Lady of the English - By Elizabeth Chadwick Page 0,102

arms, overcome by ripple upon ripple of sensation. She clutched him, and felt him stiffen against her and buck. That part of the act was familiar to her, and yet at the same time it was wondrously different. And still he held his weight off her while he dipped his head into her shoulder, and gasped for breath as if he had run across a field in his mail shirt. After a moment, he withdrew from her and fell on to his side.

She drew her legs together and bent her knees towards him and he reached for her hand, kissing her knuckles and then her palm. “That was very fine,” he said with a broad smile in his voice. “Very fine indeed.”

“Yes,” she said. “It was.” She was still assimilating what had happened and marvelling. Small, pleasant aftershocks continued to undulate through her body. Earlier she had watched people 252

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laughing and had wondered if they were happy, and what it felt like. She had wondered what was wrong with her, but now she thought she knew a little of what they did. If the wonderful sensations she had just experienced meant that her body had released its seed to join with his, then the first part had succeeded. Perhaps this would be the time. Maybe now, with this new man and marriage, God would favour her with a big belly. Closing her eyes, she imagined herself in that condition, proud and fecund.

He left the bed and went to investigate the food and drink that had been left out for them under a cloth. Through half-closed eyes, Adeliza studied his loose-limbed grace and was again reminded of a proud male lion.

He brought her wine in a green glass, and a platter of delicate rose-water pastries, presenting them in a white napkin. Adeliza smiled at the incongruous contrast. He was so big, and yet he could be so precise and delicate too.

“We must make the best use of this time together to come to know each other,” he said. “It won’t be long before we have a full nursery to disturb us.”

Adeliza flushed and wondered if he had said it deliberately, or whether it was of the moment and his own needs. He was a newly created earl, and an heir would be high on his list of priorities. “Indeed, I hope it is true, my husband,” she said, and the last two words were as sweet as the rose-water pastry on her tongue, because of what he had given her now, and what might be in the future.

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Twenty-nine

Argentan, May 1139

Matilda watched with a mingling of amusement and sadness as Robert the hauberk-maker covered Henry’s russet-red hair with a linen bonnet, and then fitted over it a child-sized coif of lightweight mail rivets. There was one too for Hamelin, Henry’s half-brother.

“I’m a great knight now.” Drawing his toy sword, Henry struck a pose. He was wearing a miniature version of the quilted tunic sported by the serjeants and men-at-arms.

“Indeed you are.”

“Just like my papa.”

Matilda quirked her brow, but forbore to comment. One day her son was going to be greater than his father, and his grandfather. She intended to make sure of that.

“I’m going to be just like Papa too,” Hamelin said. He was two years taller than Henry and sturdy. His hair was not as vibrant as his younger brother’s and his eyes were a wide-set mottled hazel like his mother’s. Matilda had accepted him into her household without malice. The child would be what he was moulded into. A companion, help-meet, and loyal military servant for Henry was her intention for him.

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Henry said. “You will have to promise to obey me and fight for me, and I will give you lands and gifts in return.” Hamelin frowned. “What sort of gifts?” Henry waved his hand. “Castles, and swords, and horses, and armour.”

Hamelin fingered the coif and the green glints shone in his eyes. “I want a big black horse,” he said. “Like Papa’s.” They ran off to play their game of capturing a pretend castle and were joined by some of her brother Robert’s younger sons.

Matilda pursed her lips. She would have to watch Henry and quash any inclination to profligacy. She did not want her son growing up to become a weak man at the mercy of barons who would milk