Lady of the English - By Elizabeth Chadwick Page 0,88

had his foot in the stirrup for most of the day. His right one, high-arched and pale as alabaster, might have belonged to an angel.

“Stephen has gone,” he said. “Sent the troops to their homes and headed back to England. His campaign is over, perhaps even finished.”

Matilda ceased her task and looked up at him, frowning.

“Why are you not in pursuit?”

He gave a satisfied smile. “Because he has paid me not to do so to the tune of two thousand marks a year for the next three years.”

Anger flashed through her like a sheet of fire. “You have arranged a truce for three years without my say-so?” Geoffrey shot her a look. “Do not take that tone with me, wife. I know what I am about.”

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“That is not the point. The point is that you did not seek my counsel!”

He rolled his eyes with exasperation. “There was not time, and you are as stubborn as a mule and have no idea how to negotiate, even when negotiation would be to your own advantage.” She thrust the towel into his hands, indicating that she was done with serving him, duty or not. “But still it is mine to do,” she snapped. “So what are you about, my lord husband? Grant me the fount of your deep wisdom.”

“God on the Cross, woman, you could curdle fresh milk with your looks. If you will cease your haughtiness and unstopper your ears, I will tell you.” She made no move to pick up the towel and he had to lean over to dry his own feet.

“I am listening,” she said.

“But will you hear?” He threw the towel aside. “Stephen cannot control his troops. The Normans might hate me, but they do not like him either, and he has done nothing to appease them. Instead he has ridden over them roughshod with his Flemings. He has allowed the quarrels between his troops to become wide rifts and he can no longer trust the Normans to serve him in the field. Since the attack on your brother by D’Ypres’s men, the Normans do not trust Stephen. I have spoken to Robert, and I have letters from him to you in my baggage that you will find interesting. Your brother’s flirtation with Stephen has run its course. By next campaigning season, Caen will be ours.” He raised one golden eyebrow at her.

“Stephen thinks he can buy his way out of trouble, but we can use that money to buy equipment, and men.” A scornful smile crossed his face. “He has financed his own downfall.” It was all very clever, like a garment cut and stitched from perfectly fitting geometric pieces. She could not fault Geoffrey’s reasoning, even if it galled her to see him so smug. “My father 219

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built up his wealth carefully for the good of all,” she said, “and now Stephen squanders it, as if it is a never-ending resource.

He just lets it trickle away through his fingers.”

“Well, at least he is pouring it in our direction. We have two thousand marks. Your brother is on the verge of changing his allegiance and Stephen’s army has broken up and turned for home. By next year, he will have even less money in his coffers to pay the hangers on, while we will be more prepared and stronger still. A truce is only a truce while both parties keep to it.” He stood up, barefoot, and stroked his forefinger down her cheek. “The day is coming. Stephen doesn’t know it yet, but then the only time he was swift on the uptake was when he stole your inheritance, and even that was the doing of others.” He circled his arm around her waist and drew her against his body. “I have been a long time in the field,” he said. “Have you missed me?”

She followed him to the bed, step by step. She was eager to read what Robert had written, but if the truce was a fait accompli, there was no immediate hurry. “Like a pulled tooth.” He laughed darkly. “My love, you are a constant joy.” She flashed him a look full of challenge and desire. “Liar,” she said. Physical appetite was something she could control and ignore unless he was with her. When they were together, it was like a firesteel striking sparks on dry tinder, but without that proximity, there was nothing. It wasn’t love, but it was need, and it was