Lady of Hay by Barbara Erskine (reading an ebook TXT) 📕

"Oh, my lady!" She screwed up her kerchief and rubbed her eyes with it. "My lady. I don't want to leave you all and go to them heathens. " She hugged herself as the tears began to fall again.

Matilda felt her heart sink, the tears rising unbidden behind her own lids. She swallowed hard. "Don't talk such nonsense, Eleanor. Rhys is a good Christian prince. And he is a kind man. I should never let a child of mine go to him otherwise. " She dropped her voice suddenly. "I hoped you didn't let Tilda see you cry like that. "

"Of course not, my lady. " Eleanor sniffed indignantly. "I would never let her, she's so happy about going. " She dissolved into tears again.

Matilda crossed to the bed, looking at the three sleeping heads: Tilda serene and pale; Margaret with her shock of copper hair tossed on the pillow, so like her mother in miniature; and little frail Isobel, no more than a baby, so happy to be promoted to her sisters' bed, not realizing she had come so that Margaret should not suddenly be alone. Margaret had her arm protectively around the little girl's shoulders. But Tilly slept apart, her back to the others. Matilda wondered if she even realized that tomorrow she was to leave them. She sank slowly to her knees beside the bed, swallowing

hard, and, crossing herself quietly, she began to pray, suppressing the sudden treacherous thought that far away in Deheubarth Tilly would be able to betray neither her mother nor her true father.

The wedding ceremonies were over and the feast had already lasted an age. Matilda looked anxiously at her little daughter sitting in the place of honor next to her husband. Gruffydd —was a good-looking young man, rather florid, with tightly curling golden hair. He drank often and deeply and ate hungrily from the platter he shared with his new wife. Tilly had touched almost nothing. She looked around her with unnaturally brilliant eyes, a deep flush on her usually pallid cheeks. The crystals at her throat gleamed and reflected from the candelabra on the table and the pure gold band in her hair glowed on the silk veil. She looked, among the solid men and robust women at the high table, like a delicate little fairy. Matilda eyed the Princess Gwenllian, Gruffydd's mother, a raw-boned woman with eyes rather too close together over the high-bridged nose, with unease. But she saw the woman lean over and pat Tilda kindly on the shoulder, her eyes smiling, and she felt a little reassured.

The wedding celebrations continued for several days, and then at last came the morning when the Welsh party began to pack their tents and shelters. Matilda and William in Rhys's great pavilion gravely kissed their solemn little daughter and her tall groom and watched as with Prince Rhys and his glittering throng of followers they mounted and prepared for the ride to Rhys's palace of Llandovery in Cantref Bychan.

"So that seals the peace as long as King Henry lives, at least, " William commented tersely as they rode away.

Matilda turned to him, her heart growing suddenly cold at his tone. "And if the king should die, what then?"

William shrugged. "Who knows? We'll pray he lives long and heartily. If he should die and Rhys and his sons do not acknowledge his heir, then I will have played my hand badly. " He frowned. "Tilda will be all right, whatever happens. They will keep her away from the fighting if there is any. But, by God, if they try to use her against me... " He left his threat unspoken.

Matilda found herself gazing at him in blank despair. Had he then washed his hands of the child the day she went to another man's table? Was she nothing to him any longer other than a pawn that he might have carelessly let slip in a chess game of far more important pieces? She gazed into William's eyes and shuddered. If his eldest daughter could look to no mercy from him, who could? She silently prayed that none of the rest of her children should find themselves dependent on his mercy one day; nor she herself.

Miserably she looked over her shoulder, back toward the west, where the sun was sinking in a blaze of gold behind Lord Rhys's mountains. Somewhere there, Tilda was alone.

"Jo, don't cry, love. " The voice was gentle. She felt an arm around her shoulders. Tim was bringing her back, but she didn't want to come. Frantically she resisted him, fighting to regain the world from which he was dragging her. She could still see the countryside wrapped in forest below the castle wall on which she stood, while superimposed on it, like a shadow, were the ruined masses of another castle. The sky flickered with lightning and she felt the scene shift gear before her eyes. The wall beneath her hand had gone; she found she was clawing at the grass.

"I want to know how Tilly is, " she cried miserably. "I must know. I must find out what happened to her—"

"Jo, you will find out. " Tim pulled her against him gently. "But later. Not now. Get up, love. It's beginning to rain. We'll go back to the car and find somewhere to stay, all right?" Carefully he pulled her to her feet.

Still dazed, she clung to him as her knees threatened to give way. She had begun to shake violently.

Tim almost carried her back to her car, pushing her into the passenger seat as the rain began to fall in earnest, then he let himself in on the driver's side. "I'll find a hotel for us, shall I?" he said gently. "A hot bath and a good dinner is what you need. "

He glanced at her as he leaned forward to turn on the ignition. She was lying back in her seat, her eyes closed, her face pale with exhaustion. "No more, Jo, "