The Winter Mantle (52 page)

Simon drew his forefinger gently across her eyebrows. 'No, my love,' he said with a look at Jude. 'They have left them as they are.'

Matilda stared at Simon and her sister in bewilderment.

'It was thought for the best.' Simon took her gently by the shoulders. 'There is still some flesh on the bones,' he said, 'and as you saw his hair remains bright. He has been buried before the altar in the same state that they found him.' He did not need to add that the word would spread among the pilgrims and become exaggerated in the telling. Waltheof would be spoken of as an incorrupt, and a candidate for sainthood. Crowland's fame and wealth would increase with the size of the story. The abbey would be rebuilt on a grand scale with the coin from the pilgrimages and Waltheof would indeed rise from the dead with a vengeance.

'It is proof that he should not have died, isn't it?' Matilda searched Simon's face. 'Like when the slain bleed in the presence of their murderers?'

'Mayhap,' he said. 'But I rather think that the embalmer who dealt with him before they brought him from Winchester knew his art.'

Matilda rose from the bed. Her legs were shaking, but at least they supported her as she tottered towards the door.

'Where are you going?'

'To pray,' she said. 'To welcome my father to his new resting place.' She gave Simon a shadowed look. 'I can at least hope that he will sleep better than I do.'

He let her go. Turning to Jude, he dug one hand wearily through his hair. 'I wonder if she will ever be free,' he said wearily.

Jude shock her head to show that she did not have an answer.

'No,' Simon sighed, 'I do not know either.'

February 1096

It was the third morning in a row that Matilda had been sick. Staggering back to bed she dabbled with the notion that she might finally be with child again. Her fluxes had always been irregular, but she thought that her last one must have been before she attended the Christmas court at Windsor. Her son was seven years old and she had begun to believe he would be an only child. There had been other symptoms too, when she thought about them. Recently she had been lethargic, sleeping longer in the morning, retiring to bed early Ordinary tasks that she usually took in her stride had seemed inordinately difficult. She had put it down to the feeling of malaise that would begin to creep up on her as the anniversary of her father's death approached. Since the opening of his tomb it had intensified; that it had begun sooner than usual had slightly perturbed her, but she had thought it due to the distance that had recently sprung up between her and Simon. She had tried to identify a cause but nothing came immediately to mind. It was true that she had not wanted to attend the winter feast at Windsor, but that was because of the state of William Rufus' bachelor court. Desiring to be with Simon, she had swallowed her prejudices. He had been away from home all summer on campaign against the rebellious Earl Robert of Mowbray. Rufus had insisted that all his tenants-in-chief be present for the Christmas court, so there had been no option but to endure if she wanted to be with her husband.

The visit, she conceded, had not been entirely dreadful. Ranulf de Tosny had been at the gathering and had brought Jude with him, so the sisters had been able to spend time in the pleasure of gossip and plundering the market stalls that had sprung up with rapid efficiency around the encampment of the court. The latter had been more to Jude's taste than hers, but still, she had still emerged with several bolts of Flemish wool to make tunics and gowns, a fine oak coffer decorated with wrought-iron work for the main bedchamber at Northampton, and a quite beautiful ivory figure of the Virgin for her private chapel. Not to be left out, Simon had acquired a fine dappled riding horse and a new belt for his sword. And between them, it seemed, they had finally conceived a second child.

Gingerly Matilda sat up. Her stomach rolled but she was able to leave the bed without retching. No, she thought. It had been good between them at the Christmas gathering, but something had happened there to change things. It was not that they had argued, more that since their return Simon was preoccupied and distant. Her first thought was that he had taken a mistress, but discreet enquiries and her own observation had shown it not to be the case. She had begun to worry that a grave situation was brewing. Was this how it had begun when her father had contemplated allying himself with the Danes? The long silences, the sense of being shut out? Simon had talked much with the other barons at the Christmas gathering, sometimes long into the night. At the time it had not bothered her, for she had Jude to keep her company and they had their own matters to discuss. Now, in hindsight, she wondered and worried.

Helisende helped her to dress and brought her honey-sweetened wine and dry bread. Matilda sipped the former, nibbled the latter and gradually began to feel better.

'Good for all sorts of stomach upsets,' the maid said knowingly. 'Even those that take nine months to resolve.'

'Is it as obvious as that?'

'Weil, some of the women have been whisper ing since you were ill yester morn, and now they're certain. And the laundress says she hasn't seen your flux linens since before the feast of Saint Lucy.'

'I should have asked them before I asked myself,' Matilda said irritably. 'Well, tell them to say nothing until I have broached the news to Earl Simon. I would rather he heard the news from me than the laundress!'

'Of course not, my lady!' Helisende looked affronted. 'They're good souls, they wouldn't say anything - and if one did, I'd use a bridle to bind her tongue.'

Matilda found a weak smile. She had no doubt, knowing Helisende, that the words were more than just picturesque. 'Is Earl Simon still in the hall?' she asked. 'Or is he about his business?'

