Lady of the English Read Free Page A

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.”
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    “I do not recall him,” she said, “but I know of your family.”
    Obviously he was a spare young blood at court, sent out with FitzCount on escort duty. “Your own name?”
    “Domina, it is William, the same as my father.”
    “Well then, William D’Albini, you seem to know about horses.”
    He gave her a wide smile, exposing fine, strong teeth. “Well enough, domina.” He rubbed the mare’s soft muzzle with a large, gentle hand.
    “I hope my lord FitzCount has a spare mount.”
    “I am sure he does, domina.”
    Matilda was not so certain. Sounds of a heated exchange flashed across to them. Someone had mislaid the tent pegs and everyone was blaming everyone else. “This would not have happened at my husband’s court,” she said with displeasure.
    D’Albini gave an equable shrug. “There are difficult days when whatever you do, you suffer mishaps; today is one such.”
    Clucking his tongue to the mare, he led her away to tether her with the other horses.
    The tent pegs turned up in a different pannier to the expected one and, following more bad-tempered oaths, were driven into the ground and the canvas secured. Brian FitzCount directed operations, now and then scraping his hands through his hair, looking increasingly embarrassed and exasperated.
    Gradually, however, order emerged out of chaos and Matilda was able to enter the tent and at least be out of the wind, even if the canvas sides flapped like wings striving to lift the structure into the air. Her women set about making her bed, layering several mattresses on to the strung frame and topping them with clean sheets and soft blankets. A manservant hooked a partition across the middle of the tent and someone else fetched a chair with a quilted cushion. A bench and a small table arrived.
    Matilda remained standing, arms folded.
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    Brian FitzCount entered the tent followed by servants bearing a flagon and cups, loaves of bread, and assorted cheeses and smoked meats. “The men are making a windbreak,” he said. “At least it isn’t raining.”
    “No,” she agreed, thinking that rain would have been the final seasoning. She sat down on the chair. The servants spread the table with an embroidered cloth and brought food and drink. Before she could change her mind, she indicated that Brian should join her. News of the court in advance of her arrival there would be useful.
    He hesitated, went to the tent entrance to bellow more instructions, then dropped the flap and returned to serve her himself. She studied his long fingers as he poured wine into silver cups. An emerald ring glinted, and another of plaited gold. His hands were clean, the nails clipped short, but they were ink-stained, as if he were a common clerk. She tried to remember him from her childhood, but found no trace. It had been too long ago and he would have been just another youth at court.
    “My father is well?” She took her first sip