Читать книгу Lady of Hay: An enduring classic – gripping, atmospheric and utterly compelling - Barbara Erskine - Страница 12

The melting snow was red with blood. Richard, the young Earl of Clare and Hertford, pulled his horse to a rearing halt, struggling to control the animal as it plunged sideways in fear, its ears flat against its head. It had smelled the carcass and the wolves at the same moment and it snorted with terror as Richard tried to force it around the deserted kill at the edge of the track. A buzzard flew up at the riders’ approach leaving all that remained of the mangled corpse in the slush-threaded mud. A few rags of clothing were the only sign that it had once been human.

‘What is it? What’s happened?’ The slim red-haired girl swathed in a fox-fur mantle who had been cantering fast behind him, was concentrating so hard on catching him up that his sudden halt nearly unseated her. Behind her, at a more sedate pace, rode a second young woman and Richard’s twelve knights, wearing on their surcoats the gold and scarlet chevrons of Clare.

The riders formed a semicircle in the cold sleet and gazed down at the torn limbs. One or two of the men crossed themselves fervently and the red-haired girl found herself swallowing hard. She pulled her veil across her face hastily. ‘Poor man,’ she whispered. ‘Who could have done such a thing?’

‘Wolves.’ Richard steadied his horse with difficulty. ‘Don’t look, Matilda. There’s nothing we can do for the miserable bastard. No doubt the men of the village will come and bury what the buzzards and kites leave.’ He turned his horse and kicked it on, forcing it past the body, and the other riders slowly followed him, averting their eyes. Two or three had their hands nervously on the hilts of their swords.

All round them the bleak Welsh forest seemed deserted. Oak and ash and silver-limbed beech, bare of leaves, their trunks wet and shining from the sleet, crowded to the edge of the track. Save for the ringing of the horses’ hooves on the outcrops of rock and the squeak and chink of harness it was eerily silent.

Richard gazed round apprehensively. He had been shaken more than he liked to admit by the sight of the slaughtered man. It was an ill omen so near the end of their journey. He noticed Matilda edging her horse surreptitiously closer to his and he grinned in sympathy with a silent curse for the need for an armed escort which prevented him from taking her before him on his saddle and holding her in the safety of his arms.

But escort there had to be. He scanned the lengthening shadows once more and tightened his grip on his sword.

Wales was a savage place; its dark glowering mountains, black forests and wild people filled him with misgiving. That Matilda should want to come here of her own free will, to join William de Braose when she did not have to, filled him with perplexed anger.

‘We should never have left Raglan,’ he said tersely. ‘Walter Bloet was right. These forests are no place for a woman without a proper escort.’

‘I have a proper escort!’ He saw the angle of her chin rise a fraction. ‘You.’

Far away, echoing from the lonely hills, came the cry of a wolf. The horses tensed, ears flat, and Matilda felt the small hairs on the back of her neck stir with fear.

‘How much further until we get there?’ she whispered.

Richard shrugged. ‘A few miles. Pray God we reach there before dark.’ He turned in his saddle, standing up in the stirrups to see his men better. ‘Make all speed,’ he shouted, then spurred his horse on towards the north.

Matilda pounded after him, clinging low over her horse’s neck, determined not to drop behind, and their thundering hooves threw up clods of mud where the ice-rimmed puddles were melting slowly in the rain. The track was growing increasingly treacherous and slippery.

She quickly drew level with him again, her white veil blowing for a moment across her face from beneath her fur hood. ‘Richard,’ she called, ‘wait. Slow down. This will be our last chance to talk …’

He slowed fractionally, wiping the sleet from his eyes. ‘We have had time enough to talk,’ he said abruptly. ‘You have chosen to tell me very little. I have no idea, even, why you are here, which will make it hard for me to face your no doubt irate husband with a satisfactory explanation as to why I have brought you to him.’

He saw her flush. ‘Just tell him the truth,’ she retaliated defensively.

‘Very well.’ He lashed his reins across the horse’s neck. ‘I shall tell him how I was quietly riding, minding my own business, from home in Tonbridge to Gloucester when I met his baggage of a wife, completely unescorted except for one trembling female, hell-bent on riding the breadth of England to his side in mid-winter. I shall tell him that I saw it as my chivalrous duty to escort you myself. And I shall tell him that any man who leaves a young, beautiful, newly wed bride alone in Sussex with her mother-in-law, while he travels to his furthest lands, is a mutton-headed goat.’ He managed a wry grin, ducking the wet slap of a low-hanging branch in his path. If Matilda had been his wife he would not have left her. He clenched the reins fiercely; no one would accuse Richard de Clare of lusting after another man’s wife. He admired her daring and her humour and her spirit, so unusual in a woman, no more than that. He glanced across at her and saw that she was smiling. ‘Why did you choose to come to Wales?’ he asked suddenly.

