Lady of the English - By Elizabeth Chadwick Page 0,39

An unruly wife ought to be put in her place, no matter her rank.

Matilda lay amid the rushes. She could feel blood dribbling from her cut lip. One eye was swelling shut and each breath she drew was agony. She did not weep. It would have hurt too much to cry and she was too shocked to do so even had she wanted.

Lying on the floor, listening to the babble of noise beyond the open door, a part of her wished to die from the shame and humiliation, but anger kept her afloat. She could hear the snig-gers from some of Geoffrey’s cronies, but knew there would be others looking upon this moment with disgust. A man was entitled to beat his wife if she transgressed, but, in the end, one who went too far only succeeded in emasculating himself.

Matilda concentrated on drawing one short breath after another. She didn’t know which part of her hurt the most: her face, her ribs, or her arms. The belt with which he had tied her chafed her wrists and her hands tingled and then grew numb.

She vowed that she would survive. No matter what Geoffrey did to her, he would not win. The voices in the antechamber faded and silence descended. One of the castle mousers padded into the room and, sitting down near the hearth, began to wash itself thoroughly with a rough pink tongue. She watched its sinuous contortions and wondered if she would ever be able to move her own body so much as an inch again.

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Geoffrey returned several hours later, by which time she had stiffened and to move at all was agony. He swaggered over to the trestle, poured himself more wine, and, coming to the foot of the bed, crouched down and touched the swollen side of her face. “Now,” he said softly, “yield to me and be a good wife and we will say no more of this.” He propped her up against the edge of the bed and she could not prevent herself from crying out. Geoffrey studied her and bit his lip. “What am I going to do with you?” he asked, his tone reasonable, full of sorrow. “All I want is a little deference and respect, and you turn on me like a madwoman.”

She said nothing. She was not the one who was mad, and she was not the one who was disrespectful.

Without untying her he offered her a drink from the cup to show that he was in control. Matilda took a mouthful, rinsed it round her cut, swollen gums, and then, drawing in a breath that tore through her chest like a knife, spat the wine full into his face. “I would rather die first!” she gasped.

Geoffrey wiped wine from his dripping, nail-striped face, and his eyes flashed green in their depths. “Be careful what you wish for, wife, because I might just grant it!”

“Do it!” she croaked. “Do it and may your soul be damned!” Abruptly he threw the cup aside and drawing his knife from its sheath, thumbed the blade and looked for the fear in her eyes, but found only defiant rage, and beyond that, a strange blankness that froze his marrow. “You are not a proper wife,” he said hoarsely. “You have reneged on all of your wedding vows and I will stand no more. Go from here back to your father. I repudiate you. You sicken me.” Stooping again, he slit the belt binding her wrists. Matilda gave an involuntary moan.

“I will see to it that your baggage is packed.” His voice was cold. “I want you gone when I return from hunting.” 99

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He turned on his heel and strode out. In the antechamber she heard him whistling to his favourite dog and speaking to it with cheerful affection as if he were the kindest person on earth.

Matilda swallowed her nausea, knowing that if she did vomit her diaphragm would shatter. Using the edge of the bed, she levered herself to her feet, hardly able to stand because of the pain in her ribs. “I will never give in to him,” she choked.

“Never.” The word came from a distance and meant everything and nothing.

Her women entered the room, casting frightened glances over their shoulders. When Uli took her arm, Matilda suppressed a cry.

“Come, madam, we’ll put you to bed and send for a physician.” Uli waved frantically at another maid to close the door Matilda