Lady of Hay: An enduring classic – gripping, atmospheric and utterly compelling. Barbara Erskine

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       13

      The candle on the table beside his bed was guttering as Reginald de St Valerie lay back against his pillow and began to cough again. His eyes, sunk in the pallid hollows of his face, were fixed anxiously on the door as he pulled another rug round his thin shoulders. But it made no difference. He knew it was only a matter of time now before the creeping chill in his bones reached his heart, and then he would shiver no more.

      His face lightened a little as the door was pushed open and a girl peered round it.

      ‘Are you asleep, Father?’

      ‘No, my darling. Come in.’ Cursing the weakness which seemed to have spread even to his voice, Reginald watched her close the heavy door carefully and come towards him. Involuntarily he smiled. She was so lovely, this daughter of his; his only child. She was tall, taller than average. She had grown this last year, until she was a span at least higher even than he, with her dark auburn hair spread thickly on her shoulders and down her back and the strange green eyes flecked with gold which she had from her dead mother. She was all he had left, this tall graceful girl. And he was all she had, and soon … He shrugged. He had made provision long ago for the future when he had betrothed her to William de Braose. And now the time had come.

      ‘Sit here, Matilda. I must talk to you.’ Feebly he patted the rugs which covered him and the lines of his face softened as she took his hand, curling up beside him, tucking her long legs under her.

      ‘Will you eat something today, Father? If I prepare it myself and help you with the spoon?’ she coaxed, nestling close. ‘Please?’ She could feel the new inexorable cold in his hand and it frightened her. Gently she pressed it to her cheek.

      ‘I’ll try, Matilda, I’ll try.’ He pushed himself a little further up on the pillows with an effort. ‘But listen, sweetheart, there is something I must tell you first.’ He swallowed, trying to collect his thoughts as he gazed sadly into her anxious face. So often he had hoped this moment would never come. That somehow, something would happen to prevent it.

      ‘I have written to Bramber, Matilda. Sir William de Braose has agreed that it is time the marriage took place. His son could have married long since, but he has waited until you were of age. You must go to him now.’ He tried not to see the sudden anguish on her face.

      ‘But Father, I can’t leave you, I won’t.’ She sat up straight, her eyes bright with tears. ‘Nothing will make me leave you. Ever.’

      He groped for her hand again, and held it gently. ‘Sweetheart. It is I who must leave you, don’t you see? And I couldn’t die happy without knowing that you were wed. Please. To please me, go to him. Make him an obedient wife.’

      He was seized by another fit of coughing and Matilda slipped from the end of the bed and ran to the pillow, cradling his head on her breast. Her eyes were full of tears as she clutched him, desperately clinging to him. ‘You can’t die, Father, you can’t. You’ll get well. You will. You always have before.’

      The tears spilled over and dropped onto her father’s grey head. He looked up, trying to smile, and raised a shaky hand to brush her cheek. ‘Don’t cry, darling. Think. When you marry William you will be a great lady. And his mother will take care of you. Come, please don’t be so unhappy.’

      ‘But I want to stay with you.’ She still clung to him stubbornly. ‘I hate William, you know that. He’s ugly and he’s old and he smells.’

      Reginald sighed. So often he had given her her way, this girl of his, and he longed to do so again. But this time he had to stand firm. For her own sake. He closed his eyes, smelling the lavender of her gown, remembering. She was so like her mother had been: wilful; beautiful; wild …

      Sleep came so suddenly these days. He could feel his lids drooping. There was no way of fighting it. He supposed death would come like that and he welcomed the thought. He was too old now, too racked with 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 which stood on the altar. 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 draught 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 СКАЧАТЬ