Innocent's Champion. Meriel Fuller
* *
Shielded by a heavily embroidered screen, Matilda sank deeper into the hot water, a small sigh of pleasure escaping her lips. She listened to the sounds of her sister’s maidservants, two of them, fussing around Katherine. They sounded like hens, clucking with their tongues, sympathising, commiserating, whilst they bustled and rustled around the chamber, placating her sister with their soothing words.
Matilda leaned back in the wooden tub, the water swilling across her exhausted limbs, easing her muscles. Katherine had insisted that she take a bath, practically ripping the destroyed dress from her shoulders, and for once, Matilda had agreed with her. The hot water, dried rose petals scattered across the surface, was gradually soothing her frazzled nerves, calming her. In the corner, coals glowed in a charcoal brazier, sending out more heat, and she welcomed it, rolling her tired shoulders forwards. Through the glazed window, swallows, wings like black knife blades, sliced across the deepening blue. A bright fingernail of a new moon appeared in the sky through the leaded grid of the window, the herald of evening.
There was enough daylight for her to return to Lilleshall, Matilda thought. That way she could meet with her bailiff this evening and make—
The door to Katherine’s chamber crashed back on its hinges, swinging back against the wood-panelled wall.
It was John.
‘Do you know who you’ve brought here, you stupid cow?’ he roared at his wife.
‘John! John? Whatever’s the matter with you?’ Katherine twisted up on to her side, half rising from her recumbent position on the feather mattress.
Her husband plonked his portly girth on to the side of the bed, stuck his hands in his grizzled hair, distraught. ‘You’ve only gone and brought Henry of Lancaster into our home! Henry, Duke of Lancaster! Have you any idea who he is?’
‘I...er...’
‘No, you don’t, do you? Because you have no idea about anything!’ Clenching one fist, he knocked the side of Katherine’s head, not gently. ‘Because you have nothing up there, do you, my sweet one? Nothing at all, just sawdust.’
Adrenaline thumping through her veins, blood rushing, Matilda rose quickly out of the water, grabbed at a voluminous chemise and pulled it swiftly over her head, down over her wet, bare body. She had no intention of John seeing her naked in her sister’s bathtub. The scum of soap adhered to her knees as she stepped out on to the curly sheep’s fleece that covered the bare floorboards and soaked up the wet trickles from her toes. Her breath snared; she knew what John was capable of, knew how he treated her sister when he was displeased. Catching up the thick, linen towel, she threw it over her shoulders, anxious that not an inch of flesh was on show for John to ogle at. She moved out from behind the screen, her unbound hair swinging in long, curling ropes down her back.
John turned, squinted nastily at her. His top lip curled down into a sneer. ‘Ah, you! I want to talk to you, too! What were you thinking?’
‘We were attacked, John,’ Matilda explained, keeping her voice low and calm. She would not allow John to rile her. ‘Those men saved us. If they hadn’t come along, then the outcome might have been a lot worse. We had to thank them somehow.’
He shook his head. ‘If it had been anyone else...’
‘I know, John,’ Matilda said, deflecting his attention away from her frightened sister, cowering back on the pillows with her eyes large, round, luminous with fear. ‘I know who they are. But they have no idea of your allegiances, where your loyalties lie. Keep quiet. Give them board and lodging for tonight, and by tomorrow morning, I’m certain they will be on their way.’
‘Spoken like a true diplomat,’ replied John. ‘Well, I praise the Lord that at least one sister has a head on her shoulders.’ He placed his tubby fingers flat on his bulging thighs, pressing down so that he rose from the bed, throwing a mocking glance down at his wife. Katherine hadn’t moved, pressed up in terror against the pillows, her mouth partially open, breathing shallowly. She looks like a wild animal, thought Matilda, an animal who is trapped and vulnerable, unable to move, or to think, for itself.
‘Get dressed, both of you. I want you downstairs to help me entertain our guests.’
‘Oh, but I need to...’ Matilda stepped forwards.
John pushed his face up close to his sister-in-law. He was about the same height as her; she could smell his fetid breath, see rotten teeth crowd the interior of his mouth. ‘No, Matilda, not this time. You cannot run away to your precious estate, to your mother. You brought these men here, you entertain them. And if they find out who we support, then God help you both.’
* * *
The great hall at Neen was situated unusually on the second floor, with the kitchens and servants’ quarters on the floors beneath. The dressed-stone walls, pale limestone, glowed in the evening light that spilled down from the huge windows, striking the swirling dust motes rising from the wooden floorboards.
‘Not bad,’ said Henry, reaching for another chicken leg, chewing hungrily. ‘Not bad at all.’ He looked around him appreciatively, at the fine tapestries hanging down from the walls, the expensive carved furniture, the plentiful food. His eye caught on two banners, hanging down from the wooden gallery at the opposite end of the hall, sweeps of blue-and-red cloth impaled with the golden arms of royalty. ‘Although a bit too much evidence of King Richard, I think.’ He smirked at Gilan, sitting next to him. ‘Do you think they’ll murder us in our beds tonight? Or clap us in arms?’
Gilan crossed his huge arms across his chest, leaning back into the oak chair. Then leaned forwards again as the ornately carved wood poked uncomfortably into his spine. ‘No, they wouldn’t dare. I’m sure John of Neen realises how weak King Richard’s rule has become. It wouldn’t be in his best interest to thwart us.’
‘No, I suspect he’s the type to change sides at the drop of a cloth,’ Henry mused. He leaned past Gilan, lifted a floury bread roll from an oval pewter platter. ‘I don’t think we have anything to fear from this household. And good food, too. Not quite like the fare we’re used to, eh?’
No, indeed, Gilan thought, staring out across the busy hall. Henry’s soldiers clustered along the ranks of trestle tables, talking, laughing, joking with each other, piling the food into their mouths. They deserved it, these loyal men. They deserved a taste of this good life. Having ridden on many of Henry’s crusades, they had endured all manner of harsh conditions, days on meagre food rations, days when the air was so raw it froze the tears in their eyes and turned their fingers black. He looked along the happy laughing faces, dishevelled hair released from helmets now resting by their feet, their faces ruddy and flushed from the strong sun. A sense of utter loss pierced his heart. There should have been another face amongst them. A face that looked like his, hair the same startling blond, the frame a little leaner and shorter. His older brother. Pierre.
Grief, bitter, unrelenting, scythed through him, and he wrenched his gaze from the men, glowering down at the table, his plate, the piles of food spread out along the pristine white cloth, anywhere that wouldn’t remind him of that horrible time. His heart tore at the rift so deep, he wondered whether it would ever heal. Guilt cascaded through him, a numbing black bile, clagging his chest. He gripped the stem of his pewter goblet. If only he hadn’t insisted, if only he hadn’t goaded his brother, pushed him on, teased him. Then the accident would never have happened.
‘Come on, Gilan, eat up!’ Henry jostled his elbow. ‘Once the lady of the manor arrives, we’ll be forced to talk, not eat. Get something down your throat at once! That’s an order!’ Henry began to pile food in front of his friend: a couple of slices of ham, some cooked vegetables, a hunk of bread. He raised his eyebrows towards the door, a flicker of movement catching his eye. ‘Too late.’
Gilan looked up.
Framed by the stone archway with Katherine at her side, Matilda hesitated, as if stunned by the crowds of men in the great hall. Her appearance arrested conversation, reduced the bursts of laughter to soft murmurs of appreciation. She