Lady of the English - By Elizabeth Chadwick Page 0,44

I felt…no, I knew I had to bring it here for you.” Matilda swallowed. “Thank you,” she whispered and wiped her overflowing eyes. This time the tears came more easily and gave more relief.

“This is what you are,” Adeliza said. “And no one can take that away from you—ever.”

ttt

It was a late November afternoon, the sky red and cold and the trees bare, the last of their leaves strewn in a crisp golden tapestry under the hooves of the horses as Matilda and Adeliza rode along the forest paths of Henry’s manor at Le Petit-Quevilly on the outskirts of Rouen.

Drawing the frozen air into her lungs, Matilda felt invigorated and alive. Her bruises had faded and her body had healed in the days of busy tranquillity spent in Rouen. She had begun to find her sense of worth again and to think about her future—

a future her younger brother had not had. Tomorrow was the anniversary of his drowning in the seas off Barfleur, and tonight she would attend a vigil in the cathedral to pray for his soul.

“I must soon think of returning to England,” Adeliza said. “I must be there for the Christmas feast. Your father expects it of me and I have duties, much as I wish I could stay longer.” She glanced at Matilda. “You are sure you will not come with me?

I would welcome your company.”

Matilda had expected Adeliza to return to England sooner than this, perhaps to be with her father for the anniversary of William’s death, but her stepmother had chosen to stay in Rouen and be her companion and support, for which Matilda 110

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was deeply indebted. She and Adeliza were very different, but there was friendship, even affection between them, and the bond of kinship. Matilda knew Adeliza was not only here to support her, but to glean information for her father and act as peacemaker, but since each woman knew where the other stood, there was mutual understanding.

“My father will keep Christmas at Westminster with you,” Matilda said. “I will do the same in Rouen, thus both England and Normandy will be served by our family. The Church and the barons will grow further accustomed to my authority as my father’s deputy here.” She spoke fiercely because she knew many would take persuading.

“As you wish,” Adeliza said, “but I will miss you.” Suddenly she exclaimed and drew rein because her gelding had started to limp on its offside hind foot.

“Madam.” Will D’Albini, who had been heading their escort of serjeants, dismounted and hastened to look. He ran a competent hand down the horse’s leg and picked it up. “Stone in the frog,” he said and, drawing his knife, proficiently winkled out the offending piece of flint. A sharp edge had bruised the inside of the hoof. “He’ll need to be led.” D’Albini looked at Adeliza.

“Madam, you will need to ride pillion.” Adeliza looked startled for a moment, but then nodded.

“Help me down.”

D’Albini did so, his face and throat suffusing with colour.

Eyes lowered, he put her horse on a lead rein attached to his mount’s crupper and returned to boost her on to the handsome grey. Adeliza remained gracious and proper, thanking him with detached courtesy, and expressing concern for the injured horse. Having made sure she was secure, he mounted in front of her, his face still red.

They returned to Le Petit-Quevilly with the winter dusk gathering around them like a grey woollen cloak and their 111

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breath clouding the air. Matilda’s thoughts strayed to Brian FitzCount doing the same for her on the road to Rouen and her own complexion grew warm. Remembering Brian was like the winter ache in a wound. Time and distance had removed them from each other’s proximity, which was perhaps a prudent thing, but there remained a quiet pain. She missed him. He had written letters offering his help should she need it and she had replied in formal words thanking him, not daring to let anything of self find its way from her mind to the vellum.

On their return, William D’Albini helped Adeliza to dismount, bowed, and went to deal with the lame horse himself.

Adeliza glanced in his wake, appreciating his kindness, and then she dismissed him from her thoughts to focus on the messenger who was standing at the manor door, drinking from a pottery cup, his satchel slung at his shoulder while he talked to an usher. Seeing the women approach, he hastily