Lady of the English - By Elizabeth Chadwick Page 0,150
the wall. Every time he started thinking of ways out of the dilemma, he realised he was only tidying it round the edges, and making it smaller did not make it better. Doing so merely showed their predicament in its true, desperate light.
With halting steps he returned to the main chamber. He did not really want to be there in Matilda’s presence, because he felt he had failed her. She was asleep, covered by her cloak and a blanket. Her face was careworn with deep frown lines between 371
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her brows even in slumber. She should be ruling England as its queen, not huddled on this bench, a wretched fugitive.
Brian slumped by the fire and put his head in his hands. He had a terrible feeling they were all doomed, and there was no way out. In his mind’s eye, he saw a deep chasm before him with a crumbling edge. The darkness beyond was clean and calm—and terrible. It lured him and terrified him at the same time because it would be so easy to plunge into it. But she needed him, and she thought he was strong, and he couldn’t let her down.
ttt
Matilda was woken just before dawn by Brian gently shaking her shoulder. She was so stiff and sore that she could barely move and was unable to stifle a groan. Aware of his anxiety and the unease of the other men, she tried to rally. If she had been able to ride away from Geoffrey after he had beaten her, she could manage this. The servants brought warm water for her to wash her hands and face and she ate some bread and honey, washed down with buttermilk, even though she was not hungry. Conscious of Brian watching her every mouthful, she gave him a hard look. “Will you cease staring at me the way people do when gathered around a deathbed,” she snapped.
Brian swiftly lowered his gaze. “I am concerned, that is all.
You are our lady and our queen. I have selected one of the marshal’s horses for you to ride. It is fresh but placid and has a smooth gait.”
In her turn, Matilda dropped her gaze. It would be so easy to cry. “Thank you,” she said, and hoped her aching body would stay the distance.
It was still barely light as the small, battered party prepared to leave Ludgershall. Her horse was a pale dun with the fluid stride of an ambler. Although a compact horse, Matilda still struggled to mount him and had to stifle her cry of pain as her raw thighs 372
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touched the saddle again. Letting out her breath on a hard gasp, she hung over the reins for a moment, recovering.
“Are you sure you are—” Brian began.
“Yes,” she cut him off. “Get on with it.” She looked up at a shout.
A knight was clopping through the gate on a salt-caked, exhausted horse. She recognised him as one of Robert’s men, Alain de Caen. He was swaying in the saddle, his face streaked with blood and dirt. Drawing rein, he slid from his mount and then leaned against it briefly to recover his balance before falling to his knees. “Domina,” he croaked.
“Bring him a drink,” she commanded. “Quickly!” When the wine arrived, the knight gulped it with clumsy desperation, the liquid spilling down his chin like blood.
“Domina, grave news. My lord of Gloucester has been captured and taken prisoner. I know not what has happened to the Earl of Hereford and the king of Scots, save that their men have scattered and fled. I escaped by the skin of my teeth and hid in the woods until I thought it safe…” Cold shivers ran through her at this fresh news of disaster.
She could see the dismay on the faces of her escort; her own emotion was despair. With their chief military captain taken prisoner and no knowledge of the whereabouts of the others, what were they to do? She had suspected last night when Robert did not come that something was wrong, but had hoped against hope he had found a bolt hole somewhere. At least he was still alive; that was a small mercy.
Reynald, ever the optimist said, “But the empress is free and clear and so are we, and Stephen is still a prisoner in Bristol.
Even if it is a setback, a battle is not the end of the war. We are not defeated.”