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deepened the lines on his face. His hair was greyer and more sparse and the pouches beneath his eyes were more prominent, but the eyes themselves were the same hard, shrewd grey. For the moment they held warmth, and his smile was genuine.
    “Sire,” she said, before turning to curtsey to and be embraced by her stepmother, Adeliza, a year younger than herself, delicate and slender as a young doe.
    “I am so pleased that you are here, daughter,” Adeliza said.
    “My lady mother.” The words were incongruous and sat uncomfortably on Matilda’s tongue.
    Adeliza’s eyes sparkled with amusement and it was plain she was thinking the same thing. “I hope I can be like a mother to you,” she said, “but more than that, I hope we shall become friends and companions.”
    Matilda’s father processed her around the gathering on his arm, and she was introduced to the great men attending the court. Not all were present; some had duties elsewhere, or had remained in England, but enough were there to make a substantial gathering. Bigod, D’Albini, Aumale, de Tosney, Martel, the archbishop of Rouen, the abbot of Bec, her cousins of Blois, Theobald and Stephen, the latter now Count of Boulogne through his young bride, the Countess Maheut.
    “I am sorry for your loss, cousin,” Stephen said. “I offer my sincere condolences.” He spoke with grave and apparent honesty, although Matilda was wary because things were not always what they seemed. Stephen’s remark was a meaningless courtesy.
    “I remember you as a little girl with long braids,” he added with a smile.
    A vague memory surfaced. “You used to pull them,” she accused.
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    He looked wounded. “Only in play—I never hurt you.
    Your brother William used to pull them too.”
    There was a momentary silence at Stephen’s mention of Matilda’s brother—almost as if his words had conjured up the young man’s sea-ravaged corpse from the waters of Barfleur harbour. “God rest his soul,” Stephen added swiftly. “I am glad for the memory of our play and I think of him often.”
    Matilda suspected that Stephen would tug her braid now if the chance arose, and he would still call it play.
    “Nephew, you are a great comfort to me,” Henry said, his hard grey gaze missing nothing. “I know I can always count on your strong support and I value it for my daughter too.”
    “Assuredly, sire.” Stephen bowed, first to Henry and then to Matilda.
    The talk turned briefly to matters of Boulogne and Stephen’s progress there as its overlord. Matilda observed the camaraderie between her father and Stephen. The latter’s gestures were sure and expansive and he knew how to engage her father’s interest and make him laugh. The other men in the vicinity all laughed with him too, apart from her brother Robert, who was reserved and watchful. Stephen’s small, plump wife hung on his words as if they were jewels in a diadem, but she too was constantly glancing around, assessing the men and conversations in her vicinity even while her demeanour remained becomingly modest.
    Matilda thought Stephen’s performance polished, but how much was lip service, and how much sincerely meant, remained to be seen.
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    Matilda gazed round her appointed chamber. The larger furnishings and baggage, which had set out ahead, had all been arranged: her own bed with its coverings and curtains, the rich hangings from her imperial chamber, the lamps, candlesticks, 23
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    chests and coffers. The lighter baggage she had brought in person was here too, waiting to be unpacked. And when that was done, she could close the door and pretend if only for a moment that she was back in Germany. A sudden wave of homesickness brought a lump to her throat.
    “I hope you have all you need,” Adeliza said anxiously. “I want you to feel at home.”
    “You are very kind.”
    “I remember how I felt