift and deadly brown merlin. She grinned at Richard. ‘I’ll match you kill for kill.’ She pulled on the heavy gauntlet and reached down for the bird, feeling the power of its talons as it settled itself, bells jingling, onto the leather on her fist. She gripped the jesses and kicked her pony on.
Gradually the path began to climb and after a while plunged into the dry woods which cloaked the southern side of Elfael. Then the trees cleared and the moors rose bare before them. They waited as the beaters with their dogs scattered into the tall bracken. Richard’s horse shifted restlessly beneath him as he turned to Matilda with a smile, soothing the glossy peregrine on his wrist. ‘We should have some good sport up here. It’s early yet, and not too hot.’ He tensed suddenly as the beaters flushed a snipe from a marshy cwm. Slipping the hood from the bird’s head again Richard flew her and they waited, eyes narrowed against the glare as she climbed high into the blue, towering above the quarry, ready for the deadly swoop.
His eyes gleamed with excitement as the bird plummeted down. ‘A kill,’ he murmured exultantly under his breath. He urged his horse forward into the breast-high bracken, the winged lure dangling from his fingers.
Matilda followed him, her eyes fixed on his broad shoulders, and she breathed deeply and exultantly in the sharp air, almost laughing out loud as she kicked her pony on and felt the wind lifting her veil, teasing, trying to dislodge her hair.
It was a good morning’s sport. When they drew rein at midday the party was tired and hot. Sliding from his saddle Richard threw the rein to a groom and went to lie face down on the grass beside a tiny upland brook. He grinned up at her, shaking the water from his eyes. ‘Come and bathe your face. It’s gloriously cool.’
Their attendants drew back into the shadow of a group of trees with the birds and Matilda, who had been watching as her horse was led away, dropped on her knees beside him and let her fingers play for a moment in the water. The mountain stream was very cold and within minutes her hands were aching with it. He laughed at her. ‘How improper! My Lady de Braose, paddling in the water like a child!’
She laughed a little guiltily. ‘I wish I could throw all my clothes off and jump in like a boy.’
‘Please do, madam. I should not object.’ He grinned shamelessly. She could not be angry with him. ‘God, Matilda,’ he went on, suddenly serious. ‘Would that you were not de Braose’s wife.’ His voice took on a new note which frightened her. She glanced up apprehensively and found him gazing at her, the message in his eyes plain. ‘Let’s walk in the woods a little way away from this rabble which always follows us. I must talk to you freely. Alone.’
‘No!’ Her voice was firm, although her heart was beating fast. She wanted so much to throw caution aside and do as he asked. ‘No, not again, we mustn’t. We mustn’t as long as my husband lives.’ She rose, brushing the loose grass from her kirtle. ‘Please, don’t ever speak of it again. Many things I would dare in this world, but I must not dishonour William again.’ She turned towards the trees, biting her lips miserably, wishing he had not spoken, but he had scrambled after her. He seized her hand.
‘It is too late to speak of dishonour, Matilda. You are mine in your heart, and in your eyes when you look at me, and in your dreams. I know it.’ Careless of who might still be able to see them he pulled her against him, seeking her mouth with his own, caressing her shoulders gently as he pressed her against him.
She gave a little shudder of longing. ‘We must not,’ she murmured, her lips against