Matilda comes to Leofric

Leofric shuddered like a man in a fever. He was living now; his living self had come back to meet him here as soon as he had arrived.

Living without Matilda was living naked and raw, like a chick pried too early from its shell. It was like a night passed in a fever, where the hours seemed to crawl, and where one would give anything for relief, or even only to see morning again.

And yet he knew that time was passing. He had come even before Compline bell had sounded at Saint Margaret’s, to be sure he would not miss her, and now Father Aelfden had just rung the first vigil.

Midnight. He had arrived now at the hour to which his living self had bounded off to wait, before springing back to him again upon the opening of this door.

He had not mentioned an hour, but when he had sent his living self ahead to wait, he had thought of midnight. His living self had not had the patience to wait even until then. He thought it might have had, if only he had made sure of the hour, but however he tried to deny it to himself, to his living self, he could not help but hope that she would arrive earlier.

He had come before Compline. His living self had met him at the door. Now, he had thought, it could be any time…

But it was already midnight, and she had not come. And yet he was certain he had seen her nod!

It would be a vigil, now, all through the night. His lonely, living self would shudder on until dawn if she did not come.

Morning would not be a deliverance then, any more than the ringing of the bell at dawn brought health to a feverish man, any more than the call of the muezzin had released him from his bondage. But at least the waiting would be over. He could get up and send his puppet self out to face the duties of the day. His living self–

Perhaps his living self would simply die. He could not face another such a night. But he was certain he had seen her nod!

He deeply regretted having told her to come to this room. He had thought first of the study where they had met before. Then, in his fever to get an answer from her, he had mentioned the first room that came to mind. He had not thought beyond the door.

He had not thought of the bed.

It was not that he had overreached – he had not thought that far at all. He only wanted to see her. He longed to see her; he longed to live again. He wanted to speak to her as simply as they had done before.

She was the only woman he had ever thought better than a man. She was the only woman he had ever called his friend. He had lost that in reaching for something more.

Now he would be content to be allowed to look at her, he thought, for a few hours. But she would not have understood. She would think of the bed, and would not understand.

The door opened so silently that he heard nothing. It closed again, and still he stared at the floor. She might have waited and watched him a while.

When he looked up, her saw her standing as proudly as a little queen. She wore a modest robe of crimson silk in place of one of her famous gowns, and it made her seem impossibly tiny, impossibly fragile. He wondered how he had ever dared to touch her.

He rose slowly and tottered towards her like an invalid rising for the first time from his sickbed.

He stopped short of her. He dared not approach her too closely. Here, where he had stopped, if he had reached out his arms to her and she hers to him, their hands might have touched. Perhaps not. The important thing was that she would have to reach too.

Leofric felt the world opening out around him as if he had been all the while in the egg and was only now breaking free. It was like breathing for the first time. His living self was finally being born.

There was no challenge in her eyes, but they were bold. She brought her hands together beneath her breasts, and for an instant it seemed the awkward hand-​​wringing of a painfully shy girl. It was only when her robe slipped to the floor that he realized she had been untying her belt.

He dared not even breathe. She wore nothing beneath, but he still saw her all in crimson, through a red haze, as when the Norman arrow had pierced his breast and he had thought to die, and he heard the thunder of his own blood in his body. He had experienced nothing like it before or since, until now.

He wanted to tell her she had misunderstood – but her eyes were bold, and he was awestruck. Clearly, she could not misunderstand. It must have been he who had.

He could not perceive her entirely. He was only aware of curves. How round she was! Her round arms, her round neck, her round breasts, her round belly, her round thighs, her round knees…

He must have stared a while, for her courage suddenly failed, and her eyes fell.

She turned her head away, and he was only then reminded of the one part of her that was not round – that little, pointed chin at the tip of her heart-​​shaped face. All her frailty was there belied. A man might balance her chin on the tip of his finger, and turn her face up to kiss her. To think he had once taken her by the throat!

“You see? I am old,” she said with a bitter little laugh.

She had not understood.

“No!” he cried. He did not recognize his own voice.

He crossed the space between them. He was in awe of her no longer; she was humble before him. She was magnificent, but she could be touched.

He took her in his arms. This was why his living self had lived. Her head barely came up to his chin. He stroked back her dark hair and pressed her face against his chest, against the old triangular scar. The Norman arrow had not quite pierced his heart, but her little, pointed chin – quite! quite!