Lady of Hay by Barbara Erskine (english love story books .TXT) 📗

pain to regret the young man's dream of death on the field of battle. Smiling a little, he relaxed against her, feeling the soft warmth of her body, the gentle brush of her lips on his hair. Yes. She was very like her mother....

Instinctively Matilda ran first to the chapel for comfort. She pushed open a heavy door and peered in. It was empty. She could see the statue of Our Lady, lit by the single flickering candle that stood on the altar. After running to it, she crossed herself and knelt. "Please, Holy Mother, don't let him die. You mustn't let my father die. I won't marry William de Braose, so there's no point in trying to make me. " She gazed up at the serene stone face of the statue. It was cold in the chapel. A stray draft coming from the slit window high in the stone vault above the altar sent a shiver of cold down her spine and she wondered suddenly with a tremor of fear if anyone was listening to her at all, if there was anyone there to care. She pushed away the thought and, ashamed, she crossed herself again. "You must help me, Holy Mother, you must. " Her tears were blinding her again and the candlelight hazed and flickered. "There is no one else. If you don't help me, I'll never pray to you again. Never. " She bit her lip, scared by what she had said. She shouldn't have done it, but the chapel held such echoing emptiness...

She scrambled to her feet then crept out, closing the door softly behind her. If she could find no comfort there, there was only one other thing to do. Ride. When you galloped fast into the wind you could forget everything but the speed and the cold and the power of the horse between your legs.

She ran to the chamber she shared with her nurse and the two maidens who were supposed to be her friends, and rummaged through the rail, looking for her heaviest mantle.

"Matilda, come to your embroidery now, ma p'tite. " She could hear her nurse Jeanne's voice from the garderobe, where she was sorting clothes. "Tilda?" The tone sharpened.

After grabbing a fur-lined cloak, Matilda threw it around her shoulders and tiptoed to the door. Then, deaf to Jeanne's indignant shouts, she pelted down the spiral stairs.

"Shall I come with you, young mistress?" The groom who held her excited horse knew as well as she that her father had forbidden her to ride alone.

She flung herself into the saddle. "Not this time, John. Blame me if anyone's angry. " She raised her whip and set the horse across the high slippery cobbles of the courtyard at a canter. Once beyond the crowded muddy village she pushed the animal into a gallop, feeling her hair stream behind her in the cold wind. Galloping like this, fast, she didn't have time to think. Not about her poor, sick father, or about the squat, red-haired man at Bramber who was destined to become her husband. Nothing mattered out here. Here she was free and happy and alone.

At the top of the hill she reined in breathlessly, pushing her tangled hair back as the wind tugged it across her eyes. She turned to look back at the village far away in the valley, and her father's castle behind it. I need never go back, she thought suddenly. If I don't want to, I need never go back. I could ride and ride and ride and they would never find me. Then she thought of Reginald lying so pale in his chamber, and imperceptibly she straightened her shoulders. For his sake she would go back. For his sake she would marry William de Braose. For his sake she would go to the of the world if he asked it of her.

Sadly she turned the horse and began to pick her way back down the steep track.

For two days before the wedding the attendants of the de Braose household crowded them out, overspilling from the small castle and its walls into tents and marquees on the edge of the village. Old Sir William, a wiry hawklike man with piercing gray eyes, spent much of his time closeted with Matilda's father while his son hunted across the hills, sparing no time for his betrothed. Matilda was extremely glad. She had been horrified by her glimpse of the younger William, whom she had barely remembered from their introduction at their betrothal years before. She had forgotten, or perhaps then he had been different. His reddish hair and beard now framed a coarse, heavily veined face with an uncompromisingly cruel mouth. He had kissed her hand once, running his eye expertly up her body, judging her, Matilda thought furiously, as if she had been a filly he was contemplating buying for his stable, then he turned away, more interested in his host's hunting dogs than in his bride.

Reginald was too ill even to be carried in a litter to the wedding ceremony, so he summoned his daughter and new son-in-law to his room as soon as they returned from the parish church. Matilda had spent the first part of the day in a frozen daze. She allowed herself to be dressed in her finest gown and mantle without interest. She followed Jeanne down to the hall and gave her arm to old Sir William without a flicker of emotion on her face. Then she walked with him to the church without any sign that she heard or even saw the gay procession of men and women who followed them. But her fists were bunched so tightly into her skirt that her nails had bitten into her palms. "Please, Holy Mother, don't let it happen. Please, Holy Mother, don't let it happen. " She was murmuring the phrase over and over again under her like a magic charm. If she kept on saying it, without stopping, it would