She looked down at her hands. ‘Because I have nowhere else to go, but to my husband,’ she said simply. ‘With him I am a baron’s lady, mistress of a dozen castles, a woman of some importance.’ Her mouth twitched imperceptibly. ‘At Bramber with his mother I am merely another female with the sole distinction of being hated by her twice as much as anyone else. Besides,’ she added disarmingly, ‘it’s boring there.’

He stared at her in disbelief. William de Braose was a vicious ill-bred man at least twice her age, with a reputation which few men would envy. Even the thought of the brute’s hands touching her made the blood pound in Richard’s temples. ‘And you would prefer your husband’s company to being bored?’ he echoed incredulously.

She raised her chin a fraction, a mannerism he was beginning to know well. ‘I did not ask your opinion of him, just as I did not ask you to escort me to him.’

‘No, I offered.’ He took a deep breath. ‘So – I shall tell him also,’ he went on, ‘that an invitation to this Christmas banquet we hear he is to give for Prince Seisyll tomorrow is the only reward I shall ask for all my trouble. I shall wave aside the gold and jewels he is bound to press on me for my services in escorting you. I shall nobly ignore his passionate outpourings of gratitude and praise.’

Matilda made a small grimace, all too well aware of her husband’s reputation for tight-fistedness. She frowned, glancing at Richard sideways. ‘Supposing he’s furious with me for coming?’

‘So you have considered that possibility at last!’ Richard squinted into the wind. ‘He’ll probably beat you and send you back to Bramber. It’s what you deserve.’

A racing shadow in the trees distracted him for a moment. He scanned the surrounding forest, his face set. They were passing through a clump of junipers, thick and impenetrable; the ideal hiding place for an ambush. Secretly he suspected that his men, however well-armed, would be no match for the leaping, yelling Welsh should they choose to attack. He had heard that they could sweep down, cut a throat, rip open a horse’s belly and be away again before a man even had the chance to draw his sword. He shuddered every time he thought of the dangers on the route which Matilda had so confidently decided that she and Nell could ride on their own.

‘Is that what you’d do to your wife?’ She peered at him, wiping the rain from her eyes as they trotted on again, side by side.

‘What?’

‘Beat her and send her home.’

‘Of course. Especially if she turned up with a good-looking fellow like me.’ He forced a smile, his eyes still narrowed as he gazed through the icy sleet.

Matilda glanced at him, then changed the subject, turning in her saddle. ‘Poor Nell. She’s still keeping up.’ The girl was white-faced and rode slumped in the saddle, her eyes fixed determinedly on her shiny knuckles as they clutched the cold wet reins. She was obviously near to tears, oblivious to the half-hearted banter of the knights around her or the tired baggage animals who jostled her horse constantly with their cumbersome packs. Matilda grimaced ruefully. ‘She started this adventure so well with me, but she’s regretting every step now. Ever since we crossed out of Sussex, even with you there to protect us, she’s been scared and weepy. Seeing that poor man will be the last straw. She’ll spend the night having the vapours.’

‘Don’t tease her.’ Richard leaned forward to slap his horse’s steaming neck. ‘She had a lot of courage to come with you. You didn’t feel so brave yourself when you saw that corpse. And don’t forget no one else would come with you at all.’

She frowned, and dug her mare indignantly with her heels, making it leap forward so that she had to cling to the saddle. ‘Most of the others were Lady Bertha’s women anyway, not mine,’ she said defensively. ‘I didn’t want them to come. I shall ask William for my own attendants as soon as we get to Abergavenny.’

Richard suppressed a smile. ‘That’s a good idea. Go and ride with Nell now. I’m going to scout ahead and check all is quiet.’ He did not give her the chance to argue, spurring his horse to a gallop.

The very stillness of the forest worried him. Where were the woodsmen, the charcoal burners, the swineherds, the usual people of the woods? And if not theirs then whose were the eyes he could feel watching him from the undergrowth?

Sulkily Matilda reined in and waited for Nell to draw level. The girl’s china-blue eyes were red-rimmed from the cold. ‘Are we nearly there, my lady?’ She made an effort at smiling. ‘My hands are aching so from the cold, I’m drenched through to my shift, and I’m so exhausted. I never imagined it would be so many days’ ride from Bramber.’ Her voice had taken on an unaccustomed whining note which immediately irritated her mistress.

‘We’re almost there, Nell.’ Matilda made no effort to hide her impatience. She was straining her eyes ahead up the track after Richard as the trees thinned and they found themselves crossing a windswept ridge covered in sodden bracken, flattened by the rain. There was a movement in some holly bushes on the hillside to the right of them and she peered at them trying to see through the glossy greenery. Her heart began to pound. Something was hidden there, waiting.

