Lady of the English - By Elizabeth Chadwick Page 0,8

for my husband,” she said, “but I must look to the future. That is why I am here, after all. My father has summoned me for purposes beyond mourning.”

Robert said nothing, but his expression was eloquent.

The doors to the great hall stood wide to receive her and a path of red cloth strewn with flowers had been laid for her to walk upon. Courtiers stood to either side and, with a great rustling of fabric and soft clink of jewellery, knelt as she passed. Matilda paced with slow dignity, looking straight ahead, every inch the empress, her soul comforted by the propriety and the ceremony.

At the far end of the hall, two ornate thrones stood upon a dais. Her father sat upon the larger one, holding a jewelled rod in his right hand. His Queen, Adeliza, sat upon the other, robed in a gown of shimmering silver silk that glittered with pearls and amethysts. Matilda processed to the foot of the dais and knelt, bowing her head. Robert knelt too, but a step behind her.

She heard the swish of her father’s robe as he rose, and then his soft footfall descending the steps. “My dearest daughter.” 21

LadyofEnglish.indd 21

6/9/11 5:35 PM

Elizabeth Chadwick

He bent, took her hands, and, having kissed her on either cheek, raised her to her feet. “Welcome home.” Matilda looked into his face. Six years had increased and deepened the lines on his face. His hair was greyer and more sparse and the pouches beneath his eyes were more prominent, but the eyes themselves were the same hard, shrewd grey. For the moment they held warmth, and his smile was genuine.

“Sire,” she said, before turning to curtsey to and be embraced by her stepmother, Adeliza, a year younger than herself, delicate and slender as a young doe.

“I am so pleased that you are here, daughter,” Adeliza said.

“My lady mother.” The words were incongruous and sat uncomfortably on Matilda’s tongue.

Adeliza’s eyes sparkled with amusement and it was plain she was thinking the same thing. “I hope I can be like a mother to you,” she said, “but more than that, I hope we shall become friends and companions.”

Matilda’s father processed her around the gathering on his arm, and she was introduced to the great men attending the court. Not all were present; some had duties elsewhere, or had remained in England, but enough were there to make a substantial gathering. Bigod, D’Albini, Aumale, de Tosney, Martel, the archbishop of Rouen, the abbot of Bec, her cousins of Blois, Theobald and Stephen, the latter now Count of Boulogne through his young bride, the Countess Maheut.

“I am sorry for your loss, cousin,” Stephen said. “I offer my sincere condolences.” He spoke with grave and apparent honesty, although Matilda was wary because things were not always what they seemed. Stephen’s remark was a meaningless courtesy.

“I remember you as a little girl with long braids,” he added with a smile.

A vague memory surfaced. “You used to pull them,” she accused.

22

LadyofEnglish.indd 22

6/9/11 5:35 PM

Lady of the English

He looked wounded. “Only in play—I never hurt you.

Your brother William used to pull them too.” There was a momentary silence at Stephen’s mention of Matilda’s brother—almost as if his words had conjured up the young man’s sea-ravaged corpse from the waters of Barfleur harbour. “God rest his soul,” Stephen added swiftly. “I am glad for the memory of our play and I think of him often.” Matilda suspected that Stephen would tug her braid now if the chance arose, and he would still call it play.

“Nephew, you are a great comfort to me,” Henry said, his hard grey gaze missing nothing. “I know I can always count on your strong support and I value it for my daughter too.”

“Assuredly, sire.” Stephen bowed, first to Henry and then to Matilda.

The talk turned briefly to matters of Boulogne and Stephen’s progress there as its overlord. Matilda observed the camaraderie between her father and Stephen. The latter’s gestures were sure and expansive and he knew how to engage her father’s interest and make him laugh. The other men in the vicinity all laughed with him too, apart from her brother Robert, who was reserved and watchful. Stephen’s small, plump wife hung on his words as if they were jewels in a diadem, but she too was constantly glancing around, assessing the men and conversations in her vicinity even while her demeanour remained becomingly modest.

Matilda thought Stephen’s performance polished, but how much was lip service, and how much sincerely meant, remained to