Lady of the English - By Elizabeth Chadwick Page 0,110

Others were waiting to rally to her cause, promising their commitment when she had landed safely in England. Miles FitzWalter, constable of Gloucester, Humphrey de Bohun, John FitzGilbert. With good fortune, the south-west and the Marches would soon be hers. Then too, there was the bishop of Winchester, her cousin Henry.

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Too wily to commit anything to parchment, he had sent a messenger with a few cryptic words that might mean anything or nothing. He spoke of conciliation and the role of the Church as mediator. Matilda was wary. A man who went behind his own brother’s back was not to be trusted.

“You can’t go there, you’re trapped!” piped a child’s voice.

Matilda turned and fixed her gaze on her eldest son. He was sitting in the window seat, playing a board game of fox and geese with his half-brother Hamelin and he was concentrating on defeating his opponent. She felt a surge of fierce maternal pride as she watched him. He was fully focused but not in an exclusive way. He was observing all the activity around him, even while engaged with the game. It was a formidable trait in a child just six years old, and what it would be like when nurtured to manhood gave her cause for optimism. He was tenacious too, because Hamelin was a bright boy, older, and determined not to give ground. She had to swallow as her throat tightened. She might never see him again after this morning because who knew what was going to happen if and when she reached England. She had put everything possible in place to support him and her other sons in her absence.

The best women to care for them; the best pages and squires as companions. Excellent priests and scholars to nurture their education and teach them to walk a true path with God.

She could do no more, and still she was anxious. She was going to miss them so much, especially Henry. She had even considered staying in Normandy and seeing it conquered first, but knew she had to make her challenge in England before it was too late

Geoffrey entered the chamber and looked round, hands on hips. He had ridden to Domfront to see her on her way and to take charge of their sons, something Matilda did not want to think about. She could not deny that Geoffrey was a good 273

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father, but she had had the greater part in raising their boys and it was a wrench to hand them over to him.

“Everything is ready for you,” he said, stepping aside to let the servants carry out the box containing the last items.

She waited impatiently while her maids clasped a thick cloak around her shoulders, and then she turned towards the light streaming through the open shutters. “Henry,” she said.

“Henry, come here. It is time for me to go.” He left his game and crossed the room, following the path of the light, until he stood in front of her, looking up solemnly.

His eyes were grey, but flashed with green in their depths like Geoffrey’s.

“Attend to your lessons and do as your father tells you,” she said. “I need you to be big and brave and grown up.” Henry gave a stout nod. “Can I come to England soon too?”

“As soon as you are old enough. One day you will be king there, and it will be very important for you to know the place and the people.” She stooped to his level and smoothed his vibrant hair. “Look after your brothers. I will write to you often and your father will tell me of your progress.” She kissed him on both cheeks and stood up, her pride swelling to almost unbearable proportions because Henry was not crying or making a fuss. Even in the small boy, she could see the king he might one day become—but only if she gave him that chance.

She went to make her farewells to his brothers. Today, they were all present to bid her farewell, but usually little Geoffrey was with his tutors in Anjou. It had been a conscious decision not to keep the children together; that way there was more chance of survival if there was sickness or foul play. Thus Geoffrey was a solemn stranger and the farewell kiss she gave to him was tinged with sadness that she did not know him. Her third son, at only three years old, was not really sure