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

flushed face. He is as excited as I am, she realized suddenly, and she envied the boy who was sitting there by right while she had to resort to subterfuge. To her surprise there were no other faces that she recognized. And there were no women at the high table at all, just as William had said. She had expected him to have invited many of the men whom she knew to be neighbors on the Welsh March, but as Walter Bloet had complained, none of them was present.

William was scrutinizing the parchment in his hand as if he had never seen it before. She could see the ugly blue vein in his neck beginning to throb above his high collar. His mail corselet was entirely hidden by his robe.

"My lords, gentlemen, " William began, his voice unnaturally high. "I have asked you here that you may hear a command from the high and mighty King Henry regarding the Welshmen in Gwent. " He paused and, raising his goblet, took a gulp of wine. Matilda could see his hand shaking. The attention of everyone in the hall was fixed on him now, and there was silence, except for some subdued chatter among the servants at the back and the growling of two dogs in anticipation of the shower of scraps that they knew was about to begin. Matilda thought she could see Megan leaning against one of the serving men at the far end of the hall, and briefly she wondered why the woman wasn't seated at one of the lower tables if her husband was a steward. Nell, she had seen at once, had found herself a place immediately below the dais.

Prince Seisyll had leaned back in his carved chair and was looking up at William beside him, a good-natured smile on his weathered face.

"This is an ordinance concerning the bearing of arms in this territory, " William went on. "The king has decreed that in future this shall no longer be permitted to the Welsh peoples, under... " He broke off as Prince Seisyll sat abruptly upright, slamming his fist on the table.

"What!" he roared. "What does Henry of England dare to decree for Gwent?"

William paused for a moment, looking down at the other man, his face expressionless, and then slowly and deliberately he laid the parchment down on the table, raised the hand that still held his dagger, and brought the glinting blade down directly into the prince's throat.

Seisyll half rose, grasping feebly at William's fingers, gurgled horribly, and then collapsed across the table, blood spewing from his mouth over the white linen tablecloth. There was a moment's total silence and then the hall was in an uproar. From beneath their cloaks William's followers produced swords and daggers, and as Matilda stood motionless in the doorway, transfixed with horror, they proceeded to cut down the unarmed Welsh. She saw Philip de Braose lift his knife and stab the young prince in the back as the boy rose to try to reach his father, then Philip and Ranulph together left the table and ran for the door, hacking with their swords as they went. William was standing motionless as he watched the slaughter all around him, the blood of his victim spattered all over his sleeve. His face was stony.

Above the screams and yells a weird and somehow more terrible sound echoed suddenly through the vaulted wooden roof of the hall. A man-at-arms had plunged his sword through the heart of the old harper, who, seated with his instrument, had been waiting to serenade his prince's host. The old man fell forward, clutching wildly at the strings so that they sang in a frightening last chord and then, as he sprawled to the floor, Matilda saw the soldier slice through the strings of the harp, the blade of his sword still drenched with its owner's blood.

Chapter 7

Slowly she became aware of the pain in her hands and, looking blindly away for the first time from the terror of the scene in front of her, she stared at them. For a moment she could not focus her eyes at all in the darkness, but then as the flickering torchlight played over the wall where she stood hidden she realized she was clinging to the rough-hewn architrave of the arch as though her life depended on it, and where her nails had clawed at the uneven surface her fingers were bleeding. There were smears of blood on the pale stone—her own blood.

It was the last thing she saw. In the grip of a numbing horror that mercifully blotted out the sound of the boy's desperate screams, she began to grope her way along the wall. Her gown and shift were drenched with sweat and she could feel the sour taste of vomit in her mouth as she dragged herself back up the spiral stairs, tripping on her long skirts in her haste to escape to the upper room before she collapsed.

The only sound she could hear was her own breath, coming in tight dry gasps that tore painfully at her ribs and caught in her throat, threatening to choke her and, once, the sob of agony that escaped her as she stumbled on her hem and fell heavily, flinging out her hands to save herself with a jar that seared through her wrists and into her injured fingers.

The bedchamber was deserted. The rushlights had died in a smoky smell of tallow and the only illumination came from the fire. After climbing dazed onto the bed she lay rigid, listening to the pine logs hissing and spluttering as they showered sparks onto the floor, where they glowed for a moment before going out. The distant sound of a shout echoed up the stairs and she turned over convulsively, pulling the covers over her head, trying to blot out the noise. Then all went black at last and she felt herself spinning down into silence.

Sometime later she stirred uneasily