Lady of Hay (18 page)

She stood looking down at the couple, a tall, lonely girl, her face and hands grown thin, her eyes weary but resolute, and both knew that they would have to do as she asked.

John Picard insisted that he should ride with her to Brecknock, and Anne pressed on her the services of two of her own women, Margaret and Welsh Elen.

“There will be hardly any household over there, beyond the garrison,” she pointed out. “It’s no place for a woman. Oh, please change your mind. Stay, at least till the babe is born.” She gazed earnestly at Matilda’s face, unable to hide her anxiety, but the girl was adamant. She refused even Anne’s pleas that she postpone her start for a day or two to give them time to get ready. “No preparations are needed,” she announced firmly, trying to keep the impatience out of her voice. “Nell and Margaret and Elen can pack my boxes in the time it takes to harness the horses.” She was not prepared even to remove her cloak again while she waited. The restlessness of the past weeks had suddenly become unbearable.

She did feel a pang of sorrow as she hugged Anne before climbing into the waiting litter, but as she settled herself beneath the fur blankets excitement began to take over again. The women who were to go with her mounted their ponies, and John Picard, blowing a kiss toward his wife as she stood beneath the gateway, led the small cavalcade across the bridge.

Only a matter of minutes after they set out Matilda had begun to regret her impetuosity. She had not foreseen the horrors of traveling over the mountain tracks in a litter. She swayed and bumped inside the uncomfortable vehicle, unable to rest or balance, not knowing which way the next lurch would go.

John Picard rode close at her side, his hauberk over his linen shirt beneath a warm mantle, his helmet in place, his eyes ever searching the budding thickets and bramble scrub along the road. The day was bright and it seemed quiet, but he was certain that from the moment they clattered across the lowered drawbridge they were being watched.

Secretly he was very relieved to be seeing Matilda away from Tretower at last. He was genuinely concerned for her safety, but he had daily been expecting trouble from the Welshmen in the hills since the paths and tracks had reopened. They must know that the wife of de Braose was there and her life surely would be a fitting revenge for the death of their prince and his sons.

The castle of Brecknock was not prepared for its lady. The small garrison in the outer bailey lived in wooden lean-tos and small stone outbuildings within the outer wall. The private chambers inside the keep—the great hall and the solar above it—were bare.

Standing in the drafty, damp upper chamber, Matilda felt herself ready to weep. Never before had she arrived somewhere before it had been ready for occupation. Turning, she swept back down the newel stair into the main hall and confronted the constable of the castle.

“The place seems hardly prepared,” she said to him with a forced smile. “However, have your men light a fire so at least we can be warm. What is your name, sir?”

“Sir Robert Mortimer, my lady.” He gave a slight bow, turning to relay her orders to the men hovering in the doorway.

“Where is the chatelaine? Why isn’t she here to greet me?”

Sir Robert seemed embarrassed. “My wife died eighteen months back, my lady. The village women have done their best…”

“I’m sorry.” Matilda bit back the rude words that had been on the tip of her tongue. “Where, then, is the bailiff? I want him here by sundown.”

With energy born of despair she set about directing the inhabitants of the castle to work. Torches blazed in the sconces, the fire burned up at last, and wooden shutters were found and fastened over the narrow windows. John Picard lounged on a bench in the great hall, holding out his hands to the fire. The lack of comfort made no difference to him but he watched with admiration the figure of his hostess, still swathed in her mantle against the cold, as she moved from place to place directing operations. He saw her pause and look toward the door as a group of new figures appeared from the dusk outside.

“Clerics,” he muttered to himself. He had no time for the church but he was pleased to see them for her sake.

Matilda gazed at the senior among the black-robed figures and smiled uncertainly. He was a grave, thin man in his late twenties, dressed with restrained sumptuousness, his mantle trimmed with miniver that showed up the plain black habit of the monk at his side. His eyes, ranging around the hall, took in every detail of the place and of the lady standing in front of him. Then he bowed courteously and held out his hand in the gesture of benediction.

