The Winter Mantle (71 page)

'I would also say that you are your mother's daughter,' Hugh
Lupus said wryly. 'A man would never tangle with her out of choice - excepting your father, and look what happened to him.'

Matilda whitened. For a moment he thought she might fall back on the feminine weapon of tears. Her throat worked, but she gained control of herself. 'That was unworthy, my lord,' she said.

Chester snorted. 'I am known for my plain speaking,' he retorted, 'not my chivalry.' Raising his head, he narrowed his eyes towards one of the scouts he had sent ahead of them. The man was returning at a gallop, lashing the reins down on his mount's neck.

'My lord, I pray you make haste!' he declared. 'Earl Simon is barricaded in the church and the French have broken through!'

'God's sweet bollocks!' Hugh Lupus swore. He turned to Matilda. 'I have no time to dally behind, nor to protect you,' he said curtly. Stay back with the baggage wain until told otherwise! You have no part to play in a battle, but you will be needed later to tend and succour the wounded!'

Mustering his troop, clapping spurs to his mount, he was gone in a shower of clods and stones.

'Best do as he says, my lady,' said the knight in command of the baggage wain, and grasped Matilda's bridle lest she harboured any different ideas. 'If there's hard fighting, no one wants a woman to hamper the swing of their sword.'

'No, but everyone will want one to tend their wounds and warm their beds in the aftermath!' she snapped at him. 'I may be a countess by birth, but I am no wilting flower.' She gave him a proud look. 'My grandfather was an axe-wielding Danish Viking who once fought a wild bear single-handed. I know my own worth.' She flicked her hand at him, commanding him to let go of her bridle.

He did so reluctantly, but rode his horse close, prepared to grab the rein at the first sign of skittishness on her behalf. Her stomach churned with anxiety, but she steadied herself. Even if she did charge after Hugh Lupus' knights and arrive in the thick of the fray, she could do nothing, and, as the young soldier said, she would only hamper their sword arms.

Ever since the news had been delivered, she had been vacillating between sick terror for Simon's safety and deep anger at him for the situation he had left her to discover at Gisors. Another woman. A newborn child. A side of his life he had concealed and she had not remotely guessed at. Her training ground had been a harsh one and she had maintained her external composure very well, but even like the best tempered steel she had a breaking point, and was close to it now. Catching her mood, her mount sidled and flickered its ears.

'How far to the fighting?' she demanded. Her hands twitched on the reins.

'About a mile, my lady,' the knight said, still eyeing her dubiously. 'Beyond that wooded hill.'

They followed the track around the foot of the slope, their horses trotting swiftly in the muddy scored hoofprints of Chester's main troop. There were heavy wheel ruts too, from laden carts. Rounding a curve, the smell of smoke hit them, and when Matilda gazed into the sky she saw the rising grey haze. Her heart began to pound. Her hands were suddenly slick on the bridle. Within a hundred yards the smoke had thickened and the smell had become a stench.

'My lady, perhaps you should stay back,' the knight cautioned, looking anxious.

A large part of Matilda agreed with him and wished that she had never left her garden in Northampton to follow her wayward husband. The larger part, however, was consumed by a desperate fear for Simon's safety and a need to be with him. 'No,' she said. 'I have to go on!' To give impetus to the bravado, she heeled her mare's flanks and sent her cantering into the village.

The sight that met her eyes was one of utter devastation. Heaps of charred wood marked the areas where dwellings had stood. Some still retained fragments of structure, twisted, black, skeletal. The corpses of pigs and dogs sprawled grotesquely among the debris. A scorched pail lay on its side next to a smashed well housing. Matilda swallowed the fluid that filled her mouth. 'Dear Jesu,' she whispered and crossed herself. There was a patch of garden neatly dug and tended. Herbs bordered the edge and new green shoots of onions, garlic and cabbage were growing strongly. Its owner lay in the middle, her kerchief torn off and her legs sprawled wide. A pitchfork pinned her body to the soil.

Matilda leaned over her horse's withers and retched. A garden was a place of nurture and sanctuary… not this vile destruction.

The knight grasped her mount's bridle and tried to lead the mare away, but Matilda struck his hand away.

