The Winter Mantle (53 page)

Simon folded his arms. 'You should know by now that the women of the Conqueror's line seldom do anything with a smile.'

Matilda drew herself up. Simon's comment was unfair, even if she had been teary and out of sorts of late. 'Because the men we marry give us more cause for weeping than joy,' she retorted. 'Of course I will wish you Godspeed. It just seems a rather drastic measure to take to keep out of the King's way.'

'Not as drastic as the consequences of remaining,' Stephen-said. 'I'd prefer to keep my freedom and my head.'

The words, spoken with a broad, unthinking grin, fell into silence. And in that silence a look of horror and contrition spread across Stephen's face. 'I… didn't… I'm sorry.'

'If you are to stay the night, you will need a chamber prepared,' Matilda said through stiff lips. She hardly dared open them because she felt so sick. 'You will excuse me.'

Somehow she managed to leave the hall before the spasms seized her and she doubled over, retching violently.

'Matilda?' Simon had followed her out. She felt his arms go around her shoulders. 'It was an unthinking mistake on Stephen's part. You should not take it so badly…' There was a note in his voice that was almost impatience.

'You fool,' Matilda gasped as she struggled to control the heaving. 'It is naught of my father.' It wasn't quite true, but her reaction was still much less about Waltheof than Simon believed.

'Then what? Are you ill?'

She shook her head. 'No,' she said, and managed to stand up, although her stomach was trembling like a plucked harp-string. 'I am with child.'

His eyes widened and he silently repeated her last two words. He looked her up and down. 'You are certain?'

She nodded. 'But I cannot tell you when it will be born… late summer or early autumn, I think. Are you not pleased?'

For answer he folded her in his arms and held her against him, but in a grip that was light, as if she were made of glass. 'Of course I am pleased! How could I be anything else when it has been so long?'

Matilda wondered if she was imagining the note of reserve in his voice and decided that she was. Why should he not be overjoyed at the news? Unless, like a swallow, he was preparing to fly. She thrust the thought aside, as if ignoring it would be enough to make the possibility go away.

'Perhaps you should lie down a while until the sickness passes,' Simon suggested tenderly. 'Helisende can see to organising a chamber for Stephen, and I can keep him entertained.'

Matilda had no strength to argue. The retching session had left her feeling as limp as wrung-out linen, and her stomach was still threatening rebellion. Besides, she knew that she would be unable to listen to Stephen's tactless enthusiasm with any degree of courtesy. She was glad to retire to her chamber and lie on the bed.

'I am sorry,' Stephen said, looking chagrined. 'I am always being told that I open my mouth without thinking. I regret that she took my words so badly.'

Simon grimaced. 'She is with child,' he said, 'and thus more susceptible to women's moods.' It was not the entire tale but it was easier to explain it to Stephen thus. To describe Matilda's insecurities since the fire at Crowland Abbey would have been pointless and painful.

'Ah,' Stephen said. 'Congratulations.'

Simon smiled wryly. 'Perhaps more than congratulations are in order. I was beginning to think that little Waltheof would be the only arrow to my bow. Unfortunately Matilda finds the carrying a trial. Last time she was beset by sickness and bouts of weeping, and this occasion looks set to be no different.'

'Mmmm,' said Stephen, acknowledging Simon's words whilst obviously at a loss how to respond to them.

Recognising the younger man's discomfiture, aware that he was not the right person to burden with his domestic troubles, Simon slapped Stephen's shoulder. 'Enough of such business. Tell me more about your plans for your journey.' Drawing Stephen to a bench, he sat down with him, and was soon deeply engrossed in the subject of the crusade.

A bitter wind whistled around the keep walls. Late in the day, it had begun to snow and the print of flakes could be heard sifting against the latched shutters. In the candlelit bedchamber, its corners warmed by braziers, Simon swirled the heated wine in his goblet and paced the room. Sitting in bed, Matilda looked at him with fear and misgiving. He had scarcely spoken since they had retired, and because of it, because of his pacing, she knew what he would say when he opened his mouth. She could not bear the tension, and taking the battle into her own hands she pre-empted him.

'Tell me that you are not considering following Stephen and the others on this wild foray,' she said.

His brows twitched. 'It is no wild foray, but a call from the Pope on behalf of the Holy Land,' he argued. 'All men from the Christian world are being called upon to go and do their duty.'

'There is duty, and duty,' Matilda said, and vigorously rearranged the bedclothes around her.

'Sweeting, I know there is.' He took a long drink from the cup. He was wearing a linen shirt against the February cold, just as she was wearing her chemise. 'Indeed,' he said pensively. 'It is my duty that has been warring on my conscience.' Going to the flagon he poured her a measure of wine too and brought it over.

Matilda did not want the wine; her stomach was curdled enough as it was. Yet she took the cup because he had given it.