“I am Gerald, madam, Archdeacon of Brecknock.” He spoke softly and yet with great presence.

Matilda bowed her head to accept his blessing.

“I was with Prior John when I heard of your plight, my lady,” he went on. “Some of the lay brothers are bringing furnishings across for you and I have sent to my house at Llanddeu for other comforts that may help you. I am sorry you should find Brecknock so unready for you.”

“It’s my own fault.” She found herself responding to his warm smile. “I brought no retinue, Archdeacon. No escort except for the one John Picard there could spare me, out of his kindness. I was foolish to come, I suppose.”

He scrutinized her face for a moment and then grinned boyishly. “I can understand you wanting to come here. One’s home is always the best place to be, and I believe women in your condition frequently conceive such fancies. After all, where else should your child be born but here?”

She felt herself blushing at his outspokenness and, drawing her mantle more closely around her, she retreated to the fire where she stood and watched as two sandaled lay brothers from the priory carried in a folding stool and set it down near her. They were followed by others with trestles and tabletops for the dais, benches, and candlesticks. Finally a linen cloth was produced and carefully laid on the table. Matilda waited in silence as the hall was transformed. Slowly, through Gerald’s eyes, she was beginning to see the funny side of her undignified arrival. He had been watching her closely and he didn’t drop his eyes when she caught his stare, but grinned pleasantly once more. “Better?” he inquired humorously.

She laughed. “Much better, Archdeacon. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Don’t bother. My own reading chair is on its way down to you from Llanddeu. You will find it easier sitting on a chair with a back, I should imagine. If there’s anything you need, or any help wanted, send for me. I’m usually there when I’m not traveling around the diocese.” He stepped forward and took her hand earnestly. “I’ll take my leave now, I can see you’re tired. But remember, I’m there if you need me.”

John Picard raised an eyebrow as Gerald left. “An intense young man, that. But I’m glad he’s here. He’ll keep an eye on you till your husband comes.” He leaned back, tucking his thumbs comfortably into his belt.

***

It was from Sir Robert Mortimer that she at last understood the full extent of the danger in which she stood and which the Picards had managed to keep from her throughout the winter. John Picard had left at dawn the next morning, bidding her a cheerful good-bye and leaving her with a smacking kiss on the cheek, then Sir Robert had found his way to Matilda’s side.

“I’ve ordered a double guard, my lady, on the walls and on the gate, and I’ve told them to keep the townsfolk out for now,” he reported.

“Why?” She stopped clearing a pile of linen from the table and turned to look at him, puzzled. Nell went on folding the material, but her eyes too were fixed on the constable’s face.

“We cannot take any risks with you here at Brecknock, my lady. Things have been peaceful this winter. We’ve had no trouble, but now you’re here I’d expect them to have a go at you.” He clenched his fist over the hilt of his sword.

“Have a go? Who?” Matilda narrowed her eyes.

“The Welshies of course, my lady. An eye for an eye; a death for a death, all that. You’ve heard of the
galanas
?”

She looked puzzled and he shook his head. “The blood feud. They will seek revenge, my lady. It’s the law of these hills. Then, no doubt, if they get it, your descendants and relatives will seek theirs in their turn and so on it will go. It’s the way the Marches takes their justice.”

Matilda shivered. “So Seisyll’s wife died?”

He shrugged. “As to that, I haven’t heard for sure. But we’ve got to assume you’ll be a target, with Sir William away at Windsor or wherever. Did the Picards not warn you?”

Matilda licked her lips nervously. “Yes, they did mention it. Lady Picard told me of the feud, but I paid no attention—I was ill…I must have put them in great danger while I was there.” She walked over toward the hearth, her light-green skirts sweeping the rushes. “They sheltered me all winter, Sir Robert, and never let me know that.”

Sir Robert rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “Aye, they’re good folk right enough.”