Two deer burst out of the thicket and raced away out of sight up the hill. Richard cantered back to her side. He was smiling, but there was a drawn sword in his hand. ‘I thought we were in for trouble for a moment,’ he called. ‘Did you see? Shall I send a couple of men after them? Then we can make our own contribution to the feast.’

They plunged into the thickness of the forest again, their horses’ feet padding in the soft wet leaf-mould beneath the bare trunks of ash and beech. From time to time the cold waters of the Usk appeared in the distance on their left, pitted grey with raindrops. Sometimes the track ran straight, keeping to the line of the old Roman road, then it would wander away over the curving contours which followed, amongst the trees, the gently sloping hills. Slowly dusk was coming on them through the trees, up from the river valley, and with it came menace.

The escort closed more tightly round them and, at a command from Richard, the men drew their swords. Matilda saw his face was concentrated and grim and she felt a sudden shiver of fear.

They rode on in silence through the darkening forest until at last in the distance through the trees they glimpsed the tall white keep of Abergavenny Castle, swimming in the mist which had gathered over the river.

Richard’s face grew more taut as he saw it. The castle meant sanctuary from the threatening forest. But it also meant facing de Braose and relinquishing to his care the beautiful child-woman who was his wife.

They rode as fast as they could through the half light across the deserted fields which clustered around a small township, past the church, and up the track which led to the drawbridge and the high curtain walls of the castle. It seemed that they were expected, for the drawbridge was down and the guard stood to attention, allowing them to clatter through into the castle ward unchallenged. There, shadowed by the towering walls, darkness had already come and torches flared in high sconces, lighting the faces of the men of the garrison with a warm unreal glow.

As soon as they were across it the drawbridge began to move, the cumbersome clank of the rolling chains signalling the disappearance of the cold forest as the gates closed and the castle was sealed for the night.

William de Braose was waiting for them on the steps of the great hall. He was a short man of stocky build with a ruddy complexion set off by his tawny mantle, his dark gold hair and beard catching fiery lights from the torches in the wall sconces behind him. He watched the men and horses milling round for a moment then he slowly descended the steps and approached his wife, his hand outstretched to help her dismount. His face was thunderous.

Swinging off his own horse Richard saw with a quick glance that for the first time Matilda looked afraid.

‘In the name of Christ and all His saints what are you doing here?’ William roared. He reached up and pulled her violently from the saddle. When standing she was several inches taller than he, a fact of which he was obviously painfully conscious. ‘I couldn’t believe it when my scouts said that you were coming through the forest. I thought I forbade you to leave Bramber till the spring.’

‘You did, my husband.’ Matilda tried to sound contrite as she pulled the furs more closely round her in the chill wind. ‘But the weather seemed so good this winter and the roads were passable, so I thought there wouldn’t be any danger. I hoped you’d be glad to see me …’ Her voice tailed away to silence and she could feel her heart beginning to thump uncomfortably beneath her ribs. How could she have forgotten what he was like? The hostility with which he always treated her, the cruelty in which he took such pleasure, the rank smell of debauchery which hung over him? In spite of herself she shrank from him and abruptly he released her arm. He swung round on the circle of men which had formed around them, listening with open interest to the exchange. His face flushed a degree deeper in colour. ‘What are you staring at?’ he bellowed. ‘See to your horses and get out of my sight!’

Matilda turned, blindly searching for Richard amongst the men. He was standing immediately behind her. Gently he took her arm. ‘Let me help you in, Lady Matilda,’ he said quietly. ‘You must be tired.’

William swung round, his head thrust forward, his fists clenched. ‘Leave her, Lord Clare,’ he shouted. ‘My God, you’d better have a good reason for bringing my wife here.’ He swung on his heel and strode towards the flight of steps which led up to the main door of the keep, his spurs clanking on the hollow wood. Halfway up he stopped and turned, looking down on them. ‘You are not welcome here, either of you.’ His face was puce in the flickering torchlight. ‘Why did you come?’

Matilda followed him, her cloak flying open in the wind to reveal her slim tall figure in a deep-blue surcoat.

‘I came because I wanted to be with my husband,’ she said, her voice clear above the hissing of the torch beside her. ‘My Lord de Clare was only going as far as Gloucester, but he insisted that it was his duty not to let me travel on my own. We owe him much thanks, my lord.’

Her husband snorted. He turned back up the steps, walking into the great hall of the keep and throwing his cloak down on the rushes where a page ran to pick it up.

‘His duty was it?’ He stared at Richard as he followed him in, his eyes stony with suspicion. ‘Then you will perform the double duty of escorting her back to Gloucester at first light.’

Matilda gasped. ‘You’re not going to let me stay?’

‘Indeed I am not, madam.’

‘But … why? May we not at least stay for the feast tomorrow?’ She had followed him towards the central hearth in the crowded hall. ‘Why shouldn’t we attend? It is not my right as your wife to be there?’

