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the activity in the bailey beyond. On the far side of the cobbled area beyond the kitchens a knot of Welshmen stood talking together urgently, their excitable lilt plainly audible above the noise of the horses. Then, as she listened idly to the unintelligible music of their speech they suddenly fell silent, listening to one of their number who, with waving arms and much gesticulation, had moved into the centre of the group. They all looked at each other and then to her surprise over their shoulders towards her, and she saw that they were crossing themselves, and making the sign against the evil eye.
‘What’s the matter with those men?’ she asked uneasily.
Elen, following her gaze, smiled a little ruefully. ‘They’ll be talking about the green water, my lady. I heard in the hall this morning. It’s magic, so they say, and a message from God.’
‘Green water?’ Matilda turned to her with a little frown. ‘I’ve heard nothing of this. Tell me about it.’
‘It’s nothing, my lady. Stupid gossip, that’s all,’ Margaret interrupted hastily. ‘Don’t be foolish, Elen, talking like that. It’s serfs’ talk.’ Her plump face flushed with anxiety.
‘It’s not indeed,’ Elen defended herself hotly. She put her hand up to the irrepressible curly hair which strayed from her veil no matter how hard she tried to restrain it. ‘Everyone was talking about it this morning. It happened before, a hundred years ago, so they say, and then it was a warning from God that he was displeased about a terrible murder there had been.’ The blue eyes in her freckled face were round with importance. ‘It’s a warning so it is.’
Matilda shivered as though the cold shadow of the mountains had reached out and fallen over her. ‘If it’s a warning,’ she said quietly, ‘it must be meant for me. Where is the water, Elen?’
‘It’s Afon Llynfi, madam, and the Lake Llangorse which it flows from, up in the Black Mountains yonder.’ She crossed herself hastily. ‘They say it is as green as emeralds, and runs like the devil’s blood the whole way down to the Wye.’
Nell pushed a furious elbow into her companion’s side. ‘Be quiet,’ she hissed. She had seen Matilda’s face, chalk-white, and the expression of horror in her eyes. ‘It’s stupid to talk like that, Elen. It’s all nonsense. It’s nothing more than pondweed. I heard Hugh the Bailiff say so himself. He’s been down to Glasbury to take a look at it.’
Matilda did not seem to have heard. ‘It is a warning,’ she whispered. ‘It’s a warning about my child. God is going to punish my husband for his cruelties through my son.’ She stood up, shivering.
‘Nonsense, my lady. God would never think of such a thing.’ Margaret was crisply practical. ‘Elen had no business to repeat such stupid gossip to you. No business at all.’ She glared at Elen behind Matilda’s back. ‘It’s all a fantasy of these people. They’re touched in the head.’ She looked disdainfully at the group of Welshmen still huddled near the kitchens. ‘Now, my lady, you come in and lie down before the evening meal. You’ve been too long out in the air.’
Scolding and coaxing, Margaret and Nell led their mistress back into the cool dimness of the castle, with Elen following unrepentant behind. Matilda lay down as they insisted and closed her eyes wearily, but she was feverish and unsettled and she couldn’t rest. She didn’t go down to the crowded hall for the evening meal and at last as the shadows lengthened across the countryside to the west she sent for Gerald.
In spite of Margaret’s soothing words she became more and more agitated waiting for him. Her hands had started shaking and she began to finger the beads of a rosary. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, spare my child, please, please, spare my child. Don’t let him be blamed for William’s wickedness.’ The half-formed prayers caught in her throat as she walked agitatedly up and down the room. When at last, out of sheer exhaustion, she was persuaded to sit down again by the empty hearth in her chamber with Margaret and Nell and two of her waiting women, she felt herself near to panic.
Then they heard the steady slap of sandals ascending the newel stair, and she pushed herself eagerly to her feet. ‘Archdeacon,’ she exclaimed, but she slumped back into her chair disappointed. By the light of the rushlight at the top of the stair she saw the bent figure of Father Hugo.
‘A thousand apologies, my lady,’ he muttered, seeing her disappointment only too clearly. ‘The Archdeacon is not at Llanddeu. He has ridden urgently to St David’s, where his uncle the bishop has died. When I heard the messenger’s news I came myself to tell you. I thought perhaps I might be able to help.’
His voice tailed off as he stood anxiously before her, his face gentle and concerned, as he took in the signs of distress in his mistress’s eyes.
Matilda looked up and smiled faintly. ‘Good Father Hugo. You’re always very kind to me.’ She hesitated. ‘Perhaps I’m stupid, it’s just that I heard about the River Llynfi, and I was afraid.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘It is many months since my husband’s trouble at Abergavenny, but still it haunts my dreams. I was frightened it was God’s warning that my child will suffer.’ She looked up again, pitifully seeking reassurance.
Hugo stood staring for a moment, puzzled. He knew from her anguished confessions what she feared for the baby, and he had vaguely heard something about the river. The latter he had dismissed as Welsh talk. He drew his brows together trying to think what would be best to say to this distraught woman. He had had no experience before of females and their ways and groped for the words which would relieve the pained look in her eyes.
‘Be at peace, my daughter. God would not punish an innocent babe. The Archdeacon has told you as much.’
‘But is it not written that the father’s sins shall be visited on the child?’ she flashed back at him.
He was taken aback and did not answer for a minute. Then he bent and patted her hand awkwardly. ‘I will pray. I will pray for guidance and for your safe delivery, as I pray every day. God will spare your child in his mercy, I am certain of it.’ He bowed, and hesitated, waiting for her to say something else. When she made no response, he sighed and, backing away, turned and plodded back down the stairs.
She slept hardly at all that night, tossing on the hot mattress, her eyes fixed on the rectangle of starry sky visible through the unshuttered window. Then at last as the first light began to push back the darkness she got to her feet and went to sit in the embrasure of the window, gazing out over the misty valley, watching as the cool dawn crept across the forests reaching towards the foothills of the mountains. Behind her, as the room grew light, Margaret slept without stirring on her truckle bed.
She was sitting in the solar, alone save for Elen, stitching the hem of a small sheet for the empty cradle by the wall when the chaplain once more padded up the stairs and stood bowing before her, out of breath from the climb. He was agitated and pale himself, but seeing her face with the great dark rings beneath her eyes as she looked up at him, he felt a new and unexpected wave of compassion.
‘What is it, Father?’ she smiled gently, the sewing falling into her lap.
He twisted his wrinkled old hands together uncomfortably. ‘I told you, my lady, that I would pray for guidance last night. I knelt for many hours in the chapel and prayed to Christ and St Nicholas, our patron.’ He winced, remembering the draught on the cold stone, which in spite of the straw-filled hassock had left his old knees rheumaticky and swollen. ‘Then I slept, and I had a dream. I believe it was in answer to my prayer, my lady.’ He crossed himself and Matilda and Elen, glancing at one another nervously, followed suit.
‘The dream told you the reason for the river being green?’ Matilda’s voice was awed.
‘I believe so, madam. An old man came to me in my dream, and said that Christ was greatly displeased.’ He paused and gulped nervously.
Matilda rose to her feet, ignoring the sewing, which fell to the rushes, her eyes wide, one hand straying involuntarily to her stomach. She felt suddenly sick. ‘Why?’ she whispered. ‘Why is Our Lord displeased?’
‘It is something that Sir William has done,