The Winter Mantle (56 page)

Simon tried to look nonchalant. 'I knew her and her parents many years ago at court. My conscience would not let me abandon her.'

Stephen raised his fair brows and his lips twitched with amusement. 'A very tender conscience,' he said. 'Matilda would be proud of your devotion.'

Simon gave him an irritated scowl. 'She was an old friend in need,' he said curtly. 'Read no more into the situation than that.'

'Oh, I don't,' Stephen said, but not as if he meant it. 'I am sure it is your Christian duty to succour her in every way you can.'

Before Simon could retort Stephen had moved off down the ship, his tread blithe and carefree. Simon cursed softly beneath his breath. He deliberately avoided looking at the vulnerable huddle that was Sabina and went instead to stand at the steer-board with the helmsman.

September 1097

Is there really an elf in the well?' Young Waltheof peered into the wattle-lined tunnel with its twinkle of water deep below.

Matilda smiled, reliving her own fascination, remembering how she had scrutinised the mysterious, uncovered darkness with her father watchfully at her side. 'Who can say?' she said. 'Your grandfather told me that the elf was shy and never came out when there were people about, but that he should be paid to keep the water sweet.' Grasping the linen rope, she drew the bucket to the surface and poured the water into a waiting earthenware jug. 'Here.' She gave the child a small silver ring. 'Throw this in to him and make a wish.'

Waltheof screwed up his face to think. 'I want a dog like Hector,' he said. 'With a tail like a curly feather.'

Matilda rolled her eyes. Hector was a menace to all. That the menace was due to sheer friendliness and exuberance rather than malice was no consolation. The 'curly feather' of a tail had a propensity for swishing cups and bowls off tables, while the other end would indiscriminately devour whatever came its way in between slobbering over any human in sight. Hector was the result of an unfortunate meeting between one of the keep's boar hound bitches and a huntsman's spaniel dog that was so randy it would tup anything that stood still to be mounted. Matilda was in no haste to see the mistake repeated, even for the sake of her son. Fortunately Hector had been the single pup from the mating and Matilda's chaplain had taken him for companionship. The prospect of another such in her bower did not bear thinking about.

The silver ring vanished in a single glint of metal and a minute plink as it struck the surface of the water. Ripples shivered and were still. The boy leaned hopefully over the well opening. 'If I'm very quiet, perhaps he will come out,' he said hopefully.

'Never,' Matilda said. 'The light blinds his eyes.' Her lips twitched slightly-The notion of her son sitting quietly for longer than it took to blink was impossible. Besides, she did not want him lingering beside the open well cover. She knew what a fascination it had held for her in her own childhood. 'Drop the bucket back,' she said.

'Won't it hit him on the head?'

'No, he lives too far down in the water.'

The boy nodded acceptance and threw the bucket down with gusto so that it landed with a vigorous splash. Matilda made her own wish as the ripples surged and settled. Gesturing a nearby gardener to slide the heavy well covering back over the hole, she hefted the jug and bore it towards the endive and lettuce bed. The leaves were wilting in the September sun, which in the mid-afternoon still bore the strength of summer. Helisende sat in the shade of the apple tree, her attention on the baby. In the last week little Maude had found her feet and was beginning to totter unsteadily around, her fat pink toes plumping purposefully through the cool green grass.

Matilda watched her daughter pull herself up and use Helisende's knee as a balance before launching herself. Three steps, four, and she sat down with a bump, but only to struggle up again and totter towards her mother, arms outstretched, a beaming smile on her face.

Matilda set the water jar down and, making cooing sounds of encouragement, held out her arms. 'Your papa should be here to see you,' she said, and as her throat tightened she felt resentment and longing stir within her. Her son thought it was a great adventure that his father had gone off to war. He would play 'crusades' with the other boys, galloping around on his hobbyhorse, waving his toy sword in the air and slaughtering imaginary Saracens. Sometimes Matilda thought that the only difference between a boy's game and a man's game was that the latter involved real danger and grief and the former could be stopped the moment that injury occurred or the participants grew tired. But one was the training for the other, and that worried her.

The baby staggered the last important step and Matilda swung her up in her arms, welcoming the warm, solid weight. Girls had a different set of worries and burdens to bear, she thought. Her daughter struggled and clamoured to be set down so that she could totter her way back to Helisende. Matilda smiled at her sturdy determination, waited to see her triumphant arrival, then stooped to her water jar.

She was watching the last drops soak into the soil when a Benedictine monk was brought to her by one of the hall stewards. The man was somewhat dusty from travel and the crown of his head shone pink from exposure to the burn of the sun. Matilda greeted him courteously and drew him to the shade of the bench beneath her apple tree. A swift command sent a servant hurrying to fetch water for washing and wine for refreshment.

'You are welcome brother…'

'Matthias,' he completed for her with a grave inclination of his head. 'I will not trouble your presence long, my lady. My journey is to Crowland, but I am glad of a respite for myself and my mule.'

