Lady of the English - By Elizabeth Chadwick Page 0,3
his liege lady. Her knights and attendants were giving her a wide berth. Drogo’s placatory remark that by tomorrow night they would be in Rouen with every comfort had not improved her mood; she was accustomed to precision and smooth order.
A gust of wind struck her side-on and she had to grab Drogo’s belt. “I refuse to ride into Rouen like this,” she hissed.
“Domina, if it comes to the worst, I will give you this horse and saddle up my remount, but there is no point doing so for what is left of the daylight.” He spoke with the pragmatic calm of one long accustomed to her demands.
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She eyed the melted gold of the westering sun and knew he was right; there was no point, but it made her angry. Why couldn’t people keep their promises?
Suddenly the knight drew rein and the jolt threw her against his spine. “My apologies, domina,” he said. “It appears our escort is here.”
Peering round him, Matilda saw a troop approaching at a steady trot. “Help me down,” she commanded.
Drogo dismounted and swiftly assisted her to do the same.
She shook out her gown, adjusted her cloak, and stood erect.
The wind snatched at her veil, but fortunately it was well pinned to her undercap. She had to lock her legs to keep her balance.
The oncoming troop splashed to a muddy halt. Their leader flung down from the saddle of a handsome black stallion and, removing his hat, dropped to one knee before her.
“You are late,” she said icily. “We have been looking for you since noon.”
“Domina, I am deeply sorry. We would have been here sooner, but one of the cartwheels broke, and there was a fallen tree across our path. The wind has made everything more difficult and slowed our pace.”
She was cold, tired, and in no mood for excuses. “Get up,” she said with a brusque gesture.
He rose to his feet and his legs were so long that they seemed to unfold forever. They were encased in fine leather riding boots laced with red cords. His black hair swirled about his face and his eyes were a deep, peat-pool brown.
His mouth had a natural upward curve that made him look as if he were smiling, even though his demeanour was serious.
“Domina, I am Brian, son of Count Alan of Brittany, and lord of Wallingford Castle. I do not expect you to remember me. The last time we were in each other’s presence, you were witnessing one of your father’s charters in Nottingham before 9
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you went to Germany and I had not long entered your father’s household as a squire.”
“That was a long time ago,” she said, still annoyed.
“Indeed, domina.” He gestured over his shoulder at the men of his troop, who had also dismounted and were kneeling. “We have brought a fine pavilion and provisions. It will not take us long to make camp.”
“It will take you even less time if you tell those men of yours to get up off their knees and start work,” she said tartly. “My own will help if you have need.”
His expression impassive, he bowed and went to give brisk orders. A host of workmen and serjeants began unpacking sections of a large, circular, red and blue tent from a two-wheeled cart. The outer canvas was stamped with golden lions. There was a pale silk inner lining and rich woollen hangings set on curved rods for the interior. The wind billowed the canvas like the sail of a ship in a storm. Matilda watched the men struggle with their burden and mentally shook her head. Had she not been so tired and cross, she would have burst out laughing.
One of Brian’s company, a wide-shouldered young man, was examining her mare, running his hand down her lame foreleg and soothing her with soft talk. When he saw Matilda watching, he bowed and said, “She needs rest and a warm bran poultice on that knee, domina. There is nothing wrong with her beyond the strain of the road.” He gently scratched the mare’s neck.
He was not a groom, for his cloak was fur-lined and his tunic embroidered. His open features were raised above the average by striking hazel-gold eyes. “Were you at Nottingham with my lord FitzCount too?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No, domina, but my father would have been. He is William D’Albini, lord of Buckenham in Norfolk and one of your father’s stewards.” 10