“Let the townspeople come and go as usual. I don’t want them to resent me from the start. Give me a bodyguard of some sort, that’ll be enough. These are my husband’s people after all, not Seisyll’s. I’m sure they’re not involved in any feud.”

Sir Robert frowned. He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “There’s something I think you should understand, my lady.” He looked at the floor, embarrassed. “The thing is, your husband is not exactly well liked by the people. These lordships came to him from the family of his lady mother. They do not like de Braose.” His voice trailed away into silence.

“All the more reason that I should make them like me, Sir Robert,” she flashed back at him. Then she smiled. “Please. Help me make friends with them. I should hate to feel that I have enemies here. Perhaps we can win them over if we try.”

He looked at her determined, eager face and grinned. “Well, my lady, if those are your orders, I’d be glad, for one. They’re not a bad crowd in Aberhonddu. We’ll guard you well and hope they’re not over-concerned with the doings in Gwent. Will you be sending messages to Sir William?”

She nodded. “I must. He should be told I’m here, and I want some of my servants from Bramber. Will you arrange for someone to go to find him? Meanwhile I’ll choose some women to serve me and we’ll make a start at trying to make this place comfortable.” She grinned, and turned back to help Nell with her task.

The next few days passed in a bustle of activity. As word got out that Lady de Braose was there, people from the small township below the castle walls began to make their way to her presence. She was called upon to act as arbiter and judge among them. They seemed to be accepting her. She had scarcely any time at all to herself, and almost forgot the worries and torments of the long winter. She found the people ready with their tithes of provisions and supplies, all eager and curious to see Sir William’s bride, all apparently prepared to be friendly.

She spent long mornings closeted with Hugh the bailiff, who had eventually turned up between two men-at-arms, so drunk he was unable to stand. She had curbed her initial desire to have him flogged and waited to see him when he was sober. And she was pleased she had done so. He was in his own way grateful for her restraint and proved himself a competent enough steward after his initial defensiveness had worn off. He took her on a tour of the barns, storerooms, pantries, and the cellar, proud that Brecknock should still be comparatively well stocked after the long winter.

She sat for many hours, however, pondering over his accounts, desperately trying to make sense of the squiggles on the pages before her, applying her limited knowledge of reading, knowing his taunting eyes were upon her, waiting for her to make a mistake.

At last, exasperated beyond measure, she summoned Father Hugo, the priest who had been sent by Gerald to take mass at the chapel each morning.

“Father, I need your help.” She looked up at him from Gerald’s elaborate chair by the fire. “I need to know how to read properly. Can you teach me?”

Together they pored over the account book for some time. Then Hugo straightened up and put his hand to his eyes. “I can hardly read this man’s hand myself,” he muttered at last. “Especially these last few pages. I’ll bring the mass book from the chapel for you. That at least I know is legible.”

Two days later Gerald was ushered into her presence. “I hear you want to learn to read,” he said without preamble. “Hugo is not the man to teach you, my lady. His eyes are too old to see the letters himself. I shall do it.”

“You, Archdeacon? But how will you spare the time?” She was a little nervous of the energetic, handsome young man and she glanced rather apprehensively at the volumes under his arm.

“I shall teach you to write as well,” he went on. “It is unthinkable that a lady of your standing should be unable to read and write with fluency. Writing is one of the greatest arts.”

She blushed. He made her feel suddenly inadequate. Secretly she had been proud of the way she was handling the situation at Brecknock. It was the first chance she had had of applying her skills in running a household without her mother-in-law breathing down her neck, and although the household was abbreviated and inadequate, she was pleased with the way she was managing with the people she was carefully recruiting to her service.

Each day while he was at Llanddeu Gerald rode down to the castle and spent an hour or two in her company. Sometimes they read from his own writings and from his poetry, which he proudly brought to show her, and sometimes from the books from his library. They also struggled together with the bailiff’s account books, and Gerald, his eyes sparkling with amusement, pointed out that the handwriting had markedly worsened from the day that Matilda had arrived at Brecknock and shown her determination to supervise his activities.