Lady of Hay by Barbara Erskine

madam, then he took his tunic and mantle from over there”—she indicated the rail on the far side of the room—“and put them on over it. I suppose he can’t bring himself to trust his guest quite, even when by custom our people always leave their arms by the door when they accept a man’s hospitality.” She smiled a little ruefully. “And Prince Seisyll is the Lord Rhys’s brother-in-law, and he’s the ruler of all south Wales and at peace with your King Henry, so there would be no danger and, besides, I’ve always heard that Seisyll is a good man, and chivalrous, with honor better than many at King Henry’s court.” The color rose a little in her cheeks as she spoke.
    Matilda smiled and touched her arm gently. “Of course he is, Megan. I expect William is just being careful, that’s all, out of habit.”
    She bit her lips hard to bring out the red in them, and lifted a small coffer onto the table to find her jewelry and her rouge. “Are you going to attend at the back of the hall?”
    “Oh, yes, indeed, as soon as you’ve gone down. I want to see all the finery and hear the music.” Megan deftly twisted Matilda’s hair up and around her head and helped Nell adjust the veil and the barbette that framed her face.
    They were pulling the folds of her surcoat of scarlet and golden thread into place and tying the heavy girdle when they heard the trumpet summons to the banquet from the great hall below. Megan looked up in excitement as the notes rose to the high rafters and echoed around the castle. Matilda met her gaze for a moment, holding her breath, then impatiently she gestured at the woman to go down the stairs and peep at the scene. She wanted to time her entrance exactly.
    Nell had secured herself a place at the feast by cajoling the chataleine, and she glanced at Matilda for permission to go as Megan returned, her soft shoes making no sound on the stone.
    “They are seated, madam. They have washed their hands and wine has been called for. They’re bringing in the boars’ heads now. You must hurry.” She was breathless with excitement.
    Without a word Matilda crossed to the top of the stairs and, taking a deep breath, began to tiptoe down. She was scared now the moment had come, but she refused to let herself think about what would happen if William sent her away in front of everyone. She was too excited to turn back.
    At the foot of the stairs she waited, her back pressed against the stone wall, just out of sight of the noisy hall. It was lit with torches and hundreds of candles, although it was full day outside, and a haze of smoky heat was already drifting in the rafters and up the stairs past her toward the cooler upper floors of the tower. The noise was deafening. Cautiously she edged a step or two farther and peered around the corner.
    The archway where she stood was slightly behind her husband and his guests at the high table, and in the deep shadow she was satisfied that she would not be seen.
    The prince, she could see, was seated at William’s right hand. He was clean shaven and his dark hair was cut in a neat fringe across his eyes. He was finely arrayed in a sweeping yellow cloak and tunic and she could see a ring sparkling on his hand as he raised it for a moment. He had thrown back his head with laughter at some remark from a man on his right.
    Then, as she was plucking up the courage to slip from her hiding place and go to his side, William rose to his feet, and she saw him produce a roll of parchment. He knocked on the table for silence with the jeweled handle of his dagger and then, with it still clutched in his hand, looked around at the expectant hall.
    Matilda stayed hidden, scanning the crowded tables, trying to recognize faces she knew. There was Ranulph Poer, one of the king’s advisers for the March, with his foxy face and drooping eye, who had visited them on numerous occasions in the summer at Bramber. And there too at the high table was plump, white-haired Philip de