“I’ve come to tell you not to go to Abergavenny again, my lady. That’s all I can be saying about it. Don’t go there.”

Matilda shivered. “I don’t want to, Megan, believe me. But if my husband says we must…”

To her amazement Megan rose and turned away to spit viciously into the hot embers.

“If your husband says he must, Lady Matilda, well and good. Let him go. But not you.”

“Why, Megan?” Matilda glanced sideways at her, suddenly suspicious, as the other woman’s pleasant, round face became stony and defiant.

“Maybe I know a good reason, maybe I don’t,” she announced. “Just remember, I’m telling you. Now I must away back to my people before they find I’m gone.” She rose to leave but Matilda was too quick for her. Forgetting her sickness, she jumped up and grabbed Megan’s wrist.

“I forbid you to go yet. Tell me what you know.”

Megan glanced half fearfully over her shoulder. “Indeed I won’t, for I shall say nothing, my lady. I’ve already said too much. I should not have come to you indeed.” She wrenched her arm free of Matilda’s grasp and fled through the door, her leather shoes pattering down the broad stairs.

Matilda moved to follow her, then she stopped and went back to her chair with a shrug. If the woman refused to say anything, there was no more to be done. She stood for a moment, thinking. Megan had braved a great deal perhaps to come and warn her, for the sake of their day of friendship so many years before. She put her hand to her aching back, then bent to pick up her fallen cloak from the rushes and warily wrapped it around her. William had to be warned, of course. She picked up the silver handbell by her chair and rang it for Elen. He must be told without delay. She breathed a fervent prayer that Megan, if she still wanted to guard her silence, had already left the castle. She didn’t like to think of Megan, however stubborn, being subjected to the full brunt of William’s anger in one of the dungeons below the keep if she refused to tell him the source of her information.

William’s men, however, when they fanned out in their exhaustive search of the castle, found no trace of Megan, nor had anyone been able to think how she had come to be there. She was not known by anyone at Monmouth, nor had anyone seen her come or go, save the trembling girl who had willingly given up to her the chore of carrying up the hot soup.

“I’ve already sent messengers to Abergavenny,” William announced, stamping into Matilda’s chamber an hour later. “You and I will ride on as far as Dingestow to see how Ranulf Poer fares with the rebuilding of the fabric of the castle there. It may be that I shall wait there with him till the building season is over. You can ride on to Hay.” He rubbed his hands ruefully. “Winter is coming early this year. There won’t be many more weeks before the snows arrive if it goes on like this. What ails you, Moll?” He suddenly rounded on her irritably. “Has this wretched woman upset you?” He seemed to have noticed for the first time her pinched pale face and stooping back.

She forced a smile. “No, William, it’s not that. I’m afraid I’m breeding again. I’m feeling sick with it, that’s all.”

He looked relieved. Not wanting to believe that Megan’s warning might have any substance himself, he had resented the thought that Matilda might be frightened by it. “The ride’ll soon perk you up! I was afraid for a moment you were ill,” he said gruffly, and he rested his hand awkwardly for a moment on her shoulder. From time to time there were moments almost of tenderness between them now. “It’ll be good to have another baby to keep you occupied, eh?” He gave a gruff laugh. “Now, the horses are waiting. This business with the Welshwoman has delayed us long enough. Let’s ride.” He swung on his heel and, slowly, clutching her cloak around her, she followed him down the stairs.


***

The extensive alterations on the remains of the old castle of Dingestow were nearly completed. As they rode along the newly cleared track toward it at the head of their troop of horsemen, Matilda saw the low curtain walls swarming with men. Obviously Poer was trying to finish the outer defenses before the weather put a stop to the season’s building. A thin film of ice turned the moat a milky blue beneath the frosted sky as they clattered across the bridge, which was still supported by a framework of scaffolding.

Ranulf Poer was seated by a blazing fire in the echoing keep, the plans for the castle spread before him on the table. He pulled himself painfully to his feet at their approach, his foxlike features sharper and more prominent than ever, his hair snow-white. He greeted them distantly, his mind obviously still half on the plans before him.

“We haven’t long to finish the walls,” he commented, showing William the outline on one of the pieces of parchment. “The Welsh are restless. I don’t like it. We’ve had reports that trouble is coming. I’ll be glad to have your men here while we finish. I can spare very few of mine for guard duty.” He glanced almost distastefully at Matilda. “Is your wife staying here?”

