Lady of the English - By Elizabeth Chadwick Page 0,20

with currants; swan and peacock; venison with numerous sauces. Sweetmeats of honey, rose water, and ginger. Conversations bubbled like a cauldron over a steady 50

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heat and under the influence of food and drink the atmosphere gradually became more convivial, although men were still on their guard.

Towards the end of the meal, there was a sudden bustle at the lower end of the hall and Brian watched John FitzGilbert, one of the marshals, leading a messenger along the side of the room behind the trestles. News that wouldn’t wait then, Brian thought. Henry took the message from the man’s hand, broke the seal, and read the contents. His face and throat began to flush and his expression grew thunderous. He bared his worn teeth at the gathered nobles. “It seems, my lords, that we have a marriage to toast this day.” He glared around the trestle, striking each person with his stare before moving on to the next. “William le Clito has wed the sister-in-law of the king of France and been granted lands in the Vexin on my borders.” Although he had spoken of a toast, he did not raise his cup and his words were thick with fury. “This is a ploy on the part of Louis to interfere with my policies. Well and good, he may do so, but he will not overturn my intent to see my daughter rule England.”

Brian felt renewed tension running through the gathering.

This news meant that William le Clito’s position was now a far greater threat to the succession than before. The Vexin would make it easy for him to strike into Normandy. Many here had taken the oath only to avoid Henry’s ire, and might well renege if circumstances played into le Clito’s hands. They would say that if it came to a war in Normandy, who in their right mind would want to follow a woman’s banner into battle? That would be a hard prejudice to shift.

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Seven

Westminster, March 1127

M atilda lifted her head and listened to the wind rattling the shutters of the queen’s chamber where she sat sewing with Adeliza. Now and again rain spattered too, sounding like handfuls of flung shingle striking a board. Beyond the complex of buildings the river was a turbulent grey churn, showing whitecaps on the tidal crests. Not a day to be outside unless one was forced. Spring was supposedly on the threshold, but was taking a long time to knock on the door.

Adeliza moved closer to the brazier and told her attendant, Juliana, to bring more light. “I started my flux again this morning,” she said in a neutral tone as she threaded a length of silk through the eye of her needle.

“I am so sorry,” Matilda said.

Adeliza shook her head. “I must accept that it is not to be and that God has other plans. I wrote to the archbishop of Tours for advice and he said I should concentrate on good works on Earth that would bear spiritual fruit. He says that God has closed up the mouth of my womb so that I may adopt immortal offspring, and he is right. Weeping and wringing my hands is foolish. Better to concentrate on the good I can do. I have already begun plans to build a leper hospital at Wilton.”

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Matilda murmured with understanding. Such was the work of queens. Their task was to conciliate, to make peace between warring factions, to alleviate the suffering of the sick by good works and to patronise the arts. She had done all of this in Germany for Heinrich, whilst grieving that she could not bear him a living son.

Keeping busy so that there was no time to brood.

“I have also commissioned David of Galway to compose a history of your father’s life.”

“Who?” Matilda asked.

“The little scribe in your uncle’s entourage.”

“Ah.” Matilda’s mind filled with the image of a short, balding but still youngish man with ink-stained fingers just like Brian’s. He was a favourite in the chamber after supper when tales were told. “That sounds like a fine notion. I am sure he will make an excellent work.”

Adeliza secured the thread in the fabric. “It means Henry will always be remembered,” she said, her words bearing a note of poignant resignation. “I want to commemorate his deeds in a work of literature that will live on when we are gone.” The women looked up as Brian FitzCount was shown