Lady of the English - By Elizabeth Chadwick Page 0,6

in prison, where he lingered even now; but Robert had left a son William le Clito, another male for Matilda to call cousin, and one who was claiming his right to rule. Powerful young hotheads like Waleran de Meulan supported his cause, and although her father had stamped down the rising, like a soldier putting out a dangerous small fire, the smoke still lingered. And where there was one fire, others would rise. Waleran had a twin brother, and their family interests straddled both England and Normandy.

Weaving, she thought. It was all a matter of twisting the threads, and keeping an eye cocked for unravelling strands while dealing with others who were weaving designs of their own.

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She eyed Brian thoughtfully. Her father clearly found him useful and had raised him on high. He held over a hundred knight’s fees by dint of his arranged marriage to Maude of Wallingford. But what to make of him now, on this first meeting? His arrival had been less than impressive, but William D’Albini seemed to think she should give him the benefit of the doubt. She suspected he was adept at hiding his thoughts, and that they ran deep. No shallow blunderer, this one, for all the irregularity of their initial meeting.

As Brian put his cup down, her eyes were drawn again to the ink staining his elegant fingers. “Are you your own scribe, my lord?”

“Sometimes,” he said with a diffident smile. “I find it easier to think with a quill in my hand, and to assemble notes, even though scribes might make the final draft. I am indebted to your father for my education.”

“He obviously values you.”

“As I honour and serve him.” Brian cleared his throat and stood up. “I beg your leave, domina. I should go and make sure all is ready for tomorrow.”

“You may go,” she said formally. “I hope that one of your concerns is finding me a decent horse.”

“Indeed, it is my first and most urgent business, domina.” He bowed and departed the tent.

The moment he was gone, her women, Emma and Uli, bustled through the partition. She let them remove her dress and comb out her hair, then dismissed them with a flick of her fingers because she wanted to be alone to think. Fetching the coverlet from her bed, she folded it around her body, and sat cocooned in the chair, her knees drawn up and her fist pressed against her lips.

Outside, Brian stood in the wind and exhaled his tension.

He had not expected the king’s daughter to be so mettlesome 16

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and perceptive. She was as keen as a knife and just now he felt as if he had the cuts to prove it. When he arrived, she had looked at him as if he were an incompetent fool, and he was still smarting. He hoped he had salvaged something from the situation, but knew his reputation would be ruined if he did not have a horse for her by morning. There was nothing for it; he would have to put her up on his courser and use his squire’s mount. The lad could go double with one of the serjeants.

The white-haired knight who headed her escort stepped out of his own small tent, where he had obviously been keeping a lookout for Brian. “My mistress is always vexed when things do not run as smoothly as she wishes.” He spoke not to excuse Matilda, but rather to reproach Brian.

“I have apologised and done my best to mend matters,” Brian replied. “Be assured the empress will enter Rouen in full dignity.”

The knight gave him a strong look. “Sire, you will find that my mistress does not know how to compromise.” Brian bit his tongue on a sharp retort. “The empress will find that a fitting welcome has been prepared.”

“I have served my lady since she was a child,” the knight said. “I have watched her become a woman, and wield power as consort to an emperor. She has greatness within her.” He glanced at the tent from which Brian had just emerged and lowered his voice. “But she is fragile too, and in need of tender care. Who will give her that, when her pride is both her shield and her sword? Who will look beyond all that and see the frightened child and the vulnerable woman?” Something stirred within Brian that he was at a loss to iden-tify: neither pity nor compassion, but a glimmer