The Winter Mantle (49 page)

Matilda pressed her nose against his flesh and felt the tickle of his chest hair. She did not want to think of him being involved with the Montgomerys in any way. 'But you will be staying at home a while?' Hearing the anxious note in her own voice, she bit her lip. She knew that he hated to be fettered, and yet she needed a modicum of security — and following the revelations at Elstow she felt terribly vulnerable.

He spread his fingers, webbing her glittering hair across it. 'A while, yes,' he said in a soothing voice, as if he sensed her need. 'I have a castle to build, and a son to see born. Enough for any man.'

Matilda hugged him in gratitude for a moment, but then her head came up. 'What if I should bear a daughter?' she demanded. 'My mother bore two girls, and her mother before her. My uncle Stephen did not arrive until my grandmother was past her fortieth year.'

Simon shifted position to look at her. Raising his thumb, he brushed the furrow from her brow. 'If you should bear a daughter, then no matter I will still cherish her, and she will be but the first. You do not have to follow the pattern laid down by your mother and her mother before her, do you?'

'I will never follow their pattern,' Matilda vowed fiercely. 'Never.' She clenched her fists and tried to stave off the memory of the afternoon's revelations. 'If our child is a daughter, she will grow up loved and valued and the only duty I will impose on her is that she love and value others the same.'

Simon gently stroked her back. 'That seems a fine notion to me,' he murmured soothingly. 'Pride is no bad trait to possess, but too strong a measure can taste of bitter grief. I do not believe that your grandmother was ever happy in her triumph, or even satisfied. And you have seen how it is with your mother. She has grown a shell to shut out the hurts of the world, and now it has so many layers that she is trapped within it.'

Matilda lay against him and gazed out of the shutters at the swollen white disc of the moon. She had not had to tell him much about her grandmother's part in her father's downfall. He had been a squire at court, and knew already. When she had asked him why he had not told her, he had shrugged.

'The art of keeping silent is one I have learned to value,' he had said, and would not be further drawn.

As always she was left with the worrying feeling that she did not know him at all, and the knowledge that in contrast he knew her very well indeed. Perhaps he understood about her mother's shell, she thought, because he dwelt inside one of his own, and the art of silence was part of that carapace. If only she could breach the defences and truly know him as he seemed to know her. If only she could prove her mother's words wrong.

The moon sailed across the unshuttered aperture and disappeared, leaving a dark blue sky ablaze with stars. Matilda watched the night, and for the first time felt the flutter of new life within her womb.

Northampton, Spring 1090

Simon had put all of Northampton's wealth on show to honour the marriage of his sister-in-law Jude to Ranulf de Tosny of Conches. The trestles in the newly completed great hall were draped with bleached linen cloths. On the high table the napery was embroidered with English goldwork, and the flagons and cups set out for the guests were fashioned of silver gilt and rock crystal.

Seated beside her husband on the high dais, Matilda watched the bridal couple sip from the loving cup and eat off the same trencher. Jude's silky dark hair was uncovered in token of her virginity and fell in two thick plaits to her waist. A bridal chaplet of daisies, mayblossom and fresh greenery was bound at her brow and she wore a gown of red wool with sleeve linings of blue silk. The bridegroom seemed much taken with his wife, as well he might, Matilda thought. Jude not only looked lovely but had a sweet nature, and the lands that she brought to her marriage were enough to make any man rush to make his vows.

'I would have liked our own wedding day to be as great an occasion as this one,' Simon said and briefly covered her hand with his own.

Matilda gave him a slightly startled look. Had she seemed wistful? She thought not. 'Mayhap,' she said, 'but I do not miss gilding the lily. When we were little, Jude would plunder our mother's coffer, try on her finest veils, and most elaborate girdles. It was always my task to keep watch and make sure that she was not caught!'

Simon laughed. 'But surely you enjoy gilding the lily just a little? That shade of blue suits you well.' His gaze wandered appreciatively over her figure, as slender as if she had never borne a child.

Matilda blushed. 'A little,' she admitted, 'but I do not yearn.'

He looked amused. 'Most women of my acquaintance would sell their eye teeth to be the centre of attention tonight.'

'Indeed. And with how many women are you acquainted?'

'Enough to count my blessings.' He kissed her hand.

'Spoken like a true courtier,' Matilda said, smiling, but with an edge to her voice.

Their banter was curtailed by the arrival of Helisende, who had managed to make her way down the side of the hall, threading through servants bearing flagons and steaming platters.

'My lady, your son is awake and crying fit to bring down the rafters.'

'I have never known a child so greedy,' Simon said, looking pained.

Matilda smiled and as she rose, tugged a lock of his hair. In the more relaxed atmosphere of Rufus' rule, the short crops of the Conqueror's reign were giving way to longer styles, and Simon's tawny brown hair now rested level with the neckband of his tunic. She liked it that way, for the depths of her mind harboured a dim memory of her father's hair at that length, sweeping against his cheek as he played with her in the garden.

