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“Go to the fire, bathe yourself, then bring back the blanket.” He waved her away with closed eyes.
She was happy to tidy herself and swiftly removed the residues. She stoked the fire, bringing it back to life and gifting the room extra light. Wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, she approached the bed. Gervais seemed to be asleep, but when she eased onto the bed next to him, he stirred.
“You can return to your own room, Matilda. I sleep alone.” He tucked his hands behind his head.
“Why?” she asked, unable to hide her disappointment. He was rejecting her so soon. What had she done wrong?
He sat, leaned over, and tipped up her chin. He planted a quick kiss on her dry lips. “This is for your sake, not mine. I don’t think I could resist you in the night, and you need sleep and rest. I’ll bring you here again tomorrow, and the next day, have no fear. You’ll be glad of the respite.” He patted her bottom.
She slunk out the door, along the corridors lit by torches, until she reached her chamber. Sara was asleep on the floor by the hearth. Matilda tiptoed around her, climbed onto her high bed, and piled more blankets on her naked body. It took time to sleep properly; at first she was plagued by dreams, some so fantastical, she thought she was going mad. Then, as the night progressed, she found peace. The cause of it was her imagination. Instead of allowing dark thoughts into her mind, wicked memories of past mistakes, she pictured Gervais, her lord, his majestic form lying in her bed, his hand upon her thigh and his nose in her hair inhaling her sweet scent.
She woke at dawn to find Sara gone and in bed next to her, the man she thought wasn’t interested in nightly visits. He was lying on his side, dressed in his leather tunic and hose, his face alert and brightly lit by the morning sun.
“Finally. I sent Sara for food. You’ll bathe again, I think, properly this time from hair to toe, then eat. While you expend your energy on making yourself pretty, I shall hunt.”
He skipped onto his feet and adjusted his belt. He was so sprightly, she was envious. “And then?”
“Why not explore my castle. It will be your home,” he said confidently. “The inhabitants need to see you about. There’s no need to feel ashamed. A betrothal brings with it status and you must ensure those that serve us, and my serfs, recognise you as mine.” He walked to the door and opened it. Ivan bounded in and licked his boots.
“We’ll meet at supper.” He clicked his fingers and the dog followed him out of the room.
Matilda blinked. It seemed what they did last night was nothing extraordinary. He’d not capped the evening with words of love or comfort, he’d done what he believed was necessary to both punish her and have her surrender her full virginity, and now, he was hunting. He was exactly what she might expect from a lord: self-serving and indulgent of his needs.
She sagged into the bed and remained there until Sara encouraged her to rise and wash.
Chapter Thirteen
Away from the sanctuary of the inner ward, the keep—and private garden—was a teeming workforce going about their daily activities. Walking beyond the inner gates, Tilda entered the outer court and recognised the familiar buildings of a smithy, still room, the extensive stables, armoury and tanner. She smelt each one too, from the sweet scents of herbs to the nose-wrinkling stench of manure.
It was a relief to see that Gervais was no different from any other lord; she had started to wonder otherwise. The small population who lived either within the bailey or th
e hamlet on the hilltop greeted her with bows and curtsies, and called her my lady. If disparaging rumours were floating around the castle, they were not reaching Tilda’s ears. Gervais had either scuppered them swiftly, or his loyal people held him in sufficient esteem not to judge or comment on the sudden arrival of a strange woman, whom he called his bride.
She visited the brewery, bakery, and buttery, and in the latter, she tasted mellow cheese. The women there were polite and said little, other than to explain that the butter came from milk brought into the castle, since there was little grazing land around the steep hills, rocky outcrops and forests.
“We’ve meat aplenty, my lady, and wood, but grain is bought at market.”
Tilda had paid scant attention to her father’s castle, the business of keeping people alive and fed, and she regretted her ignorance. The servants knew more than her, and she had frittered away time at the convent learning Latin psalms and long prayers, daydreaming about Geoffrey or some other handsome knight. Her education should have been practical, she realised.
Her circuit completed, she returned to the solar, the communal chamber for herself and Gervais. Except he was absent. Still hunting, according to the steward, Jacob, who watched her with beady eyes.
Tilda sewed by an oriel window. There were two oriel windows—one in the Great Hall, the other above it on the next storey—and they signified wealth beyond even her father’s. The cloth she was embroidering was a nightshirt for her father. She had started it weeks ago, and showed little enthusiasm for finishing, but now with only Sara for company, she needed occupation. Waiting was proving agonising.
By mid-afternoon, she was stiff, her fingers sore and her legs restless. Sara had brought her food, but Tilda had touched little of it.
“I’m going for a ride,” she announced.
“My lady,” Jacob said warily. “You should not ride alone.”
“Why? Are we at war? Who will dare touch me?” She tied her cloak under her chin and pulled on her riding gloves.
The horse, a sprightly mare, was saddled in the yard and held for her to mount with the help of a groom.
“Where will you go, my lady?” Sara asked from the steps of the keep.
Tilda waved her arm in a loose direction. “Down the hill. There’s a river, is there not, down there?”
“Be careful, my lady. The river should not be crossed.”