‘No, it is not your right,’ he roared. ‘And how in the name of Christ’s bones did you learn of it anyway?’ He turned on her and, catching her arms, gripped her with a sudden ferocity. ‘Who told you about it?’

‘Walter Bloet at Raglan. Stop it, my lord, you’re hurting me!’ She struggled to free herself from his hold. ‘We stopped there to rest the horses and they told us all about it. He was very angry that you had not invited him.’

She glanced round, suddenly conscious of the busy figures all around them. Only those close to their lord and his lady seemed to realise that there was something amiss between them and had paused to eavesdrop with unashamed curiosity. The rest were too absorbed in their tasks. Smoke from the fire filtered upwards to the blackened shadows of the high vaulted ceiling.

‘Damn him for an interfering fool! If you had waited only another two days, all might have been well.’ He stood for a moment gazing at her. Then he smacked his fist into the palm of his hand. ‘Go on up.’ He turned away. ‘Go to my bedchamber and rest. You are leaving tomorrow at dawn. That is my last word on the subject.’

Matilda looked around desperately. The evening meal was obviously not long over and the servants had only just started clearing away the trestles to make room for the sleepers around the fire. Two clerks had come forward, hovering with a roll of parchment, trying to catch William’s eye, and the shoemaker, a pair of soft leather boots in his hand, was trying to attract his lord’s attention behind them. Her husband’s knights, men-at-arms, guests, servants crowded round them. On the dais at the end of the hall a boy sprawled, his back against a pillar, softly playing on a viol.

Richard touched her softly on the arm. ‘Go up, my lady. You need to rest.’

She nodded, sadly. ‘What about you? Your welcome is as cold as mine.’

‘No matter.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’ll take you back to Gloucester as he commands, first thing tomorrow. It is for the best.’

He escorted her towards the flight of steps at the end of the hall which William had indicated, cut into the angle of the new stone wall, and at the bottom of the stair he kissed her hand.

A single rush taper burned weakly in the vaulted chamber above. A tapestry hung on one side of the shadowy room, and a fireplace was opposite. Matilda was trying to hold back her tears. ‘Go and find the women’s quarters, Nell,’ she said sharply as the girl dragged in after her, still sniffing. ‘I suppose I’ll …’ She hesitated for only a second. ‘I’ll be sleeping with Sir William in here tonight. I won’t need you.’ She shivered suddenly and bit her lip. ‘I misjudged our welcome it seems. I’m sorry.’

She watched as Nell disappeared up the stair which led to the upper storeys of the tower, then with a sigh she turned to the fire. She stood for a long time before the glowing embers, warming her hands. All round her her husband’s clothes spilled from the coffers against the walls and on a perch set in the stonework a sleepy falcon, hooded against the dim light, shifted its weight from one foot to the other and cocked its head enquiringly in her direction as it heard the sound of her step. Wearily she began to unfasten her mantle.

In the hall below a Welsh boy slipped unnoticed to the kitchens and collected a cup of red Bordeaux wine from one of the casks which were mounted there. Onto a pewter platter he piled some of the pasties and cakes which were being prepared for the next day’s feasting and, dark as a shadow, he slipped up the stairs to his lord’s chamber. He was sorry for the beautiful girl in the blue dress. He too had been sworn at by de Braose and he too did not like it.

She was standing by the fire, the glowing embers reflecting the red glint in her massed dark hair. Her veil lay discarded on the bed with her wet mantle, and she was fingering an ivory comb.

The boy watched breathlessly from the shadows for a moment, but he must have moved, for she turned and saw him. He was surprised to see that there were no tears in her eyes. He had thought to find her crying.

‘What is it, boy?’ Her voice was very tired.

He stood still, abashed suddenly at what he had dared to do, forgetting the cup and plate in his hands.

‘Have you brought me some food?’ She smiled at him kindly.

Still he did not move and, seeing his ragged clothes and dark face, she wondered suddenly if he had yet learned the tongue of his Norman masters.

‘Beth yw eich enw?’ she asked carefully, groping for the words Meredith the steward at Raglan had taught her, laughing at her quick interest. It meant, what is your name?

The boy came forward and shyly went down on one knee, set the wine and cakes on one of the chests beside the bed, then turned and fled back to the hall.

Matilda gazed after him for a moment, perplexed, and then, throwing back her hair, she sat down on the bed and began to eat. She was ravenously hungry and she had to think.

She sat for a long time over her cup of wine, as the rush burned lower. Then in the last flickering light she stood up and began to take off her clothes.

The sound of talk and laughter had begun to lessen in the hall below and now an occasional snore was beginning to echo up the stairs. To her relief there was no sign of William.

She slipped naked under the heavy bed coverings and, her plans quite made up for the morning, was soon asleep.