'He was in the hall when I fetched your bread and wine, my lady.'

Matilda nodded. Now was as good a time as any to tell him about the child, she thought. Smoothing her gown, checking that her wimple was straight, she went to the curtain separating the bedchamber from the solar and wondered why she felt like a soldier girding up to do battle.

The March morning was already advanced enough for full daylight to be streaming through the open shutters and her women were busy at their spinning and needlework. Of her son there was no sign, by which she knew that he was at his lessons with the chaplain. Simon's former squire Turstan was using the attraction of his new knighthood to flirt with one of the younger maids, but when he saw Matilda he came smartly to attention, and, approaching her, bowed.

'My lady, Lord Simon said to inform you that the Lord of Aumale has ridden in with his troop and is hoping to speak with you.'

Matilda stared at the squire with the fixed gaze of a hare trapped in its form. 'Are you sure?' she asked out of her astonishment and concern.

'Yes, my lady.' He gave her a puzzled look.

Thoughts panicked through Matilda's mind and her heart thumped against her ribs. Last year there had been a plot to overthrow the King - and Simon had spent half the year in the field helping to put it down. Her stepgrandfather, Eudo of Champagne, had been implicated. There had been a strong rumour that the intention of the rebels was to put his son Stephen on the throne. The rebellion had been quashed and Stephen had indignantly professed his innocence. Some of the rebels had been imprisoned; others, including Eudo, had been dispossessed of their English lands - in Eudo's case the spit of land on the eastern seaboard known as Holderness. Stephen himself had escaped punishment, but he had been lying very low ever since.

As she followed Turstan to the hall, her unsettled stomach surged and churned. What if he wanted succour? Giving it would surely be dangerous? She wondered if Simon had become embroiled in some scheme. Certainly, it would explain his recent preoccupation. And yet his loyalty to Rufus had never been in doubt and he had nothing to gain from changing sides. Reason told her that she had nothing to fear, but her instinct said differently.

Stephen was warming himself at the central fire in the hall and talking with Simon. To say that he was living under the threat of arrest he looked inordinately relaxed. The wheat-blond hair he had inherited from his father was neatly trimmed and sleeked behind his ears; his eyes were bright, there was a smile on his lips. Simon seemed to have taken his mood, for he was smiling too. Then he caught sight of Matilda, and wariness entered his gaze.

Matilda's misgiving increased, and she found it very difficult to put on a welcoming expression as she advanced to greet their guest.

Stephen turned to her and, with a glimmer of shock, she saw the large red silk cross stitched to the left front of his tunic.

'Cousin!' Grasping her hands in his, he leaned left and right to kiss her cheeks. 'It is good to see you!'

'And you,' Matilda murmured, less enthusiastically. 'A surprise too.' She gestured a servant to bring wine. 'To what do we owe the pleasure?'

Stephen gave an incorrigible grin. 'You sound the way my mother used to when she was gathering herself for a tirade,' he said. 'Do not worry. I am not here to inveigle Simon into turning against the King. Indeed, quite the opposite. You are to be rid of me for some time, and I have come to make my farewells.' He touched the red cross on his breast.

Matilda eyed him while her suspicions grew. At the Christmas court there had been vague rumours about a crusade being called to rescue Jerusalem from the infidels. She had paid little heed at the time, but now she wished she had.

'So the cry has gone up in earnest?' Simon said, and there was a note of anticipation in his voice that set up a fresh wave of anxiety in Matilda's breast.

Aye, ten days ago at Clermont Ferrand. Duke Robert has sworn himself to the cause, and my uncle Odo. It is to be a great undertaking.'

The servant returned with the wine and poured it, red as blood, into three silver goblets.

'And a diplomatic way of keeping out of Rufus' way until the dust has settled.' Simon gave their visitor a knowing look.

'Oh, indeed.' Stephen tilted his head in acknowledgement. 'Not only that, but a crusader's lands are sacrosanct. Any man who dares lay a finger on them while their owner is absent fighting for Christ lays himself open to excommunication.'

'Then you have nothing to lose.'

'Except your life,' Matilda said more curtly than she had intended.

Stephen shrugged. 'But if I lose it in the service of God my place in heaven will be assured. For the moment, there is nothing for me here save exile and suspicion. I may as well spend that exile profitably. Besides,' he said, 'I have a desire to tread the ground that Our Saviour trod and to cleanse my sins at the church of the Holy Sepulchre.'

Matilda could see Simon absorbing the words as if they were liquid gold. As the wanderlust gleamed in his eyes, her fear grew. 'It seems like vanity to me,' she snapped. 'It won't be like a week's hunting in a forest lodge… you might be gone for years… You might never return.'

'I know the risks,' Stephen said nonchalantly. 'That is why I have come to say goodbye.' He tilted his head and gave her a puppyish look. 'I was hoping that you would see me on my way with a Godspeed and a smile.'