'My duty as Earl of Northampton, or my duty as a man in the service of the Lord Jesus Christ.' He gave her a wry look. 'If I have had a thorn in my hose, it is because I have been pondering the matter since Christmastide.'

Sparkles of cold panic ran down Matilda's spine. 'The King gave you this earldom in good faith,' she said as steadily as she could. 'If you take the cross with all the other rebels who are doing it to keep out of his way, you will be betraying him.'

'And if I stay, I will be betraying God.'

Matilda laughed, but the sound was not pleasant. 'Let us have this out in the open. What you want to do is go adventuring,' she scoffed. 'I know you, Simon. You want to pick flowers on the other side of the hill. You are never content. When you came to this earldom, it was all to you in the world, because it was a challenge and it was new. And so was I. Now that your position is secure, you crave new experiences. God is your excuse, not your reason!' She set her cup down on the stool at her bedside with a bang that sloshed the wine over the brim and glared at him.

Simon glared back, his brows drawn tightly down and his tawny eyes ablaze. 'I used to think that you had your father's nature, but now I begin to wonder if you are not every bit the bitch that your mother is,' he snapped. 'A less patient husband would not tolerate such words from his wife.'

'A more considerate husband would not cause such words to be spoken in the first place,' Matilda retorted. 'You must have a high opinion of yourself if you believe that you have the patience of a saint. I have bedded with you and borne you a child. I carry another in my belly. I have loved you well, and if you repay me in false coin, then I swear that I will never forgive you.' Her voice trembled and it was not just the cold that made her shake as she faced him. 'Simon, think well before you make your choice… think very well.'

Their eyes met and held. Neither looked away. 'I have been thinking ever since the Christmas feast,' he said evenly. 'Stephen's visit only confirmed my decision. The call has gone out and I have to follow it.'

She shook her head. 'You have to follow your own selfish desire,' she said. 'That is all I see.'

'Then you are blind.' Breaking eye contact, he drank his wine and returned the cup to the trestle. 'At the Holy Sepulchre, I will say prayers for your father's soul and bring back a stone from Jerusalem to lay at the foot of his tomb.'

'Do not tell me that it is for my father's sake you are considering this venture!' Matilda gasped in furious astonishment.

Simon raised his hand, palm outwards. 'Listen to me. If your father were alive today he would have been one of the first to sew a red cross onto his tunic. Since he cannot, I am taking his banner to Jerusalem.'

'How can you say what my father would have done?' she snapped.

'Because I knew him.'

The words struck Matilda like a slap across the face and abruptly terminated the conversation. Cruel but true. Simon had known him, and she had not. And if she thought about it in a rational way she knew that Simon was right. Her father would have been one of the first to sew a red cross on his cloak.

'You will follow your intention whatever I say.' She made a weary gesture of capitulation. 'Do as you will.' She lay down, her back to him, and drew her knees up to her chin. She was so cold. It was as if a lump of ice was lodged in her stomach. If Simon went on crusade, then it would fall to her to take up his position at the centre of the wheel and she did not know if she was strong enough.
You have no choice
, said a bossy internal voice that sounded suspiciously like her mother's.
It is your duty
.

She heard his heavy sigh and, for a moment, was afraid that he was going to bang out of the room. However he muttered an oath beneath his breath and, raising the bedclothes on a waft of cold air, joined her. His arm came around her waist, turned her over and drew to him. He pressed his lips against her temple, her cheek, her mouth.

'I am afraid,' she whispered, and clung to him, her fingers gripping the fine textured linen of his shirt. 'I am afraid that I will bid you farewell and never see you again.' At the back of her mind was the hazy but terrifying memory of watching her father ride away to see King William. His promise to return; the emptiness of that vow.

'We cannot let fear stifle us,' he said, 'otherwise we might as well dwell in a cage.' He rubbed his hand up and down her back in a soothing motion. 'I fear the cage more than I fear the unknown.'

'So it is your fear that spurs you,' she said. 'It pushes you onward without thought for what you leave behind. Because you are lame, you must prove that there is no horizon you cannot conquer.'

His hand stopped. She heard the sharp hiss of his breath and realised with a jolt of triumph and pain that she had succeeded in thrusting past his guard.

'It is true, is it not?'

She half thought he would remove his hand, but he did not. Rather his grip tightened. 'We are all ridden by demons,' he said. 'We live with them as best we can and hope one day to throw them off.' He cupped her cheek on the side of his hand and kissed her. 'We live with each other's demons too,' he added softly. 'And perhaps that is the most difficult endurance of all.'

Crowland Abbey, October 1096

The chanting of monks soared heavenwards on the wafts of incense. Crowland Abbey's chapel was awash with liquid autumn light, burnishing the fair-brown hair upon Simon's bent head to polished gold and gilding the embroidered purple pall that lay over Waltheof's resting place.

Outside the abbey gates a crowd of pilgrims waited to file past the tomb, but on the point of setting out on his journey to Jerusalem Simon was granted a moment alone with his father - by - marriage.