The Winter Mantle (61 page)

'So do I.' Matilda thrust her head through the embroidered opening of the mantle and shook the folds down over her body. Little Matilda, who had been standing pressed against her skirts, now made a game of hiding under the bottom edge of the voluminous woollen garment.

Sour humour twisted Judith's lips. 'So now, as I once was. you are a Countess with a great burden of responsibility. There are dark shadows beneath your eyes, daughter. Are you sure that the task is not too great for you?'

Matilda shook her head. 'If there are dark shadows beneath my eyes it is because I do not sleep well alone,' she said. 'I do not have your love of solitude.'

Her mother gave a contemptuous sniff. 'Sooner or later, we all must sleep alone,' she said.

'I know that, and I would rather it was later. As to the matter of ruling my lands… I watched you do it when I was a child and I have absorbed much. I know which men Simon trusted and I trust them in his stead to see that matters run smoothly.'

Judith's eyes brightened with warning. 'So smoothly that you do not see that they may be stealing from you. It is never wise to trust anyone.'

For an instant her words conjured the spectre of Waltheof into the room. Moving stiffly, Judith came to stand behind her grandson and laid her vein-mottled hands upon his shoulders, thus suggesting without words that Matilda should have a care for the sake of future generations.

'I am not cheated,' Matilda said with quiet dignity. 'I do not close myself in my chamber and shut my ears. I keep myself busier than a bee in a hive, because only then, when I am utterly worn out with writs, courts, deeds and accounts, can I snatch a few hours' sleep. I know every servant's duty to me. I do not drive my people the way that I drive myself, but they know what I expect of them.' She gave a humourless smile. 'God help me, mother, but sometimes I feel as if your shadow stands at my shoulder.'

Judith's lips compressed. 'I can see how much you resent me,' she said. 'Even now, when we have made our peace. But I am not the shadow standing at your shoulder. You need to seek elsewhere for that.'

Matilda's complexion reddened as she absorbed the implication. It made her feel defensive because it was partly true. Perhaps she would never be free of either parent. 'I do not resent you,' she said. 'We are of the same flesh, that is all. In years to come, I see myself standing where you stand now… and it frightens me.'

Judith shook her head. 'Then you fear without cause, daughter,' she said, with what was almost grim humour. 'In my place you would build up the fire and embrace the comfort of a mantle. You do not have the taste for austerity… The passions you have are your father's, and they lie elsewhere. Go and live your life… not mine, or his.'

The somewhat awkward silence that followed her words was broken by the sound of the matins bell calling the nuns to worship. It was with a mutual sense of relief that mother and daughter went to join them, each having been given food for thought.

In church, Matilda knelt beside her mother and prayed for Simon's safe homecoming. Little Matilda wriggled like an eel and was only prevented from shouting at the top of her voice by the bribe of a piece of honeycomb to suck. Waltheof behaved beautifully, and seemed totally absorbed in the chants and the ritual. With shining eyes and parted lips, he hung on every part of the service. The sight was so odd in a small boy that it sent a frisson down Matilda's spine. Judith noticed it too, for, as they left the church she said, 'It is not usual for firstborn sons to enter the Church, but have you given thought to the notion?'

'I have.' Matilda watched her son skipping along the path, his shoes making scuff lines in the dirt. 'But it is too early to tell, and if I do not bear Simon another son Waltheof will have to live a secular life, whatever his vocation.'

Judith narrowed her eyes, the better to focus on her small grandson. 'You had best pray that your husband returns,' she said softly, 'and that you are both still fecund, for the child has a true devotion, and that is rare indeed.' There was such a desolate look in her eyes that all Matilda's irritation vanished, and in its stead she felt a surge that was almost compassion.

Simon opened his eyes and while his mind roused to the notion of a new day looked at the ceiling. It was painted with gold stars on a blue background so that it seemed to his waking gaze that he was looking at a night sky. The illusion was marred by a hanging lamp of opaque glass suspended on a chain and giving off a soft, translucent glow from the scented oil burning within. He let his stare travel around the room, taking in the richly coloured frescoes adorning the walls, the bed hangings of iridescent silk, the embroidered covers that had been stitched to minor the strange ceiling. There had been so many nightmares and strange dreams of late that it took him some time to remember where he was and why.

'Good morrow, my lord,' said Sabina. 'I see you are awake at last.' She came to him across the room, her black hair tightly braided but uncovered in the privacy of the chamber. She was carrying a basket containing fresh bread, its surface painted with honey and slivers of nut, and a cup brimming with wine.

Simon sat up against the bolsters and felt the silk slide sensuously against his skin. 'I think so.' He managed a grin. 'It is difficult to sort dream from reality in a chamber like this.' He took the knife that lay in the basket and carved a chunk from the loaf. The warm, yeasty smell made his mouth water. After almost dying in Nicaea he had a fresh appreciation of the wonders of being alive. It seemed as if all his senses had been stripped of a dusty layer of familiarity and were now as sharp and new as the colours of spring. Hunger was perhaps the most intense. He had been too ill to eat for weeks and now his body was putting on the flesh it had lost to the burn of fever.

