drew herself up, prepared to be furious with him, but her thoughts were swift and by the time she exhaled she was more pensive than annoyed. “When you say ‘no one,’ do you mean anyone in particular?”
Robert moved closer and dipped his head towards her ear.
“You know I do, and they will bear watching because they will do their best to discredit your suitability to rule England.
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You must be above reproach.” He glanced at a group of nobles talking behind her. Matilda did not follow his gaze but knew he was referring to Waleran, lord of Meulan, who had supported le Clito and been Brian’s prisoner at Wallingford until after le Clito’s death. She also knew that the bishops of Salisbury and Winchester would have their spies here, watching her every move, whom she spoke to and for how long, and reporting back to their masters. It made her skin crawl. Brian must know this too. “They will find nothing,” she said, “because there is nothing to find, and I will not let them make filth out of service and friendship.” Robert nodded. “Good, but I had to warn you.”
“And I thank you.” She touched his sleeve. “While you are here, I need to ask a favour. I want you to talk to our father about my dower castles. He is still refusing to hand them over.
If he does not, Geoffrey is within his rights to enter Normandy and seize them. If that happens, it will start a war, and that will jeopardise my claim to England and Normandy.” Robert looked dubious. “You know how stubborn he is.”
“I am stubborn too when I know I am in the right. I have to press him now, because it will go beyond words if he does not yield, and if that happens, whatever the consequences, I will have to support Geoffrey.”
He shook his head. “I will see what I can do, but I make no promises.”
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Eighteen
Rouen, May 1134
Matilda could hear a church bell tolling. A knell? A call to prayer? The sound rang and rang inside her head until it filled all the space and there was no room left for her.
She felt as if she were drawing breath through a stifling cloth.
A shroud, perhaps, of closely woven linen. There was a deep ache in her pelvis and the tender space between her legs. The birth of her second son had been rough. Her flesh had torn as she pushed him out, and she had lost a great deal of blood while delivering the afterbirth.
The bells ceased and she felt the blessed coolness of a moist cloth across her brow. A baby’s wail filled the space where the bells had tolled, the sound fractious and insistent.
Then a woman’s comforting murmur, and moments later the sound of snuffling and sucking. Matilda forced her lids apart. She was cocooned and supported by a mass of pillows and piled feather mattresses. Beyond the bed curtains cool spring air flowed into the room from an open window and the sky was an arch of sunlit blue. A bowl of frankincense burned on the coffer at the foot of the bed. Near the hearth a woman was suckling a swaddled baby and another nurse was tending to one-year-old Henry, keeping him busy with some wooden animals.
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“Matilda?” Adeliza leaned over her. “Are you awake, my love? Do you know me?”
What a strange question to ask. Matilda licked her lips. They felt as rough and coarse as old hide. “Of course I do,” she said and coughed. Adeliza held a cup to her lips and Matilda took a drink of a bitter-tasting herbal liquid and almost gagged. “Why should I not know you?”
“You have been rambling out of your wits. You did not know me this morning. You have a fever. Drink this, it will help.” Matilda did as she was bidden and shuddered at the vile taste.
“Am I dying?” she asked. “Give me the truth.” Adeliza set the cup aside, wrung out the cloth in the cold water, and replaced it on Matilda’s brow. “The truth is I do not know. You are very sick. Everyone is praying for you. You know me now, when you did not before, and that is surely a good sign.”
Matilda stared at the bed hangings. The twists of gold embroidery seemed to writhe like snakes. She could almost see the eyes and the scales. Coiling, winding, glowing with fire. She squeezed