'My lady, I beg you. It is not safe.'

'That I can see!' she sobbed, indicating the woman in the garden.

The village street was suddenly filled with soldiers on horseback. There was no time to move aside. Caught up in the flurry, Matilda's protectors drew their swords, but they were at a standstill and the oncoming men were at full gallop. Not Chester's, she had time to see, nor Simon's, and then they were too close and the battle closed over her head like a hungry open mouth.

There was a clash of blade on hauberk rivets, a whump of steel meeting flesh, and Matilda's guardian lost the hand that had been closed around her bridle. He screamed, the sound stopping short as a lance followed the work of the sword and ran him through. Matilda's mare reared and plunged in terror. Unable to hold her, scared witless herself, Matilda was thrown. She landed hard, struck her head and blackness hit her like a fist and left her sprawled in the road against the wrecked garden palisade.

Toki spared no time for dramatic gestures with his axe: up, round and down in a single blurred arc of steel to swipe aside the French soldier who had run at him down the nave. Beside him Simon used his shield to fend off another two, while he parried and thrust with his sword. They were holding the French, but only just, and for every one of the enemy downed there was a fresh man to take his place. There would be no ransoms taken this time. It was kill or be killed.

Simon's lungs were burning with effort. His shield felt as if it were made of lead, and he could feel the quiver of overstrained muscles in his weak left leg. Toki was tireless. He was even singing to himself as he swung and struck. Now Simon truly understood what his father and brother had faced on Hastings field.

Three more French soldiers came at them. Simon thrust his shield into the face of one, but the man was swift and strong. His sword found an opening and struck sidelong at Simon's ribs, raising blue sparks from the hauberk rivets. The air gasped from Simon's lungs and fiery pain streaked across his chest, but the heat of battle kept him upright and sheer desperation brought his own sword up to parry the next blow. Blade rasped on blade and slivers of metal flew from the Frenchman's, which was not as well tempered as Simon's. A shard lodged in the back of Simon's hand and the blood from the wound ran through the cracks in his clenched fist and fouled his grip on his sword. He used his shield to parry and was forced backwards by the Frenchman's greater strength.

A horn sounded frantically somewhere. Simon was in too much extremity to do more than note the sound with a small corner of his mind, but that corner despaired, for it was the attack clarion and he was already overwhelmed. His left leg gave way and he went down, but as he fell he gave one last swipe with his sword. The blow connected with the Frenchman's knee and brought him down too. Lungs wheezing like worn-out bellows, Simon rolled over and with one last effort thrust his blade into his enemy's throat.

Stars burst before his eyes. The salty heat of blood sprayed him. On hands and knees he scrabbled for his shield, knowing that if he had to face anyone else he was finished. Pushing himself to his feet by will alone, he glanced around. A cursing Toki was wrenching his axe out of the second French soldier, who lay on top of the first. The church suddenly contained only Simon's gasping, exhausted men. Simon staggered to the door. There was fierce fighting in the street and he belatedly realised that the horn he had heard had meant salvation, not death - for some at least.

'If Hugh Lupus wasn't so fat, he might have got here sooner,' Toki panted, seeking to make light of the situation with sour jest. 'Any later and he would have been shovelling earth over our corpses as well as those of the French.'

'You have no gratitude,' Simon said and began to laugh, but as a release from tension rather than from genuine humour.

Toki snorted and clutched his shoulder. 'It is the English blood,' he retorted. 'We are ever ungrateful to our Norman masters.'

Simon sobered. 'It is I who should be grateful to you for saving my life a dozen times over,' he said. 'I can never repay the debt.'

'You could try,' Toki retorted with a grin. 'I would not object.' He pointed at the blood webbing Simon's hand. 'Better get yourself seen to, my lord.'

Simon nodded absently. The splinter of sword was still in his flesh. Raising his hand to his mouth, he gripped the sliver in his teeth and with a sharp tug pulled it out. Fresh blood gushed from the wound, but he bound it up tightly in a strip of linen purloined from the vestment coffer. The church was a total shambles, but the jewelled cross still gleamed softly over all, neither stolen nor dislodged during the intense fighting. That had to be a good omen.