'Have you come far?' Matilda enquired politely. She was accustomed to visitors but they were usually secular. Monks and priests preferred to rest in the abbeys and convents of their orders.

'From Winchester,' he said. 'I have letters for Abbot Ingulf.' Unfastening his leather travelling satchel, he produced a folded, salt-stained parchment, tied with narrow thongs of rolled leather and closed with a red wax seal. 'This was given into my keeping by a fellow monk who had carried it from Normandy. It has been in many hands along the way, so I am told, but it comes originally from Earl Simon on his blessed mission.'

Matilda had taken the package from him as he spoke. Now she began to tremble. A letter from Simon. His hands had touched this as they delivered it to the first messenger in the chain. He had pressed his seal ring deep into the liquid wax to make an impression. He was still alive - or had been when this was written, and he had been thinking of her. Letters had arrived regularly until Eastertide, many from a place named Brindisi, but she had heard nothing since then.

Brother Matthias regarded her with concern. 'My lady… are you all right?'

She gave the monk so dazzling a look that it seemed to him he had been smiled upon by the Madonna herself.

'Yes,' Matilda whispered through a sudden burgeoning of tears and thought that perhaps there really was an elf in the well.

Matilda did not open the letter at once. To do so under the scrutiny of the monk and beset by the surrounding distractions of everyday life would have destroyed the pleasure and unsettled her concentration. She preferred to wait and anticipate.

It was the cool of the evening when she returned to the garden, a lantern lighting her way to the bench beneath the apple tree. Brother Matthias had eaten a large portion of squab pie, washed it down with a pint of cider, and then departed for the monastery at St Ives to seek a night's lodging. The children were abed with Helisende to watch over them. A night breeze rustled the leaves and from the direction of the orchard a little owl let out several piercing shrieks. But they were familiar sounds that comforted rather than disturbed her. She had never been afraid of the dark, only of being left alone.

With damp, unsteady lingers she took the small knife from the sheath at her belt and cut the leather thongs binding the parchment. Breaking the seal, she opened the casing and found that it enclosed two more folded sheets of parchment, closely but neatly written in deep brown ink. Simon could read and write, but only when forced. This was the hand of a scribe, elegant and in formal Latin. Judith's interest in the Church meant that Matilda had been taught to read the language. At the time it had seemed a chore, but now she was grateful for her mother's foresight and insistence. She would have hated to summon her own scribe to read aloud the words that needed to be either savoured or suffered in private.

The lantern cast a wavering dark gold shadow over the words. Picking it up by its chain, she hooked it over the lowest branch of the tree and angled herself so that the light shone full on the writing.

Earl Simon to Countess Matilda, whatever warm greetings her mind can imagine.

Let your heart be comforted that I have travelled on this blessed journey without harm so far as I have reached. We came to the great city of Constantinople that is ruled by the Emperor Alexius. Although he received our leaders with smiles and gifts, truth to say, he is prudent and jealous of his great and beautiful city. We were not permitted to enter freely and wander at our will, but always under escort in small groups of no more than five or six at a time. My love, Constantinople is a place of great wonder that surpasses anything I have ever seen or that you could imagine. Some say that the streets are paved with gold. That is an untruth, but indeed, there is gold everywhere, and ivory and silk in every bright colour of the rainbow and beyond. The churches drip with wealth and the merchants go clothed in purple like kings. Truly it is a remarkable sight and my eyes have grown sore so much have I stared.

I confess my love, that I have bought you neither silk nor gold from the great capital of Byzantium, for I know such tokens of wealth impress you not. But I have secured something else that I
hope will bring you great joy and that, God willing, I will live to place in your hands.

Matilda grimaced as she read this. The only think that could bring her great joy was Simon's return. She had no difficulty imagining his pleasure at discovering the wonders of Constantinople. What was written here was only the echo of his wonder. A moth blundered in front of the lantern and cast a fluttering shadow as it strove to burn its wings on the dazzle of candlelight. Matilda grabbed swiftly and felt the frantic beating of soft wings within the cage of her fist. Opening her hand, she cast the pale insect far into the dark, and again lowered her gaze to the letter.

We left the city after a sojourn of ten days and sailed across the arm of the sea that surrounds the city and is called the Bosporus. It is said that the sea around Constantinople is cruel to voyagers, but on the day that we sailed it was as calm as a duck pond. After landing, we took horse for the Turkish-held city of Nicaea, and it is from there that I write to you. I have seen hard battle, but through God's great mercy I yet live and with no wounds to trouble my body. The Turkish leader, Quilij Arslan, came upon us in an attempt to relieve the siege, but we scattered his army to the four winds and hope that negotiations will yet win the city for us. We are told that from Nicaea to Jerusalem is but a march of five weeks, and only the city of Antioch between to stop us.