'He takes after you,' she said.

Simon gestured at his trencher. 'I do not how you can say that, my lady,' he declared with a glimmer of amusement. 'I am no glutton at the board.'

'I was not talking of food,' Matilda retorted pertly. She left with the sound of his chuckle chasing the shadows from her heart, and went to feed their son. At seventeen months old he was well on the way to being weaned, but still woke on occasion and nothing would content him but the comfort of suckling at her breast.

His birth had been easy, for Matilda had the large bones and wide hips of her Viking ancestors and the baby, although healthy and vigorous, was of Simon's build. He was placid and good-natured, with abundant copper-red hair and eyes of deep sea-blue. It had been only fitting to christen him for the grand -sire he so clearly resembled.

She watched him as he nursed and felt a surge of deep and tender love that was almost a physical pain. He was walking; his vocabulary was developing rapidly and soon he would not need the security of her breast. The time of dependency was fleeting and, cling tightly as she might, nothing could prevent these moments from slipping through her hands like silver into the darkness of a well.

'It is a great pity that your grandmother is not here to see what a fine child he is,' Judith remarked from the doorway.

Matilda looked up with a start. She had been so absorbed in tending to her son that she had not seen her mother arrive. 'It is an even greater pity that my father is not here to see his first grandchild,' she replied, and the generous curve of her lips was suddenly tight.

The birth of a son had for ever changed the relationship between them, tor in producing a boy Matilda had accomplished what Judith had not, and the balance of power, already in Matilda's favour, had shifted further. Indeed, following that terrible day at Elstow Judith's manner towards her daughter had changed. She had become more conciliatory, more willing to listen, and much less critical. Mention of Adelaide was still enough to strain the atmosphere, though. Adelaide had died of a flux shortly after little Waltheof was born. Matilda had not attended the funeral, for she had still been recovering from the birth, but she had been more than glad of the excuse and it bothered her conscience. She should be able to forgive, and it disturbed her that she could not.

'Indeed it is,' Judith said with a sigh. 'He loved small infants - far more than I ever did. But then perhaps that was what attracted me to him in the first instance - his joy and innocence.'

Matilda looked down at the suckling infant and kept very still. It was the first time that her mother had ever spoken of her marriage to Waltheof in less than disparaging terms.

'He was not afraid to laugh or weep,' Judith said, 'and I had been raised in a household where to do either was unseemly.' Her lips curved sorrowfully. '! thought that your father could teach me how to do both, but it proved beyond both our capabilities.' Her voice stumbled, and looking up Matilda was disconcerted to find her mother's eyes filled with tears. Perhaps it was because the season was so close to the anniversary of his death. The morrow's eve.

Judith blinked fiercely, clearly irritated with herself. 'I came to remind you that we should begin the bedding ceremony — before the men grow too gilded to stand.' She made an abrupt gesture. 'I did not mean to speak of your father. Perhaps I have drunk a goblet too much myself.'

The baby gave a milky belch, and a white dribble appeared at the corner of his mouth. 'Full to the brim,' Matilda said, aching to see her mother retreat behind the familiar wall of frozen dignity. 'I am glad that you did,' she said softly. 'I have so little of him to keep.'

'You have the best parts,' Judith murmured. 'I do not know whether to envy or pity you.'

Matilda gestured the nurse to take the baby, and repinned the deep neck opening of her gown. 'I want neither your envy nor your pity. They won't make any difference, will they?' Rising to her feet, she shook out the folds of the dress in a gesture designed to end the conversation and smooth her ruffled emotions. 'Come, or else they will begin the bedding ceremony without us.'

The air of constraint between mother and daughter was swiftly banished as they exchanged the peace of the women's chamber for the hall where the wedding celebrations had developed a raucous edge. Women and men had separated off, the former surrounding the bride, the latter the laughing groom.

Matilda paused briefly at Simon's side and gave a worried glance towards Ranulf de Tosny. 'I hope he is not too far in his cups that he hurts Jude,' she murmured.

Simon squeezed her waist. 'You need not fret on that score.' He said against her ear. 'It is mostly high spirits. After the first two cups I made sure that the wine was watered. Cheaper for me that way too,' he added flippantly. 'Besides, I didn't want to be in my cups either.' His hand moved briefly over her buttocks, revealing that he was not quite as stony sober as he claimed.

Matilda laughed and pushed him away. 'We shall see,' she said with a look through her lashes, and went to join the women.

Jude was brought to the main bedchamber. Usually it was reserved for Simon, Matilda and their immediate attendants, but tonight they had vacated it in honour of the bride and groom. A new, crisp, lavender-scented sheet had been spread tightly over the feather mattress. In the morning, stained with the bride's virgin blood, it would be hammered to the wall behind the dais table as proof that her husband was the first man to touch her and that any child born nine months from this time would be of his loins. There was a covering sheet of bleached linen, a woollen blanket, and a counterpane of embroidered silk that was part of the wealth that the bride brought to her marriage, silk being literally worth its weight in gold.