Lady of the English - By Elizabeth Chadwick Page 0,89

mutual.

“No more than you,” he answered, and pulled her down with him.

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Twenty-six

Fugglestone, Berkshire, Spring 1138

A deliza watched the gravediggers shovel earth over the coffin of the young woman who had died in the leper hospital the previous evening. Her name was Godif and her father had been one of Henry’s minor chamber servants.

Adeliza had prayed, given alms, and paid for masses to be said.

Standing now by the grave with the nuns and others of Godif’s community, she shivered despite her fur-lined cloak. Life was so short, and filled with suffering. Godif had been a gentle, sweet creature, never complaining about her pain and the vile indignities that the disease visited upon her body. She was in a better place now; she had to be. Adeliza rubbed her arms and tears pricked her eyes. For poor Godif; for herself.

When the grave had been filled in, Adeliza returned to the nunnery. Since arriving more than two years ago, she had moved into a purpose-built small lodge. The nuns called it

“the queen’s hall” and she had not discouraged them. Part of her pain at losing Henry had been the loss of her rank and influence as Stephen’s queen took over her role. Stephen had removed the patronage of Waltham Abbey from her and given it to his wife, and Adeliza was deeply hurt because Waltham, like Wilton, was personal to her, but Stephen had claimed it, saying it was the prerogative of a reigning queen.

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Adeliza still had the wealth of Arundel and the income from Shrewsbury, but no longer was it her task and privilege to sit in state at official crown-wearings, and she was not encouraged to visit the court. Not that she had any desire to do so because everything had changed since Henry died. All that formidable power was gone and without a controlling hand on the reins the different factions were free to foment suspicion and unrest.

All Henry had worked for was being torn down and replaced by something less robust and true. Wealth poured out of the treasury like blood from an opened vein and no one was doing anything to stanch it. Instead they were queuing to drink their fill. Waleran de Meulan strutted the corridors of the court like a beady-eyed cockerel. Henry of Winchester paraded as if he were already the archbishop of Canterbury. Hugh Bigod was swollen with false importance, waiting for Stephen to pour out yet more largesse and grant him an earldom, always dropping unsubtle reminders that he had been the recipient of the old king’s last words, where he absolved everyone of their oaths to Matilda.

A cheerful fire burned in the hearth of her hall and Melisande, her kinswoman and attendant, had arranged a jug of spring flowers on the bench near the window. A pleasant background smell of incense filled the air, mingling with the aroma of warm bread from a basket of small loaves. Adeliza gave her cloak to her other lady, Juliana, and smoothed her dress. She felt relieved to be back in her quarters and, at the same time, a little guilty and unsettled. Here, life was safe and comfortable and enclosed, but it felt like an indulgent bolt hole sometimes.

She turned to the jug of flowers and lightly touched the petals.

“Madam, you have a visitor,” Rothard her chamberlain announced from the doorway. “Messire William D’Albini is in the guest chamber.”

The name filled her with surprise and sent a small jolt through her composed of pleasure and apprehension. She had 222

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not seen him since Henry’s funeral and could not imagine what he was doing here. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“No, madam, save to pay his respects.”

“Then by all means admit him.”

Rothard departed. Feeling flustered and curious, Adeliza directed Juliana to fetch the silver goblets from the small sideboard. Melisande plumped the cushions on the hearth bench and put a new log on the fire.

When Will D’Albini entered the room, his vigour seemed to fill it with such robust masculine virility that it took Adeliza’s breath, because she had grown accustomed to a life among nuns.

“Madam, my Queen.” Removing his hat, he knelt at her feet and bowed his head. His hair was as she remembered: a tumble of dark, glossy curls, thick and strong.

“That is no longer my title,” she said, gesturing him to rise,

“but I thank you for it nevertheless; it was gallantly spoken.” He rose to his feet. “Madam, you will