“Thank you, no,” she replied, stiffly, conscious of all her old dislike for the man flooding back. “I plan to travel on to Tretower, if you can spare me an escort.” She tried to keep the edge of sarcasm out of her voice. It was wasted on Poer, though.

“Spare her the minimum, de Braose. We need those men here.” He stabbed the table once more with his finger, before turning on his heel. “I can smell trouble, and I want to be prepared.”

“It seems he’s worried too.” William threw down his riding gloves after Poer had stamped out, and held his hands to the fire, glancing around at the bare stone walls and the piles of unshaped stones still lying in heaps in the far corner below the dais. “You’d be best out of here, Moll. It’ll not be comfortable anyway. Make your way as quickly as you can out of Gwent and into Brycheiniog.” He thought for a moment, scratching his head. “I think you must give up your idea of going to Tretower. It takes you too close to Abergavenny, just in case that woman spoke the truth. Ride the direct route through the mountains from Llantilio to Llanthony. The good fathers will give you shelter for the night. From there to the Hay should be only a day’s ride, even in this weather.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Poer always was as nervous as a cat in these mountains. He doesn’t believe Rhys can keep the peace in Gwent as he does in the rest of south Wales. Personally I think he still does. Just.”

Matilda shivered. She had a strong suspicion that Poer was correct in his doubts, but she kept her fear to herself. William seemed confident, and her concern was to reach her children as fast as she could. If he became too worried, he might begrudge her even the small escort he had promised and insist she remain with him. They spent the night, fully dressed, huddled on straw pallets around the fire, and Matilda left Dingestow the next morning at first light. The wind had changed as night drove in from the western hills and with it came a wet windy warmth that loosed the ice in the hard earth and turned the winding tracks to running mud. With Matilda went Elen and her two women, Gwenny and Nan, and an escort of twelve men-at-arms. She rode fast, forgetful of her sickness, half exhilarated by the strong wind, half frightened by the brooding deserted country as their horses’ hooves splashed through the shallow puddles on the hill tracks and through the deeper mud of the still, shadowy woods. In her girdle she carried a knife and, as they cantered on, she loosed it nervously in its sheath.

They paused early at the square-built tower of Llantilio, secure in its commanding position on the top of the hill, and, in spite of her eagerness to go on, Matilda reluctantly agreed that they spend the night there. She hardly slept. The sickness had passed, but her mind was in a turmoil of fear and impatience, and at first light they rode on.

They followed the old road north to where it plunged between the mountains and followed the River Honddu up the vale of Ewias toward Llanthony Abbey, the horses slipping and stumbling in the heavy rain. At midday the rain stopped at last and Matilda pushed the horses as fast as she dared beneath the threatening sky.

They passed the little church of Cwmyoy, the track leading up to it marked by one of the stone crosses that signposted the pilgrims’ way through the mountains. Out of habit Matilda reined in her horse as so often she did when William was there. Then she remembered and, contenting herself with a quick prayer as they walked past, she spurred her horse onward again. The heavy clouds threatened more rain, which would make the road across the mountains impassable. Constantly before her was the image of her children alone with their attendants at Hay, with only a small garrison to guard them and the gates trustingly open so that the townsfolk could come and go.

Once Elen begged her to stop, if not for her own sake, then for the sake of their sweating horses and for Gwenny, who was sobbing with the pain of a stitch in her side, but she ignored her pleas. Silent drifting clouds obscured the still, silent mountains either side of the River Honddu. Even the buzzards had deserted the valley. The moaning of the wind in the trees was the only sound save the creaking of the leather and the occasional sucking squelch of a horse’s hoof coming out of the mud. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that the men escorting her had drawn their swords. The sight gave her very little comfort.

It was early dusk when the exhausted horses filed into the windblown orchards that lay in the deep valley south of Llanthony Priory. There were signs of much activity and building. Llanthony, so long nearly deserted during the early wars, lying as it did so close to the border, had received substantial grants for its rebuilding from old Hugh de Lacy, the Lord of Ewias, and already a magnificent central tower and the presbytery had risen nearly to their full height in nests of wooden scaffolding.