Tottering outside, he became aware of his other aches and pains. Each breath drawn was a sawing ache. His legs felt like wet rope, but he managed to breathe and he managed to walk.

'God's arse but you get yourself into some situations!' Hugh Lupus declared striding up to him. His mail hauberk and the padding beneath made him look gargantuan. He had removed his helm and sweat was pouring down his face. Beads of it glistened in his saturated hair.

'Serigny burned the village, and a French patrol took exception,' Simon answered, grimacing through his teeth. 'I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.' He glanced around. 'And so were these poor people.' Suddenly he felt weary to death. All he wanted to do was lie down in a corner and close his eyes, but he was a commander and there was too much to be done.

Hugh Lupus' squire brought two cups of wine. Hugh seized one and drank it to the lees. Another,' he commanded the youth.

Simon swallowed his own and wiped his mouth on the back of his good hand.

'You might as well know, your wife is here,' Chester said with a certain relish. 'Arrived at the gates of Gisors as you left on patrol.'

'What?' Simon used the word as a flimsy handhold to grope for reason.

Chester repeated what he had said and drank his wine, pausing this time between swallows. 'Your wife knows about your mistress and to say that hell would seem cold by comparison is not an exaggeration. Countess Judith had a way of looking that could shrivel a man's cods in their sack, but her daughter's element is fire. Why any man should desire a mistress when he has such a woman for a wife is beyond me -unless you are a man who lusts after variety.'

'Sabina wasn't my mistress,' Simon said faintly, his wits further bludgeoned by the notion of Matilda's presence in all this.

'But the child is yours?'

'Christ yes, but…' Simon shook his head.' It is not what you think.' He hitched at his swordbelt. 'Where is Matilda now?'

'Back with my baggage wain.' Hugh said.

'What, you brought her here?' Simon was incredulous and horrified. 'Are you out of your wits?'

'I had no choice… short of binding her hand and foot and casting her in De Bêlleme's dungeon,' Hugh snapped. 'She wouldn't be stopped. It is all I could do to make her stay back. She said that it was her duty.'

Simon groaned and limped into the street. There was no sign of his wife. He wondered what had possessed her to travel from England, across Normandy to the dangerous war torn lands of the Vexin. She was too responsible to act on a whim… or was she? How much did he truly know about his wife? Perhaps as much as he had known about Sabina. Almost nothing.

Anger and anxiety surged through him, keeping the exhaustion at bay. He saw Chester's covered baggage wain lumbering into the bailey, drawn by two large black cobs. As it turned side on and drew to a halt, he also saw that there was a bay mare hitched to the back - a lady's mount, for no man rode a mare into battle unless he was a Saracen. But there was no sign of his wife.

He hastened towards the wain, uncaring that his limp was pronounced and for all to see. Uncaring that he stumbled. He reached the bay mare and, laying hands to the bridle, saw that it was Matilda's. The silver lozenges at browband and cheekstrap identified it beyond a doubt.

Then he looked in the wain and his heart froze.

'Matilda?' Abandoning the horse, he scrambled up into the covered cart. She lay on a makeshift bed of straw and sheepskins amidst the various items of Hugh Lupus' travelling household, a cooking pot near her head, wooden tent struts at her feet. Her face was as pale as ice, and upon it the jagged cut and swollen blue bruise on her temple stood out in stark relief.

'Jesu God, Matilda?' He shook her shoulder but she was as limp and unresponsive as his daughter's cloth doll. Waves of fear rolled over him, making him cold and sick.

'She got tangled up with the French troops when they fled,' said the soldier who had been driving the wain. 'Got thrown by her horse.' He sleeved his nose and mouth. 'Can't see any other injuries on her, but she struck her head a heavy blow.'

He gave Simon a look in which there was speculation and sympathy. 'She hasn't moved since I picked her up.'

Simon swallowed. Tears prickled behind his lids and he blinked angrily. Long ago Waltheof had chastised him for self-pity and he had a morbid fear of becoming caught in its morass again. But if she died… He stroked one of her shining red-bronze braids. If she died, his life would not be worth the living.