Lady of the English - By Elizabeth Chadwick Page 0,42
fallen to him because he was competent and avail-able. A flush crept over his broad cheekbones as he bowed 104
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to her and assisted her into the saddle. Adeliza thanked him graciously but with preoccupation, paying him little notice.
As Will turned to his stallion, Brian FitzCount emerged from one of the buildings and hurried over to them, his expression concerned and grim. He bowed to Adeliza and straightened.
“Madam, I have just heard the news from the king about the empress. I am sorry to hear it.”
The sight of his agitation jolted Adeliza. “Indeed, it is sad news,” she said. “Is there something you wanted to say, my lord, that you come out to me?” Her tone was gentle but firm with warning. Before Matilda’s marriage, she had sometimes noticed a subtle undercurrent running between Brian and Matilda at court. Nothing that could be pinned down, and never the slightest hint of impropriety, but nevertheless an awareness, like a passing soft breath of air. Brian took a step backwards and nodded. “Of your kindness, I ask you to wish the empress well and tell her that she is in my prayers.”
“She is in all our prayers,” Adeliza replied, “but I will give her your message.” She gathered the reins. “Messire D’Albini, I am ready.”
William gestured the cavalcade to move off and Adeliza attended to her mare, giving Brian FitzCount no further opportunity for words or looks. The situation was fraught enough without adding complications.
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Thirteen
Rouen, September 1129
A deliza was horrified when she set eyes on Matilda.
Her face was a patchwork of fading yellow and purple bruises and she moved with the hunched care and slowness of an old woman. Her eyes, though, were fierce with challenge and reminded Adeliza of a wounded wildcat she had once seen, backed into a corner, but still spitting defiance through her terror and pain.
“Oh, my love!” Still wearing her cloak and riding boots, Adeliza crossed the chamber and took Matilda in her arms.
“What has happened to you?” When Matilda stiffened in her embrace and gasped, Adeliza stepped back. “What’s wrong?”
“My ribs…” Matilda grimaced. “They are still healing.”
“Your ribs?” Adeliza stared at her in growing dismay.
Matilda shrugged. “They are no worse than any other part of me.”
Adeliza was lost for words. She could not believe that Geoffrey of Anjou had done this to her, yet the evidence was before her eyes, and she was aware of a terrible feeling of guilt for pushing Henry’s wishes on to Matilda. “Oh, my love!” she said again, and tears welled in her eyes.
Matilda’s eyes remained dry. “I suppose my father has sent you to talk to me.” She gestured Adeliza to a seat and eased LadyofEnglish.indd 106
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herself down on to a padded bench against which leaned a walking stick with a knob of polished jet.
Servants brought Adeliza perfumed water to wash her hands.
Someone removed her boots and slipped delicate embroidered slippers on to her feet. She was offered wine and small cakes.
“Indeed he has, but that is only part of it.” Leaving her chair, she came and sat beside Matilda, curving towards her so that their knees touched. “I am here because I am worried about you—the more so now.” She held Matilda’s hands. “You are not wearing your wedding ring.”
Matilda raised her chin. “I am not going back to him.” Adeliza turned and dismissed the servants with a graceful but peremptory gesture.
“I mean it,” Matilda said as the door closed behind the last one.
The fire ticked in the hearth as the logs settled. Externally the scene was one of two women sitting together in companionable harmony, but Adeliza felt as if she were being blown about in a wild storm. What was she going to do? Henry had ordered her to persuade Matilda to reconcile with her husband, but she had no idea how to begin, or even if she should.
Adeliza noticed how rough and dry Matilda’s hands were—
uncared for and untended, which was so unlike the Matilda she knew, who was always well groomed and used her appearance to commanding effect. She fetched a small ivory pot of salve from her baggage and removed the lid. A faint herbal scent drifted up from the surface. Taking Matilda’s hands in hers again, she began rubbing the unguent into her skin, concentrating on the cracked, dry webbing between the fingers. “Tell me,” she coaxed softly. “I cannot help you if you will not speak to me.”