Alexius the Byzantine physician had known his craft, and it was his knowledge, coupled with Sabina's vigilant tending, that had saved his life. After the draining of the abscess and within a couple of applications of the mouldy bread poultices, the fever had diminished and Simon's leg had begun to heal. Two weeks after Alexius' first visit, they had left Nicaea for Durazzo. Simon acknowledged that, despite his recovery, he was not strong enough to return to the crusade trail. The army was laying siege to Antioch, and conditions were such that anyone who took sick died. If he rode to Antioch, he would become one more mouth to feed, followed by one more corpse to bury. Even if the hills were greener on the other side - which now he doubted - for the nonce he no longer wanted to see them.

Sabina sat down on the enamelled coffer at the bedside and leaning over helped herself to a chunk of the bread. Sunlight poked through the slats in the shutters and shone on her braids, putting a rainbow sheen on the raven-black. Her eyes were the soft, violet-grey of a dove's breast and her face the pure oval of a Madonna's, but she ate with the gusto of a soldier. The contrast touched and amused him. When a delicate flush tinged her cheek, he realised that his scrutiny was too intense and he sent his gaze beyond her into the splendour of the room. Astonishing what a gold coin could buy. This dwelling belonged to a silk merchant who was absent on business and it was as magnificent as any palace in England. The walls were painted with figures so lifelike that Simon sometimes thought that he could see them breathing. The colours were deep and rich, and the artist had not stinted to use gold in the paint that delineated embroidery on the fine garments. The effect was opulent and heavy. Exquisite taste, but in the end too much for the eye to take in and the mind to absorb.

'Turstan has gone to the wharves,' Sabina said. Her voice was hesitant. 'Apparently there is a ship due to sail for Brindisi on the late tide.'

'Ah,' Simon nodded. It was the next step of their journey, back across the Bosphorus. He had told Turstan that they would begin searching for a ship today, and the young man was plainly eager to be about the task. Sabina, however, did not share that eagerness.

'The thought of a sea voyage troubles you?'

She forced a smile. 'Of course it does,' she said. 'I cannot help but remember… but I have no choice unless it be to stay here.' Abruptly she rose and paced to the window. 'I can endure. I have the strength.'

Simon studied her slender frame. 'I know you do,' he said quietly. 'I owe my life to it. If you had not fetched that physician… if you had not stayed at my side and tended me through the fever…'

She gave a harsh little laugh. 'That was not strength,' she said. 'That was fear. If I had lost you the way that I lost everyone else who was dear to me…' She folded her arms and hugged herself tightly, her back still turned.

'But you didn't lose me,' he said. 'And I am in your debt.'

You owe me nothing." Her knuckles tightened against the side seams of her gown. 'I was merely repaying what was owed, and if you offer me your kindness and gratitude I will kick you.'

A lazy heat wound through Simon's groin. It was a sensation that was becoming increasingly frequent as he drew away from sickness into full health. 'Neither of those,' he said hoarsely.

She turned then to look at him. The sunlight shone through her pupils, turning her eyes to the colour of opals. There was a long silence in which the tension built like steam under the lid of a cauldron. One step further. Simon swallowed. His mouth was dry, his groin hot and heavy. She licked her lips and moved closer, drawn as if there was an invisible thread looped around her belt.

Once out of the slanting sunlight, her eyes were quenched to dark violet. His lust became a physical pain, all the sharper for having been quenched for so long. Instead of running slowly, the sap was leaping through his veins, congesting them until he thought they would burst.

She paused at the foot of the bed and looked at him. Naked from his sleep, his body was still thin from his illness, each rib delineated, but there was wiry strength in the long muscles of his arms and his flat, firm belly. Face, throat and hands were tanned oak-brown by the burn of the Eastern sun; the rest was as pale as new milk. His gaze was like molten wine. She wanted to push her hands through his sleep-tangled hair and lie with him. Touch him, confirm the life force flowing through both of them. It had been so long since she had been held and wanted and loved. Her cheeks burned. There was moisture between her thighs.

He extended his hand. With trembling fingers she took it, felt sweat leap between them and then the wild, hot burn of longing, and longing assuaged.

Sabina and Simon rode into the convent of Evreux at the same time as the ram. The November skies were grey and heavy with moisture and a bitter wind was blowing from the north. The nunnery boasted a fine timber guesthouse, with feather stuffing in the pallets rather than straw, and wax candles that burned with a clear, yellow light. There was water provided for washing and a deep fire pit in the centre of the room sent out wafts of brazen heat.

Sabina sat on one of the pallets in the guest dormitory. There were twenty in all, arrayed down either side of the room. Someone's travelling satchel and a clean pair of shoes had claimed one of the mattresses, but for the nonce she was the only occupant. The stables were situated beneath and a glance out of the arched window showed her two lay workers busy in the cobbled yard, their hoods raised against the drizzle. She watched Simon cross the yard and speak to one of them. His limp was more pronounced since the old leg injury had flared up and he could no longer make even the slightest pretence of hiding it. However it had worked to his advantage. The mention he had been on crusade and at the battle of Dorylaeum, coupled with evidence of injury, meant that the doors of abbey guesthouses and castles alike had been flung open to them with effusive welcome.